Wild Fire
Page 39
Conner stood on his hind legs, his golden, spotted coat stretched to his impressive height as he raked at the trees, shredding bark, leaving deep gouges, wishing he could do the same to the man who had hurt his mother so deeply. She had never been angry at Raul, never said a bad thing about him, but she’d kept Conner away from the village until he’d come of age. She’d asked him, as a favor to her, to go back and talk with his father, to try to make peace.
Sap ran like a river and blood from his skin mingled with it as he dug through the thick wood, ripping and tearing, his anguish filling the night over and over again as he poured out his grief and rage. He never told her the things his father had said to him; he was a grown man and to hurt her more wouldn’t have accomplished anything. He also didn’t tell her that he’d beaten his own father to a pulp in the house where he’d been born, leaving Raul bruised and battered and bleeding there on the floor instead of throwing him out of the house as his father had done to his mother. He’d wanted to humiliate Raul in front of the villagers, but he knew Marisa wouldn’t be happy with him, so he hadn’t thrown him out the door for everyone to see he’d been defeated in combat—both as a cat and as a man.
The rain poured down, a steady drizzle that showed no sign of letting up. He turned his face toward the sky and let the drops run down his cheeks, hiding any tears burning there. He’d known hatred, but his mother hadn’t. She’d done her best to raise him to be like her, a gentle, loving creature who didn’t hold grudges. She hadn’t succeeded, and right at this moment he detested that he had many of his father’s dominating, cruel traits.
He couldn’t bear the idea of his mother thinking he hadn’t loved Isabeau. What if Isabeau had told her the story of his deceit? He swiped at a rotting log, rolling it over and sending insects in all directions. He kept tearing at the log, ashamed and disgusted with himself. He should have come home. Told her about Isabeau. Asked her advice. Instead, he’d slunk off to Drake, the only man who had ever treated him decently. Wanting what? Some kind of absolution? Knowing already what his mother would have said to him.
Long, night-piercing roars and growls emerged from his throat, filling space from floor to canopy with the threat of violence. He’d hid like a coward far away where no one could see the way Isabeau had shattered him, broken him inside to little pieces. He’d been in too deep by the time he’d known who she was and he’d allowed their relationship to go too far. The two women he loved he had hurt. And his mother was dead . . .
He raged to the heavens, pouring his grief out to mix with the rain. In his animal form it was more acceptable to allow wild emotions free, something that was far more difficult as a man. Splintered wood flew in all directions. Dirt and debris followed. Nothing escaped the terrible retribution of claws as he tore up trunks and smashed through the root cages of several large trees.
Small rodents shivered in tunnels and dens. Birds took to the air in agitation, adding to the chaos. The large leopard smashed a tall termite cone, flung the debris in all directions and dug his claws into a muddy slope, dragging himself up the steep incline to the next line of trees where he marked every one of them with deep gouges.
His nose wrinkled and he opened his mouth, testing the air. At once his lungs were filled with the scent of his mate. The leopard whirled around, his teeth showing, his golden eyes piercing, ferocious, the snarls still rumbling low in his throat. She stood a few yards from him, her chin up, eyes steady, but she was trembling and he could smell fear.
“They told me it was dangerous to follow you,” she greeted.
Her voice wobbled a little bit, but the leopard found it comforting. She had come to him of her own accord through the rain forest at night. It wouldn’t have been hard to follow the trail of his destruction, but she looked alone and fragile, and far too scared. Conner took hold of his cat, forcing the rage back, raising the flat ears and doing his best to look tame and gentle within the powerful body of the big leopard. It wasn’t easy. When he took a step toward her, her breath caught in her throat and her hand tightened on the torn tree branch she was using for support, but she didn’t back up.
Her body tensed. He froze in position, not wanting her to run. He was in control of the leopard, but if Isabeau fled, her action would trigger the leopard’s hunting instincts. He knew the cat would never harm her, but it would be unacceptable to frighten her.
“I know I said something to upset you, Conner,” Isabeau continued. “I wanted you to know, I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories. Your mother was wonderful—a kind, loving person who really helped me when I needed it.”
Another roar of anguish welled up. Conner fought it back. She looked so young to him, so inexperienced but brave, and love welled up for her so that his chest felt tight and his heart ached. How could he have blown it so badly? Handled everything so wrong? The moment he knew he was in over his head, he should have told her. He’d taken a chance talking to her father. It should have been her. He should have trusted her enough to give her the chance he gave her father. He hadn’t even considered the idea. He knew Marisa would have asked him why. She believed in talking. She was an intellectual and believed problems were solved by talking them over.
