The remaining Sandia Mountain Pride members had fled Albuquerque, and were currently scattered throughout New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado. Some of them had found shelter with friends and relatives, others were in motels.
All of them—including Daniel—were now effectively homeless.
Margaret's questions returned to haunt him. You're dominant enough to fight off three shifters. Why aren't you leading your pride?
Yeah, Daniel asked himself. Why didn't I step up to lead the pride? Could I have stopped Messerzahn and his goons from killing Lizbeth and the others?
He shook his head, and tried to tell himself that he'd done everything he could to protect Chris.
And Chris was safe for now, and it even looked like he might be making some friends here.
Thank God for Margaret Swanson, Daniel thought with genuine gratitude, as he bent stiffly to plug in his phone to recharge. He wasn't sure what he would have done if his desperate plan to seek sanctuary here hadn't worked.
Now that he'd accomplished his primary objective of ensuring Chris's safety, Daniel hoped for some breathing room to figure out what he needed to do next. Every part of him rebelled at the thought of just abandoning his house and his job.
I worked my ass off for both of those things, and I'm not going to just meekly hand them over to a murderous fatras like Messerzahn, he promised himself, using the Cajun French term for a no-account person.
Daniel had been forced to beat a humiliating but strategic retreat way out here to the boondocks last night, but that wasn't the end of the matter. Not by a long shot.
He thought about Lizbeth and the others, and felt his chest squeeze painfully.
I'll find a way to fix this for everyone.
He heard the crunch of gravel under car tires, and saw an older red Subaru station wagon pull up in front of the house and park. Margaret Swanson emerged from the driver's side, then walked around to the rear hatch. She lifted it and pulled out an enormous laundry basket piled high with used towels and sheets. Her neatly-braided hair gleamed dark red and silver in the sunlight, and Daniel found himself wondering what it would look like loose and spread over pillows. She wasn't his usual type, but he liked what he saw, and he couldn't help imagining how soft her curves would feel, pressed against him in bed...
Daniel shook his head to dislodge the unwelcome speculation—the last thing he needed right now was to make Margaret think that he was some kind of creeper—and turned away from the window.
She's probably wondering whether I up and died during the night, he thought wryly with a glance at the bedside clock. Or wondering what kind of slacker sleeps all day.
He bent, trying to ignore the warning stab of pain from his ribs, and dug in his duffel bag for a clean t-shirt and skivvies before returning to the bathroom to wash up and take care of some urgent business.
After shaving, he took the opportunity to stand naked in front of the bedroom's tall wood-framed standing mirror and examine his wounds.
Daniel grimaced at what he saw.
A huge bruise the dusky purple color of an approaching summer thunderstorm covered his left side where Messerzahn had kicked him. Daniel knew from past experience that even with a shifter's accelerated healing abilities, it would still take at least a week to completely heal the fractures. The furrow left by the bullet grazing his forehead had scabbed over and looked nearly healed, with new, dark-pink skin peeking out around the edges of the scab.
Lastly, he peeled back the waterproof bandage to examine the neatly-stitched bullet hole through his forearm.
Could have been worse. A lot worse, he told himself, though he was irritated to see how it had messed up his expensive tattoo. Better a hole through your ink than your chest. I can always get a touch-up once I'm all healed.
He caught another whiff of roasting chicken, and his stomach growled loudly as he began the painful process of getting dressed.
Daniel was pretty sure that his stay here didn't include lunch and dinner, but his hunger was a reminder that he needed to get his ass downstairs and talk to his way-too-attractive hostess about how long he and Chris could stay here before he needed to start looking for an apartment or rooms to rent somewhere on Swanson clan territory.
I'll have to ask Margaret where the nearest grocery store is located, and whether I can get kitchen privileges to cook for Junior and me...
* * *
"That chicken smells good enough to wake the dead," Daniel said, as Margaret came up the stairs from the basement.
She'd heard him moving around upstairs when she returned from collecting the used sheets and towels she'd collected from the B&B rooms elsewhere on the ranch. A group of weekday hunting guests had checked out from Evan's house after breakfast this morning, and a fresh batch of weekend guests were due to arrive around dinnertime, so she'd gone to lend a hand with the room turnover.
Now Daniel leaned against the wide cased doorway to her kitchen. He looked good enough to eat in a plain black t-shirt that showed off the defined muscles on his chest and arms, and comfortably-worn jeans that hugged his lean hips. She had thought him extremely attractive last night, but now, with the gray shadow of pain and exhaustion gone from his sharply-defined features, his presence felt like a palpable caress against her senses.
"I can't remember if I said so last night," he continued, his faint Southern accent flavoring and softening his speech. "But thank you for granting us sanctuary, Mrs. Swanson."
