Wolfe Wedding

by Joan Hohl

  “It’s Wolfe,” she heard him say into the receiver. “And I think my tracker has found me.”

  Not waiting to hear any more, she walked into the living room and pulled on her jacket. She was doing up the buttons when he came into the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting ready,” she answered, frowning at the authoritarian note in his voice. “We are leaving at once, aren’t we?”

  “No, Sandra,” he said, moving around her to get to his own jacket. “You’re not going anywhere. Not as long as he’s skulking about out there.”

  “But then, why are you putting on your jacket?” she asked, then exclaimed, “Oh!” when he thrust a hand beneath the end sofa cushion and withdrew a holstered pistol. She took a step back. “I hate guns.”

  “So do I.” A tired smile feathered his lips at the look of revulsion on her face. “I especially hate them when they’re in the hands of criminals.”

  “You’re going out there, looking for him.” Sandra moistened her lips. “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” he snapped, drawing the weapon from the holster. He tossed the harness onto the sofa, then raised his intent blue eyes to her. “It’s my job.”

  “But. but.” she sputtered, watching him shrug into his jacket. “You can’t go out there after him alone!” She reached out impulsively to grab his arm.

  “Can’t I?” He shook off her hand and moved away from her. “Watch me.”

  “Cameron, please,” she pleaded, frantic with fear for him. “At least wait for backup.”

  Shaking his head, he walked into the kitchen and to the back door. “I won’t take a chance on being pinned down in here. If there’s going to be any more hunting done, then I’m going to do it.”

  She was right on his heels, her heart racing, her eyes wide and frightened. Dipping his head, he brushed a kiss across her parted lips, then opened the door.

  “Lock this at once,” he ordered, leveling a scorching, memorizing look on her face. “Stay inside, and away from the windows, until I return.”

  Obeying instinctively, Sandra locked the door the instant he closed it. Then she ran to the kitchen window, a shiver skittering up her spine as she watched Cameron swiftly cross the deck, descend the steps and follow the trail of boot prints into the wooded foothills.

  The Lone Wolfe was on the hunt.

  Crouched low, and moving fast, Cameron followed the boot tracks across the open area next to the house, then into the trees at the base of the foothills.

  Even with the undergrowth, he had little difficulty discerning the erratic trail Slim had left. Moving slower, but at a steady pace, he followed the zigzag, circling path delineated by the indentations in the rain-softened. earth from the distinctive slanted-heeled, pointy-toed cowboy boot.

  It was tough going, and time-consuming, but after what Cameron judged to have been in actual measure approximately three-quarters of a mile, the tracks intersected a narrow, rutted roadway. There the boot tracks proceeded on a straight course, deeper into the woods, and to a small clearing, where a tree-scraped and battered van—likely stolen—was parked.

  In the sylvan setting, all was quiet and serene; birds chittered and scolded each other in the treetops.

  Cameron approached the vehicle with tense caution and bated breath. Stepping gingerly, so as not to dislodge a stone or crunch a twig, he moved up to the rear of the van, then along its closed side panels.

  Pausing behind the passenger-side door, he drew a silent breath, leaned forward for a quick peek inside, then, finding the front seats empty, pulled back.

  Preparing to move on the count of three, he tightened his grip on the gun, drew another, deeper breath, then counted—one, two, three, go!

  His movements fast, sure, Cameron stepped forward, grasped the door handle with his left hand, pulled it open and burst into the front of the van, right arm extended to the rear, finger taut on the trigger.

  The van was empty.

  The pent-up breath whooshed out of him in a harsh exhalation. But, although the interior was devoid of life, there were clear signs of Slim’s occupancy.

  An open heavy-duty sleeping bag lay along one wall. Two six-packs of bottled beer, one empty, were set close to it, along with a crumpled potato chip bag, a package of cookies and a half-full milk container. Two plastic sandwich bags, both with the remnants of sandwiches inside, littered the floor.

