Rebel's Claw

by Afton Locke

  They piled into Drew’s SUV to return to Los Lobos. Roark would spend another night at his cousin’s place near the mill, and then he’d be out of here. By tomorrow afternoon, he’d be home in Yellowstone. Maybe a miracle would happen so he could stay there and resurrect the Lamar pack.

  Not fucking likely, but a guy could hope.

  ***

  The next evening, buckets of rain slashed across the windshield of Roark’s moving truck. A rainstorm from the upper plains was no small matter. Water already filled the ditches and pooled across the road as he drove from Cody to the land outside Yellowstone National Park’s east end.

  Three families waited there for him to pack up their lives and transport them to Hellhole, South Dakota. At this rate, he’d never make it.

  “Crap!” he shouted as the vehicle hydroplaned and his right wheels veered into the ditch.

  The truck groaned, leaning at a crazy angle. Luckily, it was empty instead of packed full of stuff. Getting a tow truck, if he could even find one, would have to wait until morning.

  He flipped off the engine, tilted his head back, and exhaled. Why had he volunteered for this shit? Let the Tao pack hire professional movers if they were feeling so damn generous.

  Maybe the rain was a sign, telling the Lamar Canyon pack to stay put. Or get out. Regardless, he was tired from the long drive and hungry as hell. Should he shift and hunt up some dinner, or do it the human way? The flat land shimmered through the rain-soaked windows, telling him he was deep in cattle country. Better play human to avoid having his hide shot.

  A light winked in the distance. Without an umbrella or raincoat, he’d get completely drenched walking there. Should he skip dinner and try to sleep here instead? The moving blankets in back would make up for his thin clothes. He flipped on his cell phone. No signal. Since he needed a landline phone to call a tow truck, anyway, he might as well get the hike over with.

  Before he opened the door, he stared at the blackness outside as rain pounded on the truck’s metal roof. Jared had died on a rainy night like this.

  “What happened to you, man?” Even though he’d asked the question a million times in the past three years, he’d never gotten an answer. Maybe Lara was right. He had to let it go…eventually, but not while it still burned inside his heart.

  He flung open the metal door into the rain’s cold jaws.

  To reach the ranch house, he had to hop over a fence—carefully because the damn thing was electric. Rain penetrated his clothes and what felt like his flesh and bones. The temperature was one breath away from ice. He shivered so violently, he could barely move. If he didn’t shift soon, he might slip into hypothermia.

  As he drew closer to the house, he noticed it had two stories. The hulking black shape of a barn, along with some sheds and more fencing, stood in the distance. Even though he couldn’t see any cows, he smelled them. He was on a ranch, all right. A faded wooden sign reading Yellow Barrel Ranch confirmed it.

  A feeling of dread, which had nothing to do with the weather, washed over him. It was so bad he almost turned around and walked back to the disabled truck.

  Relax, dude. As long as he didn’t shift, he should be safe. Hopefully, he’d receive some hospitality.

  A click of metal pulled his gaze to an upstairs window, in a hurry. A gun—pointed at him! What the fuck? Fear ripped through him, almost hard enough to make him piss his pants. He wriggled his human fingers, willing his body not to shift.

  “You’ve got five seconds to get off this property.”

  The voice was so husky he couldn’t tell if it belonged to a woman or teenage male. The dim light in the room behind the person revealed a slender arm and long, honey-colored hair. A woman, then. A really bitchy one.

  Where was the man of the house? Or ranch hands, for that matter? If the woman ran the entire outfit herself, he didn’t blame her for having a gun. She probably knew how to use it, too.

  Keeping his eyes on the rifle, he slowly raised his hands. Shivers from the cold rain racked his body. Let her think it was fear.

  “I need help,” he called out to her. “My truck got stuck on the road.”

  The lone outdoor light glinted off the long barrel of the rifle.

  “You’ve got three seconds left before I blow your ass apart.”

  Carrie shivered from the cold air seeping through her bedroom window as she pulled the gun inside. To the relief of her hammering heart, the man walked away. Or stumbled, she should say.

