…then the bills would pile up and she’d be at it all over again.
“All set!” said Delilah as she rode Snowball out of the stable, keeping the reins nervously tight and clamping those long legs of hers around the white mare’s wide belly.
Whitney hoisted the skirt of her dress up her thighs, never minding that she might be exposing her rear-end. There was no one worth a damn around. Everyone was still on over in the heart of the Fist, squeezing every last celebratory drop out of the parade and its corresponding street fair.
When she got situated on Buttons, she gave the stallion a light kick in the ribs, and the girls took off at a calm trot, heading towards Eagles Pass, as the sun continued to sink into the glorious sky.
At first, they rode in silence, Whitney riding in front of Delilah, both enjoying the rhythm of their horses and the crisp air that breezed through the trail. Then Delilah called out to her, initiating light conversation, so Whitney hung back and they rode together, side by side, as dusk closed in all around them.
Delilah wasn’t judgmental or nosey. She was easy to be around, easy to talk to, and because she had her own stuff going on, she never steered the conversation into the territory of werewolves and the strange occurrences that had been unfolding in their quaint town.
It was refreshing. Damn refreshing, and though at times Whitney’s thoughts migrated in the direction of Shane Quinn and the mild flirtation they’d started, she didn’t delve very far into pointless analysis.
If she thought about him at all, it was of his insane body and dangerous good-looks, which she reasoned was safe and innocent enough.
Shane was built like a tank. Dense muscle without an ounce of fat on him. Towering compared to her petite stature. She wondered how he might perform in bed. Was he the type to ravish or was he so tremendously strong that he’d be incredibly gentle and tender? She felt her cheeks flush at the thought then reminded herself that she ought to stay far away from him. He was a werewolf. Had to be. She knew for damn sure that Kaleb Quinn was one. She’d seen him transform from wolf to man with her own two eyes.
Plus, even if she had developed a thing for Shane, it probably wouldn’t bode well that she’d shot his brother. Hell, she was probably lucky that all five of them hadn’t come after her. Keeping her distance was her only option, she reasoned. Plenty of men in the Fist if she felt so inclined, but then again, if trust and loyalty mattered to her, she wasn’t exactly optimistic that any of the eligible bachelors in town would fit the bill.
They’d traveled the loop of Eagles Pass, coming full circle to the corral stables just as the sun dipped below the mighty Tetons and darkness closed in. As the girls dismounted their horses and walked them into the stable, Whitney had a thought.
“You got plans tonight?”
“Netflix,” Delilah mentioned with a resigned shrug. “That’s my plan most nights.”
“How ‘bout you come on over to my place,” she suggested, craving Lucy Cooper’s company but knowing it just wasn’t going to happen, not tonight and sadly, maybe not ever. “I’ve got Netflix and I’ve also got a hell of a lot of snacks. We can have a girls’ night.”
Delilah looked slightly blank in the face, as though the invitation didn’t compute. “Thought you were tight with Lucy,” she commented and the implication was crystal clear.
“We’re having a little break,” she said.
“You guys get into a fight or something?” Delilah questioned as she began removing Snowball’s saddle, harness, the full works.
Whitney went with the only explanation that would make universal sense. “Lucy’s found herself a man. Doubt she’ll come up for air anytime soon.”
Delilah laughed. Universal, indeed. It made perfect sense and the exotic girl told her, “Sure, I’ll come by and hang out. Ought to have me a shower first. What time would you like me?”
The girls agreed to meet at Whitney’s cabin in exactly an hour, which would give each of them ample time to shower and get changed.
Once the horses were securely corralled in their stalls, they each climbed into their vehicles and headed their separate ways, Whitney turning south when they reached Bison Road and Delilah driving straight on through to Main Street into the heart of the Fist.
