by R. C. Ryan
Quinn felt again the familiar thrill as he saw the alpha male rise up and begin to run full speed across the rim of the hill. The raw power, the fierce determination of this animal, never failed to touch a chord deep inside him.
The wolf dipped below the rim of the hill and was lost from sight.
Quinn experienced a rush of annoyance. He wanted to record the kill for his journal. But something had caused the wolf to veer off-course at the last moment. Snatching up his camera, Quinn was on his feet, racing up the hill, half-blinded by the curtain of snow that stung his face like shrapnel.
He was halfway up the hill when he heard the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot echo and reecho across the hills. It reverberated in his chest like a thunderous pulse.
Heart pounding, he ran full speed the rest of the distance.
When he came to the spot where the male had fallen, Quinn stared at the crimson snow, the beautiful body now silent and still, and felt a mingling of pain and rage rising up inside, clogging his throat, tightening a band around his heart until he had to struggle for each breath.
How dare anyone end such a magnificent life. Why?
He studied the prints left in the snow made by a single horse.
Far off in the distance, barely visible through the falling snow, was a tiny beam of light.
An isolated ranch house, it would seem.
Clouds scudded across the rising moon, leaving the countryside in near darkness.
Quinn knew that he needed to return to his campsite soon and settle in for the night or risk freezing. But he was determined to confront the rancher who had just robbed Quinn’s pack of its leader. A cruel act that had not only left the vulnerable female and her newborn pups without a guardian but had also cut short the scholarly research that had consumed the past five years of Quinn’s life.
With a heavy heart he turned away, knowing that by morning scavengers would have swept the area clean of any trace of carnage. It was the way of nature.
Even if he were so inclined, there wasn’t time to dispose of the wolf’s body. Quinn needed to follow the tracks in the snow before the storm obliterated them completely. Already the surrounding countryside had fallen under the mantle of darkness.
He returned to his campsite and began to pack up his meager supplies. As he did so, anger rose up like bile, burning the back of his throat and eyes.
All attempts at scholarly disinterest were swept away in a tide of fury at the loss of the wolf Quinn had come to love.
He could no longer hide behind a professional wall of anonymity.
This was personal.
He needed, for his own satisfaction, to confront the rancher who had snuffed out the life of the creature that had consumed every minute of every day of his life for the past five years.
As he shouldered his supplies and began the trek in the darkness, he found his thoughts turning to his father. There was no comparison between this despicable act and the horrible trauma Cole had suffered at losing Seraphine. Still, the loss was so deeply felt that it connected Quinn to Cole Conway in a way that nothing else ever had.
Was this how Cole had felt when he’d faced the greatest loss of his life? Had he been swamped with this helpless, hopeless sense that everything that he’d worked for had just been swept away by some cruel whim of fate?
Cole had been, in those early days, inconsolable. A man so grief stricken, even the love for his children and his father, Big Jim, hadn’t been able to lift him out of the depths of hell. Cole’s only coping mechanism had been to throw himself into every hard, physically demanding chore he could find around the ranch, many of which would have broken a less determined man.
Right this minute, Quinn would welcome any challenge that would lift him out of his own private hell.
Quinn moved through the waist-high drifts, keeping the light of the distant ranch house always in his sight.
Someone would answer for this vicious deed.
Someone would pay.
As Quinn drew close enough to peer through the falling snow, he could make out the sprawling ranch house and, some distance away, the first of several barns and outbuildings.
He was turning toward the house when he caught the glint of light in the barn. Pausing just outside the open door, he watched the rancher forking hay into a stall, where a horse stomped, blowing and snorting, as though winding down from a hard ride. The snow that coated the rancher’s parka and wide-brimmed hat was further proof that he’d just retreated from the blizzard that raged beyond these walls.
Quinn stepped inside, holding his rifle loosely at his side. It wasn’t his intention to threaten the rancher, merely to confront him. But right this minute, Quinn relished the thought of a good knock-down, drag-out fight. For one tiny instant he was that helpless boy again, confronting the rancher Porter Stanford as he’d gloated over the needless deaths of a wolf and her pups. Then Quinn snapped back to the present, though the thought of that long-ago scene had his voice lowering to a growl.
“I’m tracking a wolf-hating rancher. Looks like I found him.”
The figure whirled.
Quinn continued to keep his rifle pointed at the ground, though his finger tightened reflexively on the trigger when he caught the glint of metal as the rancher lifted the pitchfork in a menacing gesture.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Quinn blinked. The voice didn’t match the image he’d had of a tough Wyoming rancher. It was obviously female. Soft. Throaty. Breathless, as though she’d been running hard.
“My name is Quinn Conway. My spread’s about fifty miles east of here. And you’d be…?”
“Don’t act coy with me. You know who I am. You’re trespassing on my land. I’ll give you one minute to turn tail and leave, or you’ll answer to this.”
Quinn realized that, though her left hand continued to hold the pitchfork aloft, her right hand had dipped into the pocket of her parka and she was holding a very small, very shiny pistol aimed at his chest.
