Once A Wolf (33 page)

to remember how he had come to be there, and why. His senses told him it was not long after

sunset—of which day, he did not know—and that his fur bore the scent of dried blood.

Blood from the nearly mortal wound he'd received at Sim Kavanagh's hands. A wound that

would have killed an ordinary wolf. Or man.

Only his inhuman werewolf nature had saved him. Somehow he'd dragged himself into deeper

shelter where no passerby could chance upon his apparently lifeless body. There, his driving

instinct for survival had taken command, drawing him into a deep, healing torpor.

He might have died. He was still extremely weak, and desperately thirsty. He wasn't sure he had

the strength to Change, even if he wished. But he lived.

He lived. Not since childhood, when the whole family was together and life seemed full of

wonder, had he felt such unexpected, spontaneous happiness. "Right" and "justice" and

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"revenge" were meaningless human words that he cast aside with a snap of his jaws. He

wanted to point his muzzle to the stars and howl for joy, to leap and dance like a foolish colt.

Dancing was beyond his ability. He banked his jubilation and concentrated on the simple act of

standing. After two tries, he managed to do so without losing his balance. His muscles groaned

and protested; the shoulder where he'd taken the bullet worked like an old dog's. Taking small

and uneven steps, he followed his nose to the trickle of a streamlet winding down from the

mountains.

He drank for several long minutes, glorying in the pure taste of clear water. Slowly the

dreamlike rapture faded. As he lay beside the brook, purpose returned to his thoughts. Almost,

almost he ignored it. There was a part of him that wanted to remain a wolf and never return to

the world of duty and discipline that he'd made for himself.

Wasn't this world just as real? He could live, not for some abstract notion of justice, but for

moments like these. For the freedom to run at will and think no further than tomorrow, with

nothing to prove and beholden to none—not Cole, not his father's memory, not the rule of

man's law. Not even to himself.

But the habit of years was too strong.

He was Weylin Arthur MacLean. That meant something, more now than ever. A MacLean didn't

give up just because it was easier or more pleasurable. He didn't run away from responsibility.

He had work to do.

He pulled himself to his feet and concentrated on his goal until the last, tattered remnants of

temptation slipped away and his mind was clear again. His first task was to find his modified

saddlebags. They were where he'd left them before Kavanagh's attack, undisturbed even by

animals.

It might have been wiser to wait and heal another day or two before Changing. But many days

might have passed, each one robbed from his pursuit of Tomás; he must return to the haunts of

men to regain his bearings and hear the latest news.

If he'd lost the chance to follow Kavanagh to Randall, he had gained one advantage he hadn't

possessed in the past. He had faced death and survived. Father, Kenneth, Cole— all of them

had stood face to face with their own mortality, fighting for what they believed. He'd never

been part of that brotherhood. Deep in his heart he'd been ashamed of that lack, of not

knowing how he would face the moment when it came. If he'd prove a true MacLean in the

end.

That doubt was gone. He was worthy. He could stand in Cole's presence without wondering if

his choice, his way, was right.

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In the pack was plain clothing to cover his human body, and money enough for a fully equipped

mount. The nearest village of any size was less than ten miles distant. There he'd find what he

needed to resume his hunt, this time as a man. But he knew he could take either form as it

suited his purpose, without hesitation or apology or forgetting who and what he was.

Gathering all his strength, he stood alone beneath the light of a thousand stars and willed

himself to Change.

Night was well advanced by the time Tomás rode Delfin into the plaza at El cañon del Rito de las

Lagrimas. He hadn't slept since the previous night; Sim had sent him to a village many hours'

ride from the cañon, but when he'd arrived in the late afternoon, the man he was to meet was

nowhere to be found. He'd lingered a full night and half the day before turning for home.

Sim was not one to make such mistakes. If he said there was a man seeking El Lobo's aid against

cruelty and injustice, that man must exist. But no one in Canada del Rocoso had known

anything of him.

Tomás consoled himself during the wasted journey by flirting with the señoritas and enjoying

the obliging hospitality of people who claimed El Lobo as their hero. They did not constantly

waver between welcome and rejection, nor question his methods and motives. They did not

leave him torn between laughter and insanity. Among them, he never doubted what he felt and

what he wanted.

Not like that last encounter with Rowena, when he was damned by the certainty that he had

gone beyond the borders of mere wanting and entered a deadly, alien territory he'd avoided all

his life. A country fraught with perils and traps and bottomless pits into which he would fall and

continue falling for all eternity.

He was expert at roaming no-man's-lands where others dared not stray. He'd walked many

perilous borderlines before meeting Lady Rowena Forster, and had always chosen to stay free

of allegiance to any but himself. No one, not even Sim, had traveled the whole journey at his

side.

Then the lady held out her hand and beckoned him across that final line. He had very nearly

taken the irrevocable step from Wanting to Caring.

He dismounted in front of his casa—Rowena's, now—and leaned against his horse's warm

barrel. "There are times, my friend," he said, "when I'd rather be a horse than a wolf. The

stallion has many mares, and each one knows she'll never be his only amor. Nor has he any

wish to confine himself." He sighed and slapped the gelding's neck. "Not that you'd know of

such things. I'm beginning to think you and I have a little too much in common." He led Delfin

toward the stable, noting that no lights shown from any of the houses. Why should there be?

