of the wind was pushing him along the street so hard that he was almost running. The old wolf had only recently retired as editor-in-chief of the Ripple Creek Gazette, and if there was anyone in this town who'd know all the secrets and hatreds, it would be him.
Though right now, battling this storm and talking to the old wolf were really the last thing he wanted to do. He'd much rather be curling up with Neva in her big old bed, loving her and holding her until the storm had fled. But given what he'd done over the last day or so, it was very doubtful that she'd dance with him willingly. Not during the day, anyway. And he certainly wasn't going to force her. He wasn't that callous.
He briefly closed his eyes, remembering her shocked expression, seeing again the hurt and anger shining in her pretty eyes, and swore softly. Part of him had needed to push, had needed to confirm what he already knew in his heart--that she had no part in whatever was going on. But mostly, he just felt like the bastard she kept calling him.
And that he regretted. Very much.
But he'd set his path, and it was too late to change it now. He just had to be thankful the moon was still rising. If nothing else, he at least had the nights to enjoy. He sped past houses he couldn't really see, their shapes lost to the white blur of the storm. Neeson lived up on Seventh Street, not far fr om the building that housed his beloved paper. Duncan wondered why he'd finally decided to retire. Ten years ago, he'd been adamant he'd die on the job.
He swung onto Seventh Street, and the wind hit him broadside, sending him staggering several steps before he caught his balance. The dance was in trouble tonight. It was doubtful if even the most dedicated follower would be willing to battle this storm for the sake of pleasure. He ran across Neeson's lawn and rang the door bell. Inside the house, bells chimed an annoying melody that seemed to go on and on. After several minutes he heard shuffling steps approaching.
'Who is it?'
'Duncan Sinclair . I need to talk to you.' The door opened, revealing the stout, silver-haired figure
Duncan remembered. But as his gaze met the old man's, he saw the reason for Neeson's retirement. His blue eyes were all but white. The cataracts were so bad he had to be nearly blind.
And the white cane he held confirmed it. 'Come in, come in,' Neeson said, opening the door wider.
'You want a drink to warm the ice from your bones?'
'Coffee would be good.'
Neeson snorted softly as he slammed the door shut. 'I can remember a time when you would have sneered at the mere mention of coffee.'
'A few days in jail can alter a wolf's thinking,' Duncan said wryly.
The old wolf tapped his way down the hall, but once he got to the kitchen, he put the cane down and moved with more assurance. Obviously, he spent most of his time here and didn't have many visitors--or at least many who used the front door.
'So,' Neeson said, picking up the coffee pot and feeling for the mugs. 'You didn't come here to talk about old times, as we haven't had many. What do you want?'
'I'm trying to hunt down this killer for my pack.' He saw no reason to lie to the old man. Neeson might be blind and he might be retired, but he probably still knew more about what was going on in this town than anyone else. And his next words confirmed this. 'Thought you might be, considering you swore ten years ago never to set foot in this…what did you call it? 'Blighted town?' '
Duncan smiled. 'I don't believe I was that polite.'
'I wouldn't have been, either. Darcy set up quite a campaign. Had more than half the town convinced you were the father of his daughter's kid.'
'And the other half ready to come after me with shotguns.' He kept his voice dry, though in truth, anger still lingered even now. 'You think he'd be peeved enough at the outcome to plan a little revenge?'
'No. Darcy wouldn't have the brains to come up with something like this and pull it off. If he intended to come after any of the Sinclairs, he would have done it the old fashioned way. With a gun.'
Duncan murmured a thanks as Neeson slid a chipped mug across the table, then said, 'What about
Nancy Grant?'
Neeson's rheumy gaze studied him for a moment. 'You've obviously been digging.'
He shrugged, even though he knew the old wolf couldn't see the movement. 'I have to start somewhere.'
'Nancy Grant isn't what I'd call a star t.'
'Why not?'
'Because she was sixteen when the Bitterroot fire happened, and she was fueled up on alcohol and drugs. She's been on the straight and narrow since.'
'No rumblings whatsoever about the dance?'
'Nothing more than any of the golden tribe.'
'What about Levon?'
'Doubtful. Besides, both he and Nancy are golden wolves. The killer is silver.'
'The evidence points that way, but it could be planted.'
'The rangers don't think so.'
True. But then, the rangers were convinced it was someone in the Sinclair pack, despite having no real evidence to prove it. 'I'm told Levon was recently asking about the dance and who was partnering who.'
'Then the per son who told you is a liar.' If Betise was lying, he'd have to find out why--and what she hoped to gain by doing so. 'What makes you say that?'
'Because Levon knows the dance is essential. He might hate it-- he might not want any of his immediate pack involved with it--but he's never said a word publicly against it, and he'd never try to stop it. Did an interview with him about five years ago. You should read it if you want to get a handle on the man. Very interesting.' He might dig it out, but only because it might give him more insight into Neva. 'Have there been any rumblings about the dance in recent months? Has anyone been trying to close it down?'
'There's always rumblings about closing it down.
Always will be. But it never is, because everyone fears what might happen if they did.'
Duncan swallowed some coffee, then asked, 'So, nothing more than the usual grumbling?'
Neeson hesitated. 'There has been more than the normal amount of anger directed toward the Sinclairs this last month. Someone is stirring up trouble, but I haven't been able to discover who.'
Join the club, Duncan thought. 'Where have you been hearing this?'
'Everywhere.' Neeson hesitated and smiled. 'People seem to equate blindness with deafness. Some of the things I hear amaze even me.'
'And what's the opinion on the street about the murders?'
'That it's one of the Sinclairs. That your games have finally crossed the line.'
'And your opinion?'
'It's too pat, and it just doesn't feel right.' His sudden smile was a touch wistful. 'Just the sort of juicy story I loved when I was at the Gazette.'
'Who's running it now?'
'Some fancy pants from Denver. He's as useless as a neutered dog.'
Duncan smiled. 'If you hear any more interesting rumors, would you mind letting me know?'
'As long as you come back when this is all over and give me a blow-by-blow account of how you found the killer.'
At least someone outside his family thought he'd find the killer. 'Planning to submit a story to the
Gazette?' Neeson snorted. 'And give that asshole a great scoop? No way in hell. I just like knowing outcomes, that's all.' He nodded. It was that desire, more than anything, that had made Neeson a great reporter and an even better chief . 'It's a deal.'
'Good.' Neeson rose and escorted Duncan to the front door. 'Where you off to now?'
'I think I'd better talk to my lying source of information.'
'Good idea.' He opened the door, and Duncan hurriedly left before the icy touch of the wind stole too much heat from the old man's house.
Then he shifted shape and ran through the storm, heading towards Betise's house.
