His fingers itched to get to charcoals and paper.
The performance ended, and the drums took up another rhythm. Logan began to dance the once-familiar steps, moving forward to merge into the crowd taking over the floor.
The dances continued, but he took a break to get a cup of red punch from the serving table.
“Amazing, isn’t it, how the dances come back?” Rudy appeared next to him. As he reached for a cup with one hand, he used the other to run a handkerchief over his face, mopping up rivulets of sweat.
Logan laughed because he was having fun. “I wasn’t sure I remembered that last one, but the memory does creep in again, doesn’t it?”
“By the spirits, we were so eager yet so awkward back then.”
“Trying to show off to the girls.”
“Oh yeah. Wanting to get in their panties.”
“Not many of us succeeded.”
“There was that, too.” Rudy laughed.
Of course, by then a girl’s panties, and certainly the pussy they hid, held no interest for Logan. The thought of the smell he might encounter there or licking their juices sickened him. He’d think about it, would talk with his buddies as if he wanted in the worst way to get into someone’s—he’d even name a girl—panties. But the idea of sinking his cock into a female held zilch appeal. Instead, he was surreptitiously surveying boys’ junk and butts big-time.
Chapter 5
Back in West Yellowstone, Blaze had left the classroom with a mind still stunned by the almost supernatural experience of seeing into the Indian’s heart. He might be a shifter, but he’d never had anything like that happen in his entire life. He wasn’t sure what it meant. Even later, after he’d left for a lesson on the shooting range, thoughts of Logan continued to occupy his thoughts. Which was a dangerous thing when you’re teaching someone how to handle a loaded gun, so as he stashed his shotgun and his semiautomatic in his gun locker at the range, he brought his thoughts back to the present. He left with his Magnum still holstered at his shoulder.
Andrew Jensen had purchased a series of private lessons, and when he arrived in the office for the first one, Blaze shook hands with a short man beginning to show signs of male-pattern baldness. He was a few years older than Blaze’s thirty-nine and seemed to be physically fit. As they walked to the outdoor range, Blaze went over the four safety rules of shooting with him and made sure he’d cleaned his gun that morning.
This was a new shooter, so Blaze watched Andrew show him the gun was unloaded before putting him through the paces of learning the correct grips and proper stances. They put on safety goggles and muffs to protect their hearing, and Blaze used Andrew’s gun to riddle a target’s outline of a heart and head to demonstrate what he’d just shown his student.
“It’s a nice gun. Pulls left just a bit, but you’ll learn to compensate for it.” He watched his student’s face brighten when it was at last his turn at the targets. He succeeded in hitting the target twice, but not on the outline of the man.
Blaze critiqued him and made suggestions, calling it quits for the day when the hour was up. “You did well for your first shoot. My fee includes two free half-hour sessions on the range on your own. I suggest you use them prior to our time together next week. Then we’ll shoot indoors. If you have any questions, you have my card.”
It was well into the lunch hour, and Blaze drove to a small market to buy Coors Light beer, Dr. Pepper, milk, bread, and some tins of salmon. He had stopped his cart in the canned fish aisles when an odd smell reached him. He scented, drawing in air through his nostrils as he pretended to study the cans on the shelf in front of him.
Wolf. It was unmistakable. There was an ugly, dark note to what his sensitive nose was picking up; he definitely smelled a wolf. Smelled an alpha, a pack leader.
Blaze gripped the handle of his cart to steady himself as he shut his eyes and concentrated on quelling the struggle of the alpha inside him to shift and attack. You only attacked another alpha if you wanted to take over leadership of its pack, something he had never had any interest in doing.
Gray wolves in the park woods sometimes crossed out of the park while still in the forest. Of course, animals didn’t know about boundaries, but the Lamar Valley was probably fifty miles on the other side of where he was, and as far as he knew, wolves had never been seen around or in this small town. Often a bison or sometimes an occasional moose or bear, plus several deer and elk had been seen here, but never a wolf. If one was here now, it was a first in the months he’d lived in West Yellowstone.
