Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Copyright
The McKenna Legacy… A Legacy of Love
To my darling grandchildren,
I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days of your thirty-third birthday—enough time to know what you are about—you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in anther’s behalf, and my legacy will be yours.
Your loving grandmothers; Moira McKenna
L.S. Use any other inheritance from me wisely and only for good, lest your destroy yourself or those you love.
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to The McKenna Legacy and a very special book—my 25th Intrigue novel. The McKennas have a special place in my heart, and so I was thrilled by the overwhelming reader response to the first three stories, which gave me the opportunity to revisit some of my favorite characters ever.
Now I have a new favorite. Donovan Wilde may not carry the McKenna name, but he’s the embodiment of their spirit. He’s difficult and enigmatic, honorable and dedicated—the kind of man who demands a woman who is up for a special challenge.
And so, with pleasure, I give you Donovan and Laurel in Never Cry Wolf. Let me know what you think about their story and about all the McKennas by writing to me at P.O. Box 578297, Chicago, IL 60657-8297.
Never Cry Wolf
Patricia Rosemoor
Thanks to the Treehaven Nature Center, University of Wisconsin at Steven’s Point, and to the volunteers of TWIN—Timberwolf Information Network—for hosting the educational workshop on wolf recovery where I learned much of what I’ve included in this story. Any mistakes are mine.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Donovan Wilde—A McKenna by birth if not by name, he rejected his natural family until an attack leaves his father in a coma.
Laurel Newkirk—Fooled by a man who called himself Donovan, she wants to reveal his identify…and the reason he’d used her.
The Imposfer—He’d gotten Laurel emotionally involved with him and then had disappeared.
Raymond McKenna—Donovan’s father was trying to make certain his estranged son wasn’t in danger.
Veronica Wilde—Donovan’s mother had never told him everything about the past.
Joshua Harley—Devoted to Veronica, Josh can’t hide his enmity for Raymond.
Ham Gault—The newspaperman was an advocate of hunting—deer or wolf.
Karen and David Tobin—Mother and son would have a lot to gain if the wolves were gone from land that should have been theirs.
Andrew Deterline—Angered at losing livestock, the farmer threatened to kill the next wolf he saw.
Magda Huber—Always odd, a hermit who kept mostly to her woods, she’s never forgiven Donovan for trying to stop her from breeding wolf-dog hybrids.
If you talk to the animals they will talk to you and you will know them. If you do not talk to them you will not know them and what you do not know you will fear. What one fears, one destroys.
—Chief Dan George
Prologue
1973
Moonlight scattered shadows across the narrow path as he thrashed his way through the ice-encrusted woods, but he was heedless of threat, knowing only that he had to get away. Had to. He wouldn’t go anywhere with Raymond McKenna again, wouldn’t call the man “Father,” no matter what Mom said. He would hide from them both until the imposter returned alone to Chicago, as he always did—to his real kids—hopefully for good this time.
He ran until his narrow chest burned.
Until sweat slicked his skin beneath the parka.
Until his legs pumped his boots right through the crust, landing him in nearly two feet of snow.
Sides heaving, he lay on his side and gasped for breath, then tried to get his bearings. Eyes wide, he gazed at the surrounding territory, foreign and forbidding. Skeletal trees loomed overhead, ice-cloaked limbs outstretched like bony arms waiting to entrap him. Masked between the trees, the hard-packed path he’d been following rose and dipped, twisted and turned, before disappearing altogether.
He’d managed to run right off it.
Aa-wooo…
The ghostly sound came out of nowhere—and everywhere—spurring him to get up. The cloying white powder devoured his legs with each step, only allowing him inches instead of feet. Should have taken his snowshoes, but then he wouldn’t have been able to go so fast.
How far?
He didn’t recognize a thing, had never actually been alone in the woods before. Mom was gonna kill him. If she found him. He swallowed hard. How many miles from the road? Might as well be a zillion as a couple.
His chest squeezed tighter.
He was lost…
Not that he wanted to go back. Not with him there. He wasn’t afraid, definitely not afraid. Only…he was starting to get cold. His teeth began to chatter and his skin pebbled against his damp clothes. Snow still enveloped his legs, and now a burst of wind slapped at his bare face.
What to do?
Find shelter…
Instinct drove him farther from the path, slowly, torturously, his goal a fallen, burned tree, a victim of lightning. The woods were closing in on him. Whispers creeping along his spine. The forest talking to him. Chiding him for being so foolish.
Maybe no one would ever find him.
Maybe he’d freeze to death.
That would show them!
A lump lodged in his throat as he reached for a stump and pulled himself free of the drift and onto a solid incline between two fat pines. Fumbling in his jacket pocket with a mittened hand, he found his Swiss Army knife and, awkwardly freeing the blade, began stripping branches. The fragrance of fresh pine soothed him as he covered the ground next to the log that was split and hollow at its core.
