Werewolves: The Prodigal

By Angela Beegle

Kids will be kids - even werewolf cubs. They're not good at keeping secrets, and little boys often collect cuts and bruises the way they collect bugs and rocks. When William meets his grandpa Brian, Mandy has to try to find a way to let her son have a grandparent, and keep her volatile father from discovering the truth.

Meanwhile, Skyhawk finds his life situation going pear-shaped. From the oil fields of North Dakota to ... somewhere ... he needs to find a place to live, but most of his bridges were burned long ago.

Creede is still forging ahead with his legal career, but as if that weren't enough, now he has to juggle a prodigal or two. Will he kill the fatted calf?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Beegle
• Release date: Jun 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311951885

Angela Beegle

Angela lives in the Pacific Northwest, where (according to her coffee cup) the average temperature in July is 65F, and the average in January is 40F. She feels this very comfortable range, plus the distinct lack of poisonous snakes, spiders, fire ants, Africanized bees, hurricanes, tornadoes and droughts, more than makes up for the lack of sunlight nine months out of the year. She and her husband (who doesn't care about werewolves in the least) have been married since 1992, and have four delightful homeschooled children, a shelter-rescue dog, and three urban chickens. Her birthday is at Christmas time. What she really likes for her birthday is fuzzy sweaters. J/K.

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Werewolves: The Prodigal

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright Angela Beegle, 2015. All rights reserved.

* * * * *

For what felt like the dozenth time since breakfast, Mandy James settled five year old William at the kitchen table with his Ready For Kindergarten workbook, patiently putting the point of his pencil on the lesson. The house phone rang, and the caller ID voice announced, ‘Unknown Caller.’ She hesitated before lifting the handset. The last thing her morning needed was another interruption, but she answered anyway.

Hello?

Hi, kid, said a voice she hadn’t heard in years. How’ve you been?

Mommy? William was out of his seat again, at her side and tugging at the hem of her shirt. Who’s that? Is it for me? That man said ‘kid’.

She shushed him, held the mouthpiece of the phone against her shoulder, and pointed him back at the table. Go sit down. It’s not for you.

But who is it?

It’s—it’s your grandpa. I’ll tell you later. She turned her attention back to the phone. Hello, Dad.

I guess it’s been a while, her father said. My fault, not yours. You’re still in Spokane, then?

Yes.

Still married?

Yes, she said, knowing she sounded less neutral this time.

And the kid?

His name is William; we call him Willy.

Huh. Time really flies. He must be starting—what—Kindergarten this year?

He would, yes, but we’re homeschooling him instead, Dad.

Oooookay. Why?

Mandy closed her eyes. She hadn’t heard from him even once since a particularly nasty fight before her wedding, and of all the people in the world with whom she had thought to have this conversation, he had not been one. We believe we can do as well for him as the schools can, she said aloud, but even as she said it, she knew what he would say.

Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a trained teacher.

Mandy took a deep breath. I’m well within the parameters of state law, and you’re welcome to look them up if you want. I’m not going to argue this with you. So, why did you actually call? Is everything all right?

I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I wanted to say that I guess I was wrong what I said that time, about you not bein’ old enough to raise a kid. You and your hubby have been married, what? More than five years now? I don’t often say it, but I’m glad I was wrong.

Thank you.

So, do you think I can meet my grandson? A kid needs a grandpa. Does he get to see Tobias’s father?

Tobias’s father died a long time ago. I never met him.

Sorry to hear that. Is it all right if I meet your son, then?

She couldn’t think of a compelling reason to say no, except that he’d spent most of her teen years—and now all of William’s five years—in absentia. She felt obligated to say something, though, so she conceded, We could meet you somewhere in Spokane. A park or a fast food place with a play area.

Thanks. D’you mind if I bring him a present?

At the table, William’s head swiveled. He said, Present?

Mandy made a frantic shushing gesture at the boy and said into the phone, Something small, just in case you ever want to one-up yourself.

Gotcha. So when is good?

My schedule is pretty open. Are you still working, or are you retired?

What, me? I’ll never retire. Retirees never have a minute’s rest. How about tomorrow for lunch? The weather should be good.

She named a nearby McDonald’s with a play area, and said, Noon.

Done. Thanks, kid. See you then. He hung up.

William was on his feet again, tugging at her shirt. I didn’t know I have a grandpa. How come I never meeted him?

Because, lovey, he lives far away. It seemed as good an explanation of the estrangement as any.

Like Gramma Sharon?

No. She lives here in Spokane. You know you get to see her all the time.

William grinned and nodded. I love Gramma Sharon. He sobered suddenly. If he’s my Grampa, is he your daddy like Gramma Sharon is your mommy?

Yes, that’s right. She escorted him back to his chair and straightened his workbook and pencil. Now listen. Grandpa Brian doesn’t know about our secret the way Grandma Sharon does. You can’t talk to him about it. He’d be afraid of us.

How can a grampa be ‘fraid of us? We don’t hurt nobody.

