The broken she-wolf - Healed by innocence

Meeting new people

*Blaise*

Swearing viciously, I glare at the jagged cut on the underside of Black Thunder’s hoof. I release his foreleg, unfold my aching body, and jerk my dusty black Stetson from my head. Exhausted, resenting the dirt working its way into every crease of my body, I stand beneath the April sun feeling as though I have stepped into the middle of August.

Using the sleeve of my cambric shirt, I wipe the sweat beading my brow, grimacing as pain erupts across my back from the middle of my left shoulder to just below my ribs. I had expected the gash I received during the brawl with Ryan to have healed by now, but I suppose riding all day, late into the night, and sleeping on the ground hadn't been the best treatment for the wound.

When I rode out of Moonshadowville several days ago, I hadn't considered that I would have no way to clean or tend to the injury. Only one thought had preyed on my mind: The city of Blaise might hold the key that would lead me to Rowan’s killer, the man whose guilt would prove my innocence.

Slipping my fingers into the pocket of my vest, I pull out the map Chase had given me. Wearily, I study the lines that marked the start of my journey and my final destination. I stuff the wrinkled paper back into my pocket. I won’t reach the town tonight.

Settling my hat low over my brow, I sigh heavily. I'm in no mood to walk, but the stallion’s injury leaves me no choice. Gazing toward the distance, I see smoke spiraling up through the trees. I thread the reins through my fingers and trudge into the woods.

Shafts of sunlight and lengthening shadows weave through the branches, offering me some respite from the damnable heat. With a sense of loss, I remember a time when I would have appreciated the simple beauty surrounding me. Now, I just want to get to where I'm going.

I hear an occasional thwack as though someone were splitting wood. With the abundance of trees and bushes, I don’t imagine anyone has to depend on cow chips for a fire.

A wide clearing opens up before me. Lacy white curtains billow through the open windows of a small white clapboard house. The weathered door stands ajar. Near the house, a scrawny boy wearing a battered hat, threadbare jacket, and worn britches struggles to chop the wood. A large dog naps beneath the shade of a nearby tree. The varying hues of his brown and white fur remind me of a patchwork quilt. As I cautiously approach, the dog snaps open its eyes, snarls, and rises slowly to its full height, curling back its lips and deepening its growl.

Moving quickly, the boy dips down, swings around, and points a rifle at me. I throw my hands in the air. “Whoa! I’m not looking for trouble.”

“What are you lookin’ for?” He asks.

“Blaise. How far is it from here?” I keep my voice light, friendly.

“Half a day’s ride on a good horse.” The boy angles his head, the rumpled brim of his hat casting shadows over his face. “Your horse looks to be favoring his right leg.”

The boy's insight catches me off-guard, although I certainly admire it. “Yep. He cut his hoof on a rock. Your folks around?”

The boy gives a brisk nod. “And my brother. I would feel a lot better if you would take off the gun.”

I untie the strip of leather at my thigh and slowly unbuckle the gunbelt. Cautiously removing the holster, I lay the weapon on the ground, my gaze circling the area. I wonder where the rest of the family is working. I see no fields that need tending or cattle that need watching. The aroma of fresh baked bread and simmering meat wafts through the open door of the house. “Something sure smells good.”

“Son-of-a-gun stew.” He says.

“Think you could sneak me a bowl if I finish chopping that wood for you?” I ask.

The boy shifts his gaze to the wood scattered around an old tree stump, then looks back at me. “What’s your business in Blaise?”

“Looking for someone.” I say.

“You a lawman?” He asks.

I shake my head, “Nope. My horse is hurt. I have been walking longer than I care to think about. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. I can chop that wood twice as fast as you can, and I’m willing to do it for one bowl of stew. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Slowly, the boy relaxes his fingers and lowers the rifle. “Sounds like a fair trade.”

Rolling my sleeves past my elbows, I stride to the tree stump. Ignoring the snarling dog that lumbers in for a closer inspection of my boots, I pick up the ax, heft a log onto the stump, and slam the ax into the dry wood. I stifle a moan as fiery pain bursts across my back. When I reach my destination, my first order of business will be to find a doctor.

“I’m gonna take your gun,” the boy says hesitantly. “And your rifle.”

“Fine. There’s a Bowie knife in the saddlebags.” I don’t begrudge the boy his cautions, but I long for the absolute trust I’d once taken for granted. Hearing the boy’s bare feet fall softly over the ground as he walks to the house, I glance over my shoulder. The boy has grabbed my saddlebags as well.

I glare at the dog. “Your master ain’t too trusting, is he?”

The dog barks. I glance to my left and spot a hen house and a three-sided wooden structure that offers protection to a milk cow. I find that odd since the property has a huge barn.

I heave the ax down into the wood, wondering if I'm wasting my time traveling to this city that shares my name. If I had any sense, I would head home and try to rebuild a life that never should have been torn down. But stubborn pride won’t allow me the luxury of turning back. My family believes I'm innocent. Olivia knows I'm innocent. But the doubts will forever linger in everyone else’s minds.

When I have split and stacked enough wood to last the family a week, I amble to the house, drop to the porch, and lean against the beam that supports the eve running the width of the house. The dog strolls over, stretches, yawns, and works its way to the ground near my feet.

“Changed your mind about me, did you?”

Lifting his head, he releases a small whine before settling back into place. I'm sorely tempted to curl up beside the dog and sleep. Instead, I look toward the horizon where the sun is gradually sinking behind the trees. While serving my time, I’d hated to see the sun go down. I despised the night. Loneliness always accompanied the darkness.

