The man has some incredible genes. I bite my lip, remembering that physique, which covered all the bases—broad shoulders slimming to that vee that features on bodice rippers in airport bookstores. Droolworthy—if somewhat paint-splattered—toned forearms, the defined muscle probably earned from hours of hard labor on his land. Tight ridges of muscle form a set of washboard abs that disappear where his jeans meet tanned skin detailed with a hint of ink I want to discover firsthand.
Not that I ogled, exactly. I just… Okay, so I ogled a little. And he still had a bit of dirt on him. That should’ve detracted from his sex appeal, but good jeans—cowboy pun fully intended—and a smattering of scars that tell their own story only added to Cordell Rand’s rough brand of attractiveness. And those eyes—a cool sapphire blue that should not be able to draw heat inside me, but they do anyway.
I swear my brain left the building the moment I stepped inside his house.Homestead,he called it. The place has more rooms than a palace. That he spent months—years, even—building his home stirs something primal inside me that I pushed away long ago.
I remind myself I chose a nomadic lifestyle; that it allows me to do what I love. I can blame my distracted state of mind on being on my own for too long, immersed in wolf behavior, and not around people so much. Maybe that could be the topic of my next paper.Scientist investigates internal struggle: female versus wolf.Winnie had a field day explaining that one to me. Somehow, I doubt funding will come easy; grants will be tough to secure for that topic.
Winnie has been on my case about spending so much time alone and already tried to set me up with a few randoms, despite my adamant rejection of any and all blind dates. So far I have managed to avoid her matchmaking tendencies. Now I wonder if the claim that she was called in to work isn’t another of her attempts.
The thought of Cord building the house out there with just a handful of men to help him draws an image of strength and sweat-beaded shoulders. I understand his desire to live in the remote region of Montana for its beauty alone. Harsh gray granite peaks that rise beyond warm golden grasslands create a stark contrast around the homestead. Hell, the ranch looks like something out of a movie.
Stunning, and remote.
Like its owner.
I can’t forget the forest I glimpsed beyond the house that I suspect has something to do with the signage that proclaims the property’s name,Coyote Falls, at his entrance gate. A large part of me wonders if the land beyond the house might be a suitable habitat for wolves near Cord’s western boundary, and just how far that border extends.
Still, it’s a lonely existence if he has no one to share it with apart from a few ranch hands and his niece every other weekend.
But a homestead means staying in one place for any length of time, and that simple concept caves the small walls of the car in around me. The freedom my research provides earns me coveted breathing space away from everyone else. I can’t imagine a life thatisn’t mainly spent deep in Alaska’s remotest corners in search of my elusive gray wolves. Even Winnie’s offer to live with her and Sally is restricting, though I know she doesn’t see it that way and means well. Just like with the constant string of dates.
My job has alienated me from more than just a regular lifestyle, friends, and the usual things like claiming a home of my own, even though I have one, of sorts. But that house isn’t reallymine.And I know I’d be welcome to return to the families who have hosted me if I want to revisit Alaska to complete my research, much-needed funds permitting.
Or to escape from the world when it grows too noisy or too full.
The traffic increases as we approach a small town, the sun low to the horizon. Valiant Peak. I passed through on the way to collect Sally, frowning at the touristy-type banner that declared a dire wolf sighting. The recent scientific miracle, bringing back a clutch of pups, has brought out more than one crazy claim across the world. Apparently, this town isn’t immune to the growing hysteria, judging by the giant, almost comical caricature of a dire wolf on the poster, which is nothing but dangerous to the local wolf population. ThinkJaws, but with wolves. Fear drives people to do terrible, stupid things.
A billboard announces theValiant Peak Invitational, the words superimposed over the image of a familiar silhouette posed on the back of a bucking bull at the height of its leap. I just banished Cord’s shade from my car, and now he’s back again, somehow sexier than ever. I don’t even need to see his face to recognize those shoulders.
Dammit, cowboy.
