I frowned. "Oregon?"
Paul shook his head. He wore a light coverage of makeup, and as he turned his head, dark blue splotches shadowed underneath. "Texas. I hate it there, and I'm not going back. You can turn me away, but I ain't… I'm not going back." He tugged at his shirt, covering more of his midriff and telling me he wasn't any more pleased to be in that outfit as I was to have him there.
It would have ended my problem, but I couldn't block out those bruises. "Now hold on. Don't go running. I will not be going back with you, but I can't order you into the cold. Hold on." I lifted a finger to tell him to wait while I dug in my pocket for my phone.
He jerked back, toward the door.
"No, just wait—"
"Sir, I don't mean to disrespect you, but I told you I won't go back, and I won't. I thought I'd find safety here, but if that's not the case…" His attention swung up to something behind me. His jaw slackened.
"Fucking fuck, Aver, he's alive. I'm looking at him right now," Wyatt griped into the phone as he moseyed down the stairs. Aver's call had clearly woken him at the early morning hour of eleven forty-five. He wore only holey jeans, and his shaggy hair flopped long enough to cover his eyes. "And what's this?" Wyatt crooned, coming to a stop at the bottom step. "He's got a friend." Wyatt winked.
I rolled my eyes. Wyatt would flirt with a rock. But Paul had stopped trying to run out the door.
"Wyatt, this is Paul Tyson. I was wondering if you would wait with him while I make a call?" I stepped to the corner, never leaving the two.
Paul's gaze flitted toward me. "Who are you calling?" His tone was unmistakable. He didn't trust me.
That wouldn't change by me lying now. "The police. I know that might not be what you want, but I know the cops around here. They can help you. They won't make you go home."
"I know the sheriff," Wyatt said, but out of his mouth, the words were husky. "He's an alright guy. Can't quite keep up spotting me at the gym, but he tries."
I waited for Paul to start laughing, but the kid was lapping out of Wyatt's hand. "I'm eighteen, though…" Paul said instead in a half-hearted attempt.
Wyatt's gaze flicked to mine long enough for him to turn back to Paul and say, "Still, it's better to go by the book with these things."
I would've mentioned Wyatt had no idea what these things were. He was just good at dropping into a situation and assimilating to what was needed. He would've been much angrier had he known that Delia Walker had sent this kid to seduce me. As if I'd find my omega in a shifter who was still a child. She'd crossed the line this time, though. Maybe Wyatt didn't know enough to be angry, but I was livid.
"Sheriff Maslow." Jake answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Sheriff, this is Branson Walker. I may have a kid in trouble here."
"Kid? How young we talking? Are you at home? What's a runaway doing way out there?"
It wasn't like we were in the middle of the woods, but we were a few minutes out of town by car where the Lynx River emptied into Walker Bay. If Paul had come from pack lands, he'd likely run from the other side of the bay to here, but I wasn't going to tell the sheriff that. "Not sure. He doesn't seem like a bad kid, though…" I looked briefly over at the two of them. Wyatt had Paul's full attention talking about some superhero movie that had just released. "He might have been abused?" If my mother had knowingly sent an underaged male to seduce me, I wouldn't protect her. Pack pride be dammed.
"I'll be right there. This is good timing. Well—you know what I mean. That fancy hire from Seattle came in this week. He's been on my ass talking about updating our procedure and policy. I tried to tell him we don't have enough of those kinds of trouble in Walker County to have all that rigmarole." He stopped speaking suddenly and cleared his throat, making me wonder who had walked in on him. When he spoke again, his tone rang with polite authority. "Thank you for calling. We'll come up now. Keep him there, keep him calm."
I hung up, wondering how I was supposed to keep a skittish shifter kid from running, but Wyatt had that under control. His habit for flirting was an advantage at the bar he owned and operated, and, I guessed, it was an advantage when trying to keep impressionable youths from fleeing. I lingered around the border of the room, still keeping an eye, without interrupting. And yes, I got a vindictive amount of pleasure seeing Delia's trap circle down the drain.
If this was the type of shifter she thought would lure me back into her clutches, then she didn't really know me at all.
Suddenly, my driveway was a parking lot. First, Aver in the white work truck with Walker Construction written in blue blocky letters on the side. Behind him was a firetruck, lights spinning but thankfully not the siren, and then Sheriff Maslow in his cruiser.
"Holy shit!" Paul exclaimed when he caught sight of them all.
"It's okay. Only one of them is here to talk to you," I said. "The rest are just nosy." I'd recommended Aver come back to the house, but that was before I realized Wyatt had been asleep upstairs. He didn't always sleep at home, choosing to crash at his bar sometimes instead. And I hadn't meant for Aver to blab to our cousin Nash. He was Wyatt's twin brother and a fireman, as well as the fourth of the Walker cousins to live in this house. And apparently, the town could spare a fire truck. "Stay here," I ordered, mostly to Wyatt.
Aver was already crunching over the gravel. "What's going on?"
At the same time, Nash hopped out of the firetruck and strode over.
"Listen, both of you. Delia sent me… a gift," I said with a snarl so they would understand. "He's shifter—"
"If he's shifter, why is the sheriff here?" Nash asked, hackles raised as his dark eyes flit back to where the sheriff was just now getting out of his car.
"Because he's got bruises, and I'm pretty sure Delia sent him for a specific purpose. If he's underaged, I don't care if she's my mother—I'll report her." I'd have reported her even if Paul was of age, but at that point, Paul was responsible for his own decisions in the eyes of human law, and shifter law was just about useless at a time like this. "He might have come from somewhere worse. He said he traveled here to try to join the packs and make a new life, I don't know. But I won't feel comfortable until we check it out."
The sheriff walked too closely for us to continue talking. A second man approached in step beside him. He stuck out immediately in an outfit that was probably called business casual where he came from, but on this side of the bay, he might as well have been in a tuxedo. His light blue button-up and gray wool blazer fit over a broad chest. The creases in his black slacks looked like they'd come straight off the ironing board. With an outfit like that, I expected some shiny loafers or equally impractical leather dress shoes, but I grinned at the tri-colored canvas sneakers.
"Branson." The sheriff offered his hand. I shook it, and then he turned to his partner. "This is our new representative from the Washington State Social Services, Riley Monroe."
I stuck my hand out, but the other man just nodded stiffly in my direction. He had a narrow face and sharp cheeks. His dark brown hair stuck out in a style I could only describe as artfully messy. Already, he had a dusting of facial hair shadowing his chin and jaw. There were faint dark circles beneath his deep blue eyes. A late night? Or early morning?