-: Gentle Giant :-

	
 THE GENTLE GIANT	
 By Melinda Lamar	
ISBN: 1-928670-72-5	
Published by Awe-Struck E-Books	
Copyright ©1999	

	
-Dedication-	
To all of you at Rogue Writers Ink for your inspiration and vote of confidence, and to my critique partners extraordinaire. I couldn't have done it without your support -- and of course, that of the Little Man and the Giant Squid.	
To the MMMMMMM Gang -- thanks for your shredding skills, purrs of encouragement, in the face assistance, lap warming, finding me when I didn't want to be found -- and for reminding me of the importance of a warm, sunny corner and an afternoon nap.	
Dad -- Thanks for showing me stubbornness can be a virtue.	
Bro -- Remember the "what if" questions? Be careful what you ask. I might just write a book!	
Mom -- I miss you. You taught me the power of words, and for that I'm eternally grateful.	
Mom and Dad U. -- You're the BEST!	
Andy -- I haven't changed my mind, either.	
Bibliography: Krantz, Grover S. Big Foot-Print -- A Scientific Inquiry into the Reality of Sasquatch. Boulder, CO: Johnson Printing Company, 1992	
["Prologue"]["#TOC"]	
Prologue	
He walked, placing his feet carefully on the stones. He knew where he was going. An instinct, a memory he didn't remember learning, showed him the way. Reminded him to stay only on the stones.	
The breeze stirred, rustling in the tall, sticky trees he called home. He pushed onward, upward, until he crested the ridge. There, the breeze whipped to a frenzy, parting the clouds lingering from the light and noise and water. Revealing the familiar, comforting black and white dapple of the dark time.	
He stood for a moment, sniffing the air, breathing in the telling scents, the new things it disclosed. Something in his world was not right, and he took no comfort from the familiar pattern overhead.	
He was not alone. Other Ones were out there. Someone not like him. The enemy. The hackles on his neck prickled.	
He felt fear. The fear that another ancient memory told him he should feel. For a moment, his step faltered, slipping off the stones. The vague sensation of wet earth sticking to his feet. Not caring. Hurrying on into the night.	
"Hey, Lennie, I think we got somethin' here," called Harvey, the shorter and dumpier of the brothers, overdressed this morning in a camouflage coat and woolen cap. The sun was breaking over the Cascade Mountains in Southern Oregon. Already the air was heavy with humidity and warming quickly.	
"This time it better not be some damn bird tracks," Lennie grunted, rubbing a bead of sweat from the end of his nose with a grubby thumb.	
"No, this time I think I got me a hoof print," Harvey said, kicking aside the leaves with his boot and pointing at it with the butt of his hunting rifle.	
"Let me see, you jerk, before you stomp all over it." Lennie leaned over the area Harvey had cleared. "That ain't no deer track, you jerk, it's a coupla' bear toes."	
"Bear, deer, don't make no difference to me," shrugged Harvey, scratching his crotch, the adrenaline rush of the chase pounding through him. In his mind he heard the bear squeal. And die. Power.	
He liked to watch things die.	
Harvey scratched himself again, excited by his thoughts, and took a few eager steps in the direction the bear toes indicated. Soon.	
What he saw next stopped him. Stirred the fervor in him even more. He knew what this track was even without Lennie telling him. To kill something like this...the pleasure would be bigger than he'd ever known. And there would be the money, too. They'd pay him to kill.	
But, he knew Lennie, even as smart as he was, couldn't track this. No siree, he needed an expert. Someone to lead him to the kill.	
He rushed back to Lennie. "Come here, I got somethin' Len, I got somethin' so big you ain't gonna believe it."	
In five minutes, the brothers, with Lennie at the wheel of their dilapidated rusty pick-up, were hurtling down the winding back roads. Spewing mud and fishtailing around the tight curves, Lennie kept his foot on the gas. Speed was imperative.	
Harvey grinned. He felt no fear. Only the thrill of money and blood-lust. And Power.	
Something startled Diamond Norwell from the warm cocoon of sleep. She hated to let go of the warmth, hated to relinquish something so wonderful to the empty light of day. She groaned when the phone next to her clanged again.	
Rolling over and lifting the heavy weight of white-gold hair dangling in her face, Dia curled her fingers around the receiver.	
"This better be good," she mumbled, throaty from sleep.	
"With you, Babe, I know it would be." The familiar, deep voice of the ex-DJ wove itself through the last fibers of her dream.	
"Mmmm, hi, Bob," she muttered, propping herself up higher. "Who else would dare disturb me at the crack of dawn on a Saturday?"	
"Oh, I've been up for hours. Nothing like a teething infant to deprive one of sleep. Mandi's resting now, and so is Judy, so I decided to torture you."	
"Yeah, right. So what have you got?"	
"Got a message through your BFNetwork phone line about fifteen ago. There's been some more activity up near the R.E. Sector."	
"What kind of activity?"	
"Indirect terrestrial."	
"Okay, give me the coordinates, Bob." Dia grabbed the pad and pencil on her night stand and jotted down the information. "I got it. I'll give Jerry a shout, and I'm on my way. Thanks, Bob. Oh, and give that adorable little girl of yours a hug for me, will you?"	
Dia held her finger over the disconnect button, fighting the feelings that surfaced when she thought too hard about Bob's daughter, Mandi. Or any other female child under the age of ten.	
She swallowed back the burn in her throat and dialed the number to Jerry's pager by rote.	
	
Jerry Sullivan was awake when his pager's annoying blip echoed from the tray across his lap. He pushed aside the slop that doubled as breakfast, glanced at the LCD readout, and eyed the snowy-white cast on his left leg. The one that had been there since shortly after three this morning, when he'd startled the cat by stumbling over his son's twelve basketball shoes, then tripped over the fleeing animal, and broken his damn ankle. All for a Dagwood sandwich -- which he'd never gotten. And now all they could offer him was this crap that he thought was supposed to be eggs.	
Tossing the pager back onto the tray, he picked up the phone and punched in a number.	
Bayard Russell was on his 227th pushup when the phone rang. He eyed the apparatus curiously for a moment. It rang so seldom, for a second he thought his alarm clock had gone haywire. Grabbing his towel, he mopped his face and shouldered the phone.	
"Russell here," he barked into the receiver.	
"Hey, Bay, I need to cash in on a favor."	
His boss, Jerry. "What favor is that?" Bay asked, running the corner of the towel through his damp beard. He didn't recall owing Jerry anything.	
"A big favor -- you know that long vacation you wanted to take -- the European history museum tour or whatever it is?"	
"Yeah," Bay answered, wondering where this conversation was leading.	
"Well, you've got the time now. I'll give you that full month of vacation you want. You just got to do me one tiny favor."	
"Okay, what's that?"	
"See, I got me laid up with a broken leg, here. Damn cat. And, I got to go check something out with a gal up towards Crater Lake."	
Bay shrugged. No doubt a hiker had unearthed a skeleton, probably deer or bear, and was convinced it was human. A forensics expert needed to check it out. Happened all the time in the summer. As much as he hated the outdoors, that long vacation sounded great -- and besides, one didn't argue with one's boss. Especially a boss with an attitude nursing a broken ankle.	
"Okay, shoot."	
When Bay hung up the phone a few minutes later, he wished he'd never owned a phone or wanted to go to Europe or was dumb enough to agree to Jerry's favor.	
["One"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter One	
Turning into the parking lot, Dia negotiated the gray Wrangler through the midmorning bargain hunters. She parked in the pre-arranged rendezvous spot where she and Jerry always met. A glance at her watch told her she was right on time -- three hours after the initial call.	
She watched the heat shimmering on the pavement, felt the humidity building. Though the sky was a clear cerulean and the Cascades were deep lavender and green in the distance, the thunderstorms would return this afternoon.	
Where the hell was Jerry? He was always on time -- early even. If he didn't get here soon, they might as well forget it. The rain would wash away the evidence.	
She took a deep breath, watching the cars passing by, the commuter jet gliding into Rogue Valley International Airport - Medford on a northbound jaunt from San Francisco. At least the occupants of both were getting somewhere, not stuck, waiting.	
Dia checked her watch again. She'd give Jerry ten more minutes, and then she was out of here. He'd just have to call Bob at BFNetwork and get the coordinates himself. She wasn't giving him a second longer.	
The scrunch of tires on the pavement coming nearer and pulling in beside her drew Dia's attention. A late-model, white sedan, not Jerry's maroon Explorer.	
She glanced at the driver, big and bearded. Why did he have to park here -- next to her at this empty end of the lot? In Jerry's spot.	
The man's blatant stare, even behind his dark aviator sunglasses, prickled her skin with an awareness that made Dia uneasy. Her heart accelerated when he stepped from his car. While not tall, he gave the impression of hugeness -- bull neck, broad shoulders straining the fabric of his blue-plaid shirt, barrel chest. In the sun, his hair and beard glinted fiery russet.	
The man moved around the front of his car on jean-clad legs as massive as the rest of him.	
"Dia Norwell?" he asked, leaning down, the bulk of him filling the open window frame. His voice was low and husky and sounded vaguely like he'd just rolled out of bed. An image, red hair, white sheets, flashed in her mind and was gone, leaving a hot chill skittering along her spine.	
Dia tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, skin steamy against her finger tip. It must be the humidity, the heaviness, the electrical build-up in the air.	
She challenged the blank, gray-green lenses masking his eyes. "Who's asking?"	
"Bay Russell. I'm Jerry's associate." She recognized the name. The lab guy. The lab guy who looked anything but the stereotypical, white-coated nerd.	
"Where the hell is Jerry?"	
The man's -- Bay's -- eyebrows, a shade darker than his hair, jumped above the rim of his sunglasses like twin woolly bears. "He didn't call you?"	
"No," Dia snapped, "he didn't call me. Would you kindly care to enlighten me about what is going on?"	
Bay sighed impatiently and ran a hand through his hair, leaving its wiry strands standing on end. "He fell over the cat last night and busted his ankle."	
"The cat?" she asked, hoping to sound innocent, to trap this ... interloper in a lie.	
"Yeah, the cat, Dena. He also tripped over Jerry Jr.'s basketball shoes." The man's beefy hand went through his hair again. "Do I pass the test, Lady?"	
"I'd like to see some ID," Dia announced, feeling a telltale flush creeping up her face.	
"Some ID? Look, Lady..."	
"No, you look!" Dia exploded. "It's Dr. Norwell, and this is my project. Show me the ID."	
Bay shook his head, his lip curling up in disgust. "I don't believe this," he muttered. He straightened and dug into his back pocket.	
The gesture pulled his shirt taut over bulky shoulders. Dia felt an unexplained urge to test the breadth of them with her hands. A shimmery heat quivered inside her at the thought.	
"Here, Lady."	
Dia shook her head, trying to clear it. Prickly chagrin burned her face. The humidity must be getting to me, she told herself, focusing her attention on the driver's license the man extended between two, large fingers.	
Swallowing, she pulled the laminated card from his hand. It was warm from his body and smelled like leather. She blinked and forced herself to examine the Oregon license.	
Bayard Aiken Russell, it read, with a local address. Height: six foot, weight: two hundred pounds, hair: red, eyes: brown. She studied the mug-style photo. His hair and beard were shorter then, and one corner of his mouth tipped up in an almost-smile. His eyes glowed red from the camera's flash.	
"Take off your sunglasses," she commanded, telling herself it was to verify the color, not to divest him of the shield between them.	
"Judas Priest, Lady." Bay worked the hooked ear pieces carefully off one ear and then the other.	
Dia stared into the deep-gold of his eyes, unprepared for their naked impact. For the way they seemed to look through her, inside her, to penetrate her soul. For the way they seemed to turn to liquid honey, warm and sweet, and flow in her veins.	
"So do I pass muster, Lady?" His voice came from the outside somewhere.	
"Huh?"	
"Or do you need my social security card, my car registration, and my insurance information. I'm sure I could even dig up my voter card and ..."	
Dia glanced again at his license and thrust it out to him, the plastic cover burning her suddenly sensitive fingers.	
"No, you're fine ... it's fine. Let's get you loaded up," she stammered, pulling the keys from the ignition and slapping them into his palm. "You're late."	
Bay pocketed his billfold and stabbed the glasses back on his face. "I had a little unexpected shopping to do," he explained and popped the trunk.	
Dia swiveled her head and gazed at the three brand new, bulging, hunter-green duffel bags that he hefted into the Jeep's rear hatch. He had enough for a month, not a week long pre-investigation. "A little shopping? You done much camping?"	
He shrugged, slamming the back to hold the last ceiling-high duffel in place. "Not since I was a kid."	
"Yeah, sure, Greenhorn."	
The catch on the passenger door opened, and Bay's presence filled the car. He dangled her keys between them, studying the flashes of light from the iridescent unicorn charm, and quirked a shaggy eyebrow. "Is that what you do? Chase rainbows and mythical beasts?"	
Dia grabbed the keys, and from the place where her hand touched his, all those colorful spangles danced along her skin, up her arm, through her body. She challenged the gray-green blankness of his eyes, grateful for the barrier between them. "All right, Greenhorn. That's it. Let me explain something to you. This is my project, got it? You do your job. You keep your opinions to yourself. Or you're out right now."	
He shook his head and raised his hand in mock surrender. "You know, Lady, there's nothing I'd rather do than go home right about now. But I have a really terrific vacation riding on this ... promise ... I made to Jerry. So, I guess you're stuck with me, opinions and all. Oh, and by the way, it's Dr. Russell."	
Dia exhaled, stirring the damp strands of hair on her forehead. Trying to keep from exploding. She stabbed the keys into the ignition and reached for her seat belt. "Jerry Jr.'s picking up your car later?"	
"Yeah, it's all arranged."	
Bay clicked his seat belt at the same time she did, the crisp, coppery hairs on his hand tingling hers like prickly electricity. Dia jerked her hand away, cranking the engine with more force than necessary. It grated to a start with an ear shattering screech. She ground the gears finding reverse in an attempt to avoid contact with his leg, with him, who seemed to be taking up too much room in the cab. She found first, and the Wrangler lurched across the parking lot like a bucking bronco.	
"You drive a manual transmission much, Lady?" he asked, gripping the roll bar.	
Dia gritted her teeth. "All the time, Greenhorn. It's just temperamental in hot weather. Gets vapor lock."	
"Vapor lock?"	
Dia could hear the sarcasm lacing his remark, and only by biting her tongue could she refrain from commenting. She wasn't going to let him have the upper hand.	
Turning onto Highway 62, she shifted into second and her knuckles grazed his thigh. Rough denim. Heat. Hardness. Answering warmth and sweetness stirring inside.	
Dia inhaled the fresh air whipping in through the window, trying to clear her head, and the strange sensations the day's heaviness brought. All she could smell riding the wind was his spicy cologne. Strangely, it brought images of cinnamon candies, of sweet caramel kisses that melted inside her, of security. Now where did those thoughts come from?	
The traffic light flashed a sudden yellow, and she stomped the brakes, angry with her mind's wayward wanderings.	
"Jeez, Lady, should I have taken out more life insurance?" he shouted.	
Dia tucked an annoying, loose strand of hair behind her ear. Try to ignore him, ignore his bigness, his maleness, his intrusion. His cologne that teased her.	
The overpowering scent branded him a true greenhorn, she reasoned with petty vindictiveness. The yellow jackets, the mosquitoes, the gnats and no-see-ums would find him one big picnic. She grinned evilly at the thought.	
The breeze wafted from his side of the car, bringing with it this time the tang of his new clothes. Another sign of his inexperience. Flannel -- in August? He'd cook, not to mention itch. And the rough denim of his new, unwashed slacks would chafe like crazy in the heat. Involuntarily, her gaze dropped to his lap, to that bulge behind the zipper placket she knew would suffer most. Something warm and golden stirred inside her in response, in wondering ...	
"Light's green, Lady."	
Dia slammed the Jeep into gear, hot and flushed and guilty. The car jumped like an eager jackrabbit, only to jerk to a stop midway through the intersection. Dia cursed when the flooded engine coughed and sputtered before finally catching.	
"God, Lady, what are you trying to do, get us killed? Maybe I should drive. At least I have a license. What about you? I think I'd like to see some proof."	
"It's Dr. Norwell, and like I told you once, Greenhorn, this is my project. Keep your thoughts and your snide remarks to yourself and we'll get along just fine."	
"It's Dr. Russell, and like I told you, you're stuck with me, opinions and all. And I tend to have a very strong opinion when the potential termination of my life is at stake. I'd like to see some ID. Tit for tat, Lady."	
Dia wanted to wipe the man's Cheshire cat smile off his face. Instead she dug into the pocket of the belt pack resting across her stomach. Extracting her bulky wallet, full of change and receipts and checks and mini-planner, she tossed it onto his lap, aiming for the vicinity of that soon-to-be-chafed bulge in his stupid, brand-new jeans.	
	
Only Bay's quick reflexes saved him. While he hadn't expected her to go that far, this woman was certifiable.	
Snapping open the bulging wallet, he riffled through scraps of paper and charge cards till he located her driver's license. Jeez, some nut had actually decided she was okay to drive.	
He didn't shut the wallet right away. Instead he scrutinized the information like she had.	
Diamond L. Norwell. Diamond. Somehow it seemed to suit her. Hard and icy. She lived out of town on Fair Creek Road. Real trooper. GI Jane and Wonder Woman rolled into one.	
Height: five feet, eight inches, weight: one-hundred forty pounds, hair: blonde, eyes: blue.	
Blonde? He glanced again at the riot of curls the wind tossed in wild disarray. They called that color, that crazy combination of sunshine and moonbeams, blonde? His gaze skimmed the soft down on her tan arms, her brows, her lashes -- all that same shade of silvery-gold.	
Those lashes blinked over the eyes the DMV calmly labeled blue. But they weren't blue, really. More like the turbulent gray of storm clouds when the sun came out.	
And they were deep and perceptive and too damn disconcerting for him. Made him feel like they looked right through him and saw inside, touched something, a place he didn't want touched.	
Something that made him turn into a freakin' poet. Jeez, he was a scientist who dealt in facts, not some moony dope. What on earth was going on? Hair like sunshine and moonbeams? Judas Priest.	
Bay shut the wallet and quietly set it on the seat. No reason for him to fall into her games.	
Her stormy gaze flashed in his direction. "Satisfied, Greenhorn?"	
He pushed up his glasses, grateful for the screen to hide behind. "It's Dr. Russell, and no, Lady, I'm not. But it will just have to do."	
They'd moved through the lumber mills on the outskirts of town and blown through the stoplight at the Eagle Point junction. It would be the last one for miles. Her driving seemed to have miraculously improved enough that he closed his eyes and rested against the seat, feigning sleep.	
At least she's not changing gears anymore, he thought. Because every time her hand brushed him, it stirred something hot and hard and alien in his gut. Something strange that made him want to pull away and lean into it at the same time. Something that had made him go on like a damn poet.	
Jeez, Jerry is going to owe me big time. He didn't know what he was asking when he said I had to camp. And with this crazy woman. Tracking Sasquatches. What a freakin' waste of time. Does she hunt unicorns and fairies and leprechauns, too? And what about Jerry? Did he buy into this farce as well?	
Judas Priest. A month in Europe won't even be close to compensation. Two months, and a huge bonus, might.	
Bay's stomach churned and growled with emptiness and apprehension.	
Dia downshifted on an upgrade, the rasp of her knuckles on his denim jeans shocking him like cat fur rubbing a glass rod. His eyes shot open.	
A disorienting blur of shady green and shadowy brown whizzed by on both sides, ahead, behind, above, like a whirling tunnel. Trees and sky and earth.	
He drew a deep breath, his nose tingling with the scent of fresh air and wildflowers. It had been teasing him for miles. Not from outside. From inside. From her, from that woman. Dr. Norwell. Diamond. Dia.	
He swallowed and allowed himself a covert glance in her direction. Her hair whipped in the wind, jumping in crazy arcs like a Tesla coil. An angel's halo. Medusa's locks. Half innocence, half danger. Enticing him, intoxicating him with wildflower essence.	
Bringing an awareness. He eyed the lean, muscled length of her thigh below her shorts. Its fluidity moving from gas to brake. And back.	
His gaze continued up over the gentle curve of her stomach, her arm, to the long-fingered hand competently gripping the wheel on this bumpy stretch of road. To the liquid jarring of her breasts beneath the blue camp shirt that made him wonder how they would feel ... Down her other arm to the hand idly caressing the shift knob. That made him wonder how it would feel ...	
Bay licked his suddenly dry lips and fidgeted in his seat. Judas Priest, what was wrong with him? A man, a woman, together in the cab of a small vehicle. It was biology, pure and simple. That's all it was. He'd act, think rationally, with his mind, not react with...his emotions. Bay swore under his breath, feeling vaguely queasy.	
"You okay, Greenhorn?" came her voice across the inches, across the miles. Huskier than he remembered.	
Jeez! "Is there someplace we could stop? We haven't passed Union Creek, have we?"	
"Why, car sick?"	
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "No, I'd just like to ... walk around, stretch my legs. Maybe get a bite to eat."	
"I guess you were just too busy shopping this morning to pack a lunch, huh?" The sarcastic tone grated on his nerves. She made a big production of checking her watch and the sky which was still blue through the seam overhead. "Just make it quick, Greenhorn."	
Jeez, she was annoying. "No, I planned to buy a six course lunch and spend all afternoon eating it, Lady."	
She glanced at him again with those too-deep gray eyes that danced with the blue and the green and the brown all around them. Bay was drowning in them, in their depths, and his breath grabbed and caught in his throat.	
She looked back to the road and signaled to pull into the small resort. Bay burst from the car almost before she stopped.	
He needed air. He needed distance. He needed perspective.	
In the small restaurant, he stormed into the rest room, pocketed his glasses and splashed his face. The cold shocked his system, bringing his breathing under control. Cleared his head, settled his stomach, a little. Sitting on the closed john, he massaged the ache that was quickly developing over his eyes and gave himself another pep talk. Hopefully, he'd listen and take his own advice.	
Returning from the annex, he noticed Dia at the lunch counter, talking with the waitress. A waitress with green, close-cropped hair who handed her a glass of water. Dia turned and headed for the door.	
Bay studied the pay phone and the coverless phone book hanging beneath it, the water-stains on the ceiling, the cob webs lacing one corner, sublimating the desire to watch her carriage, the sway of her hips, the bounce of her breasts. He was in control. Distraction always worked.	
The door slapped shut, and he approached the counter. Perhaps a little something to eat would do him good. Nothing too heavy. Some soup, maybe.	
Straddling the stool, Bay picked up the menu and scanned the choices.	
"Hi, big guy, what can I get you today?"	
Bay peered at the green-haired young woman over the top of his menu. Her name tag read Angel. She was chewing gum and had more earrings than he had ever seen before. Two winked at him from her tongue like snakes' eyes when she snapped a bubble in his face.	
Jeez, everything about her was green. Her eyes, her fingernails, her uniform, even her gum.	
"I'll have the tomato soup and a large coffee," he said, the hair on his neck crawling at her cat-eyed stare.	
She scribbled his order and slipped the green pen behind her ear, her gaze never leaving him. "A big guy like you? Surely you need more than that to...keep up your strength." Those eerie green eyes brazenly appraised him from head to toe.	
"No, that will be fine."	
Her tongue, devoid of gum, circled her lips like a snake zeroing in on its prey. Or a woman who wanted ... something.	
"Okay, big guy. Have it your way."	
Bay massaged his aching temples again. Jeez, she probably turned tricks in a back room. He'd seen enough of her kind growing up. People giving in to the moment. No thoughts. Just feelings. Urges. People without control.	
Angel returned a minute later and slid a tureen of soup and a mug of coffee onto the scratched Formica counter. Thank God, neither were green. Before Bay could snag a packet of Saltines to crush into the steamy bowl, Angel grabbed his wrist. Cold. Warm. Commanding. Her cat-eyes bored into his.	
"Trust your instincts," she purred, flattening the other green-tipped hand on his chest. "But listen to your heart."	
And she was gone.	
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Maybe she smoked too many funny green cigarettes, too.	
Bay picked up his spoon, slipped it into his soup and stopped. He'd lost what little appetite he had. Both the soup and the coffee looked vaguely green. He tossed a twenty on the counter. Guilt money.	
Outside, he slipped on his glasses and found Dia, sitting cross-legged on a picnic table eating a sandwich. Two chipmunks, a squirrel and three jays shared her feast.	
Oh, great. GI Jane, Wonder Woman and Dr. Doolittle. A freakin' saint.	
Bay took a deep breath, and caught the scent of her wildflower hair. At least she wouldn't say he took too long for lunch.	
	
	
Harvey wiped away a bead of sweat with a dirty finger. "They're comin' Len. I can feel it."	
Lennie snorted in affirmation.	
"Yeah, they gotta come, all right," Harvey grinned, sucking down the last dregs of the Bud. He tossed the can into the pile with the three others he'd already consumed this morning. Hell, he'd been so excited he needed something to calm him so he wouldn't pop. This waiting was agony, it made him so jumpy, but the wait was always worth it. It was so sweet, it was worth it. He knew it. The Power knew it.	
	
He stood for a moment in the clearing, smelling the calm, moist air, and scanning the direction where the round white light came. He saw the hazy gray he knew would bring water and light and noise.	
But there was something else, too. He caught the scent of the Others, the Ones not like him. He smelled smoky heat, but its faintness told him it belonged to the Others, not to the big flames the light and noise sometimes brought to the forest.	
There was more. Something wrong. Something threatening. And it had to do with the Others.	
["Two"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Two	
Dia glanced at the paper she held and squinted at the crudely painted sign. This was it.	
Flicking on her turn signal, she exited the main highway and crossed an old plank bridge spanning the Rogue River's embryonic trickle. She turned sharply a boulder and engaged the four-wheel drive. Sitting back, Dia relaxed for the first time since she'd managed to stall the Jeep miles back in Medford. She loved the challenge of this driving.	
A couple fresh tire prints marred the muddy track. Probably campers or hikers or even the contacts. Carefully, she turned to avoid a washout, probably from yesterday's thunderstorm.	
Dia tried to glimpse the horizon, to check the progress of today's storm. The stands of Douglas firs and Ponderosa pines were too thick.	
Bay had been blessedly silent since their quick stop at Union Creek a little over half-an-hour ago, though he wasn't sleeping now. Instead, he clutched the roll bar in one massive hand and the dashboard grip in the other.	
"Do much off-roading?" she couldn't resist teasing.	
"Look where you're going, Lady," he grunted through clenched teeth.	
She smiled, and deliberately took the next corner a little tight. His white-knuckled grip gave him away. "That's what I thought."	
At the fork, she scanned the directions again, and veered right. The trail was bumpier, more washed out. Was this the one she wanted? She pulled out the topo map for the region. Yes, she was right on course.	
You'll find not what you seek, echoed the words the green-haired waitress had whispered when she'd handed Dia the water. What on earth were they supposed to mean? No doubt nothing. Just the craziness of a young mind. Yet they sounded so like a prophecy.	
Four forks later, Dia pulled the Jeep into a small clearing, one that the map indicated was close enough to the find, but not too close.	
Dia slammed the Jeep into neutral and set the brake. "Well, this is it."	
Bay relaxed his grip just a fraction. "This?"	
"Yes, this." She opened the door, amused by his question.	
"I ... uh ... thought we'd be in a little more ... organized camp."	
"Well, you thought wrong," she grinned. "You lab guys ought to get out in the field more often and see how the other half lives."	
"I know how the other half lives," he spit. "That's why I stay in the lab, Lady."	
"Fine." Dia slammed the door and shouted in the window. "If you don't like it, take the Jeep and go home. Just tell Jerry to have someone else from Forensics up here tomorrow morning pronto. Some lab guy who can handle the job."	
Bay flung open the door so hard the whole vehicle rocked. "I can handle the job, Lady," he bristled, stabbing a cigar-like finger in her face. "You know nothing about me. Don't you ever accuse me of not being able to do -- my -- job." The last three words he hissed between clenched teeth.	
Dia stared into the infuriating, blank gray-green glass where his eyes should be, stared at the gnarled vein pulsing in his neck. She smelled his overpowering cologne. "Fine." Dia pulled his three heavy bags from the back and dropped them in the mud, trying not to let his anger, his size, intimidate her. "Then do your job."	
He swallowed and ran his fist through his tousled hair. Bay's lips looked pinched and his hand trembled.	
"Where's the rest room, Lady?"	
She almost relaxed. "Find a tree at least one hundred feet from the stream. And for bigger jobs, use this." Dia indicated a camp shovel with a roll of toilet paper on its handle.	
He stared at the shovel, incredulously. "What about showers and drinking?"	
"Solar shower and water purifier."	
"Judas Priest," he swore, diving into the brush.	
Dia took the moment of solitude to recompose herself. His anger frightened her. She was strong and agile, but one of his massive hands could choke her easily. She verified her .38 was loaded, and she had darts for the tranquilizer gun. Both would stop him in his tracks. Being on her own had taught her to be prepared. She could take care of herself.	
Just like her time with Jonathan had taught her to keep her heart intact. To shy away from involvement. Not to trust because people let you down, and life could be too painful to bear.	
Like when Aster had been born in June, too early. Dia had named her for the September flower, when she was supposed arrive, healthy. Ten years ago. Aster Diamond, just like she was Diamond Larkspur and her mother was Larkspur Ruby and her grandma was Ruby Rose. Flowers and jewels for generations. And then Jonathan had left her, too. That aloneness nearly killed her.	
But it made her stronger. Taught her to grab life. Not to trust her heart, to keep it secure and protected. To fight the memories.	
Memories she had no business reliving, especially at this moment. What on earth am I thinking? Why has this big moody man made me think of things I haven't for years? Shoot, Dia, get a grip.	
Pulling her small tent from the Jeep, she quickly set it up, the gun forgotten in her wool gathering. Five minutes from start to finish. Dia had set this tent up so many times. The spatter of mud from Africa, the sap from the forests of Washington, the tiny tear, now repaired, from a tree branch in northern Minnesota. All were reminders of other times and places.	
She spread her sleeping bag in the tent, adding the small duffel containing her clothing and her flashlight. Shampoo, bug-repellent, sun-block and kitchen supplies she stuffed in the bag suspended in the trees, not wanting to attract bears and rodents. Then she loaded her backpack with supplies for the hike to the footprints.	
Where was Greenhorn? Did he manage to lose himself ten feet into the brush? If they didn't get going soon, they might as well forget it. Maybe she'd just have to go without him.	
She threw the her empty duffels in the Jeep. On top of the gun.	
	
Bay stumbled into the low brush, looking for an isolated spot one hundred feet from the stream. Annoying black insects circled his head and ears, little bugs he couldn't see dipped in his eyes and tangled in his lashes, and yellow jackets buzzed around him, dogging his every move. Coming closer, trying to light, zipping away.	
Jeez, he didn't want to get too far from the meadow. He'd never find his way back. He tried not to think of the bears and coyotes and cougars who could attack him. Bay swatted at the insects that suddenly seemed to swarm in his direction. He slapped at another one of the annoying yellow-jackets, angering it sufficiently that it had the gall to sting him on the throat before it flew around his head and was gone.	
Cursing, he scratched that tender, stinging place on his neck. Judas Priest, why had he agreed to this? What had temporarily stripped him of his sanity when he'd agreed to do Jerry a "favor"? And now that ... that woman thought he couldn't do his job. He'd show her he was competent.	
Bay emerged from the brush on the other side of the meadow, but at least he'd found his way back.	
That woman, Dia, was perched on the tailgate of the Jeep, poring over some topographical maps. Her tent was already set up, neat and tight. Great.	
She didn't bat an eye. Just said smartly, "So, did you eliminate the problem?"	
Bay felt embarrassed heat tingle up his neck, over his face. "Lady, my ... habits are none of your concern."	
Her gray-blue eyes lifted. "They are when you're working for me. Your health is my responsibility. If you're sick, we get someone else."	
"Lady, I am not sick, got it? I can do my job. Stop trying to undermine me."	
She shrugged. "Get your tent up. We need to get going. We've got about three or four hours before the storm hits."	
Bay waved a hand at the annoying black speck hovering by his eyes. "Fine."	
The tent, still in its pristine box was in the third duffel bag. Pulling the plastic wrapped tent from the box, along with the directions, Bay spread the pieces out in front of him. Her hot, blue-gray gaze burned into his back. He returned the directions to the box. He'd fixed broken bodies, put lives back together. If an eight-year-old Boy Scout could set up a tent, he sure as hell could without reading the instructions. That women wasn't going to intimidate him.	
He gazed for a moment at the small, silver stakes, and cursed his lack of a hammer. Grabbing a large rock, he set to work. Twenty minutes later, he'd pounded in the six stakes, banged his finger twice, and just managed to get the end poles in. The entire tent bagged and sagged, and the new nylon smell was making him vaguely nauseous. The irritating insects continued to plague him, including another one of the damn yellow jackets, which stung him inside the back of his collar.	
"Look, Greenhorn, do you plan to have this tent up anytime soon? We're losing precious minutes."	
"The name is Bay, Lady. To you, it's Dr. Russell."	
"God, you have no sense of humor," she said, hoisting her backpack. "We need to go. Now!"	
Strapping the belly band in place, and plopping an Indiana Jones hat on her wild curls, she headed into the brush.	
"Wait, aren't we taking the car, Lady?" Jeez, she was infuriating.	
"It's Dr. Norwell to you. And does it look like we're taking the car?"	
Half-a-dozen steps later, the undergrowth whipped closed behind her. Not wanting to be alone in the god forsaken wilderness, he dove into the brush after her.	
"Do you think you could sound any less like a herd of clomping elephants?" came her scathing question from ten feet ahead of him. "We need to approach quietly, or we'll risk frightening any Sasquatches from the area."	
Bay swatted at another gnat and rubbed the pounding at his temple. "If they exist."	
"Isn't that what you're here to prove?" she challenged, moving up the thickly forested slope.	
He spit the no-see-um from his mouth. "No, I'm doing a colleague a favor."	
"Oh, excuse me, I forgot. You have a great vacation riding on this." She shrugged. "And I thought you were here to further science."	
"I am. I just don't believe that the Bigfoot exists. I can further science by proving that, too."	
The leaf canopy thinned, the trees growing smaller and more stunted.	
"Years ago it was thought that the world was flat or that the earth was the center of the solar system or that the platypus was hoax," Dia said. "But science proved the world is round and the sun is at the center of the solar system and the platypus is real. Why is this any different? You just have to have faith, believe that they are real."	
"The facts will speak for themselves. Fairy tales are for kids and fools."	
"You're here. Which one are you?"	
"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."	
A few steps later they emerged onto treeless black rock that surged up to a pinnacle hundreds of feet high.	
"Suit yourself. We're almost there, anyway. We need to be quiet."	
God, he was hot. His feet burned, every seam and eyelet of the new boots rubbing painfully. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Bay fought the urge to scratch at the itch it created with the flannel. The inside of his knees, his thighs, stung with the dampness against the scratchy denim. That dull pounding in his head grew more piercing with every step.	
A blessed puff of air stirred on the ridge, wafting Dia's soft, flowery scent in his direction. Hot hardness stirred in him again, and he was very aware of Dia as a woman. He'd noticed the twitch of her hips beneath the khaki shorts and the competent grace of her carriage. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked.	
Judas Priest man, get your head on straight. She, that person, is only a composition of cells, just like you. The only thing that differs from your basic DNA is that tiny, extra arm on that Y chromosome. That little bit of DNA that turns the Y into a second X that determines her sex ... gender.	
But somehow, that nearly infinitesimal piece of genetic material was making a hell of a disturbing difference.	
	
Dia stopped on the ridge and compared Bob's coordinates and the topographical map. Another quarter mile down the rock should bring them near the find.	
The hot midday sun burned and the swirling ridge top air currents felt wonderful. The lifting and mixing of heat and humidity created the looming thunderheads that spilled over the Cascades, moist marine air clashing with that from the arid basin to the East. The stirring also carried Bay's essence. Cologne, sweat, man.	
Dia lifted a canteen and drank the cool water, quenching her thirst and trying to drive away the warm weakness in her limbs that had little to do with the heat, and everything to do with this man standing feet away. His honey-colored eyes behind the gray-green of his glasses burned into her back all the way up the slope.	
She ran her forearm across her brow and unbuttoned the cotton blouse, tying the ends neatly beneath her Lycra crop top.	
Covertly, she studied him.	
The shrug of his broad shoulders and the way his jeans hugged his thighs. She wondered whether she'd find those muscles hard, or softened from too much lab work.	
She needed to tamp down these irrelevant thoughts. Why should she care what he looked like beneath those new jeans? Given the way he was limping and sweating, he was probably red and chafed and uncomfortable. But Greenhorn deserved it.	
Settling her back pack into a more comfortable position, Dia headed out. Heat radiated in waves off the black rock; humidity stirred in the dark, looming clouds. She heard thunder in the distance.	
"How the hell much farther do we have to go?" came Bay's voice from behind her.	
"We're almost to the find," she told him, trying to feel a bit more spiteful about the obvious agony in his voice. Somehow, that suddenly became harder to do. That something compassionate wriggled in her conscience again.	
"There!" Dia's well-trained eyes spotted the mud. "Careful! Stay on the rocks. These look like excellent specimens. I don't want anything marring them!" There'd been reports of prints in the sector before, but none so clear, so perfect, so fresh. Dia's heart thumped with excitement.	
"God forbid we mar the unicorn tracks," he mocked.	
Dia squatted on the rocks adjacent to the prints, eagerly pulling off her pack. "I heard that, Greenhorn. I believe I told you to keep your opinions to yourself."	
"And I believe I told you you got me, opinions and all."	
"Check this out, then, and tell me if it looks like any unicorn print you've ever seen."	
	
Bay squatted gingerly next to her. The heat from the rocks shimmered like a mirage in front of him. Two amazingly human-like prints the mud. Huge prints. Easily twice as wide as his booted feet and half again as long.	
No. No. They couldn't be! Obviously fakes. Or ursine.	
"These ... these could be bear tracks, couldn't they?" he finally croaked.	
Dia pulled a small rubber bowl and some powdered polymer from her pack. "No. Bear tracks are different. Shorter, for one. Most bear prints are only about a foot long, maximum. Narrower, too. And see the heel," she pointed with her stirring stick. "The bear's heel is very narrow. This is wide. And these footprints show clear arches. A bear's won't. No claws, either. This clear a bear print would show claws, and quite probably the print of the rear foot overlapping the front one if it was on all fours. Clearly not bear. Clearly Sasquatch."	
He slapped away a bug that buzzed in his nose. "What about some practical joker with a set of fake feet?" God these ... these just couldn't be ... there had to be a logical explanation. One based on plausible, scientific facts.	
Dia poured the mixed matrix into the footprints. "A flat set of wooden feet wouldn't leave an arch like this."	
He watched the white goop ooze into, fill the depressions. Felt, just for a moment, her passion for her work. Her quest. He wanted to feel that passion for something, someone. The heat shimmered around him, and he felt an eerie sense of being watched.	
Jeez, I'm just being paranoid. Bay glanced away from the drying goop. Dia had untied her blouse and was pulling it off to reveal a tight, knit top made of that same stretchy stuff as his biking shorts. A knit that hugged her breasts. He wanted to look away, couldn't look away. Mesmerized, he followed the progress of a bead of perspiration, trickling down her neck, over her collar bone, down her chest, until it slipped inside the tight, gray top. Something hotter and harder than sun-baked rock surged in his gut.	
He cursed under his breath and tried to distract himself with the mountains in the distance. Snow-capped Mt. Shasta, pyramidal Mt. McLoughlin, pinnacled Mt. Thielson. Things of the earth shaped by natural processes. Things that didn't involve emotions he couldn't control. Things that were pointed and made him think of her breasts, anyway.	
He looked back, and she'd lifted the prints from their embrace with the earth and was scribbling on them with a black pen.	
"That's not the way you date a piece of evidence," he pointed out sharply.	
"What are you talking about?"	
"The month is written in three letter code, AUG for August, not eight. It could be mistaken for a three or ..."	
"Thank you for the advice, Greenhorn. But this is always how I've documented my finds."	
"Well maybe you haven't brought along someone who knew how to do the job properly to expedite lab analysis. That's why I'm along."	
"I've always been with Jerry, and he can tell an eight from a three." She packed the casts into her pack. "You're along because you have a vacation riding on this."	
Dia zipped the back pack and shouldered it again, heading, not back in the direction they'd come, but away. Thunder rumbled nearby.	
"Where the hell are going, Lady? You have your prints, mislabeled though they are, and the storm is just about here?"	
"Looking for more evidence, Greenhorn. Care to join me?"	
Bay groaned. He couldn't find his way back by himself and didn't want to stand alone on this exposed rock.	
Rising, he followed her, every part of his body protesting.	
	
Harvey giggled with unbridled glee. "They did it, Len. They did it. They took plaster casts of them prints."	
Lennie rubbed the butt of his rifle in the dirt and grunted.	
Popping open another Bud, Harvey slugged it down in one gulp. He could feel the adrenaline of the chase, of anticipation, of conquest, of killing, surging inside him. Of Power.	
	
	
	
	
He ducked under the overhang, hearing the noise and seeing the light that came before the water. It would come swiftly, he knew, and be over just as fast. The air would smell fresh after, not tainted by the scent of the Others.	
He'd seen more of them today. The number of him and his mate. He'd been afraid of them too, at first. But he sensed something different. He hadn't felt they wanted to hurt him. They had just poured white mud in the tracks he had made, the ones instinct had told him to hide, but he hadn't. They just wanted his tracks. They wouldn't hurt him.	
["Three"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Three	
"Damn, it's hot," Bay muttered again. They now followed the sinuous ridge top.	
Dia tucked the mass of her hair under her hat, giving the slight stir of the heavy air access to her neck. "Well, it's not exactly like you're dressed for the weather, Greenhorn."	
She heard his heavy plod behind her. "Gee, Lady, thanks for apprising me of that fact."	
"You know, you could do something daring like roll up your sleeves. Or if you're feeling really adventurous, you could even undo a few buttons, maybe even take the shirt off." She heard the sarcasm lacing her voice, and wasn't so sure it was warranted. The guy must be uncomfortable.	
Lightning struck, closer this time, at the instant the thought of Bay without his shirt did. Electricity danced inside and out, heating Dia's skin and running like wild honey in her veins. The thunder, echoing from mountain top to mountain top, shook and jelled her softening insides and brought goose flesh to her skin.	
"Yeah, well I'll risk sunstroke over sun-burn and insect bites," he grunted.	
"Suit yourself."	
His breathing came in ragged gasps. "Look, Lady, I feel my life's in danger here again. This weather system is building, and it's awfully close. This exposed peak ... isn't safe."	
"Oh, so now you're an outdoor expert. I told you to keep your opinions to yourself, and we'll get along fine." A jagged bolt detonated to the left, the explosive clap that immediately chased it deafening. It reverberated inside her. "There's a small overhang up ahead. We'll weather it out there."	
Two minutes later, they ducked into rock shelter, but not before the deluge drenched them both with its warm wetness. The roughly ten by ten pocket was vacant, but the musty scent of brush and droppings were evidence that animals, probably fox or coyote, had once called it home.	
Dia shrugged off her pack, only too cognizant of the precious contents, and the pounding rain that washed away the originals. She sat on a boulder. Bay stood in the round, gray opening, his big form silhouetted against the flashing sky. She could almost imagine he was a Sasquatch. Perhaps one had even sheltered here during another storm.	
A simultaneous burst of lightning and ear-shattering thunderclap seemed to shake the mountain at its core, tingeing the air with ozone.	
Bay ducked inside. Dia could see his hair, his beard, dark now, wet and clinging to his head and face. Water ran from his sleeves and dripped with small quiet hisses. Her gaze reversed the path the droplets had taken, up his arm, to the broadness of his shoulders. Powerful shoulders that the rain-soaked shirt clung to. Molded. Invited her touch.	
Curling her nails into her palms, she spoke. "This should blow itself out in a few minutes." At least she prayed it would. Tension hung between them, heavy and oppressive as the storm-laden air.	
She watched, mesmerized. Bay shifted his shoulders and pulled off his glasses.	
"Yeah." Bay's voice sounded unnaturally quiet in the small space, his dark head, dark face, swiveling in her direction, black and flat in the dimly lit cavern. Except for his eyes that flashed copper in tandem with the storm. Eyes that made her feel like lighting rushed inside her and buzzed in her ears.	
He turned away, staring at the violent sky. Shaky relief chased the energy from her quivering limbs.	
This was crazy. Completely, utterly and totally crazy. It had to be the storm. It had to be! Despite her earlier bravado on the ridge, she hated electrical storms. Always had. Ever since she'd been little, when she'd been so afraid and no one would comfort her. Dia closed her eyes and remembered the tiny space in her closet, behind her fancy dresses, where she'd crouched. She inhaled, expecting to smell the faint trace of starch and dry cleaning fluid. Instead she smelled dampness and must. And male.	
She opened her eyes with a start. Unnatural stillness echoed in the tiny space. The storm. It was over, its turbulent passion spent.	
"Let's go," she said, shouldering her pack.	
The clouds swirled overhead, but their threatening gray was interspersed with patches of blue and white, and the setting sun gilded them with shades of orange and peach and russet. The air smelled clean and fresh.	
Dia's boots slipped on the wet rock, and twice she almost lost her footing. Bay's feet scrabbled, followed by the thwack of flesh hitting rock, and a violent curse.	
Steadying herself, Dia retraced her steps. "Are you okay?"	
"Yes, dammit I'm fine. Just fine and dandy and enjoying a stroll in the park," he swore, inspecting his torn right sleeve and the blood that oozed from the elbow.	
Dia glanced at the deepening lavender of the clearing sky. "That doesn't look too bad. I'll patch you up when we get to camp. It'll be dark soon. We need to hustle."	
"Yeah, hustle," he mumbled.	
	
