Page 37 of Wanted
Not only that, but the awful gray streak in my hair may soon start to reveal itself.
It’s hideous for a woman so young to have gray hair.
I clear my throat and look around. “Where are we?”
In the distance there are red-rust and orange-brown mountain ranges as far as the eye can see. Some of them are snow-capped, but most aren’t. The cerulean blue sky with its white, cottony clouds contrasts the earth tones of the mountains in a breathtaking manner.
I’m reminded of the mountains in Colorado where I was interning. These mountains aren’t as tall as the mountains in Colorado were, but they’re just as beautiful. Something inside me dances with energy and I have the strangest urge to get out and walk—no, run—through the mountains.
Similar to how I felt during my short stint in Colorado, but even more so here.
I shake that odd feeling off and peer through the windshield, straight ahead. A stretch of a dirt road lays before us. The road opens out to various smaller streets, dotted with buildings.
They look like homes.
Except most of them are built into the earth. As if they’re a part of the land and not a separate building built on top of the ground. Most of the homes have the rust-red coloring that’s typical in this part of the Southwest.
I can’t make out the details from this distance, but some look as if their roofs are covered by solar panels.
“This is my home.”
My eyebrows raise.
I turn to him. “You mean where your pack lives?”
He nods.
“This…” He pauses to turn his head toward the building we’ve stopped in front of. “…is our pack doctor’s office.” He turns back to me. “Are you up for a visit?”
“Me?” I swallow. “Why?”
I look from Chance to the building. It’s one of the only buildings around us that isn’t the signature red-clay color. This building is white and larger than the rest. Most notable, however, is that black lettering that reads “Shaman” across the front.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Dr. Drake is our pack’s shaman. He’s able to treat us in both our human and wolf forms. He knows a lot about our kind.”
“Why is he called a shaman?” The question falls from my lips without thinking. I flinch at how rude I must sound.
“Many of our pack are indigenous,” he answers. “Apache.”
I swallow, because that’s obvious looking at Chance.
“Dr. Drake has been our pack’s shaman and doctor for three generations.”
Chance’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. When he doesn’t continue, I get the sense, not for the first time, that he’s a man of few words. He speaks a sentence or two and would rather let the person he’s speaking with figure the rest out.
“And you want him to check me out to figure out what I am?” I summarize.
The corner of his mouth ticks upward. Not quite a smile, but something close to it. My heartbeat speeds as I anticipate seeing a full smile from him.
Then I remember my senses and push that thought right out of my head.
“If you think it’ll help us figure things out, so be it,” I say.
The words barely have a chance to escape my mouth before he’s out of the truck and rounding the front to come open the passenger door for me. Placing my hand in his offered one feels like the most natural thing in the world.
His roughened finger pads are the complete opposite of my manicured ones but, once again, I find myself liking the contrast. Especially when Chance’s hand tightens around mine.