Page 116 of Conner's Luna

His intentions are natural. He will hunt for her. He can scent a small herd of whitetail deer close by. Venison will make her feel better. He didn't like the smelly food I brought to her in the hospital. She didn't eat it, anyway.

She doesn't eat meat.

The two conflicting thoughts make my head pound. Despite the teeming chaos in my brain, our body races onward until we are almost on top of the herd. My wolf tenses, muscles ready to spring at the buck and take him down. He's eager, maybe too eager, to bring his human female a fresh kill. He's lost one mate and refuses to lose the female who soothes his spirit so well. Bailey is his female and as far as he is concerned it is his job to take care of her, protect her, feed her. A nice meal will prove to her that he can provide for her. She'll never starve.

She doesn't eat meat, I remind him. My wolf huffs, paws scrabbling in the dirt. The noise alerts the buck who takes off, noisily vanishing into the dusk.

My wolf is irate, but we snap back together as our thoughts merge again. The need to feed Bailey is a compulsion we can't resist. Vegetables are not a normal part of a wolf's diet, but for our female, we'll make an exception.

Ten minutes later we are digging in someone's garden. We have no idea whose carrots these are, but they're Bailey's, now.

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29 - Recessive Genes

Bailey

I'm pouting as I pick up the phone, "holaAbue." Dad didn't answer a single one of my questions. He just sat in the car, stone-faced and silent, and told me thatAbuelawould explain 'some things.'

"Hola, my sweet grandchild," she says in her scratchy, weather-beaten voice. I close my eyes and just relax for a moment.Abuela’s voice always reminds me of the reckless path of flying sand and debris in the face of a Caribbean storm battering the shoreline. It's harsh and stings your eyes, but it's powerfully beautiful at the same time.

"Dad wanted me to call you," I tell her.

"Did he now?" she snips. Growing up she always spoke to us at least once a week. Then mom got sick and the calls grew more sporadic. When mom died a year ago,Abuelawanted Dad and I to move to Puerto Rico to be with her. Instead, Dad got a job in Colorado and moved us here.Abuelawas not happy.

"It's about a boy," I hedge.

There's a drop of pressure in the barometer.Abueladoesn't even sound as if she's breathing for a moment. She was always chasing the boys away from me when we went to visit her in the summers. Those long, lazy days of shorts and sand scraping my skin raw, of my hair braided tight to my scalp to keep it from becoming hopelessly tangled in the wind and water, were always boy-less.Abuelawasn't a believer in 'sparing them the rod,' she always said. Her rod was a large wooden spoon and believe me, it hurts when she whacks you with it.

"Who is this boy?" she asks.

"Um... his name is Conner. He's a nice man," I tell her lamely. "He's smart. His degree is in Statistics. He's the oldest from a large family with lots of siblings. Um... he gets my math and science jokes,Abue."

She humphs. "He's falling all over himself for my girl, is that it? You think he's special because he's your first love, peanut-butter. You don't need some nothing boy from up there. Is he a white boy like yourMamior is he black like yourPapi?"

I cringe. DoesAbuelawant me to marry... I mean date... a purple man? If only it were a different race that I had to reveal. That's nothing. I have to share the color of hisfur.

"He has a very unusual genetic background," is what I settle with.

Abuelahumphs again. "And what would that be? What color are his eyes?" she asks bizarrely.

"Bright green, like the forest," I reply.

"Not blue?"

"No," I say slowly. My mind drifts to the sloe-eyed, brown-skinned island boys with their bright, happy smiles and sandy feet whoAbuelaalways ran off. Every boy who came near her cottage got threatened with a lashing. There were a lot of bold eyes that would watch me from behind the maga tree across the street, but they didn't dare approachAbuela’shouse. I would ask to play with them andAbuelawould always, without fail, tell me 'no.' The street became an insurmountable barrier. I think Conner would have crossed the street. He's brave and foolhardy.Abuela’swooden spoon and folksy, homemade curses wouldn't deter him.

"He got blue-eyed folk?"

Maybe she wants me with a man who doesn't have eyes? Is a wolf person better or worse than a purple, blind alien man?

"Bailey Madison, are you paying attention to yourabuela?" she snapped. "Does your man have blue-eyed folk?" she repeats.

I think he does. His papa has blue eyes, but they aren't blood-related. His mom has light brown eyes. Velia might be Conner's papa's child, and she has blue eyes, but it's hard to say.

"Maybe,Abue? Why does that matter?" I say, frustrated.

"You avoid that boy," she says abruptly. "Can't be having babies with a white boy."

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