Jeez, every bone, every muscle, every square inch of his skin hurt. His head pounded. His elbow throbbed. His thighs chafed. His back itched. His eyes burned.	
Just keep moving. Just keep moving, he told himself like a mantra, over and over again. And again.	
Insects buzzed in his ears and nose and eyes, and he didn't have the energy to swat them away. The cool dusk brought the mosquitoes in frenzied, high-pitched swarms. He didn't give a damn.	
Just keep moving.	
It was hard to believe the day had been so hot. The air was cool now, refreshing. Such peace from the storm's violence.	
He'd always been intrigued by storms, by the power in them. But he respected them, stood in awe of them. Like today.	
He had been concerned up on the ridge. He hadn't wanted to duck in that tiny, confined space no bigger than the camper he'd lived in as a kid. But, in the mouth, he had watched the storm's magnitude and intensity. Something he couldn't control, but something he could understand. Explain.	
Not like the way he was so aware of Dia. Of her gray eyes flashing the color of storm clouds. Of her golden-white hair mirrored in each bolt of lightning. Of her wet wildflower scent. It scared the hell out of him. Something he couldn't control. He had wanted to crawl to the back of the damn tiny grotto and touch her and see if her eyes were really that gray or her hair that golden-white or her scent that sweet. He had fought it with the strength of the storm. Fought it and won. This time.	
Two people, a male and female caught, in the violence of nature. Alone. Together. Biology. A scientific rationale.	
Just keep moving. Just keep moving. Just keep moving.	
Vaguely, somewhere outside the chant, Bay saw the camp, bathed in twilight shadows, his tent saggy to her preciseness. It stuck him as funny, like something out a of National Lampoon Vacation movie. It hurt too much to laugh. To do anything except collapse on the log his legs were too tired to step over. To cradle his aching head. Judas Priest, what he'd give for a shower, a bottle of aspirin, and a Henry's Pale Ale right now.	
He smelled the wildflowers before he felt a cold one pressed into his hand. Beer?	
"Here, drink this. You're no doubt dehydrated and overheated, Greenhorn."	
He opened stinging eyes and reluctantly peeled off his sun glasses. The shadows were too dark now to need them. He felt naked, especially when he saw the flicker of concern in Dia's eyes. Jeez, they were as gray as those storm clouds.	
He hefted the bottle and gulped the cold, sweet water.	
"Slow down, Greenhorn. Too quick and that'll come right up."	
Bay swallowed another gulp and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So now you're a doctor, Lady."	
"No, I've just had a bit of experience with it."	
He took another swig. "And I haven't?"	
"Obviously not." She plunked down a small kit. "Let's see your elbow."	
"Oh, you really are wanting to play doctor. This is something I have experience with."	
"Playing doctor," she snorted. "Why don't I have trouble believing that?"	
That he was a doctor. In his other life. An ER physician. But that was the past. A past she needed to know nothing about.	
He transferred the water to his other hand, sipping, trying to ignore the wildflower and woman scent that teased him. Dia had taken off her hat, and her hair sprung in lighting-like zigzags. He gripped the water bottle tighter, trying to still that crazy urge to touch her hair. To see if it was soft. He tried not to feel her competent fingers cleaning and tending the wound on his elbow.	
"There, that's done. Take off your boots."	
"My boots?" he said, a flush creeping over him like she'd asked him to remove his skivvies.	
"Yeah, your boots, Greenhorn. It doesn't take a Ph.D. in anthropology to see you've been limping most of the way back. While you're with me, your health is my concern, remember? I don't want infected feet on my conscience."	
Judas Priest, she was right. Ruptured blisters were infections just waiting to happen. He knew that. Even a self-respecting Boy Scout knew that. This woman was just too damn distracting.	
He drank the last of the water and leaned down to remove his boots. The pounding in his head pulsed to a dull ache.	
Dia's hands were cool. They felt good, wonderful. More than wonderful. His skin tingled when she cradled his blistered foot. He noticed she still wore the tight, stretchy top, her chest rising and falling, rising and falling, beneath it.	
He felt more than saw the tiny flame from the lighter, the needle she sanitized. Burning. Inside him. Hot and hard. He gasped with the swiftness of it, the intensity.	
"Get a grip, Greenhorn. You afraid of needles or something? I haven't even touched you yet."	
Oh, yes you have, screamed his brain.	
"Just get it over with," he growled.	
"Isn't that supposed to be the woman's line?" She pressed the sterile needle against the side of the first blister.	
Bay gritted his teeth and dug his nails into the rough bark of the log, inhaling the fresh stir of the breeze that smelled of pine and grass. Cool now, not hot. Not hot like when his eyes had followed that tiny drop of moisture over her collar bone, and lower.	
Involuntarily his gaze strayed to her chest, following its imaginary path. To the roundness beneath that stretchy top. To the tiny peaks in their centers that strained against the fabric like twin pearls. Were they as round and hard? If he moved his hand a few inches, he could take his thumb...	
The hot hardness jumped in his gut.	
"Dammit."	
"Hold on, Greenhorn. Squeamish today, aren't we? Move like that again, and you'll lose a toe. I'm almost done."	
These feelings, that urge to explore her body, a woman's body, is biology, he rationalized. Nothing else. The drive to procreate. To merge cells. To create cells. Over and over again. Since the beginning of time. Biology at its most elemental level. Like what you've got with Niki.	
If only it were that simple.	
	
Dia swallowed, hoping that Bay didn't feel the trembling in her fingers. The trembling that touching him was bringing. His badly blistered skin was soft beneath her palm, like he wore shoes all the time.	
Shoot, get a grip, Dia. You're a capable woman. You've gotten along fine, kept your heart intact, for years without a man. Especially one like Dr. Bayard "Greenhorn" Russell.	
With still shaking hands and a flush she hoped he attributed to sun burn, Dia smeared on anti-biotic cream. She handed him a tube of anti-itch ointment for his stings and some talcum powder, which he eyed curiously.	
Her face grew redder. "For ... for your ... irritation," she finished awkwardly, her glance dropping to his lap, then back to his liquid amber eyes. "Look, I'll get you some water to wash up with. I'll bring it to your tent," she finished in a rush.	
She jumped up, eager to put some distance between them. Unselfish compassion stirred inside her. The same compassion she'd experienced as a child, watching the deer or birds or squirrels caring for their young and each other. Receiving the nurturing she never had from her too-busy socialite parents.	
Dia fought that urge to help Bay, to allow him to wallow in his own misery. But something deep inside her guided her feet to the stream to fill a pail of water and heat it over her mini-propane burner, then get ibuprofen and leave it all outside his poor excuse for a tent.	
In her own tent, Dia stripped off her sweaty clothes, tugging on jeans and a sweatshirt against the evening chill. Then, she set about preparing her dinner. Relighting the small stove, she tried to ignore the sounds from Bay's sage tent. Rustling clothing. Splashing water. The rasp of a zipper that renewed the flush on her cheeks. He'd be shucking those damp jeans now, sliding them over his legs... shaking on the talcum powder...	
She spilled the pan of water, and had to hike down to the stream to pump another pot through the purifier. Dia, get your head together. You have no business wondering about what Greenhorn does or doesn't wear under his jeans.	
Starting the second pot of water, Dia pulled the footprint casts from her back pack. This was what was real, important. While she'd made dozens of casts before, none were so perfect as these. A flawless right print, a flawless left. So detailed even the dermals, or skin pattern, were evident.	
While the water heated, she stored the evidence in her strongbox in the Jeep.	
You'll find not what you seek, echoed the green-haired waitress' words. Relocking the strongbox, she pondered them. You'll find not what you seek. Well, she'd already found what she was looking for. And she planned to look for more. So that invalidated those words, didn't it? If that's what they meant? That's what they had to mean, didn't they? What else could they mean?	
And why the hell was she wasting time even worrying about it? It's not like the words meant anything. Just gibberish.	
It was growing darker, and she paused to light the kerosene lantern before stirring the freeze-dried beef stew into the boiling water. While it wasn't exactly home cooking, she always enjoyed it. It was part of being outdoors, exploring, discovering.	
Bay crawled out of his tent and dumped the water. Dressed in dark sweats, he looked different somehow. He'd exchanged his boots for a pair of soft moccasins.	
He limped across the short distance to her.	
"Here," he said, tossing her both the pain-killer and the powder.	
Indignation leaped in her breast. "You're welcome."	
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, the ends of his damp hair darker against his skin. "Thanks."	
She stirred the stew another time, testing it for doneness. A few more minutes.	
Dia put the talc and the ibuprofen back in her small kit and tucked it into the food-bag hanging within reach. Bay pulled his two burner Swedish-made stove from its shrink-wrap package. Sitting down on a nearby log, she mixed her dinner one last time and started eating.	
She watched while he fumbled with the parts, this time reading the directions. She had to give him credit. He did manage to get the stove together and lit without blowing it or himself up. After a bit of rummaging, he plucked a couple cans of spaghetti from one of his bags. More rummaging. Followed by swearing.	
She suppressed a giggle. Greenhorn had no can-opener. He pulled up a tent stake, nearly collapsing the tent in the process, and improvised with it and a rock.	
This time, her gloating didn't feel good, and her beef stew caught in her throat. He'd stuck with her today, proved himself. Hiked on feet so raw and blistered she might have given up. He was moody and opinionated and rude, but that something soft and generous in her stirred anyway. A curl of trust.	
"Here, Greenhorn -- Dr. Russell -- I ... uh, have more stew than I can eat. Why don't you finish it?"	
"I don't need your charity, Lady," he retorted, banging the aluminum tent stake so hard it bent in two.	
"Thank you so much, Dr. Norwell. It was so kind of you to share your supper with me," she mocked. "So I guess you just want me to dump this for the bears, huh?"	
He dropped the tent stake and the rock. "Suit yourself. I'm not hungry anyway." His stomach chose that very moment to rumble audibly.	
"Liar."	
Bay rubbed a large hand wearily over his beard, seeming to waver with indecision. Seconds passed, and the stiffness left his posture, almost in defeat. "All right fine," he growled, taking the pan she offered. "Thank... you."	
"You're welcome. See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"	
	
Lennie handed Harvey a cup of the too-strong coffee. Lennie was smart, he mused, but he didn't know squat about making decent coffee. Lennie's coffee always kept him awake, but it was hot, and it washed down the canned slop Lennie had fixed for dinner. Maybe he needed it. All those Buds had made him feel groggy.	
Tonight, maybe he needed to stay awake. See if the Bitch and the Big Guy went stalking. You never knew about them scientific types. They might try to pull the wool over his eyes at night. Besides, from his special place, Harvey could watch them, watch her.	
Mmmm, yeah, she was fine. She had doctored the big guy and shared her food with him. Would she share her tent?	
His hand tightened around the chipped mug. He scarcely noticed the hot liquid that sloshed onto his hand when he thought about that. About that Big Guy touching her. Their bodies naked and entwined ... he saw his image there, too. Felt the Power. White skin. Red blood.	
Yeah, that was fine.	
	
He sat on the ridge, hearing the wind stir softly in the tall, sticky trees. The dark time was clear now after the light and noise and water of before. The dampness was gone. When the round white light came again, there would be no more light and noise and water. Only clearness and heat.	
Rising and walking along the ridge, he reached the rock space where the Others had been. He'd seen them, watched them, waited till they left. Now he was curious.	
Crawling into its small space, he huddled, sniffed. He could detect their scents beneath the complicating ones that he didn't know, one that lingered like too sweet flowers; the other like sticky pitch from the tall trees.	
Male and female. He-mate and She-mate. Trust.	
He clambered from the rock pocket, squeezing again through the brush-lined opening. He continued up the ridge, over the worn path he knew in a memory he'd always known. To another cavern. Larger. Home.	
["Four"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Four	
Swallowing the last morsel of beef stew, Bay refrained from licking the pot. He'd had little else to eat all day, something he'd vowed as a kid never to repeat. He hadn't -- until today. Until he'd agreed to do Jerry this stupid favor and been thrown in with this ... this woman who stirred his biochemistry in unimaginable ways.	
He'd been forced to accept her charity, her food. Something else he'd sworn not to do. Until tonight.	
Dropping the dish, he scratched at the sting on his neck. The one on his throat. The one on his forehead. Jeez, those yellow jackets packed a punch. Even though he'd put on salve, they still were driving him crazy. The mosquito bites paled in comparison.	
In the kerosene lantern's glow, Dia bustled around. He tried to ignore her as she arranged a ring of rocks, whittled some sticks into it, and struck a match. A fire roared to life.	
"I cooked, you're on KP." She tossed him something small that struck him on the arm. "There's the biodegradable soap. I left enough hot water to wash that." She nodded at the stew pan. "Take it out of the camp -- even diluted with soap, the food can still attract animals. Put the pot in the back of the Jeep. Oh, and you might want to make sure your food and toiletries are in the bag. I'll suspend it overnight."	
Anger reared inside him, catapulting Bay to his feet. Judas Priest, she was ordering him around like some damn servant.	
"Look, Lady, I don't recall asking you to cook a thing for me."	
"Yeah, but you ate it. So fine, leave it. Every creature in the forest will find your tent a veritable party-haven. I don't care what you do, Greenhorn. It's your choice." She squatted and pushed a tea mug and steaming bowl of water into the tent. "I'm taking a bath."	
She ducked into her precisely squared tent, giving him a glimpse of her upside down, heart-shaped behind. His fist curled around the soap bottle, his shoulder muscles bunching, winding up. At the last second, he controlled the urge to hurl that and the pan and anything else within reach at her impudent little butt.	
The one whose curves and sway he'd memorized following her all day. The one that made another heat, a different heat, burn inside him. Those twin heats, fiery anger and that hot something else, a yin and a yang, coiled around each other, melting, merging into a hot throbbing ache in his gut. One and the same.	
Bay took one, two, three, deep breaths. Tried to calm himself. He heard the soothing sounds of crickets and frogs in the darkness. Heard other unsettling noises. Crunches. Shuffles. Rustles. He swallowed, not wanting to look beyond the false-security of the lamp's, the fire's, golden glow. Go out into that darkness to wash a dish? He took another deep breath.	
But the consequences of leaving it and his food in the tent were even more unsettling. Bears, cougars, hell, even Sasquatches.	
Jeez, she'd do it. She'd march right out into that black unknown to wash the pot. She'd probably stare down any bears or cougars or Sasquatches who dared to cross her path and reduce them to a mass of quivering, submissive jelly.	
He cursed and grabbed the pan, the wash water, and the lantern and walked into the brush. He crossed the meadow, to the edge of the darkness. The fire, his tent, the camp, the Jeep, receded. Bay had never washed a pan so quickly in his life. The noises surrounded him, and the trees came alive.	
Heart pounding, he rushed back to camp. The Jeep's hatch was unlocked. He opened it and set the pan with the others. A metallic glint protruding from beneath a duffel bag caught Bay's eye. He fingered it. A gun! Protection from the night noises and the creatures who made them. Glancing over his shoulder, he shoved it in his waistband. Then he hauled his food to the suspended bag.	
Collapsing on the log, Bay set the lantern next to him. Between that and the fire, it seemed almost like day. Wasn't light supposed to scare away animals? He touched the .38.	
Above the medley of night noises, he heard another one that captivated his attention. Splashing water. From her tent. He closed his eyes and fought the picture of a droplet flowing over her skin. The one he'd watched slide under her gray top and imagined again when she'd popped his blisters, when he'd been close enough to touch her. He'd wanted to. His right thumb unconsciously circled his left palm. Skin on skin.	
The fire popped, like the gun at his waist exploding.	
Judas Priest!	
Bay dove into his tent, as if that would put some protection between him and his thoughts. Reactions. Huddling in the only dry corner of his storm-drenched tent, he kicked off his shoes, not caring that they splattered mud onto his sleeping bag. Not wanting to think or remember other times he'd spent in a leaky tent. Bay grabbed his lap top from its water-proof, smash-proof, insulated case, suddenly wishing he could find a place like that for himself. A place to hide.	
Flicking the switch, he pulled up the file on his latest research. Tried to focus on it. He saw only gray blips smearing on the green screen.	
Jeez, get it together, man. What's going on here is pure biology. Hormonal reactions. Reactions that can be controlled by a rational mind, rational thought.	
Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart. The words of that two-bit, green-haired waitress echoed in his brain. His heart, his instincts, they knew nothing. Thought and knowledge, they were what talked loudest.	
He stared at the flickering screen, trying to make sense of the numbers and slashes and marks. Tonight, nothing made sense. Not the heat in his body nor the racing of his heart nor the wandering of his mind. Nothing.	
	
	
	
Dia snapped the rubber band around her braid. She'd spent the last fifteen minutes brushing out all the tangles. Hopefully she would avoid having to repeat the process in the morning. She wanted to get an early start. Where there were two footprints, there was undoubtedly more.	
Slipping back on her boots, she crawled from her tent and dumped the wash water. She savored the thought of a warm shower. Tomorrow. The solar shower was already dangling where she knew it would receive the afternoon sun. The air felt drier. It shouldn't storm.	
Sitting on the log, Dia pulled out her field notes. In the tiny, cramped printing she'd learned during her tenure in Africa, studying gorillas and chimpanzees in the style of Jane Goodall, where supplies had been scarce, she recorded her observations. She tried to ignore the glow emanating from Bay's tent. Tried to ignore him and the memory of way he moved and how his eyes had glowed with lightning during the storm. The lead in her mechanical pencil snapped.	
She advanced it, seeing the computer glow fizzling out. Heard his curse. So much for technology.	
Concentration shot, Dia grabbed a deck of cards from and spread out a game of solitaire. She stared blankly at the patterns of lights and darks and shapes in front of her. She heard more muttering. Then unzipping, like the sound of his jeans. The cards in her hand plunked down when he burst from his tent. Heat flowed in her like melting honey in the sun.	
Bay crossed the distance, big and broad, with the firelight dancing in his eyes. Carrying his computer and adapter like some modern Paul Bunyan.	
"Where are you going?"	
"My Ni-Cads need charging."	
Realization dawned. "No way, no how, Greenhorn. You are not going to drain my car battery to charge up your computer. It's not exactly like we can call AAA for a jump."	
"But I have to finish this," he said.	
She held up her notebook. "You could try something new and novel and use the old-fashioned way."	
"That won't do me any good, Lady," he snorted. "My data is all in the computer."	
"You have no notes?" she asked.	
"No, it's all here in the computer," he answered, as if explaining to a child. "I don't have field notes. I work in the lab, remember? I don't take field notes."	
"Oh, excuse me, I forgot. You spend your time in a climate-controlled room peering through clean microscopes and recording your observations in technological heaven."	
Shoot, he was the most annoying man she'd ever met. Stubborn and frustrating and...	
"Well, it sure as hell beats this. So what am I supposed to do in this godawful dark?"	
She remembered his feet and his stamina today, and that warm compassion inside her stirred, issued a challenge.	
"Cribbage!" Dia triumphed, holding up a small board.	
"Cribbage?"	
"Yeah, Jerry and I ... we play it. If you don't know how, I can teach you," she finished lamely.	
"I know how to play cribbage."	
"I'll beat the pants off you," she dared him, knowing she sounded suddenly over-eager.	
He raised one bushy eyebrow. "You beat the pants off me? Not a chance, Lady."	
"It's Dr. Norwell," she grinned. "And challenge accepted."	
"It's Dr. Russell. And you're on, Lady."	
Her gaze slid over his powerful thighs stretching his sweat pants. The place where he'd sprinkled the talc.	
The heat of his eyes burned her. Honey-sweet fire licked inside her.	
	
"15-2, 15-4, 15-6, 15-8, and a pair for 10," Bay counted, advancing his marker to the last hole.	
He'd won easily. He knew he would. He'd beat the pants off her.	
His gaze traveled up the length of her long legs, her slim hips, her waist in the floral print thermals. She yawned and stretched, and the top hugged her breasts. Round and beaded. The hot heat of the fire snapped in his gut. He jumped with its suddenness.	
"Now wasn't that more fun than working?" she teased. Her eyes, big and black, flashed with fiery reflection.	
"Maybe."	
"Maybe? You won."	
"I told you I'd beat the pants off you," he said. His mouth suddenly felt dry.	
"Yeah, well you see I'm still dressed." Dia's voice sounded breathy across the fire-gold distance.	
Bay cleared the cottony feeling from his throat. "Yeah, you are." He eyed the length of her legs again.	
"How did you learn to play so well?"	
"Lots of practice," he grinned, for a moment nostalgic.	
"You should do that more often." Dia's voice -- was it always so husky?	
"What?"	
"Smile."	
"Yeah, well," he muttered. "I haven't had a whole lot in life to smile about."	
"Oh." The air between them thickened, heated, as if the fire had surrounded them. "Well, then, um, it's been a long day. I think I'll turn in. Goodnight." She extinguished the lantern, bathing them in just the fire's flickering light.	
"Goodnight, Dr. Norwell."	
She paused, looking down at him with dark, stormy eyes. Her sunshine and moonbeam hair glowed in the firelight. "Look, call me Dia. Anyone who beats the... ah ... pants off me in cribbage has earned the right."	
His lips turned up. "And call me Bay. Anyone who manages to lose as graciously as you -- and keep the pants -- has earned it too."	
"Goodnight, Bay."	
He liked the way it rolled off her lips, like she'd whispered it against his neck, and it had traveled down his spine and all over his body in energizing pulses.	
"Goodnight, Dia."	
Too wound up to settle, he shuffled the cards, absently staring into the fire. Not at the inverted heart of her behind disappearing into the tent. Not those long legs in the pink flowered thermals that seemed too feminine for her.	
Wondering what was hidden beneath.	
Jeez, it wasn't as if the female anatomy was any big secret. As an MD, he'd seen hundreds of women -- clothed, semi-clothes, unclothed. Patients. Treat them. Ship them off. Next.	
And there was Niki. But Niki ... she was ... she was clinical too.	
Females are merely a collection of differentiated cells, he reminded himself.	
So why had he heard Dia's cells' siren call loud and clear? They'd tugged down his guard, broken through his iron-clad control. Let him talk to her. Flirt with her. And enjoy it.	
Judas Priest! He had to fight this ... this whatever it was, just like he'd fought during the storm. Rationally and in control.	
A chill cooled his hot skin. He noticed the fire was a dying bed of graying embers. The rustles and crackles singing in his thoughts were not those of the fire, but of the night. The encroaching darkness. The unknown. He fingered the butt of the gun.	
Slipping the cards into the bag by Dia's tent, he crawled into his own. Kneeling in a puddle, he cursed, rummaging till he found his flashlight, in its plastic wrap. More digging produced batteries. Bay swore again at his lack of night time preparation. It took three attempts before he got the batteries lined up and the flashlight reassembled.	
Casting its beam around the tent interior, he shifted duffels and sleeping bag, trying to find the driest spot in his sorry excuse for a tent. He remembered the cold, wet winter he, Mom and Bradley had spent in that old shelter behind the truck stop where she'd worked. Before moving on again.	
Shucking his shoes and sweats, he crawled into his damp sleeping bag and placed the gun within easy reach. He'd bet that Dia's was dry as a bone.	
But then, why the hell was he wasting time thinking about her? What did he care? He took a deep breath, and released it slowly, over and over, to clear her image from his mind. Tomorrow he'd build up his wall so high and so strong that her siren-singing cells would never breach it.	
Breathe in, breathe out. Stretch your muscles and relax them. Ignore the scurrying noise inches from your head. In, out. Ignore the fluttering overhead. In, out. Ignore the scratching and squeaking and scraping. In, out. Go to sleep.	
Ignore the footsteps, coming closer, closer. Stopping outside.	
Bay's hackles rose, every instinct for self-preservation curling up his spine. One hand closed around the gun's handle, the other around the flashlight. Heart hammering, he waited.	
	
"Bay ... Bay are you awake?"	
Dia squatted by his floppy tent, shivering in the night air, the feeling of it made even colder by the warm sleeping bag she'd just left.	
A curse and two metallic thuds followed.	
"I am now," he muttered, husky and full of sleep. Intimate. Heat chased the gooseflesh from her skin. "God, Lady, you scared the crap out of me."	
"I'm sorry. I heard you go into your tent and remembered that I hadn't checked ... your blisters again." Her voice sounded breathy.	
"Lady, my feet are fine." The rustling of Dacron against flesh.	
She swallowed nervously. "Look, Greenhorn, I realize you think a few rounds 'playing' doctor qualifies you to assess your injuries. But your health is still my concern. You'd better be decent because I'm coming in."	
What if he wasn't? Her heart hammered as her fingers plucked at the tent's tab. It was ripped from her grip by a savage tug.	
He thrust his feet through the aperture and caught her on the knee. Reflexively, Dia reached out, gripping the rock hard flesh above his ankle. Hot. Masculine. Hair curling in her fingers.	
Regaining her shaky balance, Dia shone her flashlight's beam onto his reddened feet. A few blisters continued to ooze, but most were drying and closing over.	
Dia directed her flashlight through the saggy opening. "They look like they're healing. Some cushioning adhesive bandages should take care of things in the morning."	
The spreading beam glanced off Bay's bare chest. It danced in the muscular shadows and glinted russet from his chest. Sucking her breath away, making her wonder what he wore beneath the Dacron sleeping bag resting at his waist. She dropped Bay's foot and scrambled to her tent.	
Inside Dia cradled her head, recognizing the mellow-golden heat filling her. Desire.	
Jonathan had been her height, and slimly built. Gentle. Would Bay's breadth crush her, his big body taking and demanding? Would he hold her close and protect her against his bulk? What about his beard? Would it be soft or scratchy? And the hair, that fiery hair she'd seen spreading over his magnificent chest, would it be silky or coarse?	
Why the hell had this big, moody stranger made her think of things she hadn't thought of in years? Since before Jonathan. Things she'd tried not to remember. The closeness, the intimacy, the sharing. Sex.	
She'd made it. She'd gotten along just fine. She sure as blazes didn't need a man, especially this one, to survive, thank you very much.	
She flopped into her sleeping bag and tried not to focus on that empty ache deep inside her. Tried to ignore the rasp of skin on Dacron, revealing his restlessness matched hers. Tried not to wonder what he wore between his muscular calf and his sculptured chest. Dia listened to the sounds of the forest, the birds and beasts and insects that called this dark realm their own.	
Praying for sleep.	
	
Sleep overcame Harvey. The Buds, the coffee, the day's excitement finally drained from his system.	
One thing remained. The Power's heavy tension the thought of blood, her blood, brought. During the day, he could sometimes fight the feeling, fight the Power, push it away. At night, it was different. Dreams and reality got mixed up. They rolled around in his brain, arousing him with swirling splashes of red. Building inside with explosive energy. An energy that demanded release in a kaleidoscopic spray of red. Over and over again. Until he couldn't wait. Until he had to act on the Power.	
	
He nestled into the brush inside his home, the one he shared with his band. He was alone. They were roaming, hunting for the purple fruit from the prickly vines and the round roots that grew by the water that would fill his empty belly. Usually he foraged too, as instinct told him, but this dark time he needed to stay here. That same instinct that told him to wander at night also told him something wasn't right. Something to do with the Others. The loud Others, not the quiet ones, the He-mate and She-mate, who had made his footprints in white mud.	
The loud Others. The Others with the sticks that made a big noise. The Others who he knew would hurt him. Or his mate. Or his offspring, the Young Male.	
["Five"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Five	
The gentle dawn glow broke through the blackness of night. Finally.	
Bay groaned and rubbed his eyes at the scratchiness of too many dreams and too little sleep. The dreams had jolted him with the golden-eyed ferocity of a predator, adrenaline surging. They had awakened him with the panicky emptiness of childhood. Roused him, tense and rigid and sweaty with visions of Dia dancing behind his eyelids.	
He ran a hand through his wiry hair and rolled over. God, maybe now, with the light chasing away the night demons, he could sleep for a few more hours. It must be all of five o'clock.	
The first wonderful wisps of sleep curled around him when he heard it. Her voice. Liquid-velvet stirring on the edge of his conscious like a feathery caress. Softly.	
Then louder, more insistent.	
"Bay, get up. Bay?"	
Climbing back to the light, away from the beckoning oblivion of sleep, his senses switched instantly to alert. Armed and ready for battle against her siren-singing cells.	
"What?" he growled, tapping into the anger simmering in his gut. That anger and that hot something else still lingered from his dreams.	
She cleared her throat. "We need to get an early start."	
"It can't wait another hour?" he spit, hoping to delay the inevitable.	
"You told me you could do the job, Greenhorn. That means early days." He heard twin plops when she dropped something. "I've left the talc and the adhesive foam bandages. We leave in forty-five minutes."	
Bay heard Dia's retreat, and the clattering of breakfast preparations.	
Snaking his hand through the flap, he grabbed up the items. Jeez, he hated feeling beholden to anyone. To her. He hated even more the raw pain he'd experienced yesterday. The risk of infection that further irritation would bring. Infection would send him home. And let her gloat.	
No way.	
Crawling from the tent in his jeans and shirt, Bay stretched his still-stiff frame and cringed at the twinge of protesting muscles. All the gym workouts didn't exercise these muscles. He scratched at the bites that itched -- still.	
Despite the predawn pink and gray, and the shadows under the tall trees, Bay stabbed on his sunglasses. Protection. Armor. He circled his tent, deliberately avoiding Dia and went into the still-murky brush to find a tree and pretend he was a freakin' dog.	
Back in camp, he rummaged through the food bag for his instant oatmeal. The smell of coffee made his mouth water, and the scent of eggs and bacon brought a growl to his stomach.	
"Water's hot, if you'd like some coffee."	
"No thanks, I don't need your charity, Lady."	
"I wasn't offering it out of charity, Greenhorn," she returned evenly. "I was offering it for environmental reasons. It's already heated, and it's wasteful to dump this out just so you can light your stove and burn more fuel to heat water when there's some already here." She pushed the half-full pan of scrambled eggs with bacon in his direction. "Same with the food. Otherwise it just goes to waste. Not exactly how we ... scientists ... should be caring for the earth that we study."	
He wavered, feeling even more like a dog now, rabid with saliva pressing at the corners of his mouth. The mortar in the wall around him cracked ever so slightly. He gave in.	
Taking the pan she offered, he dropped onto the log, as far away as possible.	
"Why the hell do you bring so much food?"	
She shrugged and sipped her coffee. "I handle food, Jerry handles equipment."	
He tried not to notice how Dia's face looked fresh and dewy and that her breasts shifted beneath her khaki blouse. He wished for the fire again, for something between them but the ten feet of empty space. Something that would keep his fortifications in place.	
His hand shook, the utensil clattering against the pan. The eggs weren't bad, he told himself, looking for something, anything, to think about. They were dehydrated. The mylar package lay next to her feet.	
Dia got up, and he continued to shovel in the eggs. Focusing on them, not her. But she kept intruding on his peripheral vision, a blur of khaki and white-gold.	
Using the last bit of hot water, Bay washed the egg pan and splashed the remaining drops on his face. Brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and stowed everything away.	
"Forgot something."	
She stood by his tent, holding the white talc container. A buzz sounded in his ears and the blood raced wildly in his veins and his skin prickled like she was touching him. There, where he'd sprinkled it. Everything stood still and rushed by at the same time. Through his dark lenses, he could see gray-blue fire crackling in her eyes, licking at the wall around him. For an instant he knew she could feel it, too.	
	
Studying the steep rock face, Dia noticed something she'd seen yesterday, that had been niggling in her mind since. It made sense this morning.	
The darker vein wove up the side of the ridge, where they'd climbed to take shelter from the storm. At first glance, it appeared to be a striation in the rock. But it wasn't.	
It was a path! A path worn over years, perhaps centuries, by bare feet. Bare feet that left enough oil behind, permeating ever so slightly into the rock to be visible, waterproof. That's what she'd seen yesterday -- rain beading up, running from that darker line.	
Shifting her backpack, she pushed on. Time was imperative. Booted footprints, not hers or Bay's, criss-crossed the washed out Sasquatch tracks she'd imprinted yesterday. By their carelessness, she knew these were amateurs. Amateurs who knew what they were after. Probably the original contacts. She stopped.	
"Lady, what the hell...?"	
"Shhh." Dia cocked her head to one side, listening, feeling the air, smelling. Trying to read the wind. She caught the faint whiff of a campfire, of rock, of forest. Nothing else.	
Except the scent of hot male and sun-on-cotton, unmasked by cologne. Heady, exotic, sensual.	
Dia took a deep breath and refocused. "I ... don't know. I just have a feeling ... we're being watched."	
"Watched?"	
She turned and saw his Adam's apple bob in the cleft beneath his beard. "Tailed."	
His throat twitched again. "Tailed?"	
"Someone is following us. I can feel it." She noticed Bay had opened the top two buttons of his shirt and cuffed his sleeves. Reddish tufts sprang from his collar, dappled his powerful forearms. Dia remembered rusty glints on his chest, and the way it had disappeared into the sleeping bag. Her heart hammered and her legs quivered.	
"Let's go, we've got to move," she announced, hating herself for noticing Bay, and for reacting to a man's open collar. Why was she so damn interested, anyway? Jonathan's body had been smooth, and she'd liked that. She had no interest in big, moody, hairy men who looked like Sasquatches. Especially this one whose manner and attitude froze her out.	
Several minutes more of strained climbing brought them to the mouth of the cavern where they'd holed up during the cloud burst. Dia's nose tingled with the breeze and the scent it bore. Faintly. Lingering traces of animal and earth	
She looked at the brushy entrance and the clump of silver gray fur clinging there.	
Her heart thrummed with the realization of it! Sasquatch! She knew it. The ripe aroma tingeing the air, the fur, the cave! It all fit. She'd found something better, more telling than footprints in the mud. Something she knew she'd find.	
Dropping her back pack, she hurriedly retrieved a zipper bag and reached to pluck the fur from the brush.	
"Don't touch it!" growled Bay from beside her.	
She jumped. "How else am I supposed to put it in the bag, Greenhorn?"	
"Preferably with tweezers.	
"Well, I just happened to leave my gold filigree pair on my dressing table this morning after I plucked my eyebrows. So I guess I'll just have to use my fingers."	
"Don't touch it, Lady."	
Dia took a breath. "What is the big deal, here? It's not exactly like I'm going to corrupt any forensic evidence or anything."	
Bay stepped closer and broke a twig from the brush. "No, you won't corrupt any forensic evidence, Lady. But the natural oils on your fingers could quite possibly screw up any scientific evidence." He smirked. "Let me do my job."	
She watched him, working easily, nimbly, despite his hands' bigness. He teased the fur from the branch, improvising tongs with the twigs.	
"Open the bag," he barked, pulling the final trailing tuft free. "I assume it's clean."	
"No, I've been using it to store my used toilet paper." How much of an idiot did he think she was?	
A bushy red eyebrow crept above the gray-green blank of his eyes. Bay slid the specimen in. His hand brushed hers, and hot, tingly heat zinged up her arm like the time she touched an electric fence on her uncle's farm. The breeze fluttered, and the bag and precious specimen nearly went with it.	
"Lady, just give me the pen," he growled through gritted teeth.	
"I'm perfectly ..."	
"Give ... me ... the ... pen."	
"Fine!" she slapped the indelible black marker into his hand.	
He curled his blunt fingers around it, and carefully printed the date and time of the find on the bag in precise block letters. Then he asked for their exact location.	
Anger chased the electricity inside her. Dia pulled out the topographic map and deliberately folded it to the correct quadrant. "We're right here," she stabbed, pointing to an area of sharp contour lines.	
"Jeez, this would be so much easier if you had a Global Positioning System. Give me the coordinates."	
Rage surged inside her. "Excuse me, Greenhorn. I don't work in a fancy lab with all the latest high tech gear. BFNetwork can barely afford to pay my salary, let alone buy expensive gadgets that just run out of battery or break. If you're so damn curious, you figure it out." She tossed the map in his direction.	
Dia turned away, pretending to admire the scenery, and hated the tears burning in her eyes. That always happens when she got angry. A weakness, a chink in her facade. She took three, deep cleansing breaths before Bay's scent assaulted her.	
"Here." He thrust the map in her direction.	
Beneath her simmering anger, that weird compassion stirred, and something else soft and melty his nearness brought. Giving in. "We're at ..." She glanced at the map and gave him the latitude and longitude.	
"I know. I can read a map, Lady."	
Dia didn't trust her voice to say anything, so she shoved the map back in her pack and continued on. Bay kept the sample tucked in his fanny pack, the one she'd loaned him this morning for his water and some hi-energy trail bars.	
It was mid-morning, but the heat radiating off the black rock face was intense. Shimmery. She pulled off her khaki blouse and tied it around her waist, pushing on to an overhang she could see.	
What she saw there made her stop dead in her tracks.	
	
	
Bay plowed into her before his burning eyes commanded his feet to halt. Her wildflower and woman scent filled his nostrils, seeping through the holes breaching his armor. He'd noticed the twitch of her hips and the length of her legs and the bounce of her behind when she stepped onto a boulder. Heat hotter than sun on granite burned in his gut. He gritted his teeth and swallowed.	
He wanted to ask what she saw, but her stillness checked his words. Bay peeked over her shoulder, seeing what appeared to be a pile of weathered sticks.	
A second glance revealed them to be skeletons. Several large, one small, mostly articulated or intact, with a few scattered bones. Curious, disbelieving, he stepped around Dia, going closer. He squatted down to examine the heavy cranium, the oversized mandible of the closest one. Not human. Primate. His heart drummed a crazy staccato. No. No, it can't be.	
With a scientist's professional respect, Bay knelt next to the first skeleton, placing his legs so as not to crush or destroy the evidence. He studied the loosened tibia, the silvery fur still clinging in patches to the tan-colored bone.	
"Bay, no!"	
"What are you talking about?" Jeez, for the first time since he started on this crazy charade, he felt excitement, the thrill of the quest for knowledge. Felt the thrill of hearing his name spill from her lips.	
"You might know all about protocol for putting evidence into a bag, but you know nothing about documenting it in situ."	
"But ..."	
"Just stand back and let me do my job. This is it! This is the evidence I need."	
Dia's voice trembled with excitement. Awe. Reverence.	
Bay rose to his feet, anger and chagrin burning him. Fine, he did get over-zealous. But God, these bones were so shocking, so unbelievable. Could they really be proof that something ... unknown ... existed?	
He watched while she bustled around. Crouching, snapping photos, measuring, sketching, her movements fluid and graceful and filled with energy. Passion.	
He cleared his throat and tossed her a bandanna. "Here, use this." It was rumpled, but it would at least keep her fingerprints off the bones.	
Her eyes bored into his, burning even through his glasses, before she turned away.	
Dia touched the skull, her long fingers resting on the cotton. He knew how they felt on his still-sore feet; wondered at the sensation those fingers, like cold fire, would bring to his brow. Her hand slid to the creature's sternum and his heart slammed vicariously in response.	
Bay's gaze settled there on her, too. To the soft roundness. The liquid movement beneath the white, clingy top. Nearly transparent.	
He curled his hands into fists, trying not to remember a tiny moisture bead trailing down her neck and disappearing. Of the thrust of her beneath pink-flowered thermals.	
Bay bit his lip and looked away. Judas Priest, how had he let that happen again? Let those tall, sturdy walls he'd built this morning fall away already? Let her wiggle into the cracks and pull them away?	
Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart. The waitress' words.	
Jeez, he couldn't trust his instincts. Couldn't trust them, not when they were screaming for him to do the one thing he never would. To get close to someone. Completely strip away what little barriers he had left.	
And listening to his heart. What did that mean, when it, too, was demanding something he couldn't give? God, what had changed that he couldn't trust himself, that he'd allowed these thoughts to capture his mind so completely?	
Like now, when his eyes slid instinctively to Dia.	
She pulled out a pocketknife and reached for the skull. Inserting the blade behind an incisor, she twisted, and the tooth fell into a plastic bag.	
She dug the knife deeper into the jaw, seeking a molar. Patting her back pack for the pen he still had. The one he tossed her, that fell next to her. She picked it up, so engrossed her attention never wavering.	
Moving on down the animal, she removed a portion of a finger and toe joint. Two teeth, a finger and toe from each.	
And then, at the smallest one, no bigger than a baby, she stopped. Touched the tiny head differently. He saw her finger tremble, and then her body, before she turned and fled.	
Confused, he carefully made his way to the tiny skeleton. There was nothing on it, no indication that it was anything but the same as the others.	
So, from that fragile skeleton, he took the skull, and wrapped it carefully in the bandanna she'd left behind.	
His heart thumped with curiosity. What were these skeletons? A hoax? The bones sure looked and felt real enough. Like the fur, more "evidence" of some unknown creature that made this forest its home and piled its dead at the base of a cliff?	
Overhead, a pebble skittered down the rock. His already accelerated pulse drummed even faster, and the hair along the back of his neck prickled. Someone ... or something was watching him. Just like Dia had said.	
Was it her? Or those who made the boot prints? A cougar? The kin of these skeletons?	
Straightening, he turned in the direction they'd climbed. Away from the skeletons and the tumbling pebbles and the invisible eyes. Stepping away. Making himself move slowly, not run like everything inside him screamed to do.	
Ten yards on, he saw Dia. Huddled on a boulder, her shoulders slumped under that white, clingy top, honey-gold arms curled around her knees. She heard his approach and turned, staring at him with her over-bright storm-cloud eyes.	
"What the hell happened back there?" His words harsh, his tone quiet.	
Her eyes shimmered, wet and fleeting like a mirage in the desert. "I needed a break."	
He pulled the bandanna-wrapped skull from his bag. "I finished your job for you."	
Dia's wild gray gaze snapped to the blue shrouded object he held, then away. All color drained from her face. "I don't recall asking you to ... finish my job ... desecrate my site."	
He stared at her, a study in white and pale gold, except for her round eyes. Blue-gray, angry and wet. It had to do with the skull he held. He pushed it into his pack.	
"Desecrate -- I don't think so, Lady. I didn't do anything there that you hadn't already done. I merely collected more evidence for my analysis, which, by the way, can make or break your research."	
"That's right. This is my research. We're supposed to do it my way."	
"And the analysis, the preserving of evidence is my job. I'm doing that my way."	
"Fine," she shot to her feet, incensed pink returning to her cheeks. Her shoulders squared and her chin raised, and he could see the anger vibrating down her spine.	
Judas Priest, he didn't know what to think. What to make of her reactions. Her withdrawal, her anger, that something else -- sadness, remorse -- that he saw in her eyes.	
He wanted to kick his way out of the last bits of his wall and soothe her fury and fear. To turn the heat and trembling into fiery quaking. Into passion.	
Shaking away the image, he followed the proud, provocative swing of her hips, down the way they'd come. He cradled the treasure-filled pack against him, his big hand protecting the tiny bundle in the bandanna.	
The one that made Dia so pale and sad.	
	
Harvey waited in the brush, chortling to himself. Watching them. He'd seen them find the fur, the bones.	
But he'd really pulled one over on them today. Paralleling their path, he'd discovered a spring. Wet and bubbling from the rock like a cold, shaken Bud. And, he'd seen more footprints. Fresh ones.	
That's where he'd laid his trap. He was going to win. He was going to kill one of them creatures.	
Blood on his hands. Its blood. Her blood. It didn't matter.	
He was excited by the feeling of Power it brought him.	
	
He stared out from his den. He felt fear, unease. Danger.	
The He-mate and She-mate had been here again. Closer. They'd found the place of the ones who no longer breathed. The place where he or his mate or another put them to keep their home clean. Like instinct told them.	
The She-mate, she took some bones. It didn't matter, since sometimes the other creatures took them, too.	
It wasn't the He-mate and She-mate who he feared. It was the Other. The Other who bore the smell of the wild purple fruit that lay too long from the vine. He'd been closer. Nearly to their den.	
The Other had with him something that rattled and clanked and threw sparks from the sun. He didn't know what it was. He only knew it was dangerous.	
Dangerous enough to need to get away, but too dangerous to allow him to lead his band to safety.	
["Six"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Six	
Sighing, Dia ruffled the damp hair off her neck. She was hot, dirty and disgusted.	
God, when she'd seen those bones, she'd realized instantly what a boon she'd found. Bones and fur. Evidence much more corroborating than the footprints she'd collected in her career.	
She wondered how the bones had gotten there, whether they'd fallen from above, or been pushed, or reverently carried. Until she'd seen the tiny skeleton. So small and fragile among the others. Only a baby ...	
Suddenly all her professional curiosity fled, leaving her a woman, staring, remembering ...	
Aster. She couldn't bear it if someone violated the sacredness of Aster's resting place. It had sickened her, and the tears so fresh from anger had welled up again and spilled in agony and grief and a mother's unfulfilled love. Bay, the big man, touching the bones. In that moment, she hated him. Hated him because of what he did, and even more because he was right. She should have been the one to retrieve the tiny head. But she hadn't, because her well-honed, capable, professional exterior had, for a moment, become the woman inside.	
A woman who was going to wash off the grime and rebuild her professional facade.	
Grabbing the hot solar shower, a towel, fresh clothes, Dia slipped into the sun-dappled brush. Away from Bay and the bones and the memories.	
Bay would never miss her. He was hunkered over the tail gate of the Jeep, peering through a microscope. Engrossed. Staring at the bones she should have collected.	
Hanging the shower from a branch, Dia slipped out of her dusty boots and socks. Wiggling her blissfully free toes in the grass, she listened to the chattering birds and sighing breeze.	
She slowly untied the blouse from her waist, and tossed it over the branch with her towel. If Bay even moved, she'd hear his big, clomping feet. Hastily, she stepped out of her dirty shorts, her sweat-damp crop top and pink-lace bikini panties.	
Standing for a moment in the forest glade, she stretched and allowed the sun's fading beams to kiss her body, feeling like an exotic pagan goddess.	
Dia stepped under the nozzle and released a stream of heavenly, warm water. She squirted her floral gel, the real stuff, not some eco-friendly biodegradable soap, her one decadence, into her hair. It was something the feminine part of her, that part that had burst out so distressingly today, needed. Craved.	
Massaging her scalp, Dia listened to the twitter of the forest's creatures. Her tension drained away. Her thoughts strayed back to the bones and their implication.	
Did they indicate that the Sasquatch was able to value life, have reverence for it? Celebrate it? Mourn it? Like the elephant who stays with a dying comrade, trying to raise and revive it. Or were they just tidy creatures who hated stinky dead things in their lairs? She'd have to return to the site tomorrow to study it. To find answers.	
She dipped her head under the shower and rinsed her hair. The suds slid over her body, whisking away the dirt and the emotions and the memories.	
A sudden tingling that had nothing to do with shampoo and spraying water prickled her scalp. An awareness.	
Grabbing her towel, Dia turned.	
Bay! Lurking in the brush. She hadn't heard him coming.	
"What the hell are you doing?" she challenged, clutching the towel more tightly around her.	
A muscle twitched along the left side of his jaw, but the rest of him remained still. His gaze burned like hot caramel on her bare skin. "I wasn't watching you Lady."	
Dia swallowed against the heat she saw in his eyes and tugged tighter on the towel. "Then what are you doing?"	
"I ... uh ... saw something under the microscope I thought you might be interested in. I ... uh ... came to find you. I thought you'd want to know."	
Dia swallowed, her hand at the towel growing numb. "Evidence?"	
"Yeah." Bay licked his lips. "Look, I ... uh ... I'll meet you back at camp. Don't ... don't touch anything. That's my job, Lady."	
Unmindful of the prick of pine needles and tiny pebbles under her feet, Dia rushed back to camp.	
Diving into her tent, she huddled for a moment, trembling. This had to be some kind of crazy reaction to the day's events. The criss-crossing of sorrow and excitement. The misinterpretation of by her brain of the adrenaline rush.	
Because that had to be it, she convinced herself hurriedly, slipping into her clothes. Because she felt nothing for that big, moody scientist. Nothing.	
But she wanted to be ready when he came back.	
She wanted to see whatever it was that he'd found that had made him come and find her.	
Watch her while she was naked.	
Oh, God.	
	
