Free Witching Moon by REBECCA YORK Page B

it.
    The tourists arrived at five of three. Barbara and John Carlton were a couple in their late forties, he guessed, from Denver. They had never been to this part of the country before, and they were excited by the prospect of a swamp tour. Adam collected fifty dollars from them, got out life jackets, then helped the couple into the front of the boat, while he sat in back at the tiller and started the engine. Most local residents who took watercraft into the swamp paddled. But that wasn’t practical for tourist expeditions because it would add too much time to each trip. So all of the boats at Nature’s Refuge were motorized.
    They putted slowly away from the dock, then turned into one of the narrow channels that lead into the interior of the preserve. In front of them, the water was still as glass. Rotting peat made it cola dark, creating a natural mirror that reflected the vegetation crowding in on either side of the boat. The effect was like being in a magic tunnel of greenery where you couldn’t tell up from down.
    Magic . Barnette had used that word. Probably he hadn’t been referring to the scenery. But what had he meant?
    Adam had thought of the Olakompa as a place that civilization hadn’t been able to destroy, a refuge for the birds and animals that lived here. Now he wondered what secrets lurked beneath the dark waters. And really, the dimly lit, mysterious swamp was an easy place to become a believer in the supernatural.
    And why not? A werewolf was a kind of supernatural creature. Perhaps his ancestors had sprung from a place very similar to this.
    â€œIt’s like taking a trip into wonderland,” Barbara murmured, her voice hushed. “Is the park all like this?” she asked.
    Her husband had gotten out his fancy camera and was busily snapping pictures.
    Adam brought his mind back to the tour.
    â€œNo,” he answered. “We have these narrow channels. But they open up into what are called prairies, kind of water meadows. The higher elevations in the park are dry land. Well, higher is a relative term. We’re about a hundred feet above sea level, in a natural depression. Some of the land is also boggy. And we have over seventy islands—I mean in the whole swamp, not just Nature’s Refuge. The terrain makes for a variety of plants and animals.”
    The mention of plants sent his mind zinging back to Sara Weston. He’d met her where the footing was dry. But if she’d come to the swamp, she must be here to collect some of the aquatic specimens like floating heart, arrow arum, pickerelweed, or golden club.
    The channels could be confusing, if you didn’t know your way around. She’d need a guide. And he was the perfect choice.
    He went into a little fantasy, imagining them alone in a boat out in this vast wilderness, pictured himself helping her with her work, the two of them silent but very aware of each other. Sexually aware, like they’d been this morning. But now she wouldn’t be wary of him.
    She’d want him as much as he wanted her. She’d put her hand on his arm, letting him know. He pictured his gaze locking with hers, before he steered the craft into a shallow waterway where they could reach for each other without worrying about the boat tipping dangerously.
    He held the tantalizing image for several heartbeats, then ruthlessly wiped it from his mind. He’d thought that giving a tour would relax him. Instead, he was wound up tighter than a kudzu vine choking the life out of a tree trunk.
    Embarrassed, he shifted in his seat, glad that he was sitting behind his passengers and they were looking toward the front of the boat.
    His eyes scanning the shoreline. It didn’t take too long to spot what he wanted. He cut the engine, drifting toward the bank. “Look at that floating log,” he said, pointing.
    As the boat eased closer, a small alligator lifted its head out of the water and stared at them.
    Barbara started