Chapter 4
Well, hell.With a resigned sigh, he trailed after the tenderfoot, determined to protect Donovan from harm, at least those in the mammal realm.
A shot pierced the air.
TJ jerked around, opening his senses to discover the exact direction it came from. A tiny scent tantalized him. Not strong enough to grab his attention and lead him to the culprit, it was still able to give him a vague idea.
He took a couple of steps before stopping. Swiveling his head around, he glanced the way Donovan had gone. Indecision flared. Stay and protect Donovan from the vegetation and potential wild animal attacks or dash off further into his property and find the hunter poaching on his land.
Back and forth he wavered.
Finally, his inner grizzly made the decision for him.
Surging ahead at full speed, he raced toward the area he believed the hunter trespassed. It wasn’t the first time some stupid human decided to cross the boundary and go after the wild game on TJ’s land. Hopefully, it would be the last.
With his instincts driving him, TJ went after the shooter.
By the time he arrived, he found little more than a single spent gun casing, tracks, and a decidedly pungent smell of a human on a mission. The odor caused TJ to scrunch his nose. He also knew the human had hot-footed it out of there. The tracks told of a man running, angling to avoid branches and bushes, and a hasty retreat straight to the road. The evidence stacked up. This was no ordinary hunter, tromping through the woods in order to find his next trophy to hang on the wall. It was a man well-versed with the wilderness. He knew he’d be hunted, so didn’t bother to tarry once he missed his target, whatever that might have been. No animal carcass or blood led him to believe that anything had taken a hit. A definite positive.
What concerned him the most was the casing. He knew enough about guns and bullets to identify the ammo. A .450 cartridge. Huge and deadly. This guy wasn’t hunting deer or squirrel. He was going for much bigger game—bears.
TJ’s gut tightened as anger rushed through him.
Someone was after his bears. What the bastard didn’t know was this particular bear fought back. 2
Who the hell knew that shifters can get poison ivy?
Donovan caught himself scratching at his chest again and cussed a blue streak.
He’d bathed, applied a gallon of calamine lotion, and still couldn’t stop the maddening irritation. A quick trip to the only pharmacy in town netted him half a dozen boxes of pills. He might as well have been eating peanuts. Nothing worked. His skin was indeed speckled with raised, red dots which alternated between throbbing and itching so bad he wanted to claw his hide to shreds.
A sleepless night followed, which put him at work early the next morning, not that it really did any good. No way could he do anything remotely involving concentration with such a huge distraction. His clothes aggravated the rash. Even his teeth itched, as odd as that sounded. Not a single inch on his body didn’t cry out for relief. Something had to help, though he had yet to find the remedy. If not, he was at the point of shooting himself.
That’ll teach you to tromp through the woods in search of Mr. Hot Tomato.
That’s hot tamale, Donovan corrected.
Whatever.His inner beast gave a derisive snort.
Mary walked in the door. The older lady wore a neon red shirt, old, worn jeans, and sported a tinted shade of light blue in her hair. Flashy and outrageous described the only other worker at the small, rural post office. She’d been there since the building was built. Considering a plaque on the side wall announced the grand opening date in 1950, that said something.
She reminded him of a chicken—small but plucky. Her scrawny legs only added to the resemblance. A stout wind could probably blow the little old lady well over the rainbow.
“What happened to you? Looks like you rolled in a pile of poison ivy.”
He bit back a snarky response. “I went hiking in the woods.”
She shook her head. “City folks, I swear. Don’t know poison ivy from a pound cake.”
Already irritable, Donovan held onto his patience with an iron will. “I’ve swam in an ocean of oatmeal and put a ton of calamine lotion on. Nothing helps.”
She pursed her lips. “With that many spots, I reckon you need some medical help.”
Donovan had thought the same thing, but didn’t have the gumption to drive to the nearest emergency room and sit for hours waiting to be seen.
“Doc can probably work you in.”
“Doc?”
“Yep. Doc Wood.” She grinned wickedly and fanned herself. “That man could put a stripper to shame. Easy on the eyes and a damn fine doctor too.”
“Then, he’s my man.” Optimism and a side of hope sprinkled over Donovan. “Now, where do I find this Adonis?”
Mary chuckled. “Main and Fort. Tell Emmy, his receptionist, I sent you.”
In a hurry, Donovan gave her a brief wave, and strode out the door. Relief waited just a couple of blocks away.