Either he’d find a wolf outside, or he was sniffing a shifter.
Depositing two of the large cans of red salmon in his basket, he stood still and waited. The smell grew stronger when a man at the other end of his aisle stepped up to the cashier and paid for a bottle, which Blaze recognized by the label as Jim Beam Original Bourbon Whiskey.
The man had black hair and was dressed in torn jeans that were too long and frayed along hems that touched the ground. Despite the warm day, he wore a winter jacket with a fleece collar. If he was wearing a weapon, it was concealed. When he turned to leave, his profile revealed a healed scar that sliced down his left cheek and onto his throat.
The man left the market, and the scent changed.
Shifter.
An involuntary shudder shook Blaze as his wolf settled down and relaxed. He lingered over his shopping to give the man a chance to leave the area. Apparently, he didn’t have the ability Blaze had to scent others like him. Thank God for that, he thought as he headed home.
The house he’d rented overlooked Lake Hebgen in West Yellowstone. Today the lake was a clear, deep blue under a cloudless Montana sky. Pulling up, Blaze parked in the carport that adjoined the house, retrieved the sacks of groceries from the trunk, and unlocked the door. He paused and looked around. No scent or sign of wolves, but a bison stood about a football field away in an open area not far from a fenced property.
As soon as Blaze was inside and had deposited the groceries on the kitchen counter, he called to report the bison to the division of the National Park Service responsible for managing the large mammals.
“He’s standing there all by his lonesome, but he’s not far from a small cattle ranch.”
“Thanks for the report. We’ll send a unit out right away to haul him back into the park. The ranchers get real upset that a bison might have brucellosis and infect their herd.”
Since moving here, Blaze had learned that the disease caused abortions and often sterility in cattle. An infected bull could infect a cow, and milk from that cow could pass it to humans, so it was a public health issue. He understood the fears of the cattlemen.
“Brucellosis hasn’t happened in these parts yet, but we’ll relocate the critter.”
“I don’t want the ranchers shooting the buffalo or him spooking their herds—brucellosis or not—so I appreciate you sending someone out.”
That responsibility behind him, he walked into what was really a third bedroom that had been set up as an office. There he unbuckled his holster and placed it with the revolver still in it on the table beside his computer.
In the bathroom, he washed his hands and face, toweling off while he thought about being here. Renting had been the best option until he was sure he wanted to live here permanently. For twenty years, he’d been on the move, leaving on an hour’s notice to places all over the world, growing restless when he wasn’t on an op. Although he’d thought he wanted to settle down in one place, now he sometimes felt antsy again. He’d catch himself thinking, Shouldn’t I be going somewhere?
He was still young. Despite his work at the range, maybe settling down wasn’t for him just yet.
Yet he loved the spectacular sweep of the rugged beauty of Yellowstone and enjoyed his work here. If he stayed, he hoped his job would expand to training new police officers and FBI agents in the surrounding states, where staffing was sparse.
This home came furnished, and he especially liked the overstuffed co
uch because it was large and long enough for a man his height to stretch out on and nap. It was also warm when the temperatures dropped to zero or below. If he bought the house, he’d need to add a garage. He’d concluded it would be better to have a garage instead of a carport come winter. He’d heard tales of heavy snow bringing carports down and cracking windshields.
Hell, his team had had assignments in Alaska when it was sixty below, but they’d been dressed for it and their vehicles were well insulated and built almost like tanks.
In the kitchen, he popped the lid on the can of Dr. Pepper and drank it down, enjoying the cold sweetness with its mixture of flavors. He’d been introduced to it while on a hostage rescue operation in Texas. His teammates had griped because they were out of Coke, but Blaze had discovered he liked Dr. Pepper better.
