by Kati Wilde
I laugh at that. “No. Just little things he does that tell me.”
Like cleaning the rifles regularly. Like deciding that he’s going to start camping out in the hills overlooking the pasture, so that he can see anyone trying to sneak onto the land.
“And you’re worried, too?”
I’m about to say “No,” but the glance she gives to the fingers of my right hand stops me. Because I’m clinking my rings against the side of the beer bottle—a nervous, fidgety gesture that isn’t at all like me.
Except I’m not nervous. I’m angry. And frustrated. But maybe there’s a little part of me that is freaked out by all of this, because Julio wouldn’t have left if he thought Fauconnier’s threats were just hot air. Maybe a little part of me is afraid that putting up a fight will end up hurting everyone I love.
So maybe a part of me wonders if I should take the money and run…but there isn’t anywhere I want to run to. The ranch is my home. It’s where my parents’ blood was spilled on the ground, and my sweat and labor have soaked into the land. So if I have anything to say about it, it’ll remain my home until I’m old and gray.
My parents never got that chance. And glancing down, seeing those silver rings reminds me of that. They’re my mom and dad’s wedding bands. After they died, I began wearing them. But my hands are larger than my mother’s and smaller than my father’s, so I wear hers on my pinkie and his on my thumb.
They didn’t have a long time together. I’m all that’s left of their love and their marriage. Me, these rings, and the home they built on the ranch.
So I’m staying.
“I’m just itching to punch Fauconnier in his smug, stupid face,” I finally answer her.
“I don’t blame you. What did Jonas say when Julio left?”
“Jonas doesn’t know.” I grimace. “He headed out first thing this morning to pick up those two new horses in Billings. So I haven’t told him yet.”
Because my uncle would only worry, and there’s not a thing he can do about the situation until he gets back tomorrow evening. Hell, there’s nothing he can do after he gets back, either. Julio’s gone. So the only thing to do is to hire someone new…and hope MDC doesn’t chase them away.
Or worse.
With a heavy sigh, I lift my beer. “So that’s all depressing. How are things with you?” I ask, and my stomach lurches when Carrie hesitates, as if trying to decide how to respond. She only does that when there’s bad news. “Oh god. What is it? Are you okay? Is everything with Kyle okay?”
“I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s just…some guy came into the library asking about your parents. So I thought I should warn you.”
“My parents?” I fight the weird, sick feeling that fills my chest. The feeling that rises every time someone mentions them unexpectedly. The feeling that’s partly defensive, ready to protect them and their memory…and also sick with grief because nothing can protect them. The worst has been done. “What did he want to know?”
“He said he was doing research. For a book or something. He was asking about the bears. And whether anyone ever figured out why it happened.” Her face has an apology written all over it, as if she’s sorry for even mentioning this.
But already that sick feeling is easing. “He’s a writer?”
Like my dad was.
Carrie nods.
“Well, that’s okay.” I blow out a short breath that releases the remainder of my tension, then grin. “Hell, if he’s offering cash for interviews, maybe I’ll take him up on it.”
“He didn’t look like he has a lot of cash to offer,” she says dryly.
“Of course he doesn’t. He’s a writer.” My dad’s work never brought a penny home with his writing, either. Instead he was in perpetual research mode. God, I miss him. Absently rubbing his silver ring with my opposite thumb, I ask her, “Did you give him my number?”
“I ran him off. Told him to request access to the Spectator’s archives.”
I laugh. The city has rules forbidding unsupervised access to historical records. And since Carrie’s basically the city’s only employee, she has to clear out a good chunk of time in her schedule before she can spend hours watching over someone while they search through old property deeds—or any other documents. “What kind of timeline did you give him?”
“About two weeks.”
Wow. “So you were being nice to him even as you ran him off?”
“Well, I told him it would be two weeks before I learned what he was looking for.”
Info about my parents. “I don’t mind if someone asks,” I tell her. “Especially if they end up finding answers. I wish someone could finally explain what happened to them.”
