Once A Wolf (4 page)

that the bearer, one Mr. Thomas Randolph, was a trustworthy friend and that his introduction

to Lady Rowena Forster was fully endorsed by her brother. Quentin went on to ask that all

hospitality be shown to Mr. Randolph in New York.

Rowena gave the letter back to Mr. Randolph. "I do not doubt your credentials, Mr. Randolph.

You are perhaps unaware that I am to be married next month."

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" I did not know, Lady Rowena. I just arrived in New York this evening, and came to you

straightaway. I am sorry that my inopportune arrival may disrupt your plans."

She looked at him sharply, studying his face for mockery. She found none; instead, her heart

warmed unexpectedly at his personal concern. He must be a good friend indeed, and deserving

of all her courtesy.

If Cole were here… That thought kept invading her mind. If Cole were here, he'd tell her that

she must not, under any circumstances, behave impetuously, not even on behalf of her brother.

He would tell her that her worry was unfounded, typical female overreaction. He would pat her

hand and tell her that he'd look into it—in his own time, of course, considering his own very full

schedule. Nothing was to delay or interfere with the marriage.

She set her jaw. Cole would ask her to choose between her twin brother and his own

convenience; it was as simple as that. She fully recognized the wrongness of her tendency

toward rebellion, and thought it overcome. Now she saw that it was not. She was ashamed, but

not quite enough. Not tonight.

"If my brother needs me," she said, "of course I will go to him. Where is he?"

"In southern Colorado, Lady Rowena."

"That is some distance from New York, is it not? It will take a few days to arrange my departure.

I must—"

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but I am very much afraid that any delay may prove disastrous for

your brother."

Kate arrived with the tray of refreshments, and Rowena offered them to her guest. He declined,

but she hardly heard him.

"I took the liberty of obtaining two first-class accommodations on a westbound train leaving

early this morning," Mr. Randolph said. He stepped toward her, one hand raised in supplication.

"Lady Rowena, I beg you to trust me. Quentin's life may depend upon it."

Trust him. Rowena was well aware that to leave New York on the spur of the moment with a

total stranger, being herself unmarried and engaged to another man, would provoke gossip and

speculation of a most unflattering kind. Only her immaculate reputation would protect her—

that, and Cole MacLean. He must be told, but she could not reach him now. She would

telegraph Newport at once and write a long letter that would be waiting for him there when he

arrived.

He would be very angry. She would have to appease him a great deal when she returned,

humble herself completely. With any luck, the wedding itself would not have to be postponed.

With any luck, she'd have Quentin in hand and returning with her on an express train back to

New York within the next few weeks.

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And she was perfectly safe from any imposition by Mr. Randolph. He was an English gentleman,

and she was a lady.

"Thank you, Mr. Randolph," she said. "You have considered every necessity. It seems all that

remains is for me to pack."

"If you will accept my advice, Lady Rowena, bring only your plainest garments and a minimum

of trunks. You may be required to ride both on horseback and in very primitive vehicles. There

will be few luxuries where we are going."

She lifted her chin. "I would scarcely expect catering from Delmonico's, or pretty phaetons in

the desert."

His face broke into a broad smile that transformed him into yet another stranger—a man

utterly different from the polished British gentleman, feral of spirit and reckless of gaze—one

who sent a shiver coursing down Rowena's spine. But the flash of teeth and challenge was gone

in an instant, hidden by a shallow bow.

"I salute your courage and fortitude, my lady. Quentin is most fortunate in his sister."

"As he is fortunate in his friend," she said. "And now, if you will give Kate your direction, I will

finish my own preparations."

"I can send a carriage for you in a few hours—"

"Perhaps it would be best if we meet at the station, Mr. Randolph."

"Indeed." His eyes revealed a spark of humor. "I'll give your maid all the particulars."

"Then I wish you a good night, Mr. Randolph." She offered her hand. "Until morning."

"Until morning—or, as we say in the West, hasta mañana." He lifted her hand to his mouth, but

instead of merely kissing the air above it, he pressed a kiss on her knuckles. The effect of the

gallant, old-fashioned gesture was like his grin: startling, mischievous, and too intimate for

comfort.

"In spite of the unfortunate circumstances," he said, releasing her hand far too slowly, "I believe

this will be a most pleasurable journey." He retrieved his hat and gloves and followed Kate into

the hall.

His parting words left Rowena nonplussed. She sat down in the nearest chair, reviewing all that

had passed since his arrival. It was quite fantastic enough that she should find herself leaving

for the wilderness but a month before her wedding, but there was something about Mr.

Randolph that didn't quite fit.

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She couldn't define her sense of apprehension. It wasn't until the very end of his visit that the

vague presentiments of danger began. She might almost have ascribed it to… instinct.

No. That was a word she rejected as thoroughly as her werewolf blood. Nor was she one to let

her imagination run away with her. It was hardly possible that he was loup-garou. There was

none of his name in England. Perhaps it was simply that Mr. Randolph had been influenced by

the uncivilized climes in which he'd traveled, like Quentin. As Quentin's friend, he might well

have a touch of the rogue about him. But he hadn't done anything to make her doubt his

honor.

Why, then, did his grin and his kiss remain so vivid in her mind?

Surely it was because they'd met in England, perhaps long ago, and neither of them

remembered. That would account for it.