"Call me Margaret," she reminded him. "And I'm glad you like chicken. I figured that you'd probably be starving once you woke up—healing does that to you." She glanced at the timer on her oven. "It's nearly done. Let me just make the salad—"
"Allow me," he said, gliding into the kitchen. "It's the least I can do, if you're going to feed me."
And then he smiled at her, his cat-like pale green eyes creasing at the corners. She felt heat expanding inside, as if she'd just downed a straight shot of whiskey. It left her feeling euphoric and a little dizzy.
Stop acting like a silly teenager, Maggie, she told herself firmly.
Looking for an excuse to avoid looking at him, she hastily cracked open the oven door and checked on the chicken resting on a bed of herb-flecked potatoes in a big oval pan.
"Mind telling me where you keep your cutting boards?" He asked, his voice coming right behind her.
He was standing close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. A pleasant shiver of sensation rolled down her spine.
This was normally the point when her bear began to protest at the proximity of a strange male shifter. Today, Margaret felt nothing beyond a heightened sense of alertness.
Feeling oddly flustered, Margaret pointed Daniel to the narrow lower cabinet where she kept her cutting boards. She left him rummaging in her refrigerator while she went to set the table for two.
"Chris already had his lunch," she remembered to tell him as she carried plates, silverware, and—on impulse—a couple of wine glasses over to in the breakfast nook. "I made a big batch of hot dogs for all the kids about an hour ago, and they went right back outside to finish their game. I hope you don't mind, but I told him he could play with the other kids. They're all shifters...except for Sophie, of course. But she's a bear shifter's stepdaughter and knows all about our little secret here at the ranch."
Margaret hoped she wasn't babbling. It was a weird contradiction to feel like she and Daniel had known each other for decades, while simultaneously experiencing the same nervous flutters she remembered from her high school crushes.
"Thank you for feeding him," Daniel said. "And it was great to see him out there having some fun. Yesterday...was not a good day. For any of us."
Margaret saw that he'd pulled the lettuce out of the fridge, along with a wedge of blue cheese and a trio of ripe pears. He stood in front of her knife block now, testing the edge of her chef's knife with his thumb. "You keep your knives nice and sharp. That's good."
She tilted her head at him. "We
ll, it's good if you're a serial killer," she joked. "Should I be worried?"
He shot her a startled glance, then apparently realized she wasn't serious. He grinned at her. "I'm a chef. Almost as bad. But darlin', do we need to talk about the kind of movies you're watching out here on the ranch? I could recommend some decent shows on one of those food and cooking networks if you're having trouble falling asleep at night."
She laughed. That darlin' sounded so natural and right coming from him, that it took a moment to sink in.
Oh, won't you say that again? She felt a little giddy, and tried vainly to rein in her reactions.
"I like action movies a lot more than I like chick flicks," she confessed. "Though it drives me crazy when they do things with guns that are impossible in real life."
"Action movies, huh? You sound like my kind of lady." By then, Daniel was chopping the lettuce, the knife flashing as it beat out a rapid rhythm against the wooden cutting board.
Margaret couldn't tear her gaze away from the fascinating play of muscles in Daniel's tattooed forearms as he proceeded to dice the pears with blinding speed. "Got any balsamic vinegar?"
"Uh—" Margaret's mind went blank. Everyone on the ranch thought of her as calm and motherly. She'd even begun to believe it herself. But ever since Daniel had turned up on her porch last night, she'd been feeling off-balance and more than a little flustered.
Look at his hands, her bear said. We'd like it if he stroked us all over.
And suddenly Margaret couldn't think of anything except what Daniel's mouth would feel like, moving against hers, as his hands roved over her skin. Her bare skin.
You are not helping, she told her bear, trying desperately to keep her wild flight of fancy under control. He's just being charming. He can't possibly be interested in me.
Shifter senses were keen, and the last thing she wanted was for Daniel to realize just how out of control her urges were at the moment. She swallowed hard, and forced herself to stop staring at him. "...I might have some in the cupboard. Let me look."
This is bad. My sex drive has been asleep for years, and now it suddenly wakes up? What on earth is happening to me?
Her oven timer beeped, and she was glad of the excuse it gave her to fuss with testing the chicken for doneness.
It was a meal that she had cooked a hundred times before, and her family had always liked it. But what will Daniel think? He's a chef. He's probably used to much fancier food than this.
Chapter Eleven – Irresistible
As a professional chef, it was always a real treat when someone else cooked a meal for Daniel. Unfortunately, most of the people he knew were nervous about cooking for him. They didn't understand that he was generally too grateful to judge anyone on any culinary standard beyond "edible."
But this meal far surpassed the merely edible. Margaret's roast chicken made him want to weep tears of happiness. Perfectly crisped amber skin concealed juicy, tender meat seasoned with garlic, lemon, and thyme. The delicious fat dripping down from the chicken had helped roast the potatoes to a lovely shade of golden brown.