He found Dia, standing in a patch of sunshine in a small meadow, her back to him. His preoccupied brain took several seconds to assimilate that the swathe across her golden back wasn't her white top, but pale skin. The pale skin of her naked back. The even paler outer curve of her left breast visible.	
He stopped like his feet lodged in cement. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.	
She raised her arms and threaded them through the copper and chrome wetness of her hair. The fluid movement of her breast mingling with the water. Another drip, another time.	
Bay suddenly was so hot, his jeans and his shirt growing tight. He wanted to cross the distance and seek solace in Dia's softness. To explore the quaking passion he knew they would create.	
He must have moved, tried to act on his impulse, because she turned, clutching a towel to her. Bay could see momentary anger in her stormy eyes. He saw something else, too. Need. Want. She asked him what he was doing and he must have answered.	
Then she was gone in a swirl of wildflowers and wetness and clean woman. The tantalizing glimpse of her bareness was not enough and too much. Burning him with no relief.	
When he could breathe again, Bay cursed, heading for the stream. He didn't want a hot shower. The cold water would take the steam out of his overheated body. He pulled off his clothes like some early Olympian readying for a race.	
The snowy-born water's briskness made his bones ache, but did nothing to relieve the explosiveness that coiled in his belly like a spring.	
Taking a few deep breaths, he tried to calm himself. He'd seen thousands of female bodies in medical school and during his stint in the ER. Lots of them. Young. Old. Gorgeous. Average. Ugly. But they had been patients, people he'd treated and released to another department or discharged, or sent to the morgue. He'd seen Niki's naked body, but it wasn't personal, really.	
This was personal. His interest in Dia's body was definitely personal.	
And no doubt motivated by some crazy regression in his hormones, or those damn instincts that the green girl said he was to trust. The ones that were leading him astray.	
The heat in him cooled now but not gone, he climbed from the stream and shivered in the graying light.	
	
Dia heard the hollow clump of Bay's footsteps this time.	
"What took you so long?" she demanded, bursting from her tent where she'd been making notes and trying to distract herself.	
Bay stood across the clearing, his bare chest heaving, water dripping from his clingy boxer briefs and dripping down his well-toned legs to puddle in his untied boots.	
He shrugged, the movement flexing his auburn-furred chest.	
"Bathing."	
Dia licked her lips. "I want to see ... what you've found."	
"I ... uh ... I'd like to get dressed first."	
"Yeah."	
Bay ducked inside his saggy tent, leaving Dia with the visuals of a tight behind encased in stretch cotton and powerful thighs straining at the cuffs.	
She listened to the rustling in his tent and tried to ignore the image of him in his drawers that replayed over and over. The ones he must be slipping off. An invisible heat flamed beneath her skin.	
Dammit, why was she waiting for him? It was, after all, her research.	
She went to the Jeep. The tail gate was still open and arrayed with books and microscope. Tucking her damp hair behind her ear, Dia peered through the eyepiece and adjusted the focus.	
"Hey, Lady, I said don't ..."	
She jumped at his nearness, the clean scent of him filling her nostrils. The memory of his bare chest and muscled legs teased her beneath his navy sweats.	
In the deepening twilight, Bay's dark eyes were rimmed by a corona of old-penny copper.	
Dia wanted to touch him, and she knew he wanted to touch her, too.	
Like a lover.	
She swallowed awkwardly and turned quickly, too quickly, to the microscope. It teetered precariously for a moment, then righted itself.	
Dia licked her lips and said, "I want to see your ... the slides."	
Bay squinted into the eyepiece and readjusted the focus on the tuft of silvery fur. "Not a bad scope you've got here."	
She shrugged. "Yeah, Jerry really splurged on that." She knew Bay couldn't miss the sarcasm lacing her tone.	
He picked up a reference book from the tailgate and pushed it in her direction.	
"Tell me what you think."	
Dia leaned over the microscope again. Stared at the book, back and forth. "The collagen structure is similar, but not identical."	
He palmed the book and flipped through the pages. "That was the primate section. I even checked the obvious calls like bear, fox and coyote. Cougar. The collagen structure matches those even less."	
Dia swallowed the lump of excitement pressing in her throat. "You're saying the sample is primate, but nothing so obvious as, say ... gorilla. Or human."	
"As far as I can document given the parameters." He stroked a beefy hand over his beard, through his hair. "Technically it could be lemur belly fur ... or albino orangutan. This clearly isn't a cut and dried case."	
"But if I had to ... pin you down ... "	
"I'd say there was a possibility that it was from some as yet unknown life-form. I'll know more after I go over things in the lab."	
Bay stood so close now. She could see the golden flecks in his liquid amber eyes. Her insides trembled with the fiery memory of those eyes on her skin. Of how he looked in next to nothing.	
She turned away.	
	
	
Harvey took another swig of Lennie's coffee. Its bitter strength was a good thing. It'd keep him awake tonight. He'd told Lennie he'd take first watch, and the schlock had grunted and let him. Sometimes Lennie was so smart he was dumb.	
Harvey wanted to be there when the trap sprang. Yes, siree, he did. He wanted to hear the screams. His hands shook with excitement.	
He rubbed the barrel of the Remington .308. Yeah, then he could go shoot. Maybe he'd aim for the heart and watch death come quickly. Maybe he'd take a pot shot here, a pot shot there and watch life seep out slowly. He'd savor the moment. Red, oozing, running, red.	
The Power felt as strong as the gun barrel in his hands. Yeah, it'd be fine.	
Then he could show that Bitch a thing or two. He'd be rich. He'd show her a thing or two, he sure would.	
Harvey ran his palm down the length of the gun barrel again. Hard and cocked and ready.	
Just for fun, he nicked himself with the skinning knife in his belt and squeezed. He watched the blood, blue-red in the darkness, seep from the wound, drip by drip by drip. Then, when the trickle puddled in the webbing between his fingers, he stuck out his tongue and licked it. Warm and salty.	
Anticipation so intense, so close to ecstasy, surged through him that he could barely contain it. Contain the Power. But he would because waiting made it better.	
He gripped the gun tightly and took another swig of Lennie's too-bitter coffee and let it burn all the way down.	
	
He squatted in the den's opening, gazing at the familiar patterns of the darktime sky. Usually he felt safe watching their orderly predictability. But not this time. The Other sat nearby. He couldn't see the Other but he could catch the scent of him on the stirring breeze. Could hear the other one making those noises in his throat the way they communicated. But the Other was alone. There was only one scent.	
He couldn't leave. He couldn't lead his band to safety. If he did, the Other would use the stick that throws fire and stones. He could be hurt or die, and his bones would be piled on the ledge where the mates had found them. Then who would lead his band? No one. Only females had been born to his band until this year. The Young Male would not be ready to lead for many hot and cold times.	
But the Other couldn't stay there forever. The Other must eat and sleep. When the Other left, he would take the chance and lead his band away. Over the ridge and away from the danger of the sticks that throw fire and stones and the shiny danger that blinked the sparks from the round white light. Over the ridge and down to the trees below to the band led by the one who shares his mother.	
["Seven"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Seven	
Dia's wide eyes, gray as the surrounding light, stared at him. As naked as her body had been earlier. He wanted to touch her, but he closed his fist.	
"I guess it's getting too dark to see now," she murmured.	
He glanced at the stars winking between the tree tops, then at the microscope. Away from the emotion in her eyes. "Yeah."	
"Oh."	
Small talk.	
"I guess I should put the equipment away."	
"I have some extra ramen. Do you want some?"	
She was in charge of food. It wasn't a handout.	
He shrugged and nodded.	
Dia busied herself with dinner preparations.	
The silence stretched long between them like a rubber band pulled to the snapping point. He wanted to say something to break it. But he couldn't think of anything. Except he wanted to ask why the tiny skeleton head upset her.	
Instead, he finished securing the evidence in the strongbox and packed the microscope away.	
Dia gave him cooked ramen in an aluminum bowl, and her hand brushed his. He almost spilled it.	
"Thanks."	
"You're welcome."	
Her eyes, like the sky, were darker now, and sparkled with starlight. Pleasure flushed his body and rippled from his heart like it skipped every other beat.	
This was crazy. He was reacting to the day's excitement -- and discoveries. He didn't want to, couldn't be feeling these thoughts for Dia.	
Bay ate his ramen and tried to ignore her. She finished, washed her cup and pulled a brush from the tent.	
He remembered Mom's ritual each night, brushing her hair like that, as if it were a balm for her soul. A bit of peace in the craziness that saw her as sole provider for two growing sons in a difficult world.	
Watching Dia, hearing the faint crackle of static snapping in her silky hair, chased away the memories. It was as if he'd watched her a thousand times before. Expectant heat stirred in him, and he wanted to run the brush through her hair and feel its softness. To let it trail through his fingers.	
Her eyes found his across the indigo darkness.	
"Should you start a fire?" he said. An excuse to break the awareness that flared between them.	
"I'll start a fire." Dia licked her lips, and Bay noticed the lower one was fuller than the upper. He wanted to measure them with his tongue.	
He cursed this attraction. The connection that was growing between them. It was getting harder and harder to keep the walls built around him.	
He wondered if he wanted to.	
	
Dia snapped a twig and tossed it into the fire. What was this sudden need for Bay's touch? To feel his lips on her hair, his beard against her skin. She'd seen him staring at her mouth.	
Chastising herself, Dia threw in a chunk of dead-fall. Trying to lose herself and her feelings in its flames.	
He sat across from her.	
The awkwardness between them was thick. She ran the bristles of her hair brush through her fingers.	
"So, why forensics?" she asked, trying to break it, desperately wanting to know what made Bay tick.	
"Why anthropology?" he countered.	
"I asked you first."	
He shrugged. "I always liked science, I guess, and since I've just recently discovered an interest in voyeurism, I suppose watching little cells fulfills both those objectives." Humor gleamed in his fire-gold eyes.	
"You like to watch life vicariously?" Her body tingled at the memory of those fire-gold eyes on her nakedness.	
"I suppose you could say that." A red flush crept up his forehead. "So, why anthropology?"	
"As a way to shock my parents, and also because I was genuinely interested." She studied the back of her hair brush. "They thought it was a colossal waste of time to study 'monkeys' in Africa and pursue 'mythical' creatures around the Pacific Northwest. They're still waiting for me to come to my senses and follow them into their careers."	
"What do they do?"	
"Dad's founder and CEO of GKN Electronics in Beaverton; Mom's a decorator with her own flourishing business. I can't think of anything more boring than tinkering with computer parts or deciding whether the peach or the teal go better on the sofa."	
"Must be nice to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth," Bay commented, his nostrils flaring.	
"Yeah, well it's not all it's cracked up to be." She drew patterns in the dirt with the tip of her boot. "Growing up I felt like I was just another showpiece for my parents, like their house or cars or furniture. I ... I wasn't allowed to be a needy little girl. I used to watch the birds and the animals at the estate, the deer that would occasionally venture onto the lawns, and how they cared so selflessly for their offspring and wanted to be like them. Wondered why humans weren't more like them. I guess I want to know how and where humans and animals separated."	
Heat burned her cheeks. He couldn't possibly be interested. But his fiery gaze was fixed on her. Her breath tingled in her lungs like she'd inhaled too much smoke. "So, I take it you weren't born with the proverbial silver spoon?"	
"No," he grunted.	
"Are you married?" she blurted before her brain edited the question. She still wanted to touch him.	
Bay took a deep breath. "No."	
"Why not?" Her cheeks burned. "Look, you don't need to answer ..."	
"I'm just not marriage material," he stated softly, running his hands though his hair.	
She clenched her hands around the handle of the brush.	
"Look, Lady, I'm not gay," he defended. "What about you? Married?"	
Oh, God, he wasn't off limits.	
"I was once, a long time ago. We were in grad school, and it didn't even last a year before ... circumstances ... broke us up." When Aster was born and died before her time. "What makes you think you're not marriage material?"	
He threw a branch into the fire. "My parents."	
"Your parents?"	
"Jacob -- my father -- I remember him slapping Mom around, using her, putting her through hell. Leaving her alone to raise Bradley and me. She didn't have much education, worked in mostly menial jobs to keep us ahead of the bill collectors." His voice was angry.	
Dia swallowed. He was a man who had overcome his background to make something of himself. "Just because your father was that way doesn't me you will be. You're aware enough of it to change it. I mean, look, you're obviously a very well educated man. Your mother must be proud."	
He snorted. "She's a beaten shell of a woman in a mental facility."	
She didn't know what to say to comfort him, to erase the bitterness.	
"What about Bradley?" she asked instead.	
	
"What about Bradley?"	
Bay closed his eyes. Oh, God, he hadn't thought about his life, that night, in years. Not for fifteen years had he let himself think about it for more than a superficial second. Yet tonight, he was telling Dia things he never told anyone.	
* * *	
Bay shifted on the lumpy cushions of the trailer's dinette and turned the page in his biochemistry text. He had a mid-term in the morning. Besides, he could lose himself in the knowledge on the printed page, go somewhere other than this godforsaken, leaky mobile. Escape.	
The scrape of the warped door startled him. Too early for Mom -- her job cleaning the truck stop kitchen usually kept her till midnight. His hand curled around the bulk of his Handbook of Chemistry and Physics, ready.	
"Hey, Bay, what's happenin', man?" his brother slurred, lurching through the door. "Still the uptight, studious prick, I see."	
Bay slammed his book. His younger brother was obviously drunk or high or both. "The prodigal returns, huh, Bradley? So what do you want this time? More of Mom's hard earned money? Or are you just laying low so the cops don't get you?" Bradley's dishwater hair hung lank around his face, his blood-shot blue eyes wild and nervous in their sunken sockets.	
"Screw you, Bay. Can't I just come home for a nice family visit?"	
"Not when you show up loaded and ready for a hand out."	
"Go to hell," Bradley cursed, stumbling through the thin blanket dividing the sleeping area. Bay heard him pacing and muttering.	
He sighed, his concentration blown. Usually he was able to tune out his seventeen-year-old brother's odd comings and goings, but not this time. Responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, as if he could have changed Bradley's choices.	
Their financial struggling, the constant moving to keep one step ahead, it had been hard on Bay. But he'd always had his books, his obsession with learning. Bradley didn't cope that way. He never seemed to settle well after a move, and when he began to feel comfortable and make friends, they would up and move again.	
Bay knew Bradley had been using for two years. But he didn't know quite what to say or do to help Bradley. Mom didn't either. She just ignored the problem, too.	
But tonight, something was different, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it.	
And, he had a mid-term in the morning. Bay opened his book again, took a deep breath, and forced himself to focus. To concentrate. To escape.	
It was the uncanny quiet that broke his concentration. Swallowing the lump of uneasiness tightening in his throat, he slowly made his way to the thin, gray blanket and paused before it, clutching the frayed edge.	
Oh, God, something was wrong. Bloody foam and spittle bubbled from the corners of Bradley's clenched jaw, and he writhed like a marionette jerked by invisible strings. His eyes were white and rolled back.	
Panic hammering in his chest, Bay grabbed the phone. No dial tone. It was cut off again. Dashing like a wild man, he banged on three doors in the run-down trailer court before he found someone with a working phone.	
Then, to the wail of approaching sirens, Bay held his brother while Bradley shook and died.	
* * *	
"He was only seventeen, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. " Bay' voice wavered with unfamiliar emotion. His eyes stung. "Not a damn thing."	
He swallowed and the crack in his throat snapped like fire inside him. He gritted his teeth hard to make it hurt worse than the pain stirring inside him.	
Then Dia was next to him, and he smelled the sweet balm of her wildflower hair. Her hand, fingers soft, curling around his.	
"I am so sorry, Bay. I ... I know what it feels like to lose someone you love and feel so helpless." Her voice was a gentle caress.	
"Yeah, right, what does the princess from the ivory tower know about something like this?" he spit, hating the words, the tone, even as he uttered them. He tried to hurt her so he wouldn't hurt so bad. To push her away so he wouldn't need her.	
Her hand tightened around his, and she whispered huskily, "A lot more than you think. I know what it's like, Bay."	
His fingers folded around Dia's like a lifeline, reeling her in. Salvation.	
Bay stared into her cloud-colored eyes and watched them turn smoky. The fire burned inside him. In his ears, in his blood, in his gut.	
He looked at her mouth, needing her, and a groan, half sob, half sigh, tore from his throat. He touched Dia's lips with his.	
They were soft and warm and tasted like the skin of the wild apples he'd eaten as a child. A promise of the sweetness inside.	
His eyes twitched closed, savoring the anticipation, before lifting his mouth from hers for the briefest second. Her breath was an apple blossom on his cheek.	
His hands, shaking like the leaves of a tree in a summer storm, curled around her shoulders and his mouth dipped back into hers. Into the sweet apple spring that made him feel like he'd found peace.	
His tongue touched hers, a butterfly tasting honeyed nectar, drinking it, growing strong. Growing hot. Tensing. Remembering the wet drop sliding over her breast. Wanting to touch it. Wanting to bury himself in Dia's warm apple sweetness.	
Things new and things ancient flowed like fiery sap inside him. So explosive they popped. Like the fire. Like reality.	
A guttural sound tore from his throat, from his soul, when he pulled his mouth from Dia's. Sucking in air, his eyes searched her near black ones that danced with golden firelight. Her lips glistened, wet and shiny. A surge in his groin and a flutter in his heart made letting Dia go, pushing her away, so hard.	
He marveled at the power of a kiss to stir and arouse and comfort and the million other things rushing inside. He licked his lips and tasted Dia.	
	
Harvey sat and stared at the sky, hypnotized by the slow rotation of the stars and the moon hanging low on the horizon. He wasn't sure what time it was, but the darkness all around him was giving him the creeps. He was wired from the coffee but was shaking from his need for another Bud to make the noises be quiet. To make the shadows stop coming so close they touched him with their evil blackness. The coldness of the hard rock seeped though his jumbled up body.	
He tried to fill his mind and body with something else. To bring the Power back that made him so unafraid. But he didn't want to close his eyes and think because the shadows might touch him again. Like the one that draped itself slowly over his arm, his shoulder, his face, bathing it in blackness. Evil blackness.	
Trembling fear, he raced back to where Lennie slept in the tent and hid himself, huddling until daylight, in the cab of the pick-up.	
	
	
	
It was no longer safe out there, yet he and his band must still forage for food. Sometimes they went in the time of the light, but with the Other so near, they must go in the darktime. His hackles rose in premonition. He stilled his feet and listened.	
The sharp clank, the scream, echoed off the distant mountains. He knew it was the Young Male. Near the place where water bubbled from the ground. An urgent strength sped his lumbering body over the rocky surface.	
Fear and pain clenched in him when he saw the Young Male, his foot stuck in the shiny danger that threw sparks from the round white light, its teeth digging into the young male's flesh. The one who bore the Young Male huddled close, trying to pull it from her offspring's foot.	
He knew instinctively they had to get away. Now. Before the time of the round white light. And they had to leave the Young Male. He did not know the magic of the Other's shiny danger. With urgency, he grunted gutturally at the one who bore the Young Male, made a mind picture, a command to come. Then, throwing back his head, he howled his message to the scattered band. Again he summoned the one who bore the Young Male, but she would not come.	
He knew her devotion to that the Young Male, his own bond with her and his offspring, but the safety of the band to survive was an urge he couldn't deny. Slowly, he turned away from them.	
["Eight"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Eight	
Dia cursed and yanked the final loop into her right boot lace. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, and her body still burned with the memory of Bay's kiss.	
She'd relived it over and over last night, each time fatigue had lulled her to that hazy cloud between wakefulness and sleep.	
Remembering the way his lips had touched hers so lightly, like a puff of warm air, a tiny spark from the fire. And how he'd deepened the kiss, or maybe she had, and the tiny spark heated, ignited the long dry tinder low inside her, building, and growing and rushing like a hot wind. A fiery tornado out of control.	
She tried not to, but couldn't help comparing the kiss to Jonathan's. Jonathan had been sure of everything, sure of himself. Supremely self-confident in his ability to please her. Bay's touch was nothing like Jonathan's. His tentative caress had been so sensuous that this single, unsure kiss had stirred her more than Jonathan's love-making. With its ... its innocence.	
Rapping her other boot on the floor of the tent and checking it for opportunistic critters, she crushed her foot into it. Why the hell was she thinking this way? About a man, who by his own admission, wasn't marriage material? Like she was in the market for a husband!	
Why did she care how he kissed? He meant nothing to her.	
The kiss -- the kiss was a moment of weakness. A moment when she'd let her guard down. When he had, too. It was over and done with, and wouldn't happen again.	
You will find something you do not seek. The words of the teen-age waitress echoed in her brain. She had already found more evidence than she had hoped for this trip, so what did it mean? That she'd find previously undiscovered evidence? That she'd find Bay?	
Yeah, right, Dia. Like the off-hand comment of a teen-age waitress has any deep spiritual meaning. Get a grip. Stay focused. Remember your research.	
When it's all done, you won't need to see Dr. Bayard Russell again.	
With that uneasy satisfaction, she finished tying her boot and emerged into the crystal dawn. Grabbing the water jug and purifier, she headed to the stream. The birds chirped with happy abandon, and a doe and still-speckled fawn eyed her from the opposite bank. Dia sat still, barely breathing, and watched while the pair flared their nostrils and twitched their ears. Then, apparently deciding she was no danger, they dipped their black-velvet noses into the sparkling water and drank.	
In a moment, they were gone, enveloped by the brush, leaving Dia with a sense of awe, a vision she never tired of. Some of her anxiety drained, and she filled the water jug.	
Her peace of mind was short-lived. In the clearing, Bay stretched, the motion pulling his cotton A-shirt taut across his chest. Rusty hair spilled from the top and glinted in the morning sunlight. The muscles in his bulky arms tightened and flexed with blue-veined strength. Her mouth grew dry and she nearly dropped the water.	
Oh, God, he'd kissed her last night. And now his eyes, those searing golden orbs, met hers and a ripple ran through her body like a pebble tossed in a pool. Stirring the surface but promising hidden depths. Promising hidden depths that were way over her head.	
"Good morning, Dr. Russell," she squeaked, willing her immobilized feet forward. Willing her heart to stop hammering in her ears. Willing away the heat that throbbed in her belly.	
Bay ran a hand through his disheveled hair and cleared his throat. "Good morning, Dr. Norwell."	
Dia dumped the water into a pan and set it on her stove, keeping her eyes focused on the task. Away from him. Away from Bay who looked so damn sexy this morning in that A-shirt and those skin tight jeans. Was his underwear gray, or was it white or blue or black? And why the hell did she care, she reminded herself, grabbing the hot pan from the stove without thinking.	
"Ouch!" Pain surged up her arm and the hot water for her breakfast spilled in a steamy cloud. The nasty red welt across her palm burned like crazy and was already puffing up with clear fluid.	
Bay was instantly at her side.	
"Let me see," he barked, grabbing her hand.	
"I'm fine."	
She could smell Bay, the scent of man and forest and spicy deodorant. Her tongue found her lip and she could taste the caramel and cinnamon sweetness of him there, where he'd kissed her. Last night.	
He uncurled her fist, her joints soft and melty and unresisting. "A second degree burn." Quickly he filled the now cool aluminum pan with water and plunged her hand into it. She gritted her teeth against the briskness, grateful that his hand no longer held hers.	
He rummaged in the Jeep and returned with the first aid kit. "Burns are just like blisters, Dr. Norwell. They need immediate attention to minimize infection." God, he sounded like some medical drama expert. Like she didn't know that.	
"Thank you for your sage advice, Dr. Russell. Have you forgotten who took care of your feet?"	
"No, I haven't, Dr. Norwell, I'm returning the favor." His eyes searched hers. They were black and dilated, haloed in gold like an eclipse of the sun, and sparkling with something deeper she couldn't read.	
He draped a dark green towel over her shoulder. "Dry your hand."	
The terry cloth was damp and smelled of him. Swallowing, Dia gently blotted dry, trying not to think about where this soft cloth might have caressed his body.	
Impersonally, Bay smeared the wound with the anti-bacterial cream, pressed on a gauze pad, and secured it with adhesive tape. Efficient, business-like.	
"Keep it clean and dry, and in the future, use a pot-holder. I'd like to check it again in a few hours."	
There it was again, that pseudo-professional tone. "Yes, sir Dr. Russell, MD. I guess that means you'll have to do the cooking and the clean-up -- oh and be sure you use a pot-holder," she mocked his arrogance.	
Bay's eyes narrowed and his nose flared. "I told you not to question my ability to do my job."	
Dia shoved her palm under his nose. "This has nothing to do with your ability to analyze the specimens, Greenhorn. I was making a joke, trying to cut the tension around here, but I forgot. You have no sense of humor. Because of this," she pressed the bandaged hand even closer to his unflinching eyes, "your job as chief cook and bottle-washer just came under scrutiny. So cut the concerned physician act and get your sorry ass in gear."	
	
Bay counted to ten, then to ten again before he released the angry breath he hadn't realized he was holding.	
Judas Priest, for a moment there, when she'd tagged his name with MD, he'd forgotten. Forgotten he wasn't in the business of patching up people anymore.	
God, for about the millionth time since that ... kiss ... last night, he kicked himself for his weakness. For allowing his walls to crumble so much that he needed her. Needed to be held against the pain of Bradley's death. That he'd stopped fighting and permitted himself to give in to it. It made touching her hand, inhaling the sleepy wildflower scent of her now want to recapture her lips and taste her sweetness all over again.	
This morning Dia had obviously drawn the lines. That kiss, the one that still made his gut burn with molten fire, it had meant nothing to her. Well, that was just fine and dandy with him, because it didn't mean diddly-squat to him, either. It had just happened. And it wouldn't happen again. No sir.	
He'd shut up and do his job. In a few days he could go home and enjoy his month long excursion to all those European museums he'd read about as a kid, and Dr. Dia Norwell and her sweet-apple lips would be a distant memory.	
Bay's rumbling stomach reminded him of his newest task, breakfast preparation. Dia sat like the queen of Sheba on a log, waiting for him to jump to her service. Rifling through the food, he pulled out a box of nutrition bars and tossed her one.	
"Breakfast is served."	
She lashed into the wrapper with her small, white teeth. He relived the friction of them against his tongue. Oh, God, he had to forget, to build the wall.	
"What about lunch?" she asked innocently, her gray eyes flashing.	
He wasn't going to give in to the urge to slap that silly smile off her face. Or kiss it off. Instead, he upended the box of bars into his fanny pack and filled two canteens.	
"Lunch, Dr. Norwell." He waved the fanny pack in Dia's direction before shrugging into his flannel shirt and jabbing on his sunglasses.	
She rose and slipped on her back pack. "Shall we, Dr. Russell?"	
Falling into his accustomed place behind her, Bay tried to ignore the fascinating, familiar twitch of her hips. She wore olive drab shorts today, and they seemed tighter and shorter than ones she'd worn before. A sudden flush of heat prickled his body, even though the morning was still cool.	
His gaze traveled up her back. He wondered what she wore beneath her gray sweatshirt. A T-shirt? Another crop top? Nothing?	
A replay of Dia, her naked back, the curve of her wet breast, flashed in his mind. It hit him like a fist to the solar plexus and made it difficult to breathe or walk.	
Judas Priest, he hated this. He hated letting that break through the thin walls of his tenuously re-erected armor. Hated that he'd kissed her and wanted to do it again and again and again. But, God, he couldn't hate her. He tried, but he couldn't.	
To distract himself, he thought back to his discoveries, to what he'd learned about the fur specimen. What was his ethical responsibility if this was, God forbid, something unknown to science? There was no question, really. He would owe it to the scientific community to reveal his findings. Science never advanced under a bushel basket.	
His aching feet told him they'd come a distance. He knew they'd already passed the bones. Where the hell were they going?	
Finally, Dia stopped and slipped off her back pack. A damp, dark-gray circle marked her back where the pack had rested, and Bay knew the sweatshirt would come off next. A crop top again, pale pink. Naked pink.	
She tipped her head back and drank, and a few droplets of water escaped to course down her chin and splash onto her chest. Onto the clingy pink top with the zipper down the front and the curvy, wet W underlining her breasts. Breasts whose tips strained against the flesh-colored cloth.	
Bay bit hard on his cheek and willed down the hand that wanted to reach for that damn zipper. He closed his eyes against the picture of Dia, against the hot need vibrating through him.	
He visualized the periodic chart and recited the elements, and moved on to the double helix structure of DNA. The building blocks of life. Imagined them erecting a wall around him, block by block. Blue and red and yellow and green, like the plastic models.	
A flimsy wall of plastic.	
Little defense against Dia.	
No defense against the mysterious unseen eyes that prickled his scalp with vigilant awareness.	
	
Even behind the anonymous gray-green of his glasses, Dia knew Bay's eyes were on her. On her breasts. The hot caramel feeling surging through her body and the tightness in her chest told her so.	
And, God, she liked it. Something deep and instinctually feminine inside her gloried in it.	
But, dammit, this was Bay ... Dr. Russell. She didn't care one whit that he was eye-balling her tits. He was behaving like a man. A man she didn't need and didn't want.	
Grabbing her sweatshirt, she draped it over her shoulders and let the arms hang down over her chest. Trying to hide the evidence of just how much his perusal affected her.	
"Let's go," she said, flinging on her backpack.	
Another quarter mile brought them to the edge of a spring. There, in a dimple in the rock, a lush pool fed by a small waterfall winked like a mirage. But it was real. Birds chattered in the brush around it, and frogs chirped from its midst.	
Squatting back from the edge, Dia's expert eyes studied the mossy mud. Footprints, fresh ones! Perhaps twelve hours old! One set large, another small. Entering the mud on the left, exiting to the right. Two Sasquatches, probably and adult and child, had come, hunkered down to drink, and gone on!	
Pulling her polymer from the back pack, Dia cast as many of the footprints in sequence as she could. Shoot, she wished this wasn't so remote so she could get more molding equipment. She'd just have to make what she had count, and plan to come back in the morning. Maybe there would be more footprints then.	
Dia was vaguely conscious of Bay, moving about nearby. Like he was nervous, agitated. His shadow crossing and recrossing her work, then stopping.	
"Do you mind?" she burst out. "You're making it hard to see, not to mention slowing the drying process."	
He dropped to his haunches. She was aware again of his bigness and his maleness, and his sweat-flannel-sunshine scent. "I have a bad feeling about this."	
"These are footprints, Dr. Russell."	
"No, it's more than that. I feel like ... forget it."	
The breeze swirled around them, dipping into the hollow, carrying with it a burst of musky earthiness. The odor from the cave -- her heart pounded with gut level recognition. Sasquatch!	
Above the whistle of the wind, Dia heard something. A sound.	
A weird mewling.	
Forgetting the casts, forgetting everything but the smell and the noises and the curious excitement rushing inside her, Dia skirted the pool. Following the impressions and their cracked muddy counterparts, tan on the black rock, until they faded.	
She crouched beneath a manzanita whose hardy roots reached through the rocks to seek the residual moisture. Her nostrils tingled with the potent animal aroma. The drying edges of the footprints indicated they were made hours ago, but the smell? Was this a territorial tag -- a glandular secretion or urinary marker?	
Oh, God, by the freshness, the strength of the odor, it had to be recent. It had to! And the noises. The Sasquatches must be near! She knew it.	
A burst of wind scuttled the manzanita's foliage, and the pungency enveloped her is a whirl of wild, keening screams.	
Hot and cold chills rushed up and down her spine, adrenaline pumping. She knew that cry. She knew it in her gut.	
Sasquatch!	
Pulse dancing like the wild beat of a hummingbird's wings, Dia inched forward on the ledge. Not daring, not hoping to believe what could be on the other side.	
She swallowed and peeked through the manzanita's twisted limbs.	
Movement! Silvery movement! Silvery fur!	
Dia froze, immobilized by the sight before her. Awed.	
A young Sasquatch, perhaps three feet tall!	
She held her breath, afraid to move or alert it to her presence. Yet it knew. It knew she was there, for it turned its amazingly human eyes in her direction. They were wide and brown.	
Dia thought her heart would burst from the crazy racing inside it.	
A Sasquatch. She'd found a Sasquatch!	
Oh, my God. She'd done it! A gale of silent laughter, of celebration, welled up.	
Then the small creature cried out, a wild, ear-shattering howl.	
"Bay," she squeaked in a stage whisper, forgetting all the reasons she didn't want him near her. Needing him now.	
She jumped when his hoarse voice rippled the hair above her ear. "What the hell...?"	
"It's a Sasquatch, Bay!" she said softly, gripping his arm in excitement. His flesh was warm and hard beneath her fingers, and she was suddenly glad she was sharing this moment with him. It was powerful. Intimate.	
"Judas Priest," he muttered. "I can't freakin' believe it."	
"Believe it."	
The Sasquatch cried out again, desperately, a howl which was chased by a man-made metallic clank.	
Craning her neck, Dia saw for the first time the glint of steel in sunlight. Steel in sunlight, a trap, its serrated jaws digging into the youngster's leg!	
A panicky queasiness clamored in her stomach. "Oh, God, Bay, his foot -- it's in a trap." Who would -- how? Crazy unformed questions. With only one answer.	
She had to do something.	
"It... he's trapped. I have to release him."	
Bay's fingers curled tightly around hers, hot and familiar. "Dia, you can't go near that beast. My, God, I... "	
She shrugged off his touch, still wanting it, wanting to share this experience with him. "Bay, I have to. I have to! This is my research. It's what I've searched my whole life for. I can't leave it like this. It'll die. God, who would do this?"	
The Sasquatch youngster cried out again. Heart-wrenching. Afraid.	
Closing her eyes, Dia took a deep breath and mustered all the knowledge she'd gleaned in her African fieldwork. Would gorilla behavior work with Sasquatches?	
Stooping, she crawled in a foot and knuckle motion, slowly approaching the Sasquatch. Not meeting its eyes, though she felt it's gaze on her and smelled it's rancid 'animal' smell mingling with that of her fear and excitement.	
Seconds ticked by like hours as she made her way toward the youngster, eyes respectfully lowered.	
Seconds that spanned eternity, seconds she was afraid to breathe or blink for fear she'd wake up and find this was only a dream, or maybe a nightmare.	
Then the youngster's black, leather-palmed hand touched her hair, not aggressively, but curiously. Ran a silvery-gold strand through its fingers. Dia was sure her heart would beat its way out of her chest.	
Still not daring to breathe or move, she slowly raised her eyes. The Sasquatch's salt-and-pepper fur was longer than she expected, like a sheepdog's, but coarser. Its uncannily human eyes beneath the primate brow ridge held hers, then looked to its leg held by the trap.	
Carefully, Dia lowered herself across from the creature. Oh God, she wanted to pinch herself to make sure this was real. That she was truly sitting across from a Sasquatch, a small one, who was touching her peacefully! Whose smell she hardly noticed now. Whose human-like eyes she couldn't ignore. The heavy trap around its ankle that weighed heavily between them.	
"Hello, little one," she said gently. "It looks like you've gotten yourself into a real pickle doesn't it? I'd like to personally put that trap around the neck of whoever set it there, wouldn't you? Perhaps it would be just punishment." While the words were angry, her tone remained soothing. "I'm just going to reach over here and see if I can undo this thing. You just need to sit still, little one. I won't hurt you. It's okay." She folded her hand around the steel jaws. It bit against her burned and blistered palm.	
"Dia, freeze!" barked Bay, still behind the bush.	
Only her eyes moved. An adult female Sasquatch about eight feet tall with large, white ears, approached from the other side of the ledge. Fear and fascination tripped in Dia's chest. The mother? It had to be. And she was close to the Sasquatch's baby!	
The youngster, seeing its mother, but unable to reach her, clawed desperately at the trap. The teeth dug in deeper. Its pitiful wail rent the air.	
The adult female's silvery hackles bristled and her lip curled back aggressively.	
Dia knew the mother saw her as the threat.	
Oh, God, what now?	
She lowered her gaze submissively, cooing softly all the time to mother and child, simultaneously praying and cursing whoever had set the trap.	
"Shh, shh, shh, little one, it's okay. We'll have you freed up in a moment." Then over her shoulder, "Bay, I need your help. I can't spring the trap with this burn on my hand."	
"No way, that big one is ready to attack!"	
She glanced at the bristled mother who squatted about thirty feet away. "I think we're okay. She's obviously agitated, but I don't see any aggression now."	
"You're sure?"	
"No, Bay, I'm not sure about anything except this baby is going to die without help," she hissed. "Crouch and come slowly."	
The heat of Bay's body so close to her on the ledge smelled of sweat and fear over the pungent animal aroma.	
"When I count to three, release the catch and pry it open. It doesn't look like there's much damage, but I won't know that until we've gotten the leg out."	
Bay shoved his sunglasses into his hair and folded his hands around the steel jaws.	
Nervously she licked her lips. "One, two, three."	
The jaws of the trap sprang open and the youngster jumped free, scuttling to its mother, who enveloped the youngster in a maternal hug in a tableau as old as time. The mother ran her hands over it, over the leg that was snared, and except for some slight abrasions, it appeared miraculously uninjured. Invisible hands seemed to squeeze Dia's heart ... Mother and child. She thought of Aster, and a lump of hot emotion burned in the back of her throat.	
Diverting her thoughts, Dia clawed through her pack, and pulled out the camera. With shaking fingers, she advanced the film and snapped off the last six frames.	
The mother slowly turned her head in Dia and Bay's direction. Her sandy brown eyes swept over them before she tipped her head, stroked her heart and grunted. Then, cradling the youngster in her arms, she rose, turned, and disappeared over the lip of the ledge in a lumbering primate stride.	
Trembling, Dia collapsed onto the rocky shelf. Tears of joy, of maternal emotion brimmed in her eyes.	
"God, Bay -- did you see that? I... I sat just inches from those Sasquatches."	
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yeah, yeah I did see them."	
"They're real, Bay. You see that, don't you? I'm not chasing unicorns and rainbows."	
"No, I, uh, saw all right."	
Dia fumbled with the camera in her hand. "I -- I did it, Bay. I found them."	
"Yes, you did. Congratulations."	
Then her hand was in his large one, skin against skin, and his golden gaze captured hers. Powerful. Intimate. Sharing. Like the kiss last night.	
She thought he was going to kiss her again, and her eyes sought his lips.	
Bay pulled his hand from hers, quickly, and the moment was over. Awkwardness sizzled in its wake.	
Dia cleared her throat, looking for some words to bridge the bulky silence. "They seemed almost human, didn't they?"	
Bay only grunted.	
"Who -- who would set a trap up here like that?" she asked rhetorically. What had they expected to catch? Bear?	
No way. A frisson of unease quivered up her spine. Someone else was on to this. On to her. And it wasn't someone credible.	
Grabbing a stout stick, Dia sprung the trap and jerked it loose, flinging it angrily over the ledge. It clinked and rattled down the side.	
Her initial elation deflated, she jumped to her feet. "Let's go, Bay. Let's follow them."	
	
Shit, shit, shit. If only that evil blackness hadn't tried to suffocate him last night, he'd have known. He'd have known if the damn trap had been sprung.	
Sweat trickled into Harvey's eyes, and he swiped it with the sleeve of his camouflage jacket. It was hot as holy hell up here, but he didn't dare take off the coat. Someone might spot him. The Bitch and the Big Guy.	
He knew they'd be up here. But he just hoped that they didn't discover his secret place where It was. It that had the Power to make him rich.	
The Power.	
He licked his dry, cracked lips and thought about the Power. The Power that would surge so gratifyingly when he killed it. Slow or fast. Today it didn't matter.	
Today he'd have blood on his hands.	
	
His band was safe. Safe in the valley now.	
Except for the Young Male and the one who bore him. The Young Male whose leg had caught in the Other's shiny jaws. The Young Male who would surely die, even with the one who bore him present.	
The same urge that had compelled him to lead the band to sanctuary now bid him return for the Young Male and the one who bore him. The Young Male who would follow in his stead. He would find a way to make the Other's shiny jaws open.	
Slipping into the scrub, he turned and retraced the path he had forged in the time of darkness.	
["Nine"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Nine	
Bay glanced behind him and wondered if he shouldn't have bought more life-insurance.	
Jeez, it had to be those creatures that had him so uptight. But, he was uptight before.	
He shook his head, trying to assimilate what had happened. Tried to focus his racing thoughts on his painful blistered feet that weren't turning to calluses quickly enough.	
Judas Priest. What additional evidence could Dia have found to prove her point than this? He still didn't want to believe it.	
His mind replayed the scene.	
The god-awful stench like foul cabbage and skunk and sulfur and garbage had nearly turned his stomach. Panic gripped him when he'd first seen the creature, seen Dia crawling over the rocky ledge toward it. Unarmed. He was still numb with disbelief.	
He'd wanted to protect Dia.	
When she couldn't open the trap, she'd called to him for help. To release a three-foot-tall, hairy, stinky creature with eyes that begged like a human child. To do something and not just let it happen. To change something he could change.	
Fighting the nausea, the terror, he'd gone. Scrunched across the ledge and pried open the hideous steel teeth that gripped the creature's tiny leg. Released it.	
That part felt good. But the wonder and incredulity and stupefaction of what he'd seen ... God, it trembled inside him.	
Like the unease humming in his ears. He stopped and searched the tree line. Scanned the undulating heat waves pulsing from rock.	
A blink of light? Bay pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose, squinting. Nothing moved. A mirage skipping off the hot rock face?	
He turned back. Dia stood atop a large boulder, silhouetted by the late afternoon sun. His eyes lingered on her, the dark grace against the vivid blue sky.	
He remembered the sweet apple softness of her lips. Relived the sharing of her dream of finding the Sasquatches that made him want to kiss her again.	
But he'd pulled back in time.	
This time.	
Stooping, Bay slipped his foot from a boot and adjusted the sock. He jerked his boot lace too tight to give his thoughts a diversion.	
He heard the detonation, and dropped, belly down, to the rock instinctively. The hard jaggedness of its surface stabbed into him like a hundred tiny needles.	
But the pain was not nearly so great as that when he heard Dia's scream. When she crumpled and toppled behind the boulder. He waited eons for the five pings and ricochets. Quick and slow at the same time, like those minutes he'd held Bradley.	
Judas Priest! Dia! This couldn't be happening!	
Adrenaline pulled him forward, hunkering low.	
Jeez. Why? The creatures?	
Gasping, Bay scrambled on the boulders, scraping, sliding, his hands burning. Staying low. Heart pumping with vulnerability. Wishing for the .38 he'd left in the tent.	
Then he was over the boulder, out of the sniper's range. The glint he'd seen before?	
It was silent, except for the slam of his heart and the rush of wind.	
"Dia?"	
Nothing.	
Terror squeezed his chest. It was hard to breathe.	
"Dia?"	
He heard it over the kettle drum throbbing inside him. A moan.	
She was alive!	
Judas Priest, where?	
	
Dia leaped the last step off the boulder, landing on the gravel.	
Tiny pebbles rolled and cracked under her feet. Burst in a spray all around her. Whizzing, bouncing, pinging. Hailing her with a barrage of stony missiles. Striking her arm -- hard. Hard enough to stun her, to knock her into a world of blackness.	
"Dia?"	
Bay? Why was he so frantic?	
"Dia, can you hear me? Please, open your eyes."	
She struggled to find his voice over the blessed numbness enveloping her.	
"Bay?"	
His blurred image settled into focus. Why ... why did he look so ... so worried? Why was he touching her head and her ribs and her legs?	
"Bay, what happened?"	
"Lie still, lie still. You'll be okay." He probed that painful, throbbing place on her left arm. She flinched from his touch clapping her hand over that spot. The burning sting from this morning's injury so inconsequential to this other pain.	
Warm, sticky fluid oozed through her fingers. She saw red on her hand.	
"Oh, my God." Her mind muddled and confused time and space. To the last time she'd seen her own blood like this.	
"My baby, oh, please, don't let anything happen to my baby. Please."	
Bay's voice. Calm and soothing. Talking.	
"You're okay, Dia. You've been shot. I've got my bandanna. I'm going to bandage ..."	
Bay? What was he doing here? Why was he bandaging her arm? Oh, God, he had to save her baby.	
"My baby, please, it's too early. Don't let her die. Please don't let her die."	
Warm hands cupped her cheeks against the cold panic shivering inside her. "Dia -- listen to me. Listen."	
Her gaze swirled from that far-off place, blinking once, twice, before converging on the honey-gold eyes inches away. Not blue like Jonathan's. Eyes that made her feel safe like she'd come home.	
Bay.	
"You're going to be fine, Dia. I've immobilized your arm and put a pressure dressing on it. But I need to check if it's safe. If the sniper's gone. I'll be right back."	
She nodded numbly, her tongue, thick with the taste of metal, sticking to the roof of her mouth. Looking deeply into Bay's eyes, she trusted. Trusted him that everything would be all right.	
Gravel scrunched when he walked away. Leaving her. She fought the rainbow specks that promised black oblivion and listened.	
Footsteps?	
"Dia?"	
"Yesh?" Her lips and tongue felt dry and rough and twice their normal size. Something hard nuzzled her mouth, and she swallowed the water that spilled into it.	
"Look at me, Dia," Bay's voice commanded.	
Obediently her eyes turned to the safety of his golden ones. His cheek jumped above his russet beard, and she longed to reach out and touch it. But her hand wouldn't move.	
"Dia, it looks safe now, but you have to walk back to camp. It's just a short way to the tree line. We have to stay low till then. I'll hold you, and we'll stop as often as you need to."	
She nodded. Bay said he would hold her.	
This wasn't about Aster.	
"There's no baby, is there?"	
He cleared his throat and his eyes glinted with a deepness she couldn't fathom. "No, Lady, there's no baby."	
Dazed, she allowed Bay to tug her upright. Wet-spaghetti legs threatened to buckle beneath her.	
"Stay low."	
God, she hurt everywhere. Mind. Body. Heart. She just wanted to stay here, to curl up and give into it. "NO!"	
Dammit, he wouldn't let her. He made her walk, his steely hands holding her gently. Urging. His voice a balm.	
The man-smell and heat scent of him filling her with another need to curl up and give in.	
	
