How to Flirt With a Naked Werewolf - Molly Harper [98]
A FLOOD OF curious faces rushed into the saloon the next day, but I didn’t see the one I was looking for. To avoid the awful, overbright stares of diners who wanted all of the gory details of Abner’s death, I hid behind the grill. I didn’t need Alan to tell me that there were two sets of wolf prints at the clearing where we’d found Abner, one of which obviously belonged to Cooper. I didn’t need to be told that Abner had sustained massive internal injuries brought on by crushing force on his ribs and sternum, that he’d bled heavily from his wounds while he lay in the clearing overnight, that he’d ultimately died of shock.
Alan was increasingly frustrated with his inability to track the wolf. He called in experts from the universities and the wildlife department, but they always emerged from the woods without anything close to a clue. Alan blamed himself for Abner’s death, for the hikers, and even for Susie Q, despite the fact that every expert told him this wolf didn’t follow any typical patterns of behavior, that he couldn’t possibly predict where or when it could strike. I wanted Cooper to talk to him, to explain about the werewolves, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. And I couldn’t betray the pack’s secrets, even if it would make Alan stop beating himself into an emotional pulp. All I could do was listen when Alan vented and remind him to eat.
We didn’t bury Abner in Grundy. His last wishes had been that he be returned to his native Oklahoma, to be buried with his family. We held a memorial at the saloon, where we drank his favorite beer, sang his favorite songs, and told stories about him until our sides hurt from laughing. It was a fitting tribute to a good friend. And Cooper missed all of it.
I hadn’t seen him since that afternoon on the trail. He didn’t return my calls. Checking on his house became part of my evening routine. Clock out at work, check Cooper’s house, walk Oscar, eat, go to bed. I tried to tell myself that he’d been called out of town or had been helping the rangers track the monster that had killed Abner and just hadn’t had time to call me back. Then, one night, I saw his kitchen light on. I saw his silhouette against the window as he stood at his sink. From his vantage point, he had to see my truck. He couldn’t miss it. I waited, wanting him to come running out of the house or even amble leisurely, armed with a good reason for dropping off the freaking planet. But he moved away from the window and turned off the light.
About a week later, I saw him loading camping gear into his truck in front of Hannigan’s Grocery. He looked haggard and miserable, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Although my first instinct was to soothe, to brush kisses over those tired eyes and wrap my arms around him, the stronger instinct to smack him won out.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded, slapping the back of his head.
Cooper seemed to have missed the fact that his girlfriend had just bitch-slapped him on a public sidewalk. He wouldn’t even look at me as he raised the tailgate of his truck. “Not now.”
“Oh, you’re right, we have spent so much time together over the last couple of days, you must be getting sick of me.” I followed him to the driver’s side.
He opened the door to his truck and stepped in, putting it between us. “I can’t be around you right now.”
I skidded to a stop. “What?”
“You need to stay away from me,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “You know why. Susie Q, those hikers, Abner. I can’t be near you. I can’t take the chance that I could hurt you, too. I couldn’t stand it.”
My jaw fell slack, the indignant anger draining away. “You weren’t a wolf on the night Abner was attacked,” I whispered, well aware of the crowds gathering in shop windows to watch what promised to be the public lovers’ quarrel of the decade.
“We don’t know that!” He slammed his truck door, grabbed my elbow, and dragged me around the corner, behind the buildings of Main Street, until we’d reached the trees that surrounded Grundy. No one would hear us there.