“Here’s your meal,” the boy says from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder, my outstretched hand stopping halfway to its destination. The air backing up in my lungs, I slowly bring myself to my feet. The britches and bare feet are the same, but everything else has changed. The crumpled hat and shabby jacket are gone. So is the boy.

“What are you staring at?” an indignant voice asks.

I could name a hundred things. The long, thick braid of pale blond hair draped over the narrow shoulder. The starched white apron that cinches the tiniest waist I have ever seen. Or her eyes. Without the shadow of the hat, they glitter a tawny gold.

I tear my Stetson from my head and back up a step. “My apologies, ma’am. I thought you were a boy.”

A tentative smile plays across her lips. “It’s easier to get the work done when I’m wearing my brother’s britches. Besides, no one’s usually around to notice.”

“What about your family?” I ask.

A wealth of sadness plunges into the golden depths of her eyes. “Buried out back.”

So they are around as she’d told me, but not in a position to help her. She extends the bowl toward me.

“Here. Take it.”

I reach for the offering, my roughened fingers touching hers. We both jerk away, then scramble to recapture the bowl, our heads knocking together. Cursing as pain ricochets through my head, I snake out my hand and snatch the bowl, effectively halting its descent. The stew sloshes over the sides, burning the inside of my thumb.

“Damn!” I shift the bowl to my other hand and press my thumb against my mouth. I peer at the she-wolf. Her eyes have grown wide, and she's wiping her hands on her apron. I remember the many times Wade had scolded me for swearing in front of Briony, and I feel the heat suffuse my face. “My apologies for the swearing,” I offer.

She shakes her head. “I should have warned you that the stew is hot. I’ll get a cool cloth.”

Before I can stop her, she has disappeared into the house. I drop onto the porch, wondering if I have a fever. How could I have possibly mistaken that tiny slip of a she-wolf for a boy?

I think if I pressed her flush against me, the top of her head would fit against the center of my chest. Incredibly delicate, she reminds me of the fine china Callie now sets on her table. One careless thump would shatter it into a thousand fragments.

I see a flash of dung-colored britches just before the she-wolf kneels in front of me. She takes my hand without asking and presses a damp cloth to the red area. “I put a little oil on the cloth. That should draw out the pain.”

Her voice is as soft as a cloud floating in the sky, and again I wonder how I had mistaken her for a boy. Lightly, her hand holds mine, but I still feel the calluses across her palm. Her fingernails are short, chipped in a place or two, but clean. And her touch is the sweetest thing I have known in five years.

She peeks beneath the cloth. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister.” She touches her finger to the pink scar that circles my wrist. “What happened here?”

I stiffen, my throat knotting, and I wish I'd taken the time to roll down my sleeves after I had finished chopping the wood. I consider lying, but I learned long ago the foolishness of lies. “Shackles.”

She lifts her gaze to mine, her delicate brow furrowing, anxiety darkening her eyes, imploring me to answer a question she seems hesitant to voice aloud.

I swallow hard. “I spent some time in prison.”

“For what?” she whispers.

“Murder.” I mumble.

I expect horror to sweep across her face, wouldn't blame her if she ran into the house to fetch her rifle. Instead, she continues to hold my gaze, silently studying me as though she seeks some secret long buried. I consider telling her that I hadn’t killed anyone, but I have learned that the voices of twelve men speak louder than one. Unfortunately, until I prove someone else had killed Rowan Windscar, I am the man who had.

“How long were you in prison?” she finally asks.

“Five years.” I say.

Her brow furrows, “That’s not very long for murder.”

“It’s long enough.” I tell her.

Releasing my hand and my gaze, she eases away from me. “You should eat. You earned it.”

I give a brusque nod before delving into the stew. She sits on the bottom step of the porch and puts one foot on top of the other. She has the cutest toes I have ever seen. The second toe is crooked and pointed away from the big toe like a broken sign giving directions to a town.

She hits her thigh. “Come here, Digger.”

The dog trots over and nestles his head in her lap. With doleful eyes, he looks at me.

“Digger?” I ask.

She buries her fingers in the animal’s thick brown and white fur. “Yeah, he’s always digging things up. Do you have a name?”

“Beta Blaise Moonshadow.” I say.

“I thought that’s where you were headed.” She tilts her head. “Blaise, I mean.”

I nod, “It is. I was born near here. My parents named me after the town.”

“Must get confusing.” She mumbles.

“Not really. Haven’t been back in over twenty years.” I return my attention to the stew, remembering a time when talking had come easy, when smiling had brought such pleasures.

“I’m Lillian Greenmedow.”

“I appreciate the hospitality, Miss Greenmedow.” I scrape the last of the stew from my bowl.

“Do you want more stew?” she asks.

I nod, “If you have got some to spare.”

She rises, takes my bowl, and walks into the house. The dog releases a little whimper. I reach out to stroke the animal. A wave of dizziness assaults me. I grab the edge of the porch and breathe deeply.

“Are you all right?”

I glance over my shoulder. Lillian stands uncertainly on the porch, a bowl of fresh stew in her hand. I bring myself to my feet, afraid what I have already eaten isn’t going to stay put. “Reckon one bowl was plenty. Sorry to have troubled you for the second. I was wondering... with night closing in... if you would mind if I bedded down in your barn.”

Wariness flits through her golden eyes, but she gives me a jerky nod.

“'Preciate it. You can hold on to the saddlebags and guns until morning if it will help ease your fears about my staying. Before I head out, let me know what chores I can do as payment for the roof over my head.” I tell her.

I stride toward Black Thunder, hoping I can get the horse settled before I collapse from exhaustion.