by Vonna Harper
His mouth still locked with hers, he let go of her arms only to press his hands over her thighs. His brain expanded, pushed against the inside of his skull, risked exploding. Shaking off the possibility of that happening, he clung to the belief that she was his. When, where, and how he wanted.
Images formed and faded behind his nearly closed lids. He saw a wolf running along the top of a ridge with a dying sunset all around and small animals flattened against the ground so, hopefully, the predator wouldn’t see them.
Something waited for the wolf, a shadow among shadows.
“No! Damn it, no.”
Cat had again turned her head to the side and was trying to push him away. The image in his mind faded, yet enough remained to stir the question of its meaning and what it had to do with him. She drew back her hands, then struck his chest with both fists.
“Now!” she commanded.
Despite the distracting pain, he fought to keep the mind-scene with him. The shadow belonged to another wolf. Huge. Fangs bared, it faced the first one. A single howl drifted through him.
“Matt? Matt, are you listening?”
Whether it was her question or another blow that got his attention didn’t matter. Straightening, he stared at her. She was nothing like the wolves he’s just seen. The predators had nothing to do with this moment.
“What?” he managed.
Instead of answering, she reached behind her and turned the handle, practically falling out as the door opened. She got her weight under her and stumbled back when he joined her. Still confused about what had happened, he rammed his hands into his back pockets to let her know he had no intention of touching her again.
He didn’t, did he?
“I don’t want to talk about this,” she told him. “Right now I don’t want to hear your excuse, if you have one. Excuse?” She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “No, it isn’t that, is it? Something . . .”
The horses were impatient to be let out. Cat and he should end this stare-down and tend to them. Instead, he continued to study her. Everything from her bruised lips to her lack of a bra, even the sweat on her throat was his doing. From the night they’d met, he’d felt things for her he hadn’t known he was capable of. Things he’d always refused to examine.
“Matt?”
“What?” Instead of telling him to go to hell, which she must believe she had a right to do, she was still speaking to him.
“I want to see the pictures once they’re uploaded.” She extended a slow, maybe hesitant hand toward him and touched his middle.
The prints. “No, you don’t.”
“I saw the real thing. How can photographs be any worse?”
How little she knew. “Don’t ask.”
Confusion and perhaps compassion spread over her. “Everything feels as if it’s breaking apart today. Somehow I’m going to put it back together and get some answers. The thing is, I don’t see how I can do that without your help. Are you willing, Matt? Are you?”
Was he capable? “The horses.” He started toward the rear of the trailer. “They need out.”
He didn’t hear her footsteps, but somehow she was there, ready to step into the trailer as he unhooked the latch.
“Talk to me.” She planted her hand over his. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said, when the truth was, he couldn’t see past the darkness still clinging to him.
She backed away, looking at the ground as if expecting something from it. “We’re not getting anywhere. I’m going home. The next move’s up to you, maybe.”
Good thing she added maybe to her comment, Cat thought as she pulled into her driveway with the empty trailer rattling behind her. She’d done a fairly good job of shutting down her mind during the ride home, but now it was waking up, as was her body. After parking beside her six-stall barn, she got out. Hungry whinnying served as a reminder that she was late in feeding her horses. Her own stomach growled, but that would have to wait, because the critters that paid the bills came first.
But not so first that she was oblivious to her body, she admitted as she headed for the hay stacked under a lean-to. One hand went to her mouth, and she ran a rough nail over her lower lip where Matt’s impact remained. She hadn’t expected him to kiss her. Given everything that had happened since they’d had sex earlier today, she’d believed making out would be the last thing on his mind.
Making out? It had hardly been that; more like an attack.
And not just a bruising kiss, she acknowledged as she took wire cutters to the wire around the closest bale. There’d also been a matter of him backing her against the truck door and holding her in place.
Rough foreplay. If she wanted to evade the truth, she might be able to get away with calling it that. Unfortunately, foreplay was a lie.
Something had come over Matt. Whatever that something was had made him believe he had the right to manhandle her. He’d plowed over manners and civilized behavior. She could buy that he’d been reacting to finding one of his calves torn apart, but did that really explain things? Wouldn’t most men punch something, curse, maybe blast away in the direction the killers had gone?
Most wouldn’t jump the bones of the only member of the opposite sex within jumping distance. Not that he’d accomplished the act.
Shaking her head, she concentrated on the horses. Things were set up so they could go in and out of the barn as they wanted. Come night, she’d lock most of them in individual stalls for security. When she’d showed up, they’d all been out in the two-acre pasture adjacent to the barn with their heads over the top railing and staring at the road, waiting for her.
Now all were bunched where she always dropped their hay. “I’m working as fast as I can,” she informed them, and heaved hay over the top rail. Her breasts jumped.
Why’d you do that to my bra, Matt?
She quick-stepped back to the lean-to and got another pitchfork full of hay. There probably was a more efficient way to handle feeding time, but the manual labor kept her in pretty good physical condition.
She’d never match his strength, she admitted, and threw the horses another pile. If he wanted to rape her, she wouldn’t be able to stop him.