  He looked pretty damn magnificent, too. Broad shoulders, rain-slick black hair pulled into a ponytail, and a square-jawed, tan face. He must be part Native American. No, she hadn’t noticed much.

  He didn’t act armed or aggressive. He’d shivered enough to go into hypothermia if he stayed out too long in this weather. Her heart accelerated. What if he died out there? The heavy rain reminded her too much of the awful night three years ago.

  After throwing one of her daddy’s thick shirts over her flannel nightgown, she raced downstairs, flipped the multiple locks on the front door then flung it open. She hung onto the rifle, though, just in case.

  “You, there,” she shouted into the rain. “Come on in.”

  He stopped and turned as if sniffing the air, reminding her of a wary animal. A wolf? She shivered. No, not one of those terrifying beasts. He was merely a man.

  He crossed the yard, climbed the rain-slick porch steps, and faced her at the doorway. He was even bigger and more handsome than she’d first thought. What if he planned to rape or kill her? Could she shoot him?

  “You look cold,” she told him. “Are you hungry?”

  “Hell, yeah.” His strong voice sliced like a whip through the quiet in her kitchen.

  “Then come in before I change my mind.”

  He eyed the rifle. “Lose the gun first.”

  For a few moments, they stared at each other as if willing the other to back down. A primal instinct she couldn’t explain told her he was safe. So, she leaned the rifle against the wall and stepped aside.

  Water dripped from his ponytail and his jean jacket, pooling on the wood floor. His big shoulders quaked as he continued to shiver. She fought the urge to rest her hands there to still them.

  “I-I’ll get you a towel.” Dang it. Her voice was hoarser than a frog’s.

  He also needed a change of dry clothes, but damn if she’d let someone else wear her late father’s things. She fetched two large towels from the linen closet and held them out to him.

  “One to dry off with, and one to, er, wear. I can throw your clothes in the dryer.”

  Instead of taking the towels, he shucked off his jean jacket and let it drop to the floor. Next, he worked on the buttons of his flannel shirt. The sight of firm, dusky pectorals sent a strange rush of heat through her.

  Good Lord. Did the man plan to strip naked right in front of her? She didn’t even know his name. His body looked whip-hard and strong. If he were a bull, he’d earn top dollar at the cattle auction. The heat hovering inside her arrowed to her abdomen, making her cotton panties damp and hot.

  She averted her gaze. “Kindly change in the bathroom. It’s down the hall there.”

  When he snatched the towels from her, she gasped.

  Amusement glittered in his black eyes. “Kind of jumpy, aren’t you?”

  Unease flickered down her spine as he strutted down the hall. The man’s cocky presence filled her home and took over as if he owned it. Exactly why she didn’t allow many men near the ranch. Why had she invited this one inside?

  Because he was a gorgeous hunk? She’d successfully kept her distance from too many handsome ranchers and cowboys to weaken now for no reason. She couldn’t explain her unusual attraction.

  And he looked familiar, as if he could be related to…. The face she’d seen in a flash of lightning would forever be engraved on her mind and soul. No, she refused to remember that night. But what if he’d arrived to investigate?

  She flipped on the oven and hurried to the ref
rigerator, removing two fresh homegrown steaks. He seemed the type of man who enjoyed meat and lots of it. How would his hard mouth taste after chewing rare sirloin?

  Since she’d committed to helping keep the stranger alive, she’d see it through. Come morning, she looked forward to sending him on his merry way. Maybe then, Yellow Barrel Ranch would return to normal.

  Her hand shook so much the spatula she held slipped out of it. She dropped so many things lately, it was a wonder the floor wasn’t pocked with more dent marks.

  Normal. Whatever that was anymore.

  Chapter Two

  Roark sat at the pine kitchen table, which was set with two plates and cups of coffee. At least Annie Oakley had leaned the damn rifle in the corner. What was her name, anyway? He felt pretty defenseless with nothing but a towel hooked around his waist.