As Whitney drove past her father’s mansion-sized cabin, she noted that his SUV wasn’t parked outside and only the kitchen light was on. He was probably overseeing the fair closing up for the evening, she figured with a little smile. Rick could be overbearing, more often than not in fact, but he cared deeply for Whitney and not a day had gone by since her mother passed away that Whitney hadn’t greatly appreciated him. He was a good man who had a hard job to do. Sure, he had a reputation, most everyone in the Fist did, and the one tacked on to Rick wasn’t exactly flattering. He was regarded as something of a sexist and it pained Whitney, because it was at least partially true. Daddy meant well, he really did, but he hadn’t changed with the times. He wasn’t that old, but somehow he was still caught up in an era where the men went off to work and the housewives stayed at home to rear the children. Things like female police officers and young ladies out on the town alone after dark just didn’t sit right with him. He was set in his ways like that, no matter how much Whitney had tried to convince him otherwise.
When she reached her cabin, she pulled right up and killed the engine.
There was a full constellation of stars overhead, not a cloud in the dark, night sky, and she took a moment to marvel up at it before keying into her little home that Daddy had built for her while she’d been away at college. Loving, but overbearing, he knew she’d want her independence, but he wasn’t willing to loosen the reins he had on her all that much. He figured that if she lived alone, but on his property, tucked right behind his own house, he could keep her safe, give her the best of both worlds. And he had.
Good ol’ Daddy, she thought to herself with a smile as she closed the door behind her and flipped on the foyer light. Who would complain about not having to pay rent or taxes? Hell, Daddy even managed her electric bill and made sure she had plenty of firewood for the long, snowy winters that swept through these parts.
The hairs on the nape of her neck pricked up something fierce and she stopped. Held her breath.
She wasn’t alone.
Her skin turned to gooseflesh as she breathed slowly and listened out.
She heard nothing but the hum of the refrigerator, the infrequent drip of the bathroom sink.
Expecting to hear footfall or a door creaking, she remained in a frozen state, as her eyes adjusted well enough to see past the glow of the foyer light into the darkened living room beyond it.
The eerie feeling that had come over her persisted, even though she told herself there was no one here. There couldn’t be. She’d locked up like she always did, front door and back, every single window. No one but Whitney and Daddy had the keys.
Unsettled though she was, she forced herself to trek through the cabin, but the feeling that she wasn’t alone only increased as she turned on the living room lights.
Remembering the gun in her purse, the one that hadn’t failed her when she’d shot Pamela Davenport out in Yellowstone, the very same that had rocketed a silver bullet through Kaleb Quinn’s werewolf heart, she gripped the weapon in both hands, having quietly lowered her purse to the coffee table, and inched through the living room to the kitchen.
No one was there, but as she turned to start back through the house, the bathroom now coming to mind as a potential hiding place for an intruder, she noticed that the coffee maker seemed too far from the wall. Like someone had pulled it out by an inch or two. The toaster seemed slightly misplaced as well, but Whitney had to wonder if she was losing her damn mind.
If there had been an intruder, why would they move the countertop appliances? Made no sense, so she brushed the eerie notion aside and made her way to the bathroom.
The door was half-way ajar and her heart rate skyrocketed as she worked up the nerve to push it the rest of
the way open with the barrel of her Glock. It creaked open and her eyes locked on the shower curtain that was pulled clear across the tub.
Had she left it like that? Closed and concealing the length of the bathtub?
She couldn’t remember.
She startled with a painful flinch that cut through her stomach like a knife.
Had that been a rustle? Was there someone behind the shower curtain? Had they brushed its surface ever so slightly?
Her pounding heart was reaching cardiac-arrest-levels of racing. She burst forward and whipped the curtain aside.
Empty.
Creepy, she stared at the bar of soap. It was resting on the far edge of the tub. Didn’t she always leave it on the shelf?
She turned, begging herself not to be a crazy person—Delilah would be here soon and Whitney needed to cut it out, get showered, and set out the snacks—and noticed the tube of toothpaste. It wasn’t label-side-up as usual.