Could it come to that? she pondered when she stepped into the shower a half hour later. Despite their sex’s frenzied quality, until today she’d believed she had nothing to fear from the man. Now she didn’t know.
Lukewarm water slid over her hair and back, freeing her thoughts. Today aside, her relationship with Matt had been everything she’d ever wanted from a man physically. His body was hot; he was hot. A look, a touch from him and she was off and running.
Shampooing her long hair was no one-minute task. Sometimes she wondered why she didn’t simply chop it off. But her folks had insisted on keeping her hair short and stylish throughout her childhood, and hardheaded or not, she’d be damned if she’d follow the path they’d tried to lay down.
Enough with my parents, she ordered as she began rinsing. They were—where were they now anyway?—doing their selfabsorbed thing. They certainly weren’t worrying about her.
So if any worry was needed, it was up to her to do it.
Matt. Body carved from an unforgiving land and never-ending work. Eyes that hinted of things unsaid. A cock made for wrapping more than just her pussy around.
Straightening, she backed away a little so the spray struck her breasts. Lifting one and then the other, she watched the water attack them. Matt wasn’t gentle with her, never had been. No kid gloves. Crazy determined to match his frenzy, she approached his body as if it were a prairie-wild bronc. She clung to his cock. Sometimes she planted it in her mouth and raked her teeth over sweet steel and satin.
Mostly she took it into her starving, impatient core.
Groaning, she braced her back against the small shower stall and slipped a hand between her legs. He hadn’t worn a condom today. For the first time, it had been skin against skin between them. Wonderful. Memor
able.
Breaking the rules.
Damn him.
Her eyes closed. The sound of running water became everything, that and the fingers gliding over flesh that jumped and wept with every touch and thought.
Decision time. She could either set out a list of rules of behavior for Matt to adhere to from this moment on or leap into the unknown and embrace whatever happened next. Maybe die happy.
What about the wolves? Where did they fit into all this?
Wolves. Sex doggy style. Mating simply to reproduce, unlike humans who came together for pleasure and sometimes a sense of belonging.
Bombarded by the reality of how little she and Matt shared, she didn’t fight her tears. Lonely and a little scared, she splayed her legs, tilted her pelvis upward, and worked two fingers deep inside. Her thumb unerringly found her clit, stimulating it and turning her stupid. Surrounding her in pressure followed by the harsh, wonderful climb to the top.
Her nerves twanged, her sex muscles gripped, and as her hard climax rocked her, more tears fell.
“I’ll be back early next week,” Addie said. “Maybe as soon as Sunday.”
Now that the calls to Fish and Wildlife and his fellow ranchers were behind him, Matt had been looking forward to a cold beer and the evening news, which was something he seldom had time for. Although the beer was in his hand, Addie’s call had changed any hope he’d had of being able to put the day behind him. Sooner or later, Addie needed to know what had happened.
“You sound eager to get back,” he told the woman who’d slowly and lovingly shown a confused and angry teenager the meaning of trust. “The last time we talked, you were excited about all the places your sister was taking you.”
“Was I? Now I’m just exhausted and getting broke. Carole’s a shopaholic. I don’t get it. What’s the excitement in collecting stuff?”
Addie sounded like what she was, a farmwife accustomed to putting the land and the livestock’s needs before hers. To her way of thinking, buying for the sake of buying was flat-out insane. She’d told him that she and Carole had had several good conversations that helped bridge some of the gaps caused by lives that had gone in different directions since childhood. But Carole kept pushing her to hold back nothing about Santo’s death. According to Carole, the only way Addie was going to get over her husband’s death was by talking and then talking some more.
Addie didn’t want to talk about burying the man she’d loved more than she’d known it was possible to love. Her grief was hers and hers alone, part of the memories of a solid marriage.
“Carole didn’t know Santo more than superficially,” Addie said, her voice thick with tears. “You did. When and if I feel like letting down my hair, I want it to be with someone who doesn’t need a picture painted. So, anyway, if I show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, you’ll know why.”
“It’s your doorstep more than it is mine,” he said. He stared out the kitchen window with its view of where he’d been today. He, Beale, Cat, a dead calf, and wolf prints.
“Let’s not get into that, Matt. There’s more of your blood and sweat in the land than mine.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Upending the can, he swallowed. “I figure it’s pretty equal.” He didn’t need to mention how much blood Santo had shed. “I’ve been taking care of your garden. The refrigerator’s full.”
“I’m sure it is. Matt, is there anything I should know about?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Have you forgotten we live under the same roof? Something’s going on, right?”
“We’ll talk when you get back.”
“I thought so. I can always tell when something’s on your mind.”
He couldn’t argue with that, he allowed as he hung up, but there was no way Addie could guess what he was thinking about tonight. Although he didn’t want to, he again stared out the window. From this distance, the hills he knew as well as the back of his hand and yet didn’t looked hazy. He’d never told anyone—hell, he’d barely admitted it to himself—but they’d always made him feel uneasy, not nearly as uncomfortable as the last time he’d gone to where his father was living.
