Imprints [Dominant Wolves, Submissive Mates 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Natalie Acres

“See there, what’d I tell ya?” Grant smiled at the petite brunette emerging from the cabin. “That right there is fate showin’ her pretty little hand.”

  Chapter Two

  “What are you doing here?” Carla asked, propping her tiny clenched fists on her hips.

  “Far be it for you to show a little appreciation,” Jock said, studying the spitfire of a woman before them. Wearing a light blue prairie dress, Carla apparently hadn’t stopped to check out the torn fabric and soiled material.

  “You were attacked by a pack of wolves. I arrived in time to run them off.” Jock stood a tad taller with his announcement. Most women appreciated heroic efforts.

  She paled then as he spoke. She looked down at the evidence of a ruined dress and her hands twitched.

  “How did this happen?” Carla asked, suggesting her memory had failed her.

  “You must’ve had a nasty bump on the head if you don’t remember,” Grant told her.

  She held the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Everything is a bit foggy.”

  “Well, don’t you fret none, Carla. We took care of ya.” Grant shot Jock a quick glance. “Yep, siree. Me and Jock here handled everything.”

  Jock was beginning to think whenever there was a “yep, siree,” added to Grant’s speech it was nothing more than a bald-faced tale.

  “Do you remember going to the barn?” Jock asked.

  Carla took a minute before she answered. As if she suddenly recalled something of interest, her cheeks turned pink and she said, “I may have already been in the barn.”

  Grant shot her a wink and a lopsided nod. “That was my best estimation, too.”

  “Dear God,” Jock grumbled, beginning to believe Grant must’ve considered himself the most intelligent man in the West.

  “Here’s how I figure things went down. Those wolves heard a lot of activity, maybe even some squealin’ and carryin’ on comin’ from the barn…” He paused and arched a brow. “How am I doin’ so far?”

  Carla stared at him with this perplexed look which made Jock wonder all the more. Had Grant really watched Carla in action with these wicked props he’d mentioned?

  “That’s all right, sweetness. Don’t worry ’bout a reply. I can make heads and tails out of this. Anyhow, you were in the barn doin’ whatever it is that you do out there—in the loft—and well, what I came up with after a-prowlin’ around is that you were makin’ a little too much noise.” He stood taller and his lips spread into a mischievous smile. Leaning against Jock, he added a whisper, “How’d I do? Did ya like that?”

  Jock studied the pretty lady. “Carla? How close was Grant’s guess?”

  “What sort of squealing?” Carla arched a brow and watched them through suspicious eyes.

  Grant shrugged. “That voice of yours is as fine as cream gravy when you go to hollerin’ and such.”

  “Grant,” Jock muttered, giving his buddy a one-word warning he would inevitably ignore.

  Copping a strut, Grant approached the porch, working what little swagger he possessed. “Come on, Carla. You know what I mean. You can’t kick up a row and expect no one to hear ya. I ain’t been a man for all these years for nothin’. I can spot an experienced woman.” He cupped his ear, slung his arm off to the left, and quickly added, “And I can hear one from way over yonder.”

  Before Jock had a chance to smooth things over, a disgusted gasp fell from Carla’s mouth. “Well I’ve never in my life.”

  “Me neither,” Grant admitted. “But after what I’ve witnessed, I’d be the first man to say you are a soiled dove to the manner born. And I’d be the first to mention yer geared up to teach even an experienced fella a thing or two.”

  Carla’s eyes filled with tears. Before Jock saw the slap coming, she opened her hand and her palm connected with Grant’s cheek.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, Grant Ford, but if you’re trying to make a mash on me, I can promise you, I’m not impressed!”

  Grant stared back at her with wide eyes. “Surely to God you ain’t offended.”

  “I am indeed!”

  And of course after that, Miss Carla Cassidy did what Jock suspected she might. She walked inside, slammed the door in their faces, and never so much as bothered to say good-bye.

  “Happy now?” Jock asked, without blinking an eye.

