Summit of the Wolf

by Tera Shanley

  “I’m just stressed. I’m fine though,” she assured her. She put the truck in park, but a crashing noise sounded from the house. “Are you freaking kidding me? Again?”

  She pulled Lana from her car seat and hurried up the front porch. Dean and Grey had been going at it lately. Brent had been over to Grey’s cabin often and was doing a lot of running on his property. Dean’s wolf was doing a damned fine job of convincing Dean that Brent would switch packs eventually, and if he switched, he would take Sarah with him. His wolf was having a hard time with all the loss lately, and it had become terribly obvious that it was taxing on Dean. First with Alexis, and then Marissa and Brandon, he wasn’t handling the thought of losing two more wolves very well. Something sounding very glasslike crashed inside the house, and she threw open the front door.

  “That was my grandmother’s vase!” Rachel sounded pissed.

  Both Dean and Grey were holding each other’s shirts and yelling. Grey wouldn’t normally give into pointless fighting, but he wasn’t the one running the show anymore. With each failed attempt to conceive, he became more irritated. With everything. Now, he snapped at anything that dared to breathe around him. She understood. How could she not? Through their mated bond, she could feel his constant worry that he’d lose her forever. She could feel his continual struggle not to let Wolf consume him completely.

  Rachel threw up her arms in exasperation and took Lana from her arms. “I can’t get them to stop. They won’t listen to me!”

  Brent sat at the breakfast bar watching their scuffle with an amused look on his face.

  “That is enough. This is getting ridiculous!” Morgan yelled over the shouting.

  She advanced on Brent and smacked him in the back of the head before she rounded on Grey and Dean. They were directly in front of him, providing a free show. She was surprised Brent hadn’t busted out the extra-butter popcorn yet. She stuck her fingers in her mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle. The room of werewolves hunched and held their ears in pain. Such an unkind trick to play on a house full of people with exceptional hearing, but desperate times… Grey and Dean’s eerie, wolf-bright eyes found her.

  “Have you even asked Brent what his plans are? Even once?” So she was yelling. She was also past caring.

  The locked alpha’s looked to Brent, who gave them a little wave. “And you,” she pointed an accusing finger at Brent. “You should have never let it escalate to this.”

  Dean frowned. “What is she talking about? What are your plans?”

  Brent sighed dramatically. “Grey is my friend, but it doesn’t mean I would ever want to take orders from him. Ever. Plus, I’m in no hurry to get another brand. As Morgan would say, ‘It hurts like a mother trucker.’ Sorry Dean. You are stuck with me.”

  Fury radiated off Dean’s skin, and he smelled more animal than human. “You couldn’t tell me that before? Or at any time during the fifty arguments Grey and I have had?”

  Grey cut in. “I tried to tell you that! You worry over nothing.”

  “Oh, don’t defend Brent. He could have stopped this at any time.”

  “So could you, if you just asked him.”

  They were yelling at each other again.

  Deep breath. “I’m pregnant,” Morgan said softly.

  Everyone stared at her as if she had sprouted cheese puff antlers.

  “What?” Grey gazed at her with three parts disbelief, and one part hope.

  “You heard me.” She bathed in the happy warmth of his golden yellow eyes.

  He smoothed a strand of hair out of her face and cupped her cheeks. “Are you sure?”

  “Listen for yourself.”

  Grey kissed her tenderly and slid his hands down her waist. He rubbed the pads of his thumbs over her stomach. Slowly, he lowered himself until he was on his knees and pressed his ear to her belly. His hands reached around her back and pulled her body gently closer. She closed her eyes and tapped into the binding tendrils of their unbreakable connection. His overwhelming adoration hummed across the bond as she experienced his realization with him.

  He heard the slow steady rhythm of Morgan’s heartbeat, so beautiful and vital to his existence. He pressed his ear more firmly against her belly. The faint, quick heartbeat of his child growing in her was his salvation. He leaned his forehead against her stomach and let out a sigh that seemed to release a hundred pounds of weight from his shoulders.

