by Kati Wilde
This isn’t the first time guilt and regret have eaten holes in my gut. I was deployed overseas when my family was killed. But even though it wasn’t rational, guilt rode me hard for years. I couldn’t have known what would happen to them. Hell, wolfkin being murdered like they were didn’t even seem in the realm of possibility. But it was still a long time before I let go of that guilt. Mostly let it go.
I can’t let it go this time. I knew Makena was in trouble. What I heard last night didn’t lead me to expect this much trouble…but it doesn’t fucking matter what I expected. I knew there was a threat, my instincts were roaring at me to watch over her, yet I went back to the motel instead of heading to the ranch. I can’t even remember why I resisted coming out here. Except that showing up at her place at three in the morning wouldn’t have been acceptable by human standards. But if I’d been here—in her bed, in the bunkhouse, or even sleeping in my truck on the side of the road—I’d have smelled or heard what was happening. I’d have stopped the bastards. And her troubles would have been over.
So from this moment forward, fuck acceptable. Fuck human standards. If she doesn’t want me touching her, that’s one thing. I’ll hold back for as long as she wants me to, even if holding back kills me. But protecting her is another thing altogether, and I won’t fight my instincts again.
Because Makena’s hurting right now. Though she’s not showing it, despair and fear are coming off her in heavy waves. And it’s destroying me.
I should have been here.
And although I’m here now, I’ve never felt so goddamn useless. The only real help I’ve given her so far is to let her borrow my cell phone so she can call the sheriff. While she strides off across the pasture, trying to find a bar of reception, I search for a scent. I smell cattle and manure and blood and dirt and grass. I smell Makena and the male odor that I’m assuming is either her uncle or the ranch hand who quit, because it’s the same scent from inside her truck. But despite hunkering down and sniffing the sledgehammer’s handle, I get nothing else.
That doesn’t make any damn sense. Even if the bastard wore gloves, there’d be some lingering odor. And if he used one of those scent-masking products that hunters use, I’m not a deer who can be fooled by that shit. Those sprays don’t erase scent, they just overwhelm the human odor. So I’d be smelling the spray. But there’s nothing.
Just like there wasn’t at any of the other crime scenes where wolfkin were killed.
I don’t suspect there’s any connection. This slaughter isn’t anything like what happened to my family or the other wolfkin. They were killed with bullets, not a sledgehammer. But that lack of scent has been eating at me for a decade. So if I discover why there’s no scent…that might be the first real clue I’ve found in years, and one that might help me hunt the fuckers.
But it’s also a clue that essentially blinds me here. When I saw the cattle lying on the ground, I figured that I’d have Makena’s troubles cleared up within hours. I’d smell who did it and track them down. Instead I’ve got nothing to give her.
Except a phone, because she left hers at the house. She finally gets a connection near the river and puts in a couple of calls, then she starts making her way back.
And fucking hell, she’s beautiful. That’s not instinct or magic or whatever is drawing me toward her so hard. That’s a bare fact. Last night I thought she was gorgeous, but I also thought that I’d seen other women who looked just as fine. But last night she was all sweetness and heat. So that was before I saw her midnight eyes go flat and wary while she contemplated the pros and cons of hiring me, and I learned that for all her sweetness, she’s no pushover. That was before I saw those long, sleek legs race toward an unknown threat despite the fear that had taken hold of her. That was before I discovered the heat isn’t just in her kiss, and that she’s got just as much fire in her temper, when she told me to get the fuck out of her way. And the way she holds herself, her chin up and shoulders so straight, even after the weight of the world has dropped on them, leaves me in no doubt just how strong she is. So, yeah—her face and figure are damn fine, but it’s the personality coming through that’s pushing her over into sublime.
Now the early morning sun catches the curling edges of her hair and turns them gold, but it’s just gilding a lily. Nothing could make her more stunning than she already is, and I can’t stop myself from watching her. The despair that hung over her has eased up. Her anger’s still there as her gaze sweeps the pasture, but it’s cooling into determination.
