Mating Dance

by Merryn Dexter

  Bridie and Will had moved to town following the return of Rory’s best friend Marjorie Burrows and her family after ten years away from the pack. Their adopted daughter, Hannah, had recently mated with Marjorie’s youngest son, Caleb. The return of her old friends and their extended family had drawn Rory back into the pack.

  Marjorie thrived on the comings and goings of her family, but it was not a life Rory envied; well not every day. Like chalk and cheese, the two of them were total opposites—where Marjorie looked sleek and always immaculately turned out, Rory couldn’t remember the last time she’d managed to get a comb through the mop of blonde curls rioting to her shoulders. It only got tangled again so she just washed it and left it. A bird’s nest was the politest reference her best friend made to it. Bridie favored simple, practical outfits and struck a nice balance between the other two. She took Rory as she found her, another big plus in the friendship column. Her open, easy manner made her an instant favorite with many of the pack, even those wary about the influx of humans.

  Not one for frills and frippery, Rory lived a simple life in one of the remote dwellings scattered around pack lands. Ryker had called her into town during the recent troubles and Marjorie had opened her beautiful home to her during those terrifying weeks when a murderer struck fear into the very heart of the pack. Although grateful for their generosity, the Burrows clan were a boisterous lot, and she had been relieved to return to the relative solitude of her simple one-room cabin.

  Regardless of their surface differences, she and Marjorie had been friends for as long as anyone could remember. They’d met on the first day of school when Rory’s grandmother escorted her to the door and left her to fend for herself. Gramma Hanson had been something of a wise woman, with a gift for herbalism she passed down to her only living relative, Rory. She’d learned her plant craft at Gramma’s knee, and survived by foraging for herbs and flowers which she supplied to various businesses. Over the course of her long life, Gramma put together a huge book of plant pressings and recipes. Rory used it to provide traditional remedies to the healers of the pack, and it remained her most treasured possession.

  Noise and laughter from the construction site had drawn her attention. Over lunch with Margie and Bridie, they’d discussed Stefan’s new job. Drew had tasked him with building a new meeting place for the pack. Excited at seeing the progress, she’d diverted from her delivery to town, resulting in her current predicament. Her so-called best friend had failed to mention one salient fact over thick slices of cherry pie and coffee. Sander Floofing Burrows was back in town.

  Dogsdamn that buster still looks hot enough to melt a glacier. Fifty-two years old and she still couldn’t get past Gramma’s abhorrence of cussing. The sting of her wooden spoon was still vivid, wielded when necessary until the day she died some ten years previous. As a result, Rory developed substitute curse words. They were now so ingrained it proved impossible to use anything else. She might have to try a bit harder when it came to the man who studied her hiding place.

  Resisting the almost-desperate urge to run, she held her position. Pain gnawed her calf as the muscle spasmed in protest at being held rigid for too long. Heat warmed her cheeks as she glared at the source of her current discomfort. Her bitterness toward him shocked her. It wasn’t as though she’d thought about him over the intervening years since that day. Rory squeezed her eyes shut and hoped the seat of her pants didn’t start smoking because of the biggest dogsdamn lie she had ever told, even to herself. Sander Burrows had hung the moon and stars for her from the day he’d pulled her pigtails when she was twelve.

  She, Marjorie, and Stefan were the same age and had hung around together all the time. It had been clear to anyone with eyes Margie and Stefan would mate. Neither of them had so much as looked at anyone else since those first tentative steps beyond friendship. Five years their senior, it was a matter of fact that Sander was around and he had adopted the same big-brother role over all them. The feelings Rory held for him had never been sisterly. Scruffy and awkward, the ugly duckling to Margie’s swan, she had kept her love for Sander tucked close to her heart. Every glance, every smile, and kind word had been examined and repeated over and over in her head. It was safe to love him in her dreams and so it had remained until the spring dance, not long after her seventeenth birthday. Marjorie had decided not only would Rory go to the dance, she would also need a date.

