Keri Arthur - Ripple Creek 01 - Beneath a Rising Moon by Keri arthur

Author:Keri arthur [arthur, Keri]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Duncan shivered and pulled up his jacket collar. As he headed across town to

Neeson Jones' place, the force of the wind was pushing him along the street so

hard that he was almost running. The old wolf had only recently retired as

editor-in-chief of the Ripple Creek Gazette, and if there was anyone in this

town who'd know all the secrets and hatreds, it would be him.

Though right now, battling this storm and talking to the old wolf were really

the last thing he wanted to do. He'd much rather be curling up with Neva in her

big old bed, loving her and holding her until the storm had fled. But given what

he'd done over the last day or so, it was very doubtful that she'd dance with

him willingly. Not during the day, anyway. And he certainly wasn't going to

force her. He wasn't that callous.

He briefly closed his eyes, remembering her shocked expression, seeing again the

hurt and anger shining in her pretty eyes, and swore softly. Part of him had

needed to push, had needed to confirm what he already knew in his heart – that

she had no part in whatever was going on. But mostly, he just felt like the

bastard she kept calling him.

And that he regretted. Very much.

But he'd set his path, and it was too late to change it now. He just had to be

thankful the moon was still rising. If nothing else, he at least had the nights

to enjoy.

He sped past houses he couldn't really see, their shapes lost to the white blur

of the storm. Neeson lived up on Seventh Street, not far from the building that

housed his beloved paper. Duncan wondered why he'd finally decided to retire.

Ten years ago, he'd been adamant he'd die on the job.

He swung onto Seventh Street, and the wind hit him broadside, sending him

staggering several steps before he caught his balance. The dance was in trouble

tonight. It was doubtful if even the most dedicated follower would be willing to

battle this storm for the sake of pleasure.

He ran across Neeson's lawn and rang the doorbell. Inside the house, bells

chimed an annoying melody that seemed to go on and on. After several minutes he

heard shuffling steps approaching.

"Who is it?"

"Duncan Sinclair. I need to talk to you."

The door opened, revealing the stout, silver-haired figure Duncan remembered.

But as his gaze met the old man's, he saw the reason for Neeson's retirement.

His blue eyes were all but white. The cataracts were so bad he had to be nearly

blind.

And the white cane he held confirmed it.

"Come in, come in," Neeson said, opening the door wider. "You want a drink to

warm the ice from your bones?"

"Coffee would be good."

Neeson snorted softly as he slammed the door shut. "I can remember a time when

you would have sneered at the mere mention of coffee."

"A few days in jail can alter a wolf's thinking," Duncan said wryly.

The old wolf tapped his way down the hall, but once he got to the kitchen, he

put the cane down and moved with more assurance. Obviously, he spent most of his

time here and didn't have many visitors – or at least many who used the front

door.

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