  His family was safe.

  His pack was safe.

  His friends were safe.

  That tiny flutter signified not only that she carried a precious piece of him, but that against all odds and despite all their shared hardships, the Silver Wolf Clan would be reborn.

  Meet the Author

  Tera Shanley writes in sub-genres that stretch from Paranormal Romance, to Historic Western Romance, to Apocalyptic (zombie) Romance. The common theme? She loves love. A self-proclaimed bookworm, she was raised in small town Texas and could often be found decorating a table at the local library. She currently lives in Dallas with her husband and two young children and when she isn’t busy running around after her family, she’s writing a new story or devouring a good book. Any spare time is dedicated to chocolate licking, rifle slinging, zombie slaying, friend hugging, and the great outdoors. For more information about Tera and her work, visit www.terashanley.com.

  Be sure not to miss Tera Shanley’s historical romance

  An Unwilling Husband

  Will a child of Society have the backbone to love a tough, wild west cowboy?

  For adventurous Margaret Flemming, arrived from Boston to be with her father, the Old West town of her childhood is a far cry from the drawing rooms and balls of the high society life she’s used to. Her fancy gowns and proper manners have no place in the dusty, cruel land inhabited by Indians and rough cowboys. And her fiercely independent streak constantly gets her in trouble. When tragedy strikes, there’s only one person she can turn to--her childhood friend, Garret Shaw—but he’s disgusted with her Society ways.

  With his ranch under attack from the land-grabbing Jennings, the last thing Garret needs is to be saddled with a high-falutin’ lady. Even if she is his friend’s daughter and her kind ways tug at his hardened heart. Duty to her father forces them to wed, but he knows sure as anything, when the chance comes along, she’ll go back to Boston. No matter how much he wants her, loving her is not a risk he can take.

  Will Maggie choose a life of luxury and ease over struggle and hardship with an ill-mannered cowboy? Only her heart can answer.

  An Unwilling Husband on sale now!

  Learn more about Tera at http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/30562

  Chapter 1

  Margaret Flemming. What an intolerable name. The last name wouldn’t be so unbearable if it wasn’t directly preceded by the first. To be sure, Margaret is a fair name on other girls who are more suited to it, but for me it is a constant reminder of who I am named after. One Margaret Hall; the sole benefactor of the very wealthy William Hall and a hard soul with an acute and bitter dislike for me. She also happens to be my aunt. My mother thought naming me after her sister would increase my chances of that wealth trickling down to me, though she was absurdly wrong. What my kind and loving uncle ever saw in that woman, I fear I shall never know; but I digress. I have made a decision. Since no one will know me where I’m going, I think I shall call myself Maggie…

  The slowing of the train pulled her against the seat, and she caught the small vial of ink that slid toward her. She plugged it up, wiped the pen, blew on her journal before closing it, and placed the writing materials into the side pocket of her luggage that was packed and waiting patiently beside the small table in the compartment. She stood and smoothed the soft material of her full dress. The wide hooped skirts and cream colored bombazine dress were completely inappropriate for the dusty Wild West cattle town of Rockdale, Texas.

  The outfit wasn’t her choice. Dear Aunt Margaret had made it a
last request that she wear a proper dress as she rode off to her new wanton life. And now she would undoubtedly stand out as the proverbial sore thumb in this small town. “An adventuress,” Aunt Margaret called her, though she’d used the term like a curse. Aunt Margaret’s bitterness and condemnation still stung.

  The train let out a shrill whistle and the brakes screeched loudly. The force made her brace against the nearest wall in the tiny space. She picked up her luggage as the train came to a stop, and left through the trim door. Her skirts swished and folded unbecomingly as she moved through the small doorway. No doubt she looked like a bowl of gravy being poured from the compartment. A heavyset man gave her a wide eyed look and shook his head. Maggie stifled a laugh. She had never been good at first impressions, and Rockdale would have something and someone new to talk about for at least a week until the next gossip stole their attention.

