Once A Wolf (17 page)

The tiny, square windows were too small to permit egress. From each of them she could see, at

last, where the long road from La Junta had taken her.

The canyon was, as she'd observed from above, fairly narrow and with high walls on either side.

The opposite wall was a more gradual slope, west-facing and rocky. The band of green down

the center of the canyon was as verdant as any in England, brilliant with new growth. The rest

of the canyon floor was more open, scattered with pines and clusters of rock. To the left,

almost out of sight, she could see what looked like adobe houses and cultivated fields running

out from the stream.

People lived here. This was not merely an outlaw's hideout. Why, then, had she been left in this

prison?

She turned away from the windows and examined the cell. The saddlebags with her belongings

lay by the door, where Mateo had dropped them. For the first time she noticed the rugs and

furs heaped on the floor, the candles, and the basin, towels, and jug of what must be water.

There was even a plate of strawberries. Someone had prepared this cell for an inmate.

Along the far wall and halfway up the ceiling she found markings unlike any she'd seen before.

Rustic drawings. Hieroglyphs rendered in red and black and white, of circle and line. The shapes

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were primitive and yet oddly fascinating: animals, birds, people, and other figures she couldn't

name. They seemed to dance across the wall as if they were alive.

Others had sheltered in this very cave long ago, people who knew no writing or true culture.

They'd left their indelible mark; their presence infused the rock itself, just as the smoke of their

fires had blackened the ceiling.

They had been like the animals they painted. She could feel it. They had lived as part of nature,

thousands of miles and years away from what she knew as civilization. If she stared at the

drawings long enough, their spirits would seep into her soul, and she'd have no way to stop

them…

Rowena backed away from the painted wall and stood, shivering, against the man-made bricks

opposite. An hour passed, and then another. The canyon sank into shadow. She began to wish

desperately for the company of another human being. Anyone who could remind her that this

cave was simply that—a natural feature adapted by savages, and not a preternatural realm

haunted by ghosts who would strip away her humanity.

How she hated what Tomás had done—was doing— to her.

She wished that he were with her now.

The light dimmed and left the cave in darkness.

"And you let him get away."

Cole crumpled the telegram in his fist and threw it across the parlor at the expensive antique

mirror that hung above the fireplace. The ball of paper bounced from the glass. "Just die same

as always."

Weylin showed no reaction—certainly no chagrin at his miserable failure or Cole's scathing

words. He gazed at Cole with that steady, placid stare, like a cow chewing its cud.

Damn him.

Cole strode to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey, straight, and then went to the

window overlooking the carefully tended garden and outbuildings beyond.

Double-Bar-M, the first big MacLean ranch in New Mexico and the largest in Colfax County. He

hadn't been back here in years, but seeing it still gave him satisfaction. All of this was his, for

miles in every direction: rich, rolling grassland as far as the eye could see, high-quality range to

foster strong, healthy beeves; good water; the promise of a new railroad to make the outfit

profitable beyond his wildest dreams—and, above all, power. No one crossed a MacLean in this

county. Or in the entire Territory.

Except for Tomás Alejandro Randall.

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He drained the glass. "After all these years, you still can't bring him in," he said, not bothering

to face his brother. "He's just too smart for you—is that it? A Randall, smarter than a MacLean."

He resisted the urge to spit. After the years in New York, where he'd learned to be a gentleman

as eastern society defined the word, he wasn't about to resume old habits.

That was the difference between him and Weylin. He had fulfilled his ambitions. Weylin was

still the stupid cowboy he'd always been, with his muddy boots and sweat-stained hat. He

wasn't even able to accomplish the one task set for him.

"I just received a letter from Randall, outlining his ransom demands," Cole continued, slowly, as

if he were speaking to an idiot. "All he wants is a million dollars. And a public admission that we

stole the Randall land—among other things."

Weylin scuffed his boot on the floor. "What would you pay to get the lady back?"

"He won't get a plugged nickel from me." He spun on the heels of his highly polished shoes and

regarded Weylin with contempt. "Who made our fortune? Who won the MacLeans as much

wealth and prominence as the Astors? I did. I took us from being ranchers like a thousand other

Texans and made the MacLean name big all over the nation."

Weylin shifted his weight from one leg to the other, unhurriedly, and met Cole's stare. "How did

you make that fortune, Cole?"

It was happening again, though they'd seen each other seldom enough since Frank's death.

Weylin didn't say much, but his few words had a way of cutting Cole to the quick.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know." Weylin's eyes looked almost grim. "Once we worked the cattle together. We built

the ranch from nothing. It was hard labor, but it was honorable. We earned what we had with

our own hands."

"And I earned mine with my wits." Cole slammed his glass to the floor. The heavy crystal

shattered. "That's what you're shy on, Weylin. You've never gone further east than Missouri.

Your education ended in grade school. You can't tell stock shares from livestock." He laughed.

"So much for being Father's favorite."

Weylin shook his head. "Kenneth was Pa's favorite."

"Kenneth and Father are dead. I'm still here. And I'm the head of this family." He returned to

the sideboard for a fresh drink. "At least Father wasn't soft. You're soft, Weylin. They'd eat you

alive in New York. You think because you can ride for a week straight through the desert on a

handful of water that you're a man?"

"I'm a MacLean."

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"You squander the name. I've used my advantages to the fullest. It's my right. It's every man's

right to take whatever he can—"

"Not every man is a werewolf."

