The stranger glanced back at the ground. “The blood! They can’t find the blood!”
What the hell? Well, if assholes shot Slade, he’d remove any blood trail too. He leaned the guy against a tree, steadied him, then set about kicking dirt over the blood.
There, at the edge of where he’d found the stranger—paw prints. Big ones. And no human footprints. Fuck. Score one for Slade’s imagination. “They got dogs?”
“I don’t think so.” The stranger didn’t meet Slade’s eyes.
An animal whine, followed by a human moan. Pawprints. Had Slade found a werewolf? A wounded werewolf in need of help. Nah, Slade. Your imagination’s working overtime.
Damn. What had Slade gotten himself into? Too late now to change his mind. He might be a son of a bitch, but a principled sonofabitch. Once he’d covered the blood and tracks, he wrapped an arm over a pair of thin shoulders. The stranger slung an arm around Slade. Together they hobbled toward the camp.
“Sorry, I ain’t got nothing much for pain.” Too much temptation to keep drugs around.
“I’ll be okay. Just get me home.”
“Tomorrow. What’s your name?”
The guy paused, let out a harsh breath, grabbing his side. Slade stopped until the man nodded. “Mace. Or rather, no. Noah. My name’s Noah.”
“Slade.”
“Thanks for your help, Slade.”
Slade tried for a grin. “I’d say, ‘anytime,’ but I honestly hope I never find an injured naked man in the woods ever again.” If rescues became a habit, he’d find out all too soon how the curse reacted during a heart attack.
They remained quiet until Slade laid Noah on the sleeping bag in the tent. “I got ibuprofen. Nothing stronger.”
Noah shook his head. “I don’t need anything, thanks. Just rest.”
“Hungry? I got chicken strips.”
“No. Thank you. You’ve done enough already.” Noah’s stomach rumbled.
Slade retrieved the second box of strips he’d planned for a snack later. Noah devoured the chicken like a starving… wolf.
Checking the wound showed no fresh blood. No human healed so fast. After rebandaging Noah’s side, Slade wrapped a light blanket around his patient, thinking back on Grandma caring for Slade and his brothers when they were sick or injured.
Noah smiled. His “thanks” barely came out as a whisper. He laid his head down, eyes fluttering shut.
“I’ll be right out here if you need me.” Slade made himself comfortable near the tent, back to a tree. He might’ve lost his mind or found one of the people Judith mentioned. No cell signal, so no calling now, but he’d ask her at the first opportunity.
A werewolf. Noah, the werewolf. Slade shook his head at his own foolishness. Around thirty, blond waves, eyes so dark blue they appeared brown at times. Slender build.
Beautiful.
With the adrenaline ebbing, Slade mulled over the encounter. Those were definitely animal whines, then groans. Paw prints. Fast healing. He swore Noah nearly said his blood wasn’t a threat.
Taking in an injured stranger. Not Slade’s smartest move. For all he knew, he’d helped a murderer.
No. He’d spent his whole life around bad people. Noah wasn’t one. Dumping him at the hospital and getting the hell out of Dodge made the most sense. Somewhere out there, armed folks stomped around the forest, gunning for the man currently sleeping in the tent.
Man. Wolf. Whatever.
No matter how cautious, trouble always found Slade. No letting his guard down. He checked his Glock.
Trouble arrived at 2 a.m.
Chapter Thirteen