Bride of the Wolf

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.