So Weylin wasn't as ignorant as he seemed. Little as they'd discussed Cole's business in New

York, Weylin knew Cole wasn't a man to let puerile scruples about his inhuman nature prevent

him from taking full advantage of that nature. It was so easy to manipulate ordinary humans,

especially when the subject was money—or greed.

But Cole hadn't Changed since the loss of his arm. He preferred to remain in human shape, and

save his superior skills for the human world.

Their father had seldom Changed. He'd found it difficult, and so discouraged his sons from the

act because he couldn't bear to be outdone. But he'd used his other abilities to find, hold, and

keep men and cattle at a time when Texas had been struggling for survival after the War. He

just hadn't gone far enough.

Weylin had followed Father's wishes and given up Changing years ago, but he wouldn't take

advantage of his other werewolf powers. All because of that pathetic personal code of fair play,

picked up the devil knew where. Certainly not from Father.

For a moment Cole wondered if Weylin knew how he'd promised Rowena never to use his

werewolf abilities, or Change, or be anything but strictly human. No. Rowena wouldn't have

discussed such a personal matter in the short time she was with Weylin. Before Randall took

her right out from under Weylin's gun.

"You're right," he said at last, riding high on the wave of his scorn. "Not every man is a

werewolf. But there are plenty of men like you—the ones who'd hold the strong back from

shaping their own destinies. You're a relic, Weylin. You and your kind don't belong in the world

that's coming."

"Maybe I don't want to belong in your world."

Cole snorted in disgust. "We're wasting time. Randall is the subject of this conversation… and

how you failed to keep him from stealing my wife."

"She's not your wife yet."

"What is it? You don't think I can get her back when you failed?"

Weylin gazed calmly out the window from his place by the fine French settee.

"You listen to me," Cole said. He threw the second glass into the fireplace and stood nose to

nose with his brother. "I was willing to let you prove that you had some worth to this family

besides doing what any second-rate hired hand could do. I thought that once you were

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deputized by the sheriff, you'd have the guts to go after Randall and mean it. You washed out.

Now I'm going to get him my way. Whatever it takes."

"What does it take, Cole? This isn't New York."

"Humans are the same everywhere. I'll find the scum who've helped him and make them

cooperate—"

"Even when it makes you the same as Randall?"

Cole hit him. It wasn't his hardest punch; Weylin only swayed and held his ground. He didn't try

to fight back.

"He murdered our father," Cole said. "Fergus Randall killed Ken. He took my arm. I want the

Randalls wiped off the face of the earth."

Weylin touched his jaw indifferently, as if someone else had felt the blow. "Do you love her that

much?"

"What?" Cole floundered, twisting his thoughts to follow Weylin's question. Rowena. He meant

Rowena.

Love. How amusing. Weylin, never one for the ladies, still harbored a boy's old-fashioned

notions of romance.

"She's mine," he said distinctly. "I don't give up what's mine. And I'm not returning to New York

until I have it back. All of it."

He thought the conversation was over. Weylin's gaze was blank; he'd gone inside himself the

way he often did since Father died. But just as Cole started for the parlor door, Weylin stopped

him.

"You think I don't care what he's done?"

Cole turned. Weylin was anything but bovine now; all at once the wolf was raging in his eyes. "I

want him as much as you do," he said. "But I'm a man of the law, Cole. You saw to that, so that

whatever I did would be nice and legal." His smile held neither menace nor cynicism, but it was

chilling just the same. "I'm duty-bound to warn you… if you commit a crime to kill Randall, I

won't look the other way."

Caught between amazement and rage, Cole burst into a laugh. "Is that a threat, brother mine?

Do you think I should be afraid of you when Randall pisses on your boots?" He stopped laughing

when he saw the look on Weylin's face.

He considered, briefly, if he'd underestimated his brother. They were of the same blood, the

same Scottish Highlander heritage infused with Texan grit and werewolf power.

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If Weylin ever came close to guessing the truth about Frank MacLean's death…

. But he wouldn't. No matter what he said, Weylin would never turn against family. He salved

his conscience and made himself feel more like a man by standing up to Cole. It was all bluster.

If it ever became anything more, he knew what would happen.

Cole relaxed. "Go on, Weylin. Work some beeves or run in the desert. I have a man's job to do."

This time Weylin had nothing to say.

Eight

The ancient cave dwelling was in total darkness when Tomás unlocked the door and stepped

inside. The candles had not been lit; there was no movement.

Only the sound of breathing, and the scent of fear.

Rowena was afraid. Tomás felt immediately that her dread wasn't the kind that could be

conquered with the sharp-tongued wordplay she so frequently practiced on him; he'd never

sensed that she was really afraid in the way many women would be. He had admired her

stubborn pride.

He hadn't expected her to be afraid now. When his keen night-vision found Rowena curled up

in the corner, her knees drawn to her chest as far as the gown would allow, he felt ashamed.

Again she made him feel shame, when his mind had been readying for far more pleasant

emotions.

"Rowena," he called softly.

The faint glitter of her eyes focused on him. "So," she said, her voice trembling, "you've come

back."

"Far later than I planned. I apologize."

"I assumed that you… meant to leave me here."

Alone was the word she left unspoken. "No longer than necessary, mi rubia. Though I am fond

of this place, it's no fit dwelling for a lady."