Solemnly she nods. Then says, “That someone probably won’t be a writer who’s chasing Bigfoot.”
A soft laugh of agreement escapes me. “No, probably not,” I tell her, and then I’m done talking about me. “Anyway. How are things?”
“Work? Awesome. Our new house? Awesome. The superfast connection we just had installed and all of the streaming videos out there online? Extra awesome.” She ticks them off on her manicured fingers. “The rest of the world, especially the part of it on social media? A total shit show.”
I grin. Carrie’s politics don’t stop at the city limits. “So you’re still fighting the good fight?”
“Oh god,” she moans and theatrically flops forward onto the table, looking up at me with a pained expression. “People are so stupid.”
I laugh, because, yeah—true.
“It’s exhausting,” she continues dramatically. “I feel like I’m shouting all the time. And I just want to get away from it, but every time I do, I’m terrified I’ll miss something important.”
If that’s true, then I’ve been missing important stuff for years. I have a smartphone—who doesn’t anymore?—and it’s handy when I need it. But reception is spotty out on the ranch, and putting in a faster internet connection at home means tying into the utility line on the main road, which I’d have to pay for. So I’ve got a Facebook account and a website, because they bring in more business, but I don’t spend a lot of time on them. Most of my news comes from public radio and from Carrie’s texts. From what she tells me, maybe it’s for the best. Right now I’ve got enough of my own rage to deal with.
Still, between working for the city and all that crazy shit online, she’s got the best stories to share—and meeting up with her ends up being exactly the break I needed.
Dusk is falling when I finally load up into my truck and start home with my windows cranked down and the cool air blasting in. At the edge of town, I turn off the two-lane highway onto Mill Road, then it’s another ten miles of winding through the hills, following the path of the river, before I reach the county road that leads to my place. This route used to have a little more traffic, but after MDC bought up so much land, they put in a new access road off Mill. Some days I pass their big hauling trucks, but as night comes crawling in, it’s just a lonely, narrow stretch of asphalt.
Lonely until my headlights catch a flash of red up ahead—tail light reflectors, belonging to a vehicle pulled over to the side of the road. I slow down as I get closer. The hood’s propped up on an old green-and-white F-150. Clouds of steam billow out from the front. That’s gotta suck.
Through the dark and the steam, I can’t see much of the driver, except that he’s tall, has shoulders like a linebacker, and is wearing a Stetson. And I don’t recognize the truck, but despite the trouble with MDC, I’m not too worried. Fauconnier and the company boys drive around in shiny black SUVs like the henchmen they are, and this broken-down pickup is even older than mine.
The driver doesn’t step out to wave me down—but around here, you don’t need to. I’d no sooner drive by someone who needs help than I would kiss a rattlesnake.
Stopping alongside his truck, I lean over and call through the open window, “Need a hand, cowboy?”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. My engine is so loud and my h
eadlights are so bright, he has to know that I’ve stopped. Yet he stays stock still at the front of his truck, steam swirling around him and his hands braced on the frame above the radiator—where no one ought to be putting his hands or standing. Not as hot as that front end must be. And with night moving in, I don’t know what he can possibly see in that engine compartment, anyway. He doesn’t have a flashlight, and the moon is just a sliver in the sky.
But there’s enough light diffusing through the mist to see how he suddenly sways a bit. To see how his hands tighten on the frame—as if he’s stopping himself from falling.
As if he’s sick.
“Hey! Cowboy!” I fumble with my seatbelt, hoping he doesn’t keel over before I get out there. I’ve got muscle on me, hardened by years of working on the ranch, but he’s so damn big that if he goes down, I’m not sure I could haul him up again. “Are you okay?”
This time he heard me. He holds up a big hand, palm out, a clear signal to stay where I am.
A rough “I’m all right. I just need a second” follows.
Well, okay. Yet I still eye him warily, thinking he’s going to stumble over and puke into the ditch, because he doesn’t look too steady on his feet.