Without letting go of Dia, Bay swiped his arm across his sweaty forehead, and shrugged at the itchiness clinging to his back and thighs. He needed to keep her upright and moving. Judas Priest! Their camp was somewhere down below in the tangled mass of trees.	
She was in shock. Her skin's pinched, gray pallor and clammy dampness worried him. But they had to keep moving. When they got to the shelter, to the deceptive safety of the tent, he could assess her wounds more thoroughly.	
Oh God! His hands, his shirt, his jeans, were stained with Dia's blood. Dia's blood. Not some anonymous patient's he could patch up, discharge or ship to surgery.	
Dia. He had to make Dia well. Nothing could happen to her. It was her blood her wore. Her blood.	
Thank God, his ER training had kicked in. When he'd watched the incident unfold in slow motion, he'd been afraid he'd freeze.	
Like the last time, when he'd had to leave emergency medicine for good.	
Who the hell was shooting up there? Did it involve the Sasquatch? Was it something personal? A loony? Judas Priest.	
Dia moaned and sagged in his arms.	
"We're almost there. You're doing great. Just a few more steps."	
Never in his life had Bay been so grateful to see a tent. He carefully lowered Dia to the ground.	
With a last gasp of energy, she crawled inside and collapsed, a moan quivering from gray lips.	
Legs trembling, Bay dropped down next to her. His breath rushed hot and choppy in his throat. Relief burned his eyes.	
They were safe. For now.	
He cleared his throat. "Dia, I need to check your arm. Do you think you can sit up?"	
Her glazed eyes, like muddied ashes after a storm, moved slowly in his direction. Biting down hard on her lip, she rolled upright.	
In the small, canvas cocoon, he smelled the wildflower scent of her hair, so strong and cleansing over the metallic tang of her blood.	
His eyes slid from Dia's hollow-eyed face to the bandage on her arm. Loosening the bandanna, he noticed that blood soaked both sides. A flesh wound. The bullet had passed cleanly through the triceps. The bleeding troubled him, though it wasn't unusual for the exertion she'd been through.	
He debated pulling away the saturated cloth to further examine the injury. If he did, though, coagulation would be interrupted. He wasn't in an ER, he reminded himself, pressing some gauze onto the bandanna and securing it in place. Then he assessed her burn, which seemed so minor a concern, but one which was as likely to cause problems.	
"Try to keep your arm as still as you can."	
Numbly, she nodded.	
"Look, we need to get some food and liquid into you. Just rest and I'll be back with some soup."	
Her vitals seemed stable. Slipping from the tent, he stumbled to the nearest log. His hands felt stiff with her dried blood.	
Bay stared at them, at the half-curled fingers stained rust. Stared at his clothes, drying with the same red-tinged stiffness. Dia's blood.	
He wanted to vomit. But he didn't.	
Instead he splashed some water from the jug Dia had collected -- Jeez, was it only this morning -- and scrubbed his hands over and over. He couldn't get the brown crescents from under his nails.	
Angrily, he yanked off his soiled clothes, kicking them at the fire pit, and glanced at the slice of lavender sky deepening over the pine silhouettes. Darkness would arrive soon. The unknown.	
He crouched before the blackened fire pit and struck a match. The blue-orange flame burnished his hand and bare chest.	
Darkness! The unknown! That was their key to safety tonight.	
Quickly, he extinguished the match, burying its hot head deep in last night's ashes.	
Ashes that had burned when he kissed Dia.	
Hot hardness burned inside him, like the flame he'd held. And something else. His heart glowed too, when he remember Dia's kiss. When he thought of her lying, bleeding, in the tent.	
Still, the impending darkness coiled around him like a snake. Vulnerable. Prey.	
Bay snatched his clothes from the fire pit and slipped them into a plastic bag. Stashed them with their other trash.	
Heart hammering, he dove into his baggy ten. Its anonymity. Its perception of security.	
He tugged on a clean A-shirt and jeans and a flannel shirt against the chill of evening.	
Not that he needed one. Nervous adrenaline pumped heat through his veins.	
The breeze puffed outside, snapping the tent like a shot. Making him jump. Making him remember.	
The .38! The one he'd taken from Dia's car. It lay in the back of the tent.	
With a shaky hand, he grabbed it.	
Jammed it in his waist band.	
Protection. Protection against whatever, whomever was out there.	
Protection. For Dia, who he wanted to defend against the demons that made her cry out at her own blood. Scream for a baby. Recoil from a tiny Sasquatch skeleton.	
Why? Why did he suddenly feel this hot place in his chest for her? Want to protect her?	
Dammit, he couldn't possibly care about Dia. Not in that way! Judas Priest! She's a colleague, a patient! Nothing more. This wasn't anything he wouldn't do to defend any other person.	
That hot place in his chest ... it was just shock, stress, adrenaline. It had to be, he told himself, even though his heart drummed otherwise, that it was more than a man and a woman and biology.	
Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart.	
Was he trusting his instincts? Was that the uneasy vibes he'd experienced up on the rock? Before Dia was shot.	
What about this urge to protect her, watch over her? Instinct?	
Or was it his heart? This hot spot in his chest, this desire to keep Dia from harm's way.	
Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart.	
What were they saying? Everything swirled in kaleidoscopic confusion.	
Jeez, he just knew he was tired of fighting them tonight.	
Running his hand through his hair and over the bristle of his beard, Bay fingered the butt of the revolver, then crawled from the tent. The sky had slid from lavender to amethyst twilight, and the first stars winked between the blackening spires of the tall pines.	
Darkness. The unknown.	
Darkness. Predators.	
Over the clamoring of his thoughts, he heard it.	
Dia's moan.	
Bay dived into her tent, sure she must be able to hear the boom of his heart. Heat from that tender something embraced him when he saw her, sunshine and moonbeam hair spilling over her face.	
"Dia, what's wrong? Are you okay?"	
	
	
	
	
Why did she hurt so badly?	
Dia tried to stretch, and from outside the shroud of pain suffocating her, awareness began to dawn.	
No baby. There's no baby.	
Oh, God, she'd called out for Aster, hadn't she? Dizzy heat spun in her head. But this wasn't about Aster.	
No baby. There's no baby.	
She swallowed the copper taste in her mouth, and slowly raised her eyelids, searching the foggy recesses of her mind.	
Sasquatches! She'd found the them! The young one with its leg in a steel trap.	
I have to get back up there. I have to do something.	
She sat up urgently, wincing at the pain that stabbed from her left arm, at the memories that spun from it.	
Gravel. Slipping. Popping. Pain.	
Blood.	
Her blood.	
She'd been shot!	
Red spatter on her pink crop top. Brown stains on her olive shorts. Her blood. Her own blood.	
Dia closed her eyes to fight the whirl of specks clouding them. Numbing, trembly pain invaded her body and clawed at her throat.	
Oh, God, she had to get out of these clothes! She had to.	
The palm of her burned hand refused to curl around the O-ring zipper on her crop top. Desperately, she reached with her left, but the pinching rush of agony exploded from her lips in a moan, and made her woozy.	
The blood. Oh, God, she had to get rid of the blood!	
Then her tent flaps snapped and Bay's man and flannel scent filled her, his bigness dwarfing her tent.	
"Dia, what's wrong? Are you okay?" His voice sounded muffled.	
Oh, God, she was not okay. She'd been shot. She could have had her brains blown out and she was covered in her own blood and now, now she couldn't even muster the strength to endure it. To pull down a damn lousy zipper and get out of her bloody clothes.	
There was no facade, no place to hide. No place to stash those wayward emotions. The ones she was tired of fighting.	
She raised her head and met the gold question in his eyes before her lids fluttered closed. Her eyes burned beneath them with pain, with loss, with humiliation.	
Dia gulped around the near-hysterical lump pressing in her throat. "I can't, Bay." Her voice sounded rushed. "I can't get this." She gestured awkwardly with her right hand.	
He swallowed and when he answered, his tone was husky. "Dia, I..." He cleared his throat.	
"Bay, please, make the blood go away." A heavy silence pulsed between them.	
"Face me, Dia." His voice came in a rush.	
She turned, heart hammering with awareness. Trusting.	
His trembling fingers closed around the O-ring on her crop top in slow motion. Her breath whooshed from her lungs, and she couldn't breathe. Tried not to.	
Bay's eyes caught hers, and stayed there. Over the slow scrape of the lowering zipper, they stayed there. Dia's heart throbbed in her throat. She was sure he could feel it against his fingers and still his eyes stayed there. Now his fingers were so close to her heart.	
To her breasts. She could feel the hot kiss of his breath skimming her chest. Swirling lower. Making her wonder what his lips would feel like there. His hands.	
Shimmery liquid heat answered deep inside her.	
His throat cracked in the thick silence. "Okay."	
Air rushed into her lungs. Hurriedly she secured the spreading gap in the top with her right arm, pressing it to the heavy achiness engorging her breasts. She turned away and released the zipper's tab with her right thumb, slipping it off the right shoulder, then easing it over the painful left one.	
God, she hated that she had to have Bay do this for her. Hated it and loved it and wanted him all at the same time. Wanted to turn to him.	
Then his hands were on her. On her shoulders, lingering, draping the body-warm flannel that smelled of him around her. Its softness tingled pleasantly against suddenly sensitive skin.	
Clutching the lapels with a shaky right hand, Dia inhaled, and turned back to Bay. She tried to slow the erratic thump of her heart, the uneven puff of her breathing. Tried not to notice how the hair-dusted brawn of his chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his snug A-shirt.	
His eyes, winking like embers in the darkness, held hers. His cheek twitched and she saw his pulse drumming at his temple. He cleared his throat and exhaled and it touched her face and hair. Like a caress.	
Veins stood out in Bay's powerful forearms and his hands shook, big fingers struggling to slip the neck button home. Slowly slid down. Fumbled. Secured then next one. Paused.	
Trembled, his knuckle grazing her breast. Dia's eyes slammed shut and she gasped against the rush of sensation radiating through her, like a thousand bolts of lightning. She heard the jaggedness of her own breath, and Bay's.	
"Sorry," The rasp of his voice sent icy-hot chills up her spine, wanting his hands, his mouth on her. Wanting him. Knowing he wanted it, too.	
She was buttoned, and her eyes opened. Not seeking his this time. Afraid he would see too much. Not enough.	
There were still her shorts. Shorts with a snap and zipper.	
Oh, God.	
His big, hot fingers slipped into the waist band. Twisting against the quivering skin of her belly. Trailing fire. Dia bit her lip so she wouldn't cry out to Bay, to press his hand against her. The zipper slid down tooth by tooth by tooth, its rasp growing bigger. Taking on a life of its own.	
Then she released her breath, and so did he, and it was over.	
Bay was backing away. "You can finish?"	
His eyes were half-lidded and a bead of sweat rolled down his face. His chest heaved like he'd run for miles. She felt like hers did, too. "Mmmhum."	
"I'll ... um ... I'll um get you something to eat."	
And he was gone.	
Slipping off her shorts, Dia kicked them to the far side of the tent, and slid into her sleeping bag.	
She shuddered from head to foot, with desire, with need, with wanting Bay.	
And with something else.	
She could have died today.	
	
Harvey giggled when he pressed his finger into the blood on the rock.	
He swirled his finger in the congealing brown-red splotch, feeling its slick stickiness. Warm.	
Harvey licked the drop from his finger, salty and metallic against his tongue. And felt it. The Power surging in him.	
He cackled, anticipation turning to anger. To the way he would use his Power.	
She'd let It go. His ticket to riches. She'd let It go. Pitched his trap. And him, the Big Guy, the Big Hero, he'd helped her. Helped destroy It. Rescued her before he could use his Power.	
Harvey cursed and slammed the butt of his empty rifle against the rock, and with a sickening crack, it broke. Angrily he flung it from him.	
He still had the Power. Yeah, he still had the Power. He'd use it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow when the evil black shadows faded away.	
	
He hung against the cliff-face. Pebbles skittered down from the path above him. The Other? His body tensed and his heart raced in anticipation of flight. Or fight.	
He'd heard the roar of the sticks that throw fire and stones. Had the Other used it on the Young Male to make the red life inside him flow out?	
Then his nose twitched with a familiar scent. The Young Male? The one who bore him? So near?	
Cocking his head, he listened. Listened for the cadence of the footsteps.	
A set of heavy footfalls; scampering light ones, one foot treading harder than the other. Perhaps the red life had not flowed out. Perhaps it only seeped like when his toe hit the rock.	
When his instincts were sure it was them, he nickered a soft greeting, sent mind pictures. Moments later, they returned.	
His tense body felt limp, but the booming in his chest kept on.	
They were alive.	
["Ten"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Ten	
Bay gasped for breath, for control of the hard heat raging in him. Trembling, coiling tighter and tighter in his gut.	
His body burned with need. Stormy need the color of Dia's fire and thundercloud eyes.	
He'd lost himself in those eyes while his fingers had shivered with the need to touch her.	
His fingers fisted now, like they had earlier today when he'd first seen Dia in the flesh pink top with that damn O-ring zipper. The one he'd fantasized about.	
The one he'd opened on the top spattered with her blood.	
Even with his gaze captured by hers as surely as the steel teeth holding the young Sasquatch, he'd seen the moon-white curves of her bosom and the dusky valley between them where he'd watched the drop of moisture slither that first day. He'd seen too much and not enough.	
Then, he'd had to button her. The way she'd clutched his shirt and looked at him with smoky eyes had made him think of apple kisses and nakedness and completion. Of intimacy.	
His knuckle burned with the memory of her soft breast where he'd fastened the third button and grazed it, and his palm wanted to follow.	
He'd touched too much and not enough.	
Bay's fists tightened again. Like the rest of him, remembering the quiver of her belly against his hand when he unsnapped her shorts.	
He'd so wanted, needed, to open his hand, to trace the heat of her. To slip beneath the band of the white lace panties she wore. To lose himself.	
And he knew she needed it, too.	
He'd known too much and not enough.	
Hands on his knees, Bay breathed deeply, trying to slow his heart's desperate pounding, to quiet the urgent demand in his loins.	
He'd promised Dia some food. Yeah, some food.	
Glancing up at the indigo and glitter shimmering above the stark black tree bristles, he decided she could probably use something warm. Soup.	
He extracted two packs of dry chicken noodle soup and some cider mix from the food sack.	
Forgetting, he went to the stove and struck a match, watching it glow in the darkness. Dropped it.	
The darkness was safety. The unknown. Tonight it would protect them. He hoped.	
Kicking dirt over the match, he threaded his hands through the spiky tufts of his hair. His nails still bore the brown crescents of Dia's blood.	
He shivered, in spite of the heat pumping inside him. He forced himself to look at his hands. Dia's blood. Dia's blood that had been shed in pursuit of her dream. A courageous dream that had her breaking out of the mold, pursuing science the way she chose. Following her instincts or intuition or whatever it was that guided her and made her take risks. Made her achieve her goal today.	
A flicker of shame kindled in his chest. How many risks did he take with his life?	
But it was safe, and he liked it that way, he convinced himself.	
Like it wasn't safe out here.	
He had to get Dia something warm for dinner.	
Night had fully cloaked him in its embrace. Bay's heart beat with the fear of it. The fear of what was out there that he couldn't see. Rooted by that fear, he stood, listening. He heard the thrum of the crickets singing their courting songs. The bullfrogs croaking to the females. A bird calling to its mate and, far away, her answering cry.	
All peaceful sounds. The peaceful sounds of life's big circle. Male and female. Coming together, if even for that brief moment, to touch, to share, to create. An image of Dia's naked back flashed in his mind.	
Judas Priest, here he was a damn poet when he needed to act, not to be thinking about Dia's nakedness.	
Dia's nakedness! That was it! The solar shower! It was full of water, that while not boiling, was probably sufficiently hot enough to dilute the soup and cider.	
He knew where she'd hung it, in a spot that caught the afternoon sun.	
He listened, a bead of cold sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. The anonymous darkness. No darker here than there.	
Pulling the .38 from the back of his waist band, Bay took a deep breath and walked toward the shower, his eyes seeking and finding it the uniform star glow.	
And it was still blessedly warm!	
Working by feel and intuition, he prepared the soup, made the cider, and carried it to Dia's tent.	
	
She jumped when the canvas snapped. Shivering in Bay's shirt, Dia tried to calm the frantic hammering in her heart -- half in fear, half in need and want and shame.	
"I brought you something to eat," Bay said without preamble.	
She nodded, grateful for the darkness masking the high color she knew stained her cheeks. Wishing for some glimmer of light to banish the intimate cloak draping around them. To bring light to the shadows inside the tent. And outside, where the shooter could hide.	
Why hadn't Bay started a fire?	
He cleared his throat and set two aluminum pots and two cups on the tent floor.	
"Give me your clothes."	
"My clothes...?"	
"The ones you took off."	
"Why?"	
He ran a hand through his hair. "The blood will attract animals."	
Oh, God, she'd forgotten. Forgotten everything so instilled in her.	
"Over there," Dia pointed, shaking at the thought of them covered in her blood. "Light a fire and the animals won't come."	
Bay's big hand closed around the ball of clothes. "The animals might not, but we'll be sitting ducks for whomever was up on the ridge today. The darkness is protection."	
She saw the flash of his eyes in the gray murkiness. He slipped from the tent, and she stared at the food, her stomach curling rebelliously.	
Her pounded and she heard the rush of it in her ears. Pain beat in tandem with it, radiating over her body.	
The tent cracked again with rifle-like precision, and she jumped.	
It was only Bay.	
He could have been gone minutes, or hours. She could smell the scent of him, of man and spice, like the one that teased and comforted her from his shirt. His big presence filled the tent.	
Safety.	
"You need to eat something, Dia." His tone, so soft, so compassionate.	
"I can't."	
He looked at her hand and her arm and misinterpreted her words. Scooping chicken soup from the pan, he held the cup to her lips. His hand shook, a warm plop of liquid dripped onto her bare thigh. Ran down it.	
Like blood.	
She turned her head away, swallowing frantically at the saliva building in her throat.	
The rustle of the trees outside sounded like a thousand footfalls.	
"Dia, please, you need to eat."	
She couldn't answer, didn't trust her throat to stay closed if she opened her mouth.	
"How about some cider? You need liquid."	
Oh, God, she hated this helplessness, this dependency.	
Fingers heated by the beverage cupped her chin. Bay's fingers, feeling so incredibly good. Tipping warm, hot sweetness into her mouth and washing down the clamoring in her throat.	
But not in her soul.	
Outside the welcoming night sounds grew louder and harsher. Suffocating.	
Oh, God. He could still be out there. The shooter.	
Uncontrollable shuddering jerked her limbs, her body.	
"Dia?" Bay's voice, concern in it, his hands so comforting on her shoulders.	
She felt the humiliating burn of tears in her eyes. "I'm okay ..."	
His gaze held hers, steady, unwavering. "No, you're not, Dia. You were shot today."	
Dia bit down hard on her lip, trying to stem the tide of emotion sweeping her away. Using anger to hide it. "That's right, Greenhorn. I was shot today by some bastard who trapped a baby Sasquatch in an unethical steel trap. What the hell kind of person would do that, huh?" Her chest heaved, the memories pounding in her head. Fear. Realization. "Bay, he ... shot me." The words poured out with a catch.	
Her throat cracked and hot tears spilled down her cheeks anyway and her chest burned. "Oh, God, Bay, I could have died today."	
The burning in her chest exploded in a sob that grew and grew. Wild and unrestrained.	
Bay's hands were tightening, pulling her close. So big and strong against the pain. It felt good, so right, to be held and pressed against his chest. The skin above his A-shirt was hot and prickly, and the rusty fur tickled her nose.	
The last time she'd been held like this was when Aster died. Jonathan had held her, and he'd stoically told her it would be all right. They would have more children.	
But they hadn't.	
Jonathan had never cried for Aster. Not like she did then. Not like she did now. For Aster and life and death.	
Dia heard Bay swallow, its echo against her ear. And still her tears came.	
Bay's hands were on her back, moving up and down, up and down, against the flannel. Rhythmically.	
Up and down. Up ... and ... down. The cadence changing.	
Suddenly the flannel skimmed her skin like tiny darts of sensation, of awareness. Awareness of the tightening low in her, of the electric tingle of his chest against her face, of muscular thighs and boxer-briefs and those places underneath them. Of the look in his eyes as his knuckle had grazed her breast when he'd buttoned her, and the answering wave in her body.	
Awareness that she was alive. Alive and needy and tired of fighting. Wanting to affirm her existence. To celebrate being alive.	
The tears were gone, replaced by this new wonder inside her. Dia pulled back, ever so slightly, so she could see the glimmer in Bay's eyes.	
"But I didn't die. Oh, God, Bay ... I didn't die."	
	
Bay's hands felt big and awkward, and so powerless against Dia's tears. The physician in him knew she needed to release the tension.	
But the man in him didn't know how to handle it. He'd held Mom when she cried sometimes. Her gray hair had been so scratchy against his chin, not spider-web softness. Mom's shoulders had been bony, not firm and well-toned.	
And he'd never been aware of his mother's breast against him. He was sure she must have had them, but ... Judas Priest.	
He closed his eyes against the image of Dia's breasts spilling from her top.	
"... I could have died today." Her words. She could have died.	
A wave of heat surged in his chest, filling him with fear and need. His eyes burned like they had when he'd talked about Bradley.	
He tightened his grip on Dia, as if that could save her and take away the ugliness of the day. She sobbed, the softness of her breast heaving against him. Those hot places in his chest and in his groin stirred, demanded.	
Every wall, every barrier, every excuse, fell away.	
She could have died out on that ridge.	
"... I didn't die. Oh, God, Bay, I didn't die."	
Her eyes shimmered in the duskiness, big dark pools of emotion. Deep. Beckoning.	
His mouth touched hers, the sweet apple freshness he remembered. Moving under his. Intoxicating him like hard cider. Opening to him.	
Bay trembled with it. He might never have held Dia. So near his pounding heart. And not near enough.	
Lacing his fingers into the sunshine and moonbeam softness of her hair, he pulled her close.	
His thumb found the velvet soft place behind Dia's ear. Her pulse drummed there, and he touched it with his tongue. She sighed and breathed against his neck, and it whispered down his spine and curled around the hard heat of him.	
Judas Priest, he needed her. Needed Dia. She could have died out on that ridge.	
"Am I hurting you?" he thought to gasp, shifting her in his arms, finding that sweet apple mouth that sighed a "no" into his. He slid his hand around, losing himself in her drugging kisses. In the liquid feel of her breast beneath the flannel. In the tiny center blossoming against his palm, as hard and round as the buttons he'd just fastened. Buttons and flannel that were too thick.	
Everything inside him churned, like the primordial heat, the turbulent beginning of the earth. Old. New. Molten.	
He slid his hand lower, under the tails of the shirt. Strumming her ribs with his thumb like a fine guitar. Up higher.	
Circling the outer part of her breast, the part he'd seen when she was bathing. He remembered the trickle of perspiration, of water, running down over it. He cupped it, fingers tracing imaginary rivulets. Its tiny button tip ground against his palm with each of her gasping breaths. Was it the color of a sun-kissed peach or a dusky rose touched by the rays of the setting sun, the poet in him wondered. Or somewhere in-between?	
Jeez, he needed to know. Now!	
That primeval heat building explosively inside him, roiled, seeking a crack. Seeking escape. Seeking a spot for fiery release.	
Dia was on her back, and he was easing the .38 from his waist band. And somehow his A-shirt was off and the inflamed part of him wrapped in denim surged against the pure white lace of her panties.	
His mouth was on her again, pulling deeply on the sweetness she offered. Fingers working her buttons. Unfastening. Trembling.	
Trying to catch his breath between her moans that stirred something so primitive inside him. His instincts. His emotions His heart.	
Then her tears dampened his cheek. The rhythm of her cries changed. From pleasure to pain.	
Judas Priest! Her arm!	
Shuddering with the effort of stemming something as inevitable as a volcanic eruption, he groaned and levered his body away from the intimate contact. Away from apple kisses and nakedness and completion.	
Licking kiss-heavy lips, he looked at Dia. In the tent's duskiness, he saw her pale face. The sleeve of her borrowed shirt -- his shirt -- was soaked with blood.	
"Dammit!"	
"Oh, God, Bay, I'm sorry," she whispered through shiny, swollen lips, voice husky. Sexy.	
"I know, Lady." His voice sounded husky, too. "I'm going to need to ... to check that." Bay stared at the two closed buttons. The two that his hands were frantically, passionately working a minute ago. The buttons that felt identical to the tiny flannel-covered peak on her breast. Sun-kissed peach or dusky rose? Jeez.	
He worked the buttons with hands that shook, feeling her heart beat beneath his fingers. Beneath the breast he was just touching.	
The air grew thick, and he cleared his throat. Dia's breathing still rushed. So did his. She wouldn't meet his eyes.	
Bay slipped the neck button free, and Dia clutched the shirt to her like a Victorian maiden. Not a woman who moaned when he touched her there.	
She could have died on that ridge today.	
	
	
Dia dipped her head, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. Hiding from Bay and the things he made her heart and body feel.	
Her fingers curled tighter around the shirt's lapels. She tried to catch her breath while he slipped one collar down over her shoulder. Those fingers had been touching her. They'd left faint pink streaks along the curve of her breast. She knew he saw them, too.	
Dia's heart hammered, against her arm, through the shirt -- Bay's shirt -- she clutched to herself to cover sudden modesty. To cover naked emotions.	
Bay squatted, and Dia saw the glistening skin of his shoulder. His chest. Heaving with each breath like hers did. Light and shadow danced in his collar bone, on his pectorals, and glinted in the russet fur dusting his torso. She wanted to touch him there, where he had her, and she clenched her right hand so tightly that her blister burst, and she winced.	
She winced again when he probed her arm. Its dull throbbing pain curled in time with the one low in her belly.	
With Bay so close now, she smelled the scent of him. The muskiness of arousal and spicy man. She licked her lips, and tasted hot cinnamon kisses that made her belly curl with the heat of melted caramels and red hots.	
Bay touched her hair, and Dia's already rapid heartbeat accelerated like lightning.	
"I ... it's ... I don't think you want it here," he said softly, tucking the strand behind her ear.	
She knew he meant in her blood. "No."	
Her eyes chanced his in the darkness. They were deep and dilated and glowed like the embers in a hot-burning fire. Like lava.	
A smoky heat spiraled inside her, hot, wet, steamy. It demanded she drop the shirt and pull Bay back into her arms and curl her legs around his hard oak tree legs. To affirm life. To celebrate it. To feel safe and loved and protected in his arms.	
Loved, oh, God. She wasn't going to think about that now.	
Bay swore and tightened the bandage around her arm. She flinched, biting lips that still tasted sweet.	
She swallowed and asked, "What's the matter?"	
His cheek twitched above his beard, whose delicious abrasion still tingled her cheeks. "The wound is hemorrhaging. There's a hell of a lot more blood here than should be. My initial assessment was a clean entry and exit ... but in these septic conditions, I can't make a diagnosis. We'll need to head out as soon as it's light."	
Dia stared at him, seeing him as different and the same. A sudden burst of passion channeled into anger at the jerk who shot her.	
"No!"	
"Dia, this wound could turn ..."	
"No, dammit, Greenhorn. I'm not going. I'm not letting some son-of-a-bitch ruin my research. Ruin my project." She took a deep breath, passion and anger mingling, inseparable. "I'm not going to let him hurt the Sasquatches. I'm not going to let him get away with it!"	
"Lady, the man shot you. I ... I don't want you to get ... hurt. My, God, you said it yourself, you could have died." The word caught in his throat.	
Dia flinched at the anguish lacing his voice, but she went on anyway. "Your life's at stake here, too, Greenhorn, and I know you have some pretty strong opinions about that." She swallowed around the lump pressing in her throat. "I don't need a baby-sitter. Go home."	
Her eyes found his coppery ones in the darkness. They told her how much her angry remark had hurt, yet how much he wanted to pull her back into his arms and finish what they'd started. To fill that hot and empty place inside her with earth-shattering release.	
"That was before I ..." He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he turned away. The eerie yip-yip of a coyote echoed, sending a chill scuttling up Dia's spine.	
She swallowed again, her anger spent, leaving her weak and shivering and afraid. Afraid the shooter was out there. Afraid she could die tonight. Afraid of being alone.	
"Bay, don't leave me. Please."	
	
Harvey fingered the stock of Lennie's gun. The schmuck was sleeping again. Harvey had been so sneaky, so clever, Lennie would never know. He cursed the interfering Bitch again for making him ruin his other gun, even as he remembered the taste of her blood.	
Squinting through the darkness, he tried to get a fix on them. Her and that hero type who'd taken her from him. Tended her like some damn Big Hero.	
He knew they were down there. He'd seen their fire before. But not tonight. It was quiet and dark. He didn't like it. Didn't like the dark, evil shadows that were creeping over the rock again. Trying to rob his Power.	
He bit his tongue, hard, and licked his lips, remembering the taste of blood. The Power was still there. Ready.	
She'd stolen one thing from him. He wouldn't let her get away with it.	
No siree.	
He had the Power and he'd steal something from her.	
And it would be good.	
To take it. To take her.	
	
He pushed the Young Male and the One Who Bore Him into the safe place where he'd seen the mates hide from the noise and light and water. Pushed some brush over it to protect them.	
Treading the familiar path of old that he knew in a memory that came before him, he shambled down to the rock where the She-mate had fallen.	
He could smell the scent of red life, like his but different. He knew the Other's stick that threw fire had hurt her.	
The fur on his back and head bristled. The She-mate had saved the Young Male from the jaws that spark fire from the sun. She had given the Young Male his life.	
Far up on the rock, something winked like the shimmering from above. The Other. With a stick that throws fire. Waiting.	
Crouching low behind the stones, he watched. Waiting too.	
["Eleven"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Eleven	
"Bay, don't leave me. Please."	
Bay stood, frozen by Dia's plea chasing so closely on her harsh words, and by the emotion pounding in his chest. By the immensity of what he'd almost said. That he loved her. Judas Priest!	
He was scared. Scared of the tenderness surging in him. Scared of wanting to pull Dia close. Scared of the tenderness and need blending into an indistinguishable whole that had made impulsive words skitter on his tongue. Ones that couldn't be said.	
He was scared of nearly having lost her, of the way her arm was still bleeding, of her gutsy determination that would send her back out to confront that shooter.	
Bay couldn't leave her, not now.	
"Just hold me, Bay ..."	
Dia's voice floated softly across the darkness and enveloped him like smoky incense, intoxicating him and blurring the lines between emotion and instinct and thought.	
Sitting back, he turned to Dia, her eyes big and frightened in the shadowy tent.	
She could have died out on that ridge today.	
His arms were around her, pulling her close. She was trembling like he was.	
But this was different, this trembling need. Not like the molten urgency from before that demanded he fill her, though that simmered beneath the surface.	
This time his heart burned with the need to be close to Dia. To share, to comfort, to hold.	
Kicking off his shoes, he wrapped her in the sleeping bag, laying her gently on her right side.	
His hand spanned her ribs, and beneath the flannel shirt he felt each one. Her heart trembled like the baby bird he'd rescued as a child. Not pulsing with passion but quaking with fear.	
Dia shifted, and her breasts jiggled against his arm with fluid softness. Sensual. Familiar. Comforting.	
Her shoulders rested against his chest and her soft hair tickled his nose with sweet wildflowers. He ran a strand of it between his fingers, as soft and fine as a spider's web on a spring morning, and pressed a gentle kiss to her neck.	
She sighed, like the mewling of a kitten, and her body curled closer, spoon-fashion. The gentle curve of her behind nudged that still-throbbing hardness of him. He remembered the white lace and the dark secret beneath that promised fiery release, and his body tensed. Judas Priest. He knew Dia felt it too, because her ribs jumped beneath his hand, then stilled, like she wasn't breathing.	
After a few heartbeats, she took a deep breath, and relaxed against him as naturally as a stream curves around a boulder. Finding a new path, a new way.	
He felt those words he almost uttered with his heart.	
	
Dia released the steamy air that stung her lungs. Bay's scent of spice and man was all around her. Hardness in hot denim pressed into her back side, filling her with answering need.	
But her heart sang louder. Another need. The one to be held. To feel comforted. To be alive.	
She relaxed, relishing the feel of Bay's strong hand resting so protectively over her belly. His broad chest behind her, heart thumping in unison with hers. He kissed her temple, her neck, and nuzzled her ear.	
Dia closed her eyes, feeling safe. Trusting Bay. The barriers between them vanishing.	
A pebble clattered, and she tensed, snuggling tighter into the protection of Bay's body.	
His voice rumbled against her back, in her ear.	
"You okay?"	
"Mmm."	
"How's your arm?"	
"It doesn't hurt so bad now," she murmured, not wanting to open her eyes and break the cocoon of warmth enveloping her.	
"That's good." Bay's hand traced circles on her belly and little tingles of fire wiggled inside her. "What happened to your baby?"	
Dia squeezed her eyes so tightly shut that white speckles danced behind the lids. How did he know? She must have said it aloud because Bay answered.	
"You called out for her when you were shot. When you saw the blood. You acted so strangely when we found the baby Sasquatch skeleton."	
Oh, God.	
Memories, pain, permeated the warmth around her. Dia bit her lip against them, but they came anyway. In the darkness she spoke, needing to tell Bay.	
"She ... Aster, she died at birth," Dia said in a strained voice that didn't sound like her own.	
Bay's hand stilled on her tummy, over that barely perceptible rise that was Aster's legacy. "I'm sorry, Dia. I'm sorry for your loss ... for what I said when I thought you didn't understand about my brother, Bradley."	
She wove her fingers through his resting on that tiny vestige that proclaimed Aster's existence, not caring that her ruptured blister stung against its dressing, against the heat of his skin. Bay's hand curled around hers, and she hung onto his strength.	
"It's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault, really. Aster was just born too soon, that's all." Dia swallowed, remembering. Seeing her life replay in her mind like a movie, a story whose happy ending went horribly askew.	
"Jonathan and I, we met in college. Junior year." She paused, watching the memories play. Bay's beard tickled pleasantly against her shoulder where the shirt had slipped. "We were lab partners. Jonathan shared an apartment with some other people. When one of them moved out, he asked if I was interested in the vacancy. It was cheaper than where I was staying, so I jumped at the chance."	
Bay shifted, and the steady beat of his heart thumped against her back. Behind her own.	
The movie played louder, more clearly, in Dia's head ...	
	
To the night Chris and Kelly went to the Ozzie Oburn concert, and she and Jonathan ate canned spaghetti and drank cheap sherry. Too much sherry. They'd talked and laughed until the world seemed so far away...	
Dia guzzled another mouthful of the vinegary wine. Its tartness no longer bothered her. The hot courage pumping in her veins made it seem so sweet.	
Jonathan sloshed another measure into her jelly glass.	
She was lost in the blueness of his eyes that she'd never noticed before. They were so big and blue. Bluer than the sky. Bluer than a robin's egg or her Levi's when they were new or the ocean even ...	
Brandishing her glass like she'd seen some famous actress do in an old movie, Dia flicked on the stereo. The Cars blared through the one scratchy speaker that worked.	
They danced. She danced with Jonathan in the blueness all around her until the world tipped, and he pulled her close.	
His body, so different from hers. The blueness growing bigger with an awesome ache deep inside her. An ache his body, so different from hers, made her feel.	
He must have felt it too, because he touched her breast. And her knees grew weak and they were on the floor and the blueness from his eyes all around her turned darker. The sherry thrummed in her veins and the music pulsed in time to her heart and she trusted Jonathan.	
Then her clothes were off and she was naked. That part of his body, so different from hers was inside her and it hurt. But only for a moment. Until the blueness around her grew black and the stars shot down from the sky and sparkled all over inside her in rhythm with the pounding stereo.	
That night she slept in Jonathan's bed, and they made love again.	
And the next day while Chris and Kelly studied in the library. And the next. Whenever they could sneak a moment. It was better without the sherry.	
Dia loved the way Jonathan made her feel, loved his dark hair and his blue eyes that made him look like Remington Steele. Loved him. Trusted him.	
A month later she stood in the bathroom, staring with shock at the little pink heart in the window of the blue, plastic stick. Oh, God! The same pink heart was there a week later when she tried the test again. Pregnant? Pregnant!	
Jonathan was angry when she told him that night. Angry because she'd allowed "this" to happen. Like she had done it on purpose. She loved Jonathan. That's what "this" was all about.	
Later Jonathan found her, crying under a tree in the campus green. He kissed her and told her he loved her and promised to marry her.	
And he did. The following week. Only Chris and Kelly came when the Judge perfunctorily pronounced them husband and wife.	
Her parents had been furious. But her parents' anger fueled her rebellion against them. Against their snootiness and their concern with propriety.	
Life fell into a pleasant domestic routine, even though she and Jonathan still shared the apartment with Chris and Kelly. They studied and ate canned spaghetti and made love. Their baby grew inside her. She loved it and she loved Jonathan, and life was good.	
The third Friday in June -- June 15 -- dawned cloudy and gray with lingering rain. It was the last day before summer recess, and Dia had a final in Cultural Linguistics. But it wasn't until nine o'clock, and it was barely light. Jonathan's eyes and his confident touch on her burgeoning body made her forget everything but the urgency in her that seemed so much more demanding. That she should feel so sexy in her expanding, awkward condition was crazy, but she loved it. She loved Jonathan.	
His touch had been slow on her, lingering, bringing her almost to that black spangled place before he eased her to earth, then spiraled her back up. Filling her with his love, their child cradled between them, until she was catapulted to the sun.	
And drifted back to the worldly sounds of the water dripping in the bathroom and the heater groaning and the clock ticking ...	
The clock that read eight forty-five!	
Dia scrambled from the bed, frantically tugging sweats over her still-flushed body, scraping her hair into an untidy ponytail. Oh, God, she was going to be late and Dr. Crowford was a stickler for promptness! She might just make it if she could take the car, but Jonathan's ancient Corvair hadn't run in weeks. They walked everywhere, and she didn't mind. Until this morning.	
Grabbing a granola bar and her back pack from the kitchen counter, she thrust her feet into a pair of worn Topsiders, not bothering with the laces.	
There was standing water on the gunite walkway, but Dia didn't notice, didn't care. She ran anyway, heedless of her altered sense of balance. Of anything but getting to the final on time.	
Her foot hit a puddle on the second step, worn smooth by the tread of many feet. Or maybe she stepped on a shoelace, or misplaced her foot because she couldn't see it, or was pulled forward by her awkwardness up front.	
All Dia knew at that instant was that she was going down. With her hands protectively laced over her baby, the baby she and Jonathan had created with their love, she tumbled painfully down the stairs. One by one by one.	
Her head smacking the riser, her elbows cracking against the railing, her legs bouncing against the rungs. All the way to the bottom.	
Dia sat, dazed, in the puddle. Her hands cupping her stomach until with a sickening feeling, she realized the puddle was warm. And red. Red with her blood. Her baby's blood.	
Panicked, she screamed. She screamed and she screamed until the ambulance came. Jonathan was there, but he wouldn't hold her hand.	
Everything blurred at the hospital to a smear of machines and drugs and rushing doctors. Except the ER resident with the shock of red hair and the empty eyes who'd told her that Aster had been stillborn.	
The deep pain ripped at her soul. Jonathan had held her hand then and told her it was okay, they'd have more babies. He loved her.	
But they didn't. They didn't have any more babies.	
Mother and Father had rushed from Beaverton and whisked her home to recover. They left Jonathan behind. He said he would come, he would be with her.	
He never called after that. Never wrote. Never came to see her. Dia almost died from the loss of Aster, of Jonathan. She'd loved them, trusted them, and they'd both let her down. Just like her parents did when they had their fancy lawyers push through an annulment dissolving her and Jonathan's marriage like it never existed. Like Aster hadn't, either.	
In the fall, Dia returned to school -- a different school. Where there was no Jonathan and no memories. Where she vowed to harden her heart and never to let someone get close enough to her to trust. It was too painful.	
	
Until now.	
Far off a coyote howled, an eerie echo in the night.	
Slowly Dia opened her eyes to the present, to the darkness around her and the heat of Bay at her back. His shaky finger wiped a tear from her cheek. She turned to nuzzle into the hot satin of his chest, wincing at the pinch in her arm. His eyes met hers through the gloom, and in an instant, past and present merged.	
His eyes, those liquid golden ones, not empty now, had been in the face of the red-haired resident. The one who told her Aster had died!	
A shock wave of trembling shook her.	
Bay tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, Dia. It's okay ..."	
"You ..." Her voice stuck in her throat.	
She heard him swallow in the darkness.	
"I what?"	
"You ... you were there!"	
"Dia, I don't ..."	
"You were at the hospital," she rushed on, confusion mounting. "You were the one who told me about Aster. You were the doctor?"	
Bay didn't answer. His eyes closed and his cheek twitched.	
"Oh, God, that's how come you know so much about ... about my arm, isn't it? Bay, why? Why are you here ... why aren't you there ... I don't understand. Why?"	
	
Bay's face heated and his head spun with nauseous dizziness the way it had the first time in the ER, when he'd plunged his hand into a patient's chest and massaged the heart. He'd held the red pulse of life in his fingers. Afterwards he'd passed out.	
Later he learned the man had died anyway.	
Then, as now, he didn't know what to say or do. He didn't remember Dia. She was just one of the hundreds, maybe thousands of anonymous people he'd treated and released.	
Bay looked in Dia's gray-fire eyes. "I thought that part of my life was behind me." He laughed hollowly, running a hand through his hair.	
Hair that had been buzzed short on top once, not clipping his collar and hanging over his ears. Before he'd had a beard.	
But he hadn't felt the need to hide then. To isolate himself from emotions and feelings and pain. Something being with Dia made him forget.	
He exhaled through pursed lips. "I became a doctor after Bradley died." He took a deep breath and exhaled again. Jeez, this was tougher than he thought. But he had to tell Dia, like she'd told him about Aster. Her daughter. The daughter he must have delivered.	
"I guess it was my effort to find redemption. To save the world. To assuage Bradley's death." He shrugged. "Maybe even a way to get Jacob, my father, to notice me."	
Dia rolled slowly onto her back, her hair like a silvery-gold halo cushioning her head. The warm surety of her hand rested against the tense muscle of his biceps.	
"I worked hard, studied hard, finished med. school second in my class. Jacob didn't seem to care." He shrugged dismissively. "I got offers of residencies from the most prestigious teaching hospitals in the nation. But, I turned them all down. I wanted to stay here. To save lives here. To make a difference." He snorted and traced the curve of Dia's eyebrow with his thumb. "I know, it sounds pretty naive and idealistic, doesn't it?"	
She smiled, her teeth like pearls in the light, her drying tears like iridescent sparkles. "No, it sounds like a man with deep passions and convictions."	
Her eyes teased him, and somehow he wasn't sure if she spoke of professional attributes or private ones.	
"What ... what made you go from an MD to a lab rat?"	
Bay bit his lip that still tasted like Dia's kisses and ran his finger along shimmering tear tracks to the corner of her mouth. Her sweet apple mouth. "I got disillusioned in a hurry. Too many people with too many self-inflicted problems ... mostly drugs and drinking. Too many young mothers like you whose baby had died." He took a shaky breath. "I guess I woke up one morning and realized I wasn't making a difference. I was just patching patients up and sending them on their way. It hurt that I couldn't change people. It hurt when they died." A weird lump pressed in his throat. "Every one of them was like reliving Bradley's death. Mom's breakdown."	
Bay pressed his burning eyelids with thumb and forefinger, his other hand stroking the soft skin by Dia's mouth. "One day the paramedics rolled in with an OD. A young kid, about Bradley's age. He even looked like Bradley. I froze. I couldn't move. Couldn't deal with it. Couldn't handle the old lady with the broken leg or the boy with the cut hand or any of the other cases that arrived that day."	
Bay remembered the stern reprimand his attending had given. Accused him of not being able to do his job.	
So, he'd quit. Left his white coat with Bayard Russell, MD embroidered in blue on the lapel in his locker, along with his scrubs.	
And never returned.	
Went elsewhere to one of those prestigious schools. Changed his residency to pathology. Grown his hair and his beard and hidden in Jerry's lab. Studying dead things that didn't require emotions. Investing nothing of himself. Studying art and European history. Earning a Ph.D. in Art History as a result. Escorting Niki to the occasional Shakespeare play or chorale event. Finding physical release in the sex without engaging his emotions as one might in a genteel tennis match.	
That had been fine, until now. Until Dia.	
He looked back at Dia and said, "So, I moved on." And then, "I'm sorry about your ... about Aster."	
Dia murmured, lids dropping over the deep gray of her eyes. Bay stared at the her angel sweet face in sleep, and a wave of tenderness curled around his heart. It felt good.	
His walls were down.	
She could have died out on that ridge today.	
	
It was too damn quiet.	
And the shadows, evil shadows, were creeping across the rock face.	
Harvey eased himself down a bit lower to catch the feeble rays of the half-moon. Away from the shadows.	
He listened. Far, far in the distance he heard the yip of a coyote, echoing eerily all around him. Another one joined the chorus, and then another.	
A death sound.	
And then it was quiet again.	
Harvey strained his ears to hear. A few rustles in the brush below.	
But no human sound. No talking, no laughing.	
Nothing.	
They were hiding, the interfering Bitch and the Big Hero. They were hiding from him.	
Power surged in him. Power so strong he thought he could fight the evil shadows with it. Power so strong that he wanted to go and grab the Interfering Bitch.	
Right now.	
He chortled to himself, a sound he noticed not unlike the coyote, he noticed, and giggled again. It sounded so loud in the stillness.	
He clamped his mouth shut.	
He'd have to wait till light. He couldn't afford any mistakes. No noises or bungling. The evil shadows that slid slowly his way with their long fingers ready to grab protected the interfering Bitch. The Big Hero knew that.	
But he had the Power. And it was stronger than ever. The shadows wouldn't dare suffocate him with their blackness tonight.	
Reassured, Harvey turned eagerly toward the east.	
Watching, waiting, for the first faint glow of light.	
Ready.	
Powerful.	
	
