Bride of the Wolf

Heath felt the fragility of the wriggling form beneath the blanket and thought of the future he had planned. He couldn’t just ride aimlessly into the plains with a baby tied to his saddle.

He would know better what to do when he was away from this place and out on the range where he belonged. Where he’d always belonged.

Polly tossed the carpetbag on the stained rug. “You’d better git. I heard Will Bradley thinks you cheated him at poker last time you was here, and I’m sure you don’t want no trouble.” She put up her hand to give Heath a shove, then thought better of it. “Mind you do right by him, Renshaw. If we find out any hurt has come to—”

Heath looked hard into her eyes, and she drew back. “Forget you ever saw him—or me.”

Her throat bobbed. Someone gave a raucous laugh, and a drunken cowhand, leaning on a skinny whore’s shoulder, staggered past the open doorway. Polly rushed out the door and closed it behind her. The baby opened its blue eyes and seemed to look at Heath with a kind of yearning. As if it knew …

With a curse too profane even for the most jaded harlot, Heath transferred the baby into the crook of one arm and picked up the carpetbag. He walked out of the room and left by the back stairs. They creaked under his boots, laughing at him all the way down.

It wasn’t easy to figure out how to carry the kid. In the end he rigged up a sling out of one of the well-worn blankets, tying it around his neck so the small, warm bundle was cradled against his chest. Apache snorted in surprise and craned his head around to stare.

“I don’t need no lip from you,” Heath muttered, reining the gelding away from the bordello. The baby yawned, showing naked pink gums, and Heath’s stomach dropped to the soles of his boots. It was so damn alien. He could kill it without even meaning to.

That day was just about the longest of Heath’s life. He managed thirty miles by dawn, using his night vision to steer Apache along a path over the rough terrain of the desert. Just after dawn the kid started to cry, and it didn’t take Heath long to realize that he wasn’t saying he was hungry. Heath used one of the other diapers and water from his canteen to clean the baby as best he could, fumbling with fingers made clumsy with uncertainty. Then he found the bottle, filled it from the small flask of milk and stuck the Indian-rubber teat near the baby’s lips. It only yelled louder.

Patience was a virtue Heath had learned in long years of running from the law, but it did him no good now. The baby wouldn’t take the teat. It was pretty clear that nothing Heath did was going to make it suckle, so he mounted up again and kept on going. The kid was strong. It was loup-garou. It would eat when it was hungry.

But he knew there was something wrong when he was forty miles from Javelina and it still wouldn’t take the bottle. Its cries got soft, like the whimper of a pup, and it didn’t look so pink anymore.

The slow panic Heath had felt only a few times in his life welled up like foul water. There wasn’t much of anything between here and Javelina. Dog Creek was ten miles to the north.

There weren’t any women there now, unless the Lyndon female had come in on the stage while he was gone. He hadn’t figured he would be around to see the spectacle, but instinct told him to run for the only place he’d ever thought of as home.

Instinct had a way of getting him in trouble almost as much as his human heart. The wolf wasn’t always right. But he could get the kid proper shelter and a bed at Dog Creek. Even if Jed had already been found, Heath didn’t see that he had any choice. He would find himself a wet nurse to look after the boy until he was well again, even if he had to drag some female to the ranch kicking and screaming.

RACHEL LYNDON STOOD at the door of the small general store, watching the dust rise from the street as a heavily laden wagon rolled by. The aged woman crossing the single main street hardly seemed to notice. She brushed absently at the sleeve of her drab dress, her gaze fixed on the faded sign of the tavern next to the store.

She was the only other woman Rachel had seen. It was a rough place, Javelina. A world away from Ohio. A world dominated by the plain, hardy folk of West Texas, a country with far more cattle than people.

Or so Rachel had read. Yet not all the reading in the world could have prepared her for this.

I will have a home, she thought. A home, and a husband who would be steady and respectable and would care nothing about her former life.

But she was still afraid. Afraid of the horses that seemed to be everywhere, snorting and stamping. Afraid of the riders who stared at her as if she were a rare and exotic beast in a cage—she, who was as plain as a sparrow.