  Shy and awkward, Rory had never been on a date. Never been kissed other than by Gramma and Marjorie. The adoption of a tomboy style had not been a conscious decision. She spent most of her free time helping Gramma forage, and Rory had never been one to draw attention to herself. Her right hand was disfigured, the missing ring and pinky fingers causing her to limp in her wolf form. The inevitable teasing and taunts had wounded her soft heart, so she had developed a “don’t care” attitude as defense.

  Caught in a hunter’s trap when just a pup, she had gnawed off part of her paw to escape. The pain and panic from the trap and subsequent blood loss had caused her wolf to seize control and flee deep into the woods. By the time Gramma had summoned help for the search, too much time had passed for her eventual shift to human to heal the damage.

  The sexy, arrogant man moved away, and Rory heaved a sigh of relief as she inched out from beneath the undergrowth. Her wild hair snagged on a branch, and she almost bit through her lip holding in the squeak of pain. Rubbing her abused scalp, she gathered her basket of herbs and returned to her original purpose.

  ***

  Catching sight of the flapping green-and-white canvas, Rory smiled. She loved the restaurant. The bright striped awning added some much-needed color to Main Street. It sheltered a wooden boardwalk wide enough to hold a few metal tables and chairs. Will and Bridie understood some of the wolves did not enjoy crowded spaces, and the porch gave them a chance to eat in a comfortable space. Using her bottom to push the door open, Rory didn’t see the matrons until it was too late. Pleading with the Fates to cut her a break, she forced a smile and ignored the roiling in her stomach as Miss Kathy snared her in a gimlet gaze. Miss Kathy’s silver-streaked black hair spoke of age, although no one was stupid enough to ask exactly how old. No one who survived to tell the tale at any rate. Miss Kathy’s cotton blouse was brightly patterned, and Rory winced as the elder studied her appearance with a critical snort.

  “You been crawling through a hedge again, Aurora Jane?” Her voice carried across the room, drawing the attention of all the early dinner patrons toward the door. Startled at how close to the truth Miss Kathy was, Rory blushed. The older woman grinned knowingly. Although witches were nothing more than fairy tales, the younger members of the pack swore there was something spooky about the Native American wolf. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, Rory battled to hold her smile. Making a dash between the tables, she sought the relative safety of the kitchen area.

  “Hold on there, Aurora!” Miss Lonnie called. Sister-in-law and partner in crime to Miss Kathy, the two were rarely seen apart. “Your arrival is serendipitous, my dear. We were just talking about you.” Words to strike fear into the heart of the bravest wolf. Particularly when delivered by this smiling silver-haired woman. Knowing whatever they wanted would not improve by trying to delay, Rory changed course and presented herself to the four women. Miss Fern and Miss Claire completed the quartet. Best friends since school, the two were inseparable, their desire to meddle in the lives of the pack matched only by their love of baking.

  Suppressing a shudder, Rory rested her basket on the edge of the table. These wily old women would pounce on the slightest hint of weakness. Baring her teeth in a gesture few would call a smile, she turned toward Miss Lonnie. Clad in a pair of gray coveralls, cuffs folded back neatly, it was clear Miss Lonnie had been “fixing” something again. She hoped for her friend’s sake it was nothing from Bridie’s kitchen. “Good day, Miss Lonnie. What can I help you with this afternoon?”

  A bark of laughter from Miss Kathy showed they were not taken in by
her calm façade and Rory clasped her left hand over the damaged right one. A defensive gesture, a nervous tell she tried to avoid, but there were times, like now, when she couldn’t control it. Miss Claire tutted at Miss Kathy who blew a raspberry and took a sip from the Bloody Mary in front of her.

  “You must have heard about the new function hall being constructed.” Miss Claire raised an eyebrow, and Rory squeezed her hands together to prevent lifting them to the heat striping her cheeks.

  “Margie mentioned something about it,” she muttered. Damn, she sounded like a sulky teenager, not a mature woman in her fifties.

  “Well, my dear. We’ve been discussing all the wonderful things we can use the hall for, and you’ll never guess what our first event is going to be!” Miss Claire bounced in her seat, voice rising with every word.

