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“First, let him out, sir.”
Slade snorted. “He took the key with him.”
“Does Dr. Warner have his phone?”
Slade grabbed the shrink’s phone from the desk and crushed it. “No.”
The men grew quiet and waited.
After five minutes, the door opened.
Slade rammed the three men holding powerful tranquilizer guns. They scrambled up and shot at him, but he raced down the tunnel until his nose caught the scent of an exit to the caverns.
Cricket left the underground headquarters. Rotten luck. Rylee had apparently left on business and wouldn’t be back until the evening. Wait until she hears what happened. Trevor and his security team threw her out. I should have some say in Slade’s treatment, but will anybody listen? No. Jerks. Go ahead then, follow your damn pack rules.
Cricket needed the outdoors. She needed to ride. She needed Spitfire. Her fiery bay Arabian mare always invigorated her.
Spitfire neighed as Cricket approached. Since their headquar
ters stood above a real working Montana ranch, they acquired horses and desensitized them to werewolves. Not an easy task for horses to be comfortable around predators, but Cricket had a knack for it, especially since to most prey she smelled more human than wolf.
Cricket reached in a bag, pulled out a fresh carrot and handed it to Spitfire. “Hey, girl. Ready for a nice run?” A ride would take her mind off Slade. Not sure if his insanity or his womanizing ways bothered her the most. Maybe her insane attraction to him should worry her more?
Cricket guided Spitfire out of her stall, and then saddled her. “Let’s get as far from here as possible.” She led the mare out, mounted, and then clucked.
On a flat trail, Cricket asked the mare to canter. The feisty mare responded with a smooth gallop through the meadow. After a mile, she slowed Spitfire to a walk along the riverbank. Cricket dismounted and soaked in the afternoon sun. Soon, she’d need to return for dinner. Back to her charge. Slade had lost it again, and by now, must be tranquilized and resting in the cell. Letting him stay in the guesthouse and hiking freely had obviously been a mistake. She sat down and stared out at the distant fall colors on the trees as Spitfire grazed.
Maybe she should have stayed at her station, or better yet, insisted on staying by Slade’s side when he went nuts with the shrink. How? She couldn’t disobey alpha Trevor. What if they hurt him? Cricket rubbed her brow, a headache threatened. Why should I give a rat’s ass about him?
Dr. Warner, no doubt, figured out she had been next to useless in calming Slade down. Besides, he had an entire inbox of available alpha women. They could fly to Warner’s clinic in Maine and help him heal. Slade needed a mate, not some submissive to boss around, or worse, a little sister to protect. I don’t need some big oaf of an alpha to parent me.
Still, she hated disappointing Rylee. Slade had trained as his pack’s warrior. He’d be an invaluable member of Team Greywolf. Once he conquered his grief.
Cricket had overheard his conversation with Dr. Warner. He blamed himself for the death of the young wolves. No wonder he suffered from morphopsychosis. If anyone could have prevented the massacre of his pack and the unchanged young ones, it might have been Slade.
Suddenly, Spitfire spooked, perked her ears and snorted.
Cricket sniffed. “Oh, shit.” Her emotions were so tied up thinking about Slade, she let her guard down. She held onto the reins and patted the mare’s sweaty neck. “Easy, girl, it’s just Old Miner.” An old grizzly nearly thirty years old that roamed the area. His stench permeated the air. She spotted his big golden brown body lumbering closer. Instead of being fat and ready for a long winter sleep, he looked too bony, malnourished. Every year his hunting skills had gotten worse. No way would he survive hibernation.
Old Miner stood. His tongue lolling out, his lower jaw broken. No wonder, he was starving. Desperation made him far more dangerous to humans and cattle than ever.
Spitfire reared.
“Easy.”
The mare calmed, but not by much, as she pawed her front right hoof on the ground.
Old Miner grunted.
The mare sidestepped in panic, but Cricket tightened her grip on the reins to stop the horse from bolting. Cricket sniffed and wrinkled her nose at the smell of his rotting mouth. An infection. She understood. Despite his pain, the starving bear wanted her horse. Her fangs extended, and she growled. Don’t even think about it, Old Miner.
The bear roared, fell back on all fours and charged. For a malnourished bear, he moved fast, pounding the earth to reach his prey.
Cricket slapped Spitfire on the rump. “Git!”
The mare bolted in the direction of the ranch. Cricket shifted, not caring that her favorite blue jeans ripped.
The bear chased after Spitfire, but not before Cricket charged and bit into his flank.