Shelter. A bed
A strange feeling came over him and his hair ruffed, standing straight on end. A sound that might have been imagined, that seemed to come from deep inside his head, made him whip around to check behind him.
“Wh-who’s there?”
From the shadowy forest slipped a menacing figure, little more than a silhouette against the luminous snow. A four-footed creature with shaggy black fur and glowing yellow eyes.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared.
A dog?
The nose was too prominent. The legs too long and thin. No dog he’d ever seen had eyes like that.
So, why wasn’t he afraid? And why was that other fear—the one of being alone and lost, maybe worse—fading?
He wasn’t alone anymore.
That knowledge was all that mattered. Renewed courage filling him, gaze steady on the mesmerizing yellow eyes, he hunkered down and held out his hand…
Chapter One
1998
Moon high, Donovan Wilde loped through the thick woods, his step light, landing whisper-quiet against the newly fallen snow. Heart racing, breath laving his face in frosty billows, he followed impulse alone.
Something was wrong.
The alarm was internal…gut instinct…prescience…call it what he might.
He knew.
Someone alien invaded his forest. A two-footed creature. A man.
But whom?
The same someone whose tracks he’d found several times over the past weeks? Tracks he didn’t recognize. Tracks that raised his suspicions like the hair on his scalp.
Aa-wooo…
The initial howl was followed by others, each a different pitch, as if the wolves were singing…harmonizing…when, in truth, they were sending coded messages to each other. To him. To anyone who cared to listen and to understand.
Donovan howled back.
Gradually, the urgency gripping him receded. The tightness in his chest relented and his muscles unfurled. His step slowing, he reconnoitered, assimilating and analyzing every nuance of his surroundings, not with the senses used by most people, but with a singular one inherited from a grandmother he’d never met. Or so the story went.
No perception of the other presence. Gone. His forest was safe once again.
But from whom? A hunter ignoring the postings? Or from some danger more sinister?
Aa-wooo…
Ar-ar-ar…
Ow-ow-wow…
Reaching the edge of a clearing, he stopped dead in his tracks and joined the chorus. Closed his eyes, raised his head and howled, then concentrated on the faint impressions rapidly gathering inside his mind.
Images wavering from side to side…a flash of trees…a glimpse of a rise…then a field of snow…
A shared vision drawing ever closer.
Flicking open his eyes and focusing them, Donovan quickly narrowed his gaze toward the other side of the clearing. A moment later, a familiar silhouette slipped out of the forest and stilled.
As did his very breath.
“OKAY, SO I SAY, ‘Hi, I’m a friend of your…a close friend of your son’s, and he up and took a powder on me.’ So old Dad raises his eyebrows and says—” she shifted into a deeper tone “‘—And what do you expect me to do about it, young lady? Retrieve him for you?’”
Laurel Newkirk felt a tad better rehearsing her spiel as she vainly searched for parking on a side street. That was the problem with the fancy neighborhoods on the near north side of Chicago, especially at night. Too many vehicles, too few empty spaces. She circled the block.
“Then what?” she wondered aloud.
What if he’d meant to disappear on her?
Laurel had sensed he hadn’t taken her hesitation lightly, even though he’d covered his emotions with a bright smile and an understanding nod. He would definitely have interpreted her asking for time to think about his proposal as a rejection. After all, he hadn’t called since. Laurel swallowed hard. Was she nuts, or what? A handsome, charming, intelligent man, dedicated to a cause she believes in, offers her the big, loving family she’s always longed for, and she has to think about it?
Oh, his proposal had been sooo tempting.
And yet…
As she turned the corner, car lights flicked on up the street. Her foot automatically slammed into the accelerator. She zoomed forward and came to a screeching halt inches from the other vehicle as it pulled away from the curb. The driver threw on the brakes and blared his horn at her. Properly chastised, she sank low in her seat and grimaced. The other driver took off; she waited until he’d turned the corner before claiming the space.
“Or what if I’m jumping the gun here, and I throw the man into a panic for nothing?” she muttered. “Maybe I should just say, ‘I’ve lost touch with your son and want to look him up. Do you know where I might find him?’”
But the polite inquiry sounded false, even to her own ears. If her interest was so casual, and all she’d wanted was an address, she could have called.
What if something had happened to him?
That was her real worry, the thing that had kept her up the past few nights, talking to her three dogs, seven cats and lone rabbit—foundlings, all—who’d had no choice but to listen. Just because she hadn’t agreed to marry Donovan right off didn’t mean she had no feelings for the man. Of course she cared about him. And fear for his safety had overcome her reluctance to seek out his father, a powerful U.S. congressman, who happened to be in town for the weekend.
“How about, ‘Sir, I’m sure it’s nothing,’” she mumbled as she danced along the icy sidewalk, “‘but I can’t seem to locate your son.’”