Shit. “Are you drunk?”
It wouldn’t be the first time some asshole got wasted and ended up out here in the middle of nowhere. If that’s the case, fuck him. Let him rot in the ditch with his busted truck. Better than him driving drunk and killing someone.
This time something like amusement deepens his reply. “I’m not drunk. Not high, either.”
And he seems to be moving all right now. Wiping those big hands on an oil-stained towel, he comes to my passenger side window, dips his head to look in. His hat brim shadows his face, except for his mouth and chin—and my mama always said the universe rewards us for good deeds. So my reward for being a good Samaritan must be the sight of his firm lips and angular jaw, though the nature of my appreciation for them probably doesn’t fall under the definition of ‘good Samaritan thoughts.’
Good girl or bad, though, I get the sense that whatever he expected to see in the cab of this truck, he’s struggling to take it in. Because he goes quiet. Just breathes deep, dragging in air through his nose as if he’s been drowning for a while instead of standing on the side of the road.
Or maybe not standing. Because he seems unsteady again. Then there go his hands, gripping the door as if he’s holding himself up.
I don’t smell alcohol. So this is something else. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m all right,” he says again, and his voice is a gravelly drawl. I catch a hint of glowing amber in the shadow beneath his hat—maybe my dash lights glinting off his eyes—before his head tilts down, the brim of his Stetson covering that golden gleam. “Thanks for stopping.”
That goes without saying. “Your radiator blew?”
“Just the hose.”
“Is it something duct tape can fix? If so, I’ve got you covered.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, indicating my truck bed, where a tool box is nestled up against the wheel well.
He shakes his head. “A little worse than that.”
“Well, it’s a heck of a walk back to town, and the auto shop closed two hours ago. Did you call anyone yet? Is someone on the way to pick you up?”
“I don’t have anyone to call.”
Awww. That’s sad. And it looks like my good deed isn’t done.
“Hop in, then.” Reaching over, I clear a space for him on the bench seat by dragging the leather gloves, denim jacket, and lead rope piled on the passenger’s side into the middle. “I live just up the road. I’ve got some animals to look in on before I can tow you back to town, but if you’re really lucky, you’ll find a hose that’ll fit your rig in our garage and we’ll get you fixed up tonight. I’m Makena,” I add in the brief moment before the overhead light comes on, and my breath catches.
Because after seeing his jaw and lips, I thought his looks might run toward pretty. But there’s nothing pretty here. His features are strong and rugged, with heavy brows shadowing deeply set, whiskey-brown eyes. High cheekbones form craggy cliffs over the hollows of his cheeks. If someone was being generous, they might say he was handsome, in the same rough and uncompromising way that the Bitterroot mountain range is beautiful.
But I’m not being generous. And handsome isn’t why my skin seems to tighten and the hair prickles at my nape. Because the mountains might be beautiful, but they’re deadly, too. Wild and dangerous. And I’ve got the sudden feeling that the man getting into my truck isn’t much different.
Despite that feeling, the shiver that races up my spine isn’t all unease. And maybe I could blame it on my fear of being in tight, enclosed spaces when he settles in, taking up more room than I anticipated. But both windows are down, so it’s probably not my claustrophobia kicking in. More likely it’s because my mama’s adage about good deeds being rewarded has gone flying out of my head, and instead I’m thinking of what else people say about good deeds: they never go unpunished. And this cowboy, he seems like a guy who could give a girl’s heart a good spanking. But only after he spanked a few other parts of her.
I don’t have time for that kind of trouble, though. “You got a name, cowboy?”
“Ethan,” he says gruffly, and when the overhead light snaps off, he seems uncomfortable all over. Or maybe he’s just…tense. His posture’s the same as any other man who ever sat in a pickup—elbow propped out the open window, fingers gripping the top of the frame, his opposite hand holding his hat on his thigh. Except he’s all but crushing the crown of his Stetson, and he’s staring straight ahead—as if he doesn’t want to look at me.