He lifted a hand, palm up. “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“Oh, sure. That’s why you burst into my barn holding a rifle?”
“I’m here to get some answers.”
“Sorry. I’m fresh out.” She tossed aside the pitchfork and in one quick motion pocketed the pistol and grabbed a rifle leaning against the wall. Taking careful aim, she hissed, “Now get, whoever you are. And tell Deke I have no intention of changing my mind. If he thinks he can send some bully—”
Quinn reacted so quickly she didn’t have time to blink. He kicked aside her rifle, sending it flying into the air. Before it landed in the hay, he’d leaped at her, taking her down and pinning her arms and legs with such force beneath him that she was helpless to move anything except her head.
She let loose with a stream of oaths that would have withered a seasoned cowboy. That merely reinforced Quinn’s determination to pin her down until her fury ran its course.
In the process, his own anger seemed to intensify. He’d come here to confront a cold-blooded wolf killer. What he’d found was a crazy woman.
“Let me up.” Teeth clenched, she bucked and shuddered with impotent rage.
“Not until…” His breath was coming hard and fast and he found himself having to use every ounce of his strength to keep her pinned. In the process, he became aware of the soft curves beneath the parka, and the fresh, clean evergreen scent of her hair and clothes. “… you agree to give me some answers.”
“Go to hell.”
Damn her. He wanted to end this tussle, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. And the longer he lay on top of her, the more aware he became of the woman and less of the enemy he’d come here to confront. “You’re not going to cooperate?”
When she made no response, he dug in, using his size and weight to intimidate. “You shot a wolf out there on the trail. I want to know why.”
“A wolf?” She stopped fighting him.
He absorbed a small measure of reli
ef that she seemed to be relenting.
She was clearly out of breath. “What business is this of yours?”
“That wolf is my business.”
He saw her eyes go wide. “This is really about the wolf?”
“What did you think it was about?”
He saw the way she was studying him beneath half-lowered lashes and realized how he must look, hair wild and tangled, his face heavily bearded from his days on the trail.
He decided to take a calculated risk. Moving quickly, he got to his feet and held out a hand.
Ignoring his offer of help, she rolled aside and got her bearings before turning to face him.
Her hand went to the pocket where she’d stowed her pistol but didn’t dip inside, remaining instead where he could see it.
“Let’s start over.” He fought to keep the anger from his voice. “My name is Quinn Conway. I study the life cycle of wolves. I was tracking my pack when the alpha male was shot. I followed the shooter here. Now I want to know why a rancher would kill a wolf that was only hunting food for his pack.”
When she held her silence, he arched a brow. “It’s your turn to introduce yourself and say… ‘My name is… I shot the wolf because… ’ ”
“My name isn’t important, but the wolf is. It was threatening my herd. That’s what wolves do. And what smart ranchers do is shoot them before they can rip open a helpless calf.”
“My wolf was stalking a herd of deer.”
“Your wolf?” She eyed him suspiciously. “I didn’t realize he was a pet.”
“He isn’t. Wasn’t,” Quinn corrected. “He was, in fact, the object of years of scholarly research.”
“Uh-huh.” She shot him a look guaranteed to freeze a man’s heart at a hundred paces. “I wouldn’t know anything about scholarly research, but common sense told me he was about to take out one of my calves. And I got him before he could get to my herd. Now if you don’t mind…” She turned away.
Before she could reach for her rifle Quinn caught her arm. “I don’t believe you. I saw the herd of deer.”
She yanked herself free of his grasp. “I don’t give a damn what you believe. I know what I saw.”
“Prove it.”
Her head came up sharply. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“You already have. The fact that you’re a liar.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Look. I don’t care what you call me. I know what I saw.”
But even as she spoke, he could see the wheels turning as she cast a glance at the snow swirling in the darkness just beyond the barn. Neither of them was eager to face the blizzard. But neither of them was willing to concede that fact.
She took in a breath. “You can saddle up the mare over there.”
Without another word she turned away and began saddling the big roan stallion she’d been tending.
Quinn crossed to the other stall and began saddling the spotted mare.
When both horses were saddled and ready, Quinn and the woman moved out single file, into the stinging snow and darkness of night.
Each of them was carrying a rifle.
Neither of them was willing to give an inch until this trek was over.
In Quinn’s mind, it would end with this crazy woman admitting her mistake and apologizing for the wrong she’d done. Not that it would make anything right. The wolf would still be dead and his pack left without a leader. But for Quinn this was all about justice.
Once again he flashed back to that incident in his boyhood. He hadn’t been able to do anything about that female wolf and her pups. But things were different now. This time, he would have the satisfaction of knowing he’d done all he could to persuade at least one angry rancher to give the wolves of this world a fighting chance to survive.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Kristen Callihan
Dear Reader,
I write books set in the Victorian era. Usually we don’t see women with careers in historical romance, but one of the best things about exploring this “other” London in my Darkest London series is that my heroines can lead atypical lives.
In WINTERBLAZE, Poppy Ellis Lane is not only a quiet bookseller and loving wife, she’s also part of an organization dedicated to keeping the populace of London in the dark about supernatural beasts that roam the streets—a discovery that comes as quite a shock to her husband, Police Inspector Winston Lane.