He spread butter and mayonnaise on four slices of white bread, slapped beef lunch meat and some sliced tomatoes between them. He polished off the two sandwiches in about eight bites. Then he ate four plums and drank a glass of milk. That would have to do until dinner. Glancing at his watch, he realized there was no time to sit and think now about whether or not he wanted to settle here. He had another student coming. Retrieving his holster and guns, he strapped them on, locked the house, and slid into his car again.
As he drove to Markell’s, he thought about the shifter he’d seen. If he was alpha of a Lamar Valley pack, why was he on this side of the park? There was a possibility he didn’t have a Yellowstone pack and was driving through to reach one in Utah or Nevada. Or maybe, like Blaze, he was a loner who had no interest in being involved in pack business.
Whatever the shifter was, there was that note to his scent…ugly. Dark.
By the time he’d wrapped things up with his final student for the day, it was the dinner hour. They’d used rifles for their time together because the man had scheduled a deer hunt and wanted to improve his aim.
As they were leaving the range, Blaze asked, “Are you feeling any better about your shooting? Did we shake off a little rust?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I agree. You’re doing much better. If you feel like another lesson, you have my number. Meanwhile, bag a deer this trip.”
They shook hands, and Blaze opened his senses again briefly—as he’d done with each student today—to be sure the man was human through and through and not a shifter. Like the all of the students today, he was human.
He retrieved his other guns from the range’s safe and carried them to his four-wheel-drive Subaru. There he closed the unloaded shotgun and stowed it and the Kel-Tec PMR-30 Magnum pistol in the trunk. Then he walked to the office and handed Tony Smith’s pretty young wife the classroom key.
“Shutting down for the day?”
“Yep. Stomach’s signaling it’s time for dinner.”
She laughed and hung the key on a rack behind the desk. “Kaye’s special is prime rib tonight. Personally, I don’t care for the bloodiness of it, but you could have it well done if that’s the way you like it.”
Blaze smiled. “The bloodier the better for me,” he said. Fact was, even in his human form, he could eat it raw. It wasn’t as tasty as elk, deer, or bison, but he liked it well enough. “Thanks for the tip. See you tomorrow.”
Blaze walked the few blocks to Kaye’s Korner Kafé. The air at seven thousand feet was always crisp and clean even on the warmer days, and Blaze needed the walk to lose some tension after having concentrated on the day of lessons. During the few minutes it took him to reach the eating place, he wondered if Logan lived here or was on vacation. The man’s quick mind and sense of humor appealed to him, and he’d like to know more about him. He looked forward to the appointment with him tomorrow.
What he tried not to concentrate on was the memory of the body that had so interested him. Keep your gaze and mind off his package and his ass, Instructor Canis. Hell, that was going to be the hardest thing of all.
As he was entering the café, Kaye, the owner, greeted him. “Hi, Blaze!”
She approached him with menus in her hand. Her welcome was warm and genuine. For some reason, the petite woman had taken him under her wing the minute they’d met. True, she was his mother’s age and thin, but not fit and trim like his mom. Her hair had been streaked professionally, and she wore it straight in the popular style of the day.
He slid an arm around her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. “How’s my favorite girl today?”
“Doin’ great. How about the world’s best sharpshooter?”
“Probably not the world’s best, but just good enough, thanks.” Of course, just good enough was never an option for a SEAL whose mission was to save a life and come back alive yourself.
“What’ll it be?” She extended a menu as she led him to a table, but he waved it away.
“The special and a cold Coors Light.”
“Range teaching’s over for the day?”
“Right. I prefer teaching during the day and rarely take night students.”
“And since Blaze Canis isn’t one to set a bad example by showing up to teach hunting with alcohol on his breath, he waits to drink until dinner,” Kay said.
For once, he let his smile take over his face. “Smart woman.”
“Oh, go on with you, you gorgeous guy.” She pushed his shoulder with the heel of her hand. “Sit down and have your dinner.”
