Free Changeling Moon by Dani Harper Page A

public made up. No reporter could write without taking sides at least a little.
    But this was different. There was no lone citizen taking on city hall, no one’s rights to be defended, no issues to be brought to light and championed. Just a bite from an animal she couldn’t prove was a wolf and reports of werewolves from the local drunks. No doubt Larry, Moe, and Curly would have more credibility than that trio. And as a stranger in town, her own credibility wouldn’t be much better.
    It was long past midnight when Zoey finally drove home. She was going to feel like dirt in the morning, but thank heavens it would be a Sunday. She shook her head as she limped up the stairs to her apartment. Werewolves , for God’s sake. She’d stayed up all night researching werewolves. Who’d have thought? She hadn’t read anything to make her believe in the creatures, but the description given by Jeb Luken and some of the letter-writers matched what she herself had seen only a few days before. A wolf, a real wolf, obviously roamed this area. And it wasn’t afraid of people. The fact that it had wandered right into town made it every bit as dangerous as a garbage-eating bear. She had the proof of that on her very own leg.
    Yet when the trio had reported it two years ago, the RCMP and the Fish and Wildlife officers hadn’t appeared overly concerned. The newspaper had quoted them repeatedly as saying the animal was a dog. Maybe a wild or feral dog, but a dog . Nothing more. Which was pretty much the reaction Zoey had gotten when she’d called those departments after the attack.
    Was it so damn far-fetched that there could be a real wolf? Wolves were certainly native to northern Canada and known to live in the Dunvegan area. They weren’t endangered here as a species, were plentiful in fact, and ranchers and farmers routinely shot them. However, prevailing theories claimed that wolves never attacked people—although there was an incident a few years ago with campers in Tofino, and more recently, a hiker killed in Saskatchewan. There was that poor teacher up in Alaska too. . . . Still, it all made for poor statistics. Three recorded attacks in over a century? Obviously Connor was right; the wolf was sick or old and not acting normally. But it wouldn’t be sick for two years . . . it would either have died or recovered. If it recovered, could attacking humans be a bad habit now? She’d have to ask Connor about that.
    Connor again. Her mind had come full circle and she was once more thinking about the tall, dark-haired vet. So much for trying to distract herself. Zoey was far too tired to fight it and instead just let her imagination roam. She fell asleep clutching her pillow and pretending she was snuggled up with him, moaning a little as she dreamed of those big workingman’s hands stroking her naked skin.

Chapter Seven
    â€œT hank God this day is over,” breathed Connor, flipping the clinic’s window sign to Closed . To borrow words from a patient’s young owner, it had been “a totally rotten, no-good, very bad day.” To make it worse, it was probably his own damn fault. He’d insisted that he could handle things just fine while Birkie Peterson was on vacation, that he didn’t need any temporary help.
    What the hell had he been thinking?
    His white-haired receptionist and friend had mentored at least three or four veterinarians before him, and her efficiency bordered on the supernatural. More than that, she was well known for her unflappable nature. If a fire-breathing dragon came through the doors of the North Star Animal Hospital, Connor had no doubt that Birkie would simply take its name and direct it to a chair, probably hand it a cup of coffee and a magazine.
    The fire-breathing dragon would have looked good today, he thought as he poured the scorched dregs from the coffeemaker into a Styrofoam cup. Other than the fact that he was still vertical, the