  “I like ’em a little hot under the collar. Trust me, friend. I know what I’m doin’. Let’s go for a run. When we get back, she’ll be fit to be tied—and I mean that in the literal sense.”

  Jock couldn’t help but think about Grant’s earlier words. One of these days, Carla would open the door and greet her husband. Considering what had transpired, Jock had a feeling she’d slam that door just as quickly if she thought her potential suitor was named Grant Ford.

  * * * *

  Carla was mad enough to go into town and talk to the marshal. Jock and Grant had been riding in and out of her life for over five years now. Never once had she given either one of them reason to believe she was a fancy gal, a woman who had the luxury of lying on her back and earning her room and board instead of working like a man to afford her lot in life. If Carla had spread her legs, she’d done so for free while providing comfort for the man who’d stopped by to check on her more than anyone else in this town.

  Living on the outskirts of Laramie in the wide-open prairie referred to as WolfDen, Wyoming, Carla occasionally spotted a stagecoach passing through and every day or two, a rider might stop by and ask for directions. She made her living off the land and kept her hands and nose clean. She rarely went into the town of Laramie and had yet to take a notion to ride off into the sunset with a wild outlaw. She’d received the offer every now and again.

  She wished she’d taken a second to set Grant straight. She’d only been with one man. At times, she considered Frank Smith a mistake and other times she thought he might have been good fortune in disguise. Regardless of what he was or what he ever would be, Frank Smith had been in her bed because he was available. He’d expressed enough admirable interest and he’d promised to teach her things no other woman in Wyoming would ever know.

  A smile tugged at her lips as she looked around her empty cabin and relived some recent delicious memories. Frank had taught her life lessons. He’d schooled her on how to become a woman.

  Right there in that very room, Frank had tied her up and secured her body to every piece of furniture—the chopping block, the small square table, both rocking chairs, and the double cot she’d shared with him on numerous occasions.

  Frank was a suspicious character. She was only leery of him because of the rumors surrounding him. Carla had talked to a few women folk who swore Frank was part human, part animal. The last time he stopped by for dinner, she asked him what he thought about that.

  He’d thrown his head back and laughed aloud. His dark eyes had turned to soot as a smoky mist filled the rims and threatened to distort the natural black hue. She couldn’t help but think of the wolves then. And her earlier attack came rolling back to mind.

  She’d been in the barn, protecting Joy. She’d fanned two wolves away, but the larger beast stayed behind. He had tossed his head back and released a toe-curling howl. She soon realized his vocal summons had been deliberate and the only way he knew how to lure the other wolves to her property.

  Trembling at the thought, Carla crossed one arm under her elbow and gnawed on her thumbnail. Several intelligent women had warned her against Frank Smith.

  Some of the women at the church even said he was a wild and reckless man, kind of like windblown tumbleweed. It was hard to say where Frank had been the day before or where he might spend his next night.

  Several people claimed to have seen him transition from man to wolf. An old Indian chief had called it phasing and once stated he’d watched Frank phase in a territorial battle where Frank and another wolf wiped out half a tribe.

  Still, Carla was a woman who believed what she could see. She rarely gave second thoughts to petty gossip an
d such.

  If Frank were a wolf, wouldn’t she know? Wouldn’t he sport a matted chest full of bristly hair? Wouldn’t he growl in the heat of passion, or perhaps release a carnal cry? Wouldn’t he resemble a dog and have short stubby ears and a mammal’s snout?

  Her mind shifted to the day she’d discussed Frank’s heritage. He’d cupped her chin, looked into her eyes, and asked, “What do you see when you look at me?”

  With his dark black silken hair, high cheekbones, too-full lips, and reddish-brown skin, she saw the Arapaho Indian. In fact, she rarely saw a mixed breed, which is what he’d often called himself when he’d insisted he possessed the white man’s skin underneath the more dominant layer of dark. And regardless of rumors, she never saw signs of an emerging wolf or any other animal for that matter.