A hint of something possibly being wrong, but nothing too extreme. Yep, that was the ticket.
Still, she stood before the brick row house—where inviting golden light spilled from the first-floor windows—and shifted from one foot to the other while working up her nerve. No doubt, her initial instinct had been correct, and the rejection thing had driven Donovan away. While on the surface he’d appeared to be polished and together, underneath was a more complex story.
She knew all about facades.
From the first, she’d sensed Donovan was deeply troubled…maybe the very reason she’d been drawn to him…certainly the reason she hadn’t been able to commit herself. Always having to be the strong one made her long for a man with an even broader pair of shoulders. A guilty feeling at being too harsh edged her assessment of Donovan’s not quite fitting the bill. Yet, undoubtedly he’d gone back to his woods seeking solace. Her stomach coiled into a knot. She was probably going to look pretty foolish if she went through with this.
But appearing foolish came a poor second to abandoning someone in trouble, Laurel told herself with a sigh. And after all she’d been through, surviving a little humiliation would be a piece of cake.
Fixing her gaze on the high first-floor entrance door flanked by stern-looking stone lions, Laurel knew she’d just talked herself out of choices.
“JAMES MUST BE busting his buttons now that your time is so near,” Raymond McKenna told his niece, unable to keep the gruffness from his tone even when he tried. “That brother o’ mine always had to be first, no matter if he’s fathering or grandfathering a bairn.”
Enveloped from behind in her husband Tyler’s arms, Keelin smiled, her freckled face full and radiant as it had been during these last months of her pregnancy. She was due within the week, the reason Raymond had gathered the family together upon his return from D.C., so they could all celebrate the imminent birth of the first McKenna grand-child…even if its legal last name would be Leighton.
“Aye, Da does relish having the upper hand.” Keelin winked. “But there’s no shame in going him one better.”
Raymond laughed and glanced over at his daughter-in-law Rosalind, even bigger, if more than a month from her delivery date. “Two better.” He clucked to himself. “Another set of McKenna triplets.”
“Gran is surely pleased with herself at the mischief she wrought.”
“What’s that about our dear Moira?” Skelly asked, entering the parlor from the kitchen and heading straight for his wife. “I always miss everything.”
Eyeing the size of his daughter-in-law’s belly, Raymond said dryly, “Not everything, boyo.” Before he could go on, the bell jarred him. He frowned, immediately irritated at the thought of the pleasant evening with his family being interrupted. “Now, who could that be?”
Trailing behind her brother, Aileen asked, “Want me to get it, Dad?”
“You’ve done more than enough getting the dinner together, sweetheart.”
The bell sounded again, and Raymond stormed toward the front door, ready to chew off the intruder’s head. Who in the world dared disturb his first Friday night off in ages? He was in a fine temper when he threw open the door.
“What is it?”
The woman on the other side took a startled step back. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She stared at him, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.
“Will you be wasting my time then, woman?”
“I, uh…uh, you’re Congressman Raymond McKenna, right? I need to talk to you about something important.”
He couldn’t believe the chit was seeking a political favor tonight of all nights. “Out with it!”
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br /> She stared at him a moment more, as if she didn’t know what to make of him.
Or he of her, Raymond thought, eyeing her disheveled appearance.
“I’m looking for your son. He and I…well, we…um, he disappeared and I’m trying to find him,” she said in a rush, after which she let out a long breath.
He started. What had Skelly gotten himself into? He had a wife, the glorious woman who was bearing his child—three of them—and he’d had something to do with this one? What could that son of his have been thinking?
“Skelly,” he called in a deceptively calm tone, “can you be joining me for a moment?”
Not that he’d set a good example for anyone when it came to matters of the heart. But he’d hoped for better sense from his children.
Entering the foyer, Skelly asked, “What’s up?”
“Keep your voice down, boyo. Find out what your chit wants and be rid of her.”
He ignored the young woman’s shocked expression. What had she hoped for? An open-armed welcome?
“My what?” Sounding puzzled, Skelly glanced out the door. “What’s going on here?”
“You tell me,” she responded. “Who are you?”
“The man you came to find!” an exasperated Raymond nearly yelled as he felt the veins in his neck and forehead bulge. “My son!”
“Ah-h, you must be Skelly McKenna, the older brother,” the woman said, sounding appeased. “I’m Laurel Newkirk.” She switched her attention back to him. “You don’t understand, Mr…uh, Congressman McKenna. I didn’t mean him. I’m looking for your other son. Donovan. I thought maybe you could tell me where to find him.”
Raymond took a better look at her.
Long brown hair tangled around a set of ridiculous-looking earmuffs. Long legs encased in slim jeans, feet in hikers’ boots. And in between, a slender body dwarfed in an olive drab military-type jacket with half a dozen bulging pockets.
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