torn off during winds like these. He'd better take a look and see if there was any damage.
Hunter stepped outside, bracing himself against the wind and the sweeping sheets of rain. Everything was coated with a fine layer of ice—his truck, the woodshed, the ground itself. He had to step with care to keep from slipping. The trees around the yard were weighed down by it, their branches bending toward the ground as they swayed in the wind.
He saw no signs of any downed branches, though. Hunter circled the cabin, his eyes on the roof. He'd split those shakes with his own hands, building the roof in an old-fashioned style that had stood up to the test of time. As far as he could tell, it seemed undamaged.
So what had he heard, then? A wind-driven pine cone? It had sounded bigger than that. Hunter made another circuit of the cabin, and was about to go inside when he spied the pathetic, ice-covered lump of feathers by the woodpile.
"Aww, poor thing," Hunter murmured. He went down to his knees and picked it up carefully in his big hands. Red-tailed hawk. Female. She was totally limp; her iced-up wings spilled down toward the ground, and her head lolled loosely in his palm. At first he thought she was dead, but then he felt the heartbeat fluttering weakly in her chest.
"Poor thing," he said again. "Let's get you inside and warmed up."
He tucked the unconscious hawk into a crook of his big arm and carried her into the warm cabin. There was no good place to put her except on his bed, so he laid her gently on top of the blankets.
Hunter fetched a towel and, sitting on the edge of the bed, began to dry her gently. She was a beautiful hawk, in the prime of her life, her feathers glossy with health. When he had her as dry as he could get her, he wrapped the towel around her and then went to stir up the fire.
As Hunter crouched down to poke at the fire with a metal poker, he became aware that something had changed behind him. He couldn't say exactly what. It wasn't a noise, precisely. Maybe the tiniest of rustles. But something instinctual, something that came directly from his bear soul, told him things weren't as he'd left them.
Hunter looked over his shoulder.
Where there had been a limp red-tailed hawk lying on his bed, now there was a beautiful naked woman curled on her side.
Hunter froze, then laid the poker down and straightened up slowly.
She was curvy and smooth and gorgeous, curled on the bed, her tousled brunette hair spilling around her perfect face. And she was also, from the look of her, freezing cold. Goose bumps prickled the flawless skin of her shoulders. The damp towel had been thrown off when she'd changed, and lay rumpled under her.
Hunter snapped out of his shock. He had a warm quilt draped over the back of his chair for cold nights. He draped it carefully over her still, unconscious form, and then touched the cold skin of her throat. Her pulse beat strongly, but she was going to need more warmth than that.
Climb in with her.
If he'd known her—if she'd been one of the neighbors, say—he would have done it. But he balked at the idea of wrapping himself around an unconscious stranger. It would have to be a last resort if he couldn't get her warm any other way. Instead he brought more blankets and a deerskin robe. Carefully and gently he bundled her up, wrapping her in fire-warmed fabric and fur, checking frequently as he did so to make sure she was still breathing steadily, her heart beating in a strong rhythm.
Little was showing of her now except the spill of dark brown hair, the same color as her glossy feathers.
Now that he'd discovered she was a shifter rather than an animal, he wondered if she ought to go to a hospital. There was just one tiny problem with that: he didn't have a phone in the cabin. The nearest phone was at his neighbor Bill's place, a couple of miles down the road. If her condition got worse, he'd wrap her up warmly and put her in his truck, but it was a couple hours' drive under
Hunter stepped outside, bracing himself against the wind and the sweeping sheets of rain. Everything was coated with a fine layer of ice—his truck, the woodshed, the ground itself. He had to step with care to keep from slipping. The trees around the yard were weighed down by it, their branches bending toward the ground as they swayed in the wind.
He saw no signs of any downed branches, though. Hunter circled the cabin, his eyes on the roof. He'd split those shakes with his own hands, building the roof in an old-fashioned style that had stood up to the test of time. As far as he could tell, it seemed undamaged.
So what had he heard, then? A wind-driven pine cone? It had sounded bigger than that. Hunter made another circuit of the cabin, and was about to go inside when he spied the pathetic, ice-covered lump of feathers by the woodpile.
"Aww, poor thing," Hunter murmured. He went down to his knees and picked it up carefully in his big hands. Red-tailed hawk. Female. She was totally limp; her iced-up wings spilled down toward the ground, and her head lolled loosely in his palm. At first he thought she was dead, but then he felt the heartbeat fluttering weakly in her chest.
"Poor thing," he said again. "Let's get you inside and warmed up."
He tucked the unconscious hawk into a crook of his big arm and carried her into the warm cabin. There was no good place to put her except on his bed, so he laid her gently on top of the blankets.
Hunter fetched a towel and, sitting on the edge of the bed, began to dry her gently. She was a beautiful hawk, in the prime of her life, her feathers glossy with health. When he had her as dry as he could get her, he wrapped the towel around her and then went to stir up the fire.
As Hunter crouched down to poke at the fire with a metal poker, he became aware that something had changed behind him. He couldn't say exactly what. It wasn't a noise, precisely. Maybe the tiniest of rustles. But something instinctual, something that came directly from his bear soul, told him things weren't as he'd left them.
Hunter looked over his shoulder.
Where there had been a limp red-tailed hawk lying on his bed, now there was a beautiful naked woman curled on her side.
Hunter froze, then laid the poker down and straightened up slowly.
She was curvy and smooth and gorgeous, curled on the bed, her tousled brunette hair spilling around her perfect face. And she was also, from the look of her, freezing cold. Goose bumps prickled the flawless skin of her shoulders. The damp towel had been thrown off when she'd changed, and lay rumpled under her.
Hunter snapped out of his shock. He had a warm quilt draped over the back of his chair for cold nights. He draped it carefully over her still, unconscious form, and then touched the cold skin of her throat. Her pulse beat strongly, but she was going to need more warmth than that.
Climb in with her.
If he'd known her—if she'd been one of the neighbors, say—he would have done it. But he balked at the idea of wrapping himself around an unconscious stranger. It would have to be a last resort if he couldn't get her warm any other way. Instead he brought more blankets and a deerskin robe. Carefully and gently he bundled her up, wrapping her in fire-warmed fabric and fur, checking frequently as he did so to make sure she was still breathing steadily, her heart beating in a strong rhythm.
Little was showing of her now except the spill of dark brown hair, the same color as her glossy feathers.
Now that he'd discovered she was a shifter rather than an animal, he wondered if she ought to go to a hospital. There was just one tiny problem with that: he didn't have a phone in the cabin. The nearest phone was at his neighbor Bill's place, a couple of miles down the road. If her condition got worse, he'd wrap her up warmly and put her in his truck, but it was a couple hours' drive under
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