Isabeau took a cautious step forward. “I swear, Conner, I wouldn’t use your mother to hurt you in any way. Yes, I was angry with you over what you did, but I have come to some understanding about why you did it. Your mother was an exceptional person and I know she loved her son. I didn’t know your real name and she never mentioned yours. She just referred to you as ‘my son.’ She said it lovingly, Conner. Proudly. You were everything to her.”
Sap ran like a river and blood from his skin mingled with it as he dug through the thick wood, ripping and tearing, his anguish filling the night over and over again as he poured out his grief and rage. He never told her the things his father had said to him; he was a grown man and to hurt her more wouldn’t have accomplished anything. He also didn’t tell her that he’d beaten his own father to a pulp in the house where he’d been born, leaving Raul bruised and battered and bleeding there on the floor instead of throwing him out of the house as his father had done to his mother. He’d wanted to humiliate Raul in front of the villagers, but he knew Marisa wouldn’t be happy with him, so he hadn’t thrown him out the door for everyone to see he’d been defeated in combat—both as a cat and as a man.
The rain poured down, a steady drizzle that showed no sign of letting up. He turned his face toward the sky and let the drops run down his cheeks, hiding any tears burning there. He’d known hatred, but his mother hadn’t. She’d done her best to raise him to be like her, a gentle, loving creature who didn’t hold grudges. She hadn’t succeeded, and right at this moment he detested that he had many of his father’s dominating, cruel traits.
He couldn’t bear the idea of his mother thinking he hadn’t loved Isabeau. What if Isabeau had told her the story of his deceit? He swiped at a rotting log, rolling it over and sending insects in all directions. He kept tearing at the log, ashamed and disgusted with himself. He should have come home. Told her about Isabeau. Asked her advice. Instead, he’d slunk off to Drake, the only man who had ever treated him decently. Wanting what? Some kind of absolution? Knowing already what his mother would have said to him.
Long, night-piercing roars and growls emerged from his throat, filling space from floor to canopy with the threat of violence. He’d hid like a coward far away where no one could see the way Isabeau had shattered him, broken him inside to little pieces. He’d been in too deep by the time he’d known who she was and he’d allowed their relationship to go too far. The two women he loved he had hurt. And his mother was dead . . .
He raged to the heavens, pouring his grief out to mix with the rain. In his animal form it was more acceptable to allow wild emotions free, something that was far more difficult as a man. Splintered wood flew in all directions. Dirt and debris followed. Nothing escaped the terrible retribution of claws as he tore up trunks and smashed through the root cages of several large trees.
Small rodents shivered in tunnels and dens. Birds took to the air in agitation, adding to the chaos. The large leopard smashed a tall termite cone, flung the debris in all directions and dug his claws into a muddy slope, dragging himself up the steep incline to the next line of trees where he marked every one of them with deep gouges.
His nose wrinkled and he opened his mouth, testing the air. At once his lungs were filled with the scent of his mate. The leopard whirled around, his teeth showing, his golden eyes piercing, ferocious, the snarls still rumbling low in his throat. She stood a few yards from him, her chin up, eyes steady, but she was trembling and he could smell fear.
“They told me it was dangerous to follow you,” she greeted.
Her voice wobbled a little bit, but the leopard found it comforting. She had come to him of her own accord through the rain forest at night. It wouldn’t have been hard to follow the trail of his destruction, but she looked alone and fragile, and far too scared. Conner took hold of his cat, forcing the rage back, raising the flat ears and doing his best to look tame and gentle within the powerful body of the big leopard. It wasn’t easy. When he took a step toward her, her breath caught in her throat and her hand tightened on the torn tree branch she was using for support, but she didn’t back up.
Her body tensed. He froze in position, not wanting her to run. He was in control of the leopard, but if Isabeau fled, her action would trigger the leopard’s hunting instincts. He knew the cat would never harm her, but it would be unacceptable to frighten her.
“I know I said something to upset you, Conner,” Isabeau continued. “I wanted you to know, I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories. Your mother was wonderful—a kind, loving person who really helped me when I needed it.”
Another roar of anguish welled up. Conner fought it back. She looked so young to him, so inexperienced but brave, and love welled up for her so that his chest felt tight and his heart ached. How could he have blown it so badly? Handled everything so wrong? The moment he knew he was in over his head, he should have told her. He’d taken a chance talking to her father. It should have been her. He should have trusted her enough to give her the chance he gave her father. He hadn’t even considered the idea. He knew Marisa would have asked him why. She believed in talking. She was an intellectual and believed problems were solved by talking them over.
Isabeau took a cautious step forward. “I swear, Conner, I wouldn’t use your mother to hurt you in any way. Yes, I was angry with you over what you did, but I have come to some understanding about why you did it. Your mother was an exceptional person and I know she loved her son. I didn’t know your real name and she never mentioned yours. She just referred to you as ‘my son.’ She said it lovingly, Conner. Proudly. You were everything to her.”