Her focus lands on my face as she comes nearer—then her gaze skitters away, her full lips tightening. I’ve got a sense that she doesn’t like the way I look at her, but fuck me if I can help it. I’m just no good at concealing what I feel.
She stops to check on the water level in the mobile tub before giving me back my phone—carefully, as if making certain our fingers don’t touch. “The sheriff will be here in about a half hour.”
I already know. But I can’t say that I could hear her talking to him from a few hundred yards away, so I just nod.
“And I think you’re wrong,” she continues, turning to survey the field again. “I think there is some evidence left behind.”
Something I missed? “What’s that?”
“Them.” She indicates the dead cows with a lift of her chin. “I’ve never killed a steer with a sledgehammer, but I’ve got a decent idea of how much damage I could do if I hit one. Especially if I only got in one blow, the way it looks like happened here.”
Vague unease lifts the hairs at the back of my neck. A cow’s skull is hard as hell. Yet the mess out here looks as if a man took a sledgehammer to a bunch of watermelons. It took strength to do that. Strength like mine.
But I don’t smell wolfkin or bearkin. I don’t smell a damn thing.
“I don’t know who could do that,” she continues. “Obviously not a machine, because there’s no tracks through the grass. But I’m guessing the list of people who can swing a sledgehammer that hard is pretty short.”
Damn short. That list would include me and whoever did this. And that means the threat to Makena is a whole lot more dangerous than I assumed.
A growl rumbles up from my chest as the vague unease I’m feeling takes solid form. Something’s out there—not bearkin or wolfkin—but it’s as strong as me and it’s targeting Makena. Instantly the overwhelming thought in my head is protect her.
Only sheer will crushes the instinct to transform. Still I feel the sharp edges of my teeth against my tongue. When my hands clench into fists, my claws pierce my palms.
My eyes are likely burning gold, but the daylight gives me some cover when she glances my way and asks, “What do you think?”
“I think you’re right. I also think it’s a damn good thing I came looking for a job today.”
A faint smile curves her mouth, but her steady gaze turns speculative. “I called Bill Weathering after I called Kyle.”
I nod, because I already heard it all. Bill told her that he’d rehire me in a hot minute.
She gives me a doubtful look. “After seeing all this, you’re certain you don’t want to take off?”
“I’m real certain that I don’t.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I don’t.”
That answer sounds like more of a growl than words, but it finally seems to convince her. She nods, and her chest lifts on a deep breath that she slowly lets out while surveying the cows again. “I’m meeting Kyle at the house. So I’ll head back now, get dressed, and then I’ll bring him down this way. Are you okay with staying here and getting this tub drained and moved?”
“If I’m not, you sure as hell shouldn’t be hiring me.”
This time her smile has a wry edge. “Maybe I shouldn’t be. But I am. And we’ll do the paperwork and make everything official later today, but since you’re already working…” Her dark eyes are alight as she holds out her hand, the morning sun glinting off her rings. “Welcome to Riverbend Ranch, Etha
n.”
I’ve never been so damn eager to shake a woman’s hand. To feel her skin again. So I hold myself under tight control as I clasp her palm to mine, bracing myself against the simmering arousal that I expect to flare into burning need.
That’s the only reason I don’t fall to my knees screaming.
Pain rips through me, shearing through my nerves, followed by weakness like I’ve never known. Terror joins it, because the change always happens in times like this. When my human form is in pain, the instinctive protection of my warrior form breaks through my skin. Immediately I battle the transformation…but there’s nothing there to fight. As if the wolfkin part of me is gone, ripped away by the touch of her hand, leaving an empty hollow nothing behind.
Sour fear and sickness shoot up my throat. I pull my hand back, barely stopping myself from shaking like a leaf, from puking on her boots. Immediately the agony eases, that hollow space filling in, but I don’t feel like myself. Instead of a wolfkin, instead of a warrior, I’m more like a trembling dog crawling on his belly.