  Cameron drew a breath, and wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of beer. The strength of the odor gave evidence of Slim’s recent presence.

  Unease unfurled in his stomach. Slim had been here, at least long enough to eat and swig some beer. And then he had left again, to goSandra!

  Stark fear clutching at his throat, Cameron scrambled back from the van, then circled around the front, to the driver’s side. The mark of a boot heel was deep in the ground where Slim had stepped out. From there, the tracks led off, across the makeshift road and into the woods, back in the direction of the cabin.

  “Goddamn.”

  Muttering the curse, along with several other inventive and profane utterances, Cameron took off at a watchful trot, following the trail of boot prints.

  It led straight back to the cabin.

  Standing at the edge of the tree line, yet concealed by the trees, his eyes crawling inch by inch, Cameron surveyed the terrain, and the situation. His gaze paused for long moments on the two vehicles, Sandra’s compact and his own larger fourwheel, parked, his behind hers, in front of the cabin. There was not a shadow, not a hint of motion. All appeared peaceful, serene, in the warm midmorning spring sunlight.

  There was not a sign of Slim—outside.

  The short hairs at the back of Cameron’s neck quivered as his gaze came to a halt on the cabin.

  Although the clearing between the house and the trees was relatively short in distance, it was a decidedly far piece in time of exposure. He knew he’d be a sitting duck if he should leave the protective cover.

  And yet, if Slim had somehow managed to gain entrance into the cabin, to Sandra.

  Cameron stopped thinking and started moving.

  He had traversed about three-quarters of the distance to the house, and was drawing even with the cars, when he caught a flicker of movement from the far side of his vehicle out of the corner of his eye.

  He spun instinctively to face the possible danger. His sudden movement saved his life.

  In what seemed like fast-forward action, Cameron saw Slim rise to his full height and fire off a shot from his hastily raised rifle.

  The bullet missed Cameron’s head by a fraction of an inch.

  The sickening crack of the rifle shot halted Sandra in her tracks in the center of the living room, where she had been pacing since moments after Cameron had left the house. She had filled those moments by running into the bedroom to retrieve the pistol she had shoved to the back of the bedside table drawer, behind her paperback books.

  The awful sound of gunfire had come from the front of the house.

  Cameron!

  Clutching the detested weapon in a trembling hand, Sandra dashed to the door, disengaged the lock and, unmindful of her own safety, yanked open the door and ran onto the porch.

  The tableau that confronted her wide eyes sent her heartbeat into overdrive and her blood surging like ice water through her veins.

  Cameron stood in the clearing near the cabin, exposed to the man standing on the far side of the large vehicle, caught in the cross hairs of the rifle nestled against his shoulder.

  Sandra didn’t pause to think or consider. Raising her arms and thrusting them out straight, she wrapped her left hand around her right on the butt of the handgun, took aim, held her breath and eased back the trigger.

  She missed her target by a hair.

  Still, her instinctive action saved the day, and her lover’s life.

  Zinging by as close as it did, the shot naturally distracted Slim for an instant. An instant was all Cameron required. Raising his own weapon, he t
ook careful aim and fired.

  He didn’t miss. The bullet rocketed straight through Slim’s right shoulder. The rifle fell to the ground. Slim followed it down. He didn’t make it to the ground; he crumpled over the hood of the vehicle.

  Across the short distance separating them, Sandra and Cameron stared at each other. He took two steps toward her, then stopped, slicing a look at Slim. The criminal groaned; Cameron steadied his aim on him.

  At that moment, three cars, two with official emblems emblazoned on their white sides, tore, sirens wailing, up the private road. The sight of them broke the shock gripping Sandra.

  She had almost killed a man!

  The stark realization of how very close she had come, how very much she had wanted to take the life of another human being, made her feel physically ill.

  Home. She had to go home.

  The directive ringing in her head, a sob clawing at her throat, she lowered her still stiffly outstretched arms, turned and ran into the house.

