Between Two Wolves (BBW Paranormal Shapeshifter Menage Werewolf Romance) (3 page)

I arrived at the springs in the late
afternoon. The trail dipped down close to the river and the springs, before
climbing back up to high ground. Things looked familiar, although it had been
years since I'd been here. Trees had grown, some had fallen down, but the whole
placed felt like a place I'd been before. The springs, as usual, were totally
different. But that was normal. Nature was capricious and nowhere was that more
evident than down by the river. I dropped my pack and took it all in.

Each spring when the snow melted off the
mountains, the river that ran through the area rose, tumbling down the
mountain, moving rocks and sometimes boulders. And each spring the first hikers
in, and sometimes locals, worked to rebuild the rock walls around the places
where the hot springs bubbled up, creating ledges for sitting, and filling in
the bottoms of the pools with sand. Most years there would be many small pools,
each big enough for just one, or two people.

This year there were several smaller
pools, and one big party-sized area in the middle of everything. It could
easily hold a dozen people, and as I set my pack down, I marveled at how many
rocks it had taken to construct this beautiful creation. I walked around,
noticing seating ledges, a sandy bottom, and an actual set of steps built out
of flat rocks. It made me think a group of engineers had shown up to create
this masterpiece. It was an even more impressive feat when I thought that it
would be gone next spring.

I grabbed my pack, and went to find a
place to set up camp. The park maintained a few wilderness areas on this side
of the mountain. There was a clearing that I was particularly fond of, and I
hoped nobody would be there. Since I hadn't seen any cars, and since it was
still early in the season, I was pretty confident it would be free.

And it was. I breathed out a sigh, and
set my pack down for the last time today. There was something very special
about this place, the way the trees formed a lacy ceiling overhead. There were
hardwoods, oaks and maples mostly, and right now the leaves were still that
bright green that made the clear light seem magical. It was perfect.

I sat for a minute in my cathedral of
trees, just breathing in the cool air, enjoying the silence, and not having my
pack on my shoulders. A weekend spent here would do me a world of good. I
realized I was still smiling, and that it felt wonderful.

First things first.
I needed to set up the tent,
which was probably my least favorite chore. But if I didn't have a tent, and it
rained, which it usually did, I'd be miserable. Best just to get it done.

So I fought with the slippery nylon and
the flexible rods that held it all together. It was fiddly, and I muttered
under my breath. Harrison had never enjoyed camping, and gradually I'd stopped
going on solo hikes. So over time I'd given away most of my good gear to
friends. No one had wanted this old tent, and I'd never gotten around to
getting a new one. Not that I'd have ever used it while we were together...

Enough, Risha.
You came here to forget
about him, not look for things to remember.

I sighed, sitting down on a log someone
had moved into the clearing as a seat, the tent in a forlorn pile at my feet. I
wanted to forget, but there were so many things that reminded me of a
conversation with Harrison, or more likely an argument. The tent, a piece of
art he'd left behind.
The one I’d bought for his birthday.
The couch. The
apartment we'd shared. I'd thought about moving, but I realized there was only
so far I could go in getting Harrison out of my life, and my mind.

The sounds of the river caught my
attention. The sun was getting lower, and I made a sudden decision. I would go
down, take a soak in one of the hot springs, leave the tent until later. The
slices of sky that showed between the trees were clear, and I could set the
tent up when I got back.

Rummaging through my pack, I dug out an
old pair of shorts, tattered and full of holes, and indecent for any place
public. But they were perfect for the hot springs. I'd learned a long time ago
that no matter how carefully they tried to make the ledges and seats
comfortable, the rocks could still rough on my tender backside, and would
inevitably ruin any good pair of shorts I wore, so I had decided to pack along
my old, worn out ones.

I cast a slightly nervous glance around
the clearing. There was no one around, and I knew that. But since I'd left the
ranger, I'd had the disconcerting feeling of not being alone. Not exactly of
being watched, but that there was someone close by. I'd done a lot of long
distance hiking in college, and I'd discovered this weird kind of sixth sense
that happens when there's someone ahead of you, or behind you on the trail.
There's no sign of them, but you know before you hear or see them that they're
there.

But there was no one here now, except for
a blue jay that was really unhappy that I'd invaded its territory. It cawed and
carried on, scolding me loudly. I shook off the eerie feeling of being watched,
tugged off my jeans and underwear, and pulled on my shorts. Reaching beneath my
t-shirt, I undid the clasp on my bra and wiggled out of it, sliding my arms in
and out of the sleeves of my shirt. I dropped the bra on top of my jeans. I
tucked a thermos filled with white wine in a towel under my arm. The jay
scolded again from the pines, and I jumped.

It's just city girl nerves. You're out of
practice, that's all.

The walk to the springs had one of the
most spectacular views in the area. From beneath the dark branches of the
pines, the path suddenly turned, and I stepped into the bright sunlight at the
edge of a drop off. Below was the river, an emerald strand tumbling over
boulders the size of my car. The water was full of shifts in color and
translucency from its mad rush over the rocks, churned white in some places,
almost clear in slower moving areas. It was stunningly beautiful. Everything
I'd been worrying about fell away, as I stood and took in the view.

There were several pools along the
riverbank this year, some small ones, one or two larger ones. The water in them
was a kind of cloudy blue gray from the minerals in the water. I'd never quite
understood where the hot springs came from. Every time I saw them I vowed to
find out, and then I fell in love with them all over again with the magical
feeling of sitting on a rock in hot water while watching nature, and I forgot
that I cared where they came from. All I cared about was that they were there,
and someone took the time to make it easy to access them.

