Chapter Two
What the ever-loving fuck was he going to do with an injured wolf? Powell dropped to his knees and pushed a long strand of the woman’s blonde hair out of her face. He yawned and tugged his toboggan over his ears.
Yawns really are contagious.
He could use a good nap himself, but he was on patrol duty for most of the month while the other park rangers rested, and of course all the excitement happened on his shift. Finding an injured wolf wasn’t on his agenda for the day. Yet, here she was, and her wolf was so close to the surface; the sensation was almost palpable.
The scent of her washed over him like a warm wave of summer air, and he breathed her in and savored the feeling for a moment.
But she was wolf. He scowled and peered closer. Not one of his normal rescues, that was for sure. Wolves were dangerous and conniving.
Her full lips mouthed something, then her head lolled to the side and she went limp. With skin almost as pale as the snow, save the bluish tint of cold around her pink lips, she might be in serious danger.
“Dammit.” He scooted closer.
Was she still alive? He placed two fingers on her neck to check her pulse. Slow, but then again, she was a wolf, so that was somewhat normal. Hypothermic, he was pretty damn sure of that. He wiped the falling snowflakes from her face.
Why the hell was she out in the woods alone during a blizzard so bad he could barely see six feet ahead of him? And in human form too. The wolves weren’t known as the brightest creatures, but this was a pretty dumb move. Shifters healed more quickly in their animal form, yet here she lay, all human, sprawled in the icy cold.
He shook her gently, but she didn’t respond. He’d heard the wolves howling—maybe they were looking for her. They’d sounded agitated as their howls reverberated through the snow-laden forest, and that was never a good thing. If they found her with him, injured and passed out, they’d leap to conclusions that could be extremely dangerous for a lone bear. He couldn’t take on numerous wolves at once.
He sniffed again, pushing through the honeyed warmth that wafted from her, to the deeper scents. Blood. Faint, but he smelled it. She said she’d injured her ankle. The snowstorm obscured most scents from his sensitive nose, but the metallic trace of blood pulsed in the crisp air.
Fresh.
If he didn’t get her help soon, she’d die.
A long lone howl sounded in the distance. The sky was already darkening as dusk approached. It’d get dark more quickly in this snowstorm. He shook her, again, more forcefully. No movement. Her puffy coat was saturated from melting snow, and her body temperature would drop quickly if her skin got wet. He moved her wet scarf from her face.
Wolf, dammit!
He fisted his hands. Continuing his patrol and letting the wolves find her would be the right thing to do. If she died, well, that was on them for not keeping up with their own.
What did he care if there was one less wolf? He was always dealing with them stealing sheep and chickens from farms that neighbored Deep Creek, and they often sided with the lions and lied to the bears. They told people what they wanted to hear then did as they wished.
A wolf’s word wasn’t worth the breath that it was uttered on.
Not one good reason he should help her.
She moaned, almost too faint for him to hear.
Duty.
“Dammit.” He’d never live with himself if he didn’t try to help her. As a park ranger in Deep Creek, he couldn’t leave her to die. Maybe he could move her to a more obvious place, like back on the trail she was following. Then, her pack could find her more quickly.
A compromise.
After unzipping his parka, he slid it off and over her, then scooped her into his arms, pulling the coat around her like he was wrapping a baby in a blanket. Limp in his arms, he held her close to his chest and headed back toward the path that led around the embankment.
Why she’d tried to climb the hill when she could’ve made her way out more easily along the lower path, he didn’t understand. The snow must’ve been falling more heavily when she took the tumble down the small hill.
Maybe she’d hit her head.
Another howl sounded, this one closer, more plaintive and piercing. Then another. The wolves weren’t happy.
His breath caught in his throat and he scanned the forest.
No wolves except the one in his arms.
His boots crunched with every step and he moved quickly through the forest. Snow muffled most sounds, and the world turned into a peaceful place when Deep Creek was alight with the glistening ice of winter.
Powell preferred patrolling in winter. He rarely saw another bear. Occasionally, a buck would gallop through the brush or a hare would thump the ground, but mostly he was alone.
And he loved it.
He paused on the path, the snow well over his ankles and still piling up. If he was going to leave her on the path, now was the time to do it. The snow had picked up, and a chill settled over him and was working its way into his core. He had to get to shelter soon or he’d also be hypothermic.
“Shit.” No way he could leave her. If he could carry her as a bear, he would, but she wasn’t able to hold on to him in her current state. She wasn’t heavy, but if they ran into the other wolves they’d be in trouble.
A screech owl hooted and its echo multiplied through the trees. He crunched over a dead limb and trudged on. He’d take her to his cabin for now. Figure out what to do with her after he warmed up. With the forest on the verge of nightfall, he didn’t have many choices.
He trudged on, sniffing the air for male-wolf scent and hoping he’d make it home before the forest was completely dark. The female wolf hadn’t stirred. Her long hair, mostly in a braid, swung like a pendulum as he walked. He adjusted her in his arms.
Not much farther. His arms burned under the effort of carrying the wolf, and his face stung from the icy cold air and falling snow. Most of the bears would be napping now, content and warm under their blankets. Snoring.
He smiled at the thought. Glad that the Deep Creek bears didn’t fully hibernate, yet happy that the long gray winter was a time of rest and rejuvenation. Much of the park was closed to tourists and only some roads were open. A glorious time to hike and run free.
