Once A Wolf (6 page)

schoolgirl.

The indecent mental images had appeared without warning and insisted on following her all the

way to the ladies' dressing room. No amount of tepid water applied liberally to her cheeks had

chased them away. It was almost as if someone else had planted the bizarre thoughts in her

mind.

She would never dress the way she'd seen herself in the first unwonted vision. It was like

looking at some warped distortion of her own reflection. Barefoot, loose-haired, wanton.

And that was not the worst. There were the feelings that came with the picture. Heat, yearning,

recklessness, and… yes, desire. She guessed that must be what she'd felt, for it was unlike any

emotion she had ever experienced.

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Desire. She wished desperately for the fan she'd somehow managed to misplace. The closest

she'd ever come to that sensation was when she was forced to Change in fleeing from her

imprisonment at Greyburn three years ago.

She'd vowed never to be driven to such extremes again, and had kept that vow. There was no

reason in the world why the mere presence of a stranger should provoke any disturbance in her

usual composure.

It was all quite ridiculous. She was not prone to wild flights of imagination, especially not of that

sort. What would Cole think of her now?

She knew the answer to that question and did her best to put it from her mind. She tilted her

parasol against the afternoon sun and smoothed her face of expression. She would not be so

affected again—not by all the Thomas A. Randolphs of the world.

Randolph, however, had not returned to witness her renewed self-possession.

Instead, she found herself quite alone in a place that said very little for her brother's taste in

habitat. The town had all the unruliness of a barbarian outpost. Rough men in dirty, ill-fitting

garments rushed up and down the unpaved street on some mysterious business or other. The

buildings on every side had a haphazard look about them, as if the inhabitants were eager to

claim themselves civilized without going to the bother of planning.

It was not a place in which Rowena wished to make a long stay. If Randolph remained absent,

she must find someone else to locate Quentin. She hadn't come so far to run back to New York

with her mission unaccomplished.

Unless Cole came after her. And she would not think about that.

She began to study the passersby with greater attention. There was a man who might possibly

approximate a gentleman; his clothes were clean, at least. That man had a respectable-looking

woman on his arm, if any such creatures existed here. And as for that fellow there—

"Excuse me, ma'am," a low voice said. "May I be of assistance?"

She looked up into the shaded face of a true Western specimen, complete with broad-brimmed

hat and deeply suntanned features. He lifted his hat just enough for courtesy and regarded her,

unsmiling.

Instantly she found herself comparing him to Mr. Randolph. His trousers, shirt, and waistcoat

were simple and worn, far from those of a dandy. He was rangy and loose-limbed, with sandy

hair that gave him a youthful look. But he had a certain quality about him that she had

recognized in Randolph only toward the end: a tough independence that didn't reveal itself so

much in externals as in attitude.

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She found, however, that she could face this stranger with none of the unease she'd felt with

Randolph. There was no point in standing on ceremony. "Thank you," she said. "I would

appreciate being directed to the nearest respectable establishment that serves refreshments."

He touched the brim of his hat again. "That would be the Kit Carson Hotel, ma'am." His gaze

dropped to her trunks. "Were you waiting for someone?"

Though her incautious decisions had not been particularly successful of late, she decided to risk

another. "The gentleman I was supposed to meet has been… somewhat delayed. You do not, by

chance, know a Mr. Thomas A. Randolph?"

The transformation in his expression was brief and startling, reserved courtesy replaced by

keen attention. "Randolph?" he repeated sharply. His right arm moved, pushing his loose coat

open, and she caught a glimpse of leather, mother-of-pearl, and silver. She'd heard that

firearms were a required item of apparel on the frontier.

"Mr. Randolph was to help me locate my brother, Quentin Forster," she said, observing him

carefully.

"Forster?" he said. "Might I know your name, ma'am?"

"Lady Rowena Forster. Have we met before, sir?"

"No, ma'am… but I didn't expect to meet my brother's fiancée in Colorado. I'm Weylin

MacLean."

Rowena absorbed the information with surprise that she was just able to contain. Weylin

MacLean, Cole's younger brother. She'd heard about him, of course, but had always been told

that he was running the family business in the West.

Well, this was certainly the West, and Weylin MacLean was in his element. The only

resemblance he bore to his cultured brother was a slight likeness in the eyes and a sense of

determination. He didn't have Cole's aura of driving power; even his accent was different, a

drawl that she supposed must come from his Texas birth.

She offered her hand. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. MacLean," she said,

"however unexpectedly."

He barely touched her hand and released it. "I just came in on the train myself," he said. "Cole

didn't tell me you were traveling West."

"I'm sorry that we didn't meet. Were you in New York?"

"No, ma'am. I was on other business." His gaze measured her dispassionately. "Cole doesn't

know you came out here alone."

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He certainly must by now, Rowena thought, hiding a shiver. She didn't intend to explain herself

to Cole's brother. "I was not alone, Mr. MacLean. Mr. Randolph was escorting me. He was

perfectly honorable—until he disappeared."

Weylin grunted. "I'd never doubt a lady's word." He bent to pick up her lighter trunk, tucked it

under his arm, and then grabbed the second. "You're here, and you're to be my brother's wife.

I'll see you safe until you go back to New York."

"I should hate to put you to any trouble."