Whitney went through her entire cabin, systematically, room by room, with her gun poised, as she began to accept that she was, in fact, alone in the house, the eerie feeling augmented into a sense that someone had been there. Everything seemed just a hair out of place, one or two inches off, even the items on her bedroom dresser—she’d crept her way up the stairs to the second floor—appeared to have been moved a fraction of an inch. And yet, nothing was missing.
Spooky.
She reasoned that as soon as Delilah got here, they would head on over to her daddy’s. They could watch Netflix there and Lord knew Rick always kept a wealth of snacks for just such an occasion.
So, Whitney sat on the couch and waited with her gun in her hand, foregoing her shower.
Better to be safe than sorry.
***
At around the time Whitney’s anxiety was calming, only to be quickly replaced by a strong feeling of annoyance that Delilah was officially late, across town in the darkened salvage yard of Damned Repair, Jack Quagmire stood at the front of the pack with his arm protectively wrapped around the beautiful Angel Mercer.
He was impatient.
Very impatient.
Troy Quinn, the werewolf king, had called this meeting to discuss Dante Alighieri’s resurgence in the Fist and what it would mean for the pack. Equally worrisome was the fact that the sheriff’s daughter had become acutely aware that Kaleb Quinn was a werewolf—the girl had seen him transform with her own eyes.
But Jack hardly gave a damn.
All he cared about was Angel Mercer, the love of his dark life, the woman he’d carried a torch for year after year, hoping and praying that she’d turn out to be his one true mate.
Oh, she’d turned, alright. But not by Jack’s hand.
The devil of Devil’s Fist had claimed her, having seeped into her innocent, mortal mind and puppeteered her out into the woods one night. Without her knowledge or consent—he’d rendered her some kind of amnesia-fogged zombie—he’d turned her, staining Angel with his evil blood and forcing her to become a werewolf.
Troy had promised that he’d find a way to undo it. He’d assured Jack that he would free Angel, giving Jack the chance to bond with her for all of eternity as her one true mate. And yet here they were, Jack and Angel, with absolutely no bonds to tie them together.
Jack had long since run out of patience, so having to listen to Troy as he marched across the semi-circle of gathered werewolves, lecturing and advising, as his brothers stood at firm attention behind him, was infuriating.
He couldn’t listen to this much longer.
“Yes, Dante is a concern,” Curt Wilson agreed, voicing his opinion from the front of the pack beside Jack. Curt owned Damned Repair, the automotive repair shop where they’d all gathered, and though he wasn’t a Royal, not by a long shot, he’d never been in the habit of keeping his thoughts to himself. “But Dante isn’t putting the pack at risk for exposure. If we should be worried about anyone, it’s Whitney Abernathy.”
“And Courtney Harrington,” another werewolf added. “She was right there on Main Street, too. She saw Kaleb after he’d been shot in the chest.”
“And Officer Clancy was fast on the scene,” another werewolf complained. “This thing could spread like wildfire.”
Troy silenced the pack when he barked, “Enough! I’m aware of your concerns. I share them.”
“But what are you going to do about it?” demanded Curt, who was now speaking for everyone.
Everyone but Jack, that was. But Jack knew he couldn’t very well steer the topic towards his own, personal concerns and investments. He would have to pull Troy aside after the meeting, really lean into him, put some serious pressure on the situation, remind him—hard—of the promise he’d made. The promise he’d, as of yet, failed to make good on.
“I’ll take care of Whitney,” Shane Quinn stated, speaking entirely out of turn.
Troy cut his surprised eyes at his younger brother and stared at him questioningly.
Curt asked what Troy was probably thinking, “How? How will you take care of the sheriff’s daughter?”
The glint of dark determination in Shane’s eyes was impossible to read. Of all the Quinns, Jack knew Shane the least. He was a wild card, unpredictable and aloof, though he was known to follow his king’s orders to a T. If no order was given, however, then Shane could go off half-cocked. As far as Jack was concerned, Shane was more brawn than brain.
Shane looked to Troy for approval as he alluded, “If she had our best interests in mind…”
“What are you suggesting, brother?” Troy asked in a hushed, shocked tone.
