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  Let them keep believing there is no such power. The children know. The adults never believe them. And when an adult happens on the truth, I see to it—the spirit of the wolf sees to it—that this adult is silenced forever, no matter the loss to me.

  I miss my hogan today, where the smoke of the cedar fire engulfs me like a magical caress. The winds of change drive the heat of the sun through this school and bring a growing threat to me. I must be ever more vigilant, not only to the task before me, but to detection. That would ruin all I have worked for in my life—and the deaths of others would be in vain. As always, though I work with others who also crave the wealth and power we have labored for all these years, I am alone. No one else truly understands the soul-searing power of the spirit of the wolf.

  Chapter Six

  P reston Black sat on the deck of Graham and Willow Vaughn’s log lodge on the shore of Table Rock Lake, listening to his giggling nieces, Lucy and Brittany, at play by the water. He’d never have dreamed he would love babysitting so much, but those two little charmers captured his heart the first time he met them last year.

  A movement caught his attention from across the lake. Blaze Farmer was paddling a canoe from the boys’ ranch on the other shore, about a quarter mile away. Preston knew it was Blaze because it was time to exercise the horses, and also because Blaze was the only Hideaway citizen with skin the color of espresso.

  When Preston’s sister and brother-in-law had left him in charge of the place for two days, he had not agreed to do all the chores, keep the horses watered and exercised, the chickens fed and eggs collected. Blaze was in charge of that, for which Preston was deeply grateful. Keeping up with a nine-and six-year-old was enough to keep him occupied.

  He appreciated that occupation right now. It couldn’t have come at a better time. He’d been able to do little besides worry about Sheila and brood about their situation. He’d searched the Web countless times for the diseases endemic to the Southwest. That had been a mistake. Squirrels in the Grand Canyon carried fleas that carried the plague. Although anthrax had not been mentioned as a concern at the school at this point, he’d discovered that this nasty little killer could be found in the wool of sheep, which were raised on Navajoland.

  He’d harassed nearly every medical person in Hideaway, including Graham and Willow, with questions about hantavirus. This, of course, was fruitless, because hantavirus was not endemic to Missouri, and those who worked in the Ozarks focused on Ozark illnesses.

  Hantavirus was the deadly virus that most often occurred in the southwestern part of the country. Deer mice were carriers of this strain of hemorrhagic fever. The droppings from these mice spread the disease through the air.

  Though Sheila had assured Preston before she left that the buildings at the school were new and closely monitored for rodents, he knew all the monitoring in the world couldn’t catch everything.

  But his real fear wasn’t over the diseases in the area. Yes, the principal had died from the effects of a microogranism, but Sheila’s mother had not, and neither had the Hunts. Preston couldn’t help connecting the deaths of Sheila’s mother and Wendy—both of whom worked in the school clinic. He might be stretching it a bit, but he couldn’t shake his worry.

  The canoe was almost to the lake’s halfway point—a distance of about six hundred feet—and Blaze waved. As Preston waved back, the cell phone chirped from his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the number. Sheila. At last.

  He flipped open the phone, eager to hear her voice, yet determined not to let on how badly he missed her, or how much he worried. “Are you there yet?”

  “I’m here.” She sounded tired…and something more.

  Sheila Metcalf was an eternally upbeat person who tended to lift the spirits of others—without irritating. Many perky people got on Preston’s nerves, but for as long as he had known Sheila, her presence had soothed him. Their relationship hadn’t always been comfortable, but being in her company was like a good day of fishing on James River.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  The barest of hesitations alerted him further. “It’s been a long drive,” she said. “It’s hot, and I’m tired.”

  “What happened?”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Did you find any sick people?”

  “I just got here—how am I supposed to have done that?” The fatigue in her voice had quickly turned to irritation, not a usual response from her.

  “Did you have trouble on the road?” he asked.

  No reply. Which meant she’d had trouble on the road.

  “Did the Jeep break down?” he asked. “I knew you should have taken mine.”

  The continued silence disturbed him. He watched as Blaze moored the canoe to the small dock about a hundred feet down the gentle slope of hill from the house.

  Lucy and Brittany ran to greet their good friend. Brittany hurled herself into his big, strong arms while Lucy hung back, suddenly shy. Lucy adored Blaze Farmer; she had informed Preston that she was going to marry Blaze when she grew up. Preston had a feeling Lucy might have some competition.

  The handsome young college student could have an active social life if he weren’t so busy, completing three years of study in two years, helping out at the boys’ ranch that he called home, working part-time at the hospital for his foster mother, Dr. Cheyenne Gideon, taking care of most of the animals in town—Blaze intended to become Hideaway’s first full-time veterinarian.

  Just watching the kid work made Preston tired.

  “There was something in the desert.” Sheila’s voice was shaky as it reached Preston over the receiver.

  His full attention snapped back to her. “Something like what?”

  “It looked like an animal running toward the road, maybe a dog. A German shepherd. I saw it as I drove, and then it just seemed to disappear in a puff of smoke.”