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"Do you suppose she has found life unbearably dull in my absence?" he asked. Delfin nickered,

doubtless longing for his grain and a good rubdown. Tomás was thinking less of food and a bath

than what he was going to do about Rowena.

He could let her go. The thought had come to him more than once, never so strongly as during

that last conversation. His intent to use her to humiliate and injure Cole MacLean had lost its

savor somewhere along the way. He didn't believe that MacLean would give him what he

demanded in exchange for her release.

So Rowena would remain. And though he would find satisfaction in her realization that Cole

was a faithless rogue, who then would be responsible for her? Though she would eventually

give herself to him, what would come after?

No future. Rowena believed in such laudable ambitions as marriage, children, law and order,

proper etiquette, and a settled life. Such things were real to her. His reality lay in the moment,

and in knowing there was no certainty, no permanence in the world.

He should take her back—back to the world she knew. If he did not, she would suffer. Her

suffering might be more than he could bear.

He paused at the stable door and pressed his face to Delfin's soft muzzle. "Am I not noble, to

think of her welfare at this late hour?" he said. "Or is it myself alone I think of?" He laughed.

"You see what's become of me. She's like a poison in my blood. Si, mi amigo—the sooner I get

rid of her, the better I—"

"Huuuuh!"

Delffn tossed his head. A small shadow slipped around the corner of the stable and stopped

before him. It reached out to catch his sleeve with unmistakable urgency.

Esperanza.

She opened her mouth, and the same hoarse sound emerged. Not a word, not yet, but more

noise than she had made since they'd found her at Los Milagros. "Sssuuuh—"

He dropped Delfin's reins and grasped the girl's shoulders. "Esperanza! Can you speak?"

Her hand flew to her throat. Her face was smeared with dirt, her clothes torn as if in some

recent struggle. His stomach tightened with the foreknowledge of disaster.

"What is it?"

"Rrruuu—eee—nahh," she gasped.

Rowena.

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He let her go and ran across the plaza. Rowena's door swung open at his first touch. He plunged

into the bedchamber, only to find the sheets rumpled and cold. Her scent was the barest trace

in the stale air.

Esperanza waited for him just outside, her eyes shining with anxiety. He touched her shoulder

in passing and strode to the door of Nestor's casa. His knock went unanswered. Nestor was not

within.

One by one he visited the other houses, Esperanza at his heels. His people welcomed him and

sleepily answered his questions with puzzlement and concern.

No, none of them had seen the lady Rowena since the evening before last. Why? He himself

had left a letter saying that she was sick and must not be disturbed while he was gone. Enrique

had found the letter on the door to her house this past morning. No, Nestor was not here; they

had heard he was called away the night before to see a dying relative in a village some miles

distant.

Something was very much the matter. Tomás cursed too softly for the curious children to hear

and reassured his men with a few casual words. False words; Nestor was gone without a clear

explanation; Rowena hadn't been seen in a full day; and Esperanza—

"Ssseee-" The girl tugged on his sleeve, forcing him to look at her again. "Sseeemm."

Sim. His blood became ice. "Sim Kavanagh?" he said, grabbing her hand. "Speak to me,

Esperanza. Where is Rowena? Did Sim—"

She nodded. "Sseeem. Took—" She pointed toward the trail that led up the cliffs to the mesa

above. "A… way."

Sim had taken Rowena out of the cañon.

Only a few times in his life had he known the fell emotions that claimed him in that moment.

Rage was uppermost among them—rage and despair and overwhelming fear. The roots of his

hair stiffened, and his lips curled in a snarl.

Sim had betrayed him. Sim had taken Rowena. Sim had stolen his mate…

And he would kill to reclaim her.

He flung back his head, ready to howl out his challenge. Esperanza snatched her hand from his.

"Nooo," she moaned. She slapped her hands over her ears as if to block out some unbearable

noise. "Nooooh!"

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The sheer terror in her voice stopped him. His vision cleared to find her crouched on the ground

at his feet. Several of the older children watched the drama from the sidelines, half in

fascination and half in fear. Their fathers and guardians had far more sense.

"You, ninos!" he said sharply. "Go back to your houses. Enrique, see to Delfin. Vamos!"

If ever they thought to disobey, it was not now. They ran inside, and the casa doors remained

firmly closed behind them. Tomás caught his breath and knelt beside Esperanza.

"Come," he said. "I will not hurt you."

She looked up, hands still pressed to her head. "Help—"

He lifted her easily and supported her slight weight. "Si. Rest easy, muchacha.." Though she was

dirty and afraid, her face bore no bruises or the marks of blows. Yet he was sure that she had

personal knowledge of what had become of Rowena, and how. Sim had done far worse than

ignore his commands about bothering the girl.

He had warned Sim about it again, yesterday afternoon— at the same time Sim told him of the

man in Canada del Rocoso who required his help. That man hadn't been waiting for him

because Sim had invented him. He'd doubtless found a way to lure Nestor from the village at an

appropriate time, and written the letter that supposedly came from Tomás. Only a few in the

village could read, and none could distinguish his handwriting from any other's. No one would

be looking for Rowena.

Had Sim underestimated Esperanza?

Tomás cupped the girl's chin. "I am sorry I did not protect you and Rowena from Sim," he said.

"Can you forgive me?"

She nodded, a heartbreaking gravity replacing fear and panic.

"This time I will make certain he does no further harm. Do you know where he was taking the

lady?"

Her lips moved but formed no coherent word. He didn't require her answer. "Cole," he