Weird. Because he didn’t hesitate before agreeing to come. He didn’t even grab the cell phone I can see clipped to his dashboard mount, or lock up his rig. He just climbed straight in with me. But his body language suggests he’s regretting that decision.
Uncertain, I ask him, “Do you need to lock up your truck before we go?”
Now he looks at me. Through the dark, the intense gold of his eyes seems to give off a deep amber glow. “No. If anyone tries to take anything, they’ll learn real quick not to mess with what’s mine.”
That reply shouldn’t send my heart racing. But it does, and I’m breathless, my fingers shaking a little as I grip the gearshift and put it into first. Handsome or not, dangerous or not, a stranger shouldn’t have this effect on me—especially one that I’ll soon see the tail end of. I’m just doing a good deed. That’s all. So I’ll see his truck patched up and send him on his way. Because that’s another thing my mama taught me.
Don’t ever take in a stray.
3
Ethan
When I was fourteen, my older brother and I got our hands on some nitrous oxide. A lot of shit doesn’t affect the wolfkin—liquor just gives a warm buzz, no matter how much I drink. I’ve heard cocaine and heroin only offer a little jolt or a little dip. But laughing gas? A deep breath and even we got dizzy. Unless we were in our warrior forms. Then it didn’t have any effect.
I wish the same was true now. That I could just change into a big fucking werewolf and this dizzy high spinning through me would vanish. Smelling Makena all through town didn’t prepare me for meeting her in person. I sure as hell didn’t expect to almost keel over when I got a full-on whiff. Even the whippits didn’t hit me as hard as every single breath is hitting me now. But I don’t think transforming would make a damn bit of difference, because only an hour ago, I caught her scent while I was wearing my warrior’s skin and hunting through these hills. And even while I was in that form, that fragrance dragged me toward her, the same as it did while I was in Fortune City.
The rest, I blame on instinct overruling my head. Because that scent pulled so goddamn hard on me and I figured, What the hell. I’ll just go take a look and see who this woman is. I wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t touch her. I’d just match a face to the scent.
Now I’m sitting in her truck, wit
h my dick as hard as fuck and with my brain battling every instinct to reach out and grab her, taste her, mount her.
And I’m gritting my teeth against the need to tell her that she shouldn’t be picking up strangers. I’m holding back the growl that rises when I tease out the other scents lingering in the cab—one from a human male, who’s been in here often enough that his odor is layered in deep. Plus two dogs, a male and a female. They’ve sat where I’m sitting now, likely with their heads out the window and their tongues lolling in the wind. She’s probably petted them, stroked their fur.
I’m jealous of two dogs.
She’s affecting me like I’ve never been affected before. Being protective? That’s in a wolfkin’s nature. Possessive? I never have been before.
I’ve never felt any of this before. She’s got every part of me feeling so damn good—from the sweet fragrance that fills my chest with every breath, to the lightheaded wonder that sitting beside her seems so right. As if this is where I’m meant to be. And I’m so fucking turned on, my cock is jammed up against my zipper like a steel pole.
But this isn’t where I’m meant to be. I’m meant to be somewhere else: hunting down the butchers who killed my family. I’m meant to be tearing out the throats of their murderers.
That’s not going to happen in the next few hours, though. So maybe I’ll wallow in this feeling for a bit.
And wallow in the sight of her, too. Makena.
I’d wallow in her scent no matter what she looked like, but she’s a feast for the eyes, too. Legs for days, tight stomach, small tits. Her arms are sleekly muscled, and her curling black hair forms a glorious halo around her head. Everything about her looks as beautiful and as wild and as free as this land.
And her voice, goddamn. Strong and bold, with a husky note that sets my dick on edge as she says, “So where were you headed before you broke down? There’s not much in the direction you were going.”
Telling Makena that her sweet scent was like a drug drawing me in this direction probably won’t go over so well. “I’m new to the town. So I thought I’d get a lay of the land.”