  The dryer in the next room hummed with his wet clothes. He’d dried his hair a little with an electric dryer in the bathroom and created a half-assed ponytail with a rubber band. The steam from the steak and beans made his stomach grumble.

  “This looks damn good.” He picked up the fork and steak knife. Rare, exactly the way he liked it. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  “Didn’t have much choice in this weather.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Carrie.” She dropped her gaze to cut a piece of steak too small to keep a bird alive.

  First-name basis, huh? He was down with that.

  “Roark.”

  “Your clothes should be dry soon.”

  She wasn’t exactly a conversationalist, but he didn’t care. Most women yacked too much. The steak melted in his mouth, and the view across the table wasn’t bad either. Though hard to tell from the man-sized shirt she wore over her long granny nightgown, she had a sexy little body. Not skinny, like some emaciated model, but wiry and agile.

  Her straight, caramel-colored hair looked softer than silk. He’d love to feel it sliding across his dick one time.

  And her scent…. Holy buffalo crap. It grabbed him by the balls and didn’t let go. He’d never smelled anything so good. What was it? Apples ripening in the sun, running deer, and…what else…innocence?

  Your mate?

  Hell, no. He cast the thought from his mind. If he had a mate somewhere, it would be another Wolf. She sure as hell wouldn’t be a gun-toting rancher. The girl was hot, though, and it had been a while since he’d had a good fuck.

  Although he practically swallowed the steak whole, he noticed her quick glances at his bare chest. She shifted in her chair a lot, too. Steak and a lay. Not bad rewards for freezing his ass off in the rain and nearly getting shot.

  Except for the cow-motif curtains at the kitchen window, the house had a man’s feel and working-farm scent. At least it didn’t have wolf heads mounted on the wall like Tyler Brooks’s ranch. Lara had told him all about it when she’d gone after her mother’s killer.

  “Do you run this place by yourself?”

  She sipped some coffee, sloshing it over the rim of the cup. “Mostly.”

  “What does that mean?” And why was she so jumpy? She’d practically dropped the steaks on the way to the table.

  “I hire hands at roundup time,” she replied. “The ranch is small.”

  Still, how could such a little scrap of a woman handle running a cattle ranch herself? Ranch. He hated ranchers, so why was he sitting here making small talk with one? She wasn’t like the typical assholes he’d met, either. None smelled so good. Despite her solitary state, she’d taken a chance letting him in. Of course, she had no idea what he was, and he intended to keep it that way.

  “Where are you from, Roark?”

  He stared at her pink lips, liking the way his name sounded on them. She didn’t wear cosmetics and didn’t need them. Her eyes reminded him of loping through grass, feeling it swish against his paws. She would be even prettier if she smiled, though.

  “Around the park.”

  He sure wasn’t ready to say he was from Hellhole, South Dakota, yet. Besides, he’d been sworn to some big vow of secrecy. Whatever.

  “Yellowstone is nice.” She dabbed her sexy mouth with a cloth napkin. “Do you work there?”

  “Odd jobs,” he said with a shrug. “I’m supposed to move some people out of state. The moving truck ended up in the ditch.”

  Her hunched shoulders lowered a bit. Apparently, she believed he was just a strong, dumb truck driver passing through. No threat to her. They should discuss the weather or something safe because the more he asked about her, the more she’d ask about him. For some reason, he wanted to learn everything he could about her. He’d never met such a nervous rancher. She almost acted like she was hiding something.

  His gaze wandered over the kitchen, taking in the large and small boots under the masculine coats hanging on the wall. Beside the advertisements and reminder notes, her refrigerator sported a big photo of a stern-looking, gray-haired man in a cowboy hat. He looked old enough to be her father. Maybe she dug older men. Why wasn’t he here, whoever he was?

  “Who’s the guy on the fridge?”

  She dropped her fork. “What?”

  “Relax.” Without thinking, he gripped her slim, tanned wrist. “I was just curious about the photo.”

  Shutters slammed down in her green eyes but not before sadness darkened them. “My father.”