She straightened and lifted her chin. Let them stare. They would never see her nervousness. She had as much right to be here as anyone.

Mrs. Jedediah McCarrick. Ellie Lyndon would cease to exist, along with her past. No more loneliness. No more taking any employment she could find, hoping that she might at last outrun the scandal. The end of wondering where her next meal would come from. Of fearing to get close to any man, lest he turn his back on her.

Lest he be like Louis.

She shook off the thought. Here she could be useful. Here she would never be tempted to return to what she had become.

Here she could forget.

A cowhand tipped his hat as he rode by. She nodded, unsmiling. A spotted hound wandered past the door, wagging its tail. She offered a pat. Dogs had always been kind to her. Forgiving.

The sun sank a little lower, driving long shadows before it. She had sent a letter to Jedediah informing him of the anticipated date of her arrival, but the stagecoach had been late. Apparently he had decided not to wait in town all day.

Lamps were lit inside the houses and public buildings, such as they were. The saloon door swung open, and a pair of inebriated men staggered out, singing off-key. Rachel hugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

Everything had gone so well until now—at least compared to the rest of her life. She’d advertised in the Matrimonial News, only half daring to hope that some respectable man from a place far away from Sheffield, Ohio, might respond. I am a single woman, aged twenty-eight, dark haired and with brown eyes, five feet four inches tall and slender, seeking correspondence with an honorable man of some means. Hardworking, excellent housekeeper, experienced in teaching and good with children.

Jedediah McCarrick had been the fourth to answer. His reply had been the best that could be hoped for: Dear Miss Lyndon, I am a gentleman of fifty-two years, height five feet ten inches. I own a ranch in Texas and am seeking a wife who will work hard to make Dog Creek a going concern.

There was nothing the least romantic in it. Why should there be, when there had been nothing the least romantic in her advertisement? Indeed, he met her needs perfectly. He owned property, so she would never be without food or shelter; he would not be a doddering old man at fifty-two, and he wanted exactly what she could provide.

And he had said nothing about wanting children of his own.

The wind, so warm during the day, had grown cooler. So much hope rested on this meeting. Hope she had not dared allow herself for so long.

“Fräulein?”

The owner of the store, a small, wiry German with a sharp, friendly smile, bustled up beside her and introduced himself. “I could not help but notice that you are still waiting, Fräulein Lyndon,” he said with what appeared to be genuine concern. “Wouldn’t you like to come in? I have coffee, and it is much more comfortable inside.”

Rachel summoned a smile, warmed by the offer in spite of her wariness. Perhaps people really were different here.

“That is kind of you, Mr. Sonntag,” she said, “but I prefer to remain here.”

Mr. Sonntag gave her a long, quizzical look. “You are a relative of Herr McCarrick’s, Fräulein?”

Her throat tightened. “Yes. I am.”

He waited for further revelations. When none were forthcoming, he nodded briskly and vanished into the store.

So no one knew. Surely if anyone in Javelina had guessed her purpose in coming, the owner of one of the town’s few businesses would be aware of it.

But she had not really deceived him; she would be Jed McCarrick’s relative in a matter of days, if not sooner.

Mrs. Jedediah McCarrick.

The thought kept her from panic as another hour passed, and then another. She grew colder. Something must have kept Mr. McCarrick. Perhaps his wagon had broken down or there had been some emergency at the ranch.

The noise from the saloon increased. Rachel picked up her bag. Perhaps it would be best if she went inside rather than make a spectacle of herself, or become an object of derision. She turned to open the door.

The rattle of wheels stopped her. A wagon—a buckboard, they called it—had drawn up in front of the store. The lean, dusty man on the bare plank seat touched the brim of his hat as he settled the horses.

“You Miss Lyndon?” he asked.

Relief nearly choked her reply. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”

The man’s face clouded. “Well, ma’am, it’s like this. Jed ain’t coming.”

She barely registered the words. “I beg your pardon?”

There was no mistaking the man’s discomfort. He squirmed on the seat and cleared his throat.

“Jed sent me,” he said, “to tell you that he’s changed his mind.” He felt inside his coat and produced a leather pouch. “Jed said to give you this, for fare back to Ohio and a little extra for your trouble.”

