have some idea of where he goes but he wouldn’t know you were doing it.”
“I could try. But Willie’s dad could do a better job than me. Even Willie’s a better tracker than I am.”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t care. I don’t want anyone else in on this, so you’re my guy. I’ll pay you for your time.”
“Hell, no, you won’t. You pay me to help you out. And I’m already aiding and abetting you instead of notifying Fish and Game. If I take money for it, that’ll look even worse.”
“Would you rather not do it at all?”
He grinned at her. “Are you kidding? I’m
“Glad I’m proving to be entertaining.”
“Definitely. What time are you planning to let him go?”
“As late as possible.” She glanced at the clock on the workshop wall. “I’m not sure how long he can make it without needing a trip outside.”
“I can’t say for wolves, but a big dog can go about ten hours, maybe a little longer if they have to. You think this wolf is housebroken, right?”
She nodded. “He seems to be. Anyway, that still puts us at six or seven tonight. The sun’s very bright then.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Don’t have much choice. He’ll have to do the best he can to stay hidden. At least tracking him should be easier.”
“It should, but . . .” He sighed. “Seriously, I’m not a very good tracker.”
“At least you know something about it, which is more than I can say. Can you also look for blood spots along the way? In case he starts bleeding again?”
“And what if he does? Does it matter?”
She thought about that. “Good point. Once he’s loose, there’ll be no getting him back. If I could think of some way to let him out on a temporary basis, I’d do it, but it’s not as if I can take him out on a leash like a poodle.”
“Nope.” Lionel gazed at her. “If you’re that worried about whether he’ll survive on his own, there’s always Fish and Game. At least then you’d know that he—”
“I’d know that he’d be miserable and I would have broken the promise I made to him last night.”
“You made a wolf a promise?” Lionel shook his head. “But listen, it would be for his own good.”
“Would it be? My instincts tell me that given the choice, he’d rather die on his own terms than deal with more human interference.”
“Then I guess it’s settled.” Lionel’s phone chimed, signaling the end of his workday with Rachel. He silenced the alarm. “I need to get over to the mill. Just tell me when you want me here.”
“Plan on seven.” Rachel wished she had reason to employ him full-time so he didn’t have to work at the sawmill thirty miles away. But cleaning the shop, buying groceries once in a while, and helping her with heavy pieces of wood didn’t take forty hours a week. And he’d be too proud to take more per hour than the job was worth.
“I’ll be here.”
“I’ll call you when I’m getting ready to let him out. If you park on the road instead of driving in, then he won’t know you’re coming.”
Lionel nodded.
“I really appreciate this. Are you sure I can’t pay you extra?”
“I’m sure.” He glanced at a shelving unit that held various pieces of wood waiting to become Rachel Miller originals. He pointed to a gnarled piece of cedar about two feet long. “If you’d be willing to let me have that, I’d consider us even.”
She happened to love that particular piece and had looked forward to carving it. But she was desperate for Lionel’s tracking skills and she was also thrilled at this first indication that he’d taken her suggestion about working on his own carvings. “It’s yours.”
“Really? I was sort of kidding. That’s a beautiful hunk of wood. You don’t have to give it to me. I’m sure you could make something amazing out of it.”
Sliding off her work stool, she walked over to the shelf and picked up the cedar. “I’ll bet you could, too. I only have one condition. Let me see it when you’re finished.” Using both hands, she held it out.
Instead of taking it, he stepped back. “Never mind. That was a dumb impulse on my part. I’m not ready for wood that beautiful.”
“Lionel, you
He eyed the wood. “I’ll probably screw it up.”
“That’s not the best attitude for beginning a new project. Try again.”
“You’re really putting me on the spot, Miss M.”
“I mean to.” She continued to gaze at him. “Daring to be an artist takes guts. You’ve only been here during the glory days, but I went through a lot of self-doubt before I arrived where I am now. I still have self-doubt.”
“You? That’s ridiculous.”
“Probably, but it’s true. So man up, Lionel. Take this piece of wood, put your heart and soul into carving it, and then show me the results. Because that’s what artists do. They put their heart and soul out there for everyone to see.”
Lionel swallowed. “Okay.” Moving toward her, he took the piece of wood. “Don’t expect miracles, okay?”
“I always expect miracles.” She smiled at him. “And so should you. See you tonight.”
• • •
When Rachel didn’t come in to check on Jake all afternoon, he wondered what was up. She’d made a pest of herself in the morning and then had left him completely alone in the afternoon. But he hadn’t been able to trust her absence enough to try a double shift. It had turned out to be a very long day.
Toward the end of it he desperately needed to relieve himself. He wondered how she planned to handle that. If she tried the fishing line again, he’d be ready for it, but she probably realized that. So how could she expect to let him out and get him back in the house?
Around six he heard her come in the cabin, but she didn’t open the bedroom door. He paced by his quilt while he waited to see what would happen next. She had to let him out. And then what?
He was also hungry, but not as famished as he had been in the morning. If she tried to bribe him with food again, he wouldn’t be as susceptible. The ding of a microwave made him curious. Was she nuking her dinner, his dinner, or both?
The overriding concern, though, was the pressure on his bladder. She had to know he was in dire straits. Once she opened that back door, their time together would be over. Surely she knew that, too.
He scented her approach to the bedroom, both because he was attuned to her aroma and because his nose told him she carried a bowl of raw hamburger. Sadly, he was more eager to see her than to eat the hamburger. That indicated how enmeshed he’d become.
Halting his pacing, he faced the door. Considering the microwave ding he’d heard earlier, she must have used it to defrost some ground round from the freezer. Damn, he was turning into a regular Sherlock Holmes.
He appreciated the thought of the raw hamburger, but he looked forward to shifting back to human form. These days he preferred his meals cooked and well seasoned. He longed for a few side dishes and a bottle of good red wine.
She wouldn’t know that, of course. She viewed him as a wild animal that caught its prey on the run. Werewolves hadn’t done that for centuries. Despite his surname, Jake had never hunted anything, and the concept made him shudder.
As a carnivore, he required daily helpings of meat. As a thinking carnivore, he understood that somebody