The beer thing had grown out of a twenty-year habit of being in Special Forces. As soon as they’d been trained and were battle ready, the order came down from Command to limit themselves to two light beers a day on the off chance they were called out on an unexpected op. For some reason Blaze had never learned, army and navy counterterrorism teams drank Coors. If you were in the know on this, you could always spot a team if you were in a restaurant or bar when twenty or thirty guys came in and ordered it. Especially if they were noisy and swaggered with self-importance because—it was true—they had proved themselves to be the elite warriors among all those in the world.
He smiled to himself at the memory. They tended to be proud and cocky until they picked up their duffels for an operation. That was when they were suddenly all business. Their skills would be put to the test, and the motto “You Were Born to Excel—Permission Granted” would become a proven reality.
A young waiter dressed in khaki Dockers and a green golf shirt with Kaye’s Kafé embroidered on the pocket appeared at his table on the instant with water and table service in hand.
“Mr. Canis will have the special and a Coors Light, please, Marvin.”
Blaze thanked the server. He hadn’t seen the guy before, but figured the prompt service meant he’d been here long enough to hear about him or learn the names of all Kate’s regulars.
As he sipped his beer and waited for his prime rib dinner, he watched the monitor mounted on the wall above the bar. The local evening news was on, and he half watched as he drank and studied who was eating in Kaye’s tonight. No sign or scent, thank goodness, of the black-haired shifter from the market in here.
After he’d stuffed himself with the delicious meat, baked potato, carrots, and a large slice of homemade apple pie, he drove home. When he tried to relax, he realized he was not only too full, he was also disturbed by the encounter with the shifter and keyed up by the prospect of seeing Logan Rider again. In fact, the latter made him feel like a teenager again. Age, he guessed, had little to do with his dick wanting to turn into a cock. It was the same thrill all over again.
Adding a jacket against the chill settling into the night air, he left the house and walked.
In a few days, the moon would hang like a silver dollar in the sky, bathing this side of the earth with its soft, mystical light. Already Blaze could feel the tingling along his spine as his wolf anticipated changing. His thoughts turned to the black alpha he’d discovered in the market. Something was off there. He didn’t know what or why, but it made him edgy.
The question he tossed about in his mind was whether he should release his wolf and search
for a shifter pack led by a black alpha. By the time he’d finished his walk, he’d decided there was no reason to change. Whatever might come would come, and he would deal with it. It was an attitude ingrained in him as a SEAL.
He slept well and woke early.
Chapter 6
Blaze arrived for work dressed in a green muscle shirt because of the day’s warmth. His Wranglers weren’t quite as faded as those he’d worn for the class where he’d met Logan, but he wore the same boots because they were broken in and comfortable. His black leather belt was one of several he’d won in rifle competitions. Its gold-plated buckle with a rifle embossed on it indicated he was an expert sharpshooter and had won first place in the contest.
He had always looked forward to the competitions or requalifying in the navy. You shot at pop-up targets, first prone with your rifle supported, prone without support, kneeling, and standing. In twenty years, his scores hadn’t changed much. A marksman score barely qualified you as a rifleman. Sharpshooter scores were next, and expert sharpshooters scored highest. The saying was that a marksman brushed an enemy, sharpshooters injured them, but the experts killed them.
In the SEALs, those experts were called snipers. He’d been one of them.
He was at the counter chatting with Gary Johansen, the young man working the front desk, when Logan arrived in the late afternoon. One look at him and Blaze’s wolf swirled and pranced in his chest. He looked good to Blaze…too good. He wanted in the worst way to touch him in a far more significant way than a handshake.
God, what if he isn’t gay?
Logan had dressed more casually today in jeans, boots, and a tight shirt with short sleeves imprinted with a black-on-white drawing of a Native warrior on horseback. His broad chest and firm abs allowed the shirt design to display completely. He’d pulled his hair back again, but this afternoon it ended in a single braid following the line of his neck and spine. Right down to the cleft in his butt cheeks and the hole that could bring a man such rocketing pleasure.
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