Chapter
One
Falling face first into a prickly pear cactus couldn't hurt as much as Samara Davis hurt right now. Six weeks of freight hopping her way from Riverstone, Montana, to Prescott, Arizona, then hitchhiking to Winterbourne near the White Mountains, cramped every single muscle in her body. Cranky made its way to the top of the long list of emotions she had tried to process along the way.
A few of the more perceptive cashiers she'd been forced to interact with had offered help and it was clear to her why. Sweater weather had arrived, and while the thin jacket she wore covered her bruises, she felt like she was broadcasting victim. She hated that more than the fact that she felt like a balloon bender had twisted her spine into the shape of a corkscrew willow. Her grandfather would have loathed the direction her life had taken since he died. He’d trained her to defend herself ever since she was a child. God, she missed him, but there was no time for mourning while on the run.
The Riverstone wolf shifter pack was hunting her. Even though she'd killed her wolf shadow and turned back into a regular human, she didn’t dare think they’d stop.
But even on the run, she had to eat. She’d tucked herself into a corner of the White Mountains Bar & Grill. The restaurant’s walls were paneled with delicate light pine, polished without a single ding or scratch. Large picture windows with shiny gold frames gave Samara a view of the wilderness outside. A short flight of stairs led to an outdoor sun deck perpendicular to the bar. The two sets of newel posts at the top and bottom of the steps had finials carved into the likeness of wolves.
Why wolves? Her subconscious made note of the decoration but the rest of her didn’t have the energy to consider the implication.
It was obvious the waitress handling her order was trying not to stare at Samara's blue-tinged fingers and lips. She probably thought Samara was a vagrant who would stiff her on her tip if not the entire bill.
Samara couldn't blame her.
Outside, campers and trucks pulled out of the parking lot while the mid-morning sun warmed the mountain air a few degrees. Thick forest filled with ponderosa pine, blue spruce, and white firs stretched east surrounding the single road heading outside the town's limits toward campgrounds and woodland trails. Hawks and sparrows soared across the blue sky dotted with puffy clouds. Out in the woods, Samara imagined bears and bobcats, deer and elk all searched for food.
Thoughts of food brought her back to why she’d come here in the first place. The only offering on the menu that she could afford was a side of French fries. Even that would bring her pocket change down to a single dime. She’d only stopped here instead of jumping on another train to get a job, hopefully one that wasn't too picky about needing to see her ID. Nothing long term, a month was enough to collect a paycheck, buy some food, then disappear again.
She couldn't stay here long. The longer she stayed, the better chance the Riverstone Pack had of picking up her scent. No matter how tired she was or how much she hurt, she had to keep moving.
The brunch crowd cleared, giving the waitstaff a brief interval of quiet time. If she was going to ask to speak to a manager about the newspaper ad she’d found earlier, now would be the time to do it. As a rule, procrastination wasn't her style, but after the last six weeks her courage had taken a beating in the worst way. She needed a few more minutes to collect herself, that was all.
At that moment, the employee doors swung open, and a tall guy dressed in blue jeans and a black polo with the restaurant's logo embroidered on the sleeve slipped behind the bar. He carried a tablet in one hand and stylus in the other, checking inventory while rearranging the bottles of whiskey and wine. While he worked, Samara couldn't help but check him out.
She knew perfection when she saw it. His slicked-back brown hair, a few shades darker than her own, framed tanned cheekbones, a straight nose, and a round chin shaved clean. The polo pulled tight across his broad chest revealed his muscles. Those arms had the nice balance of someone who could easily handle a barroom brawl but didn't look as if he lived at a gym.
In any other life, she might have put on her best flirty face to see what would happen.
Glancing at her hands, she despaired over her discolored fingertips that made her look like a walking corpse. Getting friendly with the bartender was out of the question. With luck, he'd grace her with enough patience to lead her to the manager's office. If the manager thought that blue skin was just another fashion fad, they might give her the waitstaff job without a whole lot of questions. If they didn't, well, dumpster diving would become a necessity.
Tightening the elastic around her ponytail, she stood. Automatically, she checked the sheath clipped to her bra that held her combat knife. Job interview or not, she wasn't taking any chances. That knife had saved her life and taken others in the past six weeks. She would surrender it to no one without a fight. Her grandfather had shown her how deadly she could be with a knife in case a gun wasn't available.
Gathering her courage while reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out the morning newspaper while she crossed the dining room. She had folded it so the ad for waitstaff at the restaurant appeared face-up, circled in red. The bartender pulled his focus away from his tablet before she even reached the bar. His hard stare and unspoken control pinned her body in place.
"I'd like to apply for the job." It took all of her reserves not to stumble over her words as she laid the newspaper on the counter.
Normally, elevator eyes would annoy her, but this time she forced herself to stand still and wait. She imagined he was wondering what other parts of her body were blue. Aside from the fries, she'd barely eaten anything since going on the run and slept even less. A dingy sink at the local truck stop had made her feel slightly refreshed but it did nothing for her ragged tank top or ripped jeans.
The bartender studied her, in no rush to pass judgment, or at least that was what it felt like. Finally, without saying a word, he lifted the bar flap and motioned her to follow him. Uncertainty poked her, but ignored the feeling.
She was that desperate.
Slipping through the employees’ door after him, she found herself in a steamy kitchen. A couple of chefs scrambled to get ready for the lunch crowd. The smell of sweet spices, hot oil, and grilled burgers made her stomach growl. While she was distracted, the bartender opened a reach-in refrigerator.
"Do you prefer roast beef, turkey, or tuna?"
It took her a second to pull her attention away from the tantalizing food. Only then did his question break through her haze and she realized he was offering her a choice of sandwiches. "Uh, roast beef, please."
He grabbed a pre-wrapped package, a bottle of water, and some condiments before motioning her to back out of the kitchen. For the briefest of moments, she hesitated. Following a stranger into a back room could easily lead her right into the nightmare from which she had escaped. A growl from her stomach reminded her that she didn’t have much of a choice. The short hallway was lined with the same polished pine of the main dining room, covered by a thin tan carpet. At the end of the hallway, he opened the door to an office. He motioned for her to go in first, but kept the door open instead of closing it behind him.
At least she could still run if she had to—but not before she snatched that sandwich. The bartender cleared a stack of binders off the dark oak desk. The desk itself wasn't remarkable, but the pulls on the drawers were molded to look like wolves.
Wolves again? Why couldn't the owner have chosen eagles or bears?
She berated herself for thinking too much about the owner’s choice in office design. It didn't mean anything. She had to believe that.