A howl, much closer. Then another. Powell sniffed the air, his pulse racing and breath coming in cloudy bursts. Not much range for scenting with the snow heavier than before. Hopefully the wolves were having the same trouble. Sharp yips sounded. Then repeated.
Too close for comfort.
He pulled the injured wolf up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry so he could move faster. Sure the wolves were behind him, he took a big breath of cold air and ducked into the wind, the snow pecking at his face and eyes. His cabin porchlight shone in the distance, like a yellow firefly in a mason jar. Thighs and back burning, he jogged toward home, careful not to bump the wolf’s injured leg.
Sweat dripped down his back as an icy gust pierced every pore of his exposed face.
He’d never been more glad that he’d taken the most remote ranger cabin when it became available. Tonight, that decision probably saved his life.
And hers.
The snow had accumulated several more inches since he left, and his footprints from the cabin were mere hollows now. He tromped up the steps to the wooden porch, hand on the rail as he fought to maintain his balance on the slippery stairs.
A lone howl sounded from the forest, this one an octave higher than the last, and farther away.
Good. The wolves were not following them. He reached into his pocket, grabbed his key and pushed it into the lock.
Finally, home. The door swung open and a blast of warmth rushed over him. His cat, Narcissus, meowed in protest, fur askew in the chill.
“Not now, Nar.”
The cat hopped onto the sofa back and padded his front feet. Powell pushed the door closed with his foot then carried the wolf to the couch and laid her on it. She was still out of it.
After removing his gloves and hat, he locked the door. They’d made it and the wolves hadn’t caught up with them.
Thank the gods.
He moved the fire screen out of the way so he could get a fire going. He’d learned a couple of winters back to prep a fire in the fireplace before he went out on patrol. Coming home and lighting a match was a lot easier than building a fire from scratch. He lit the wadded paper under the kindling and stood back a moment, making sure the fire spread throughout.
Nar rubbed against his legs. “I’ll feed you in a few minutes, buddy. We have a guest. I need to tend to her first.”
The cat meowed and purred.
Powell gave him a quick pat on the head. The cat had kept his loneliness mostly at bay. He’d found Nar as a kitten, flea-infested and scrawny, wandering around the Dumpsters in Oakwood. Taking the little thing home hadn’t even been a choice.
He couldn’t leave him to die.
Powell glanced at the couch. Seems like he was developing a habit of rescuing lost and wounded animals.
This one isn’t staying.
Powell moved to unwrap the wolf from his parka. Despite having her coat on, he could feel that she was thin and lean, like a dancer. After unzipping and slipping off her coat, he set both coats near the fire to dry. He set her scarf beside it.
The wolf still hadn’t woken, though she was breathing.
He headed for the bedroom. Maybe he should call someone, let them know about the injured wolf in case the other wolves made an issue out of it. Griff was likely awake, but Powell hated to take the chance and wake him and Amy both up.
Powell sighed and dragged some clothes out of the laundry basket of clean clothes he hadn’t gotten around to folding. If she was still around in the morning, he’d let the bears know. No point in making a fuss tonight. Not like anyone would be getting out in a blizzard to come see her. And he could tend to her ankle.
He quickly pulled off his boots and changed into a T-shirt and flannel pants. After he slid his slippers on, he grabbed an extra pair of socks and padded back to the living room.
She hadn’t moved.
She lay on her back, eyes closed, her arms draped over her chest. Powell set the socks on the couch beside her then added some larger branches to the fire. Nar had curled up near the hearth already—warmth replacing food as his comfort.
He went to take off her boots.
Which ankle was it she hurt? He sniffed. Though the wound wasn’t bleeding any more, he scented the tang of blood. He unlaced the boot closest to him and pulled it off. Her sock was soaking wet and he peeled it free. He couldn’t reach her other leg as easily, so he kneeled by the couch and reached carefully over her and slid her pant leg up, revealing a long scratch that disappeared into her boot top. The blood had dried but the cut needed attention. He untied the laces of her boot and loosened them.
He winced as he tugged at the boot. It had to hurt. Her foot had swollen and the boot didn’t budge, so he unlaced it completely then wiggled it to and fro till it came off. She groaned as he pulled the sock down, but didn’t stir. Better that she not be awake while he tended to her ankle and the long cut.
Examining her ankle, he found no evidence of an open fracture, but she had a lot of swelling and some purplish blue spots forming around the anklebone. The cut ran the length of her shin.
Powell washed her foot as gently as he could, then put antibiotic ointment and a bandage over the cut. She’d heal quickly as a shifter, but no need to risk infection.
Her ankle needed compression bandaging, and he wrapped a dressing around it to help support the swelling, careful not to wind the fabric too tightly. When he was done, he pulled her into his arms to adjust the pillow underneath her. Her body stiffened in his arms.
She awoke and attempted a scream and flail, but he held on. Her voice cracked and she coughed, her body shaking.
What was he going to do now? His mouth went dry. “I’m trying to help you.”
She looked up at him, long lashes surrounding pale blue eyes, wide and cloudy with a hazy fog covering her irises.
“Who are you? And where am I?” Her voice, weak and shaky, shot straight through him.
No! It can’t be. A warm rush of adrenaline burst through his core.
Mate!