Cold Creek was a wonderful place to be.
Margery stepped into her backyard and reached for the sky in a long, painful stretch. And groaned. Her arm and shoulder muscles ached from carrying heavy trays of food at the diner. Her feet were swollen and sore from the hard floors. Her left ankle felt like a bear was chomping on it for lunch. And after a week of cleaning everything in the entire house, her joints throbbed like she was a hundred-year-old granny.
Ow.
None of it mattered…because her heart was happy. The soreness was simply from exertion, not from being hit by a guard.
Besides, working at the diner was fun. People were in great moods when they went out to eat.
Everyone had been kind—and she’d received generous tips. Real money.
Tilting her head back, she smiled up at the faint hint of a moon in the daytime sky. “Thank you, Lady, for the town. For the job. For the house. And for the bicycle, too.”
She’d found a bicycle in the garden shed. With a bit of oil and pumping up the tires, she had transportation. ’Twas a good thing since, whenever her limping grew too pronounced, her boss got worried.
Getting fired for her own good would be infuriating.
Yes, she’d exhausted herself. Been on her feet too much. She’d been a bit frenzied about getting the house cleaned.
She glanced back inside with a sense of satisfaction. The windows and back door were open to waft away the last of the cleanser smell. She’d washed the floors, walls, even the ceiling, scoured the oven and fridge, cupboards and counters. The bathroom was spotless. The steam vacuum she’d borrowed from Angie had turned the dark, dingy carpet to a light brown.
Almost everything from the closets had gone to the Cosantir’s stock for shifters in need. Angie had made her keep a couple of coats and raingear—all a bit too big—and then dug through the Cosantir’s hoard to find jeans, sweaters, and shirts in Margery’s size.
It was amazing how nice it felt to have unripped, unstained clothing that actually fit.
Life was going well.
Several days ago, Heather had returned from visiting her mother. Delighted Margery was staying, she’d offered to bring Margery’s belongings here.
But…her offer hadn’t been needed.
“You didn’t leave anything in Ailill Ridge? Girl, you only brought a daypack.”
“Mmmhmm. It held everything I owned.”
“That little thing couldn’t have held more than a couple of changes of clothing and a few toiletries.”
“I have clothes now—and I’m earning money.”
When Heather’s face turned an angry dark red, Margery patted her arm. “I’m here. And I’m happy. Thank you for bringing me, Heather. I really, really appreciate it.”
“The God needs to wake his furry ass up and appoint a new Cosantir in Rainier.” Heather muttered the blasphemy before giving Margery a hard hug. “You call me if you need something—anything. I’ll see you at the next Gathering.”
Margery smiled. Having a friend like Heather was amazing.
Inhaling the spring-scented air, she looked at the backyard—her next task in the house renovation process.
It was quite the mess. A five-foot-tall board fence surrounded the backyard with a small garden shed in the back corner. Old leaves, winter-killed tall grass, and dead weeds lay in ugly piles over the barely sprouting lawn. The forest came right to the other side of the fence, and she could hear the gurgling creek that paralleled the line of houses. The dark line of bare deciduous trees forked several times, running up into the mountain wilderness. Angie said her Daonain neighbors used the creek side trails to visit the mountains.
Maybe she could go for a wolfy jaunt soon.
A quiver ran through her. She hadn’t shifted since coming to Cold Creek, mostly because she didn’t know the area or rules or anything. Rainier’s pack alpha, Roger, hadn’t been forgiving of mistakes. What if the alpha here in North Cascades Territory was even nastier?
Her jaw tightened. Well, she didn’t give a sniff. She’d be careful—and would keep to herself. Not every wolf needed a pack.
Turning away from the forest, she set her hands on her hips and surveyed her messy domain.
Time to pick up some groceries and a pair of gardening gloves.
The green scent of produce mingled with the faint odors of meat products and cleansers in the grocery store. Margery waited patiently as Albert Baty rang up her groceries. Short with stringy gray hair and drooping jowls, the grocer had tried to hide his kind nature under bluster, but she’d figured him out.
“There you go, Margery.” He handed her two small shopping bags. “I think you’ll like the meatloaf recipe. It was my mum’s favorite.”
“I’ll try it tonight.” The inexpensive meat dish should keep her in leftovers all week. She grinned. “I’ll invite you over after I’ve made it a few times. I’m good at messing up even basic dishes—it’s embarrassing.”
“You’re still learning.” He snorted. “When I was a pup, I destroyed quite a few impossible-to-ruin meals.”
“Really?” In the Ailill Ridge communal house, most of the dinners were slow-cooker style—the easiest way to deal with charity-meat like venison and rabbit. Meat with beans or rice or potatoes. Difficult to ruin.
Cooking on her own without a slow cooker was much trickier. “I was starting to think I lack a cooking gene.”
“No, child.” He patted her hand. “Cooking simply requires a decent recipe, paying attention—and practice. Go forth and practice.”
“I will. Thank you!” She headed outside to her bike, her feet lighter than when she’d come in.
After setting the bags into the rear rattan baskets, she unlocked the chain securing her bike to the streetlight and started to wrap it around her waist.
“Margery.” A gratingly hateful voice made her spine go rigid.
She tossed the chain over the handlebars and turned.
Roger, the alpha of Rainier Territory’s pack, stood way too close with Brett, his beta, behind him.
Cat-scat. If she had more room to escape, she could tuck tail and flee on her bike.
Keeping her expression cool and unreadable, she folded her hands at her waist. “Hello, Roger. What are you doing in Cold Creek?”
Big-bodied and thickly muscled, he invaded her personal space to loom over her. With scraggly yellow hair, winter-pale skin, and almost colorless eyes, he looked like the brutal Viking in a movie she’d once watched. “The question is: What are you doing in Cold Creek?”
“I live here now,” she said coldly.
“No fucking way,” he growled. “Every village got a Dogwood female—you’re ours.”
“Yours?” Anger rose inside her. She wasn’t a meaty bone for a pack of coyotes; she was a person. “The Dogwood females were scattered for the winter for orientation and less chance of detection. My orientation is complete, and there’s only one other villager here. It’s my choice where to live.”
“No, it’s not. You might not be a healer, but you’re better than nothing.” His fingers closed around her upper arm. “You’re coming back with us.”
As she tried to jerk away, her ankle wobbled, and his grip tightened painfully.