  The thought made her nervous all over again, and her smile faded as she stepped out of the train and onto the platform. Her bags were terribly heavy and she set them down beside her. All along the platform her recent train mates and their loved ones reunited with happy embraces, handshakes, and smiles. No such reunion was to be expected for her. The man she had traveled to see was unaware of her intentions to visit.

  She needed to find a coach and quickly. The mid-day sun bore down relentlessly, and she already roasted in her full skirts. A drop of perspiration raced southward between her breasts, and she sighed as she hefted her baggage. Ignoring the open mouthed stares from the crowd, she headed through the small station and congratulated herself on only being slightly flustered at their attention.

  She dropped the heavy bags with an embarrassing thud onto a wooden porch directly in front of a carriage. An older gentleman in a dusty waistcoat and full, gray beard perched on its seat. “May I bother you for a ride, sir? I can pay,” she said.

  He studied her with a slight frown. “Where you headed, miss?”

  “Roy Davis’s place. I’m a relative.” Well, close enough to a relative anyway.

  “I know Roy Davis, and I reckon I can take you to his place. I ain’t no coach though. Those only come through a few times a week right now.”

  “Oh.” How embarrassing. “Terribly sorry. I saw you waiting out here and just assumed.”

  “Nope. I’m in town pickin’ up a few things. If you’d wait a minute, I can give you that ride. It’s not too far out of my way and Roy is an old friend.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate it.” Could she trust this man? He looked unassuming enough but one could never be too careful. Out of options, she nodded. He jumped out of the buggy and loaded her bags in the back. True to his word, the man returned shortly with two boxes of supplies. After they were off, he introduced himself as Bill Borland.

  “Maggie Flemming,” she said, only hesitating a bit as her lips formed the name. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “So you’re kin to Roy Davis?” Bill asked.

  “I’m his daughter, sir.”

  “His daughter? You don’t look nothin’ like him!”

  Bill’s surprise was sincere, and her cheeks flushed with heat as he studied her face. She knew what he was thinking. How could dark-as-an-Injun Roy Davis have a daughter with auburn hair, bright green eyes and a smattering of freckles over her fair skin?

  “I take after my mother’s side,” she lied.

  “I thought you said your name was Flemming.”

  “It is. I didn’t take Roy’s name. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, good thing we got a few hours before we get there so you have plenty of time to tell that long story of yours.”

  “A long story I don’t care to share,” she clarified.

  “Suit yourself, Miss Flemming,” Bill quipped, and was quiet.

  She may have frustrated the man, she didn’t know, nor did she pretend to understand the inner workings of men’s minds, but the last thing she needed was to unload her family’s skeletons on a stranger who would, no doubt, go gallivanting straight back to town with the gossip. She’d at least try to keep her reputation intact in this new place she was determined to call home.

  How would it be to see Roy after so long? She’d never called him Father because, biologically speaking, he wasn’t. Blood aside, though, he was the closest to a father she’d ever have in her lifetime. She hadn’t wanted to leave the caring man behind all those years ago, but Mother was a fearful creature who’d never accepted the wilderness as home. Maybe if Mother hadn’t been brought up in London Society with all the conveniences of city life, she could’ve found happiness out there.

  The leaves on the passing trees lifted lazily in the wind and sang a quiet song of homecoming. How Mother hadn’t seen the beauty of the wide openness of this place, she’d never know. Scandal did awful things to people, and Mother had endured her share of heartache. Maybe she’d had a broken heart, and that hadn’t allowed her to see the secret promise in life.

  Maggie reached out and plucked a leaf from a low hanging branch as they passed. As long as she lived, she’d never allow a man to break her like her real father had Mother. Leaving a woman like he did, without a care for giving his unborn child a name was the vilest act of dishonor a highborn man could commit. Roy, with his plain way of life and easygoing ideals, had been ten times the man and hadn’t even had a reason, other than he loved her and Mother. The genuine, smiling expression in his eyes still visited her fondest memories of childhood. Yes, there was something to be said about finding happiness in a simple life out here. And seeing Roy again was a start.

