The Moose Shifter's Fake Wife: A Steamy Shifter Rom-Com

by Candace Ayers

Love?

  I groaned and sank deeper into the water as the realization hit me like a slap upside the noggin.

  Yeah, I’d fallen in love with Samantha Jackson—or whatever her name was.

  I was in love with my wife.

  For as long as we both shall live.

  Thing was, the rest of my days—‘til death do us part—were going to be unbearably hellish if I couldn’t get Sam to open up and trust me. Didn’t she know that there was nothing she could do or say that would turn me against her? Whatever she thought she needed to keep secret wouldn’t change my feelings for her.

  Not only that, but secrets and lies had a way of piling up, higher and higher over a person’s head until that person was drowning in them. She was taking us both down.

  I growled and propelled myself out of the water. What the fuck could I do?

  The soak in the hot springs eased my tension only mildly, but I still couldn’t go back to the ranch all wound up and on edge like this. I needed to let off some steam and calm down before going home to my wife.

  I stripped to let my animal take over. Going for a run as my moose would allow the baser, instinct-driven part of my brain to be in charge for a while.

  Perfect.

  The human side of my brain had too many complex and confusing thoughts going on.

  I shifted and took off at a brisk pace through the desert, past the wolves’ oasis, up the mountains, and over the foothills, losing all track of time.

  I ran until my legs were weak.

  When I returned to my truck, the sun was setting, but I was no closer to finding answers. I still didn’t know how to get Sam to trust me and open up to me. My hours-long run had left me starving, so I stopped by my house in town to grab something quick to eat before heading back to the ranch.

  Somewhere between heating and devouring a frozen lasagna and polishing off a carton of my favorite moose tracks ice cream, I sank into my recliner, rolled my head back, and closed my eyes to think.

  Jerking awake sometime later, I was groggy and still in a sleep-induced daze. The clock hanging over the front door showed it was after three in the morning. I hadn’t meant to leave Sam alone on the ranch all night.

  Fuck. I didn’t care how mad I was or what kind of disputes we faced, it was my job to protect her and make her feel safe. And what had I done? I left her alone half the night because I’d gotten my panties in a snit like a spoiled little brat. I hurried out of the house and drove out of town and to the ranch faster than I should have.

  I had an image in my head of Sam curled up in the middle of my bed all by herself, waiting for me, wondering where I was. I hated myself for leaving her like that. It tugged at my heartstrings. When I got to the ranch, I ran inside, but I found my bed empty.

  Gilligan was on the couch. The old hound opened one eye, saw it was me, and went back to dreaming about chasing squirrels. The record player clicked with the white noise that played at the end of a vinyl record.

  Nothing was out of place.

  Sam was sound asleep—in her bed.

  If that didn’t speak volumes, I didn’t know what did.

  I hated that she chose her bed rather than mine just as much as I hated the damn lies.

  Well, if that was how it was gonna be, then that was how it would be.

  I made a point of setting Pappy’s old alarm clock to an ungodly hour so I could get up, get chores done, and leave without having to interact with my wife. It hurt like hell knowing her feelings for me weren’t as strong or as deep as my feelings for her.

  As I sank onto the mattress that night, it was the first time ever that I hated sleeping alone. The bed felt cold and lonely, like a part of me was missing.

  And a part of me was—she was snoring softly in the room next door.

  Chapter 18

  Shay

  I brushed Sally for what felt like the hundredth time. She let out a happy moo and flicked her tongue out at me. I managed a feeble grin. My face was trying to be happy, but not quite pulling it off.

  My platonic-but-not-so-platonic marriage was on the rocks, which was a downer.

  So we slept together. So what? It was inevitable that we both scratched that itch, right? And it had been incredible. It was the aftermath that sucked.

  Days had passed since Clint and I shared a bed, since my little faux pas the next morning while fixing breakfast, and since Clint ran off and ghosted me.

  Sort of ghosted me.

  Normally, I was the early riser, my body still attuned to the East Coast time zone. The past few days, Clint had been waking up long before I had, finishing his chores, then disappearing.

  A couple of times I heard him rifling around the house, but by the time I got up, brushed my teeth, and got dressed, he was gone.

  Usually, I’d just missed him. I knew because I saw the trail of dust as it chased his truck off the ranch.

  Tending to my chores alone sucked. It was a testament to Clint’s character, I supposed, that he always left me the easy chores. Even when he was angrily avoiding me, he was still chivalrous. I knew what he was doing with his avoidance technique; he’d made it clear. He was waiting for me to decide I was ready to talk—to answer his questions—and until then, he had nothing to say to me.

  Oh, Clint, you just don’t understand. I’m trying to protect both of us with my silence.

  Who would have thought that having a husband of convenience would turn to feelings of love?

  Love?

  Whoa. Where had that thought come from?

  Oh, hell, I did love him! And what we shared had meant something to me. He probably thought that the reason I was keeping secrets was that I didn’t trust him. I had no way to tell him that it was for his own good.

  The moment he knew about my situation, he’d be put in the position of having to arrest me—his own wife.

  I’d really made a mess of this.

  I was a horrible person.