  Fixating on the window, she wondered then why she had this uneasy feeling about her earlier confrontation with the wolves. The way the black wolf had pursued her had been like a man stalking a lover more than a predator circling his prey.

  Taking a ragged breath, she turned to the door right as a hard knock fell upon the wood. “Carla, open up. It’s Jock. I need to speak with you.”

  Chapter Three

  “Where’s Grant?”

  “I thought we’d talk alone.” Jock removed his cowboy hat. “May I come in?”

  “Haven’t you been coming and going without asking for an invitation? Since when do you need my permission?”

  The sharp edge in her tone made his muscles bunch, but he walked inside without missing a stride. If she wanted to shoot off at the mouth, who was he to stand outside and hang on her every word?

  “And by all means, enter at your own risk.”

  He faced her then. “Carla, you were hurt. What was I supposed to do? Leave you for the wolves? I bandaged that nasty cut on your thigh and—”

  “What cut?” she asked, jerking her dress to her hips. Her soft pink skin paled at the sight of the bloody bandage.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he assured her, growing stiff as he caught a glimpse of the apex between her thighs.

  She glanced up and given her bent position, found herself eye level to his manhood. Her cheeks flamed red then. She carefully lowered her dress and smoothed her palms across the satin sash at her waist. “Excuse me.”

  “No need to apologize,” he assured her, glancing around the cabin. He’d love to spot evidence of Grant’s elusive accusations. Scarce in appointments, the house Carla occupied was neat and void of any noticeable personal items.

  “I didn’t apologize,” she reminded him, a bit of sass in her voice. “But I would like to properly thank you for taking care of me. Would you stay for dinner?”

  Jock’s stomach rumbled with the suggestion. Carla was an excellent cook and he hadn’t eaten a real meal in quite a while.

  “I’d love to,” Jock said, realizing then there was something different about Carla. As he watched the way she nervously tidied up her cabin, a disturbing thought entered his mind. Rather than sit and stew for a moment or two, he blurted, “You’ve been with a man recently.”

  “What are you…I don’t know what…why would you…” She stopped trying to speak and avoided eye contact then. She appeared baffled by his accusation, but not necessarily angered.

  Jock cupped her cheek and forced her to look at him. Staring into those deep brown eyes, he couldn’t help but gauge the lost innocence. Startling knowledge and maturity had replaced the insecurity and inexperience.

  “My personal life is none of your business,” she finally told him.

  He begged to differ but bit back the raging need to tell her otherwise.

  “I waited for you,” she said quietly. “I tried to convince myself you were worth the wait, but you weren’t, Jock. You’d ride in here after being out on that trail for months. Then, you’d sit down and eat, make a little conversation, and be on your way. What’d you expect, hmm? I’m twenty-four years old and until six months ago, no man had ever touched me.”

  Damn, the time frame hurt as badly as the facts. He’d often wondered if Carla was a virgin, if she’d remained untouched all these years in hopes of trading her purity for true love, for a man who would appreciate the gift she’d one day give to only him.

  “Who is he?” Jock asked, certain he already knew the answer. There wasn’t any reason for a confirmation. The wolf attack fit his line of thinking, too.

  What he’d interrupted hadn’t been a brutal assault. He’d intervened right in the nick of time to save Carla from an imprinting ceremony, a tradition followed by the Wyoming Wood Pack. Extremely social, the Wyoming Wood Pack Alphas often consummated the physical relationship with their mates prior to calling upon their pack to witness the imprinting and true joining of mates.

  He should’ve told her then. If she’d taken up with someone from the WolfDen pack—him—she would’ve enjoyed a more private and traditional ceremony, one devoid of potential embarrassment inflicted by onlookers.

  As it turned out, none of that mattered. His worst suspicions had materialized. He’d feared he’d uncover the truth, worried that the angst welling inside him was justifiable, even understandable. After Carla had slammed the door in their faces, he and Grant had checked the scents and markings left behind the barn.