Rachel had never swooned in her life, but the weakness in her legs was such that she feared she might not keep her feet. “There must be some mistake,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The man held out the pouch. Rachel raised her hands as if she could ward off disaster before it could truly become real.

Changed his mind. It was not possible.

“I do not believe it,” she said, finding her courage again.

The messenger let his hand fall. “I only know what he told me. If you’d only—”

“I wish to be taken to Dog Creek.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.”

Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps she would only face further humiliation and the extinction of her last hopes. But she could not go running back to Ohio with her tail between her legs. Not without being absolutely certain.

“If you will not take me,” she said, “I shall find another way.”

The man’s expression of embarrassment underwent a rapid transformation. He scowled and pushed the pouch back under his coat.

“You’re making a mistake, ma’am,” he said. With a curse and a flick of the reins, he sent his horses off at a fast clip. Rachel began to tremble. She had convinced the messenger of her sincerity, but the effort had taken its toll. She felt breathless and weak.

But the decision had been made. She could not afford to return to Ohio now, even had she wished to. This had become a matter of survival.

Taking a firm grip on her bag, she went into the store. Mr. Sonntag offered to find someone to drive her to Dog Creek in the morning.

“You can stay here, Fräulein Lyndon,” he said. “I have several rooms in the back. It is the nearest thing we have to a hotel. No one will trouble you.”

Rachel was prepared to refuse. She had no money to repay such unexpected kindness. But in the end she agreed because she could not imagine spending the night on the street like a woman of ill repute.

Are you any better? she asked herself as she settled in the small, plain room Herr Sonntag had assigned to her.

She was. She must be. And Jedediah McCarrick would make it possible.

RACHEL WOKE EARLY the next morning. Mr. Sonntag insisted that she share his breakfast of bread and jam, and she was too hungry to refuse. A few hours later a man from the livery stable arrived with a wagon, and Rachel took out a few of her remaining coins, hoping they would be enough.

“It’s not necessary,” the grizzled driver said. “Sonntag arranged it.”

Rachel hurried back into the store to thank the German, but he’d gone out on some business. She resolved that she would pay him back as soon as she was in a position to do so.

The driver, Mr. Sweet, was not inclined to conversation, and Rachel had no desire to reveal herself to a stranger. She concentrated on absorbing the landscape. Beyond the tiny patch of green that marked the spring near which Javelina was situated, this was a stark, unforgiving world, in every way unlike the East. Rachel knew if she allowed herself, she would be very much afraid.

This will be my home. I will learn to love it.

The ride was long and dusty and hot. The road, if such it could be called, was rutted and hard. There was little shade, but the driver seemed to find it whenever there was a need to rest the horses. They passed over dry streambeds and rocky hills, and expanses of brown, hardy grasses.

The landscape changed abruptly as they drew alongside a strip of low green trees and shrubs that marked a rare watercourse. Sweet drove the wagon through the scrub and under a handsome live oak to the bank, where he let the horses drink from the clear, bubbling stream.

“Where are we now?” Rachel asked, breathing in the crisp, welcome scent of water and growing things.

“On the border of Blackwater, the Blackwell ranch,” Sweet said. He waved his hand at the opposite bank. “They own all the land to the north of Dog Creek. We’re only about five miles from Dog Creek Ranch.”

“Then we’re nearly there.”

“Hardly, ma’am. We got another fifteen miles past the border before we get to the house. There’s a good place along the creek about seven miles east of here where we can stay the night.”

The prospect of spending the night alone in the wilderness with a stranger did nothing to salve Rachel’s worries, but she forgot her concern when she saw a rider approaching from the opposite bank. Even from a distance she could see that he was not like the driver, or the man who had come to tell her that McCarrick had “changed his mind.” He rode erect, and his clothing was of a better cut and far cleaner. A gentleman, she thought.

The rider guided his horse down the bank and crossed the stream, the water splashing at his horse’s knees. “Mr. McCarrick,” Sweet said as the stranger stopped before them.