  Preston waited, tamping down on his alarm while the thought of rabies crossed his mind. He was losing it.

  “It drew too much of my attention,” she said. “Next thing I knew, I was off the road. I heard a pop-thud. I had a blowout from hitting a rock, had to change the tire, but if I hit a dog during all that mess, I’d have surely known it.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  She sighed. “There was a dog found dead on the side of the road near where I had the blowout, and it seems I’m now being blamed for hitting it. Some kind of school pet, I guess.”

  “Why does everybody seem to think you hit this dog?”

  “I think it’s because they want to believe it.”

  He really didn’t like the sound of her voice. He hadn’t liked this journey from the beginning, but telling her that right now wouldn’t help. “So why are you suddenly doubting yourself?” he asked gently. “You’d have known if you hit a dog. In fact, you’d have jumped to the dog’s aid, tried to resuscitate it and barring that, you’d have hauled the poor creature into your Jeep and taken it for help.”

  There was a sigh, and then silence.

  “Sheila?”

  “Thanks. I needed to hear that. It’s just so…so upsetting to be suddenly accused of this…this awful thing barely minutes after arriving here.”

  “Bad omen, huh?”

  There was a short silence, then a sniffle.

  He really, really didn’t like this. He stood up, ready to pack immediately and fly to Arizona. Sheila always had both feet solidly planted on the ground…and now she was talking about disappearing dogs, and crying because she thought people didn’t like her?

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “You’re not sick, are you? Because you don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Don’t you start, too.”

  “I’m not starting anything, I just think—”

  “I’m fine, okay? It’s just that when Canaan and Tanya—she’s one of the students at the school—when they arrived…” Sheila sighed. “Anyway, it wasn’t pretty, and I’m tired, and I know this will all blow over, but I’m not
feeling the best about things right now.”

  “I could come out—”

  “And do what?” Snappy again. “Preston, we’ve already discussed this. I’m doing what I need to do. I’m just running into some…bumps along the way. Literally.”

  He wanted to be there, but it would do no good to dwell on his frustration, or on hers. “I understand,” he said instead. And he did understand. “Just keep in mind that I’m only a phone call away.”

  “I know.” Voice soft again, she sounded defeated. And frightened. “Thanks. That helps, it really does. I think I’m going to take a short nap. Maybe everything will look better after I’ve rested.”

  “You said Canaan York was your friend from childhood.”

  “We were the best of friends, and if circumstances hadn’t been as they are, it would have been great to see him.”

  Preston had never been jealous before. Of course, he’d never been this in love before, either. “It seems to me that such a close friend would have given you the benefit of the doubt.” Already, he disliked this Canaan York. To be honest, he’d felt a chill toward the guy from the moment Sheila began talking about him in such glowing terms before leaving Missouri. A man had his limits.

  “Yes, well, people change,” she said.

  Preston could have told her that. In fact, he remembered telling her that very thing, which she hadn’t exactly appreciated at the time.

  “Besides, as acting principal, he has to get to the bottom of things, and I was the obvious suspect.”

  “He accused you of hitting the dog?” he asked. The jerk.

  She groaned. “Let’s say he seems to have some concern about my presence here, and the dog tragedy didn’t help.” Again, the weariness.

  “Just remember my thoughts are with you,” Preston said.

  She was silent.

  “Sheila?”

  “Yes, I know, your thoughts are with me, but I think what I need right now is something more powerful than mere thoughts, Preston.”

  Her words caught him unprepared. He knew what she meant. She was a prayerful person. He was not. And that was her issue with him. No matter how many times they’d argued, discussed, challenged and questioned each other, their differing views about faith had formed a wall between them. No matter how many ways they came at it, the problem was still there…and seemed to be growing.

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.

  “Yes. I know. Thanks, Preston. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He said a simple goodbye before disconnecting. He wanted to tell her a lot more, to reassure her, but he didn’t see how he could do that. He didn’t know what she was dealing with out there, and she was intentionally keeping several states between them.

  How he hated being on standby.

  And yet, Sheila had led him to believe that, right now, it was this or nothing. He couldn’t bear nothing.

  Canaan stepped through the large room he’d occupied far too much in the past few weeks—the principal’s office. When he was a student here, it was the one place all the children dreaded to go. That hadn’t changed for him. In fact, he’d learned that the principal hated disciplining the child more than the child hated to be disciplined.

  Or, at least, this principal hated it. He was not principal material. When his grandfather had asked him to fill this position on an emergency basis, the teachers and other staff had promised to help him with the load. Now he was afraid to ask for help. Whom could he trust?

  He entered the clinic, where he’d spent many nights lately, often falling asleep at the desk in the corner. Sinking into the well-used chair, he turned his attention to the bank of file cabinets, where patient records dating back to the founding of the school thirty years ago were waiting for him to study.

  And study them he must, as soon as he found time.

  People in these parts, including the staff, believed Canaan’s grandfather, Johnny Jacobs, to be a wealthy man. After all, he’d spared no expense on the new buildings last year, especially the clinic, which was, in truth, a very modern medical station, with excellent technical capabilities. The equipment had all been donated by Arizona hospitals, but Johnny made sure that everything was in good working order.