  “Spring dance!” Miss Fern crowed from her seat in the corner. Miss Claire snapped her mouth shut as she spun to glare at her best friend. The two words were worse than anything Rory could have possibly imagined. Magnum’s reign of terror had ensured the cancellation of any event unifying the pack, including innocent activities such as the dance. It had been a pack tradition from before Gramma’s youth, a time for celebration and thanksgiving they’d survived the trials of winter. It had also been used to mark the transition from child to adult as school finished and teens began the roles defining their place in the pack.

  The two women started to bicker, an old exchange about Miss Fern always stealing thunder and Miss Claire taking too long to get the point. Their distraction proved a boon, giving Rory a chance to compose herself a little. Why would the matrons want to talk to me about my worst-ever nightmare? Taking a deep breath, she rolled the tension from her neck as the familiar back and forth between the two women wound down. Plastering her fake smile back in place, she ignored the burning gaze of Miss Kathy from the other side of the table and spoke. “What exactly does any of this have to do with me?”

  Miss Claire twitched as Miss Fern gave her a final dig in the ribs. She flapped her hand at the distraction, turning her body to angle more toward Rory, giving Miss Fern her back in the process. “You’ve always had such a beautiful eye, Aurora,” she began.

  “Not that anyone would know from the state of you, girl,” Miss Kathy drawled.

  Miss Claire shushed the interruption and tried again. “Oh ignore her, she’s in a mood because Clyde’s gone fishing again.”

  Miss Kathy snorted and rolled her eyes. “Sure, that’s it. I’m pining for my mate,” she muttered. Eyes narrowed, she turned her laser focus on Rory. “Such a shame you never found your mate, Aurora. Lots of wolves arriving in Los Lobos these days, old and new.” The stress she put on the word old sent a shudder down Rory’s spine. Miss Lonnie elbowed Miss Kathy hard, leaning forward over the table with a huge smile.

  “Pay her no mind, honey, she’s just teasing you. We’re putting together a committee to help us plan the dance. Yours was the first name that came to mind to plan the decorations. As Claire so rightly pointed out, you have such a good eye. I always know when I see one of your arrangements.” Miss Lonnie nodded to the wall above the table decorated with a dried wreath Rory had made as a gift for Bridie. Yellow roses of friendship, yarrow for good health, and azaleas for abundance were all interwoven around a ring of holly—the symbol of domestic happiness.

  Unable to stay quiet any longer, Miss Claire butted in. “Yes. Exactly. With the knowledge Arabella handed down to you, you know more about plants and flowers than just about anyone. It wouldn’t take up much of your time. Just a few hours a week. I’ll be making cookies for the committee meetings.” She winked and nodded, expectation bright in her eyes. Although Miss Claire was renowned for her outstanding cookies, it would take a damn sight more than a plate of them to get Rory within a million miles of the dance. Even the planning of it.

  She held up her hand to stop the flow of words. “I’m sorry, ladies. I simply don’t have the time to help you at the moment. I’m rushed off my feet supplying all the new businesses opening up. It takes too long to get in and out of town as it is.” Her protests were met with a wall of indulgent smiles, as though she were some half-wit. Time to try a different tack. “Caress Galveston is marvelous with plants. I’m sure she’d be much more in touch with the younger elements of the pack. She’d be perfect for the job! I must get on now. Good afternoon!”

  Ignoring the twinge of guilt at throwing the poor young wolf to the matrons, she grabbed her basket and sprinted for the safety of the kitchen. Swinging through the two-way door, she pressed her back against the wall next to it, clutching the basket protectively before her. “Floofing hell, that was a close one!” she gasped, fighting down the waves of panic clenching at her gut.

  Raising her hand to her chest, Bridie huffed out a laugh. “Goodness, Rory. You blew in here like the hounds of hell are on your heels. Whatever is the matter?” She bustled to the sink, pouring a glass of water before crossing over and holding it out. She indicated toward the basket with her other hand, and Rory swapped one for the other, gulping gratefully at the cool liquid. Her throat felt drier than the bottom of a birdcage.

  “I got cornered by the matrons,” she whispered, and Bridie snorted.