He didn't answer but started away from the station across La Junta's main street. Evidently he

was no conversationalist, and that suited Rowena just fine.

Nevertheless, her mind was crowded with questions by the time Weylin had checked her trunks

with a clerk at the hotel and found her a secluded table in the dining room. The place was

hardly elegant, but she knew from the train's short meal stops that it was far from the most

primitive. The clientele was mixed, ranging from well-dressed men who might have been at

home in New York to the most disreputable of ruffians and females of dubious virtue. All

seemed to accept each other as social equals.

Weylin secured a waiter, who was able to provide Rowena with tea. She sipped it with genuine

appreciation as he sat down in the opposite chair.

"How did you meet Randolph?" he asked abruptly.

His request was less a command than an exhibition of his utter lack of gentility. She met his

gaze coolly.

"He came to see me in New York," she said. "My brother Quentin has been traveling in the

West. Mr. Randolph told me that he knew Quentin in New Mexico, and that he was in trouble.

He was certain that only I could influence Quentin to leave his hazardous pursuits."

"And you believed him."

His comment stung. She was beginning to realize that she might have made a serious

misjudgment, for which she could do nothing but blame herself. "I had every reason to do so,"

she said. "He spoke of my brother as only a friend could." She chafed at his silence. "Why

should a stranger wish to lure me west, Mr. MacLean? Do you know something about this

Randolph that I do not?"

Weylin studied her as if she were an annoying inconvenience that he might dispose of with

minimal attention. "I know he's no gentleman."

"Then perhaps you might tell me what he is."

"It's enough to say that you were duped, ma'am, by a scoundrel."

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If he hadn't been Cole's brother, she would have issued a chilling set-down. Once upon a time,

that is—under Cole's tutelage, she had lost the knack. And Weylin might report on her

behavior. She smiled with her best feigned courtesy.

"I see. What of my brother?"

"I've never heard of your brother."

Rowena gazed at her gloved hands and saw how tightly they were clasped. She eased them

apart and sipped at her cooling tea. "Since I have come all this way, Mr. MacLean, perhaps I

might impose upon you to help me locate him—or at least be sure he is not in the vicinity."

"I'm afraid that I have other business, Miss Forster, and you can't stay in La Junta." He

summoned the nearest waiter and asked for the check. "There's a decent family with a ranch

halfway to Trinidad. I'll take you there, and send a telegram to Cole. If he's not on his way here

by now."

Rowena felt less than cheered by the prospect of facing an angry Cole alongside his overly

plainspoken brother. "Then it makes more sense for me to remain in town," she said. "You did

offer your protection."

"I can't have a woman involved in my business," he said. "If Cole were here, he'd say the same.

You'll have womenfolk with you at the Bailey ranch."

She supposed he thought she should be grateful for his 'concern.' "I was under the impression,"

she said, "that one of your ranches is in the north of New Mexico Territory. Is that not directly

south of here?"

"South and several days' ride. Did you come equipped for that, Miss Forster, when you lit off

from New York?"

"I have been riding since I was a child."

"You're a gently bred lady, Miss Forster. Cole has told me that many times. You wouldn't last

more than a day out here."

She flushed, remembering how willingly she'd accepted Cole's insistence that she have no part

in his family's business in the West. She should be in complete agreement with her future

brother-in-law.

It was mortifying that the first argument that came into her mind was the least acceptable, the

one she refused to consider: that she was far more than any merely human woman. She would

sooner be lost in the desert than admit that aloud.

"Nonetheless, Mr. MacLean—"

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"It's not open to discussion." He rose and adjusted the collar of his coat. "Would you care for a

meal while you wait, Miss Forster?"

"No, thank you."

"Then please remain here until I come back." He touched the brim of his hat and strode out of

the dining room.

It appeared that she'd misjudged Weylin MacLean in one respect; he was good at giving

commands, like Cole, and he was just as determined to protect her from her own folly.

She wondered why she had begun to resent it.

Nearly two hours passed before Weylin MacLean returned with a hired carriage. It was not an

attractive vehicle, consisting primarily of a flat bed resting on four wheels fitted out with a

bench like seat in the front. Weylin called it a "buckboard."

"It'll get us where we're going," he said, lifting her trunks into the boot of the conveyance. "If

we start now, we'll make the Bailey ranch by nightfall."

Delightful, Rowena thought. She'd stooped once to arguing with him; she would not do so

again. There must be some other way to learn if there was any truth to Randolph's news of

Quentin.

Weylin tied his speckled mount to the buckboard and helped her onto the hard wooden seat.

He shook the reins over the scruffy horses and set off down the street toward the edge of town.

Rowena tilted her parasol against the bright afternoon sun, studying every face they passed.

Not one was familiar.

Turning southwest, Weylin directed the buckboard along the barely visible dirt track that

passed for a road across the plain. The land here was broken with low hills and dry washes,

desolate in the extreme. Prairie grass, spattered with wildflowers, stretched for miles to the

east, north and south, while mountains edged the western horizon with a faint blue rim.

Of all the places Rowena had passed on the journey West, none was so daunting as this. She

had seen prairie rolling past the train window, but hadn't ventured beyond the limits of each

depot where they'd made brief stops. The very openness made her shiver as if with some

strange foreboding. At first nothing seemed alive save for the grass, clumps of unfriendly cactus