  Refusing to pause to think, to consider her actions or her reactions, she grabbed her jacket and dug in her handbag for car and house keys. Then, dropping the key to the cabin on the shoulder holster, she whirled and ran from the house, down the porch steps, and to her car.

  “Sandra!”

  Drawing in shuddering breaths, she ignored Cameron’s call. Firing the engine, she turned the compact in a tight U-turn and drove down the road.

  Sandra didn’t so much as glance at the men standing along the side of the road, staring at her. She didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror for a backward look.

  She had told Cameron she needed thinking time. Now, after being willing—no, determined—to destroy a life to preserve the life of the man she loved, she needed that time more than before.

  She’d deal with it, Sandra knew. But she’d deal with it in her own time, in her own way.

  At home.

  Cameron knew where to find her.

  Ten

  Why hadn’t they stayed in bed together?

  The thought drifted into Cameron’s mind as he stood in the open doorway to Sandra’s apartment. A pang of regret clutched at his chest as his eyes noted the paleness of her cheeks, the dark smudges beneath her soft eyes.

  Damn. What had he done to her?

  “Hi, Annie Oakley,” he said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears. “May I come in?”

  A faint wisp of a smile touched her lips, and his heart, at his teasing gibe. Hope soared inside him when she nodded and stepped back, allowing him entrance.

  “I missed you like hell this past week and a half,” he confessed, gently closing the door behind him.

  “But you didn’t call, or stop by,” Sandra said, motioning him into the living room.

  “I was giving you the time you asked for,” he said, absently taking in the clean, elegant, yet comfortable-looking decor of her home. “But I couldn’t wait any longer,” he admitted, offering her a coaxing smile. “I needed to see you.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re leaving for Pennsylvania soon.” Her answering smile held acceptance. “For your brother’s wedding. Jake, right?”

  “Yes, but that isn’t why I needed to see you.” Cameron took a careful step, closing the distance between them. “I had to make certain you were all right.” The evidence of her wan appearance convinced him she wasn’t. “Are you having guilt fits about firing on Slim?”

  “No.” Sandra’s voice held relieving conviction. “I read in the paper that he survived your shot.”

  “I planned it that way.” Cameron frowned, deciding to clear up any misconceptions she might be harboring. “I don’t get my kicks from killing, Sandra.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “I never believed you did!” she exclaimed. “Why did you think I had?”

  “You hate guns.”

  “Yes, but.” Her voice faded, and she shrugged. “I knew what you did for a living.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I’m glad that’s cleared up-it did have me concerned.” He hazarded another step closer. “Now I’d like to clear up something else.”

  She didn’t back away. She did arch her brows questioningly.

  “It doesn’t take a brick building to fall on me,” he said, his tone rife with self-derision. “All it took was the sound of a gunshot.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did I.” He held his breath and took another step, bringing him to within two feet of her. “I mean, I didn’t understand until then the reason you were so angry and impatient with me.”

  “And now you do?” She remained still.

  “Hmm.” He nodded, and took a chance on touching her—just the tip of his fingers to the curve of her pale cheek; it felt like satin. Desire twisted inside him. He tamped it down, cautioning himself against screwing up.

  Sandra shivered.

  Encouraged, Cameron explained, “I now believe that you weren’t angry because I accused you of being childish and bent out of shape about having your autonomy questioned. You were angry because I was so damn dense. I misunderstood your concern for me, my safety.” He paused, then asked, “Right?” Then he held his breath.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Now, will you tell me how the sound of a gunshot brought the revelation?”

  The pent-up breath eased from his taut body. “Simple. You hate guns, and yet you not only handled one, but fired it with intent in defense of me.”

  “And I’d do it again.”

  Just five words, spoken with quiet conviction. Five beautiful words. Elation swept through Cameron, banishing his fear of her rejection. He took the final step necessary to sweep her into his embrace.

  Sandra, his Sandra, the cool, professional, ofttimes militant lady lawyer, felt so fragile, so very delicate, lying passive against him. Cameron felt a powerful need to shelter her with his arms, protect her with his life, and adore her forever with his body.

