Chapter 5

Cleona had put it off as long as she could. She’d gotten her mother out of bed, set up her fully charged laptop and kindle, brought in the morning paper, and made her breakfast.

Sitting across from her, the early dawn spilled into the windows, the dining room light over them casting a warm glow on their egg, sausage, and English muffin breakfast. Her mother’s hands shook as she spread the butter, something Cleona had offered to do for her at least a hundred times despite the suggestion earning her a sharp, stubborn glare.

She searched her face, the round curve of her cheek, the almond shape of her eyes, the roundness of her jaw, and her olive skin. Cleona looked nothing like her.

Nor her dad.

She’d never really thought much of it. She figured she was some sort of blend of the two or maybe an ancestor’s features from a couple generations back squeaked through there.

But now she had to wonder. Questions plagued her, but it was all so very simple.

Am I your real daughter?

And if she gave life to the question, would she ever enjoy such a familiar, motherly reaction from her mom again, because what she was about to ask, no matter the answer, would change things. It could create a chasm between them and be the irremovable thorn wedged in their sides from this point on.

“Lucy said she was going to stop by and visit today. You guys have any plans?”

“A gin competition. She won five dollars from me yesterday. I plan to win it back,” she said, laying her butter knife on her napkin, finally succeeding in her task.

Cleona took a sip of her coffee that instantly soured on her tongue with the trepidation simmering inside her. “Gin championships…nice. You know, she was telling me about this article she read in a medical journal that more advanced Parkinson’s testing might be coming. The kind that can detect it in family members years, maybe even decades before the symptoms. I was thinking of starting a savings account now just for that purpose so when the time came, I could be tested.”

“You’re not going to get it,” her mother said in that tone Cleona recognized from her teen years when her mother had to put her foot down and often used the word “period” at the end of the statement.

“Well, I could, I mean—”

“You’re not,” her mother said in her hardened tone, her narrowed gaze meeting Cleona’s.

Cleona clenched her mug as though it could save her from the swell of the storm-ravaged sea ahead. “You can’t know for sure, and there’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”

Her mother slammed her shaking, clenched fist on the table. “Dammit, Cleona! It’s not going to happen to you, and that’s the last I want to hear about it.”

“I was adopted, wasn’t I?” Cleona whispered, unable to look her mother in the eye. Just saying the words seemed like a betrayal.

The air whooshed out of her mother’s lungs. “What makes you ask that?” she practically breathed the question as if the shock stole her breath.

“You’re not denying it,” Cleona said quietly.

Her mother’s lips thinned, she raised a brow, and crossed her arms.

Cleona sighed and set down her mug. “It’s a feeling I get. You’re adamant about my Parkinson’s risks. The way I don’t look anything like you or Dad. And because of a visit I got.”

“What visit?”

“Answer the question first, Mom,” Cleona said, giving her mother a look of her own.

“That’s right. I am your mom and don’t you forget it,” she said, pointing an authoritative finger at Cleona, before she slumped in her chair. “But no, I didn’t give birth to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cleona asked, pushing sausage links around on her plate, her appetite gone.

She thought she’d feel sad, or even angry, but it was the uncertainty that took over and made her wonder where to go from here. Just because she was adopted didn’t mean Maeve’s story held any truth to it.

“Because it was part of the deal.” Her mother stared off into the distance, searching for a memory. Wistfulness flitted across her features. “Your dad and I wanted a baby so bad, but we couldn’t have our own.” She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Oh, we tried. We even went to a fertility doctor. That was back when your dad had the job with Renkle Security and excellent insurance. God, I miss your father,” she said with a heavy sigh that spoke of burdens far greater than this disease that stole her a piece at a time.

Cleona sat back and tilted her head. “What do you mean it was part of the deal?”

Her mother lifted her mug, the ceramic only half-full so she didn’t slosh the hot liquid over her hand. “We didn’t go through the usual vetting process. Part of the deal was to not tell you that you were adopted and keep the name given to you.”

“Didn’t that seem odd to you? And wrong?”

Her mother ran her palm down her face and blew out a breath. “We tried to have a baby for fifteen years. I miscarried nine times. I hope you never know what that’s like. Nine times I heard the first heartbeats only to have my body betray me and steal that life from me,” she said quietly, the sheen of tears welling in her brown eyes. “You were so very wanted. I would have done anything, and to this day, if I had to do it all over, I would still do it the same.”

“Did you buy me?” Cleona asked.

She wiped her eyes with her napkin and swallowed a sob. “No.”

“Mom, you have to give me more than that. I think I’m in trouble. I had a woman show up and tell me she was my sister and that we were—” Cleona skidded to a stop in her recounting of the day’s events, worried that her mother might think she was making a mockery with the outlandish, yet maybe not so outlandish after all, tale.

