Spirit of the Wolf Read online

  He didn’t. Instead, he flattened his palms over her breasts, exerting so much pressure that she was forced to take a backward step. There they were, standing near a small wood corral. If she wasn’t careful, she’d bang into a metal box on the ground next to the fencing that she guessed held tack.

  Determined to stand her ground, she tried to pull his hands off her. “Still not funny.”

  Shifting his hold, he closed thumbs and forefingers over her nipples. “I don’t do funny.”

  No argument there.

  If he wanted to, he could inflict serious pain on her. She’d never call what he was doing right now comfortable, but at least . . . at least what? Hadn’t she just announced that she intended to call the shots?

  “Let me go. And pick up my bra before one of us steps on it.”

  Grunting, he kicked at the bra, causing it to skid along the dirt. No way would she put it back on today.

  “Not funny,” she snapped, careful not to move. The pressure on her nipples radiated out to envelope more and more flesh. The sensation headed for her belly. Despite herself, she sighed. Her fingers fisted, and she widened her stance.

  Matt began lightly rolling his fingers back and forth, adding to the heat in her breasts and elsewhere. He was getting to her all right, stimulating her. Working her.

  She sighed again. “Damn you.”

  Not long ago, maybe the last time they’d had sex, she’d said those very words when, instead of letting her climax, he’d drawn out the delicious agony. He’d responded to her curse by saying, “Yeah, damn me.” Today’s silence unnerved her.

  Fighting something she couldn’t put a name to, she wrapped her fingers around Matt’s waistband and tugged. To her surprise, he stepped closer. His hold on her shifted so he was supporting and lifting her breasts. Although she looked down, thinking to study what he was doing, the edges blurred.

  Say something, she wanted to yell at him, but did she really want to deal with words? It was easier, and more exciting, to rub the backs of her fingers over his belly and feel it tighten. When he increased his hold on her breasts, she pulled his jeans toward her and slid a hand under the denim and over his belly. Finally she ran her fingers into the coarse, dark hair there.

  “Enough!”

  His exhaled breath fairly singed her forehead. Grabbing her around the waist, he lifted her, propelling her back and to the side as he did. When he let her down, she realized she was standing on the metal box.

  Her sex aligned with his.

  “Good thinking,” she managed. She’d dispensed with snap and zipper before she put her mind to what he was doing.

  He’d been waiting for her to finish, his thumbs hooked through her waistband and his stance wide. Determined not to give up until his jeans were down around his ankles, she started to give them a tug.

  “No.”

  Pain arched through her wrists. Gasping, she acknowledged his hands pressing against the slender bones there. “What—”

  “Am I doing? What I damn well want to.”

  When she winced, he jammed her arms against her sides. Although she tried to tell herself that he had no business stopping her from placing her hands where she wanted them, she didn’t move.

  He reached for her jeans. Maybe she was mistaken—she wanted to be—but was a snarl lifting the corner of his mouth? Not breathing, she waited as he yanked at her waistband. Fortunately, unlike her bra hooks, the jeans’ button easily gave up its hold. He didn’t look at her as he pulled down on the zipper.

  No pause, no checking to see if she was on board with what he was doing. Instead he hauled her jeans down over her hips. He took her bikini panties at the same time, said nothing about the deep red pair she’d ordered online and had just arrived. Denim chafed her thighs, briefly hugged her knees, wound up around her ankles. Because her boots were still on, she had no way of freeing herself from the bondage he’d created.

  Caught.

  By him.

  Her head had sagged forward while he worked on her. Lifting it so she could keep an eye on him took more courage than she wanted to admit. Somehow, without her paying attention, he’d positioned his jeans around his hips. His erection remained hidden behind his briefs.

  Why aren’t you exposing yourself? tugged at her mind. Then he slipped a workman’s hand between her legs with the side of his thumb against her sex, and only that mattered. Arching her back, she thrust her pelvis at him.

  Leather against silk defined what she was feeling. Her lids drooped. Although she knew it was coming, she started when a masculine finger slid into her. This was the foreplay she’d spoken about, yet the word didn’t go far enough. Didn’t reach deep enough into the experience.

  Matt had impaled her on his finger. Hung her out to dry. Only dry was hardly the word. Wet. Hot and sopping and beyond gone. Nipples hard and hurting, her legs trembling while her arms remained submissively by her side.

  Submissive?

  Not her.

  And yet—

  Ah, he was going deeper, finger simulating cock, not as thick or promising as the real thing but—

  Wait!

  “Matt?” Speaking burned her throat. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Condom.”

  “Yeah.”

  Although he didn’t add damn it to the little he said, she sensed the words anyway. From the beginning of their affair she’d made it clear that although she was on the pill, she expected him to provide the added protection. After all, they’d had other sex partners and in today’s world . . .

  How could she have lost contact with what he was doing? Whatever the reason, she again locked herself around the masculine invasion. Tightening her sex around him, she searched for something, anything, to distract her from a premature climax.

  Ah, the hills. Dry and done until spring softened the harshness. Someday, maybe, Matt and she would explore them together. He’d show her what made the ones on his property unique. And, maybe, once he had, she’d take him into those around her place and show him the cave she believed only she knew about.