  She fingered the stack of letters she’d pulled from her baggage to calm her nerves. She and Roy had kept in touch by writing a few times a year. His letters were a reminder of the life she’d loved as a child and left behind. The tattered notes had always brought solace during dark times in her life, and she needed such comfort again as the buggy jerked and swerved closer to the only place she had ever considered home.

  The town had changed and grown so much in the past ten years, that she felt disconnected with it. The road to Roy’s homestead passing beneath the buggy’s wheels, however, was just as she remembered. Still rutted with pot holes so deep, they echoed, and peppered with rabbits frightened out of hiding as the shallow-bedded wagon rolled noisily by.

  When they neared the first turn off, shivers of excitement fluttered in her chest. Clusters of blooming cactus lined an unassuming dirt road leading away from the main. The turnoff signified the entrance to the Lazy S Ranch where Garret Shaw had lived when they were little. According to the updates in Roy’s letters, he didn’t live there anymore, but she peered as far as she could see across the flat landscape for him none-the-less.

  Garret. Her first and only love. Only calf love, as she had been just a child at the time, but the most she would ever feel for a boy. She still thought about him from time to time. Imagined what he looked like all grown up; what kind of man he had become. Roy had grown used to her asking about her childhood friend, and when he wrote, offered tidbits of information on him. Last she knew, he was finishing up his schooling in Georgetown, and had left his father to run the Lazy S. He hadn’t been back to visit in years.

  She squinted against the sun as they passed the Lazy S Ranch. What had he looked like? It had been so long ago for a person so young, half a lifetime. He’d had dark hair, though what color she couldn’t recall. Five years older than her, he’d been kind for accepting her younger and constant presence with minimal annoyance. Compared to her, tall, and he’d been as thin as a fence post, no matter how much his mother fed him. What had his features looked like, though? The color of his eyes? Had they been green? Her memories had blurred with time.

  The next homestead was Roy’s, and as Bill pulled the team up to the front of the house, Maggie tucked the letters into her luggage. She straightened her dress. The time had come to introduce her memories of Roy to the present day man.

  Roy’s cabin was well repaired, but showed the sign
s of aging. The wood wasn’t the color of new logs she remembered. The bones of the small home had grayed with age, and newer wooden shingles peppered the roof where leaks had been tended to. The porch creaked underfoot and her heart hammered as she lifted a gloved hand to knock on the frail looking door. No one answered. “Roy?” she called as she knocked again. Silence.

  Bill hopped from the buggy and sauntered around the house, yelling out Roy’s name, to no answer. “Well, he still lives here, I can promise you that. He runs cattle and he’s probably out with them, is all.” He hoisted himself onto the wagon seat and tipped his hat. “I wish you well, miss, but I’m losing daylight. That old coot won’t mind a bit if you just went on in there and made yourself at home.”

  She reached for her small coin purse. “At least let me pay you for your troubles.”

  He waved her off and slapped the reins against the backs of the two horse team. “No need.”

  “Thank you,” she sang out with a wave but if he heard her, he didn’t show it.

  When she opened the door to the cabin, a hundred memories from childhood assaulted her. Every piece of furniture seemed to be in the same place. The small oval dining table was surrounded by four ladder backed chairs and the deep slate sink that took up most of the kitchen still boasted the same old hand pump. The small bookcase had not moved from the shadow of the stone fireplace and the faded floral curtains Mother had hung lifted lazily in the breeze from the open window. Even the smell of bacon grease and yeast bread seemed familiar.

  A smile curved her lips. There, beyond the front porch and yard lay the prairie grass so tall it would tickle her waist if she had a mind to stand in it. She’d imagined this a thousand times. Home.