Now pregnant, Poppy Lane develops a craving for all things baked, but most especially fresh breads. Being hard-working, however, Poppy has little time or patience for complicated baking—an inclination I share! Popovers are a great compromise, as they are ridiculously easy to make and ridiculously good.
Poppy’s Popovers (yields about 6 popovers)
You’ll need:
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/2 teaspoon salt
Topping (optional)
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
a dash of cayenne pepper (to taste)
4 tablespoons melted butter
Directions
Preheat oven to 450 degrees F. Spray muffin tin with nonstick spray or butter and sprinkle with flour. (I like the spray for the easy factor.)
In a bowl, begin to whisk eggs; add in flour, milk, and salt, and beat until it just turns smooth. Do not overbeat; your popovers will be resentful and tough if you do! Fill up each muffin cup until halfway full–the popovers are going to rise. (Like, a lot.)
Bake for 20 minutes at 450 degrees F, then lower oven temperature to 350 degrees F and bake 20 minutes more, until golden brown and puffy.
Meanwhile, for topping, mix the sugar, cinnamon, and dash of cayenne pepper—this is hot stuff and you only want a hint of it—in a shallow bowl and stir until combined. Melt butter in another bowl and set aside.
Remove popovers from the muffin pan, being careful not to puncture them. Then brush with melted butter and roll them in the sugar mix, shaking off the excess. Serve immediately.
Inspector Lane likes to add a dollop of raspberry jam and feed them to his wife in the comfort of their bed. He claims they make Poppy quite agreeable… Ahem. You, however, might like to enjoy them with a cup of tea and a good book!
From the desk of R.C. Ryan
Dear Reader,
To me there’s nothing sexier than a strong, handsome hunk with a soft spot for kids and animals. That’s why, in Book 3 of my Wyoming Sky series, I decided that my hero, Jake Conway, would be a veterinarian, as well as the town heartthrob. Now, who could I choose to play the love interest of a charming cowboy who has all the females from sixteen to sixty sighing? Why not a smart, cool, sophisticated, Washington, D.C. lawyer who looks, as Jake describes her, “as out of place as a prom dress at a rodeo”? Better yet, just to throw Meg Stanford even more off her stride, why not add a surprise half-brother with whom she has absolutely nothing in common?
I had such fun watching these two try every possible way to deny the attraction.
But there’s so much more to their story than a hot romance. There’s also the fact that someone wants to harm Meg and her little half-brother. And what about the mystery that has haunted the Conway family for twenty-five years? The disappearance of Seraphine, mother of Quinn, Josh, and Jake, chronicled in Books 1 and 2, will finally be resolved in Book 3.
In writing the stories of Quinn, Josh, and Jake, I completely lost my heart to this strong, loving family, and I confess I had mixed emotions as I wrote the final chapter.
I hope all of my readers will enjoy the journey. I guarantee you a bumpy but exhilarating ride.
Happy Reading!
RyanLangan.com
Twitter, @RuthRyanLangan
Facebook.com
From the desk of Margaret Mallory
Dear Reader,
Ilysa is in love with her older brother’s best friend. Sad to say, the lass doesn’t have a
chance with him.
As her clan chieftain, Connor MacDonald is the sixteenth-century Highland equivalent of a pro quarterback, movie star, Special Forces hero, and CEO all rolled into one. And the handsome, black-haired warrior never even noticed Ilysa before his unexpected rise to the chieftainship.
Other women, who are always attempting to lure Connor into bed—and failing, by the way—are drawn to him by his status, handsome face, and warrior’s body. While no lass with a pulse could claim to be unaffected by Connor’s devastating looks, Ilysa loves him for his noble heart. Connor MacDonald would give his life for the lowliest member of their clan, and Ilysa would give hers for him.
Connor MacDonald is the hope of his clan, a burden that weighs upon every decision he makes. Since becoming chieftain, he has devoted himself to raising his people from the ashes. With the help of his cousins (in The Guardian and The Sinner ) and his best friend (in The Warrior), he has survived murder attempts by his own kin, threats from royals and rebels, and attacks by other clans. Now all that remains to secure his clan’s future is to take back the lands that were stolen by the powerful MacLeods.
Through the first three books in The Return of the Highlander series, Ilysa has worked quietly and efficiently behind the scenes to support Connor and the clan. None of her efforts has made him look at her twice. Clearly, it’s time for me to step in and give Connor a shake.
The poor lass does need help. Her mother thought she was protecting Ilysa in a violent world by covering her in severe kerchiefs and oversized gowns and admonishing her to never draw attention to herself. Ilysa’s brief marriage left her feeling even less appealing.
But Ilysa underestimates her worth. After all, who helped our returning heroes in The Guardian sneak into the castle the night they took it from Connor’s murderous uncle? And who healed Connor’s wounds and brought him back from death’s door? Even now, while Connor fights to protect the clan, Ilysa is willing to employ a bit of magic to protect him, whether from the threat of an assassin or a deceitful woman with silver-blue eyes.