“You were what?” she asked, wiping her nose.

“Special,” Cleona said.

Her mother looked at her and frowned as she shook her head. “You are special.”

“No, not in the my-mom-loves-me-so-she-thinks-I-can-become-a-brain-surgeon way. In a magical way.”

“What do you mean magical?”

“Maeve said I’m a wolf shifter.”

Her mother burst out laughing. Laughing until a rattling cough wracked her body. “You can’t be serious?”

Cleona winced. “She said that our mother died in a meadow, at the base of a tree that had twisted roots that looked like a braid. She bled to death, I’m assuming after having us.”

Her mother’s features slackened, and the blood drained from her face. “A meadow tucked inside a ring of trees?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say,” Cleona said, feeling like they might finally be getting somewhere if the look on her mother’s face was any indication.

“I need to get something,” her mother said, locking her hands on the edge of the table and pushing her wheelchair away.

“What is it? I can get it for you,” Cleona said, scraping back her chair, the jagged sound piercing her eardrums.

“There’s a manila folder in the back of my closet, between the wall and filing cabinet. Can you bring it to me?”

“Sure.”

Her mother reached for her, her fingers brushing Cleona’s bare forearm. “Cleona?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re not mad?”

 Cleona took her hand. “I’m thrown. I don’t know what to do now…but I know who my mother is, the one who raised me,” she said, kneeling next to her mother’s wheelchair. “I’m going to need that while I navigate this huge unknown. I’m hoping you’ll be right beside me like you always have been.”

She brushed Cleona’s waves over her shoulder as she often did when Cleona was a young girl. “I could never be anywhere else, my girl.”

“Good,” she said with a smile, squeezing her mother’s shaking hand. “I’ll be right back.”

She headed down the hall and ducked into her mother’s cramped room. It had already been too small, and then the wheelchair, bathroom chair next to the bed, and all the other crap had filled what little space there was left.

If Cleona had done something with her talents instead of running off with a worthless guy, she could have her mom living in a nice three-bedroom house, with a jetted tub.

Her mom.

She meant what she said. That hadn’t changed. She supposed she had already started accepting that it was all likely true so when the words actually came out, they didn’t hurt.

It was one more fact of life that Cleona needed to accept. All she could do was figure out where to go from here.

Not that she had much of a choice. Because if this was all true, she had a pack to save.

A mate to save.

Leander.

He wore the moonstone on his wrist.

She didn’t want him to think that she wanted him out of this newfound duty. She needed him to know it was raw desire. A craving they’d been denying since the first time they met.

Maybe her stubborn side just couldn’t let this be about what fate told her she needed to do.

Her mother may not have given birth to her, but maybe she got a little bit of her iron will and need to resist after all.

And that made this all a whole lot easier to take.

She pushed through the thick veil of housedresses her mother favored and the neat row of clogs she no longer wore since she didn’t do much standing anymore and when she did, they were hell on balance.

Tucked there in the half-inch gap, she snagged the corner of the envelope with “Cleona” scrawled across the front.

For a second, just a fraction, her fingers itched to peek in, but she forced herself to twirl the clasp away from her and headed back to the kitchen.

Her mother sat in her chair, staring off as if searching another time, another place.

“Mom,” Cleona said quietly.

She jumped and turned to Cleona. “Did you find it?”

“I did.” She handed her the envelope, a sense of foreboding lodging in her gut and spinning there, keeping her dizzy with worry.

“You mentioned a meadow so I thought you should see these. I don’t know if you remember them or not, you were really young. Six or so.” Her mother slid sheaths of art paper out and handed them to her.

Cleona scanned the sheets, her gaze tracing over the pine trees standing in a line, shooting so high into the sky, all surrounding a gnarled tree in the center of the row.

A tree with braided roots sliding into the ground.

And the rough outline of a woman from a great distance, lying at the bottom of that tree.

In a white tank top and long, flowery skirt.

Her muscles quivered with a restless energy and a need to move.

To run.

Sweat broke out on her brow as her body temperature spiked, setting her skin aflame.

“Are you alright? I didn’t want to upset you by showing you. I just thought, with what this woman told you that this might be important. I wish I had asked Mylas more questions now, so I could give you more answers.”

Cleona swayed on her feet at the sound of Leander’s father’s name on her mother’s lips. “Mylas?”

“Yes, he arranged for it all. He worked at the fertilization clinic.”

“I have to go,” Cleona muttered.

“Wait! Are you coming back?”

“I’m not leaving, Mom. I just need—just give me a little bit of time, okay? Leave this. I’ll clean up when I get back,” Cleona said as she backed toward the door.