Rachel’s heart bounced beneath her ribs. She stared up at the rider’s blue eyes, long blond hair and tanned, handsome face. He was much too young and too tall. But his name …

“Good day, ma’am,” the rider said, touching the brim of his hat and smiling down at Rachel with bright curiosity. His voice was smooth, a pleasant tenor that bore an accent more evocative of the East than the Texas drawl Rachel had been hearing since her arrival. For just a moment it reminded her of Louis, and she stiffened.

“This here’s Miss Rachel Lyndon,” Sweet said before Rachel could respond. “She came in on the stage yesterday.”

Something flickered across the rider’s face, an emotion too quickly gone to grasp. “I’m Sean McCarrick, Miss Lyndon. Jed’s nephew. I was just on my way to meet you.”

A great wave of relief threatened to wash the starch out of Rachel’s spine. She offered her hand. “Good day, Mr. McCarrick. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He took her hand in his and bent over the saddle to kiss the air above it. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Lyndon. We’d heard that the stage was delayed and wasn’t expected until this evening.”

Of course. That explained everything. Everything but the man who had tried to send her away.

“I understand completely, Mr. McCarrick,” she said.

“Sean, please.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated, afraid to push too much. “Is Mr. McCarrick indisposed?”

Sean McCarrick shifted his weight in the saddle. “No, ma’am. He’s away from the ranch at the moment and asked me to watch out for you.”

Away from the ranch? “I see,” she said, suppressing a new spark of panic. “Can you tell me when he’ll be returning?”

“He’s up north on business that couldn’t wait. I expect him anytime now.” Sean McCarrick gazed at her with concern. “I’m sorry for the disappointment, but I know Jed will be happy to have Sonntag put you up in town until he comes back.”

Rachel’s unease blossomed into terror. The man who’d try to buy her off had been correct. Jed didn’t want her. He’d sent his gentlemanly nephew to approach her in a subtler fashion, but the result would be the same. She would wait and wait in town until it became clear that Jed was never coming back. Not for her.

Once upon a time, fear and humiliation would have sent her scurrying in retreat. But she’d come too far. Anger bubbled up from some long-quiet source inside her heart.

“I wonder if you might tell me who came to meet me yesterday evening,” she said abruptly.

Because she’d learned to watch people’s faces, Rachel caught the almost imperceptible flash of dismay in Sean’s expression before it transformed into puzzlement. “Someone came to meet you?” he asked.

“Yes. A man who said that Mr. McCarrick had changed his mind and wished me to return to Ohio. He offered me money to leave Javelina.”

Sean frowned. “What did this man look like?”

She began to think more clearly. “Lean of frame, of average height, brown hair. He did not give his name.”

Sean’s frown deepened. “That description fits any one of a dozen men around this part of the Pecos.” He drummed his fingers on his saddle horn. “What exactly did he say?”

In brief, concise sentences, Rachel told him. “Who could want to do such a thing?” she asked, watching for any telltale slip in his demeanor.

There was none. He looked out across the desert plain, the muscles beneath his jaw flexing and relaxing. “I can think of only one man who would want you gone,” he said. “The foreman at Dog Creek. Holden Renshaw.”

“The foreman?”

“He’s had a favored place at the ranch he no doubt wouldn’t wish to surrender. My uncle has given him far too much trust and control, and as a result …” He hesitated. “To be frank, ma’am, he hates women. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he set a man to watch for your arrival and buy you off.”

Rachel could scarcely comprehend what he was saying. It seemed too fantastic to be believed. “Jedediah never mentioned this … this Renshaw.”

He shook his head. “Of course I can’t be certain he was behind it,” he murmured. “But I do advise you not to mention the incident to him.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry this has happened. You can see why it would be better for you to go back to town to wait. Once my uncle is home, he—”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. McCarrick, but that will not be necessary. I assure you that this Mr. Renshaw will not—cannot—deter me in any way.”

“But, ma’am—”

“I have every right to be there. You see, Jedediah and I were married in Ohio. I am Mrs. McCarrick.”

Chapter Two

HEATH DISMOUNTED, TAKING great care not to jar the baby. The kid had been so quiet those last ten miles that at times he had only known it was still alive by its breathing and slow heartbeat.