  A shifter had definitely staked his claim and Frank Smith’s pack was responsible. Frank had marked a territory he thought belonged to him and he was sending out a message, too. The woman living there was his woman.

  “I asked you a question, Carla,” Jock said, growing angrier by the minute as his gaze held at the corner housing her neatly made bed.

  What had taken place there? What kind of consummation had she and Frank enjoyed? Damn it to hell, the what-ifs were killing him!

  Frank was the son of a dirty scoundrel, a real bastard, and Jock had reason to believe Frank was just like the father who’d sired him. He’d had an occasion to run into Frank’s pack a few years back and he had been told, warned actually, that Frank had set down roots and marked the entire Wyoming region as his.

  Considering his scent was stronger around Carla’s place, he would argue Frank’s perceived territory.

  “I won’t ask you again,” Jock said. The need to phase lunged at him. The desire to mate drove him to the brink of unruly behavior.

  Carla backed away, placing deliberate distance between them. “Who I see isn’t your business.”

  “The hell you say!” He thrust his arms forward and clasped his hands around her wrists, drawing her against him. “I want to know, Carla. After that attack today, I have to know. Were you with Frank Smith?”

  She flinched.

  “Did Frank Smith take you to his bed?” He jerked her to him. “Damn you! I need to know!”

  If he’d hoped for denial, he probably wouldn’t receive it from this woman. Carla was too direct, too straightforward and honest, to flat-out lie to his face.

  A raspy hitch in her throat gave away the answer, but the blush of her skin was a tell-all sign as well. “Frank and I are close friends.”

  “We’re friends,” Jock said, refusing to acknowledge the gush of pain centered in his chest. “But you don’t spread your legs for me.”

  “You never asked!” she accused.

  His cock jumped in his breeches. He took a ragged breath as a flash of images spun through his head. He could almost picture her body above his, her long, slender fingers holding fast to his shoulders as she rode him. “I’m asking now.”

  Silence lingered for several minutes as she stared back at him with knowing eyes. Finally, she took a heavy breath. “You’re too late.”

  “Impossible.” He bracketed his arms around her waist and planted kisses from her lips to her ear.

  “I don’t know if I belong to him or not.”

  “You don’t,” he breathed.

  “How do you know?” she asked, arching as his mouth dipped to the patch of skin between her collarbone and neck.

  He blew out a hard breath a
nd eased away from her, resting his hand in the curve of his waist. “Do you love him?”

  “I care for him.”

  “What do you feel exactly?”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “Try.”

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  “He took you because he could, Carla. He made a partial claim on your body so all other shifters would leave you alone.”

  “Shifters?”

  He scrubbed the side of his recently shaven face as he contemplated the best way to explain his life and the lives of so many who now occupied the land east and west of Laramie. He’d always planned to do this differently, to wait until the time was right to show her who and what he was, but thanks to dragging his feet and Frank’s sudden move to claim her, he had no other choice. “I’m a wolf shifter.”

  “I see.” She lifted her brows and set her lips in a tight frown.

  “I don’t think you do,” he said, wagging his finger at the window. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  “What are you doing?” She followed him outside.

  “I want you to understand who I am,” he said, kicking off his boots. He pulled his long-sleeve shirt over his head and stepped away from his breeches.

  “Jock, what are you…” A sudden gasp forced her to stop midsentence. “Oh. My. God.”

  Good, he had earned her praise, he thought, as he transitioned into his wolf form without looking back. There was nothing more rewarding than a woman’s approval except a mate’s obvious appreciation.

  Jock circled the small yard enclosed by a split-rail fence then stopped in front of her. He stalked her then, keeping his head low as he backed her against the log cabin. Fully prepared to shift into his human form if she tried to run from him, he had now shown himself and there was no escaping him. He refused to let her hide from him.

  “Who are you?”

  He howled aloud and instantly regretted his vocal release. Assuming Carla was already under Frank’s protection, or at least his watch, the outburst may have notified, even called out, the enemy.