  What few people knew was that Granddad had sunk his whole fortune in Twin Mesas and three other mission schools around the state, with just enough generated income to meet the payroll at each school. He also accepted donations from several benefactors who had supported his goals for educating Navajo children from the start. He kept careful records, which he shared with the other contributors.

  It was the principal’s job at each school to make an annual report. Bob Jaffrey had done the preliminary work for Twin Mesas this year, but it was up to Canaan to complete it. He looked at a stack of files piled on a corner of the desk and sighed—yet another task he didn’t feel capable of performing.

  Canaan loved and respected his grandfather. He would do anything to help him and this school. The problem was that Canaan had almost reached his limit.

  When he’d first discovered Sheila was coming, he’d been hopeful. Hard on the heels of that hope, he’d recalled the trouble Sheila had endured here at the time of her mother’s death. He would never forget the haunted child she’d become before her father took her away. No one had seen her pain as Canaan had.

  Because of this knowledge, he’d argued with his grandfather about this choice. He’d also argued with Doc Cottonwood, who thought Sheila’s arrival would be reason for celebration.

  Johnny Jacobs was not a man easily swayed, or he’d have given up on his dreams for his Navajo friends years ago. He was sold on Sheila’s qualifications, and Canaan hadn’t been able to talk him out of her coming.

  After all, as Granddad had emphasized, Sheila was grown now: her traumatic experiences were long behind her. He believed she could handle returning, and that she was familiar enough with their ways that she would be an excellent fit with the schoolchildren she would be helping.

  Judging by today, however, Canaan had even more doubts that she’d be able to carry out what needed doing—the blood testing, the physicals. He knew she could perform the tasks, but would she be able to win over the sometimes skeptical children and staff?

  Tanya’s reaction concerned him. And Tanya wouldn’t be the only one to resist Sheila’s presence.

  He would have to wait and see.

  Chapter Seven

  P reston shoved his cell phone into the front pocket of his shirt as Blaze walked up the hill toward the house, with a child holding on to each hand. Brittany chortled with laughter at something he had just said; Lucy chuckled with less abandon…though not with less enjoyment. Blaze knew enough animal jokes and stories to keep the girls entertained all day, and he seemed to be having as much fun as they were.

  Several of the staff at the Hideaway Hospital had tried to convince Blaze that he had a future in pediatrics. His favorite comment was that he preferred piglets to kidlets, though judging by his behavior with Lucy and Brittany, he would be hard-pressed to charm a baby pig with any more tenderness.

  “What’s up?” Blaze stepped up onto the deck, eyeing the glass Preston held in his hand. “That your famous Preston Black iced coffee? Got any more?”

  Preston jerked his head toward the kitchen door behind him. “Help yourself. There’s coffee and ice in the kitchen. You know where the glasses are.”

  Blaze grimaced and shook his head. “Nah. It doesn’t taste the same if I have to make it myself. Yours are always the best.”

  “Who’d ever suspect the great, hardworking Blaze Farmer would be too lazy to make his own drink?” Preston quipped.

  “Ask Cook. He’ll tell you how my cooking skills have dropped off since I started college. I can peel taters and haul groceries from the store, but once I start to work around the stove, the boys at the ranch suddenly discover they’ve got to be somewhere else for supper.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing Fawn Morrison can cook, then,” Preston tease
d, and was rewarded by a warm, if clueless, smile. Blaze and Fawn—both students at College of the Ozarks—had been best friends since Fawn’s arrival in Hideaway two years ago. Nearly the whole population of the town knew they were sweet on each other, except for the two of them.

  “She’s got Bertie’s black walnut waffles down to a fine art,” Blaze said. “And she’s about to improve on the recipe. I get the rundown on every ingredient change she makes, and I get to sample the results.”

  Preston didn’t pursue the subject. Those two kids would pick up on the obvious one day. Until then, let their friendship continue to develop; it was the best way to build a long-lasting marriage. But then, Preston hadn’t ever been married, so what would he know?

  Blaze frowned at him. “You got something on your mind today?”

  Preston glanced toward the door. “Why don’t I make you my special iced cappuccino.”

  “Why don’t I take the girls horseback riding as soon as they wash all the lake mud off their arms and legs,” Blaze said, giving the girls a pointed look.

  Before Preston could respond, Lucy and Brittany were racing into the house, arguing over who would be first at the sink.

  With a smile, Preston jerked his head toward the door, and led the way inside to make Blaze’s favorite coffee drink.

  Blaze followed. “Sheila get to Arizona yet?”

  Preston nodded.

  “She doing okay?”

  Preston placed ice in the blender and started adding coffee, cream, spices. “Not sure.”

  “That don’t sound good.”

  Preston gave his young friend a glance. Blaze had arrived in Hideaway as a fifteen-year-old kid with dreadlocks, an undeserved reputation as an arsonist…and a broken heart. His father, a divorced veterinarian, had raised Blaze well until the day of his death.