Makena frowns up at me, her face lined with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” It’s low and thick. “Maybe breathed in too many antifreeze fumes last night.”
“Or maybe I shouldn’t have hustled you down here without getting food and coffee into you first,” she says, but Makena’s no fool. She knows that missing a single meal wouldn’t affect a man my size. Her gaze continues searching my face as she offers, “I’ll bring you back something to eat. How do you take your coffee?”
I don’t. It tastes like shit and caffeine does nothing. But I’m guessing she’ll worry less if she can do something she thinks will help. “With a load of cream and sugar,” I tell her. “But I’m all right.”
“Just like you were last night?” she asks softly, and I realize that she’s thinking of how dizzy I got when she stopped beside my truck. She believes this is the same thing. “Look, Ethan—if you’ve got a medical condition, that’s fine. I’ll still hire you. But I don’t want to ask you to do any work that might be harmful to your health, so you need to tell me if something’s going on.”
A medical condition? A rough laugh escapes me. I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any, but I won’t lie to her. “I’m all right,” I tell her—and I am. Weak as fuck, a little shaky, but feeling whole again. “I’ll get this done.”
Judging by the way she gives me another once-over, as if expecting me to keel over, Makena’s not convinced. But she doesn’t keep pushing. Instead she just tells me that she’ll be back soon, then heads off toward her truck.
I watch her go, feeling steadier but with my mind reeling. What the fuck just happened? It wasn’t because I touched her. I kissed her last night and didn’t feel as if my soul had been ripped out of me. So it’s something else. Something I can’t even guess at. My brain turns it over and over, and gets absolutely nowhere.
But one thing’s for damn sure: whatever slaughtered all these cattle is as strong as I am—or maybe stronger—and I’m not letting Makena face it alone. It’ll have to kill me before it gets to her. Whatever it is. Some other kind of magic being, maybe.
And it occurs to me that if the same magic is the reason touching her almost brought me to my knees…then killing me might be easier than I ever believed.
7
Makena
Antsy to get back to the pasture, I lock the dogs in the house and head outside as soon as I see the sheriff’s vehicle coming up the drive. When Kyle pulls up beside the spot where I’m standing, he doesn’t get out of the rig, just rolls down his window. His eyes are still puffy with sleep and his auburn hair sticks up in all directions. “Carrie’s about fifteen minutes away,” is the first thing he says.
I’m only surprised that she’s not in the vehicle with him. My early-morning call obviously woke him up, but maybe she slept through it. “You need coffee? I’ll pour you one before we go.”
“That’s why Carrie’s late. She’s bringing some.”
“Should we wait, then?”
“She’ll catch up.” His gaze falls to the camera in my hand. “Is that for the insurance?”
“Partly.” I have livestock insurance that covers loss due to natural causes like drought or blizzards. I have other insurance that protects against theft. But I suspect both will try to wriggle out of reimbursing me for this, so I probably have a battle ahead. “But also for the water quality board. I’ll document the disposal so I have something to show them if they get more complaints about us.”
Like they have recently. First about the amount of manure running off into the river from my spread, though I’m far under the limit. Then about a pesticide I was supposedly spraying—and that was also bullshit. But proving both took time and money…and I’ve got a damn good idea where those complaints came from.
So does Kyle. His mouth thins, and he says, “They’re just hoping to wear you down.”
I know it. “I guess someone decided it wasn’t wearing me down fast enough. You want me to run you through how we found the herd before we head out?”
“No. As an investigative professional, I prefer to look at the scene with virginal eyes, so that my observations remain uncorrupted by your amateur assumptions.”
I crack a smile at that. He might be sheriff now, but he’s still the same dork I met in kindergarten. “Oh, joy. My very own Hercule Poirot is on the case. I’ll lead the way.”
