The Wolf's Surrender. Sandra Steffen
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on land that had belonged in the WhiteBear family since the early 1900s when the United States government developed a conscience and gave each Comanche family a portion of land to farm. In this day and age, a hundred and sixty acres was barely enough to scratch out a living on. George WhiteBear had never needed much. He raised some chickens, a couple of beef cattle and a few old horses that he rarely rode anymore. His three mongrel dogs were loyal, protective and showing their age. They had as much trouble keeping up with George as Grey did.
The black leather shoes he’d worn all day in court weren’t exactly made for trekking through underbrush and wet weeds. Consequently, his feet were soaked, a two-hundred-dollar pair of shoes probably ruined. The outing had been worth a lot more than a pair of shoes. He and his great-grandfather were on their way back from a scrubby knoll where George had last seen the coyote he believed was his guardian spirit.
Grey had some of George’s Comanche blood, and while he was intrigued by the ancient Native American ways and beliefs, he’d never experienced a visit from a guardian spirit himself. That didn’t mean he didn’t believe George had. There had been too many instances of late in which his great-grandfather had spouted wise words after encountering a dark-gray coyote with silver tips on his coat. Each time, the prophecy had come to pass. Secretly, Grey was relieved none of it had been focused on him.
The house, more ramshackle than run-down, was in plain sight when George stopped suddenly. He peered straight ahead, shading his eyes with a gnarled hand. Knowing better than to speak, Grey stood, quiet and motionless, waiting.
Finally, George lowered his hand. Pointing, he said, “The coyote waits. There.”
Grey saw some brush move, but nothing more.
George stared straight ahead, as if straining to hear something of grave importance. Finally, he spoke. “The gray wolf hides from the truth.”
George looked at Grey for so long that the hair on the back of Grey’s neck prickled slightly. He scanned the weeds and underbrush surrounding his grandfather’s house. Other than smoke curling from the chimney, nothing moved. He certainly didn’t see a wolf hiding. And he didn’t know what George was talking about. He couldn’t have been talking about him, because Grey Colton had made it his life’s work to flesh out the truth.
George said, “A wrong turn will lead the wolf to the right path.”
Now Grey knew his great-grandfather wasn’t referring to him. Grey didn’t make wrong turns.
“Come,” George said. “I cooked a fresh kettle of soup.”
The two men completed the remainder of the walk to the house in silence. Once inside the old kitchen, Grey removed his wet shoes and socks and his overcoat. Rather than ask why Grey wasn’t wearing a shirt, the old man went into his bedroom and brought out one of his own. Grey shrugged into it, then helped himself to a bowl of steaming vegetable soup.
To Grey, George WhiteBear had always been at once ancient and young. With his white braids and dark, lined face, he looked very much like his Comanche ancestors. He’d buried three wives, but the sadness at his most recent loss, his daughter, Grey’s grandmother, Gloria WhiteBear Colton, was still fresh in his currant-black eyes. Neither spoke of it. They both understood that acknowledging it wouldn’t lessen the pain or dull the loss. Only time would do that.
Beyond the windows, the sky darkened. Grey ate two bowls of piping-hot soup. Satisfied that George was well, Grey made noises about going.
“Unless the lone wolf has a hot date, stay.”
Hot date? Grey laughed for the first time in hours.
George turned on his antiquated black-and-white television and tuned in the news. Grey’s laughter evaporated the instant he glimpsed the woman on television smiling disarmingly from her hospital bed. Kelly Madison looked radiant as she told the reporter about becoming stranded in the courthouse, in the throes of labor, and how her daughter was born three weeks ahead of schedule.
The bloodhound reporter said, “I understand Judge Grey Colton helped you deliver the baby.”
Grey sat up a little straighter.
Kelly smiled serenely and nodded. The reporter’s smile was much less serene as she said, “Would you care to tell us what you and the judge were doing alone in the building?”
Grey held perfectly still.
Kelly executed a perfect yawn. After apologizing, she smiled again and confessed that she’d locked her keys in her car. “I do that from time to time. I don’t know what Judge Colton was doing there. Working, probably. Thank goodness he was. It all happened very quickly. I was lucky to deliver so fast. At least the pain didn’t last long. Have you ever had a baby?”
“Er, no, that is…”
“In that case, forget what I said about pain,” Kelly exclaimed. “It’s worth the pain, and more! You’ll see. And now, I’m truly blessed to have a healthy baby girl.”
“About Judge Colton,” the reporter said smoothly.
Kelly blinked. “What about him?”
“How was he throughout the birth?”
“I don’t really remember. I was a little busy.”
“Did he hold the baby?”
Kelly nodded tiredly again. “Yes, but not for long. By the time the judge wrapped her in an old shirt, my cell phone was working. The paramedics came, and brought my precious baby and me to the hospital. The doctor said she has a big cry for a baby so small. Did I tell you she weighs six pounds and one-half ounce?”
“Yes, you did. Have you seen Judge Colton since he delivered your daughter?”
“No,” Kelly replied. “Have you?”
“Er, um, no,” she said. “Judge Colton couldn’t be reached for comment.”
In any other situation, Grey would have smiled.
“Do you think things will be strained between you and the judge the next time you and a client stand before him?”
Kelly pondered that, a faraway light in her soft green eyes. “I honestly doubt it. Judge Colton is a very fair and focused man. He’s probably already forgotten all about what happened. My mother will never forget it or forgive me for having the baby without her. She and my father are driving out from Chicago sometime late tomorrow.”
The baby started to cry from Kelly’s arms, a lusty, hearty sound that brought the interview to an end. The reporter left Kelly to her child, ending the segment with a few facts regarding Judge Grey Colton’s career, as well as speculation that he would hold a seat on the Oklahoma State Supreme Court someday.
The instant they went to a commercial, George switched off the television. A heavy silence ensued as he made an obvious perusal of the frayed and faded shirt he’d loaned Grey. He stared at Grey, an indecipherable look in his nearly black eyes.
Grey said, “If you would have asked what happened to my shirt, I would have told you.”
George stood, shoulders stooped with age, hips thrust forward, legs bowed, hands slightly unsteady. “A wrong turn will lead the wolf to the right path.”
The skin on the back of Grey’s neck prickled again. What wrong turn? he thought, donning his overcoat and soggy shoes. He had an inborn sense of direction that prevented him from taking wrong turns. Hadn’t he found his way out of mazes and blizzards? He’d navigated through law school and local politics and small-minded people in large groups. Grey had learned to work within each of those systems. His sense of direction had served him well.
He was a man, not a wolf. And he was calm on the drive back to Black Arrow. Although he hadn’t been able to put Kelly and the baby out of his mind, he’d put them, and the situation, in perspective. In no time at all, mother and child would move to the back of his mind, forgotten except in those rare instances when some sight or sound triggered the distant memory.