  Damn, her husky voice was sexy. With reluctance, he let go of her. What would her moans sound like? He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

  “Is he traveling?”

  She took a breath as if wondering whether or not to answer him. “He died a few years ago.”

  Then why hadn’t she removed his boots? It was as if she expected him to return. With a Wolf’s intuition, he viewed her life. Rising early every morning, making coffee, working until sundown, and dropping into bed each night, exhausted and alone. No wonder she didn’t smile much.

  How did she stand it? He couldn’t imagine not having a pack. That was what scared him so much about the number of Lamar who’d died, especially after losing Jared. What if he ended up alone, too?

  He polished off the steak and chewed thoughtfully. Their conversation was getting too heavy.

  “Sorry to hear about your loss.” He eyed the gun in the corner. “Nice rifle. Do you hunt?”

  “Sometimes, for food,” she said. “I love beef, but small game is a nice variety once in a while.”

  Maybe guns weren’t a safe subject, either, but he had to remember she was the enemy no matter how pretty and alone she was.

  He leaned back in his wooden chair, loving how solid and homey it felt. “You seem awfully attached to it.”

  “Daddy taught me to use it for protection, mostly.” She sipped her coffee. “You never know when you might stumble across a rattlesnake or—”

  “A wolf?”

  Her half-full cup clattered to the table, spilling hot coffee everywhere.

  “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry.” She rushed to the counter and carried two dish towels to the table.

  “No problem.” He swabbed the brown puddle flooding toward him before it could roll off and scald his balls. The chick definitely needed to be laid. “Ranchers shoot wolves. It’s a common fact.”

  She frowned as she helped wipe the spill. “Are you one of those wildlife fanatics?”

  He paused, catching himself before he revealed too much. “In a way.”

  “I take it you haven’t run a ranch before.” She tossed back a lock of hair as she wiped. “Wolves can wipe out cattle.”

  “Maybe a sick or young one. Not a whole herd.”

  “It doesn’t take a lot to nudge a small outfit into the red.” She turned and squeezed her dishtowel out in the sink. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in fear of losing your home?”

  “Yeah, I know all about it.” He tossed the other dishtowel onto the counter. “The moving van out there? I’m not just the driver. It’s personal.”

  She paused and fixed him with a curious gre
en stare. He clamped his lips together. The injustice of his friend’s death and slaughter of his pack burned inside him, but he had to keep it hidden.

  Apparently, the little rancher didn’t hunt wolves for sport. Watching her slim hips twitch while she rinsed out his dishtowel doused his anger.

  “I use wolf deterrents,” she said.

  “Really?” The surprise of it slammed him against the cabinets, almost knocking off his bath towel. “Isn’t it expensive?”

  She avoided his gaze. “Not too bad for a small ranch like this one.”

  “Good for you, Carrie.” He frowned. “So, why did you call me a wildlife fanatic earlier?”

  “No reason.” She returned to the table to clear the plates.

  Roark’s head ached with confusion as he helped her. What side was she on? If she didn’t dig saving wolves, why bother with nonlethal deterrents? Most ranchers didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything but their bottom line.

  Maybe the truck had broken down outside her place for a reason. And discovering she wasn’t a wolf killer had sent her from the tempting to the must-fuck-her-now category.

  After she delivered the last dirty dish to the counter, he gripped her shoulder. “You can’t stop there. You’ve got to convince your competitors to do the same.”

  She shrugged off his hand with surprising strength. “What I do is my own business.”

  “I get it.” He raised his hands. “You’re a recluse, but surely you bump into other ranchers in your business dealings.”

  “I believe your pants are dry by now.”

  “Do I need them?” His cock spoke for him. As usual, it had more sense than he did. Once he’d relaxed her with a good orgasm or two, she’d be more agreeable.

  “I don’t get your meaning.”

  After she left the room, he leaned against the counter. As he’d suspected, it would take a lot of time and patience to coax her into bed—more than he had. He needed to forget about the peculiar woman and do his duty, moving part of the pack to its new home in the Black Hills.