You’re right. We don’t hurt anybody. But people don’t understand. Now how about you finish up this page for me, and then we’ll go to the park? Look at these pictures. Circle the one that doesn’t start with the ‘ă’ sound? Apple, Ant, Ape, Alligator.

With his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth and a look of grim concentration on his face, William grasped the fat pencil and drew a circle around the apple.

Mandy said, No, lovey. That’s an apple. It starts with the ‘ă’ sound.

I know, but I’m hungry.

She gave it up as a lost cause. I can take a hint, she said. What do you want for lunch? Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup?

Cheese sandwiches! Cheese sandwiches! he chanted, bouncing in his chair. My fav’rite!

Mandy had no idea how much ordinary little boys ate, although she remembered how often her mother had called her brother Creede—who had not even been a wolf at the time—a ‘bottomless pit’. At five, William could eat half a dozen cheese sandwiches and an entire can of soup all by himself, still have room for several cookies and a glass of milk, ask for pizza an hour later, and eat it all. He gave the phrase ‘hollow leg’ an entirely new dimension. She didn’t know where he put it.

After you eat, we’ll go to the park. You need to go running.

I wish I could be wolfy at the park, Mommy. I hate running on two feet. It’s slow.

I know. It feels clumsy, doesn’t it?

I try to run on my hands and knees, but my feet get in the way. When I go on my hands and feet, my head points at the ground!

I know. Aren’t you lucky that you get to run the good way sometimes? She sliced an apple for him while the sandwiches toasted on the griddle.

He jabbered away between mouthfuls, forgetting the phone call in favor of a series of non sequiteurs about food, the park, his favorite blanket, their friend and his sometime babysitter Aryn, and whether wolves could hunt apes, and alligators. They could eat ants, he proclaimed, because he found a giant black one on the deck at the last full moon, and it had been very tasty.

Mandy let it wash over her as she stirred the soup on the stove. Left to his own devices, William could and usually did carry on a monologue consisting of wide-ranging and typically unconnected subjects. It meant he was happy and had an active imagination, but it wasn’t what she would have called a conversation. Most days, she was his only companion from the time his father left in the morning until he came home at night, and while she could listen, she didn’t think she was a very good playmate for him. She didn’t mind building things with snap-together plastic bricks, but there was only so much she could do with a toy truck.

She was already beginning to regret agreeing to meet her father, even at a public place. She knew she could hold her own against him, but she didn’t like conflict, and he was likely to come spoiling for a fight. He always meant well—or at least, she suspected, he meant to mean well—but he’d lost all credibility with her years before.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, in Missoula, Montana, it was the third and final day of Creede’s Bar exam. At their home, Rosemary waited anxiously for Creede to arrive, pacing and puttering. Hearing his car in the driveway, she hurried to meet him. Did you pass? Oh, please tell me you did.

Creede climbed out looking bedraggled. I think so. He ran a hand through his hair, which looked like he’d been messing it up all day. Anyway, even if I didn’t, at least it’s over for a bit, yeah? We can relax. How about we celebrate? He held out his hand and drew her to him. How does a fancy dinner out sound? We haven’t done that in—

Ever?

Since we moved to Montana, anyway. And I don’t mean pizza or hamburgers. Let’s eat somewhere really nice, just you and me.

Any hesitation Rosemary felt on behalf of their bank balance melted at the last few words. How long had it been since she’d had him to herself, when books and studying hadn’t been consuming him? Years, literally. She said, Yes, let’s.

While Creede showered and changed into clothes that didn’t stink of stress—though she herself could no longer smell that kind of thing—Rosemary went onto the Internet and looked up ‘best restaurant in Missoula’. She jotted down a couple of names and addresses. When Creede reappeared, she said, I got a few, but I don’t know if any of them serve anything I can eat. This one here— she pointed at a name on the list, serves bison meat. That would be nice for you.

All of them probably have something vegan—pilaf or couscous. Vegetables.

I suppose. That’ll help keep the cost down, too, anyway. I’d like you to be able to have some bison. That’s not something you’ll ever be able to hunt yourselves. I don’t think I’d even want to see you try. They’re so much bigger than elk.

Not to mention, the only ones around here are privately owned. It’s not like Yellowstone. He held out his hand. Are you ready to go? We could even have a bottle of wine.

I’m ready. It’s a little early for proper dinner.

That’s all right. We’ll be sure to get a table.

They drove down the Upper Rattlesnake, now mostly harvest gold in the summer heat. Only the purple flowers of invasive knapweed lent bursts of color to the fields they passed.

As they reached the edge of town, Rosemary laid her hand on his knee. How does it feel to not have the test hanging over your head?

Weird and empty. I don’t know what to do with myself except wait for the results of the test.

She coughed a little.

He grinned over at her. "And that. And sleep. And go to work of course, but not to have to study after years is …alien."

I’m sure you’ll adjust.

As they made their way along Front Street, Rosemary’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen. It’s Brant. Take it, or ignore it and hope it goes away?

Oh, put it on speakerphone.

She answered. Hello, Brant.

Hey, Rosemary. Is the big guy back yet? Has he conquered Mount Everest?

"He’s here, and