  Awful. Abominable. Abhorrent.

  Clint had every right to be mad at me—I was mad at me. I should never have married him. He was the sheriff, and his wife was a fugitive from justice. He was obligated to arrest me. If he didn’t and it was found out, Clint’s reputation would be in jeopardy.

  He’d still have to turn me in, but he’d be a laughing stock. He so didn’t deserve that.

  I moved on to Beverly, stroking the brush along her brown and white spotted fur.

  “I’ve gotten myself into one helluva pickle, Bev.” Beverly let out a grunt of satisfaction and flicked her tail back and forth like she was swatting flies. “And it seems to be par for the course with me nowadays.”

  One pickle after the next, all because of my stupidity where men were concerned. In my defense, Robert was a skilled scam artist with a trail of victims in his wake. And Clint Eastwood, well, what woman could resist a sexy sheriff who had a body like a god, the morals of a saint, and lived his life with dignity and honor?

  I wondered where Clint was spending his time when he wasn’t here at the ranch or on duty at the sheriff’s station. He left just after sunrise and didn’t get home until the wee hours of the morning.

  What was he doing all that time?

  Where was he going?

  I finished up with Beverly, gave Sally another quick scratch behind the ears, then put everything away for the day. I had a makeshift plan to shower, change, and head into town.

  I didn’t know what I would say or do quite yet, but I wanted to try to smooth things over with Clint. This couldn’t go on anymore. I missed my husband. Maybe I’d just admit that I had secrets and beg him to please trust me enough to allow me to reveal them in my own time.

  That might work, right?

  Nervously, I drove my patchwork rust bucket into town and parked at the curb outside Sidewinder Sundries. It was coming up on dinner hour, and the town was quiet. I could see through the window of the Chuckwagon Diner. It was full, as was Whistlestop Saloon, judging by the number of vehicles in the sandy lot next to it. I didn’t s
ee Clint’s truck anywhere.

  I walked east, toward the courthouse, which was on the other side of Rawhide Road, surrounded by two big cacti.

  The front door of the building was open, and an attractive woman was seated just inside the screen door. I knocked gently on the wood doorframe and forced a smile. “Hello, I’m looking for Clint.”

  The woman’s face stretched into a wide grin. “Oh! You must be Sam! I’ve heard all about you.”

  My stiff grin morphed into a genuine smile. So Clint had mentioned me?

  “Everyone in town has been going on and on about you and Sheriff Eastwood getting hitched. We were all so surprised. But I guess when you know, you know.” She winked conspiratorially. “No sense in letting the grass grow underfoot, am I right?”

  She jumped up and held out her hand. “Oh, goodness, where are my manners. I’m Marilyn Monroe.”

  Of course. I blinked, then shook her hand. “Mind if I ask you a question? What’s with everyone around here being named after a celebrity?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Well…Clint didn’t tell you?”

  “He said something to the effect of it being a regional custom.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then a subject change.

  “Well, I can’t tell you how glad I am to finally meet Pappy’s niece. You’re famous around here. Of course, I’ve heard all about you from the double D’s.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Clint told me about their artistic side business.”

  She laughed. “Ignore those two old fools. They’re just a couple of horny old goats. Just like the rest of the men in this town, for the most part. You give a man a penis and nothing to do, he’s going to start putting it places.”

  I snorted a laugh and leaned my hip against the edge of her desk. I liked Marilyn. “So the men of Rattlesnake Canyon are no different than the rest of the world, then?”

  Her eyes lit with mischief. “Oh, they’re different. But they’re still men.”

  I thought of Clint and my smile faded. I hated that he was upset and avoiding me. “I came looking for Clint, but he doesn’t seem to be around. Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

  “Sure do. Clint went for a run up at the hot springs.”

  Hot springs? “Oh, does he do that often?”

  “Mm-hmm. Every day lately. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find him soaking in the springs.” She waggled her brows. “Naked.” She laughed and then jotted down directions. “Turn left off of Rawhide Road onto Saddle Street and then the third road on your right, Dust Storm Drive, will lead you up to the springs. Just drive until you can’t go any farther.”

  I took the paper and thanked her. The springs were several miles out of town down a narrow, rocky road that was little more than a path. When I arrived, two vehicles were already parked there. I recognized both. One was Clint’s truck, the other was a bright-red Volkswagen Karmann Gia. Only one person in town drove that.

  Frida.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Frida, the badass cowgirl with the body of a goddess. What the hell were she and Clint doing out here alone together? I told myself to stay calm and tamp down the thoughts that wanted to stray and jump to conclusions. It was probably a coincidence, or there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. My stomach cramped again.

  Just because their cars were here together with no one else around for miles…

  In the middle of a workday…

  None of that meant anything.

  I walked in the direction of the springs with my ears alert, listening for any human sounds.

  My view of the springs was blocked by boulders. A well-worn path snaked between them, and as I put one foot in front of the other, every step taking me closer, I thought I heard muffled laughter above the gentle sound of flowing water. I froze. Instead of continuing on the path, emerging on the other side of the boulders, and revealing myself, I did the creepy thing—I stepped to the right, flattened myself against the rockface, and peered around it.

