Read Online The Alpha's Daughter by Jacqueline Rhoades - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Rhoades
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end. The trees were just beginning
to leaf out and she saw now, as she hadn't while driving, that each
tree had its own tint of yellow, pink or red among the shades of
green. Their bows hung over the narrow dirt and gravel road and she
imagined what it would be like to walk the darkened tunnel of shade
when the heat of summer reached its peak. She pointed to several
monstrously tall ones whose leaves were fully formed, crispy, brown
and dead.
"What killed those trees," she asked,
thinking it a shame to lose such majestic specimens. She'd lived
her life in the desert where trees such as this were a rarity
planted by man and those few that grew wild were stunted and
twisted by the wind.
"They're not dead. They're oaks. They're the
last to bud and they keep their old leaves until the new ones push
them off," Doc told her without looking to where she was pointing.
"They're like the people here. They don't like change. They cling
to the past even though it's dead and gone."
"But the new forces the old to fall
away."
"For the trees maybe. Not for the pack.
They'll cling to the old until they're as dry and dead as those
leaves." Doc looked off into the woods, not at the trees, but at
something only he could see.
"Why do you stay then?"
He was a doctor and that, among wolvers, made
him as rare as an oak tree in the desert. He could live anywhere
with any pack. Even her father's pack would gladly accept him and
pay him well to stay.
Doc shrugged at her question. "They need me,"
he said simply.
Jazz didn't need a tour guide to tell her
they'd arrived. There were about thirty people standing in the yard
of a little one story house that didn't look much better than the
one she was staying in. It didn't list to the side and its big
front porch looked firm, but the paint was peeling and one faded
gray shutter hung cockeyed from a single rusty hinge.
"Damnit to hell," Doc mumbled under his
breath.
Jazz looked up at him, wondering what she'd
done now to make him swear. He wasn't looking at her, but at the
man on the steps who was gesticulating wildly and shouting at
whoever stood above him on the porch.
As they came closer, she could see the person
on the porch was an older man dressed in new looking denim overalls
who was the recipient of the shouter's venom. By the scars on his
face, Jazz could tell he'd fought a few rounds in his younger days.
His shoulders and arms were still powerful looking, but his hair
was gray and much of his chest had sunk to his belly. He held out
his hands in a placating gesture.
"Now just settle down, Wilson."
"I'll settle down when we get this settled,"
the man on the stairs shouted. "We need to settle this."
Jazz recognized the voice as Rogers, the man
who had argued with her grizzly that morning. He was the cause of
Doc's cursing. The man on the porch was making an obvious effort to
be polite, but the look on his hardened face made it just as
obvious he was losing the battle.
"We're wasting time," Roger shouted, "Wasting
time, I say," and Jazz wondered if he was the kind of man who
thought shouting made him sound more important or if it was for the
crowd's benefit. She decided it was the former since he'd shouted
at Doc when only a few friends were standing close enough to hear
him whisper.
"Aw, Rog, she just got here last night,"
someone called from the crowd.
"And already instigated a disturbance at the
tavern and attacked two of our own. Attacked! She's from off and we
don't need her kind here." Roger now had his hands on his hips and
was turned toward the crowd.
"Being from off ain't nothing. Half this pack
is from off." The speaker was a younger woman holding a child by
the hand.
"I suppose that accounts for the half he's
not related to," Jazz whispered and she saw the beard around Doc's
mouth twitch. "I gather 'from off' means an outsider."
"You gathered rightly."
Doc tugged on her hand and pulled her forward
just as the screen door opened and an old man shuffled out with the
help of
to leaf out and she saw now, as she hadn't while driving, that each
tree had its own tint of yellow, pink or red among the shades of
green. Their bows hung over the narrow dirt and gravel road and she
imagined what it would be like to walk the darkened tunnel of shade
when the heat of summer reached its peak. She pointed to several
monstrously tall ones whose leaves were fully formed, crispy, brown
and dead.
"What killed those trees," she asked,
thinking it a shame to lose such majestic specimens. She'd lived
her life in the desert where trees such as this were a rarity
planted by man and those few that grew wild were stunted and
twisted by the wind.
"They're not dead. They're oaks. They're the
last to bud and they keep their old leaves until the new ones push
them off," Doc told her without looking to where she was pointing.
"They're like the people here. They don't like change. They cling
to the past even though it's dead and gone."
"But the new forces the old to fall
away."
"For the trees maybe. Not for the pack.
They'll cling to the old until they're as dry and dead as those
leaves." Doc looked off into the woods, not at the trees, but at
something only he could see.
"Why do you stay then?"
He was a doctor and that, among wolvers, made
him as rare as an oak tree in the desert. He could live anywhere
with any pack. Even her father's pack would gladly accept him and
pay him well to stay.
Doc shrugged at her question. "They need me,"
he said simply.
Jazz didn't need a tour guide to tell her
they'd arrived. There were about thirty people standing in the yard
of a little one story house that didn't look much better than the
one she was staying in. It didn't list to the side and its big
front porch looked firm, but the paint was peeling and one faded
gray shutter hung cockeyed from a single rusty hinge.
"Damnit to hell," Doc mumbled under his
breath.
Jazz looked up at him, wondering what she'd
done now to make him swear. He wasn't looking at her, but at the
man on the steps who was gesticulating wildly and shouting at
whoever stood above him on the porch.
As they came closer, she could see the person
on the porch was an older man dressed in new looking denim overalls
who was the recipient of the shouter's venom. By the scars on his
face, Jazz could tell he'd fought a few rounds in his younger days.
His shoulders and arms were still powerful looking, but his hair
was gray and much of his chest had sunk to his belly. He held out
his hands in a placating gesture.
"Now just settle down, Wilson."
"I'll settle down when we get this settled,"
the man on the stairs shouted. "We need to settle this."
Jazz recognized the voice as Rogers, the man
who had argued with her grizzly that morning. He was the cause of
Doc's cursing. The man on the porch was making an obvious effort to
be polite, but the look on his hardened face made it just as
obvious he was losing the battle.
"We're wasting time," Roger shouted, "Wasting
time, I say," and Jazz wondered if he was the kind of man who
thought shouting made him sound more important or if it was for the
crowd's benefit. She decided it was the former since he'd shouted
at Doc when only a few friends were standing close enough to hear
him whisper.
"Aw, Rog, she just got here last night,"
someone called from the crowd.
"And already instigated a disturbance at the
tavern and attacked two of our own. Attacked! She's from off and we
don't need her kind here." Roger now had his hands on his hips and
was turned toward the crowd.
"Being from off ain't nothing. Half this pack
is from off." The speaker was a younger woman holding a child by
the hand.
"I suppose that accounts for the half he's
not related to," Jazz whispered and she saw the beard around Doc's
mouth twitch. "I gather 'from off' means an outsider."
"You gathered rightly."
Doc tugged on her hand and pulled her forward
just as the screen door opened and an old man shuffled out with the
help of
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