He waited until the round white light cast its long rays over the ridge. Fur still bristling, he crept along the path of the memory of those before him. Slowly. Noiselessly.	
He could see the Other now. See the stick that throws fire in his hands. He could smell him now, too. The red life inside him. The fear. The hunger that made him want to dominate the She-mate. Hurt her in a way he couldn't imagine or understand.	
Carefully, he continued down the path. Into the brush and trees that he knew would conceal him.	
Until he could see the dark nest of the He-mate and She-mate.	
He caught their scents. Too sweet flowers. Crushed bark from the tall, sticky tree. The pungency of joining. Oneness.	
He crawled closer to the dark nest. The He-mate and She-mate, they were not so different from him. They stayed together. Protected each other like he did his own band. They protected his offspring, the Young Male.	
He would in turn protect them from the Other, the Other like them but so different.	
The Other Who Bore Hate In His Heart.	
["Twelve"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Twelve	
Dia sat in the quiet, evening shade of a Doug fir, pencil poised over her notepad. Watching.	
In the glade, four young Sasquatches -- Brownie, Pixie, Fairy, and Sprite -- ignored her, frolicking in a rough-and-tumble game of tag. They squealed and screamed like human children engaged in a similar past-time.	
The shadows grew long and a chill skittered along her skin, but still she watched, too entranced to move the pencil across the notepad.	
A rustle in the brush announced Goblin, one of the alpha females. With a stern, maternal grunt and a flick of her white ears, she summoned the communally tended youngsters. Reluctant to end their fun, they circled the clearing once more before following Goblin.	
Leaving a safe distance, Dia trailed them. To the bigger den the band occupied now at the base of the cliff. It seemed the large population must have been two smaller groups at one time. Gremlin and Imp seemed to head the band together, cooperatively. Goblin seemed to share alpha female duties with Munchkin. The subordinate adults knew their places in the social hierarchy and seldom challenged the authority. Offspring did likewise.	
Seating herself in the den's opening, Dia watched the seventeen creatures moving about the den. Accepting her.	
She blinked and the scene changed.	
The Young Male, the one she called Sprite, threw back his head and screamed. A human scream. A scream of distress. Like a special effect from a grotesque thriller, she watched his foot turn red and bloody and fall away. And then Pixie's and Fairy's and Brownie's and Goblin's and ...	
Oh, God, she had to save them! She had to save the Sasquatches!	
Dia jumped to her feet, sliding on the suddenly slippery ground. She couldn't move, her steps like running on a treadmill moving too fast. Too slow.	
The Sasquatches faded in a foggy, crimson haze.	
In the swirling, receding cloud, she saw Bay, eyes glowing like gold ingots. Chest bare and shiny as a newly forged penny, glinting with the coppery fur that arrowed down his torso and disappeared into the mist.	
His hands were holding her, and his mouth was on her, melting everything inside to the consistency of hot maple syrup. She reached for him. Touched the hard smoothness of his well-muscled body. His skin felt hot and slick.	
Like blood.	
Hot and slick like the blood staining her hands. Staining her body from the gunshots all around that struck everywhere but only hurt her arm.	
Then Bay was whirling in the red all around her. He held something tiny, wrapped in a blood-spattered pink cloth. The vapors parted, and Bay's image coalesced into a whole.	
She could see what he held.	
In his bloody hands he held the baby Sasquatch skeleton, its vacant eyes now human and blue and starring at her ...	
"No, Bay, no!" she screamed through lips that wouldn't move.	
"It's okay, Dia, it's okay ..."	
Oh, God, how could it be okay? He was taking her baby, taking Aster.	
"It's a dream, Dia. Wake up."	
Reality stirred at the fringes of her mind.	
"I'm here, Dia. You're okay."	
Slowly the redness ebbed away, and she opened her eyes to the dim, shadowed tent. To Bay. To the tender look of concern creasing his brow. The real Bay. Not the one with the bundle.	
Relief quivered through her limbs and hot tears burned in her eyes.	
"You're safe, Dia. You just had a nightmare."	
The tears spilled down her temples, scalding her face. She was so hot. Uncontrollable shivering twitched her limbs.	
Bay shifted her in his arms and gently stroked her brow.	
"Judas Priest, Dia, you're burning up."	
Coldness mixed with the heat that shuddered inside her.	
Something blessedly cool and damp was pressed to her forehead, and Bay was holding her and she was safe. Safe from her dream.	
Not safe from the shooter who could still be out there.	
Her hot, dry tongue clung to the roof of her mouth.	
Somehow Bay knew that. He cupped her chin and tipped water between her lips. It dribbled down her chin.	
"Dia, I need you to swallow some ibuprofen. It'll bring your fever down and help with your arm."	
His voice, so confident, so commanding. So sure.	
Bay's fingers tasted salty; the tablets oddly sweet.	
"I'm going to check your arm again."	
Carefully, Bay rolled her on to her right side. She groaned, even that movement sending a pulse wave of nausea and pain through her. Dia braced herself for his probing touch.	
But it didn't come.	
Heard his terse, "We leave as soon as it's light."	
No. The words formed in her fuzzy brain but not in her mouth.	
The crush of leaves just yards outside the tent made them both jump. Dia held her breath and saw Bay do the same. Fear quivered with the other trembling inside her.	
Slowly, Bay released her. Put his finger to his lips. Pulled the gun from his waistband, her gun. The one she'd left in the Jeep. He must have gotten it out after...	
She shook her head, not wanting to think of that now.	
He crawled toward the tent's opening.	
His hand curled around the flap. In the other one he held the silhouetted pistol. She saw the tremor in it.	
Felt the same tremor in her heart.	
For herself.	
For him.	
	
Weak relief curled in his bowels.	
It was only a deer! It was only a damn deer that scuttled off into the forest.	
He crawled into the tent, almost laughing with release.	
"God, Bay, I was so scared," she whispered against his chest, where his heart hammered, speeded up even more by the contact of her lips.	
"Me, too."	
He cupped her face, her beautiful, trusting face. The skin so hot, eyes so glassy. "Jeez, Lady, you're still on fire."	
"Must be your effect on me," she returned.	
He kissed her soft lips quickly, impulsively, checking the urge to linger and explore. "You've got a temperature. You've lost a lot of blood." He wanted to sugar-coat it, protect Dia, but didn't know how. "That isn't good. We'll need to get you to the hospital first thing when it's light."	
Bay saw the fear in her eyes and wished he had chosen gentler words. But he knew she would have wanted the truth.	
"Am I going to die, Bay?"	
He swallowed. "Someday, yeah. Tonight, no, not if I have anything to say about it." Bay pulled her close again. Kissed the pulse where it pounded beneath her feverish skin. "Try to get some sleep."	
Bay tucked his arm around Dia. The steady rhythm of her heart and the soft rise and fall of her breasts pressed against his arm.	
With his other hand, he wrung out the bandanna and placed it on Dia's forehead. Keeping her as cool and comfortable as possible. Not sleeping. Listening. Thinking.	
Judas Priest, he wished he could get Dia to the hospital now. The fever, the bleeding, worried him. But what worried him more was getting out of here alive. Any noise, any light, would betray their position, and that crazy bastard with the gun could pick them out like sitting ducks. At dawn, Bay reasoned, the fight would at least be fair. Perhaps the half-light would allow them to see, yet still permit enough cover.	
Stroking the damp hair at Dia's temple, an overwhelming wave of tenderness engulfed him. Beautiful, gutsy Dia, always ready with a snappy comment, who chased rainbows and unicorns and followed her dreams. Who'd lived through the loss of a baby daughter. One he'd delivered, whose life, whose blood, he'd held in his hands.	
Just as now held her mother's.	
"No, Dia, dammit, you're not going to die. You can't," he whispered fiercely.	
You can't die because, despite every resolve and every wall he'd built around himself, Dia managed to penetrate them. Reach his heart. Make him love her.	
Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart.	
Just for tonight.	
He envied Dia. Her vision. Her intuition. Both of which had brought her one step closer to achieving her goal. Studying, documenting the existence of the Sasquatch.	
At unknown risk to herself and the creatures, she'd done that. Dia had found them today. Convinced him of the impossible just like the crazy impossibility that thumped with fear, with love, in his chest.	
What a discovery! Something that he hadn't conceived of, something that academia had dismissed as hocus pocus for so long. Like he had, until now. To publish this -- the existence of such a creature -- he owed it to science. The realm of human understanding didn't grow hidden under a bushel barrel or in the remote forest of the Cascade Mountains. Technology, society, advanced with knowledge.	
Ethically, he knew he had no choice but to publish.	
Bay pulled his numb arm from beneath Dia and resettled her. Her skin was still flushed. Cursing under his breath, he dampened the bandanna and sponged her face, her neck, the vee of her chest.	
Slowly, Dia opened her eyes, gray and luminous in the darkness. She trailed a finger of her burned right hand over his cheek, along the edge of his beard. It trembled, hotly, against his skin, and, instinctively, he curled his own hand around hers. Holding it there against his face, caught in the silvery starglow of Dia's eyes.	
"Bay?"	
"Yes?" he whispered, a question, not an answer.	
Dia licked her lips, and he tasted the memory of her kisses on his own. It zapped though him like white lightning.	
"Bay ... I love you."	
The tent, the fear, the noises, his thoughts, everything disappeared except Dia and the rush in his ears and the bolt of electricity that exploded in his heart.	
Those words, the same that had skittered on his tongue hours ago, the ones he'd swallowed down. The ones he couldn't say then, now. The ones he wanted to so badly to acknowledge the power of his feelings for Dia.	
Just for tonight.	
But the words meant forever.	
And he was afraid to give forever. Because it wouldn't be forever.	
And that would hurt too much. Would make him no better than his father. Jacob.	
Instead he whispered, "I know," in a choked, husky voice he hardly recognized as his own.	
Bay rested his palm on the silky rise of Dia's chest, over her heart. The powerful reassurance of its beat drummed in time with his. Holding her close, their bodies touching and breathing as one, Bay turned his eyes skyward, watching for the dawn.	
Wanting the night to be over. Wanting it never to end.	
Wanting Dia. Forever.	
	
"It's okay, Dia, you're dreaming again."	
Bay's voice. From far away. Like she was hearing him thorough layers of cotton. She tried to answer him, but her mouth felt like it was full of cotton, too. So dry and sticky and hot.	
The weird dreams had kept coming. One after another. So scary, so real.	
She was hot all over, except for the coolness on her forehead and neck, like all the other times she'd woken up.	
Sometimes Bay had held her, sometimes she'd just felt the reassurance of him close to her. Once she'd stirred and his hand had lingered on her chest, the heat of it burning her already hot skin. The pulse in his fingers danced in time with her heart.	
Dear, sweet Bay was taking care of her. It felt good and right. She loved him, trusted him. Relying on him now didn't seem so hard.	
Dia fought the drowsiness that sought to claim her. The pain all over her begged for the oblivion of sleep, but the chaos of her mind bucked it this time. She didn't want to sleep anymore. Didn't want to enter that disjointed, grotesque realm.	
Slowly she opened her eyes. It was still dark, but the faintest hint of dawn kissed the sky. Outside the peaceful sounds of waking birds signaled all was well -- for now.	
Bay sat, the pale light glinting off his broad, bare shoulders. Dia tried to roll over, to reach for him, and pain from her arm stabbed all over. One big ache. She shook with its intensity, with the heat and chill that chased it through her body.	
She groaned, and Bay turned, his eyes shining tawny gold in the grayness. In them she saw concern, compassion.	
"We'll go soon," he murmured, leaning over her to wipe her face and neck with the cool cloth. His breath tickled the sensitive skin below her ear, reminding her when his tongue had caressed her there earlier.	
She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay here with Bay and feel the gentleness of his touch. The other pain didn't matter.	
"Water?" he asked softly.	
Dia's cotton-filled mouth refused to move. Instead she nodded.	
His steady hand beneath her head, he trickled it into her mouth. Water had never tasted so sweet.	
When Bay turned to set the canteen back, a field notebook tumbled from his lap.	
She licked her lips and found her voice. "What are you doing?" she asked, confused.	
Bay rubbed a beefy hand across the back of his neck. Even in the faint light, Dia could see his face darken. "Your pack was here. I took advantage of the blank notebook you offered me before." He shrugged. "I'm making some notes."	
Didn't he have a computer? Yeah, he did, but it was out of battery. "Notes?"	
Bay shrugged again and twirled the pencil in his large hand. "I'm making some notes about this -- about the Sasquatches."	
The Sasquatches? Apprehension skittered like a chill up her spine. "What kind of notes?"	
Another shrug. "Observations, things I don't want to forget."	
None of this made sense. "Why?"	
Bay's brows dipped together in a fuzzy vee. "For my paper."	
"Paper? What paper?" she squeaked between suddenly chattering teeth.	
"The forensics on the Sasquatches." Bay's eyes, now deep and black-gold, found hers.	
Dia sat up, oblivious to the pain. Aware only of the anger that shot through her. The betrayal. Adrenaline cleared the cobwebs from her head. "You can't do that, Bay! You can't! This is my project. I told you to keep your opinions to yourself."	
His hand fisted around the pencil. "And I believe I told you that you got me, opinions and all, didn't I?"	
Desperate, cold terror brought Dia up to shaky knees. "You can't publish, Bay. I've only scratched the surface of my research here. I need to get the Sasquatches' trust. I need to be accepted by them to study their hierarchy and social structure ..."	
"And I need to publish my findings, Dia." Bay's tone, so calm. So coldly calm.	
Dia bit her lip against the dizzy swirls pulling at her. "Dammit, Bay, they're my findings. You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for Jerry's ankle. You can't publish, you can't! My, God, look what's already happened. People shooting. Trapping Sasquatches. If you publish this all, Bay, there's no telling who'll be up here taking pot shots at them, writing them a license to extinction before ... before they're allowed to exist. You can't do this to them. To me."	
Bay's cheek twitched beneath cold metallic eyes. "Judas Priest, Lady. Science doesn't progress in a vacuum. Even you know that, the way you spouted all that crap about the world being thought flat once and the earth being considered the hub of the solar system and the platypus a hoax. My God, if Galileo and Newton and Einstein had hidden their knowledge, we'd still be wearing skins and not be much more advanced than those creatures." The pencil's plastic cylinder snapped in his hand. "Lady, I have to do this. Ethically, I have no choice."	
Dia stared hard at Bay, so close and suddenly so far. Smelling the spice and sweat of his skin that had comforted her though the night. That now bore the taint of the betrayal.	
"Yes, you do, Greenhorn." Nausea threatened Dia, but the anger that gripped her was more powerful. For now.	
She had to save the Sasquatches. She had to.	
Crawling across the tent, she tugged on a pair of jeans and reached for her boots.	
"Lady, what the hell do you think you're doing?"	
She tied the lace on her second boot and shot him a scathing look. "I have what, maybe a couple months before your highly principled, politically and morally correct paper hits the journals, maybe less, if you decide the Expositor is your idea of ethically correct."	
Bay's hand curled around her right arm, his fingers like icy steel. "Dammit, be reasonable here. Judas Priest, Lady, you're injured, you're bleeding ..."	
Dia glanced at the blood running down her left hand, where it dripped on to the tent floor. Her stomach churned wildly, and she swallowed. "I have to. I have to save the Sasquatches, Greenhorn." Her eyes bored into his. "Let me go." Desperate.	
The air between them buzzed and crackled before Bay pulled his hand away like he'd burned it. Snaking out again just as fast to clutch her booted foot. "Dia -- don't go. Please. The shooter ... he could still be out there. You could ..." She saw Bay, his free hand in his hair, his plea almost desperate.	
"I have to go. I have to save them. You can't do this to me, Greenhorn." Panic welled up inside her.	
"And I have an obligation to publish."	
He released her foot. Dia crawled to the bushes and retched violently. Oh, God, the pain was terrible. Bay's betrayal. Her love and trust for him. She'd told him last night, she knew it.	
But fear, fear for the Sasquatches was stronger. I have to save them.	
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Dia fought the black dots that pulled at her consciousness. Teetering forward, slapping at the sticks and leaves that plucked her hair and face. She saw the blood drip from her left hand, and the nausea, dry heaves this time, sent her to her knees.	
Bay was there now, his arms, those traitor's arms that had held her all night, curving around her shoulders. Her blood on his hands like Aster's had been. Like the Sasquatches' would be if she didn't move. I have to save them.	
With a strength born of adrenaline and fear and desperation, Dia pulled from him. Stood again to the dizzy spray of swirling dots. Her rubbery legs didn't want to listen and she stumbled and careened through the brush.	
Until the rapid fire explosions ripped all around her and the earth seemed to jump up and smack her face.	
She hovered for a moment between vague awareness and blissful oblivion.	
Hearing in that moment Bay's cracking voice.	
Saying, "I love you."	
	
Harvey knew it! He knew they'd make a move. Now that the shadows on the rock were turning purple and pink with the rising sun. The Power had sustained him. Growing stronger and more Powerful all the time.	
It had been their voices he'd heard, echoing across the gray-lavender light that came before the sun. Soft, then louder, like they were arguing.	
The interfering Bitch was still alive. Yeah, he'd nicked her good. She was suffering. He could watch her bleed.	
And the Big Hero, he'd find something for him, too. A way to make him suffer and bleed. Harvey stroked the barrel of the gun and giggled. It sounded so loud in the early morning stillness that he clapped a hand over his mouth.	
That's when he saw her. Walking like a drunk sailor, with blood dripping down her arm. He pressed the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, salivating at the memory of her taste. The taste of her blood.	
The Power surged in him, harder and tighter and stronger than before. Almost unbearable. The Power betrayed him and he forgot to keep low, forgot everything but her, the interfering Bitch.	
Until he saw the Big Hero, hair wild like one of them wild beasts.	
With a pistol leveled his direction.	
Harvey brought the gun to his shoulder and fired.	
	
He had watched the He-mate and She-mate's dark nest. Once he'd seen the He-mate come out and chase away the four legged animal with large ears.	
He'd watched the dark hillside. He knew the Other With The Hate was still there. The glint from his stick that throws fire winked in the night like the bright spots in the sky.	
Now the round white light was coming, taking the sky spots with it. Still, the Other sat there.	
Then he heard them. The He-mate and She-mate. Communicating with their noises that sounded like the hiss of the wind. He sensed anger and fear, for the noises were loud. The She-mate crawled from the nest and fell sick in the brush. The empty part in his middle churned with the memory of too many round purple fruits so long ago.	
She clutched one arm to her. Red life dripped from it. From the wound he knew the Other with the fire stick had made.	
A twittering came from the hillside. He knew it was the Other. The Other who felt hate.	
He trembled inside and felt powerless when he saw the other raise his stick that throws fire. The other pointed it at the She-mate, at the He-mate who followed her.	
But he had a one, too. A curved fire stick in his hand.	
Too frightened to watch, he closed his eyes and covered his ears as the fire sticks threw their stones.	
["Thirteen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Thirteen	
Bay saw the glint, the flash of dawning sun off the gun barrel. Reacted on instinct. Grabbed the .38, low, poised, ready. He squeezed the trigger, jerked with the recoil, fired again. The ricochet pinged and whizzed in the unnatural silence.	
An unnatural silence that lasted only a fraction of a second before a rapid-fire volley was returned.	
Oh, Jeez, Dia was out in the open!	
He tried to run toward her, to cover her, harsh words forgotten in the explosive tension of the moment, but his legs moved like he was underwater. Heavy. Weighted.	
The hiss and scritch of bullets hitting the rocks, the dirt, the trees, echoed all around him. In him.	
He must have fired again and again until the pistol's six rounds were gone. He watched in slow motion when Dia toppled and fell. A horrifying re-run.	
Protecting Dia with his body, he waited, the useless gun curled in his palm. Wanting more ammo.	
Angrily, he tossed the weapon away. Sweat streamed down his face and he swiped at it with the back of his hand. Blood, not sweat.	
Cold panic curled in his belly, waiting. Waiting to die.	
"I love you," he whispered into Dia's ear, the words born of desperation, of closure, of last rites' truth. Of the forever that was now.	
He waited. Time became a surreal in the odd stillness. He strained to hear a bird or the rustle of tree leaves or the scuff of footfalls coming closer. Nothing.	
Except his heart pounding. Except the puff of Dia's breath fanning the dirt beneath her mouth.	
They were alive!	
Wiping the trickle of blood from his face again, he slowly raised himself up. Waiting still for the blast from the bastard's gun. It didn't come.	
Bay thought his chest would burst with the hammering inside it. He carefully rolled Dia to her back and stared at the spray of red on her chest.	
Judas Priest, shotgun?	
Quickly, efficiently, he probed the wound on Dia's chest, eyes scanning for any spark, any hint, that the madman was still out there. He saw nothing.	
It wasn't shotgun pellets but chips of rock embedded in Dia's skin. They, too were responsible for the stinging smear on his face.	
Frantically, he scanned again for any glimmer, any sign of the shooter. Nothing. Still silent.	
Reacting as a man and not a doctor, he scooped up Dia. She hung limply in his arms, her silky hair streaked with dirt and blood, draped over his arm.	
Panicked adrenaline surged in him. Hunching, using the low brush as a shield until he reached the trees, he carried Dia. Heedless of anything but her safety.	
Pushing Dia into the passenger seat of the Jeep, he fastened her seat belt. He searched her tent, back pack, duffel bag, before finding the keys in the pocket of a discarded sweatshirt. They jingled in his trembling hand.	
Bay hesitated for a second, staring at Dia's tent.	
Judas Priest! His notes were in there. The notes he'd just made about the Sasquatches! Bay yanked Dia's tent from the ground, hearing the rip of canvas and the clattering of pots and stakes. Not caring. Hurriedly, he dragged it to the Jeep and shoved it in around the strong box of evidence and his lap top. Slamming the tailgate to hold the exploding mass.	
He glanced at his own poor excuse for a tent, and shrugged. Nothing he'd need or use again.	
He slid into the driver's seat and took a deep breath. He checked Dia's pulse. Thready, and her breathing was shallow.	
Wiping the red-tinted sweat from his brow, he stabbed the key into the ignition. Cranked. The Jeep turned over, but didn't start.	
"Dammit!" he swore, smacking the steering wheel. Slick fingers curled around the keys again. The vehicle grudgingly heaved itself to life.	
He palmed the gear shift and slammed it into first. Popped the clutch. The Jeep lurched forward.	
Down the track to the first fork.	
Oh, hell, which way?	
	
"Dia!"	
Bay's voice. From somewhere outside her. Or was it inside her?	
His cool, damp hands on her face.	
"Dia! Open your eyes."	
She focused on that Herculean task, lids twitching with effort.	
The blur of Bay's face close to her. Blood on his forehead. Why?	
"Which way, Dia?"	
A smear of blue and green from outside enveloped her. Which way? Which way where? The thoughts wouldn't form. Her eyes snapped closed.	
But she listened. She heard Bay swear. Heard a slam. Heard rummaging. Heard the crackle of a map. Then heard nothing as the blankness surrounded and enclosed her. Blissfully.	
Weird and incoherent thoughts streamed through her mind, making sense and no sense at the same time.	
Gunshots. Pain. Crazy hotness invading her limbs, shivering her body.	
A memory of passion. Of Bay. Holding her and kissing her with heat and tenderness. The scratch of his beard on her face. The curling response low in her belly. The kindness of his touch through the night. Sacred, spoken words.	
Safety. Protection.	
More pain.	
Betrayal.	
Outside her she was aware of jostling and bumping, smoothness and the sensation of flying while still on the ground. Hands on her, moving her, pain. Rolling. Hospital smell.	
Betrayal.	
Pain.	
Nothingness.	
	
Bay clutched the cup of too-strong coffee, hunched in the too-hard chair of the ER reception area. Waiting. Waiting for someone to extract the rock shrapnel from his temple; to treat the superficial wound. To find out Dia's condition.	
He shivered in the scrub top someone had handed him. He wasn't sure if it was the coffee or the aftermath of the last twenty-four hours or the unpleasantly familiar scents and sounds and bustle of an ER that made him shake and his belly curl.	
Or maybe it was the phone call he'd just placed to George Norwell, CEO of GKN Electronics in Beaverton.	
Bay massaged the bridge of his nose, remembering the call he'd insisted on making. Had felt responsible to make. Had always hated making from the old black phone in the ER at Mt. Hood-Golden Mercy in Portland.	
"GKN Electronics, Trudy speaking. How may I direct your call?"	
"George Norwell, please."	
A pause on the line.	
"I'm sorry, Mr. Norwell is in a meeting presently. I can transfer you to Customer Service or Public Relations ..."	
"No, listen, Trudy, I need to speak to George Norwell. Now."	
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Norwell doesn't take unsolicited calls. I'll transfer you to Communications ..."	
"No, you don't understand," Bay said, growing angry and desperate. "My name is Dr. Bayard Russell and this concerns his daughter, Dia -- Diamond."	
He heard a swallow at the other end of the line as Trudy debated her options.	
"I'll put you through to Communications, Dr. Russell. I can't access Mr. Norwell's extension from here."	
A click. Ditty, canned music. Bay's hand slickened on the receiver. Finally.	
"Good afternoon. Communications. This is Phillip. How may I help you?"	
With even less patience at each succeeding level, Bay explained his way through Communications, The Executive Business Office, Administration -- and finally to Mr. Norwell's Personal Assistant, Peggy. His gut growing tighter.	
"Norwell here. What the hell is going on?"	
Bay swallowed at the impatient and imperious voice that snapped through the receiver.	
"My name is Dr. Bayard Russell. Dia ... she's at Orchard Valley Medical Center." It lacked the finesse of even a med student.	
"What?"	
The man's chair clattered as if he'd stood in haste.	
"She ... we were out doing some research, and she got caught in the ... a hunter's cross-fire."	
"Oh, my God. Is she all right?" Family always asked that, Bay remembered. Always.	
"I don't know. They took her up to surgery. I don't work here. I'm just ... I'm her ..." Bay searched for the right word. "... colleague. I brought her to the hospital. I thought you'd want to know."	
"Thank you, Dr. Russell. My wife, Lark, and I will be down as soon as the Lear can be serviced and ready."	
The nurse called his name twice before he heard. Crushing the dregs of the coffee into the trash receptacle, he entered the curtained cubicle.	
"Have a seat, Mr. Russell." The matronly blonde woman indicated a chair.	
"It's Dr. Russell," he said before checking himself, his mind still on the conversation. Judas Priest, he wanted out of here, out of this cubby hole with the blue drapes that seemed like they were shrinking in on him.	
Dia, please, be okay.	
The nurse raised her penciled eyebrows. "Dr. Russell. Is that as in MD or as in Ph.D.?"	
Bay hesitated and swallowed. "Ph.D." The less she knew the better.	
The nurse, whose name tag read Stella, saw his hesitation, and scribbled something in his chart. "That's good to hear. MD's make the worst patients."	
Stella snapped on a pair of latex gloves and explored his temple. "You say this happened as a result of a hunting accident?" Her eyebrows shot up like Mrs. Beecham's, one of his third grade teachers, the time he'd dared to throw a spit wad.	
Bay knew Stella was pumping him for information. They always did that with gunshots, he remembered.	
And just like Mrs. Beecham, Stella's gaze was making him squirm. She knew darn well it wasn't rifle hunting season.	
"You know we'll have to contact the police," she informed him, probing a bit too hard.	
He winced. "Some bastard on the hill opened up fire on my ... us ... twice. That's all I know."	
Stella dug a bit deeper and Bay swore at the pain.	
"Are you sure, Dr. Russell?"	
"Yes, dammit, I'm sure. Now could we just cut the chit-chat and get the extraction and suturing over with!"	
Stella brusquely finished cleaning the wound with an alcohol pack. Her pleasant smile had faded. "I knew it. An MD." She scribbled some more in his chart, brow furrowed. "Dr. Webster will be in shortly."	
"Wait, please." Bay ran his hand through his hair that he knew must already be standing on end. Knowing how anxious parents and friends and family of his patients felt. Their desperation "You're right. I am an MD." He shrugged. "The Ph.D. part is true, too. I used to work the ER at Mt. Hood-Golden Mercy in Portland. I'm really concerned about a friend of mine. Diamond Norwell. She's got a bullet to the left arm and rock shrapnel to the upper chest ..."	
Stella smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Certainly, Dr. Russell. I'll check on your friend."	
Relief like hot wax melted through him.	
Dia, please be okay.	
	
Beep. Beep. Beep.	
The sound penetrated the foggy haze of Dia's brain.	
Beep. Beep. Beep.	
Then the smell swirled in the murkiness.	
Antiseptic.	
A hospital.	
She was in the hospital.	
And she hurt all over.	
Aster? No, this wasn't about Aster. Aster died a long time ago. When she was with Jonathan.	
Bay had brought her here. She'd been shot after she had found the Sasquatches.	
Oh, God. Bay! The Sasquatches!	
Her eyes jerked open to the sterile, white room. The apparatus beeping by her bed. The blue, scrub-suited man adjusting the bag of fluid that hung above and ran into her right arm.	
"Welcome back to the land of the living," said the voice in the blue suit. "You're at the Orchard Valley Medical Center. You were in a hunting accident, and you've had surgery to remove the bullet from your arm and some rock debris from your face and chest."	
Dia tried to talk, but her throat hurt. Everything hurt.	
"Don't try to speak now. You had some tubes in your throat during the surgery, and it'll be sore for awhile."	
But she wanted to talk. Wanted to find out how Bay was.	
Until she remembered.	
He had betrayed her.	
Oh, God.	
	
It seemed to take forever for Dr. Webster, a fresh faced resident, to remove the shards from his temple and stitch up the laceration. By the time it was done, Bay was ready to explode.	
Stella had come back. Dia was resting comfortably following her surgery, she'd told him. The bullet had nicked the brachial artery and she'd lost a lot of blood. There was also some infection which, Stella told him superciliously, was responsible for her fever.	
"Would you like to see her, Dr. Russell?" Stella asked, placing a bit too much emphasis on the Dr. part of his name.	
Judas Priest. Yes! He wanted to see Dia.	
He'd told her he'd loved her. In the heat of the moment. A confession. His soul bared. Forever.	
	
Dia felt rather than saw the stab of light behind her eyelids. Light from the hallway spilling over her bed.	
Breaking the monotony of the pain and the beep, beep, beep.	
"Dia?"	
Bay's voice. Bay. The man she'd trusted with her life, her love, only last night. Bay, who would betray her and everything she'd worked for.	
Oh, God.	
His hand covered hers on the bed, curled around it. Tears burned behind her lids and sizzled along her temples.	
Don't say it, Bay. Don't tell me that you love me. Don't make this any worse. Any harder.	
"Dia ... you're going to be okay." He paused, and she knew he was running his hand through his hair like he did when he didn't know what to say. "Your parents. They're on their way."	
She wanted to open her eyes, to look at Bay and see the golden light in his. But she couldn't. They belonged to a traitor. A traitor who would ruin her, ruin any chances for the Sasquatches. She tightened her lids and the twin rush of tears scalded their way into her ears. Her nose ran and she couldn't wipe it.	
Bay's thumb scrubbed the moisture from her temple, so gentle. Dia wanted to lean into it. But she didn't. Couldn't.	
Instead she turned her face away, hot tears splashing onto her shoulder where the hospital gown gapped.	
His hand stilled and Bay stepped back. Away from her. She knew both his hands would be in his hair now, pulling it back tight from his face and his eyebrows would dip together in the center in a woolly vee. And she knew his cheek would twitch, too.	
She wanted to look at him, to touch him, touch the place where his face trembled and smooth the vee from his forehead. But she couldn't.	
"Jeez, Dia ..." Bay's voice sounded strange and hoarse, and she knew he was staring at the ceiling now. "I let ... I let you in, you know, I let you ... get close to me in a way no one has for a long time, forever, maybe." She heard the liquid snap when he swallowed. "I'm not doing this to hurt you or the Sasquatches. I'm doing what I have to." He backed toward the door, his brand new boots that she knew were scuffed and muddy now squeaking on the linoleum. "I ... I'm sorry."	
Silence stretched long between them, and Dia dug her fingernails into the bed linens, gulping against the tide of emotions rushing in her throat. Until she heard the quiet nick of the door shutting behind Bay explode inside her.	
Dragging wrenching sobs from the depth of her soul. Tears for Bay, for herself, for what might have been.	
And, ten minutes later when George and Lark Norwell rushed to her bedside, they buzzed the nurse, and Dia was given a sedative that that sucked her into a painless, emotionless void.	
	
	
"Dr. Russell?"	
Bay turned his burning eyes to Stella. A quick look of compassion crossed her face.	
"Dr. Russell, the police need to talk to you."	
Judas Priest, he remembered. Remembered too well.	
All he wanted to do was leave. Go home. Go anywhere but here. Go somewhere he could be alone.	
He took a deep breath and answered Detective Emmons questions. God, anything to nail that bastard, but there really wasn't much to go on. His brief description of the shooter and the weapon's ballistics from the bullet extracted from Dia. The geographic location.	
Finally, he was free to go. Wearily he fished Dia's keys from his pocket and stood. Just in time to see a well-dressed couple in their fifties hustling up the hall behind Nurse Stella. Asking about Dia.	
George Norwell was tall and broad-shouldered with a leonine look to him. Even now his custom tailored pin-stripe suit was buttoned and proper. Lark Norwell wore a butter yellow jacket and skirt, and was perfectly coifed from her pale, golden hair to the dyed to match pumps on her feet.	
Dia's parents.	
Always concerned about propriety, he remembered her telling him.	
Still, Dia's parents.	
Concerned about their daughter, now.	
He wasn't needed.	
Didn't want to be needed again.	
It hurt, like he knew it would.	
Hurt too damn much.	
	
Harvey hid behind the bushes.	
They were gone. The interfering Bitch and the Big Hero were gone.	
But he'd made them both bleed more. The Power in him surged at the thought.	
Just as quickly, though, the reality of that hit him. Gone. They were gone. A bit of the Power in him deflated, and that made him angry. Really angry. He smacked Lennie's gun on the ground one time, then stopped. He didn't want to break it. Then Lennie would get mad at him.	
With his grimy fingers, he smoothed the place where the rifle had hit the earth. Rubbing the clinging bits of leaves away. Caressing the smooth barrel like he wanted to caress the Interfering Bitch. He knew her skin would be this silky.	
Harvey bet the Big Hero took her to the hospital.	
He could find her, he knew he could.	
He clucked to himself.	
Yeah, he'd find her all right.	
Power twisted in him again, remembering the taste of her blood that he'd found after he'd first shot her. Mingling with the taste of his own from his tongue, where he bit it just now.	
Yeah, he'd find her in the hospital.	
He'd make her come with him.	
He liked the idea, his own brilliance.	
He'd make her find the beast.	
The Power was almost unbearable. It grew big and strong until it nearly burst.	
Clenching his palm around the rifle barrel, he bit his lip and licked the sweat from it. Awestruck by the strength of the Power.	
He went to find Lennie. They had to leave.	
Now.	
	
The loud noises of the sticks that throw stones and fire stopped. Slowly, he uncovered his ears, opened his eyes. Peeked through the brush.	
The She-mate was down, her red life flowing from dots on her. The He-mate was wounded, too.	
The Other With The Hate, he knew, he was still there. He could smell him.	
An urge told him to move forward, to help the She-mate as she had helped the Young One. But an even stronger urge made him stay put, safely in the brush. Hidden.	
He watched the He-mate crawl to the She-mate. Shelter her body and protect it like he would his offspring. His own mate.	
Then the He-mate carried her to safety. Away. To the place of the nest. To the cave that moved on round rocks and made a noise like clattering stones. The He-mate got in, too, and then it went away in a cloud of dust.	
The place in his chest hurt. He would not see the She-mate again, the one with the crown fur like the round light on water and the smell of too many flowers. The He-mate, either, the one who made smelled like the tall trees and whose face was covered by strange reddish fur.	
He could see their hearts.	
They were full of something ... something he couldn't identify. Something that made him ... feel ... good inside.	
Not like the hate of the Other.	
As far from the round white light to the dark time of the sky spots.	
["Fourteen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Fourteen	
Back in the Jeep, Bay riffled through Dia's jumbled belongings until he found her back pack. Her wallet. The one he remembered that she'd tried to drop in his lap just a few days ago.	
Before. Before everything.	
Opening its bulkiness, he flipped quickly through the stack of receipts and charge slips and grocery lists to her driver's license.	
He touched her picture. Dia's curls zinged around her head in the angelic-Medusa like the first day. When he'd noticed the color -- sunshine and moonbeams. She was smiling, lips shiny and pink. Unconsciously he licked his own to seek her taste. Even in the mug-style photo, he could see the fire in her eyes. Like lightning in thunder clouds.	
He closed his eyes and swallowed down the burning in his throat. Glanced at the address.	
4826 Fair Creek Road. Southwest of town.	
Shutting the wallet, he tossed it onto the seat and took a deep breath to clear his head. To remind himself that he wasn't needed in the hospital.	
That he didn't need Dia.	
His throat burned with a hot rush anyway.	
Bay aimed the Jeep out of the parking lot on auto-pilot. Driving by rote, turning where he should but not really thinking. Trying to allow his mind to go numb.	
The windier roads of the Siskiyou foothills forced him to focus on the road. To look for the address.	
He found Dia's house up a short, graveled road, behind another house. It was a cottage, really, nestled in among a blend of oak and madrone and fir.	
Pulling the keys from the ignition, Bay ran them through his fingers.	
Finally, he slipped from the Jeep and climbed the steps to her front deck. The third key opened the lock.	
Twisting the knob, Bay hesitated before crossing the threshold. Judas Priest, he felt like a damn voyeur.	
Like the day he'd seen her naked in the forest glade, like some nymph. His body tensed with the memory, and he cursed.	
Closing the door, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the cottage's dark interior.	
Revealing a side of Dia he didn't know.	
But that he didn't find surprising for a woman who chased unicorns and rainbows and proved the Sasquatches' existence. The Dia who surrounded herself in soft, frilly pastel shades, the feminine counterpart to her fierce independence.	
Setting the keys on a small table, Bay took in the details. The braided throw-rugs on the living room floor in shades of yellow and pink. The couch in matching skirted slip-covers. The scattering of books on the scratched, doily-festooned coffee table. All romance novels, one resting face down as if she planned to pick it up in moments.	
And her scent. Dia's wildflower scent was everywhere. Filling him. He wanted to see more.	
Slowly, he advanced to the kitchen. In the sink beneath blue and peach gingham curtains, she'd left a cup. Half-filled with coffee. As if she'd left in a hurry that morning just three days ago.	
Bay ran his hand into his hair, fingers encountering the bandage over his left temple.	
Jeez, he didn't even know how Dia took her coffee, he thought abstractly.	
Through the short hallway into her bedroom.	
The double bed was unmade.	
Her sheets were blue and gray. Like her eyes. Like her thunder cloud eyes.	
An instant, heavy arousal filled Bay's loins. Remembering. Remembering the feel of Dia in his arms, her body straining against his, the softness of her breasts in his hands ...	
Judas Priest, what would have happened if Dia's arm hadn't started to bleed? Jeez, they'd have ... they'd have made love. Maybe even made a baby girl inside Dia that would be named for a flower in the month of -- he did some calculating -- May. A little girl in a frilly pink bonnet. A new baby for Dia to love. For him to love.	
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. The thought frightened him. He felt vulnerable in a way he never had before. The impact of it.	
He loved Dia. He'd told her. He'd promised forever and ... and he couldn't give it.	
It was too scary, too risky, too everything.	
The image of Dia's face, bandaged and turned away from him in the hospital bed, swam in his mind. Rejecting him. Making it easier, harder, at the same time.	
The thought burned in his heart, in his eyes. The thought of never seeing Dia again. Her bed blurred into a swath of gray-blue, and Bay bit his lip. His legs trembled until his knees folded, and he collapsed in the too-small antique chair.	
Everything inside him quivered and twisted with an upwelling of ... of feelings. The feelings he'd kept dammed up. The dam bursting. Flooding him with emotions.	
Bay couldn't breathe, like he was drowning. He gasped for air. Fighting the tide. Fighting the tide that sucked him in and made him catch his breath in a sob. And then another. And another.	
Until he dropped his head in his hands and quit fighting and gave in to the hot tears that streamed from his eyes.	
For the first time in thirty years, he cried. He cried for Mom and Bradley and Jacob. For himself. For Dia.	
Hating the power of love to make him feel so weak. To break down all the barriers he'd spent his life erecting.	
Finally, feeling head-achy and sick to his stomach, Bay uncurled himself from the aftermath of his misery and splashed his face in Dia's blue bathroom.	
Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart. The words of the teen waitress echoed in his head.	
They made no sense, except his heart said to cut free. Leave Dia behind and move forward. Build the walls around his heart so he couldn't feel again. Couldn't love and couldn't hurt.	
Bay pressed the soft, turquoise cloth to his burning face.	
After all, what happened between Dia and him -- it was an instinct, right? Two people clinging together in a time of trial. One animal caring for an injured comrade. The natural celebration of survival, the reaching out. The affirmation of life. Adrenaline, hormones, chemistry, biology.	
Instinct at its most elemental level.	
Because he didn't need Dia, he told himself. He didn't need her.	
And she didn't need him.	
It was time to rebuild the wall, sand grain by sand grain.	
He had work to do.	
	
Dia woke again to the beep, beep, beep that had become her reassurance.	
She felt dizzy and groggy and thirsty. But opening her eyes seemed to take so much effort.	
I'm in the hospital, she reminded herself. I've been shot, and Bay brought me here.	
Bay.	
Bay the traitor.	
She couldn't stay here. She couldn't. She had work to do. She had to go back and save the Sasquatches. To rescue them from the media and the trackers and everyone else Bay's article would bring. To study them before it was too late.	
Dia fought to lift the lids of her aching, scratchy eyes.	
"Darling, it's Mother."	
Mother? What was Mother doing here?	
Dia felt her mother's soft, manicured hand on her wrist. Smelled the waft of her expensive perfume.	
Dia's eyes burned with childish relief, and she opened them. Mother.	
"Oh, Darling, thank the Lord you're okay. Your father and I have been very worried about you." Mother's fingers trailed across Dia's brow and could see the concern in her mother's gray eyes. "Promise me you won't go traipsing out in those ghastly woods, again, Darling. You see what happened. Our greatest fears for you have been realized."	
Mother, I have to. The words formed on Dia's tongue but stuck there.	
"I'll tell your father you're awake. He's making arrangements to bring you home. We'll see you're cared for properly. And that you give up your crazy notions of running around all over the world chasing those ... those things that don't exist."	
"Mother ..." But they do exist, she wanted to shout.	
Mother paused, halfway to the door, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles out of her soft, yellow outfit. "Diamond, you just rest. Your father and I will have you out of this nasty place in just a few minutes. By the way, Darling, where is the gentleman, who brought you in? A colleague, he said when he called your father. We'd like to thank him."	
Bay the traitor.	
Dia closed her eyes and turned away. Pretending to sleep. Pretending that the mention of Bay's name didn't stab her heart like a scalpel.	
Pretending she didn't care that Mother was orchestrating her life, like before.	
"Dia?"	
Another voice.	
Jerry. Jerry Sullivan. Her partner.	
She opened her eyes. It was easier this time.	
"Holy Cow, Dia, thank God you're okay."	
Through the film of tears that coated her eyes, Dia watched sweet, dumpy Jerry swing himself across the room on crutches. One of them crashed to the floor when he pulled her into a big, bear hug, careful to hold her gently and not hook her IV. It felt good and warm, and nothing like Bay's.	
When he pulled away, she saw the relief in his dark, brown eyes.	
"I'm okay, Jerry." The words came easier now.	
Jerry circled a hand on his bald spot, his hair standing in wispy, black tufts.	
"You know, this place looks awfully familiar," he teased, tapping his cast with the crutch he still held. "It's not bad, really, but the food sucks."	
Dia licked her dry lips. "Who ... How ...?"	
"Bay. He called me." Jerry steadied himself on his one crutch. "Look, I'm sorry to have sent him at the last minute. How'd he work out?"	
Anger borne of betrayal, Bay's betrayal, swelled inside her like a festering wound.	
"He's a big jerk ... who doesn't know a damn thing ... about field research." Dia panted, air rushing from her lungs in a painful hiss. "And he's going to publish. We...I found them, Jerry."	
Jerry squeezed her shoulder, the one that didn't hurt. "Hallalujah, Dia, that's terrific news! I knew you'd do it, by God."	
"He can't publish."	
Jerry rubbed at his bald pate again and exhaled. "Holy Cow, Dia, I didn't know. Cripes, I'm sorry. Unfortunately, he can. As long as he sticks to his part of the research. It never occurred to me that Bay would do that. He's usually such a quiet, uptight, politically correct kind of guy."	
Dia swallowed around the lump choking her throat. "He said it was ... the ethical thing to do. But it's my research."	
"Look, Dia, I'll talk to him, okay. I'll talk to him. We'll get this all straightened out."	
She nodded half-heartedly.	
"Look, Dia, get some rest, okay. I'll talk to Bay." Jerry grabbed his second crutch from the floor.	
Dia closed her eyes, suddenly so weary.	
Jerry would never straighten out Bay's ultimate betrayal.	
The way he used her. Played on her emotions when she was weak.	
Gained her trust.	
It hurt too much to think.	
Dia wished for the oblivion of sleep that wouldn't come. Anger churned in her like curdled milk, sour and thick.	
Anger at herself for allowing Bay in. Letting him get close. Trusting him.	
Loving him.	
Not just loving him, but telling him.	
Making a pledge to a man who used and betrayed her.	
A man who she'd nearly made love with. Forgetting, in those minutes of excruciating pleasure, the pain of loving someone. Thank God she hadn't committed herself that way, Dia thought. They had no protection. Bay could have made a baby inside her.	
And she didn't know if she could take that. Loving something that was Bay's, too. A part of him. A part of a man she loved and hated at the same time.	
A man she had to forget now.	
You'll find something you do not seek.	
Dia recalled the words that the green-haired waitress had uttered. Cryptic words. Words that almost made sense.	
She'd found Bay, and she'd found heart ache. Both things she hadn't sought. More than she wanted.	
Both things she had to forget while remembering never to trust her heart again.	
	
Harvey chortled with unbridled glee. The Big Hero had left his tent and his clothes. He'd found the discarded .38 in the brush and here was a nearly full box of ammo. And, hot damn, everything was new.	
It was perfect.	
His ticket to the interfering Bitch.	
Power ratcheted tighter and bigger inside him.	
	