But it didn't explain why her heart pounded as if she'd just had a brush with some dark

menace—or come too close to the beast within herself.

Oh, Quentin, she thought. What have you done?

Once before she had turned away from a duty imposed upon her because it conflicted with her

own deeply held principles. Now she was driven by those same principles— the need to help

bring order, upright behavior, and human moral dignity to the world she inhabited. There was

no room in her vision of life for unbridled passion and careless abandon, for the coarse or

blatantly sensual, for anything that might promote chaos and inevitable suffering.

One day she would raise her own children to be productive members of human society, and

teach them to lead admirable lives of taste and restraint. Until then, she must respond to those

unfortunates who needed her help—most of all her own brother.

And no foolish misgivings about Mr. Thomas A. Randolph could possibly interfere.

She shook off her doubts and summoned Kate to help her pack.

Three

Weylin MacLean caught the westbound train in Dodge City, all too aware that once again he'd

failed to track down the outlaw called El Lobo.

Rumors had sent him on a wild-goose chase from New Mexico Territory, farther east than he'd

ever ventured. Having come to yet another standstill, he wasn't inclined to return to such

"civilized" country short of Apocalypse.

He found a seat, a safe distance away from ladies who might be offended by his rough dress

and lack of a recent bath, and gazed out the window. It was foolish to think that El Lobo would

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have reason to travel east. He was as much a man of the frontier as Weylin himself. He might

have some skill at disguise, but he wouldn't last long in… New York, for instance, where Cole

had turned himself into a rich dandy and had all but rejected his Texas roots.

Strange to think that Weylin had more in common with El Lobo than with his own brother.

Strange, and uncomfortable. Cole would expect another report on his progress in catching the

desperado, and he wasn't going to be happy. That was the single responsibility Cole left to his

brother;

"one of the only things you're any good at," he'd said last time he came back to the Territory.

Weylin had failed. Again. He had no right to criticize Cole, who'd made the family name

something to be reckoned with all over the States, and had increased the MacLean wealth a

hundredfold. All Weylin managed was taking some small part in running the ranches in New

Mexico and Texas, and he wasn't even in charge. He'd never wanted to be.

He permitted himself a rare sigh. Cole was the one who wanted power. He'd always been that

way; that was what caused the fights between him and Father. And it was after Kenneth died

that Father started to groom his youngest son to succeed him—not Cole, who was most suited

for it.

No wonder Cole resented him. At least the will hadn't been changed before Father was

murdered; Cole got what he wanted. He ran the MacLean empire, even if from a distance. And

that left Weylin to take revenge for Father and the loss of MacLean property.

"The problem with you," Cole had said more than once, "is that you're a coward at bottom.

Father coddled you too much. He kept you out of the War; he let you turn tail when we went

after Fergus Randall for killing Kenneth. I had to do the dirty work. But that's past, Weylin. I

won't soil my hands anymore. You bring Randall in, dead or alive, and I'll know you're still a

MacLean."

A MacLean. That was worth being, no matter what people said about Father's methods. He'd

been a hard man. You had to be, out here.

Ruthless, Weylin thought. You have to be ruthless, as much as El Lobo. Think like him. Forget

about honor and justice.

But he couldn't forget. That was what Cole didn't understand. Just like Father wouldn't have

understood.

Weylin rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. I can damn well be a MacLean

and still care about the law, Cole, even if you don't.

It was Cole's mistake, thinking he was any less committed, any less resolute in his mission

because he did things his own way.

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He pulled his hat low over his forehead, settled his gun more comfortably at his hip, and let

himself drift. He dreamed of an endless chase, always a step behind a dark brown wolf who

laughed at him with jaws agape. He dreamed of tossing his lariat again and again, only to have

it fall short while the wolf laughed again.

And then the dream shifted. Suddenly he, not the wolf, was one step ahead. He could smell El

Lobo's scent on the wind. The hairs on the back of his own neck twitched in response. He heard

his father's voice: We don't have to turn into varmints to rule this country. And Cole's:

Becoming a beast is a waste of the power we were born with. We're superior, not animals.

Which meant they were superior to the Randalls, who'd always run as wolves. Weylin

suppressed the desire to hunt El Lobo in the wolf shape he'd nearly forgotten. He let his keen

sense of smell guide him. El Lobo was close, very close…

He jerked up in his seat, the scent still in his nostrils. His spine thrummed with awareness.

El Lobo. He got up and moved into the aisle, hardly aware of the eastern ladies who whispered

about him as if they'd never seen a westerner before.

He knew with absolute certainty that El Lobo was on this very train.

Tomás had forgotten, over the years, just how beautiful she was.

Beautiful. He had seen heads turn and eyes follow him enviously when he escorted Lady

Rowena through Grand Central Station and onto the train. Men had bowed and stammered in

her presence, as if she were royalty and they'd forgotten all their democratic American

principles.

But they didn't know Lady Rowena Forster. She was indeed beautiful—and about as warm and

womanly as a marble statue. Her hair was richly blond but tightly coiffed in a conservative style,

and her face never revealed a single untoward emotion. Her traveling suit was simple but a la

mode, hugging her slender figure but revealing not a single inch of skin from neck to toe tip.

She belonged in one of those vast overdecorated drawing rooms so beloved of the wealthiest

New Yorkers who sought to copy the European aristocracy.