  My pulse raced. I was simultaneously terrified of what I was going to see and chastising myself for jumping to insane conclusions.

  But what I saw had me stumbling backward.

  Clint was standing naked on the shore next to the springs, reaching for his clothes, which lay in a pile on the ground. He was carrying on an animated conversation with Frida, who was also stark naked. Whatever they were talking about seemed intense—too intense for either of them to notice me. They slowly dressed as they continued to talk. Clint’s suntanned skin was damp, as was Frida’s chocolate-brown skin. I couldn’t help but notice how perfect her body was as I backed slowly away before turning around and hurrying back to my car.

  I felt sick. My feet were rubbery. I stumbled and almost fell before finally getting to my truck.

  Tears streamed down my face as I turned my truck around and drove back toward town. A couple of times, I glanced longingly in the rearview mirror, hoping to see Clint’s truck following me, ready to offer a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  But there wasn’t one.

  What possible explanation could there be for Clint and Frida to be alone together soaking naked in the hot springs other than they were having an affair?

  I drove back to the ranch and closed myself into my bedroom, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. Of course, Clint was sleeping with someone else. Duh! All the signs were there. He’d been avoiding me for days.

  I was the one who made it very clear from the get-go that this marriage was platonic. So we slept together. Once. Was that supposed to change anything? He’d made no promise of monogamy to me.

  He was still my husband, though!

  He could have at least told me there was someone else. He could have been honest. Maybe there were lots of someone-elses.

  And he was giving me the silent treatment for not communicating?

  If that wasn’t a clear case of pot and kettle.

  My pain turned to anger and I slammed around the kitchen making dinner. I raged while slamming dough on the counter. I needed pasta, and lots of it.

  Carb coma, here I come.

  My heart slammed against my ribcage as tears blinded me.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  Chapter 19

  Clint

  Avoiding Shay for the past few days had been hell. Every cell in my body wanted to be with her.

  But a man had his pride.

  According to Frida, I had way too much of it.

  Gomer showed up “coincidentally” on the afternoons I spent relaxing at the hot springs. I knew what he was doing. I knew he was worried about me. He sometimes tried to get me to talk. Sometimes we just hung out silently and soaked in the spring. Sometimes we went for a run.

  Today, instead of Gomer showing up, he sent Frida in his stead.

  Now that, I was sure, was intentional. Frida had the reputation of being a ball buster. She never minced words. If the woman had something to say, she said it. Whether you wanted to hear it or not.

  And she had something to say—to me.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to extend the olive branch?”

  “No,” I grunted. “I don’t.”

  She clicked her tongue in disgust. “You’d rather wallow in pain than swallow your pride, Clint Eastwood.”

  “She’s the one with all the secrets and lies! She should extend the olive branch, with a white flag of truth waving on the end of it.”

  Her brows shot up and she gave me an is-that-so look. “And I suppose you’ve been a hundred percent honest with her?”

  “Well, I don’t go around lying and clamming up when asked to talk about it.”

  “Oh? Have you told her you’re a Variant? Have you told her how this town was founded and where the townsfolk came from? Have you shown her your animal form?”

  Frida had a point. I had been keeping my own secrets—but for a very good reason! I had to be careful. It wasn’t just my secret. If Sam freaked out and chose
to expose our existence to the rest of the world, it wasn’t just me who would suffer. She’d be throwing the entire Variant population under the bus.

  “Does she know that you’ll never be able to give her children? Did you at least tell her that our kind can’t reproduce?”

  I met Frida’s eyes and then looked away. “I didn’t think so. Sounds like you have a load of secrets of your own you need to reveal before you go blaming her for the same thing. You know what they say about people in glass houses.”

  Gomer showed up just as Frida was leaving, which I considered a blessing. I needed a good, long run. As Gomer and I ran through the foothills, Frida’s hard words continued to echo through my head.

  How the hell do you expect her to trust you and spill her secrets when you won’t trust her?

  Dammit if she wasn’t right. How the hell could I blame Sam, or Shay, or whoever she was, for keeping secrets when I was keeping some doozies of my own? I hadn’t exactly been upfront and honest either.

  I made a decision. After our run, I was going to go back to the ranch and have a heart-to-heart with my wife.

  But Gomer, always hungry, persuaded me to grab a bite with him at the Chuckwagon first. Fine. That would give me time to sort through my words and decide the best way to reveal myself to Sam.

  This time our race into town was neck and neck.

  We arrived at the diner at the same time, but the one who made it inside the diner first was declared the winner.

  Gomer and I pushed and clawed at each other. We were squeezed in the doorway, both trying to be the first one through the door.

  Gladys scowled. “You boys still playing ‘last one is a rotten egg’? You know you’re both nearing forty, right?” She shook her head. “Some siblings never grow out of their rivalry.”

  When Gomer poked me in the side and I doubled over, he burst through ahead of me. Cheater. Holding his arms overhead, he did a victory lap around the diner before seating himself at the lunch counter.

  “That was a low blow, bro.”

  Gladys cut her eyes to me and pointed up at the bell over the door that we’d knocked loose. I sighed and reached up to fix it.