  “Enough.”

  Startled by his outburst, she stared at him. “What’s enough?” “Messing around.”

  His finger sucked out of her, emptied her, left her dripping and shaken. Wishing she didn’t have to, she grasped his shoulders for balance. After wiping her sex juices on her naked flank, he hauled his cock out of its hiding place and rammed it into her.

  Just like that. No asking if she was ready. No condom.

  “Wait!” She wanted to pull back but couldn’t make the move. “You promised—”

  “Shut up.”

  Again with the command. Even more unsettling, he dug his fingers into her hip bones. Using his hold to keep her in place, he powered into her. If not for his grip, she would have fallen off the box.

  And her hands gripping his shoulders—don’t forget that.

  One powerful thrust, then another. Hammering at her and her caring about nothing except his cock’s commands.

  She could fight, claw at his shoulders, scream maybe.

  But she didn’t want to, damn it.

  She needed this man’s cock plowing deep and strong and full into her, over and over, both of them sweating, the sun beating down, his hat sliding forward and then falling off.

  More. Even more. Her knees locking and now her ankles chafing from the denim. Back protesting from arching deep. Careful to keep her pussy in alignment.

  “Shit!” he bellowed. “Shit!”

  Matt was coming. Hard. Wet heat spewing into her. Coating her channel with his cum.

  Determined to keep up with him, she went deep inside, looking for the release she craved, touched it, lost it.

  “Shit!”

  More of his ejaculate filled her. When he pulled back, some escaped to dribble down the inside of her thigh. Until now, she’d been denied this part of sex, had told herself that was how it needed to be. But this was the real thing. Primal sex.

  “Ah, shit.”

&nbs
p; He again rammed into her, grunting as he did, his fingers vising her hips. She returned his strength with all she had, and her fingers ground into his collarbone. She belatedly remembered to clamp down on his cock, but it was too late. He was beginning to soften.

  Was done.

  3

  Being dressed again—well, minus the bra—helped restore Cat. At least she no longer felt so vulnerable.

  Unfortunately, having her body covered did little to shake off her unease and tension.

  Like hers, Matt’s jeans were back up around his waist. He’d retrieved his hat. As she shook what dust she could off her bra, it occurred to her that he hadn’t removed his shirt. Had that been because he’d been in such a hurry to get to the main act, or had he deliberately stripped her while remaining virtually intact clotheswise himself? Granted, this was far from their first quickie, but if her memory was serving her right, they’d always done equal amounts of stripping.

  Shaking her head, she tucked her bra into a back pocket. Only then did she allow herself to focus on Matt. He’d walked over to Ginger and hoisted himself into the saddle without first letting the mare smell him. As a result, Ginger’s head was high and white showed in her eyes.

  “Careful,” she warned as she joined them. “Give her a chance to figure out who you are.”

  He didn’t look down. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?” she snapped. “You couldn’t prove it by me today. What are you going to do? Take her for a run?”

  He frowned. Before he could respond, if that had been his intention, his cell phone rang. After pulling it out of a front pocket, he shielded the faceplate so he could read what was displayed there.

  “Beale,” he said.

  Although she wasn’t concerned that Ginger would take advantage of Matt’s inattention, Cat took hold of the reins so Matt could concentrate on the conversation. He did more listening than talking, his responses punctuated by three damns. Finally he said, “I’m on my way,” and hung up.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Dead calf.” He pointed toward the hills. “Slaughtered.”

  “No! Does Beale know what—”

  “Not human.”

  A cougar attack was a remote possibility, although usually cougars concentrated on smaller game. Coyotes could have done the deed but probably only if the calf was already down.

  “Dogs?” she ventured. “I’ve heard there’s a pack . . .” She didn’t bother to finish because Matt was dismounting. The instant his boots hit the ground, he started for the house at a run.

  “I’m getting my rifle,” he said over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Matt asked when he emerged from the house. Cat was loading Ginger into her trailer.

  “I’m going with you. I figure we can drive most of the way, then take horses.” She jerked her head at the adjacent pasture where he kept his working stock. “Which one do you want me to saddle?”

  She was right. It would take time to hook his truck up to his trailer. Not only that, the trailer tires were bald; he’d been going to replace them.

  “Why do you want to do that?” he asked as he headed for the pasture gate.

  “I want to see for myself.”

  “It won’t be pretty.” After propping his rifle against a post, he opened the gate and whistled. Although the three horses in the pasture were a fair distance away, they lifted their heads. He whistled again and they trotted toward him.

  “I know it won’t. Matt, in some respects I’ve insulated myself from the reality of what ranchers have to deal with. I need to face that.”

  Misty, the smallest and steadiest of the horses, reached him first. Taking hold of her halter, he led her through the gate. The others looked disappointed, but Misty was probably best for Cat to ride.

  “Where’s the saddle and bridle?” Cat asked. “What if I get her ready while you fill some canteens?”