Kyle follows my truck down the cattle alley—and doubts assail me the entire drive. Only yesterday, I thought MDC had a long way to go before they could make me consider selling. But if they keep this up, they might wear me down faster than I believed possible. Because it’s not just losing the cattle, though that’s bad enough. And it’s not the money, though that hurts, too.
Instead it’s the worry that’s getting to me. I really didn’t think they’d go this far. But they have. And now I don’t know if there’s any limit to how far they’ll go. If they hurt Jonas—or Ethan, since he seems determined to stay—how could I live with myself after? Even knowing that I wouldn’t be to blame, that it would be MDC at fault, that wouldn’t stop the guilt from eating me alive. And all the guilt in the world wouldn’t change the fact that two people were hurt because I was so stubborn. That’s all I can think about now—the worry that I’m risking their lives.
And I know Kyle would say that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. That this might not be MDC at all. But he must be thinking the same thing I am, even as he’s trying to stay objective. So I pray there’s something linking the slaughter to MDC. Just a tiny shred of evidence. But I don’t hold out much hope. They’ve been good at covering their asses so far. This probably won’t be any different.
Hell, because they are so good at covering their asses, a lack of evidence here would be a strong indication that they’re responsible. But not one that Kyle could do anything about.
Ethan must have heard us coming, because as I round the bend, his tall figure is heading toward the pasture gate. And there’s another worry. No matter how much Ethan denies that he’s sick, something’s going on. If it’s a medical condition, I don’t want to pry—but I also don’t want him to get hurt.
At least he seems steady now. He’s got the gate open by the time we reach him, so I slow up once we’re through and wait for him to get in. He loads up into the passenger seat and his broad chest lifts on a deep inhalation.
“It smells damn good in here.”
“I made up breakfast burritos, since they’re easiest to handle out here,” I tell him and slide the paper bag his way. “Egg, cheese, potato—and I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian, so there’s one with sausage and one with avocado. I’ll eat whichever one you don’t.”
“I’m not a vegetarian.” Amusement deepens his voice and his whiskey-brown eyes sparkle with laughter. “But are you sure you want that mushy green stuff? I can choke it down if—”
“I like that mushy green stuff. There’s hot sauce in there, too.”
“Tabasco? That settles it.” He pulls out the bottle and a thick burrito wrapped in foil. “You’re the most perfect woman who ever walked this earth.”
I ignore the warmth that steals into my belly. “Actually, my uncle is. He’s the one who cooked all the ingredients for me and left them in the fridge, because he worries that I don’t eat when he’s gone. Your coffee’s in that Thermos. I made it Chris Evans-style, as requested.”
Already biting into the burrito, he cocks an eyebrow in question.
“Extra sweet and super white,” I tell him, but I guess he’s not a fan of Captain America because that eyebrow just goes higher. Grinning, I slow the truck as we near the grazing patch. “So, no avocados. Does that mean you don’t like guacamole? What kind of monster are you?”
Eyes narrowing, Ethan swallows and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Guacamole’s just fine.”
“What’s the difference, then? It’s still green and mushy.”
“It’s a different mushy. Less slimy.”
I laugh. “So you’re okay with green and mushy if it’s mashed? What about guacamole made from mashed peas?”
That stops Ethan in the middle of another bite. Turning his head, he looks at me as if green slime started pouring out of my eyeballs. “Who the hell would make that?”
Which is exactly what I asked when Carrie told me about it. “A friend informed me yesterday that it’s a new thing with some food bloggers.”
“Then I’d rather be a monster than some online Betty Crocker.”
“I’m pretty sure whoever came up with that recipe is the real monster.” But our bit of shared levity comes to an end when I pull up in front of the electric fence. As I’m looking at the dead animals lying in the grass, all my worry dumps into my lap again. “Or the monster is whoever did this.”
“Makena.”
My name sounds like a low, rumbling growl and pulls my gaze away from the pasture ahead. Ethan’s intense golden stare is leveled on my face, his rugged features made up of stark angles and hollows that seem set in stone.