With a weariness that seemed to reduce even his bones to rubber, Bay unlocked his house. Judas Priest he was tired, and it was only mid-afternoon. He pushed open the white door that swung quietly on oiled hinges. Carried in his lap top and the strong box of Sasquatch bones and fur that he'd salvaged from Dia's stuff. Her tent, the rest of the mess, he'd left in her garage. Along with the Jeep.	
Jerry had given him a lift home on his way to the hospital.	
Bay scuffed his feet on the mat and, setting his parcels down, stooped to undo his boots. Pulled off his socks, too, before setting foot on the cream, Berber carpet.	
After stowing the lap top and strong box in his immaculate office, Bay slid the dusty boots onto the shoe rack in his closet. He wasn't going to need them again, yet something inside him bucked tossing them. Same with the jeans he shucked and discarded in the empty teak hamper in the corner of his room.	
He longed for a shower, but the competent Dr. Webster had advised against getting his stitches wet. Instead, Bay filled his garden tub with the super jets and eased his exhausted body into it. Shut his eyes against the fatigue that teased suddenly at them.	
And saw Dia's naked back as he'd seen it in the glade, but the glade magically merged somehow with his bathroom, and he was here and there at the same time. She turned, and his mind filled in what his hands had memorized, the shape, the size, the liquid jiggle of her breasts. Everything but the color of the beaded tips that thrust from their fullness. Sun-kissed peach or dusky rose? The unknown pulsed through him like an aphrodisiac.	
Dia moved forward, her trim waist and the flare of her hips slipping into focus. Her belly button. Lower. To the lace-enshrouded place that his body ached to fill. Then. Now. Forever.	
Bay reached for her, ablaze with desire, the desire to touch Dia's warm woman flesh. And felt, instead, the lifeless marble of his garden tub. Not woman flesh. Lifeless marble.	
Smacking it hard with his palm, Bay swore and jabbed the super jet buttons to cold. Ten minutes later his teeth were chattering, but his body still burned for Dia. Disgusted with himself, Bay tugged on his black terry-cloth robe and headed to his pristine, white kitchen.	
He pulled a couple beers from the organized fridge. And a third. Then the six-pack.	
Sitting on his tan, leather couch, he cracked the cap to the first one and took a long draught from the bottle. He tried not to notice the barren sterility of his house, so empty and lifeless compared to Dia's colorful one.	
But, dammit, he liked it this way. Liked everything neat and organized and in its place. No fuss, no muss, no emotional attachments.	
He took another gulp from the bottle, and then another, and another. Until all the beer was gone and he was, for the first time in his life, blissfully, obliviously, drunk.	
So he could pass out and forget Dia and start building that wall around him again. Sand grain by sand grain.	
He had work to do, and she wasn't part of it.	
	
Harvey checked his reflection in the dangling side mirror of Lennie's pick up. He'd managed to con Lennie into letting him borrow it. Lennie'd bought his story about needing to get supplies.	
Harvey leered at himself, and smoothed his greased-back hair.	
Then he felt his pocket to make sure the .38 was still there. His courage. His persuasion. His other Power.	
Crossing the parking lot, Harvey stopped to check the cuffs on his jeans. The jeans he'd collected from the Big Hero's tent. They were a little tight and too long, but they were clean and new and presentable. Same with the flannel shirt he'd rolled above the elbows. The spotless, white Nikes fit, too, after he put on three pairs of the jerk's still-in-the-package socks. He'd even used the Big Hero's shampoo and deodorant and cologne.	
Harvey prided himself on looking like a regular guy on his way to visit a sick friend. He chortled, proud of his cleverness.	
The cop coming out of the exit door scared him, though. He hated cops. Harvey ducked behind a purple-flowered bush and fingered the .38. Sweat dribbled down his neck. He was so tempted to pull it out, to give the cop what he had coming. He hated cops.	
He didn't shoot the cop. As much as he wanted to watch the cop bleed, seeing the interfering Bitch bleed would be so much better. And he was so close. The Power twisted even tighter, even bigger.	
Licking the salty sweat from his upper lip, he waited till the cop got in his blue and white car and drove away.	
Then he went in, though the sliding doors that whisked open before him. Past the information desk. The volunteer in pink didn't even look at him. That made him feel so confident. So sure. So Powerful.	
He knew the interfering Bitch would be in the surgical section. Harvey figured they'd have had to operate to take out the bullets and stuff. He studied a map next to the elevator. Stabbed the up button. Watched the arrows above the elevator until it pinged, and the doors slid open.	
He entered the empty car, and the doors closed again. The rush of the moving car dizzied him with Power. He almost couldn't get out in time when the doors opened again.	
The hallway was sterile and white and long, identical to the one he remembered from prison. His heart jumped all crazy like it was full of bubbles. It was hard to breathe.	
This wasn't prison, and he was so close. So close to the interfering Bitch. He touched the gun through the denim of his slacks. His other Power. So strong. So sure.	
Harvey snickered and took a deep breath. The air had the same sour smell as prison.	
He turned and walked down the left corridor, stopping at each room. Looking inside at the lumps of people under the blankets. An old man. A dark-haired woman with a tube in her mouth. A teen-age kid thrashing and muttering. Up the next hall and down.	
People in green scrubs walked the corridors. Just like the wardens in prison. Harvey felt the walls squeezing him. Pushing the breath from his lungs.	
A doctor came out of one room and bumped him. The white coat brought memories of the damn shrink in prison. The one who kept showing him black ink spots that scared him with their long, shadowy fingers. Like the shadows that crept over the granite at night.	
Harvey swallowed the fear that clawed in his throat.	
Went up the third wing and down.	
No interfering Bitch.	
He knew she'd be in the last wing. Victory tasted sweet, Powerful, on his tongue. Salty, like her blood.	
He checked each room. Carefully. An old woman with two IV's. A man with a bag of piss hanging at the end of his bed.	
Anticipation building at each door. Bigger, more Powerful, ready to burst.	
Until he reached the last door.	
Oh, yeah.	
	
Slowly, he made his way down the slope, to the new den. Something felt like it was gone inside him. Something he couldn't place. Something that he didn't know or remember from his memories or those memories that came before him. He only knew it had to do with the He-mate and She-mate.	
After they had left, he'd watched the Other With The Hate inside him take things from the He-mate's nest. Then the Other had gotten in his clattering cave on the round rocks, and it had taken him away. He could still smell the red heat the Other made with little sticks of lightning, so he knew the Other With The Hate in his heart had left his ... companion ... behind. But he wasn't afraid of that one.	
But he still was afraid. He knew the Other With The Hate would be back.	
And it had to do with the He-mate and the She-mate.	
That made him more afraid.	
["Fifteen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Fifteen	
It hurt too much to think, so she didn't. Dia allowed her mind to go blank.	
Because she didn't care anymore.	
Everything she'd wanted in life was turning as wispy and transient as smoke in the wind.	
Her research. The dream realized with the discovery of the Sasquatches. Loving Bay.	
He was going to ruin it for her. He was going to ruin everything by being such an ethical, self-righteous jerk. A Greenhorn.	
And then there was the bastard who shot her. God, if he hadn't, she'd still be up in the mountains. At least she'd make some headway with her studies before everything hit the fan.	
Dia turned her face to the sterile, white hospital wall. Everything had already hit the fan.	
She didn't care.	
It was so much easier not to.	
She must have slept for awhile, because the light coming in through the half-open window blinds was filtered now, like late afternoon. She cursed waking from that unfeeling, unthinking place.	
Someone stood in the doorway! Dia's heart hammered, and she blinked to clear the sleepy haze from her eyes, but the light from the hallway made it hard too see.	
"Darling, you're awake."	
Mother breezed in the door, Father right behind her. Relief surged through Dia. She thought it might be Bay.	
Father leaned over and kissed her, and she caught the scent of the heavy cologne he'd always worn. Nothing like the woodsy fragrance Bay wore.	
Dia winced at the memory, still painful and fresh despite her resolve to forget. To not think.	
"Hey, Darling, I'm sorry," Father said, his dark brows knitting. She knew he thought his kiss had made her hurt, not her secret thoughts of Bay. It did in a way, because she'd received so few as a child when that was all she wanted. The love of her parents.	
"The private ambulance is ready to take you to the airport, Darling," Mother said. "They'll be here in just a moment."	
Mother stroked Dia's hand, but didn't kiss her. Mother didn't kiss her either as a child. Sometimes she pressed her cheek against Dia's and bussed the air by her ear. Mother was always afraid of smearing her make-up.	
Dia nodded, too tired, too overwhelmed, to say anything. Having Mother and Father taking care of her right now, making her decisions, made it so easy. So easy to give into and not have to think.	
A few minutes later, a nurse arrived and gave Dia a sedative to help her relax. A pleasant, hazy oblivion fogged her brain when she was transferred to the gurney and rolled into the hall.	
She could smell Bay's cologne, like pine trees and earth and forest blooming in her nose. Too strong.	
Dia's eyes fluttered open, confused. Her vision cleared, and she caught a momentary glimpse of flannel and denim down the hall.	
Not Bay.	
Someone else. Someone else whose black, angry gaze frightened her.	
"Mr. and Mrs. Norwell, here are Diamond's transfer papers to Oak Haven," said a nurse at the foot of the gurney.	
Then she was whisked around the corner, away from the man who smelled like Bay but made her heart burn with unexplained terror.	
	
He was so close. So close. And yet so far.	
Harvey sucked his breath in through clenched teeth. Frustrated anger like he'd never known raged inside him when he'd watched the interfering Bitch being wheeled from her room. Surrounded by too many people.	
His hand on the gun in his pocket had frozen. The hot, sweaty metal sticking to his hand.	
Everything inside him was out of control.	
Out of control.	
She'd done it on purpose. She had to have done it on purpose. Just to get away from him.	
Well, by God, she wouldn't get away. He knew where she was going. He'd heard the name of the hospital.	
Oak Haven.	
He knew it wasn't here because he heard, too, that dame in the yellow suit say something about a private plane.	
The interfering Bitch's family was loaded. That made it even better somehow. He could ask for ransom and see her bleed, too.	
Oh, yeah!	
The Power burned in him, bigger, brighter, its torment now taking over his thoughts. Out of control.	
Shaking with the effort of trying to control the demanding rush of Power, Harvey gripped the wall, digging his nails into it. Painfully. Still, the Power took control.	
And it wouldn't leave him alone, he knew, until he let it have its way. Then, when it was quieter and less in control, he could deal with that interfering Bitch.	
Later.	
He didn't take the elevator this time. The Power didn't like the enclosed space. It wanted to be free.	
Outside, Harvey hid in the bushes. The ones with the purple flowers where he'd hidden from the cop. Only this time he didn't care about the cop. Just what the Power was demanding he do.	
He grew bolder with its barely controlled dominance.	
Waiting.	
The dark, evil shadows slipped over him, but this time, the Power made them his friends. Sweat seeped from his pores with barely suppressed control. The Power in command.	
Now.	
He saw her hair glinting in the light spilling from the window upstairs. The interfering Bitch. Dressed in the green warden's uniform.	
The Power in command.	
Moving like lightning, he grabbed her, reveling in her surprised struggle. In the screams he forced her to swallow with the palm across her mouth. In the thud he heard when he cracked the .38 against her skull.	
Then he took his pocket knife and cut her and made her bleed, careful not to get any on his new jeans.	
	
Bay woke with one hell of a headache. Even the faint purple glow just breaching the horizon stabbed behind his eyes like an ax-blow.	
Slowly, he levered his stiff body up on the couch, where it was obvious he'd spent the night. And slept around the clock, if his memory could be trusted.	
But the beers had done nothing to erase his memories of Dia. She'd danced naked in his dreams, and he'd heard her laughter inside him. Even now its echo pulsed in his aching head and twisted in his suddenly queasy gut.	
Dragging himself off the couch, Bay fumbled his way to the bathroom and clumsily adjusted the shower, Dr. Webster and his admonitions about wet stitches be dammed. He slipped off the rumpled, black robe and stood under the oscillating spray. His head oscillated with it, but he made himself stand there anyway. As penance, maybe, or punishment for being so stupid.	
Stupid enough to fall in love, and stupid enough to get drunk about it.	
Still moving slowly, Bay dressed in a pair of khaki knit slacks and a white, Oxford cloth shirt. He even added a tie today, a Paisley design in tan and olive. Anything to make him feel as far from the forest and Dia as possible.	
Dumping a generous portion of grounds in the filter, he stabbed on the coffee maker. It was about all his coiling gut could take right now. That, and three ibuprofens. Impatiently he waited for the tiny trickle of java to fill the pot.	
With his cup finally in hand, Bay plucked the paper off his porch and settled into the dining room to peruse it while the analgesics and the coffee took effect.	
It wasn't the headline or the photo of the President at an economic summit that caught his eye. It was the short article, in the lower right column.	
NURSE BRUTALLY ATTACKED OUTSIDE ORCHARD VALLEY MEDICAL CENTER, read the bold title.	
These things just don't happen around here, he thought, feeling his scalp prick oddly as he continued reading the article.	
"A 27-year-old Orchard Valley Medical Center nurse was found brutally beaten on the hospital campus late last night. Dr. Jack Westin discovered the victim when he stepped out for a break about midnight.	
"'I thought it was an animal at first,' said Westin. 'But the sound just wasn't right, so I went over to investigate. I've been a physician for sixteen years, and I've never, never seen so much blood.'	
"Police investigating the incident report little evidence at this point. Detective Mike Greendale reports officers are analyzing a partial shoe print found at the scene and physical evidence recovered from the victim.	
"The victim has not regained consciousness and remains in intensive care at Orchard Valley Medical Center."	
Bay read the article again, wondering what about it had drawn his attention so completely. Probably just the fact that twelve hours or so ago, he'd left the same facility. Perhaps it piqued his professional curiosity. And maybe he was a hung-over, perverted, son-of-a-gun who had no business being so morbidly fascinated with something so gruesome.	
He finished his coffee, rinsing the cup and sticking it in the dishwasher. A momentary flash of Dia's sink, her half-finished mug, jumped in his mind, and he cursed.	
She was a dreamer, he wasn't. It was as simple as that. Polar opposites. And, he wasn't going to think about her, he reminded himself, disgusted with his inability to put her from his mind.	
Judas Priest, he'd always been able to focus. Build that wall, man. You have work to do.	
Grabbing his keys, Bay retrieved his lap top and the strong box and climbed into the white Olds in his pristine, double garage. Empty, but for a bicycle which he rarely found time to ride, a tool bench he never used, and some boxes of books he'd yet to buy shelves for.	
He liked things neat and orderly, he reminded himself, punching the button to raise the garage door.	
The early morning sun, just cresting the Cascade and Siskiyou ranges to the east, pierced his eyeballs like a red hot poker. He swore again at his stupidity for drinking too much, for leaving his sunglasses in his tent. In the forest. Miles away.	
It was all her fault.	
Bay let himself into the lab and headed directly for his office. Then he brewed some more coffee and set to work.	
Absorbed.	
Jerry's unceremonious intrusion startled him. "Judas Priest, Jerry, haven't you got better things to do than pester me?"	
"Good morning to you, too, buddy."	
Bay instantly regretted his outburst. "Sorry, Jerry, you broke my concentration."	
"Yeah, well, someone needed to. Holy Cow, what's with the tie, buddy?" Jerry asked, pointing at it with one of his crutches.	
Bay swiveled around on his stool. "What are you, the fashion police?"	
"Nah, just worried about a friend who's wearing a tie and one who doesn't look so good this morning."	
"So, now you're a doctor, too? I've had about as much of them as I want to for awhile."	
Jerry shifted his weight to his other crutch and dropped into Bay's desk chair. "Did you read the story about what happened over at the hospital last night?"	
Bay shrugged. He wished Jerry would say what he came to say and leave. He had work to do. "Yeah, I saw it. What's your point?"	
"I'm just making conversation." Jerry rubbed his bald head. "Dia seems like she's going to be okay. Her parents transferred her to some spa place north of here. Oak Haven."	
"So," Bay answered, hoping he sounded casual. Dammit, he was doing fine. He hadn't thought of Dia in -- he checked his watch -- a whole two minutes.	
"So, I thought you might want to know."	
Bay crossed his left ankle over his right knee. "Why?"	
"Cripes, Bay, because you guys shared something pretty intense out there." Jerry propped his cast on the desk.	
"What the hell do you mean by intense?" Heat burned Bay's face.	
Jerry shrugged. "Finding the Sasquatches. Getting shot at. Sounds pretty intense to me."	
"Yeah, well it happened. It's over and done with."	
"Not according to her. She says you're going to publish her findings."	
The heat left his face and Bay knew he must have gone pale now. "You know, Jerry, when I first went out on this ... escapade ... I wondered how you could buy into this crap about legendary beasts wandering the Pacific Northwest. Now I've seen them with my own eyes. Brought back evidence. Ethically, I can't not apprise the scientific community. The world. What if Galileo or Newton or Einstein had kept their discoveries to themselves?" Bay finished, using the argument he'd thrown back at Dia.	
Jerry didn't flinch, his brown gaze holding Bay's. "Then someone else would have made the discoveries. Published them. This is Dia's project, Bay. You need to let her call the shots." Jerry rubbed his head again. "I think you should take that month in Europe. You earned it."	
Anger boiled like black spots in front of Bay's eyes. "Hell, no Jerry. You ... Dia won't get rid of me that easily. I have work to do. I have an ethical responsibility."	
Jerry sat up and his cast thumped to the floor. "Ethical, Bay? Holy, Cow. I want you to think long and hard about that word. And then I want you to think long and hard about your motivations. Because something happened out there that changed you both. And I'm not talking about bullets and Sasquatches."	
Jerry levered up out of the chair and swung out Bay's office door, closing it behind him.	
Which was good, because that's when Bay launched his half-filled coffee cup across the room. It hit the door in a spray of brown and crashed resoundingly to the floor, echoing in his pounding head.	
	
"Good morning, Miss Norwell. Here's your breakfast."	
"It's Dr. Norwell, and I'm not hungry," groused Dia as the attendant whisked a silver cover off a steaming dish, which she placed on the tray across Dia's lap.	
"Well, I'll leave it just the same, in case you change your mind," the attendant answered before she breezed out of the room.	
Dia pushed the tray away, and leaned back against the pink satin pillows. She let her eyes rove the room at Oak Haven. It was as sumptuously appointed as a five star hotel, with its fresh flowers and big screen television.	
And about as homey, she thought sarcastically. But at least it provided a neutral place to start again. To forget. To rub the slate clean.	
Dia's stomach grumbled rebelliously, and she pulled the tray back. The quiche was light and fluffy with just the right amount of crumbled bacon. The coffee was hot and black too, just the way she liked it, and the orange juice in the fancy carafe was freshly squeezed.	
Sated, she fell asleep. To the one place she could almost escape thoughts of Bay. Almost.	
The rattle of dishes and cutlery crashed her first peaceful nap in what seemed like weeks. But she knew it was only days.	
Irritation rose swiftly, as did the sharp words on her tongue. Words that stalled when the man in the white uniform turned in her direction.	
Her world flooded with memories, and her body jolted with recognition.	
The hair was the same, though streaked with gray now, and he had a paunch under the starched uniform where his flat belly used to be. But the eyes, the eyes were still as blue.	
Eyes that held hers captive and made a buzz rush in her ears and heat boil in her blood.	
"Didi? Is that you?"	
Only one person had ever called her that.	
Jonathan.	
Time stood still and the sharp words on her tongue changed with the confusion that chased through her with all the other emotions.	
"What the hell are you doing here?" she challenged, not wondering for a moment if it were even her right to question that.	
She watched Jonathan's mouth, his lips, open and close like a fish, and saw his face grow red with some kind of emotion. His hands shook and Dia heard the jingle of her fork against the fine china plate.	
"I work here," he finally answered, his voice squeaky, not like the rich baritone she remembered when he sang in the shower.	
She felt the blueness of Jonathan's gaze on her, and she somehow felt naked now, and still angry. He knew what she looked like underneath the covers and the expensive gray peignoir Mother had bought for her.	
Knew her like Bay didn't, and that made her angry, too.	
Jonathan finally set the plate on the silver tray used for bussing dishes. The fork fell on the floor, and she watched it bounce on the thick, shell-pink carpet. Jonathan's icy eyes still bored into her.	
"You look ... you haven't changed, Didi."	
Maybe not on the outside, she thought, ten years of resentment and grief and abandonment welling up. "Dammit, Jonathan, why didn't you ever call me again? My God, I was so alone and so afraid ... our baby ... our baby had just died." Her eyes burned with unshed fury.	
He took a deep breath and then another before he spoke, his hands clenching and unclenching over and over. "We were young, Didi. It ... it was bigger than both of us."	
"Don't give me that crap, Jonathan," she spit, her chest heaving now with the effort. "Aster -- she was your baby, too. You loved me, you loved her, and ... and you just walked away from us. Why?"	
His hands continued to curl and uncurl, but Jonathan's face had turned pasty white now, and his tongue made furtive circles around his lips.	
"Cripes, Dia ... I ... you weren't like this then."	
"No, I wasn't, but then death and divorce do that to people, Jonathan. I want answers, and I want them now."	
Dia watched his throat move up and down through the shimmery curtain fogging her eyes. His hands clenched now in tremoring fists.	
"They told me you'd be better off if I didn't contact you."	
"Who did?" she asked already knowing the answers.	
He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Your parents, Didi. They said that you needed time. That the annulment was your idea."	
The buzz echoing in Dia's ears grew louder and louder until it tugged at her consciousness. Threatening to pull her under and away from this awful reality. "My, God, Jonathan, you believed them. You knew ... you knew I loved you. You loved me and Aster."	
Everything about Jonathan slumped except his tight fists. "They gave me money, Didi." His voice was soft now, and filled with shame.	
The rush inside Dia grew louder, and she fought it. She had to finish what was started here.	
"Money? Money, Jonathan. That's all it took? Just a few bucks to buy off your affection? Get out!"	
Anger at her parents, at Jonathan coalesced into one pulsing, horrid whole.	
"No! You asked for the truth, Didi." Jonathan spun and paced the floor, his back rigid now. "I tried to call you a dozen times, maybe more, but they wouldn't let me talk to you. I'm sure they never passed on the letters I wrote. I didn't ... I wasn't prepared to handle that on top of every thing else." He turned back. "You didn't call me, either, Didi."	
She could see the accusation in his eyes that were cold, polar ice. More memories, more realization hummed in her dizzy brain.	
"Mother and Father, they said that it was you who didn't want to see me, hear from me. That you blamed me for Aster's death."	
Oh, God.	
"That's why I took the money, Didi," Jonathan continued. "My world had just blown up in my face. It was just easier to take the money and run." He paced the room again, his clenched fists trembling at his side. "Didi, you have to understand. I didn't feel I had any other way out, any other way to survive. I'm not proud of what I did. I drifted for two years, blowing the money on booze and drugs and women Until one day it was gone and I woke up empty and alone behind a dumpster."	
Jonathan collapsed into the pink recliner next to the bed, his fists pressed tightly together in his lap. The iciness had gone from his eyes and they glistened now with something else.	
"Didi, I'm sorry."	
Dia watched the tear slide down Jonathan's cheek. She reached for him with her burned and bandaged right hand. He was crying for Aster.	
The anger with him, with Jonathan, vaporized into a steamy cauldron of wrath at her parents. For meddling. For controlling. For ruining.	
She closed her eyes, trying to assimilate everything in a brain that wouldn't think. Opened them again to feel his hands clutching hers with painfully numbing, white-knuckled force.	
"It's not your fault, Jonathan. It's Mother and Father's fault. They manipulated us, just like they've been trying to control me all my life. Like whisking me off to this place." Dia cleared a throat that had grown clogged and awkward. "Did they know you were here?"	
Jonathan's overbright eyes met hers. "No. It's fate, or whatever you want to call it, Didi. I haven't been in contact with them in years. Since ..." He shrugged. Since they bought him off.	
Dia studied their linked hands, aware now of the dull ache of his grip and the coolness of his fingers. Of the wedding band glinting there.	
Biting her lip, she touched it with a trembling finger. The gold was cold like Jonathan's hand. "I see you ... you've moved on now."	
He shrugged again. "It took awhile. We met at AA." Another awkward lift of his shoulders. "You?"	
Thoughts of Bay flashed in her jumbled brain, confusing her more. Seeing her ex-husband juxtaposed with him. Wanting Bay now, not Jonathan. But she couldn't have him. "No." She cleared her throat and asked the question she had to ask. "Any kids?"	
"Didi, you don't ..."	
"Please," she interrupted. "I have to know."	
"Cynthia ... Cynthia and I have three daughters."	
"Do ... do you have a picture?"	
"Didi ..."	
"I want to see."	
Jonathan pulled his wallet from his front pocket where he always kept it.	
Dia found herself staring at a photo of Jonathan, with his arm around a freckled red-head. Between them were three auburn-haired girls in matching dresses. An infant, a toddler and a preschooler. "That's Cynthia and Mary, Jane and Susan." He pointed to each one, and Dia though her heat would burst with the pain, the jealousy, that suddenly filled it. And an odd peace.	
She clutched Jonathan's wallet and his hand trembled around hers. "Didi, not a day passes that I don't miss her." His voice was rough and broken. "But life goes on, Didi, and we ... we just have to keep going and make the best of it."	
"I know."	
Jonathan folded her into a hug, and she cried on his shoulder. Cried on his shoulder like she would an older brother, she realized. Not like a lover.	
Later, Jonathan unwrapped her from his embrace and brushed a gentle kiss to her forehead. Brotherly. Comfortable.	
"So, what did you do to land yourself in this place to begin with?" he asked, his still bright eyes sparkling with mirth now, like she remembered.	
Dia felt a camaraderie with Jonathan, something old and new and different at the same time.	
She shrugged and let go of his hand. The one with the wedding band, and hedged, "I was doing some anthropological research and, um, got in the way of a hunter."	
Jonathan grinned. "Now why doesn't that surprise me? Still studying Bigfoot or whatever you called it?"	
Dia's mouth felt stiff when she smiled back, hoping it didn't reveal too much. "Something like that. So, what about you? Did you ever get that degree in chemistry?"	
He stared briefly at the floor, then back at Dia. "No, I drifted those couple years, met Cynthia, have a family to support. Maybe someday. But this is a job, Didi. It's my life now, and I'm comfortable."	
"That's good, Jonathan. It is." She meant the words. Dia was glad that Jonathan was happy now.	
"Yeah. Look, Didi, I have to get back to work." He shot to his feet. "I don't think housekeeping will be too pleased if I show up with breakfast dishes at lunch."	
"No, I don't suppose they will."	
Jonathan picked up the silver tray with her dishes.	
"I'll stop back later. At my break."	
And Jonathan winked at her and was gone.	
Then, in the quietness of her posh room with the pink satin sheets, she forgave Jonathan.	
Put Aster's baby ghost to rest.	
And allowed a tiny bit of trust to grow in her heart.	
The tiny bit of her heart that wasn't consumed with anger with her parents.	
Dia nursed that anger because she didn't know what else to do with it. For now.	
	
	
	
The dark time had come and gone and come and gone. The Other was still away.	
But that didn't make his fear any less. It made it grow worse. The memories that came before him told him something bad had happened. That the Other's hate had made it happen.	
And, that it would happen again.	
His fear grew even stronger.	
For the She-mate alone this time.	
["Sixteen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Sixteen	
Judas Priest, what was wrong with him? He'd always had such a grip on himself. Throwing his cup at Jerry, for God's sake. And in the lab, where microscopic coffee spray and ceramic dust could contaminate the sterile environment! Jeez!	
It was all her fault. All her fault for finding the infinitesimal cracks in his armor and working her way in. All her fault for smelling like wildflowers and having sunshine and moonbeam hair and lips that taste like apples and skin that feels like silk and...	
If he'd had another coffee cup, he'd have thrown it, too.	
Bay took a deep breath, and then another and another before he slowly got up from his lab table. Grabbed some paper towels and cleaned up the brown mess oozing its way across the floor. The jingle of broken crockery pierced the pain in his head.	
At least it gave him something else to think about. For now.	
Sinking down on his stool, Bay proceeded to remove the bone fragments from the strong box. The bits of fur found outside the cave where he and Dia had sheltered from the storm. He remembered the awesome power of it, of the storm.	
And the awesome power of attraction he'd felt for Dia, then. Only a fraction of the way he felt now.	
Jeez, he couldn't think about that.	
He had these artifacts to study. To study, man. To write about. To do the ethical thing.	
So, what the hell did Jerry mean, about him rethinking the meaning of the word ethical? He was taking her side.	
Dammit, this wasn't about sides. It was about science and what was right. That's what ethical meant.	
It had to.	
Retrieving another mug from the small kitchenette across the hall, Bay found himself glancing around, listening for the thump of Jerry's crutches. Not wanting to confront him again, and be reminded of Dia.	
With a fresh cup of steaming coffee on his table, Bay rubbed his aching temple where the stitches were and rubbed the other one that throbbed as well. He slurped the hot drink that burned his tongue, and went back to work.	
Until the phone rang. Jolting him. And the mush that doubled for his brain today.	
"Russell," he growled into the offending receiver.	
A slight, staticky pause. "Babe?"	
He let out the breath he was holding. "Niki?" Niki always called him Babe.	
"You sound like an angry old bear," she purred into the phone.	
"Well, I feel like one today."	
"Oh, you poor thing. It sounds like I've got just the ticket for you."	
That's what he needed. Niki's diversion.	
"And what kind of ticket might that be?" he teased, feeling comfortable with their non-threatening camaraderie.	
"A friend gave me a pair of tickets to the Britt Gardens for tomorrow. It's some classical pianist I've never heard of, but he's supposed to be good. I thought you might like it."	
"Moonlight, music and you. What's not to like?"	
"Oh, Babe, you're such a charmer." Her giggle tinkled over the line. "I close the boutique at 5:00, so why don't you pick me up at my place about 5:30. We can have dinner first."	
Niki owned an upscale clothing boutique in Ashland. "Sure."	
"I bought a bottle of that wine you liked. For after," she murmured.	
For after. When they went to her place. Had sex in her Queen Anne-style water bed.	
Something hot and uncomfortable curled in his gut.	
"Make it fruit juice, and you've got a deal."	
"Fruit juice, Babe?"	
"I'll ... I'll see you tomorrow, Niki."	
"I look forward to it."	
Bay hung up the phone. Yeah, this is exactly what he needed. Niki. Some torrid, emotionless sex to purge Dia from his system. It had been too long since he'd been out with Niki. What he felt for Dia was just a reaction to the experience they'd been through. His demanding cells weren't going to care.	
Because it was purely biology.	
	
Harvey wanted to go back to the woods, go back to Lennie. But he might not be safe there. The Big Hero had talked to the cops. That's why that cop had been at the hospital.	
So he'd taken refuge at their dinghy trailer in the run-down park. No one would expect to find him there. If the cops shook down the woods, they'd find Lennie, maybe, but Lennie was clean.	
The Power had made him a wanted man. He knew it. But he didn't care. It was worth it. To see that woman bleed even if she wasn't the interfering Bitch. It had made him feel so invincible. He liked that two-bit word. Liked it fine.	
This was the first time he'd cut a woman to make her bleed, though. When the Power had taken over in the beginning, he'd been in 'Nam. The killing had started it, all the blood and gore and slaughter. The Power demanding, thinking for him. The blood had always been what made the Power strong.	
Since 'Nam he'd been able to keep the Power satisfied by killing animals. Seeing them bleed. Once he'd offed the neighbors' dog, and at other times a goat or a horse he'd seen in a field. Usually he hunted, though.	
And that seemed to be enough.	
Until now.	
Until the Power had grown so forceful and commanding.	
The Power was quiet this morning, though, like he knew it would be. Quiet and waiting. Saving its strength for later.	
When he found the interfering Bitch.	
Running the Big Hero's comb through his hair once more, Harvey smirked at his regular-Joe image. Then he tossed the comb onto the soiled bathroom counter and sauntered to the corner market in the still-cool morning air. It was a small place that dealt in beer, cigarettes, soda and snacks. He bought a six-pack of Bud and a couple bags of chips.	
Then he went around back to the public phone, praying that the phone book still hung below. It did, but he couldn't find a listing for Oak Haven.	
So, he called the local hospital.	
"Hi," he said into the receiver, noticing that his palm was sweaty. "I just heard a ... friend of mine was moved to Oak Haven. Where is that?"	
"Just a moment sir." He heard paper rustling, a key board clicking. "Oak Haven Convalescent Spa is located in Portland, sir."	
"Thanks." He paused for a second, then asked, "I heard about the gal that got roughed up over there last night. How's she doing?"	
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give out that information. All I can tell you is that she's in intensive care."	
Intensive care.	
"Sir, is there anything else I can help you with?"	
Harvey slammed down the receiver.	
Intensive care.	
That meant she was still alive.	
That she could finger him.	
The Power didn't like that. It stirred and came to life again. Urging him back to the hospital to finish the business.	
Harvey clenched his fists and fought it. His brain knew he would get caught. Instead he chug-a-lugged some brews to numb it and started walking home.	
He got as far as the park before the Power ruled completely.	
It made him hide in the shrubs beside the walking path. Until he saw the blonde woman in a warden green jogging suit. Close enough to the interfering Bitch.	
And there, along the banks of the creek, with kids playing soccer and seniors strolling the path just yards away, the Power demanded and took, urged on by the titillating threat of happy voices and children's laughter so near.	
	
	
For about the seventh time in the last hour, Dia punched the channel button on the big screen's remote. All there was on a Thursday afternoon were soap operas, which she supposed she could follow if she'd ever bothered to get hooked on them, or talk shows, each sillier than the one before. She just wanted to find something to lose herself in.	
Nothing so far had worked.	
Not the facial administered by a pert blonde who exfoliated and moisturized and chastised for the faint smattering of sun-induced freckles across her nose. Not the trim and style by the loud woman with the blue eyelashes who disparaged about the frizz and split ends. Not the manicure or the massage, either.	
Or the painful physical therapy session.	
Even Jonathan hadn't come by so far today. Some odd part of her yearned for the new connection she'd found with him.	
God, she was going stir crazy. This Club Med of hospitals was driving her insane. The soaps, the talk shows, the fussy pampering, the inactivity.	
The anger toward her parents that burned in her. Years of resentment boiling and festering inside. That she was suddenly tired of guarding, of hoarding, like a special, secret treasure.	
And the wasted time. The time she could be up in the mountains -- working. Observing the Sasquatches in their natural setting. Learning things. Being accepted by them. Saving them.	
Saving the Sasquatches from Bay's mighty pen.	
From Bay's mighty, ethical pen that might as well be a sword.	
The results would be the same.	
She hurled the TV remote at the wall, feeling a tiny measure of release when it shattered to the floor in a zillion pieces. A zillion black tiny pieces like the blackness inside her that threatened to boil up any second.	
Words mixing with the turbulence.	
"... they gave me money ... ethically, I have no choice ... you'll find something you do not seek...	
She had to escape. To go someplace she couldn't think. Of Bay. Or Jonathan. Or Mother and Father.	
Sleep.	
It seemed like she'd just grabbed at the fleeting fog of escape when something jarred her. Dia's heart pounded in that instant of recall, remembering the man in Orchard Valley Medical Center. His black, crazy eyes.	
The sound came again, the pleasant peep of the phone. She raised it carefully with her right hand.	
"Dr. Norwell? This is Brenda at the front desk. Your mother is on her way up."	
Oh, God. Mother.	
Dia went hot and cold all over.	
The door whisked open. Mother wore aqua today, and she smelled of spearmint when she bussed the air by Dia's cheek.	
The anger she'd hidden away inside her trembled with a life of its own. It made her want to turn to the wall, like she'd done with Bay. She was good at that, turning away. It was always easier.	
But not today. The anger that trembled inside her quivered, hotly on her tongue.	
"Hello, Darling," her mother said, staring at the black shards strewn across the floor. "What on earth happened here? Housekeeping isn't ..."	
Dia exploded, "Why did you give him money?"	
Mother looked away from the black mess and clutched at the lapels of the aqua suit that matched her cloisonné earrings. "Give whom money, Diamond?" Her gray eyes looked confused.	
"Jonathan. Why did you give him money to make him go away?"	
Mother's clasp on the aqua lapels tightened and her knuckles turned as white as her face.	
"Diamond, I ..."	
"Why, Mother, why?" Dia's eyes and nose burned and she hated that. She felt like she was twelve again and asking to go to Yolanda's slumber party and being told she couldn't because Yolanda was the cook's daughter, and that wasn't acceptable. She'd asked why then, too. "I talked to Jonathan and he told me."	
Mother's hand had crept up to her neck now.	
"You talked to Jonathan?" Mother's hand on her neck shook.	
Impatience crept into Dia's anger. "Yes, Mother, he works here. Did you know that? Jonathan works here. In housekeeping. Because you gave him money to go away after Aster was born." The heat streamed from her eyes, but Dia didn't care. The anger poured out with it. "You broke his heart, Mother. Just like you broke mine. We loved each other, and, my God, we'd just lost our child."	
"Diamond. Please. Listen ..." Mother's other hand, still holding her custom-made leather, dyed-to-match purse, joined the other on her neck. She sat in the pink chair.	
Dia swiped at the heat stinging her cheeks. Steamy release. "No, Mother, you listen," she plunged on, years of emotions bursting forth. "All my life you've controlled and meddled and stifled. I've never been allowed to have my own life. You and Father have always disapproved of my choices. Made choices for me. Just like with Jonathan. I loved him, Mother, and it wasn't your choice. You've never liked my career or my friends. Even putting me in this Club Med. It's not my choice." Dia found her breath coming in a rush. "I need to be free, Mother."	
Mother's hands worked at her neck, the manicured nails leaving little white marks that turned red. She swallowed and her skin looked pasty, the perfectly applied rouge big blotches on her cheeks.	
"Diamond, how dare you speak to me in such a fashion." She swallowed again and stood up to pace, still clutching her collar more tightly. Mother stared out the window and took a deep breath through her nose. "I knew this would happen if you to went off and ran with those heathens in Africa and study monkeys, for God's sake."	
Though still angry, an odd calmness flowed in Dia's veins now. "Mother. Those were my choices. And this has nothing to do with that. It has to do with your attitude about it, like right now. You've never approved of my choices. Of who I am. Of me." Her voice grew thick. "I don't even know if you love me, Mother."	
Mother's face crumpled then. In the filtered light at the window, she suddenly looked old and tired, and for the first time, Dia saw the tremor at her mouth and tears in her eyes. Not once in her entire life had she ever seen Mother any less than perfect.	
Mother's hands finally released their grip on her collar and shook when they pulled a lacy handkerchief from the aqua purse.	
"Diamond, how can you think that? That we never -- loved -- you." Mother sniffed and blew her nose. "From the moment you were born, you were our beautiful princess. We wanted you to have everything, Darling, everything. To never want for anything. Your Father and I, we wanted you to live like a fairy tale." Mother blotted her face and twisted the lacy handkerchief into a tight, white rope.	
Her shimmery eyes met Dia's. "Every decision, every choice, as you call them, that we made for you, they were done out of love." Mother's throat worked convulsively. "I'm sorry, Darling. I wanted your life to be perfect. And don't you doubt for one second that your Father and I don't love you very much."	
Dia stared at her mother, seeing her suddenly in a new light. Seeing her with the blinders of anger and resentment removed. A woman like herself. Trying. Doing her best. Loving her.	
A tiny measure of the trust and forgiveness she tucked away in her heart with Jonathan blossomed and grew, and Dia opened her arms.	
She cried when Mother enveloped her in a cloud of spearmint, and Mother cried, too.	
Finally they pulled apart. Mother looked like a raccoon and her face was all smeared, but Dia never thought she'd looked more beautiful or real.	
She tucked a wisp of hair behind Dia's ear. "I'm proud of you, Darling. I am." Mother shrugged. "A bit envious, too, I suppose. You had the guts to break out, even though it wasn't what I thought was best for you. Diamond, I just want you to be happy, Darling. I love you."	
"Me, too, Mother. I want to go home."	
"I'll arrange for your discharge tomorrow. I'll have Constance get your room ready."	
"No, Mother, I mean my home."	
Mother smiled again, her eyes sparkling this time. "Oh. Only if you're feeling well enough."	
"I am, Mother. I've got work to do."	
Mother picked up the pink phone. "Let me call your father. He'll want to hear our news."	
	
Bay shifted again in his seat and tried to focus on the pianist. The guy probably was fairly good, if he'd been in a mind to enjoy it, playing spoofs on other well-known composers.	
It had been worse since he picked up Niki, and she'd fussed over him and touched his bandage and kissed it three times.	
The slinky, silky green outfit she wore complimented her short, fawn-colored hair and big blue eyes and left nothing to the imagination. Low cut in front, even lower in back, with a transparent jacket. She'd always dressed that way, and he'd always appreciated her sexuality.	
Tonight, it made him uncomfortable.	
A cooling breeze stirred the air of the outdoor amphitheater, and Niki leaned closer. Forcing his arm around her, despite the fact that it must have been close to seventy-five degrees. Jeez, if she wore more clothing, he thought, she'd be plenty warm.	
Like him. Like the disturbing heat that he felt race through his body, when his hand made contact with the wispy fabric covering her shoulder. Bay rested his arm along the seat back, careful to avoid touching Niki.	
She touched him instead, resting her hand on his chest. Possessively. Over his heart that drummed with something that made him shift again in his seat. He knew she thought it was desire.	
"Would you like to go now, Babe?" Niki murmured, her lips against his ear.	
Bay cleared his throat. "No, I'm fine. Let's enjoy the concert." God, anything, anything to delay going back to her house.	
So, he sat stiffly, hand gripping the back of Niki's seat, forcing himself to breathe a regular twelve times a minute.	
Then the concert was finally over, and he walked Niki to the car, her hand clinging to his elbow. With her high, strappy sandals, Niki's hip jostled his with a seductive swish.	
In the car, Niki sat in the middle again, like she had on the way over. Only this time she splayed her hand on his thigh. He could feel her fingers against him every time he braked to negotiate a curve.	
He tried to enjoy the feeling of her hand there like he had other times, but he only felt her body heat. Nothing more.	
Nervous anticipation curled again in his gut when he parked the Olds outside Niki's Victorian cottage. He could smell the overwhelming sweetness of the flowering vines that clung to the front porch arbor.	
Like Niki. Clingy and overpowering.	
Inside, she pulled him close, wrapping her long arms around him. And kissed him. A hot, invasive kiss that stirred him.	
But didn't arouse him the way it always did.	
And she knew it. Niki pulled back, her eyes wide and confused.	
"Babe?"	
He couldn't meet them, those eyes. "It's been a long day. How about you get the wine?"	
She shook her head. "But I thought you wanted fruit juice, Babe?"	
"Wine is fruit juice, it's just fermented," he added lamely. Maybe the wine would help him relax, and ease the tenseness from him.	
"Well, at least come on in," Niki said, pulling him from against the foyer wall. She slipped off her shoes. "I'll be right back."	
Bay sat on her fussy couch, noticing for the first time how uncomfortable its stiff back and low, deep seat were. But then, he didn't think he'd ever sat on it. Usually he and Niki got through the door and ...	
His gut tightened again when Niki sashayed into the parlor wearing a deep green robe, silky like her dress, but covering more. He knew she'd have some fancy lingerie underneath. Or maybe she was naked.	
Instead he saw Dia's nakedness, half dream, half reality, and he almost choked on the wine Niki handed him. She curled up next to him on the hard, uncomfortable couch, making sure he could see her long legs in the slit of her robe. Long skinny legs, not like Dia's shapely, muscled ones.	
He gulped the wine. Niki poured him more and he drank it before she slid her hand over his chest. Teasing him between the second and third buttons on his shirt. Tugging off his tie and flicking them open. Running long, manicured nails over his chest, through the hair, scraping a nipple. Her mouth following.	
Bay closed his eyes, trying to relax. To go with it. To allow biology to take its course. But behind his eyes, he saw Dia. Felt her touching him, not with immaculate coral nails, but with short, blunt ones. Remembered her apple sweet lips.	
Physical arousal came hot and heavy. Niki knew, and straddled him, working his shirt and pants. Bay scrunched his eyes tighter. He tried to keep the image of Dia.	
He heard the rustle of silk and felt the heat of her body against him, and knew she was naked, too.	
"Let's go to bed, Babe," she begged against his lips with a throaty gasp.	
Niki? The fantasy rolling against the screen of his eyes shattered when they snapped open.	
Niki? Not Dia? Oh, God, Judas Priest, he ... what was he doing?	
He stilled, his hands digging into the bony flesh above her hips. "I can't do this."	
Her thighs trembled against his, the heat of her so ready for him. The biology part.	
Niki's knees clamped tighter around him. "This doesn't feel like a man who can't." She leaned over him, her small, flat breasts level with his eyes. Small and flat. Not round and full.	
Still, his body wanted her, the biology part.	
But his soul, his heart ... Judas Priest, this was Niki, dammit, not Dia. Niki.	
Bay eased her off him. Feeling too naked and vulnerable, he slipped into his slacks. Niki just sat there, her white skin peppered with goose flesh and her eyes and mouth round like a fish's. A tear slid down her cheek.	
"Oh, Babe, I'm sorry. It's the two pounds I put on, isn't it?"	
Bay's gaze swept Niki, her shoulder bones, the childish breasts, ribs and hips visible through her pale skin. Delicate. Beautiful. But not Dia.	
He threaded his fingers though his hair, wanting to comfort her. "Jeez, no, Niki. God, you're ... we've always been good together." Until tonight, when the only way he could fulfill her was to dream of someone else. Dia.	
And now he couldn't even do that. Fulfill her. The biology part.	
Niki's lip trembled and she turned from him, shrugging into her green robe and belting it tightly.	
"It's me, Niki. Not you."	
Her shoulders heaved when she took a deep breath and spun back to him. "You've met someone else."	
Not a question. A statement.	
"Yes." Bay pinched the bridge of his nose. This was so awkward.	
"You love her."	
Another statement.	
He pinched his nose harder so it hurt. "Yes." The words ripped from the depth of his soul.	
Niki tipped up her classic nose. He knew her non-chalance was fake. "Lucky lady. So, what the hell are you doing with me? A cheap substitute?"	
Truthful shame burned his face. "No, Niki, God ..."	
And then Niki's hand struck his cheek so hard he bit his lip. "You make a lousy liar." Her smoldering blue eyes met his in the instant before she spashed her cold glass of wine onto his crotch. "Now get out."	
His ardor chilled, he grabbed his clothes and left.	
The biology part, he thought. So connected with the heart and spirit.	
No longer separate.	
He needed to forget.	
And with what happened with Niki, he didn't think he'd want any part of that for quite awhile.	
	