  As he pointed at the tack box he’d placed her on for sex such a short time ago, he acknowledged that this maybe-120-pound woman could hold her own. Under the surface she was soft and feminine, but if he ever needed a woman watching his back, she’d be his first choice. He walked Misty over to Cat, who’d started digging into the box he’d had built because sometimes he wanted tack right where the horses were. Holding a saddle against her chest, Cat straightened. The saddle dragged her top precariously low, nearly revealing her breasts. For a moment, he didn’t understand why she wasn’t wearing a bra. Then the memory surfaced.

  His skin felt strange, his muscles unfamiliar. Releasing Misty, trusting her to stay put, he headed back for the house. Why hadn’t he thought about water when he was getting his rifle? And what about extra bullets?

  The year after he’d come to live here, he and Santo had added insulation to the attic. As a result, despite the heat, the old house was cool. It hadn’t occurred to either man, but Addie had talked them into replacing the small front window with a large one, which provided them with a broad view of their surroundings.

  Walking into the kitchen, he reached under the sink for the canteens he kept there. As he filled four with cold well water, he let his thoughts drift to the damn hard work of digging a new well two years before Santo’s death. Despite the dirt and strain, he didn’t regret the time he’d spent with Santo.

  Done with his first chore, he entered his bedroom, decorated with paintings of cowboy scenes he’d brought in Pendleton while participating in the roping events at the rodeo there. His favorite, over his bed, depicted two rearing stallions with the sun setting behind the combatants.

  Yeah, he’d think about the stallions, not why he was digging in his top dresser drawer for ammunition. Neither would he ask what the hell had happened to him before and when he and Cat were having sex.

  Cat.

  Intriguing name. Why hadn’t he asked how she’d come by it?

  By his reckoning, he’d been in the house less than three minutes. In that time, Cat had saddled and bridled Misty and loaded her into her trailer. It was a tight fit for the horses, but they’d reach the end of the road in less than a half hour.

  Cat stood, resting her hip against the trailer. “Do you want to drive?” she asked. “You know the way better than I do.”

  Again with the practical, logical observations. If not for her nipples pressing against the soft white fabric, he might think he was discussing plans with one of his hands. Beale was the only one in the hills today, which meant only the young buck would get a look at Cat’s breasts.

  No doubt Beale would wonder why she was out and about braless.

  “I’ll drive. Just let me get my rifle.”

  “It’s already in the cab. Sorry, I don’t have a gun rack.”

  But she hadn’t hesitated to handle the weapon. “Do you know how to shoot?” Yet something else he didn’t know about her.

  Pushing away from the trailer, she headed for the passenger’s side. “It depends on how you look at it. The way I figure, I learned enough to be able to plug a rattler if I need to. And if it isn’t moving too fast.”

  Giving her a shrug by way of response, he walked over to the driver’s side. Her pickup, like his, looked like crap. He hoped the engine was another story. Maybe he should take a look under the hood before—

  Distant movement in the direction of the hills caught his attention. Those usually gray mounds were part of his world, and yet he didn’t take them for granted. To his way of thinking, the hills’ greatest value came from the grass they provided. The movement belonged to a solitary vulture. Yeah, like it or not, this vulture and others of its kind saw the dead calf as nothing more than food.

  Beale had sounded shook up and had been glad to hear that his foreman was going to be joining him, but truth was, Matt wished he was going anywhere else. For the first time since this land had taken hold of his heart, he wanted nothing to do with it.

  He didn’t fear it; nothing like that.

  Then what?

  As Cat settled herself in
the cab, he wondered if he was making a mistake by letting her accompany him. Instead of saying anything, however, he looked through the dusty windshield. A second vulture had joined the first.

  Unfortunately, the scavengers weren’t the only things out there. There was something else, instinct told him, a force, something that lifted the hairs at the back of his neck. Damn it, was he endangering Cat’s life?

  No, instinct told him. Who or whatever was out there wasn’t interested in her.

  Him, then?

  Long before they reached the end of where the truck could go, Cat had come to the conclusion that she should have insisted on driving. Lucky Matt. He had the steering wheel to hold on to. As for her, her tailbone was going to be talking to her for hours.

  They silently unloaded the horses. When she was in the saddle, Matt handed her two of the canteens, mounted, and urged Ginger forward. He wore his rifle slung across his back, looking too much like a man out hunting.

  Up close, the landscape revealed the closely guarded secrets of what lived here. Sagebrush, of course, with its pungent aroma, tough bunchgrass, dry and dead-looking meadows that would turn moist in spring. What there was of trees mostly consisted of white-bark aspens. No matter how many times she’d seen the aspens’ rich fall silver hues, she had yet to go through a November without riding around to take pictures.

  They weren’t here to pull out their cameras. For the first time since Matt had invaded her world, the focus was on something other than sex. Spotting several cows grazing in a small, narrow valley to her right, she wondered if the death of one of their number impacted them in any way. If the responsible predator or predators were still here, wouldn’t they be nervous?

  Experience had taught her that horses sometimes keyed into human emotion. If she was calm, they were too. If she brought tension into the barn, they became harder to work with. In addition, they seemed to have a connection with other animals, specifically dogs. That’s why she insisted that potential horse buyers introduce their dogs to the horse. Twice a dog’s aggression had nixed a sale.