I snort my derision as I pass the dire wolf sign, though unease swoops in my stomach. Myths might be fun for the locals and encourage a little extra tourism for the otherwise sleepy town, but evidence suggests that dire wolves died out over ten thousand years ago. One scientific miracle doesn’t necessarily create a threat for Cordell’s local town, orany town, despite the leaps that one firm made in resurrecting what appears to be dire wolf DNA.
Ifa money-grab campaign sparks rumors and fear within the community, the potential for a witch hunt for the imaginary beast can blow out of proportion fast. The impact on the gray wolves that inhabit Montana’s mountainous regions could topple their population into the endangered category. The thought fills my empty stomach with panic and I wonder if I can do anything to help avoid the oncoming mess. Maybe I can drop by, if Winnie asks me to drop Sally at Coyote Falls again, and spend the day in the tiny town, chatting with the townsfolk.
My head begins to ache once the sun dips at the horizon, the last light flashing in my eyes constantly as I pass through the other side of the small town. Traffic eases off for a while, thankfully, but the remaining headlights flicker on with the failing light to illuminate the trees looming either side of the road in the fast-falling twilight.
I reach for my water bottle, but it’s migrated to the passenger door pocket. Not wanting to wake Sally by stopping to retrieve it, I set the cruise control after we pass the town’s outskirts and turn the radio up a notch. Something country with a touch of classic rock can keep me awake for the next few hours. If Sally’s unlucky, the drive will take long enough for her to hear me sing.
Headlights are not my friend. Years of staying away from civilization have desensitized me to night driving. This evening has not worked in my favor. My head splits with an incessant throb by the time I pull up in front of Winnie’s townhouse in northern Cloakton, the city she loves with its grand population total of thirty-three thousand people.
It’s perfect for her, but way too big for me. Her shift will last a few more hours, and right now that’s a good thing. The radio was a terrible idea. My head aches from the top down as I switch the ignition off, reveling in the too-loud silence, and then lean over to check on Sally. I press one hand to the top of my head, though Iswear the site of my oncoming migraine has shifted twice in the last ten minutes.
“Sweetie, we’re home.” I wince as I peel back the multicolored blanket. Sally snores in my face. “Right, chicken. Let’s get you into the house.” Cord’s endearments are rubbing off on me. I resist the urge to rub my eyes, wondering if that last word slurred or if I imagined it.
Get Sally inside, and then crash. Meds are in my room.
Simple. Follow the plan. It’s logical. Still, the fear of a massive migraine eats at me as my hands tremble and fear slams into me. Looking after myself is tough enough during an attack. Add another person, a minor at that, into the equation, and it doubles down on the terror.
I manage to unlock the door, juggling everything a nine-year-old needs; negotiate the dark hall, stubbing my toe only once; and get Sally settled in bed.
“Shooze,” I mutter, wincing twice as hard. I can’t even swear properly. “Shhh—gah.” Words don’t function for me the way they should during a migraine. The slurring doesn’t happen every time, but it means it’s one of the worst sorts coming on.
At least Sally is tucked in.That’s a mission in itself. My toe still stings a little, taking the focus off my head for a mere second. I pause in the living area, my fingertips resting on my laptop while I struggle with the concept of attempting to work once I find my meds. I have mountains of data entry to write up from my handwritten notes on the juvenile wolf pack I tracked in Alaska. But the road blurred by the time we pulled in to the row of matching townhouses where Winnie lives. The thought of dealing with a backlit screen leaves me nauseated as hell.
Leaving the lights off, I down migraine pills—my last, I need a script refill—and change into a loose nightshirt. I can’t deal with tight clothing right now. Despite not having enough brain space to focus on more than one thing at a time, the ghost of Cord’s easy smile and carved physique keeps me company as I descend intopained oblivion. His eyes are flashes of blue I can’t avoid even with my own squeezed shut.
The scent of black ambrosia wafts cheerily up my nose to break into my light-induced migraine hangover. I pry my eyes open to find Winnie perched on the corner of my bed, still dressed in her softshell jacket and EMS pants from her shift. Her light brown hair spills over from a mussed knot secured on top of her head, and she’s holding an aromatic mug out in my direction.
