Water Story

Chapter Two

Dark shadows prowled along the grounds of the mansion. The property used to belong to one of the founders of Portland, an oafish man who domineered trade in the area since before it was named for the town in Maine. He had been mauled to death by wolves about twenty years previously. The next day, Storie Lovejoy, then just seventeen years old, procured a document stating that she was the owner of the house. Noses were turned up at City Hall over an unmarried woman owning the property, but all of those who raised complaint were also ravaged by wolves while out herding cattle or surveying land. The townspeople let the subject rest, though some still muttered amongst themselves about Storie's now-unchallenged ownership of the property.

Storie had offered countless times to sign the deed to Paloma. Paloma always refused. Those in the Oregon Territory barely tolerated a white woman owning the property. Hell would be raised if were to be transferred to a Mexican woman.

Storie whistled softly as her boots clomped along the cobblestone path of the yard. The shadows in the darkness followed the whistled orders. A short, two-note range meant stay hidden. The descending three-note range that followed meant be ready.

Paloma's dark eyes were focused on the gate. She was not nervous for her safety or for the safety of those in the mansion, but she was greatly disdainful of the theatrics required of interacting with angry humans. She was annoyed about the fuss and desirous of a good night's sleep. The women had big plans for the next day.

"Storie Lovejoy and... Pal-oh-ma Del-ga-toe?" a man called out as they approached the gate. He and several other members of the two-dozen strong mob held torches. "We want our women!"

"Where's my wife?!" another man shouted. "And my daughters?"

"Leroy, get the gate," Storie called out, a touch irritated that the boy had to be reminded of his task. A slim white teenage boy who served as the sort of herald for Paloma and Storie scurried out from his cabin near the gate.

"What were you doing?" Storie reprimanded, her voice calm but authoritative as she ignored the angry men in favor of the quick-smiling boy.

"Reading, My Lady. Deeply sorry," Leroy responded, unlocking the gate before pulling it open with a bowed head.

"He can't have known you were coming," one of the men of the crowd pointed out.

"Oh," Storie smiled at him. She was taller than every man in the crowd and had wider shoulders than most. "But he did know." The men were confused because, of course, they didn't know about the existence of werewolves, let alone their mindlinks.

Storie regarded the crowd. "What was that you were barking, Johnson? About your wife and daughters?"

"Give them back! I know you have them," a balding, rotund man snarled as he pushed to the front of the pack. He was still easily ten feet away from the women, and would not take a step closer. Not without a gun in his hand.

"My sister!" another shouted.

"What'd you do with my daughters?!" a third demanded.

"First of all," Paloma said quietly. The crowd fell silent to hear her better. Her dark gaze locked on the man who said her name. "My name is Paloma Delgado. You would be wise to say it correctly."

The man spat on the ground. "Can't hardly understand your south-speak."

"Paloma Delgado," Storie said loudly, enunciating the words with a flawless accent. "I do not speak a word of Spanish and I can pronounce her name fine."

"An aside, Lady Lovejoy, if I may," a quiet, mild-natured man named Lyman said, stepping forward. He owned the small bookstore in town. He appeared to be simply curious about the entire situation instead of angry, like the other members of the mob. "Why do you show her the deference you do? You act as though you are her maid instead of the right way around."