  He tightened his arms around her now trembling body, and buried his face in her scented sable hair.

  Her arms curled tightly around his waist and, murmuring his name, she pressed her lips to the side of his neck.

  “I love you.” Cameron scoured his mind for stronger words, but there was no other way to say it. No way to dress it up, giye it flourish. “Sandra, I love you.”

  “I love you back.” She tilted her head to gaze into his eyes. “Cameron, I love you so much.”

  Although it was a short distance from the living room to Sandra’s bedroom, it was much too far for two people, deeply in love, who had not seen each other, touched each other, kissed each other, for over a week.

  As if by mutual, spoken consent, clothes were quickly discarded and they sank as one to the thickly piled springy carpet.

  Mouths touched, teased, fused. Tongues tasted, dueled, plunged. Hands caressed, tormented, urged. Finally, finally, bodies angled, positioned, merged.

  The coming together was glorious.

  A spring storm raged overhead as Cameron cradled Sandra in his arms and carried her to bed.

  Neither of them heard the storm—they were too involved in creating one of their own.

  Their passion abated as the storm moved east. Exhausted, etwined in each other’s arms, Cameron and Sandra fell headfirst into the sleep of utter satisfaction and contentment.

  An increasingly persistent call of nature woke Sandra several hours later. Sighing in resignation, she slipped noiselessly from the bed and went into the bathroom.

  Although her period was late by only a few days, the nearly constant sensation of needing to seek relief, along with the extreme tenderness in her breasts, had convinced Sandra that she had conceived Cameron’s baby.

  At first, she had dismissed the idea as secret wishful thinking, reminding herself how careful Cameron had been to ensure protection.

  Then she had had vivid recall of their encounters of the sensual kind while in the shower, when all thoughts and consideration of protection had been washed away by the flush of passion.

>   Now, experiencing her first twinge of nausea, Sandra knew without doubt that she was pregnant. Pleasure suffused her being, brought color to her cheeks and a sparkle of anticipation to her eyes.

  Her baby.

  Cameron’s baby.

  Their baby.

  Nature’s business taken care of, Sandra brushed her teeth, then hummed a lullaby while she luxuriated under a warm shower spray. Refreshed, excited by her secret, she sauntered into the bedroom, crawled back into bed and snuggled close to the warm body of her lover.

  “Where were you?” Cameron growled in a loving tone, coiling one strong arm around her waist to draw her tightly to him. “I missed you.”

  “Good.” Asking herself if she should tell him, share her secret with him, she planted a kiss on his smooth, golden-hair-sprinkled chest.

  He didn’t give her time to tell him anything. Moving with the swiftness of the animal whose name he bore, he heaved himself up and over her.

  “Good? I’ll show you good,” he purred.

  And he did. She enjoyed every heated, openmouthed kiss, every stroke of hand and tongue, every deep thrust of his taut body.

  When it was over, and their shudders of ecstasy had slowly subsided, Sandra was spent, but exhilarated by the heady sensation of sheer feminine power.

  Yes, she decided, she’d tell him. Forming the words in her head, she began, “Cam—”

  “Wolves mate for life, you know,” he said, raising his head to stare at her.

  “Yes, I know,” she said, the gleam in his blue eyes setting her pulses thundering.

  “We’ve mated.”

  “Yes.” A strange excitement robbed her voice of substance, making it sound whispery, barely there. “I. I know.”

  “Then, my sweet mate, I think you’ll have to come with me to Pennsylvania.” His voice held little more substance than hers. “Because I can’t face the thought of being away from my mate for another week or so.” The intent look in his eyes softened to one of entreaty. “Will you come with me, meet the rest of the Wolfe pack?”

  “You just try to go anywhere without me,” she said in a credible growl. Lifting her head, she caught his mouth in a long, hard, possessive kiss. “From now on, your Lone Wolfe days are over, Cameron Wolfe.”