He lifted the edges of the blanket away from the baby’s face. Sick as it was, it was looking at him the way it always did, as if it could see right into his head.

You’ll be all right, he told his son for the hundredth time. I’ll find someone to look after you proper.

The baby made a soft noise and lifted its hand toward his face. As if it trusted him. As if it knew he wouldn’t let it die.

Heath looked around for the ranch hands. Sean wasn’t around, as usual. Most of the others were no doubt out on the range, but Maurice and Joey almost always stuck by the house, especially when Heath was away. Joey was a fast rider and could get to the Blackwell place in a few hours.

I should have gone straight there myself. But he hadn’t realized how sick the baby was going to get, and the idea of crawling to Artemus Blackwell for help made Heath’s hackles rise. Now he didn’t have any choice. Blackwell had a wife and daughter, and females knew about babies.

He was about to take the baby into the house when he heard the rattle of a wagon a mile or so up the track that ran west along the creek that gave the ranch its name. He tilted his head to listen. He knew the sound of every vehicle belonging to the ranch, and this wasn’t one of them.

The baby gave a thin, whimpering wail. Heath rocked it a little, the way he’d seen Polly doing. The kid went quiet again, and Heath tested the air for scent. The first thing he smelled was Sean on his palomino, Ulysses. The wagon behind him was a buckboard, and there were two people crowded onto the seat, one Heath recognized as Henry Sweet from Javelina. The other …

A woman.

Heath tensed. Strange females didn’t just show up at Dog Creek.

Unless Jed had asked them to come.

Cold certainty chilled the air in his lungs. It was her. Rachel Lyndon, Jed’s mail-order bride. The one Jed had never seen fit to tell him about.

Heath wanted to laugh, but the sound got stuck halfway up his throat. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known she was coming, but he’d never thought he would lay eyes on her.

The rattle of the wagon grew louder. Sean and the buckboard came into view, and Heath caught his first glimpse of the woman.

She sat upright on the hard seat, clutching a carpetbag to her chest. Her hair was dark, her body slender, even thin, and her gaze was fixed on the house. There was unease in her scent and tension in the set of her shoulders.

Sean rode straight up to Heath. “Renshaw,” he said coolly. “I hope you’re prepared for guests.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Heath growled.

He didn’t really expect an answer, and there wasn’t one.

Sean glanced at the blanket, then looked away again without seeing what was inside it and reined Ulysses around to watch the wagon approach.

“She just got in on the stage, nice and ready to take over while Jed’s gone,” he said. “You’d better clean yourself up. The lady may not decide to keep you on if you don’t please her.”

Something in Sean’s tone told Heath that the son of a bitch was sitting on information that he couldn’t wait to let out. He wanted Heath to ask who she was, why some female he’d never seen had any idea of “taking over.” He thought Heath didn’t know the truth, and he wanted to savor the moment.

But Sean could never keep his mouth shut for long. He smiled, not quite meeting Heath’s gaze. “Do you know who she is, Renshaw? Did my uncle tell you before he left for Kansas?”

“I know who she is,” Heath said between his teeth. “Rachel Lyndon. Jed’s intended.”

Sean’s smile froze. “You’re half-right, Renshaw,” he said, recovering his balance. “Her name is Rachel, but it’s not Lyndon, and she’s not anyone’s intended.” He grinned and looked full into Heath’s face. “It’s McCarrick. Rachel McCarrick. She and Jed were married in Ohio.

“She’s Jed’s wife.”

JED’S WIFE.

At first Heath didn’t think he’d heard right. He’d read Jed’s unsigned will, and the letter from the woman. It had been clear that Jed hadn’t married her yet, that he planned to do it soon after she arrived.

Someone was lying. But who?

Heath didn’t have the chance to call Sean out. The female was taking Sweet’s arm and climbing down from the buckboard, almost stumbling as she stared at the house.

Sean dismounted, tossed Ulysses’s reins over the hitching post and went to meet her. Heath gave her a closer look. Her eyes were brown, a few shades lighter than her dark hair. She wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t ugly, either. She was somewhere around thirty years, not old, but there was a tightness around her mouth, a kind of tension that told him she wasn’t easy in her mind.