Seated across from Margaret in the cozy breakfast nook, Daniel found himself savoring the food...and the company. Her house felt like a home, and a very welcoming one. And he kept wondering if her skin felt as soft and smooth as it looked. He longed to reach across the table and stroke the pale, delicate surface on the inside of her wrist, and trace the line of the blue veins down to her palm. With his tongue.
With a superhuman effort, he yanked his thoughts back from the dirty but oh-so-fun path that they'd started wandering down.
At first, they chatted about action movies that each of them had seen and liked. Daniel couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed around someone who was essentially a stranger.
Then, when the conversation had run down a little, she said, "I talked to Chris a little this morning, over breakfast. He told me that you'd served with the Marines in Afghanistan."
Daniel's appetite abruptly vanished. He braced himself for the questions he knew were coming next. The one he hated most was: Did you ever shoot anyone?
Margaret surprised him. "Ryan—my late husband—was Army infantry. He was deployed to Iraq when—" Her eyes squeezed shut, and Daniel saw her fingers clench around the cheery cloth napkin with its sunflower print. He fought the urge to rise and take her in his arms, and try to soothe away the raw pain that radiated from her. "It was an IED. Before they started putting real armor on vehicles." She took a deep breath, then looked him straight in the eye. "I'm glad you were able to come home from your deployment, Daniel," she finished, simply.
What could he say to that? "So am I. I knew a lot of guys who weren't as lucky as me," he said, giving her honesty in return.
He'd survived two deployments with no major injuries. A few nightmares didn't really count when compared to missing arms or legs...or worse.
Daniel usually didn't act on impulse. Which is why he was surprised when he reached out, and took Margaret's hand in his. There was that pleasant jolt of contact and from the way her hand twitched in his, he knew she felt it, too. "I'm sorry for your loss. Was Ryan a shifter, too?"
She nodded, and her fingers folded around his. It felt utterly right to be sitting here, holding her hand.
He stroked his thumb over the inside of her wrist, fulfilling one fantasy, and realized that her skin felt every bit as velvety as his fevered imagination had hoped.
"He was one of the Swansons living on this ranch," she said. "My sister Elle mated Ryan's older brother Ashton, and that's how I met Ryan." Her smile was fond and a little tremulous. "He came home to the ranch while he was on leave from the army and we realized that we had this...connection."
Daniel felt a shock of recognition deep in his gut, and he couldn't help squeezing her hand. He wondered if Margaret and Ryan's connection had felt anything like what he was experiencing at this very moment.
You're crazy, you know that? He asked himself. You've known this woman less than twenty-four hours and she's not even a sabertooth shifter!
His cat didn't care. It wanted to snuggle up against Margaret's soft curves, and cover itself with her sweet scent. It had never wanted to do that before, not with any of Daniel's girlfriends or dates.
To his delight, she squeezed his hand back. It felt good.
Okay, maybe I'm not as crazy as I thought. Or if I am, maybe, just maybe, I'm not the only crazy one here.
"I was twenty-one and I'd never been farther away from home than the University of Idaho at Boise," she continued. "Suddenly, I was mated, pregnant, and living on base at Fort Polk. The military community was a different world. "
"You were living in Louisiana?" Daniel asked, startled. "I was born in Baton Rouge. We lived there until my father was killed in a challenge duel and my mother moved us all to Albuquerque."
Margaret nodded. "After Ryan died..." She paused, and Daniel saw that her mate's death still affected her deeply. "Well, I had three children by then. Patrick was already away at college, but my youngest, Hannah, was still in middle school. I didn't know what I was going to do. Elle had lost Ashton in a terrible car crash a few years earlier, and she was really struggling to keep the ranch from going under. I moved here and helped her start up the bed-and-breakfast part of the business."
"Sounds like you have a real close-knit family," Daniel observed, with a tinge of envy.
Margaret nodded. "Elle and I were always the best of friends as well as sisters, and I felt so lucky to find a home here after Ryan was gone." She studied their linked hands, but made no move to pull away.
That was just fine as far as Daniel was concerned. Despite the fact that he'd just been beaten, shot, and driven from his home, he was feeling surprisingly good right now. His belly was filled with home-cooked food, his injuries were nearly healed by a good night's sleep, and he was holding hands with a warm, attractive woman that he hoped to get to know better. A lot better.
"But here I am, going on and on about myself
." Margaret gave a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "Your nephew thinks you're quite a hero, especially after you saved his life yesterday. And he mentioned something about medals?"
Her smile encouraged him to open up and share his story with her. Instead, his heart sinking, Daniel found himself unable to meet her friendly, interested gaze. He looked down at the clean-picked skeleton of half a chicken on his plate.
"I'm no hero," he said, the words emerging more harshly than he'd intended. "Those goons last night came really close to hurting Chris, and I couldn't stop them. And as for my medals..." He shook his head. "I don't know why they gave me that Bronze Star. I sure as hell didn't deserve it."
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