He was a grown man, he reminded himself whenever unease about his surroundings caught him unawares. There was no such thing as a bogeyman, no evil spirits, nothing waiting to jump out at him from the shadows.
Opening the refrigerator, he reached for another beer, his limit because he never knew when he might have to make a decision or jump into action. Logic said his present tension was a result of thinking about where they’d found Santo’s body, a place not far from where the calf’s life had ended.
Santo and a calf were dead. He couldn’t do anything about that, so why the hell was he letting himself get tied into a knot? Better to think of something pleasant, something that spoke to the man in him.
Cat.
Who, after what he’d done to her, might want nothing to do with him.
5
He was naked with a jacket slung over his shoulder. Cold misted his breath and chilled his bare feet. It was night, moonless, and yet he could see. What he was doing here briefly concerned him. Then a wind kicked up, and he stopped thinking about anything except jamming his arms into the too-small jacket. When he shrugged, trying to make the jacket fit, the garment ripped down the back, but that was all right because he now wore boots.
Nothing but boots.
And a knife belted to his waist.
For a moment he thought the night had started breathing, then realized the sound was coming from just beyond what little he could see.
“Who is it?” He wasn’t sure whether he’d spoken aloud or had thought the question. “What are you doing here?”
No one answered, and he acknowledged that he hadn’t expected anything. Grateful for the weapon, he pulled it out of the sheath. It started out being heavy only to lose weight until it felt as if he were holding on to feathers.
Looking down, he saw blood dripping off the ends of his fingers. Fear bit at him, only to fade. Now he didn’t know what he was feeling, maybe nothing. Maybe impatience because he suspected something was going to happen and he, by damn, deserved to know what it was.
Why? It wasn’t as if he knew what to do.
Morning bloomed around him. The sunrise wasn’t perfect; it left shadows here and there, but he was in the hills at the east end of his property. No, that was wrong, because the ones he was looking at weren’t smooth and rolling with plenty of grass but liberally shot with sharp rocks and a steep peak only a mountain climber would attempt.
As he studied the peak, it melted a little so it no longer looked so formidable. At the same time, it gave birth to other mountains until they surrounded him. Interesting, he thought. A moment later, interest turned into tension and shivers down his naked back. Wiggling his toes reassured him that his boots hadn’t deserted him. He wasn’t sure about socks. Who needed a coat when it was so hot?
Hot? Hadn’t it just been cold?
Shrugging off weather concerns, he did what he’d been putting off since night deserted the scene. These weren’t morning shadows painting the sides of the mountains away from the sun after all. Instead, he was looking at cave after cave. Some were barely pinpricks. A few appeared perfect for a she-wolf looking for a place to give birth. The closest sported a narrow opening and beyond that a large, well-lit room complete with some of the furniture he’d seen at Cat’s place.
Cat. Was she part of whatever the hell this was?
As if answering his question, feminine fingers stroked his cock. A hand gathered up his balls and held them as if they were precious.
Was this Cat? The woman he’d once thought he knew had always grabbed his sex as if determined to wring every bit of cum out of him. Feeding off her, he did the same, lightly twisting her nipples and slapping her mons. Then he rammed a knee between her legs and lifted, forcing her to ride him.
“You can’t answer your question about who has hold of your cock
and balls, can you?” Cat’s voice asked. “Wanna know why?”
“Yeah.”
“Because you don’t know me. Hell, you never asked where I came from or why I wound up here.”
Loving the feel of her hands on his most important organ, he prayed she’d keep the touch light. Otherwise, he’d go off.
“You’re not the only one with dark places in their background.” He didn’t know where the words were coming from, surely not his mind. “What the hell do you know about me?”
Releasing his cock and balls, she threw herself at him, nearly knocking him off his boots. Funny how he could feel arms, legs, breasts, and belly and yet not see her.
“Isn’t that a pisser,” she said. “Strangers fucking each other’s brains out. Going at it like rabbits.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and hauled on it until he was forced to bend toward her. Somehow her legs were around his waist with her damp, hot sex plastered to his middle. We can’t fuck like this, he wanted to tell her, but her mouth clamped onto his and he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
Seriously, couldn’t breathe.
His head began pounding, and his lungs burned. Something had plugged his nostrils. No matter how desperately he fought to wrench his head to the side so he could open his mouth, nothing happened.
Light-headed, he struggled to keep his legs under him, but her body was becoming heavier. They’d melted together, would go down together.
He swayed forward and back, forward again. Then just as his knees started to buckle, the weight was gone. Feminine arms no longer gripped his neck. Most telling, the sex moisture she’d smeared over his belly started to dry.
Gone. Lost. Nothing left behind except the few words she’d spoken.
She was right. They were strangers.
Thinking—if it could be called that—that the dream had come to an end, he ran his hands over his waist to discover that the knife no longer existed.
Cold returned. Alert and more alarmed than he wanted to admit, he looked around. His attention settled on the cave that had had Cat’s furniture in it. Now only her bed remained.