I scrambled down the path to the river
and the pools, trying to decide which one to sample first. The temperatures
could differ radically between pools, with some being just above the chill
temperature of the river, and others so hot I could only stay in a few minutes
before feeling like a boiled lobster. I wanted something warm and comforting, a
pool I could melt into, and stay in for hours.

So I dipped my toe in several of the
pools, testing the waters. Some were hot, some were cool, some were steaming. I
laughed at the image, me walking from pool to pool, feeling a little like
Goldilocks, wandering around until I found one that was just right. Easing down
the bank, I stepped into the pool. The water was perfect, almost too hot to
stand, but I knew I'd get used to it quickly. Uncapping the thermos, I poured
the cup full of wine, taking a long healthy swallow.

I sat down on a rock, the water swirling
around my legs, curling my toes at the heat. Across the river was the edge of
the land that didn't belong to the park, and I tried to see into the darkness
of the pines. Even though it was only twenty yards or so away, it seemed like
another country, vaguely foreign, slightly spooky. I thought of wolves, and
woodsmen, and witches with poisoned apples, living in gingerbread cottages. I
was mixing up my fairy tales.
And it's only my first glass of wine.

Scattered all over the bank were small
stones, polished smooth by years in the river. Picking up a handful, I choose a
dozen or so that felt good in my hand, or looked interesting, or were just
plain pretty. I'd learned a little ritual ages ago, something to help clear the
mind. I held up one stone, wishing I'd remembered to bring something to write
with. I'd have to improvise.

“This is the painting Harrison didn't
like. Take the memory and wash it away.” I threw the stone into the river. It
barely made a sound as it hit the water. I tried to visualize all the hurt
attached to that image washed away in the river. I picked another stone.

“For the time he missed my birthday
party.” I flung the rock. It skipped once on the water and disappeared. I took
another sip of wine. I wasn't sure if it was the ritual, or the Chardonnay, but
I suddenly felt better.

I went through the rocks one by one, letting
go of a little pain with each one, throwing the rock into the river. Finally I
was down to the last. It was different, bigger and black, polished to a high
sheen. I wondered what kind of rock it was. But again my knowledge of geology failed
me.

“For my father. I miss you, Dad. More
than you can imagine.” I held the rock, thinking about my father, about him and
me—just him and me—for as long as I could remember. Maybe this rock
should be for my mother, who left us when I was seven. But I'd given up being angry
at her a long time ago. She'd made a choice in her life that didn't include her
husband or her daughter. I didn't—
couldn't
understand why. But
being angry with her had torn a hole in my heart. I'd given up the anger, and
tried to patch up that hole.

But my dad...missing him was a palpable
thing, an ache somewhere deep inside. I didn't want to forget him, but the pain
of missing him was just as sharp as if he'd died yesterday, instead of two
years ago. I wanted the memories, just not the pain.

I held the rock, weighing it in my hand.
Closing my fingers around it I raised my arm, ready to toss it into the river.
But I couldn't unclench my fist. I brought my arm down, opened my hand, and
looked at the rock through a curtain of tears. Maybe this was the wrong time,
wrong place for this. I found myself crying, tears plopping onto the rock,
making the black surface glisten.
Not today.
Finally I slipped the rock
into my pocket.

After a minute or two I scooted to a
lower rock, pouring another cup of wine. The water rose up around my waist,
heat sinking into my core. I slouched down, stretched my arms along the rocks
at the edge of the pool, and let the water rise up almost to my chin. I was in
heaven.

I lost all track of time as the water
moved and danced around my body. My muscles relaxed bit by bit, and then all at
once it was perfect. The water was the perfect temperature and I couldn't
really tell where I ended and the water started. My body floated, and my mind
went blank. Maybe the rock tossing ritual had actually helped.

There was a bird singing somewhere in the
middle distance, a low whistle that repeated twice, then paused, then picked up
again. I counted the repeats, waiting through the pauses, then started
whistling back, trying to see if the bird would answer. It did, giving me a
long series of whistles in response to my amateur attempts. I giggled, and took
another sip of wine. I was nicely buzzed from the heat and the wine, and by
now, more than a little giggly.

“That's pretty good. You must spend a lot
of time up here.”

I sat up too quickly, slipped in the
water, then splashed around for an awkward minute, while trying to see who was
talking to me. The sun was in my eyes, and all I could make out was a dark form
towering over me.

“Sorry. I startled you.” The form moved
around to the other side of the pool. I pivoted, watching him turn from a dark
faceless shape into a man with longish dark hair and piercing blue eyes.

“You did.” I'd stopped splashing now, and
I sat on the edge of the rock, watching as he walked so the sun was shining on
his face. My heart was still thumping away in my chest. There was always the possibility
of other hikers showing up at the springs, but still, he’d scared the daylights
out of me. And no matter how nice hikers could be, I was always uneasy when I
was out here alone, and a lone guy showed up. I like to trust people, and give
them the benefit of the doubt, but I’d heard enough stories over the years to
be wary. He seemed okay, so far. But I sort of regretted being buzzed on wine, and
out here all alone.

“Sorry again. I thought you heard me walk
up. I crashed through the underbrush like a moose. Anyway, can I join you?” He
dropped his pack and smiled at me. For a minute I lost the thread of our brief
conversation. The smile was dazzling, all white teeth set against tan skin. I
managed to look at the rest of his face, bright blue eyes framed by long dark
hair curling around his shoulders. The moment stretched on, and then I
remembered he'd asked me a question.

“Oh, yeah. Sure. There's lots of room.”
Actually, there wasn't. It was one of the smaller pools. But it would hold two.
I pulled myself upright, the air chilling the skin on my arms, and my upper
chest. It cleared a bit of the logy feeling in my head.

Why did he have to choose my pool of all
the ones around? I suddenly feel so awkward, and uncomfortable.