“Maybe she needs to be one of us,” he proposed.
“Turn her?” Curt asked as though it wasn’t a bad option.
“Why would she keep our secret,” Shane argued, “unless it was also her own secret to guard?”
Jack had heard damn near all he could take. If they were about to discuss turning a mortal, then he had every right to bring Angel Mercer into the conversation.
“What about Angel?” he asked, his voice barking at such a loud volume that it even surprised himself. No matter, he pressed his grievance all the way through to its farthest conclusion. Holding the bombshell even more tightly, he stated, “We’ve been waiting. Patiently. For your directive, Troy. Angel is still tied to Dante. This is ridiculous. You promised us a way out. You promised me you’d find a way for Angel and me to bond as one.”
“I’m working on it!” the werewolf king barked right back.
“Are you?” Jack questioned, vehemently, and Angel immediately tried to calm him by speaking softly in his ear.
“Maybe now’s not a good time.”
“It’s never a good time,” he snapped. He didn’t mean to take it out on her, the intensity of his frustration, but that’s how it came out. “We know Dante is back. Lucy practically fought him in the streets of the Fist for all eyes to see. We have to untangle you from him before it’s too late!”
Angel looked pained, empathetic to his grave worry.
But Jack didn’t want empathy, not from Angel and not from Troy. He wanted action. Answers. And a solution to this very serious problem.
But Troy had turned to Shane in private conversation, exploring the option of turning Whitney werewolf. It went outside the code. Rules had been broken left and right. And though they now had an Astral Goddess in their midst, no one seemed to have any clue as to how to restore the peace they’d enjoyed in Devil’s Fist for centuries.
It was a real shitshow and Jack couldn’t stomach another second of it.
Killing Dante Alighieri would break the dark bonds he’d placed on Angel.
But Jack had little reason to hope that the Quinns had so much as the slightest prayer of succeeding at that.
There had to be another way. A faster means to an end. And Jack Quagmire was done with waiting patiently and sitting impotently by while they tried and failed to figure it out.
***
Back on the south side of the Fist, Whitney was more than just
annoyed at Delilah’s unacceptable tardiness. It had been hours. She was now worried.
She had called Delilah’s cell phone a number of times, hanging up hotly at first, and finally leaving sour sounding voice messages, the last of which had poured out of her like a desperate plea, begging her to call her back because now she was thoroughly concerned.
Whitney had also fired off a wealth of text messages that ranged from furious to hurt to plain old terrified that Delilah had hit a deer or gotten into some kind of car accident.
Whitney had stowed her gun in the top drawer of her bedroom dresser. She’d changed out of her dress and into a pair of booty shorts and tank top, foregoing a bra for the sake of comfort, all prior anxiety that someone might have been in her cabin the farthest thing from her mind now.
As she paced the living room, barefoot and uneasy, she reminded herself that Delilah had been known to take off without warning. Whitney had never made personal plans with her before. Truth be told, she didn’t know the girl all that well. Maybe this was just part of Delilah’s M.O.—agreeing to plans that she had no real intention of keeping. Hell, if she could flake out and skip town at the risk of losing her job at Yellowstone, what would stop her from simply not showing up at Whitney’s for binge-watching Dexter and overeating gummy bears?
She would’ve liked to chalk this up to Delilah being a jerk, but she felt too unsettled to make the leap. Something was wrong. It had to be. Delilah had seemed totally game for hanging out. Something had to have happened.
Almost as soon as a fresh wave of dread swelled up in her stomach at the disturbing thought that perhaps Delilah’s dark past had caught up to her in some kind of fatal way, headlights cut through her kitchen windows, illuminating the length of the living room.
Someone had just pulled up her driveway!
She ran to the front door and threw it open.
Where she expected to find Delilah’s car, the exotic girl climbing out of it as apologies poured out of her, Whitney instead saw a pickup truck, its headlights turning off, and Shane Quinn stepping his army boots down onto the dusty earth.
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