Still he watched and waited. Still he watched and waited for the She-mate. He knew she was coming. He felt it.	
And he felt the fear.	
["Seventeen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Seventeen	
Moving slowly to fight the waves of dizziness that spun her head like a carnival ride, Dia made her way along the short path to Oak Haven's Contemplative Garden. She hated this weakness that left her limbs heavy and quivery at the same time. Less than a week ago she'd hiked the Cascades with robust vigor. With Bay trailing behind her.	
She remembered his kisses that tasted like hot cinnamon and melted her insides.	
Oh, God.	
Now she had to sit on the conveniently spaced benches every ten feet and rest before she could advance to the next. And the next. Filling the time until her parents arrived to pick her up this afternoon.	
Dia enjoyed the new peace she'd found in herself, and with her mother. Dia suspected that Lark, as she'd asked to be called in the spirit of their new friendship, needed time to sort through her emotions, too.	
Like calling her Lark. Dia thought she could muster a more relaxed "mom", but not Lark. She was still her mother, and they could get along, be friends, without quite so much informality.	
Mom. She liked it.	
Dia advanced slowly to the next bench, her thoughts changing and whirling with the spin of her brain.	
Bay.	
She tried not to think about Bay and his spicy kisses. And his betrayal.	
About Jonathan and Moth...Mom and forgiveness. Of healing. Renewal.	
Bay's betrayal was too big. It couldn't be fixed.	
Two more benches. Now she was there. In the cultivated-to-look-natural sanctuary of clipped roses and trimmed firs and manicured lawn.	
In the center stood a brick building, new, but built to look old. With stained-glass windows and a steeple with a bell.	
Dia sighed and headed for the door, as if summoned. Its ornately carved oak door moved easily on the oiled hinges.	
Inside, the late afternoon sunshine streamed through the colorful glass, creating a kaleidoscopic composition of reds and blues and yellows and golds on the buffed oak floor and pews. Dia sat in the third pew she came to and was bathed warm, green light. Lost in it. Feeling her cares lifted away.	
She heard the gentle creak of the bench behind her.	
"He's lost," said a voice that swirled around her.	
Dia blinked and was back in the Contemplative Gardens Chapel, on a pew, in the greenness from the sun on stained glass.	
Someone sat behind her.	
It said again, "He's lost."	
The voice, it -- it was talking to her. Slowly, Dia turned, irritation rising at the intrusion in her peaceful reflection.	
The light, it made her green, too. The girl, or maybe she was a woman, sitting there. Her hair, her eyes, her clothes. Her skin looked strangely clear, though. Not green.	
Dia remembered the waif-like person. But couldn't say from where. A recognition.	
"Who's lost?" Dia found her voice and it was hushed and breathy in the chapel.	
"The one with hair and eyes that glint like the coals in a slow-burning fire."	
"Bay?" Dia squeaked, wondering why she was talking to this impudent woman-child with the close-cropped green hair and the duo of earrings sparkling in her tongue. A dozen more hung in each ear.	
"He's lost."	
"What do you mean he's lost?"	
The woman-child's hand touched Dia's on the back of the pew, its warmth filling her strangely. She stared at Dia intently with green cat eyes.	
She trusted the woman-child, yet unease thrummed in her, too, like the woman-child read her mind and knew her innermost thoughts.	
"He's lost. His heart is lost."	
"Bay's heart is lost? I don't understand."	
The woman-child's grip tightened on Dia's hand. "You have broken through his wall. You have touched his heart."	
Words tumbled inside Dia's brain, words Bay had said when she'd been in the hospital.	
I let you in.	
"Touched his heart?"	
The woman-child's bejeweled tongue flicked out, then in. "He hasn't loved before."	
More words echoed inside her.	
I let you get close to me in a way no one has ...	
"What do you mean?"	
"He hasn't loved before." More warmth radiated up her arm from the woman-child's touch. "You must show him the way."	
"Show him the way? I can't. He took what was mine. He betrayed ..."	
... forever ...	
The woman-child touched Dia's lips with her finger, stilling them, silencing her. Then, with that same hand, she rummaged in a voluminous green tote bag slung over her shoulder.	
Pulled something out and placed it in Dia's lap. "You'll find not what you seek."	
It was something heavy.	
A book. A book with a green sticky note scrawled in green ink that read, "See p. 304 - call me when it works. Angel," with a phone number beneath her name.	
Dia plucked the note from the cover.	
501 Ways to Love a Man - Volume I	
A weird, warm wind rushed inside and outside her, and when she turned, the woman-child was gone.	
	
Bay didn't know if he felt worse today or not. He sure as hell didn't feel any better.	
The wine he'd guzzled at Niki's was only part of the problem. Lack of sleep was another part. The dull ache in his groin that reminded him of his near indiscretion was another.	
And guilt, that was yet another part. Guilt at using Niki, at hurting her. At the gut reaction he'd had feeling like he was being unfaithful to Dia.	
Judas Priest.	
Things had always been good with Niki. Superficial conversation. Superficial sex. Then home to his own place until the next time. No commitments. No emotional involvement. Neat and tidy and no self-investment.	
Purely biology.	
No longer.	
Loving Dia had made it all different. United the biology part and the...the emotional part in one not-so-tidy package. No longer separable.	
And that made it all so damn awkward.	
So important that he forget it now.	
Shifting on his stool, Bay took a deep breath and exhaled, slipping on his rubber gloves and fingering the fur tuft he'd been studying, unsuccessfully, since yesterday.	
He had to get his research done, write his paper.	
Do the ethical thing.	
A sour taste rose in his mouth, but he swallowed it down and looked at the fur under the microscope.	
Everything blurred into an unfocused mass of gray and tan and brown. And sunshine and moonbeam hair and laughing cloud-colored eyes.	
He slapped the counter so hard that the microscope jumped and his palm stung and the force reverberated through him.	
If he'd had a coffee cup he would have thrown it.	
But he didn't. So Bay forced himself to look again at the sample under the microscope.	
He looked for a long time and didn't see anything there.	
Only sunshine and moonbeam hair and laughing cloud-colored eyes. Eyes that had turned away from him in the hospital.	
Eyes that he didn't understand now.	
Eyes that he loved anyway.	
Jeez.	
Why couldn't she understand that he had to do this?	
	
Harvey paid cash for the gas at the independent station in Roseburg. The money was from the woman at the park. The one who'd looked like the interfering Bitch. She'd had it in her butt pack.	
What kind of a broad jogged with $200 bucks in a butt pack? He didn't care. Her loss was his gain.	
Except that he'd had to lose the clothes this time. The Power had been too greedy, too careless. He'd gotten blood on the shoes. But he'd waded in the stream to cover his tracks, so the shoes were clean now, except for a little rust-colored mud. He liked that it was rust-colored. Like the woman's blood.	
It was when he'd gotten home that he'd noticed the dark stains on the jeans. A blotch on the right knee and a splash on the crotch. A tiny spray of droplets on the flannel shirt. So, he'd bundled them up a trash bag.	
The trash bag he pulled from the bed of the pick-up and shoved in the dumpster behind the gas station. No one would finger him this time.	
The truck went through gas like a damn AK-47 went through bullets. He was forced to gas up again in Salem and again at the outskirts of Portland. There went sixty of his hard-earned bucks.	
He chuckled to himself. Hard-earned his ass.	
Behind the Portland gas station, he riffled through a torn phone book. The OAB - OAL page was there.	
He ripped it out.	
Oak Haven. An address.	
He was on his way. Oh, yeah.	
And the Power knew it.	
Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.	
He put the rusty truck in gear, gave it a foot-load of gas, and was on his way.	
Mmmm, hmmm.	
	
Dia sat for a long time in the Contemplative Gardens Chapel, fingering the white, hard-bound book with the intertwined pink and blue glossy hearts on the cover.	
He's lost, she had said. The woman-child. He's lost. You have touched his heart. He hasn't loved before. You must show him the way.	
All this about Bay?	
Oh, God.	
Dia blinked again in the green light surrounding her. Warmth, acceptance, love.	
What was the woman-child telling her?	
He's lost. You have touched his heart. I let you in.	
He hasn't loved before. I let you get close to me in a way no one has...	
You must show him the way. Forever.	
Oh, God, what did it mean? What did it all mean?	
That Bay had never had a close relationship with a woman? By his own admission he'd said he wasn't marriage material. Is that what he'd meant? Is that what the woman-child had meant? That he'd been unable to forge a relationship with a woman, based on his resolve to keep himself away from the negative sacrifices he felt his mother had made for his father in the name of love?	
Maybe that explained his reticence, his tentative touches. And yet, that thought, that realization, stirred her heart. Bay had allowed himself to get close to her. To touch her and trust her when he never had.	
Did he love her?	
Could he?	
She felt hot and cold now, in the green light. Hot and cold with the unreal awareness swirling through her like a tornado.	
Bay could love her? Her?	
She had a memory of those word that she didn't recall hearing.	
But ... but then why was he betraying her? Betraying her and everything she'd worked so hard for?	
Why?	
Curiously, as if it would hold the answers, she opened the book that felt hot in her hands. "See p. 304." She thumbed the pages until she was there.	
And blushed and slammed it.	
A photo. A waterfall. A man. A woman. Naked, like Adam and Eve. Embracing. Like Rodin's The Kiss.	
Pure. Spiritual. Earthy. Natural.	
Love.	
But Bay didn't love her. He couldn't. Because he'd betrayed her, hadn't he? And that was unforgivable, wasn't it?	
Oh, God.	
All Dia knew was that she loved Bay. Even in all this craziness, she loved him.	
And somehow that seemed the worst betrayal of all.	
	
Finally the minute hand on the lab clock's face nudged itself into an upright position. Five o'clock.	
Time to go home.	
Bay slid the fur sample back into the specimen bag. The same fur sample he'd stared at all day. The same fur sample that looked like sunshine and moonbeam hair and laughing cloud-colored eyes every time he stared at it. Over and over. All day.	
After securing the fur and tidying his office, Bay wearily trudged to his car. Inside it still smelled like Niki. A gag rose in his throat, and he whisked all his windows down. The wind cleared away the scent, but not the memories it brought.	
Niki, clinging to him. Wanting him.	
Dia, holding on to him for dear life. Turning away from him at the hospital.	
Jeez, Dia. He loved Dia, and he hated himself for it. For the weakness of allowing her to penetrate his carefully constructed armor. Why the hell couldn't it be Niki who stirred him like this? Simple, starry-headed Niki who would demand so little of him outside the bedroom.	
So little.	
Dia demanded so much without asking. Demanded so much of his thoughts now.	
Damn, stubborn, proud Dia who would never understand.	
Because she wanted to hide scientific knowledge. And he had an ethical responsibility, right?	
Bay slid the Olds into his pristine garage. Mechanically, he collected the mail and plucked the morning newspaper off the front porch where it had rested all day, and tromped into the house.	
He poured himself a glass of orange juice and rested the cold glass against his hot, aching forehead. God, he longed for a beer, but not tonight.	
It was too easy. Too hard the next day.	
Instead, he opened the newspaper's sun-yellowed front section. His eye caught the headline.	
"SECOND ROGUE VALLEY WOMAN ATTACKED	
Following yesterday's shocking, brutal attack of a young nurse at a local hospital, a second victim has been located.	
Left slashed and bloodied, 37-year-old Amanda Shackleton-Garrett was discovered in a blackberry thicket adjacent to the downtown walking path. Police are advising..."	
Disgusted, Bay tossed the paper aside. He needed something positive to think about, not the rampant negativity that the media seemed to think qualified as news.	
Slurping down the remainder of his orange juice, Bay leaned back on his cream suede couch and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. Trying to give himself something to think about.	
But Dia intruded anyway, like she'd done all day. Hell, ever since he'd met her. Even more so the last few days.	
And now there was that damned article, the violence of it that was making him remember her pale face, as white as the hospital's sheets. See her blood, feel it again, on his hands. Hot and full of life.	
He could see it on her clothes, too, on the flesh pink top with the O-ring zipper that he'd inched down over her breasts. The same breasts he'd watched a water droplet slip between. The same breasts he'd touched, brought to turgid life with his palm that heated with the memory. Memory which brought back the unfulfilled, hot ache.	
The one that couldn't be satisfied now with purely biological sex. The one that made him wonder whether her breast's pearl button tips were peach or dusky rose.	
Judas Priest, he could have lost Dia. She could have died from that bastard's bullets. He tasted hot, metallic fear in his throat. Dia could have died...	
But, she didn't, and life went on. He had to forget her. He had to forget the shocked look on her face when he'd told her of his ethical responsibility and the way her mouth tasted like apples and the feel of her breasts. He had to do what was right, didn't he?	
Publish the truth. Forget Dia. Build the walls.	
Even if she didn't understand. Especially if she didn't.	
He squeezed the bridge of his nose even tighter. But thoughts, memories, of Dia still tantalized and titillated and scared him.	
Bay hated this. Hated the emotional chaos that confused his neat, tidy world.	
Hated loving Dia. Hated not knowing what to do about it.	
He hated that even more.	
	
Harvey pulled into another service station. Now he had to check the map in the phone book.	
He was still heading in the right direction. The street he was looking for was about a half-mile ahead.	
Climbing back into the rusty pick-up, he ground it into gear and stomped the accelerator. Sweat slickened his palms in anticipation, and his heart raced. The Power stirred and came to life. Not in control yet, but challenging Harvey's concentration.	
He swung the pick-up left on the next street, cutting off some punk he gave the finger for good measure. Down the block. The address numbers got smaller, just like they should. Oh, yeah.	
Another quarter-mile and he could see the sign in a cobblestone planter surrounded by red and burgundy flowers. A large oak tree grew in the small, manicured lawn behind it.	
Harvey could barely keep a grip on the cracked steering wheel they were so wet now. His pits were sticky too, and he could smell his own ripe excitement. The Power's demanding strength seeped into his veins. Into his blood.	
At the big brick building up ahead, Harvey slid the pick-up into an end place next to a late-model silver Caddy. He wiped his wet palms on the legs of his slacks, and stroked the stainless steel blade of the skinning knife in his pocket. Then headed for the entrance.	
The Power coiled tighter, taking firmer control. But not all of it yet.	
A pretty blonde greeted him at the desk. Yellow blonde, from a bottle. Not the silky color of the interfering Bitch's. But still blonde enough to disturb, to encourage the Power.	
He was so close now. His breath rushed out and he tried to talk normally.	
"I'm looking for Diamond Norwell's room." Harvey thought he sounded pretty normal, but a bit out of breath.	
The blonde smiled politely. Her teeth were white and even. She wore red lipstick. Blood red.	
"I'll see if I can find that out for you."	
She clicked a few keys on the computer at the desk. It beeped at her, and she smiled again.	
"Well, you're right on time, sir. Her discharge papers were filed five minutes ago. She'll be at the discharge exit around the side of the building."	
The discharge exit! Around the side of the building! It was too good to be true! The interfering Bitch was his for the taking!	
Oh, yeah.	
He forced the Power to wait. He'd need all his brains to make this work. Then the Power could get its payoff. After. After she'd found that beast for him and made him a zillion bucks.	
Harvey couldn't get around the corner fast enough. He didn't want to run, because that might attract too much attention. Easy does it, like he belonged here. The building seemed to have grown larger since he walked in.	
Harvey rounded the corner and stopped short.	
She was there, ten feet ahead of him! In a wheelchair!	
He fingered the knife again, pricking himself with its ready blade. The pain keeping the Power from taking over. Yet.	
Her eyes flashed in his direction, and he could see they were the steely color of a freshly blued gun barrel.	
And he could see the fear in them, too.	
The Power quivered, wanting its way, but still, he squeezed the knife blade in his pocket. Feeling his own red blood smear between his fingers. He couldn't breathe with the eagerness rushing inside him.	
Then, in a flash, her eyes darted away from him, and up at the gray-haired guy in the three-piece suit pushing the chair. The man from the other hospital. Next to him was a woman in a fancy suit.	
Her parents.	
Harvey stood, still clasping the knife blade. Rooted to the spot. Watching the interfering Bitch and her parents climb into the Caddy parked next to his truck and slip out of the parking lot. She was gone again.	
A fiery anger exploded inside him.	
An anger that no amount of pain could govern. No amount at all.	
The Power was in control. Harvey knew it now and didn't care.	
It demanded revenge.	
And found it quickly. The yellow blonde from the desk. She was outside now, walking at the edge of the overgrown gardens smoking a cigarette.	
He pulled her into the brush.	
It was over in two minutes, her blood like her lipstick and those deep red flowers at the gate. She'd never had a chance to make a noise.	
The Power was quiet again.	
For now.	
	
He sensed it. The danger in the air.	
The She-mate was coming. He knew it.	
By the time of the round white light, it would happen.	
He had to make it stop.	
["Eighteen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Eighteen	
Bay signaled and passed the motor home lumbering over Sexton Summit. Jeez, he'd only been on the road half-an-hour, and he was so impatient he was ready to jump from his skin.	
What the hell was wrong with him? Nothing bothered him before.	
Before he'd met Dia and spent another night thinking of her, dreaming of her. Dreams that woke him hot and aroused. At three in the morning he'd finally taken a cold shower which chilled him so much that he couldn't sleep the rest of the night.	
He'd still thought of Dia, but then the dreams came when he was awake.	
The loving her. The wanting her. The hating it.	
The need for Dia to understand him. His position. His ethical choice.	
Bay had thought of other things, too, during the night. He'd thought about Bradley. How he'd talked to Dia about Bradley, the first time in so many years. She had listened and understood. Because of Aster, he knew now. Baby Aster whose life had ebbed away in his hands.	
He'd thought of his career, of the ER work. Of the emotions it had made him lock tightly away. Of the emotions Dia made him feel now that she'd gotten inside. And that scared him.	
He'd thought of Mom. Mom who'd sacrificed so much of her life because of her love for his father. Jacob.	
He needed to understand. He needed to understand why.	
Bay stomped the gas, and the Olds downshifted up the winding grade.	
That's why, after thirty years of keeping himself in control, moving through life rationally and methodically, this Saturday morning he was on his way north to see his mother. Mom.	
In the institution in Portland.	
To get answers to questions he didn't even know how to ask.	
The triple latte he'd guzzled on his way out of Medford did nothing to wake him, only frazzled his nerves more. And hit the bladder just south of Roseburg.	
Passing a truck and slamming on his brakes, Bay slipped off Interstate 5 and looped into a rest stop.	
Already it was busy this morning. But it was a Saturday, mid-August, and lots of people were traveling. He slid the Olds in next to a battered, rusty pick-up, the only available spot.	
It was hot out. Today he wore navy Docker shorts and a neat, collared polo-shirt. Not like the jerk lounging against the hood of the truck next to him who wore long-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans.	
Bay pocketed his keys and headed to the rest room. A few days ago, he'd been the jerk.	
Before he met Dia and everything changed. Which was why he was heading for Portland. To Mom. Like a freakin' eight year old.	
Bay cursed the line, a bunch of guys like ducks in a row, all waiting to take a leak in the one working urinal.	
The jerk in the flannel still slouched against the truck. A sweaty man in sunglasses who slurped something from the crumpled bag around a bottle in his hand. He could see dark stains under the man's grubby nails, like Dia's blood under his own. There was a smear on his blue and green flannel shirt, too.	
A new blue and green flannel shirt, with the creases still in the sleeves and front where it was folded in the package. He'd bought one just like it ... and left it behind. With his sunglasses and the tent and everything else.	
His sunglasses. The pricey pair he'd bought for no reason other than he wanted them. Dark, gray-green lenses. Gold rims.	
Like this man's.	
A weird feeling scuttled up his spine that chilled him even in the heat. Something that bothered him about the man's new shirt and dirty hands. Something dangerous that made him wish for the .38 he'd left behind, too.	
Bay paused at the door to the Olds, and felt the man's eyes on him, cold through the lenses.	
He climbed into the car, started it and turned the air conditioning up full blast to combat the trembly heat that ran in his veins.	
Judas Priest, Russell, you've been spending too many nights not sleeping. A man in a flannel shirt like one you bought hardly constitutes a suspicion. The sunglasses -- he could have bought them anywhere. And the blood -- maybe he's a butcher, for crying out loud.	
But still, something didn't jive.	
The man tossed his bottle-bag into the rusty pick-up's bed and vaulted into the driver's seat. The battered vehicle sprang to creaky life on the second crank, backfired and lugged away in a cloud of gray smoke.	
Slipping the Olds into reverse, Bay backed out and headed for the Interstate. Following the pick-up until it veered onto the southbound entrance.	
Turning north, he felt the man's cold gaze, and his palms got sweaty.	
Judas Priest.	
	
Harvey rubbed the beer foam from the edge of his lip and floored the pick-up. It backfired twice, then lumbered up the on ramp. He felt a weird light-headedness spinning through him.	
That guy was the Big Hero. From the mountain. The moron had looked familiar.	
Rage burned hotly in Harvey's blood, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly. It wasn't the Power kind of anger. Just anger at himself for not remembering. He could easily have tailed him, got rid of him. The bandage on his forehead showed how close he'd come to nailing the jerk.	
But Harvey had blown it big time and the Big Hero was headed north.	
To her.	
To the interfering Bitch who wasn't there anymore. She was on her way home.	
Harvey's rage lessened a bit with the knowledge. The Big Hero wasn't going to get it. He, Harvey, was going to find the interfering Bitch first.	
He smiled and clucked at his brilliance.	
He was going to get to the interfering Bitch first.	
The thought made the Power tight with anticipation now.	
With the overpowering lust for justice. For revenge.	
Harvey stomped the gas even harder, till his foot in the blood-rusty tennis shoe hit the floor.	
	
Dia kissed her mother -- Mom -- then her father.	
"Are you sure you're ready for this, Darling?" Mom whispered. "It's so soon. It's been less than a week ..."	
"I thought we agreed I was making my own decision," Dia chided.	
Mom sighed. "I know, Darling, but it's so hard ..."	
"I know."	
Her father said gruffly, "Take care, Darling."	
"I will." She hugged him again.	
Carefully, Dia curled her nearly healed right hand around her tote bag and headed up the ramp. To the plane that would take her back to Medford.	
Settling into the window seat, the seat divider jabbed into her left arm. The one that had been shot. She cringed at the ache that rushed in it still.	
It was stitched and bandaged. The stitches came out in another week, and she'd promised Oak Haven's physician she'd have them out at home.	
Closing her eyes and resting her head against the seat, Dia fought the weariness that tugged at her eyelids. She was feeling stronger. But everything still seemed an effort. Or was uncomfortable.	
But she couldn't dwell on that now, because she had to get back to the Sasquatches.	
Before Bay did.	
She drowsed to the thrum of the propellers. Thinking.	
Feeling light-hearted, almost. About the new beginning she and her mother, and her father, by default, had forged. Relating as adults. As friends. As equals. Years of baggage unloaded from her mind.	
And she thought of Jonathan, too. She'd called him at Oak Haven this morning. To say good-bye. To wish him well. To get his address for a Christmas card. Contact once a year.	
She thought of Aster. While her heart hurt, it was a bittersweet pain. A pain of longing, of dreams unfulfilled. But there was no anger with it. Only the injustice of a life too quickly snuffed out.	
And in that thought, she, for a moment, saw hope. Hope for the future. Hope for another child.	
An image of the couple embracing by the waterfall flashed in her mind. She saw a baby, with honey-colored hair and fiery, flashing eyes. Like Bay's.	
Oh, God.	
His heart is lost, that's what the woman-child called Angel had said. That she had to show him the way.	
How? How could she do that? He'd betrayed her.	
But then, a week ago, she was sure that Jonathan had, and her parents. That she couldn't trust them, or their love or motivations.	
Maybe it was the same with Bay.	
And maybe it wasn't.	
	
Three hours later, Bay parked the Olds outside Oak Haven, the posh facility he'd financed for the last dozen years. His heart pulsed nervously in his chest.	
He was going to visit his mother.	
Judas Priest.	
He was nearly forty years old and afraid to visit his own mother.	
He saw the past here, the future.	
Pausing at the heavy door, he flexed his hand once, twice, before curling it around the handle.	
It slammed behind him, a thump that ricocheted in his chest. Guilt rattled in there, too.	
He didn't remember where his mother's room was.	
"Where can I find Louise Russell?" he asked a girl at the desk. She had short, green hair and spangly earrings framing her ears. Her name tag read Angel. Angel looked like she lived here.	
She tapped some keys on the computer terminal, then furrowed her brow. He watched, wondering what it was about her that looked vaguely familiar.	
"I'm sorry, sir, what did you say your mother's name was? I don't usually work the desk, but Brenda didn't come into work today so they pulled me from the back."	
The back? Judas Priest, she wasn't kidding. "Louise Russell," he said again.	
Angel typed some more.	
"Ah ha. Found it. She just had her p.m. meds, so she's probably in the rec. room. Just down the hall and to the left." Angel pulled a file from the basket on the desk. Her cat-green eyes met his, and Bay felt like she'd seen inside him. The turmoil. "I'm going that way. I could show you where the room is."	
On the way she smiled at him a lot with her even white teeth. She might have been flirting with him, but Bay wasn't sure. He wasn't interested, anyway. It only made him think of Dia.	
The babble of voices grew louder down the long hall.	
"Here's the rec. room, " Angel said, and touched him on the arm. The brief contact with her felt warm and strangely comforting.	
Across the room he saw her, his mother. A tiny, white-haired woman in a pink sweater swallowed by the overstuffed chair she sat in. Looking out the window at the green, manicured grass and perky flowers in the garden beyond.	
When had her hair gotten so white? Had she always been so small?	
Even so he saw the stubborn pride in the tilt of her chin.	
Bay swallowed and tears burned for a moment behind his eyes. Guilt, remorse. The questions he had to ask and didn't know how.	
There were others in the room, but he didn't see them as he took a deep breath and took the long walk across it, feeling timid.	
Bay paused and squatted next to his mother's chair. He touched her gnarled, age-spotted hand gently with his big one.	
"Mom?" The word came out choked and stilted.	
"Jacob?" she whispered.	
Bay cleared his throat, and then again, an odd tightness trying to constrict it. "No, Mom, it's me. Bayard." His mother had always called him that. Never Bay.	
Her gnarled hand clutched his and the other cupped his cheek. Touching his face and flicking a lock of hair from his brow as if her were a little boy. Her red-brown eyes glimmered with recognition.	
"Bayard, you look so like Jacob."	
Bay didn't know what to say. Just like Jacob? He didn't want to look like him, be like him. Was this his legacy? To hurt Dia? He had to know.	
But he still didn't know what to say, so he blurted, "I've been busy, Mom."	
As if that explained why he hadn't visited in two-and-a-half years.	
She ruffled his hair again and smiled. "I know, Son."	
He wanted to ask now, but the words stuck in his throat when she pressed a gentle, maternal touch to the bandage on his face.	
"Did you fall out of the tree, Bayard?"	
"No, Mom, I'm all grown up now."	
Her reality, so altered.	
She looked at him again, and her eyes softened. "Oh, Bayard. You look so much like him. Did I tell you that already?"	
"Yeah, Mom, you did." There it was again. His legacy?	
Bay's eyes burned suddenly. His mother had said that to him before. Last visit, and the visit before that. Dammit, he didn't want to be like Jacob. Like his father. Not now. Not ever. Not with the way he felt about Dia.	
Tongue-tied and embarrassed, Bay stood so Mom wouldn't see his emotion. He made a pretense of easing the cramps from his legs.	
Then he sat on the arm of her chair.	
"So, Bayard, what brings you to see me?"	
He felt backed into a corner. He knew what he needed to ask, but the words stalled on his tongue. With distress, he pushed them out anyway. Bay had to know the truth. For himself.	
For Dia.	
"Did you ... did you love ... Jacob ... my father?"	
Mom's soft hand, the blue veins standing out between the age-spots, held his.	
"Bayard, that's a foolish question."	
He chewed his lower lip and his cheek twitched, before he ran a hand through his hair. "Mom, please. I just need to know."	
Her eyes went soft and glowy with butterscotch memories, and she hesitated as if gathering her thoughts.	
"Yes, Bayard, I love your father."	
She said love. Not loved. Present tense, not past. As if he were there with them. Not gone. Not dead for the last ten years.	
More words skittered to life on Bay's tongue. "How, Mom? How can you love him when he took such advantage of you? When he hit you and hurt you and made your life so miserable?"	
Mom's eyes shimmered, fading in and out of reality. She squeezed his and sat up straighter in the big chair.	
"Oh, Bayard, Jacob is so charming and debonair and handsome. I can't help but love him." She sat up even straighter. "It's the Marines that did it to him."	
Unease vibrated up Bay's spine as if a tuning fork had been pressed to it. "The Marines? Did what to him? I don't understand."	
When she looked at him, her eyes were clear and momentarily lucid. "He went over there. To Southeast Asia. He wasn't the same when he came back."	
The tuning fork in Bay's spine became a jack-hammer. "Why ... I never knew Mom."	
Her face looked vacant and faraway now, as if what she'd just said was too painful. "I bought you the green Hot Wheels car."	
Her way of saying, perhaps, that he was too young? Too young to understand what war can do to a man? Judas Priest, he was nearly forty and he still didn't understand.	
Mom's veined, parchment lids dropped heavily, twitched, then opened.	
"I never gave up hope. I never gave up hope that you would come back, Jacob."	
The jack-hammer sensation vibrated through Bay's limbs now, leaving them weak and quivery. He watched the butterscotch glow fade from Mom's eyes.	
She touched him, flicking that lock of hair from his forehead. Fingered his bandage.	
"Did you fall out of the tree, Bayard?"	
"No, Mom, I didn't. I just got careless."	
"I never gave up hope. That's what love's about. Hope."	
"Yeah, Mom."	
"I never gave up hope that you'd come back to me. I love you and that's all that matters."	
Did she say those words to him or his father or herself?	
Judas Priest, he needed to leave now. So much swirled in his head, vibrated inside him that he needed to leave.	
Before the spinning made him sick.	
He kissed his mother's withered cheek. At the door he dared to look back. She sat in the chair, engulfed, wearing a pink sweater, staring out the window at the grass and the colorful flowers, like he'd not just been at her side.	
The realization hit him then.	
He wasn't really like his father after all. He didn't fight in a war. The only enemy he fought was himself. Inside.	
And that one was much harder to conquer.	
The way he felt about Dia warring with his ethical responsibility.	
Swirling in a maelstrom of confusion.	
	
He could hear the noise before he saw it. The clattering stones sound of the den that moved on big rocks. The sound that brought the Other. The Other With The Hate in his heart.	
He waited, behind the brush. Then he saw the dust and smoke following the Other. Knew he was nearing.	
He felt fear.	
The clattering stones sound stopped and the Other got out.	
He smelled fear. Fear and something else. His nose twitched with the stench of it. Red life. Red life of the Others.	
A She-mate's red life. But not the She-mate he remembered.	
Now he knew what the Other With The Hate in his heart had done. He had hurt one of his own kind.	
He searched his memory of those who came before him. And before them. He could not find a memory of one of his kind hurting another. Not for food or mates or a den. He did find a memory of one of his kind fighting, but that was many memories ago when the big brown animal with long teeth and small ears that sometimes moved on four feet and sometimes on two had invaded a den. Never his own kind.	
His fear grew stronger. His fear for the She-mate. The one he remembered. He knew she would be back, too.	
He knew she would.	
He knew the Other With The Hate in his heart would hurt her.	
He heard the sound of clattering stones again. From far away. A different clattering sound.	
It got louder and came closer. Until he could see it in the dust.	
A den on round rocks. The color of pale clouds.	
The She-mate.	
And he was afraid.	
["Nineteen"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Nineteen	
Dia steered around the last washboard curve. She was exhausted and her left arm ached like crazy from wrestling the Jeep up the dirt road.	
The shadows were already growing leggy with the late afternoon sun. She'd gotten a later start that she'd hoped.	
Jerry was late picking her up from the airport. Then, she'd had to reorganize all her gear that Bay had dumped in a big heap in her garage.	
He'd been there. To her house. When she'd gone in, she could feel his presence.	
That had been comforting, in a way. But she tried to fight that thought with the feeling that he'd invaded her space and seen a part of her that she wasn't ready for him to see.	
This man who'd betrayed her. Yet, the man who'd touched her naked breast with breath-stopping reverence. He'd touched her heart and soul, too.	
Dia crested the last small hill before the clearing. Bay's saggy tent was still there. Taunting her. Reminding her. She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension. Then she took a deep breath and climbed out. Dia wished for another campsite, but this was nearest the footprints. The Sasquatches.	
She tried not to look at Bay's tent, its flaps open and snapping in the breeze. She tried not to look at the still bent grass where her own tent had rested. Where Bay had kissed her. Where they'd nearly ... made love. Where she'd said the words. Had she only known him a week?	
But that was before.	
Dia turned away and circled to the back of the Jeep. She opened it and hefted out her duffel bag. It seemed heavier today, its weight cramping her left arm with pain that left her queasy.	
Oh, God.	
With clammy sweat prickling her forehead, Dia leaned on the Jeep. Her gaze wandered to the open area on the rocky precipice, where she'd been shot the first time. To the edge of the clearing, where she'd been hit the second time. She'd fallen and Bay and had been there. He'd said he loved her. But only because he thought she was going to die.	
She scratched at the scabs healing on her chest. Fear slammed in her heart and exhaustion threatened to topple her. She could have died. Whoever shot her could still be up here. She wished for the .38 that Bay had stolen from her.	
But she hadn't died and she had work to do. The Sasquatches needed her. Like she needed them right now. Security. A goal.	
Dia stared for a moment at Bay's barely standing tent, and slowly went to it. Maybe the gun was still in the tent.	
There were booted footprints all around it. She peeked inside. There was nothing left. The shooter? Oh God, whoever it was had taken everything. She had the tranquilizer gun though. It would have to do.	
Dia looked again at the tent, gently massaged her arm, and made a decision.	
She lugged her heavy duffel over and pushed it inside. Then she tightened the ropes and drove the stakes, her right hand stinging against the hammer.	
She lit a fire, ate some reconstituted chicken soup, and crawled into her sleeping bag.	
The tent still smelled vaguely of Bay, the cologne he'd worn that first day. That day she'd branded him a Greenhorn. She remembered wishing the bugs would bite him. They had, and then she'd been sorry. Bay had also gotten blisters, and she'd had to tend them. Dia blushed now, remembering her reaction to Bay when she'd given him first aid. Lectured him, a former ER physician, on the dangers of open blisters.	
Dia pulled out the book Angel had given her. She wasn't sure why she'd brought it along. She opened it, and the pages automatically flipped to 304, to the couple embracing by the waterfall. Golden light from the fire danced over them, making their skin look warm and alive.	
She thought of Bay. You need to show him the way.	
She slammed the book shut. Dia didn't want to think of Bay.	
But her dreams were filled with him, anyway. With his scent. With the burn of his molten gaze. With the taste of his cinnamon lips. With the feel of his hard body rocking against her.	
With Bay and her by a waterfall. Embracing.	
	
Bay cradled his head in his hands and took deep breaths. It was quiet here, peaceful. Away from Mom and the babble and the demons of decision warring inside him. He sucked in another gulp of air and looked around. The breeze wafted in and he could smell wildflowers. Like Dia.	
He was in the chapel. The Contemplative Gardens Chapel. He wasn't quite sure why. He'd never been religious or had faith in anything that he couldn't prove or observe with scientific facts.	
But things had changed. Seeing the Sasquatches. Something that was now verifiable with proof that had always been considered a myth.	
Falling in love with Dia. Something that he'd always attributed to weakness and biological processes.	
Judas Priest, it was so much more than that. So complex.	
"You really love her, don't you?"	
Startled, he turned to the familiar voice behind him. The woman-child from the desk. From the diner. Angel.	
"My mother?" he asked confused, yet oddly calmed by Angel's presence.	
"No, the one whose hair is like sunshine and moonbeams?"	
Jeez, for some ridiculous reason, he trusted this crazy woman-child who spoke in metaphors. Metaphors only his internal poet knew. He didn't stop to wonder how she knew.	
"Yes," he heard himself answer before the word could register in his brain.	
"Her heart calls to yours."	
"What?"	
"Her heart calls to yours. Her life flows in your hands."	
Bay remembered the blood, her blood, on his hands. Vividly.	
He swallowed. "I don't understand."	
Angel's tongue flicked over her lip, the duo of earrings in it reminding him of a snake. Of danger.	
"Her life flows in your hands. The Other With The Hate in his heart will take it from you."	
Bay's heart slammed in his chest. The Other With The Hate in his heart? The Other With The Hate in his heart!	
"You need to go to her," Angel insisted.	
Bay's cheek twitched, and he bolted to his feet. Confused. Desperate.	
Angel stilled his motion with a hand to his forearm. It burned him in a crazy way that made him hot all over even though her touch was cold.	
She curled his palm around a bottle full of transparent, greenish liquid.	
"What the ...?" he checked himself. "What is this?"	
"Aftershave." Angel's cat-green eyes looked into his and Bay felt like she could read his soul.	
"What am I going to do with aftershave?" he demanded, running his other hand through his beard.	
Angel shrugged innocently and said, "Trust your instincts, but listen to your heart. You have to strike the balance."	
She was gone in a swish of cool air, like she disappeared.	
On the flask was a chartreuse note written in dark green ink. It said, "Diamonds are a man's best friend. This will get you there. Call me when it works. Angel," with her phone number scrawled below.	
	
Harvey saw the interfering Bitch's fire. He wanted to go. Now. Tonight. But something made him wait.	
It was the evil shadows. There was no moon, and he was afraid of the evil shadows that threatened to suffocate him with their long fingers. He could see the fingers curling up and down the trees from her fire.	
The Power wasn't afraid, though. But it was quiet tonight. Too quiet. That scared him, too. Maybe it was gone. Maybe its strength was sapped yesterday, with that yellow-blonde at that snooty hospital. Maybe she took it from him.	
Rage boiled in him, and Harvey unsheathed his hunting knife. Ran it along the soft pad of his index finger. Squeezed, and watched his own blood ooze to the surface, dark like the shadows. He watched it drip into the leaves at his feet, big drips that he heard splotch with the scuttle of a scared rabbit.	
He held his finger up to the moonless, starlit sky, staring at the dark stain slipping down his finger.	
Then he licked it, remembering the taste of the interfering Bitch's blood when he'd shot her. The drip he found on the rocks. Salt and metal.	
The Power stirred vigorously to life, quiet no more. Demanding.	
Demanding that he wait until she found the beasts. Led him to them.	
Then he could kill the beast. He couldn't watch it bleed, though, because he'd have to skin it carefully. Save the pelt for some scientific type. Like the Big Hero.	
He'd send the Big Hero the beast's skin for millions of bucks.	
Harvey chortled. He might even send the Big Hero a lock of the Bitch's hair.	
After, though. After he got his millions. Then.	
	
Bay sat for a long time in the Contemplative Gardens chapel, trying to catch his breath.	
What the in the world was that all about? What did she mean, this woman-child Angel, a monochromatic study in green?	
How did she know? How was she privy to his inner secrets? It was as if she knew him from a past life, if he believed in that stuff any more than he believed in God and leprechauns and rainbows and unicorns.	
Or Sasquatches, he reminded himself.	
Or Sasquatches. Real.	
Like love and Dia and ...	
Jeez, Dia.	
Her heart calls to yours, echoed Angel's words.	
Dia had said words, too, when she was shot. Delirious. Had she meant them? He'd said them, also, an "I love you" uttered when he thought he might never have the chance again. They were the truth then. Now. He knew it was the same for her.	
Her life flows in your hands.	
Dia's life. Her blood had been on his hands, mixed with his. A part of him that couldn't be removed. Ever. The blending of bodies, of souls. His and Dia's. Creating something new. Life. The new life blood of a baby.	
The Other With The Hate in his heart will take it from you.	
An arrow pierced the new hope sprouting in his heart. Evil. The Other With The Hate in his heart. The man at the rest stop, he knew instinctively. With the bad blood under his nails. Realization dawning. The Other With The Hate in his heart. He'd been the one to shoot Dia. He'd followed them. Taken Bay's clothes. The gun, probably, too.	
A gun he wouldn't hesitate to use. Again.	
You need to go to her.	
Bay leaped to his feet, tripping, striking his head on the corner of the pew. Dazed, he sat a moment, feeling his own blood seep from cut at his temple where the stitches had popped. The incision extended. Dripping on to his white shirt. Crimson stain on white.	
Ultimate sacrifice. Ultimate forgiveness.	
You need to strike a balance.	
Judas Priest, he didn't need to strike a balance. He just needed balance. Physical balance. Spiritual balance.	
Ethical balance.	
Sacrifice. Forgiveness.	
Rising to his feet, Bay knew what he had to do. He had to let go. The work was Dia's.	
Sponging his bloody forehead with the tail of his shirt, Bay rushed from the chapel. Renewed. Feeling the urgency of his mission. The necessity of getting to Dia. Now!	
He got ten yards before he noticed the darkness, the floodlights, the yellow police tape. The flash of navy in his peripheral vision.	
The word, "Freeze!"	
Then his throbbing cheek smacked cement and the booted pressure of a foot dug into the small of his back. The ratcheting of hand cuffs pinched into wrists on arms whose shoulders felt like they were being ripped from the socket.	
He watched the bottle of transparent green liquid sail from his grasp to land with a soft thump in the grass to his left.	
Oh, God, Dia, I'm sorry. I love you.	
"You have the right to remain silent..." he heard.	
Then everything went black.	
	
When Bay came to, he was in the back of a squad car. It smelled of stale cigarettes and rubber floor mats and holster leather.	
His arms, behind him, pinched painfully from wrist to shoulder. The seat belt cinched tightly across his hips.	
Aside from the physical discomfort, he felt nothing. Numbness, maybe. Disbelief. Confusion.	
Futility.	
The cop slid into the car and barked into his radio, something about bringing the suspect in.	
The suspect?	
Judas Priest! Him?	
His emotional paralysis flamed to life.	
"Dammit, what the hell is going on here?" he shouted.	
The cop clicked his seat belt and put the car in gear.	
"Save it for the station, buddy."	
"Like hell I'm saving it for the station. I have rights!"	
"Yeah, and I read 'em to you. That girl had rights, too."	
Dia? Angel? "What girl?"	
"I know, what girl? You're as innocent as a newborn lamb?"	
A drop of blood, or maybe it was sweat, oozed down his neck. "Dammit, there's got to be some mistake. I haven't even had a parking ticket in years. You've got to let me go."	
The cop lit a Camel cigarette and pulled heavily on it, filling the cab with acrid smoke. "Yeah, that's what they all say," he exhaled, flicking the ashes at the already overflowing tray.	
"No, Officer. You don't understand."	
Oh, God, Dia. Please. Be careful.	
Twin spirals of blue haze spewed from the cop's nostrils when he snorted. "Yeah, right, I don't understand. You think I'm letting you go to brutalize another woman, you got another thing comin' buddy. I got sisters, too."	
Brutalize another one? Another one? Another woman, like the two he'd read about in the paper? And they thought he did it? There must be one here too. His blood. They'd seen his blood and thought he did it. He had a gas receipt. An alibi. He had proof he didn't do it.	
Because it was the Other With The Hate in his heart who did this. The man he'd passed, wearing clothes and sunglasses he'd stolen from Bay's tent. He went south. Before Bay had even gotten here. He knew it. Instinct told him. An instinct he didn't think he had. Until now. Until he'd talked with Angel.	
And the man was on his way back to Dia. To hurt her. Like the other girls.	
Then he did something else. Something he'd never done before.	
He prayed.	
	
Dia watched the tiny seam of sky overhead go from black star-spangled splendor to indigo mist to lavender, before she crawled from her tent. Her sleep had been so fragmented by dreams and thoughts of Bay that she'd been awake most of the night. Her arm ached, too.	
Besides, she had work to do.	
Dia collected water at the stream, heating it both for bathing and breakfast. She felt acutely alone this morning, recalling the awkward camaraderie she and Bay had that first morning. Wary. Circling one another.	
It hadn't stayed that way. She missed him now.	
She loved him.	
But Bay had betrayed her. She had to remember that. Dia didn't want to, though. She wanted to forget that and just love him. Show him the way.	
She stuffed her hair under her hat and donned a sweatshirt against the chill morning, then filled her backpack with extra food and water and a camera. Pencils and a note book and a sketch pad. Polymer. Tranquilizer gun.	
Alone, she hiked the path from the clearing to the jutting rocky ridge. It was dark and forbidding in the cool shadows. Dia's heart hammered with near panic at the edge of the clearing, where she'd been shot the second time.	
She scanned the horizon. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Smelled only smoke of a campfire that could have drifted miles.	
Dia filled her lungs with the freshness of the new day, and pressed on. She was panting when she reached the place where she'd been hit the first time. When she saw the dark stains of her own blood on the rock, her stomach heaved and emptied itself.	
Huddled behind the next boulder where she couldn't see the ugliness, Dia gasped for air and pushed down the panic inside. She reminded herself of her work. Of the Sasquatches. Of her limited time.	
She massaged her arm, squared her hat on her head, and continued on to the bones. Wearily, Dia sat there, in that safe and quiet place. Collecting her thoughts. She touched what was left of the tiny skeleton, then the others. Feeling only a professional sadness for the loss of life, not a personal one this time. She'd laid those ghosts to rest. Found peace.	
Still, she plucked a few wild flowers from a bunch at her feet and laid one on each skeleton.	
Dia circled the grave site instead of continuing up. Following a gut instinct to an undiscovered trail. A dull shininess worn into the rocks. Downward, into the ravine on the other side. Excitement numbed her pain and fatigue.	
A small stream cut the path, the basin filled with mud.	
And footprints! Fresh ones!	
Two matched those she'd seen before, at the high pool, where she and Bay had rescued the baby. And, there were others, this time. Two, maybe three additional adults.	
Dia cast them quickly and pushed on.	
Down. Back below the treeline, the path went.	
And ended abruptly in a clearing at the base of the rocks. An odd clearing, the trees around it leaning inward like the ceiling of a giant cathedral. Hiding it. Protecting it. Creating a sanctuary.	
Enchanted, Dia sat on a moss covered rock at its periphery to rest. Amazed by the miniature Eden. Drawn to it by more than its peaceful beauty.	
Slowly, she edged forward, between the inner circle of trees.	
Her movement stilled instantly.	
Not ten yards away, a Sasquatch family group huddled at the mouth of an opening in the dark rock.	
Oh, God. She'd found it! She'd found their den! Elation surged powerfully inside, leaving her weak and breathless. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to scare them.	
The white-eared female was there, and the baby, its ankle scabbed, but healing. A large and imposing male crouched by them, his silvery fur glinting in the sun sprinkles penetrating the lofty canopy.	
Slowly, his eyes lifted from the root he was gnawing and met hers, golden brown and trusting. Not afraid. Not violent.	
Accepting.	
One by one the others turned and met her gaze. Chestnut, mahogany, chocolate, tan. Each brown. Each different. All peaceful.	
The group consisted of two other males, both younger and smaller than the obvious alpha. A half-dozen females. A few offspring.	
All gnawing roots.	
Slowly, Dia slid her camera and note book from her pack. The first time the camera clicked, two of the youngsters scuttled to their mothers and clung, like a human child at its mother's skirt. The youngest male, the one who still had the bare fur of the trap on his ankle, stared curiously in her direction. The root in his hand forgotten.	
And for that brief moment, Dia wasn't sure who was studying whom.	
She only knew that she had found the Sasquatches! She had found them!	
They had accepted her. The toughest part of the immediacy of her research.	
Tomorrow she would haul her gear up and camp nearer and learn as much as she could before it was too late.	
Before Bay came and brought the reporters and ended the Sasquatches' peaceful existence.	
	