  “Say no more! They trapped poor Will earlier. I assume it’s about the dance?” She rolled her eyes when Rory nodded. “We’re doing the catering, apparently.” She raised her voice in a fair imitation of Miss Fern’s fluting tones. “Nothing fancy, won’t take a minute.”

  Her voice darkened again. “Finger food for one hundred and twenty hungry wolves will take more than a bloody minute!”

  Rory winced and waved her hands, trying to shush her friend. With their enhanced hearing, it was likely Bridie’s rant would be heard by every wolf in the main dining area. The door swung open, and she braced, expecting an outraged matron to appear. Marjorie sailed in, and Rory sagged against the wall in relief. She fanned herself as her best friend kissed Bridie on the cheek. Marjorie looked immaculate as always. Her vibrant red hair cut into a sharp bob framed her heart-shaped face, not a lock out of place. Her camel-colored slacks were tucked into buttery-soft leather boots, topped with a cream blouse under a forest-green sweater which made her eyes glow.

  Raising a hand to her own tangled mess, Rory tried to tuck the blonde strands behind her ear. Her fingers snagged, catching on something rough. Sighing at the hopelessness of it, she tugged a twig loose and studied it. It perfectly matched the bushes surrounding the construction site for the hall. Tucking it quickly into her jeans pocket, she offered her cheek for Marjorie’s kiss before frowning and pulling back.

  “You didn’t tell me,” she wailed. “You didn’t tell me he was back in town!” Unable to stop the betraying quiver in her voice, she slid down the wall and came to rest on her heels as the realization hit her front and center.

  Sander Burrows was home.

  Chapter Three

  Cradling the love of his life in his arms, Sander nodded his thanks to his niece’s new mate as he held the door open for him to pass. A man of few words, most of them rude, Ven loved his mate, Caitlyn, with a hot, pure passion that softened his black eyes whenever they passed over her. Sander approved of their relationship. Caitlyn and Caleb had both made wonderful matches, one of which was directly responsible for the lightness in his own heart.

  “Gruncle Sander?” The darling of his heart spoke, and he turned his full attention toward the little girl clinging to his neck. It had been love at first sight for both of them, and this precious child had been just about everything he needed to ease his battered soul.

  “What is it, Messy Jessie?” She giggled at his special nickname for her. The first time they met, she’d been helping her mother, Hannah, bake cupcakes. Most of the chocolate mixture had ended up around Jessie’s mouth, down her dress, up her arms. Everywhere but in the little paper sleeves where it belonged. It had also ended up all over him when a childish disregard for propriety, and the empathetic nature of h
er wolf, had flung her across the room to leap into his arms the moment he arrived. They had been inseparable ever since.

  “Will you buy me a chocolate milk shake?” Jessie fluttered her lashes, the dimples in her cheeks flashing as she gave her best smile. Knowing full when he was being played by a master manipulator, he shook his head as he carried her into the busy room.

  “Let’s ask your momma what she says, okay?” He bent forward, lowering her to one of the chairs around the big table in the center of the restaurant before taking the one next to hers. Jessie glanced toward her mother who claimed the seat on the other side of her. Her pregnant belly bumped against the edge of the table, and she growled fit for any wolf, although latency kept hers buried deep inside. Kneeling on the seat, the little girl leaned toward Sander and whispered in his ear.

  “Let’s not ask her. She’ll only say no.” The sorrowful tone in her voice had him pulling back to study her. Moisture glinted in the corner of her eye and her lower lip quivered. His brother leaned across the table, capturing one of his granddaughter’s curls between his fingers. He tugged gently to draw her limpid gaze from Sander, a mock frown creasing his forehead.

  “Jessica….” The transformation was little short of miraculous as her expression flashed from abject sorrow to a cheeky grin. Holding his hands up in defeat, Sander rose toward the serving counter, brushing past the table of four older women as he did so. Cranberries and vanilla teased his nose, stopping him in his tracks. He inhaled, studying the women as they laughed over their evening cocktails. The scent didn’t come from any of them, but a recent visitor to their table. The predatory grin from Miss Lonnie was enough to make him realize his mistake. It was never a good idea to put yourself in the matrons’ path voluntarily.