Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven #1) by J.R. Ward

“Maybe I can fix those bridges.”

“Sure. In all your free time.” Candy shrugged. “Look, we can all pitch in with the cleaning as a team, but Trick did stuff out in the preserve that none of us are equipped to do. And the fundraiser is coming up. We’ll get the money we need, eventually. Well … somehow, we’ll get it.”

“Tell me the truth, Candy.” Lydia shifted her eyes to the older woman. “When did the cleaners stop coming in?”

“A month ago.”

Lydia threw up her hands. “Why didn’t you let me know—”

“You’re not the executive director. That’s why. You aren’t responsible for the way this place runs.”

“Did you tell Peter?”

“Yes.”

“And he did nothing?”

“Well, look at the time. I gotta go.” Candy gave a rough pat on Lydia’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay—that’s what I’ve learned. We may work for the wolves, but we’re cats at heart. This place and everyone under its roof has nine lives. Now will you please leave before midnight for once? You’re turning into a vampire.”

As the woman took off, Lydia rubbed her aching eyes—

With an abrupt surge, she hustled out to the reception area with its rustic chairs and year-old copies of Outdoors magazine. “Wait, Candy?”

The receptionist paused at the door, the overhead fixture making her pink hair fluoresce like it was under a black light. “Yeah?”

“Why do you not like Sheriff Eastwind?”

Candy did a double take. Then shook her head. “What makes you ask that?”

“You never call him Sheriff. Or by his first name. It’s always Eastwind.”

“That is his name.”

“It’s the tone, too.”

When Lydia held the other woman’s stare, Candy glanced away to her neat desk. Then her eyes returned. “He and I go way back, that’s all. You know how small towns are. Now, will you please shut your office down and get home, already? Tomorrow is coming like a freight train, and like my dad always said, it’s going to be carrying more of the crap we dealt with today.”

The door clapped shut behind her.

Lydia looked around at the log-cabin-style space, seeing the worn carpet, the frayed arms on the chairs, the stain in the corner of the ceiling. She thought of the trails—and the fact that as the weather got more hospitable they would be filled with hikers, dogs, kids. Then she moved on to the ATV. The equipment building.

The toilet.

Heading back to her office, she picked up the envelope and opened it. Her wages for the previous two weeks were just over fifteen hundred dollars. $1,538.41. After withholding and her health insurance, she netted nine hundred and change. It had always felt like a lot to her.

Lydia ripped up the check, put the confetti back in the envelope, and tossed everything into the waste-paper basket. Then she went to the stack of files in her out-box. After she found what she was looking for, she made a note on a Post-it, got her coat, and grabbed her bag. Turning off all the lights, she set the security alarm out in front and locked up. Her beater was parked under a pine tree, and as she got in, she glanced at the building. Twenty-four months was a short blink in the course of an entire lifespan. But she felt like she’d been at the WSP forever.

And there was nowhere else she could imagine herself. For so many reasons.

At least that wolf was still alive, she thought as she drove off. Rick had checked in as he’d left and told her he was going to come back throughout the night to take vitals and make sure he was okay.

So there was that.

When she was on the county road, she took out her cell phone and broke the law by making a call and putting the unit up to her ear. Hands-free was great, unless you were in a fifteen-year-old car that didn’t have Bluetooth. Then it wasn’t an option, no matter what the rules were—

“Yes?”

The sound of the male voice was such a surprise, Lydia jumped. She’d been prepared for voice mail.

“Ah, hello, Peter.” Remember me, one of your employees? “How are you?”

“Lydia, look, I’m busy right now. What do you need?”

For you to do your damn job, Peter.

“We expected to see you today. At the project.” When there was silence, she said, “Hello?”

Should I give you the address in case you forgot where you work?

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll be in tomorrow. We can talk about whatever it is—”

“I need your authorization on a couple of things. It’s not going to wait until tomorrow.”

“I can’t do this right now—”

“Actually, yes, you can. And if you don’t, I know where you live, and I’m going to show up at your front door and pound on it until you answer—”

“What do you need,” he snapped.

The conversation lasted all of five minutes, and Lydia felt no better as she hung up. Which was hardly a news flash. She couldn’t say the WSP’s executive director had directed much or been very executive in the last month.

Even though she had other calls to make, she let her cell phone fall into her lap and just drove alone. Along, rather. In the headlights, the asphalt stripe that tracked the Moth River’s winding course around the foot of Deer Mountain reminded her of the opening scenes of The Shining. Not that the pavement was in as good condition as she remembered the film’s being—here, there were seams in the pavement everywhere, like worms trying to cross the road, the hot and cold of the seasons demanding flexibility out of that which was by its nature more fixed than conditions required.