It was quiet in her camp, but Harvey crept down anyway. Maybe the Bitch was still asleep.	
He cursed his own body's demand for sleep. Even the fear of the evil shadows hadn't kept him awake. The Power, too, had slackened, but was stirring now as he approached her tent.	
Stirring. Craving. Lurking beneath the surface again.	
The camp was empty. He crawled into the tent, just like he'd crawled into it before. When he'd taken the Big Hero's stuff.	
Sitting inside it, he could smell her. Some sweet shampoo that clung to her sleeping bag. He pushed his nose into the flannel and sucked the smell in, an animal, open-mouthed, scenting its prey. Tasting it. Feeling the Power surge in him in response.	
He swallowed the spit that slickened his mouth at the thought of her, of what he would do. How.	
He chortled, digging into her things. Clothing. Shorts. Socks.	
A book. 501 Ways to Love a Man. He opened it. To a picture. Harvey knew it was the Big Hero and the Bitch. He touched the picture, like he was touching the Bitch. Feeling her soft flesh in his mind. The Power knew how she would feel.	
The Big Hero couldn't have her. Harvey took his knife. Slashed the picture. Again and again. The Power wanting to explode with jealousy.	
He dug in her things again. Until he found what he wanted.	
Panties. Silky ones. The first black, the other blood red. Both so slinky the snagged in his rough fingers.	
He held the black pair, dark like the evil shadows. Pulled his knife from his belt. Pierced them, that evil blackness, feeling it give way, a shredding of satin and lace. He left them behind, the ragged panties, like so many evil shadows. Dead.	
The pair of blood red ones he rubbed against his cheek. Smelling faintly of her and laundry soap.	
He'd make her wear them when he did it.	
Maybe he'd bleed her dry a bit at a time.	
Over and over.	
Harvey skulked into the brush to wait.	
	
He knew the She-mate would return. And she had.	
The She-mate had found him. Found him and his band at the safe den in the trees. Away from the Other With The Hate in his heart who had jaws that closed on the Young Male. Away from the sticks that threw light and rocks.	
But not away from the She-mate.	
He didn't fear her. His own kind didn't fear the She-mate, either. He only knew fear for her. Fear for her that had to do with the Other With The Hate in his heart.	
The She-mate sat just paces away, and he could see her closely now. Her eyes were not the color of his, but were the color of sky in water. Her mane was silvery, like his, but with the round white light shining in it. Her body was not furred like his or his mates, but instead looked soft, much as the skin on his hands and feet did. That was why the She-mate and He-mate and Others covered themselves with colorful leaves made of plants he did not know. In his memory or those before him.	
He watched her, curious. She barred her teeth with upturned lips when one of the young females pulled a root from her sister, and a sharp noise came from the She-mate's mouth. It was a good sound, this teeth-barring not threatening.	
The She-mate pointed a dark rock with an eye at them that clicked. He was not afraid of it. He wanted to know what it was.	
He wanted to protect her from the Other With The Hate in his heart, too. But he did not know how. Thoughts formed, pictures in his mind. Pictures that those of his own kind would know.	
Pictures he could not make the She-mate understand. Thoughts that he lacked the wind from the mouth to say.	
It grew dark and he watched her go.	
Fear raised his hackles. He had to make the mind pictures work. Because the She-mate had saved the Young Male.	
He needed to save her.	
["Twenty"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Twenty	
Dia was bone tired when she arrived back at her camp. It was late. She'd spent so much time watching the Sasquatches, accustoming them to her, that she'd lost track of time.	
It was nearly dark, and foreboding hung thick in the blackening air. A premonition, almost.	
She shivered, despite the warm evening. Get a grip, it's only nerves and too much aloneness, she told herself.	
Wearily, she pulled out her flashlight, tossed her pack into the tent and crawled in.	
Her nose knew it first. The stench of invasion. Lingering. Then her knee, crushing into something. Lace and silk.	
Premonition choked her like a suffocating cloak.	
Swallowing the ball of fear, she pulled the item from her knee. Her black Desiree's Dresser B'underwear.	
Only they weren't now. They were a tangle of ripped lace and satin. Cut. Sliced. Viciously.	
She flung them away. Fear was real now.	
Where they landed, across the tent, she saw something else. The book Angel had given her. With a hand that shook so much she couldn't hold it steady, Dia pointed the flashlight in that direction.	
Saw the mangled pages. Eviscerated.	
Oh, God.	
The man. He'd been here! The one who shot her. He'd do these things to her and Bay.	
Dia backed out of the tent, fear, panic, choking her.	
And then it was the man's arm at her neck. Tight. Strangling. His stink gagging her. Worse than the Sasquatches'.	
She twisted to get away, but he was stronger. A knife at her throat. A hand on her breast.	
"I got you, Bitch," he hissed in her ear with fetid breath. His hand pinched her breast painfully. "Like it rough, do ya?" He pulled her bottom tightly to him, and ground himself against her. "Ya gotta find me the beast, Bitch."	
Oh, God! Shredded black lace and a mutilated picture flashed in her brain like a strobe light, making her dizzy with terror. She wouldn't show him the Sasquatches.	
Bay, help me!	
The man's grip slackened some, but the knife still dug into her throat. Heat trickled down her chest. Sweat? Blood?	
He sidled around her, knife blade against her. She saw his shadowed face now.	
Dark, mad and familiar. The man at the hospital. In the hall, then again at Oak Haven when her parents had wheeled her out. He'd been stalking her.	
His black eyes glinted malevolently, triumphantly, when he waved a pistol in her direction. The one Bay had taken from her and left behind somewhere. Hers.	
The man smirked, lips parting to reveal dark, rotting teeth. His putrid breath sickened her. He placed the gun against her temple.	
"All right, Bitch, we're gonna walk now. We're gonna walk nice and slow like back to my camp. Ya try anything funny, I'll shoot you." He grinned evilly. "I got you once before, ya know. But I won't kill you yet, Bitch. I'll just make you hurt. I can do that, ya know." His lip curled. "Now walk, Bitch."	
He grabbed her left arm, squeezed, hard, above the elbow, and shoved her in front of him. The pain from her healing wound nearly made her faint. But she wouldn't give in. Biting her lip against the pain, Dia walked.	
Feeling his gaze on her. Even that hurting.	
	
Harvey watched the sway of the Bitch's butt, remembering the softness of the skin at her neck and how her tit felt. He wanted to take something that belonged to the Big Hero. But the Power wanted her too.	
He giggled to himself. He'd done it. He'd caught the Bitch. She wouldn't interfere anymore. Now she'd find the beast for him. Oh, yeah.	
He touched the blood-red panties in his pocket. The Power wanted to grab her now. So did he.	
But he didn't. Because after -- after, it would be so much better.	
He'd be rich then, too.	
Harvey chortled and watched her butt.	
He'd just have to make her bleed where the beast's fur would stay clean.	
	
Bay's knees ached from sitting with them drawn up for so long on the short, narrow bunk. His fingers ached, too, from clasping them, elbows braced on knees, in a position others might call prayerful.	
Hell, it was prayerful.	
Night had come and he was still here, in this holding cell, penned up like a crazed animal. The one who was after Dia should be here instead.	
Judas Priest, maybe he shouldn't have waived his right to a lawyer. But he'd done nothing wrong. He'd done nothing wrong. He was sure the blood on his shirt would exonerate him. God, maybe he should have called a lawyer.	
Bay stroked his beard and rested his head wearily against the gray cement wall. Names and dates were etched into it. He wondered how those Kilroys had done it with nothing but the prison issue orange jumpsuit, then decided he didn't want to know.	
The drunk on the adjacent bunk was asleep. He'd been brought in awhile ago, and had been sawing if off since.	
Bay closed his eyes, refusing to give into the weariness that tried to claim him. He knew it wouldn't anyway.	
Oh, God, Dia. Where are you? Are you okay? Please be okay.	
Her heart calls to yours, Angel had said.	
Mine's calling yours, too, Dia.	
Mine's calling to yours, too.	
	
Dia was so fatigued she didn't think she could pick up her feet for another step. A root hit her toe, and she sprawled down in a heap.	
Cold metal pressed into the base of her skull. The gun? The knife? God, she almost didn't care.	
"Get up, Bitch," he captor hissed in her ear. Was that his tongue he pressed to it? Cold and wet like a dog's? She cringed.	
He prodded again. "Get up, Bitch."	
It was the gun. The end was blunt. Maybe he'd just shoot her now and it would all be over with. She almost wished he would.	
Instead he smacked her on the bottom, his filthy hand loitering before his fingers closed, vice-like, to pinch it.	
This time it made her mad. Dia thought of Bay and the Sasquatches. Of her new relationship with her parents. Of Jonathan and Aster and closure.	
She wasn't going to let this ... this jerk take those things from her.	
The man wanted a Sasquatch. And she was his ticket. Simple enough. He didn't seem too bright -- she'd string him along until she could escape. Somehow.	
Until then, she'd need to survive. Using feminine wiles.	
Oh, God, did she even know how?	
Dia cleared her throat and tried her best Scarlett O'Hara accent. "Sir, I prefer to be courted properly." She offered him her hand, cringing when he took it. At least he put the gun back in his pocket. "I'd most appreciate it if you'd assist me to my feet."	
The man looked at her, his dark expression changing. Almost smiling in the nighttime shadows that her eyes had grown used to. Oh, God, it worked. Maybe?	
Then he laughed. A laugh that sounded like a hysterical hyena. Maniacal. Evil. Looming over her so large all of a sudden, though he was short and dumpy.	
He squeezed her hand first. Then he pulled. Hard.	
Dia's shoulder wrenched, the right one, and her body collided with his. He trapped her there, his pincher hands digging into her behind.	
He hissed in her ear. "I don't know nothing about proper courtin'. But I knows all kinds of stuff about other things. And I wants one of them beasts." This time she knew it was his tongue in her ear.	
Dia fought the nausea and wished she could be sick on him.	
He pawed her breasts again, then pushed her away.	
"Walk, Bitch," he commanded, poking her in the neck with the knife.	
Fighting the pain and fatigue and anger, Dia walked.	
Trying to find the courage to act again.	
You need to show him the way.	
Oh, God, Bay. I love you.	
	
"What the hell is goin' on?" demanded Lennie, crawling from the tent in his longjohns.	
Lennie hated being disturbed from his sleep, but Harvey was sure he wouldn't mind this time.	
"I got me -- us -- a ticket to the rich house, Lennie. This here Bitch knows where to find them beasts. We's gonna be rich, brother.	
Lennie shrugged. "Fine. Just so she git one."	
His brother wasn't much for women. Didn't seem to like men either.	
Which was damn fine with Harvey.	
The Power jumped with the thought. It wanted the Bitch. It wanted to be in charge. But not tonight. He was in charge. And he wanted her too.	
That had never happened before. Usually it was just the Power who took over.	
He touched the Bitch again. On her neck. There was a tiny trickle of dried blood on the softness where he'd cut her earlier, when she'd tried to act snooty. Dammit, he didn't like snooty women. Always sticking their nose in the air the way his mama had. No siree.	
The Power liked them feisty. So did he.	
He shoved the Bitch to the ground. She didn't say anything. Just groaned.	
Cackling to himself, he pulled a rope from the back of the truck and bound her hands and feet. Tightly.	
Then he squeezed her boobs through her thin top.	
She shivered.	
Tomorrow, when she found him the beast, she'd wear the red panties.	
Then he'd take his knife and make her bleed, too.	
	
"Dr. Russell."	
Bay shook his head, disoriented. Where the hell was he?	
Then it all rushed back. The jail cell. The wino on the other bunk. His vow not to sleep.	
A cop stood on the other side of the grating, rummaging through his keys. He slid one home, and the door clacked open.	
"You can go now, Dr. Russell."	
"That's it. I can go now?"	
The cop looked sheepish. A different one than who'd arrested him.	
"The blood on your shirt checks out. Matches yours. Dr. Webster corroborated your story. Your car's in impound. The receipt in it matches the time you stated you stopped for gas. Don't know what the hell that green stuff you had was, though." He cleared his throat. "We're sorry for having detained you, but you understand ..."	
Bay shot to his feet. Like hell I understand, Bay thought. All he understood was that he needed to get to Dia. Now! And he didn't trust the cops or anyone else to get to her.	
Fifteen minutes later, Bay was on the road in a clean shirt the cops had given him, with Angel's bottle in a crumpled brown bag next to him on the seat. He squinted against the rising sun, wishing for his sunglasses. The sunglassses that bastard had.	
The speedometer topped out at eighty-five, but he knew he was going faster. But not fast enough.	
God, Dia please, be okay. I need to tell you again. I need you.	
	
Dia shivered watching the sun-glow tingeing the sky. It had to be the brightness burning her eyes. Bringing the miserable tears that slid silently down her cheeks to drip onto her soiled, yellow crop top.	
The one now marked with the filth of the jerk's touch.	
She shivered again, revulsion and fear turning inside her. Even the foul, mildewed blanket the one called Lennie had tossed over her hadn't chased away the chill. It was inside her, too.	
Inside her as surely as the ache in her wrists and ankles from the rope, or in her arm from a gunshot wound. Or the ache in her heart. For Bay. For the Sasquatches.	
Two more soundless tears slipped down her cheeks and merged under her chin, before dripping off onto her chest. They slid down, lower, into the cleft between her breasts.	
Like Bay's touch. Like Bay's touch there, when his fingers left their mark on her tender skin. She tried to imagine his caress to blot out the repugnance of the jerk's paws.	
Oh, God, Bay.	
The thought made Dia bite her lip to keep from crying out. More tears leaked from eyes that were as scratchy as the rough blanket and streamed down her chest. Over the breasts Bay had touched. To pool in the small valley there, above her heart.	
Hot and full of life. Hot and full of life like the blood that had dribbled from the cut on her neck.	
That man. That man, that Harvey jerk, he could kill her. She could really die this time.	
And Bay would never know. He would never know she was dead. He wasn't here this time.	
She would never, ever, be able to show him the way.	
She would never tell him she forgave him. That she loved him. Hear those words on his lips again.	
Harvey was awake now, moving in his tent. Rubbing her face against the scratchy blanket, Dia swallowed and feigned sleep.	
It wouldn't do for him to think she was weak.	
Oh, God.	
	
	
	
He moved quietly, the light spots in the brightening sky enough to guide him over the rocks. The path, up, away from the safe den, he knew from the memories that came before him. He didn't need to see it. Just sense it.	
He stopped and twitched his nose to catch the scent of the air. Dampness. A faint whiff of the smoky heat the Others had. Too sweet flowers.	
The scent of the She-mate!	
His nose quivered again. Another smell. Unclean. Hate.	
The Other With The Hate in his heart. The Other who would hurt the She-mate. The Other who had hurt the Young Male. He knew the She-mate's fear. The Young Male's fear. His own fear of the Other With The Hate in his heart.	
With the knowledge of the memories of those before him, he walked, placing each foot silently, toward the odors.	
He had to save the She-mate as she had saved the Young Male.	
Closer. The too sweet flower scent growing stronger. His hackles raising as if he were being threatened. He did not want to hurt the Other With The Hate in his heart. Only to save the She-mate.	
He crouched in the brush, where he could see the heat that made clouds. He could see the She-mate, too. Curled to protect her belly, though the Other With The Hate was not near her. He slept in the den made of leaves that were not leaves.	
He looked at the She-mate again. Her silvery mane that glowed with the round, white light hung around her face like broken vines. Her face was bright from the heat that made clouds, and shiny. Wet.	
Leaning closer, he stared, studying the water on her face. It came from her eyes. He knew she was afraid and alone. That the She-mate needed the He-mate.	
That the He-mate would come. Before the round, white light moved across the sky again.	
Until then, he would watch. Keep her safe in a way he didn't yet know. He would watch the She-mate while the mind pictures tried to find a way to get out.	
So he could help her, the She-mate who saved the Young Male.	
["Twenty-One"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Twenty-One	
He was making good time, but not going fast enough. Bay flexed his foot, trying to find more speed, but his heel wouldn't budge from the floorboards. The car slowed slightly on the last uphill grade before Interstate-5 dropped into Medford.	
The mid-morning sun caught him full in the face in the instant before the sea of red tail lights up ahead did. Heart thumping with a rush of adrenaline, he crushed the brakes with the same force he had the gas, and the white Olds skidded to a miraculous stop just inches from the back bumper of a Mercedes.	
Judas Priest, what the hell was going on? Bay craned his neck. A jack-knifed truck at the bottom of the hill!	
Dammit!	
Dia, I'm coming.	
With sweat-slick hands that trembled on the wheel, Bay surveyed his options for escape, and discovered there were none.	
He was trapped between the concrete median. The Mercedes in front of him. The motor home lumbering to a stop on his right. The oxidized maroon car with the cracked windshield behind him. And no one was moving.	
Bay curled his hands tighter around the steering wheel and took a shaky breath. His head was pounding where the stitches had been ripped out, now cleaned and hidden beneath a Band-Aid the police had condescended to give him. His eyes burned from the sun, from lack of sleep.	
And his heart and soul. They ... they hurt the worst, coiled with a tight desperation. Futility.	
His head dropped against the seat back, eyes burning now with a fire that had nothing to do with sun or lack of sleep.	
It had everything to do with Dia. And this traffic jam. And the police who'd detained him. And the man who was after her.	
Because Bay feared he wasn't going to make it. He wasn't going to make it in time to save Dia.	
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.	
	
Dia's head was spinning. The sun was nearly overhead, and she'd had nothing to eat or drink except the cup of bitter coffee the one called Lennie had pressed into her hand this morning. He'd seemed almost kind.	
But when Harvey had crawled from his tent, Lennie disappeared. He hadn't been there when Harvey pulled the mildewed blanket from her shivering body. The look in his black, blood-shot eyes had been feral, the smell of him worse than a Sasquatch.	
Oh, God. Bile swirled in her throat still, the sensation of his hideous, disgusting hands with the filth under the nails clawing her cold-sensitive nipples. He'd tried to put his talon-like fingers between her legs, too, but she'd closed her knees and rolled away from him.	
He'd just chortled and touched her hair instead, those feral eyes glinting with lustful evilness.	
"Oh, yeah, Bitch, you're a feisty one."	
Dia felt a jab against the back of her neck. Again. Bringing her back to the present.	
The jerk, Harvey, with the gun. Poking her. Needling her.	
"How the hell much longer is it gonna take to find one of them beasts?"	
The key to her survival. The key to the Sasquatches' survival. Not finding one. Not leading Harvey to the Sasquatches. Leading him on a merry chase. Like she was now.	
They'd arrived at the spot where she'd found the footprints that first day. None remained now, victims of the summer storm and the unrelenting sun.	
She shrugged and answered Harvey's question. "I don't know."	
He jabbed the gun harder into the base of her skull. "Whadayuh mean, ya don't know?"	
Harvey pushed the barrel so tightly to her that its cold, steel-rimmed eye dug in. An empty eye that wouldn't be when he pulled the trigger. Fear beat triple-time in her chest.	
"It's hard to say. It's like finding a needle in a haystack."	
He moved around to face her, pressing the gun to her temple now.	
"Yeah, Bitch. I know I found me one of them beasts, but ya let it go, damn ya. I'll kill you, Bitch." His pincher hand closed around her left arm and twisted.	
Pain danced in dizzy black waves in front of her eyes. Dia fought the scream that rushed on her tongue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a scream. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of anything.	
She could see his face now, behind the clearing black specks. His dark, shifty, anger-filled eyes. His rotting teeth. His oily, unshaved face.	
Oh, God, she wanted to be sick. She wanted to faint.	
But, dammit, she wasn't going to. She wasn't going to let him intimidate her.	
Dia stared him in the eyes, animal to animal, and pulled herself to her full height five feet, eight inches. The top of his head was level with her eyebrows.	
"Fine. Kill me," she challenged. "But you'll never find a beast."	
The words 'kill me' and 'beast' sounded as foreign on her tongue as Greek.	
She watched the savage light in Harvey's eyes darken, grow evil. He leered, his parched lips spreading even wider over his rotting teeth. The stench of his breath turned in Dia's empty stomach.	
Then he curled his filthy, pincher hand into her hair, pulling it. Hard. Drawing her face nearer to his foul one.	
Cackling.	
"Then, I guess I won't kill ya till the job's done, Bitch. And me 'n' you can have a little fun on the side."	
He pulled her body tightly against his. Revulsion shuddered through her.	
	
Harvey reached in his pocket and fingered the shredded blood-red panties.	
Tonight.	
Oh, yeah, tonight.	
The Power, it couldn't wait.	
It was angry with the Bitch. She'd paraded them all around the damn mountain today. To the footprints. To the place of the trap.	
But no beasts.	
Harvey knew it and the Power knew it. She was holding out on them.	
Harvey shook his head. Right now it seemed like he and the Power were the same. Like the Power wasn't separate anymore. It was part of him.	
He wasn't sure he liked knowing that. Before the Power had always acted by itself. It scared him that the Power was in him now.	
The Power, it was angry at the Bitch. It wanted to punish her. It wanted to punish her for not finding the beast.	
But Harvey wasn't sure he wanted to punish the Bitch.	
He was afraid the Power would want to make her bleed, though. And if that happened, then he'd never find the beast. And if he didn't get a beast, the Power would kill her anyway.	
He'd have to be in charge tonight. When she wore the blood-red panties.	
The Power grew so tight he thought it would explode. Now.	
	
***	
Bay screeched to a halt in front of Jerry's house nearly an hour later, and he vaulted from his car to the front door.	
His hand trembled when he stabbed his thumb to the doorbell. It took him two tries.	
No answer.	
"Dammit, Jerry, be here," he swore, smacking his fist on the door's shiny, dark finish.	
Desperation sucked the air from his lungs in a too-fast rush, and he eyed his sedan.	
It would never make it. He would never make it.	
Then he heard it. Water splashing. Children's laughter. From the back yard.	
The pool!	
Frantically, Bay scrambled through the decorative gravel on the side of Jerry's house, wrenching the wooden gate from its hinges in his frantic haste.	
"Cripes, Bay," Jerry shouted from his poolside lounge chair.	
Bay was aware of the sudden silence, Jerry's kids agape in the pool, the gate his feet. He reddened, but he didn't care. He knew he must look like a wild man, like the very devil who was at his back.	
"I need the Explorer."	
Jerry levered himself up with his crutches. "What is going on, man?"	
"Look, Jerr, I can't explain. Not now. I just need to get back up there, to the mountains. To Dia."	
Jerry rubbed the sunburned spot on his bald head. "Fran and her mom took it shopping." Jerry shrugged. "I ... I'm not sure when they'll be back."	
Bay bit back the expletive that hissed behind his teeth. He laced his fingers through his already wild hair.	
"What am I going to do, Jerr?" A desperate, whispered question.	
A prayer.	
A prayer that was answered by the whisk of the garage door opening and the sound of an engine and Fran and her mother returning.	
"Here, take my keys, Bay. My camping kit's in the back. Go, man. It's about time you came to your senses about that woman."	
Grateful, Bay peeled out of the driveway, his foot to the floor, through town with the light afternoon traffic, to his house to change into the jeans and boots he never thought he'd use again, up into the Cascades.	
Judas Priest, please God, don't let me be too late.	
The long shadows danced like strobe lights on the windshield in the late afternoon sun. Bay passed Union Creek, his hands tensing on the steering wheel. Heart pounding.	
He saw the dirt road. He stomped the brakes, skidding, sliding, making the turn on two tires. Bay crossed the rickety bridge over the Rogue River's baby trickle, and stopped.	
Jeez, how was he ever going to find Dia? He couldn't remember the map coordinates. He pulled out the map from Jerry's things, but his hands shook too much and the contour lines and dashed, black roads blended into a smeary whole.	
His breath rushed in and out and his fingers tingled and he was dizzy. Judas Priest, he was hyperventilating. Deliberately, Bay took, slow, deep breaths.	
He eyed the crumpled bag he'd pulled from his Olds. The one the cops had handed back to him. That Angel had given him.	
He pulled the bottle of greenish liquid out with a trembling hand. Stared at the note scrawled in green ink. "Diamond's are a man's best friend. This will get you there."	
This will get you there.	
Bay took another full breath. What the hell?	
A month ago he hadn't believed in Sasquatches, or love either. A magic potion? He shrugged and uncorked the flask.	
Chartreuse mist wafted from it, and circled his head, but he couldn't smell it. Aftershave, Angel had said. Bay shrugged and splashed a measure of the green elixir onto his palms. Smeared the pearlescent liquid onto his neck, through his beard, like he would cologne. He glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn't turning green, too.	
He wasn't, but he still couldn't smell it. He corked the bottle and tossed it back on the passenger seat, on top of the wrinkled map.	
Took another deep breath and put the Explorer in gear, engaged the four wheel. He hesitated, then turned right at the first fork, crushing his foot to the floor. The vehicle bounced and swerved in a muddy rivulet.	
The wheels spun uselessly, and the Explorer tipped. The engine died.	
Bay curled his hands so tightly around the wheel that his nails dug in from the other side. He was angry now. Angry.	
An anger that made him act. An anger that made him determined. An anger that made him forget every reason he hated the outdoors and remember his purpose. Dia.	
He pulled Jerry's cell phone from the clip on the dash. No reception now, but maybe, higher up. Pocketing it, stared for a second at the crumpled bag and map on the front passenger seat and scooped them up as well. Then, he crawled through the bucket seats to the back. Carefully eased Jerry's well-stocked back pack forward and shouldered it.	
In the deepening shadows, he set off briskly up hill. To Dia. To where he knew she was.	
I'm coming, Dia. I'm coming. I hear your heart. I hear it.	
	
You need to show him the way.	
Bay, not this pervert. Not this pervert who carried her red B'underwear around in his pocket.	
Who pulled them out again.	
Dia closed her eyes and tried to recoil into the tree where Harvey had tied her when they got back to his camp. She heard his soiled fingers rasping on the satin and catching in the lace and smelled him when he pushed his face close to hers. She smelled something else, too.	
"I'm gonna untie you real slow." He ran the slick fabric across her cheek. It smelled of him, now. Showed his sick cruelty.	
Oh, God. Nausea swirled in her empty stomach and in her head. The black dots danced in her vision. "No!"	
"Get over here and leave the broad alone, Harv. The beans is ready."	
Lennie.	
Harvey squinted, his dark gaze beady, shifty. Malevolent. He didn't untie her.	
Oh God, why doesn't Lennie help me?	
Cackling softly to himself, to her, Harvey pocketed the panties before pressing his mouth to her neck and sucking at the tender skin beneath her ear like a leech.	
Bile soured her throat and she huddled miserably, her body wracked with the dry heaves.	
She was weak now, and Harvey knew it. No food, nothing but the bitter coffee Lennie had given her this morning. Why wouldn't he help her?	
She couldn't let Harvey intimidate her. She couldn't. And she couldn't find him a Sasquatch. No matter what the consequences. It would be the end for them.	
Oh, God, why couldn't Bay see this, too? See what kind of insanity it would bring when people, more people, came. Trophy hunters. Curiosity seekers. Weirdos. People, Sasquatches, getting hurt. Dying.	
The sacrifice she might have to make.	
Leaving Bay behind without seeing him. Without telling him she loved him. For the sake of the Sasquatches'.	
When she turned back Harvey laughing with the wild cry of a hyena.	
She closed her eyes and ears. But her nose. It couldn't get rid of his odor.	
Because it wasn't his. The odor that she smelled wasn't his.	
It was Sasquatch!	
	
The band followed him silently through the darkness, placing their feet to leave no tracks. One by one. Following a trail he knew from the memories of those that came before him. A trail he didn't need the spangle of the dark sky to see.	
Up from the new safe den, he led the larger group. Up the dark rock. His feet could feel the different texture of the stone where the path was. Around the base of the old den where the ones who came before him rested. Down the other side, into the trees again.	
To the den of the Other With The Hate in his heart.	
Behind him was the one who shared his mother. He exchanged his mind pictures with his eyes, and the one who shared his mother took his part of the band through the brush, to the other side. Understanding.	
He took his band the other way. To make a shape like the round, white light. Around the Other With The Hate in his heart's den.	
The one who shared his mother whistled like the sound of the bird with wide eyes and furred ears who cried in the darkness. The round shape was complete.	
With more mind pictures he told the band to stay there. He edged forward, closer to the den made of leaves from plants he did not know. He could smell the cloudy heat. He could smell hate.	
And he could smell too-sweet flowers!	
The She-mate.	
Peering between the branches, he saw her, the She-mate. The Other With The Hate in his heart had used thick vines around her arms and legs so she could not run away.	
He felt her fear, the way her heart trembled. The way his had when he knew the Young Male's leg was held in the jaws that flash fire.	
He wanted to pull her away, but did not know the Other's way of using the vines to keep the She-mate from moving.	
So, he waited. He waited for the He-mate.	
The He-mate would be coming. Soon.	
Until then, he would wait. He would wait and watch the She-mate.	
The breeze stirred, and his nose twitched with the new scents it brought.	
The He-mate! Smelling not of too-strong trees, but of something else he could not place.	
His mind pictures formed again, and his mate, the mother of the Young Male, heard them.	
He knew because her ears, the color of the She-mate's mane, twitched.	
["Twenty-Two"]["#TOC"]	
Chapter Twenty-Two	
Bay saw it! An amber flash in the starglow. The shiny reflection from the Jeep's front window.	
He'd found it! Dia's camp.	
A prickle of fearful unease rose along the back of his neck.	
Something wasn't right.	
He pulled Jerry's Winchester with the scope from his back pack, and approached.	
He stared at the fire pit. Nothing. No orange glowing eyes indicating it had been burning earlier.	
Closer. Hand over the coals. Cold.	
Bay snatched the flashlight from the clip at the side of the pack. Crouched, slowly, to the open flaps of the tent. Took a deep breath and shone it around.	
An ominous emptiness greeted him. He eased forward, spreading the tent flaps wider. He saw boot prints in the dust.	
Dia's pack was there. He knew she'd never leave it. Clammy sweat prickled his body.	
He sprayed the flashlight around the tent's interior. Something glinted from beneath the corner of Dia's sleeping bag.	
Bay touched it, tugged it free.	
A book, open to a mutilated picture. Slashed black satin and shredded lace. Panties once. Hardly recognizable now. A desperate sickness twisted his insides.	
The One With The Hate in his heart had Dia!	
And he'd hurt those other women!	
Hang, on Dia, I'm coming.	
Jeez, how would he ever find her now? He knew nothing about tracking.	
Then he heard it. Scrunching. Rustling in the brush to his left. A stink in his nostrils. A rush of adrenaline shot him to his feet, the Winchester tucked into his shoulder. Pointed at the noise. The smell.	
Pointed at ... at a Sasquatch.	
At an eight-foot tall, white-eared one. A female.	
A new fear took hold in him when she moved forward from the brush, her golden eyes drilling into his.	
Bright and wide in the darkness.	
His finger tensed on the trigger at the same time a memory flashed. A white-eared female. Keening over her youngster with his foot in a trap. Dia's dream for these animals.	
Bay eased his finger out of the trigger guard and dropped the Winchester to his side. That new fear left him just as quickly, replaced by a sense of awe, watching this regal creature. She moved closer. Her huge, leathery hand tapped his chest. So gently Bay thought his heart might have stopped beating.	
The female retreated then moved forward to touch him again. And again, each time moving further into the brush before she returned.	
She wanted him to follow her? Yes, that must be what she was telling him. She was helping him!	
He didn't stop to think of all the scientific implications. He just rushed after her.	
A few minutes later, she stopped at a small clearing, and was gone as mysteriously as she came, sucked into the trees that were her home. Yet, still, he sensed her presence.	
Parting the brush, Bay spied a ramshackle camp with a tattered, mildewed tent. Heard a moan. Voices.	
His eyes followed them in the darkness, across the clearing.	
A man. Kneeling. Cackling. Clucking obscene words. Touching a woman.	
A woman. A woman whose hair glimmered even now like sunshine and moonbeams. Filthy and tied to a tree. Alive!	
Oh, God, Dia!	
Bay's ears rushed with sound, the whoosh of blood in them. Something else. A clamor of the very forest itself. Howls, and roars, and screeches. Ember eyes glowing.	
Everything moving as if in slow motion.	
The man, rising to his feet and turning away from Dia. Hearing the clamour, seeing the Sasquatches lurch from the brush in all directions. The man's gaze wild and terrified before he fainted to a heap at Bay's feet. A second man crawling from the tent, seeing the Sasquatches, collapsing too.	
Bay rushed across the clearing on legs that felt weighted with lead, and pulled the ropes from around Dia. He used them to tie up the men, then gathered Dia's shivering, sobbing body to his. Burying his face in the soft web of her hair, he rocked her. His tears mingling with hers.	
It was quiet now. But, in the silence the glow of two-dozen gold and copper and bronze colored eyes blinked in the brush. Then, quietly, one by one, they disappeared.	
A life for a life.	
A debt was repaid.	
	
"Dammit, I'm fine," Dia told the fourth uniformed man who inquired. There were so many of them buzzing around she'd lost track. Rangers. Sheriffs from two or three counties.	
Reporters.	
Despair slammed inside her, and she collapsed on a log. It was over. Everything. All of it was over.	
Damn Bay! He'd saved her life and now he was ruining it. Maybe he should have just left her to Harvey.	
She was still trembling. Or maybe it was anger now. Anger at herself for trusting him. For falling apart in his arms when he untied her. Anger at him for really bringing the reporters. Somewhere deep inside she'd thought he wouldn't. Because he loved her.	
Dia covered her ears to the hub around her, the voices, the slamming car doors. Everything. Hearing in her head the wild scream of the Sasquatches that had terrified her captors. Their altruism. A more compassionate nature that her human counterparts.	
Perhaps all for naught.	
The log jiggled with the weight of another body. One who smelled of pine and cinnamon.	
Bay. His hand so gently on her shoulder.	
"Are you okay?"	
That question. Again.	
"Yes, dammit, Bay, I'm fine." She looked into his haunted eyes, and it hurt. She said the words, anyway. "You've done your damsel-in-distress duty for the day. I'm grateful you rescued me from that bastard. But your job's done. You can go now."	
Bay ran a hand through his spiky hair.	
"Are you sure you're all right, Dia? I mean he ... he didn't touch you... or hurt you or... anything?"	
"Dammit, Bay, just like I told everyone else, I'm fine. Okay? I appreciate your little Superman stint." She took a deep breath and rushed on. "And I'm sure all those reporters and God knows who else appreciates your blazing them a trail right into the middle of my research ..."	
"Dia, listen ..."	
"...have you even considered the implications of your action? Have you? What will happen now that the whole world knows about the Sasquatches..."	
"Dia ..."	
"...what you've seen today, what happened to me, it's just the tip of the iceberg. People are going to get hurt, Sasquatches killed..."	
"Judas Priest, Lady, if you'd just get off your damn high horse and listen to me for just one minute."	
Dia's breast heaved with anger. "Fine, you've got one minute, Greenhorn."	
Bay's eyes burned with something that made her blood run molten.	
"I swear to you, I didn't tell anyone, Lady. I called the Ranger's office. That's all. The reporters came with them."	
She tried to ignore the heat pulsing in her veins. "Yeah, right, so you haven't told anyone -- yet! But how long will it be before you can't compromise your lofty principles anymore and this place is overrun by trophy hunters and tourists and zookeepers and crazies like that bastard." Tears burned Dia's eyes, just like the heat that flushed her from the inside. "Dammit, Greenhorn, this is my project! Mine! I want you to leave. Now!"	
Through the blur clouding her eyes, she saw Bay's cheek twitch. "I'm not leaving."	
"Fine," she flung. "Have it your way. The woods are a big place. Just stay the hell out of my way."	
She had to get away from him. Now. Before the tears and misery engulfed her. But Bay's warm, firm hand anchored her to the spot.	
"Lady, let me finish what I came here to say." Dia heard him take a big, shaky breath. "I came here to tell you that I ... I was wrong about some things. I understand how much damage a public report can do. I see that now." He cleared his throat. "I'm not willing to compromise my principles, but I am willing to compromise."	
"Fine, you've made your point, now you can leave," Dia squeaked around the lump wedging itself in her throat.	
"I'm not done yet," he answered, a huskiness invading his tone. "I came to tell you something else, too. I don't want to be alone anymore." His voice cracked. "I love you, Dia."	
The naked, raw emotion in Bay's eyes burned hers, and Dia turned away from its intensity.	
"Dia, please." His voice an irresistible caress. "I'm not afraid of loving you now. Only of being without you."	
The heat in her propelled her to Bay's welcoming arms. "I love you, too." Dia could hear Bay's heart thumping against her cheek. His chest shook with the same emotion that shook in hers.	
"Telling me to leave was a hell of a way of expressing that," he rumbled.	
"Oh, God, Bay, I was so scared. I was scared that you'd brought the whole staff of CNN with you, scared of the consequences, scared that..." The words stuck in her throat, "...scared that I'd die before I had a chance to tell you how I really feel. That's why I wanted you to leave."	
Bay's arms tightened around her. "I'm here for you always, Dia. I'm not ever leaving."	
A smile traced its way through her happy tears. "You don't like camping."	
"I also said I could compromise."	
"I can, too, Bay. I -- you can publish what we've learned, inform the scientific community and the world about the Sasquatches, as long as you don't give too many specifics. You're right. We do have a responsibility."	
Bay's thumb trembled over the arch of her brow. "I'll publish only when you're ready. And I'll be with you every step of the way. Before someone else without my lofty principles gets the scoop."	
"Oh, God, Bay, I'm so sorry for ever doubting you. For listening to my own fears."	
He cupped her face between his hot, trembling hands, his smoldering into hers. Melting.	
"I know. Me too."	
"Hold me, Bay. Please."	
Dia quivered in his embrace, so gentle, so sure. Then his mouth was on hers, seeking, questing, tasting like the cinnamon schnapps in a hot toddy.	
The heat of it filled her. She lost herself in it. In the newness, in the celebration of being alive and with Bay. In the drugging scent of him inside. Outside. All around her. Woodsy, like cologne, but coming from an ancient memory, an ancient call she didn't know.	
A man. A woman. A waterfall.	
Pure and whole and beautiful.	
Dragging her lips from the sweet ambrosia of his, she whispered, "Let's go for a swim, Bay."	
	
Bay swallowed, his throat thick with the implication of Dia's words. With her warm, shaky hand around his, she led him down a short path to a mossy, secluded waterfall and pulled him down next to her on the softly canopied boulder.	
Mesmerized, driven by a force deep inside that came from an essence outside of him, Bay removed one of Dia's boots, then the other, rubbing away the redness from two days and nights spent in them. His eyes never left the hot pewter of hers when she tugged off his boots, too. Remembering her touch that first time when she'd treated his blisters. How it radiated up his leg. Then.	
Now. Her fingers fiery, boiling his blood with need.	
Then his feet were in the water, water that lapped his ankles with a magical warmth, like a caress from the golden rays spraying their radiance over the dawn.	
Nervous anticipation thumped inside him with every rapid heartbeat. Want. Need. Hope.	
"I want to please you, Dia."	
She smiled, all mysterious womanhood.	
"Just love me, Bay. Just love me."	
His hot cinnamon lips were on hers again, melting, molding. But it wasn't enough.	
You must show him the way.	
With frantic, unsteady fingers, Dia tugged Bay's hands. Forward, to the tiny buttons on the soiled, yellow top. Wanting Bay's touch. Needing it. Needing the renewal to erase Harvey's. Clean, fresh, new.	
Forever.	
His shaky hands fumbled with clumsy effort, his brow furrowed in concentration. Too slow. Too fast.	
Then his hot gaze burned on her naked breasts. Worshipful. Reverent. Sending a hot rush through her that pulsed low inside with the staccato dance of her heart.	
An answering beat drummed inside Bay. So potent, so forceful, he almost couldn't catch his breath. Slowly, he scooped a palmful of the clear, warm water and spilled in over her breast, remembering the drip that slipped beneath her top that first day. The path of his fingers there, the night Dia was shot.	
Mesmerized, he watched the water beads slip down, merge, drip from a tip that was neither peach nor rose, but golden honey, and an urge to touch his tongue to the droplet rushed inside him. He dipped his head and captured it, the moisture on his lips the nectar of a thousand wildflowers. Drugged, intoxicated by the way she tasted in his mouth, on his tongue.	
The rush of her breath tickled his hair like the brush of a butterfly's wings.	
He looked deeply into the cloud-rimmed blackness of her eyes that held his and wouldn't leave.	
Even when Dia slipped open the button on her shorts, lowered the zipper, and shimmied out of them. He'd ached for her to do that the night when his hands had been there. The night she'd been shot. Her bandaged arm still reminded him.	
She stood before him, shamelessly, gloriously naked. His heart, his loins, hammered with painful intent. With awe at her beauty. Nothing had prepared him for the impact.	
From the golden tips of her breasts, over the pale skin of her body where the sun hadn't bronzed it, to the narrowing of her waist and the slight curve of her belly, lower to the slimness of her hips. Not boyish in their bareness, but round. To the shimmering golden triangle where all feminine mysteries were hidden. Down her long tan legs, the apex that cradled that mysterious part.	
He stood frozen by the heat inside him. Afraid to move. Afraid to touch her from fear of the imminent explosion threatening his body and soul.	
And, then, blessedly, she touched him.	
Pulling him to her. Pulling the heat of him straining against the denim into the vee of her legs and pressing him into that golden place. Damp and hot.	
Dia's hands fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Eager. Needing him. She wove her fingers into the reddish pelt on his chest. Exploring. Touching his rusty, masculine nipples that tightened with her caress and made him groan.	
He surged against her with a promise. A pledge.	
A pledge that grew bigger and swirled around her in a rush of sensation when he reciprocated, took her full, aching breasts in his hands. Circled around and around in a dizzy curl that spiraled through her and lodged deep and low. Spun like a gyroscope when his tongue touched, tasted the tender tips.	
Oh, God. Now.	
Dia curled her fingers around Bay's belt buckle, pulling free the button. The rasp of his zipper another promise. No turning back.	
Wanting only now to be with Bay, to love him, to feel him in the ancient call that curled with liquid urgency inside her, Dia tugged down his jeans. His gray boxer-briefs that molded the hot hardness of him.	
Needing to love him.	
She trailed her hand up and down the hair on his gut. It quivered, and strain creased around Bay's mouth. His fight to hold back even as his eyes, glowing like twin pools of lava, showed her the wonder of all he was feeling.	
His love.	
Needing to love him. Now.	
Forever.	
Dia ran her knuckles, then her hand, up and down the suede shaft of him. He groaned, deep, guttural. Wild. She ran her other through the reddish fur that tapered down his chest, to widen and thicken below his navel where it cradled the part she held in her hand.	
The part of him that trembled with barely suppressed anticipation.	
"Dia, I want to go with you." His voice, harsh, raspy.	
"Come with me, Bay." She wrapped her knees around the back of his.	
The hot tip of him touched the golden part of her and plunged in. Filling her. Loving her with a rhythm as old as time.	
The primordial sea, turbulent with the secret forces beneath, a sea wave growing bigger, curling in on itself, until, with an rush energy, it embraced them in a cataclysm, a rush of fiery lava meeting water with explosive steam in sparkling droplets of red and green and gold.	
A gentle giant.	
["Epilogue"]["#TOC"]	
Epilogue	
Bay stretched his leg. Wriggling his tingling toes, he gazed for a moment at his well-worn boot, and remembered the horrible blisters it had caused him -- was it a year ago? A life-time ago.	
Extending his right leg to join his left, he eased into a more comfortable position on the rock. Yards away, Peewee mimicked him, his golden eyes sparkling mischievously while he gnawed on the white root. Bay laughed at the youngster's antics, and Peewee responded with the Sasquatch equivalent, a low chortling in the chest.	
"What's so funny?" Dia asked, sitting down next to him, fingers tugging the front closure of her blouse.	
He touched his two-month old daughter's downy head where it rested on Dia's lap. Aster Diamond Cathcart-Russell, conceived on their honeymoon in Europe.	
"Peewee," he answered vaguely, his gaze riveted to his wife's bare breast. Heat pounded in his veins, remembering how few art museums they'd seen and how much time they'd spent in their hotel rooms in London and Paris and Rome. Loving and healing.	
Creating the miracle that nursed hungrily on her mother's breast.	
He knew Dia's thoughts mirrored his, saw them reflected in her silver-cloud eyes. Later, they said, later, at the waterfall. Where the cycle of healing would be complete.	
Where he would take Dia in his arms and kiss her, his lips touching the tiny spray of scars across her chest and the puckered pink on her left arm. He would love her passionately, tenderly, remembering how close they'd come to not surviving the crazed sniper's shots.	
Harvey Adams and his brother, Lennie, were in prison now. Bay and Dia had testified at the hearing three months ago. Bay shivered, recalling the details of Harvey's psychotic behavior. His victims, the nurse, the jogger, the desk clerk, Dia, were all recovering, slowly. It was over.	
It was over, and he and Dia and Aster were starting their life together. They'd spent most of the last year -- except their glorious honeymoon and the first two weeks following Aster's birth -- living with and studying the Sasquatches.	
Bay glanced again at the tableau of mother and daughter and...beast. Natural. Peaceful. Right.	
Dia's eyes met his over Aster's gossamer sunshine and moonbeam tufts, and impulsively she reached over to stroke his smooth cheek.	
"I love you, you know."	
Her touch was warm against his newly bared skin, and he curled his hand over hers. "I know," he answered, his voice soft with sudden emotion.	
In a few weeks, he and Dia and Aster would leave the mountains. He'd accepted an ER position at Orchard Valley Medical Center. Another fresh start. A compromise. New challenges.	
Until June. When he'd take a sabbatical and return with Dia and Aster...and maybe a son...to the remote Cascades.	
To study the mythical beast. The Sasquatch.	
The gentle giant.	
	
He watched the He-mate and the She-mate and their tiny offspring. They bared their teeth and made the happy noise, and the tiny one cooed at her mother's breast. The sound was so like the Young Male when he suckled. The Others could be so different, and yet so much the same. Like the Other With The Hate in his heart who was gone and the He-mate and She-mate.	
Someday He knew more Others would come. Some, like the He-mate and She-mate, some with dirty souls that brought hate and sticks that threw fire and stones.	
But not now.	
Now he saw the eyes of his own Mate upon him. Saying mind pictures without words. Mind pictures that stirred something inside, a memory that came before him that made him follow her to the soft brush along the stream bank.	
Touching his Mate, he held her with a rhythm that rushed with the timelessness of the water on the rocks.	
A gentle giant.	
	
Angel smiled. The gift of her prophecy was fulfilled. The simple announcement of Aster's birth closed the circle of instinct and seeking. Of finding trust and truth, and the healing power of love.	
She slipped a bottle of green aftershave and a copy of 501 More Ways to Love a Man into the chartreuse box. She was taking no chances.	
She was taking no chances on Bay and Dia's love that had grown and mushroomed and become a thing bigger than itself. A huge balloon encasing them in warmth and light.	
Like a gentle giant.	
	

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