Once A Wolf (23 page)

my friend?"

"How many times have I kept you from dying when you were bent on it?" He looked away.

"How many times have you saved my life?"

Tomás fell silent. It seemed a century ago since he'd found Sim staked out in the desert, half-

naked and badly injured, left for dead and to the tender mercies of vultures and coyotes. His

tongue had been too swollen for speech at the time, but afterward, in his feverish babblings,

he'd said more in a day than he would for the next several years.

Wild talk. Promises of bloody retribution. Tomás had pieced together his brutal life from those

curses. Curses for the enemies who'd left him to die—and most of all for the woman who had

betrayed him. A woman he'd loved.

Later, when he knew Sim's name, he heard other bits and pieces, enough to know that Sim had

been a killer, a pistolero who hired out his gun with no questions asked. Tomás never inquired

about his past. Whatever sins the man had committed, he had no further interest in them.

Once recovered, the sinister Sim Kavanagh began to shadow his rescuer with the grim

persistence of a dangerously loyal dog.

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In time, that obsession had grown into something else. The change came when Sim saved him

from a hunter's trap, and saw for the first time what he was. Tomás had nearly torn off his own

hind foot in an effort to escape—and then Sim was there.

And Sim understood, without words. He stopped shadowing Tomás's every move, but he was

always ready to fight at his side. Only he had the influence to restrain Sim from the violence

that came as easily to him as the Change came to Tomás.

The bond that had grown up between then was never spoken. It ran far too deep to dismiss,

even for the sake of Rowena's pride. Or his own.

"You shouldn't worry about me, amigo," he said. "I take life as it comes. To worry is to die a

little at a time. Better the swift death met boldly, no es verdad?"

Once, Sim would have agreed without hesitation. He took a long drag on his cigarette and

didn't answer.

Tomás began to lose his patience. "What is it about Lady Rowena that you hate so much?

Because one woman betrayed you—"

"Because a MacLean hurt you, you steal from any rico who has dealings with them."

"They killed my parents, stole our ranch—"

"Hell, I don't care how much you steal from snakes like MacLean. But when you take a hostage

and then get so hot for her that you start thinking with your cojones, you're setting yourself up

for the noose. If she drags you down, she's my enemy."

Tomás jumped up again. "Damn you, Sim. What I do is my business. Don't make me choose. If

you ever harm a hair on her head—"

"You'll kill me?" He drew a burning trail of ashes across the back of his hand, oblivious to the

pain. "You play at being a killer, Tomás, but you don't have it in you."

Tomás snatched the cigarette from his hand, and Sim spun into a crouch facing him. The urge to

Change was suddenly very strong, responding to threat, needing to prove dominance. Few men

had ever triggered such a formidable compulsion.

"Maybe you forget what I am," he said, breathing fast.

"I don't forget."

"I could force you to leave this canyon. You'd never find your way back."

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"Or I could kill you first." Sim's ivory-handled Peacemaker was pointed straight at Tomás's

chest. He grunted a laugh and pushed the gun back in its holster. "Why bother? MacLean'll get

you anyway."

The blood-song of danger was loud in Tomás's ears. "It will take more than a bullet to kill me."

"Shit." Sim shook his head. "You've lost your head, hombre. You want the… lady. That I can

almost understand. But you're after more than her body, or revenge."

"Estas loco."

"Am I? I've seen how you look at her. The way you treat her. And she's your breed." He cocked

his head. "Maybe you can't help it."

Tomás wasn't shocked that Sim knew of Rowena's werewolf nature. He would have learned

sooner or later. But the rest was sheer insanity.

"I didn't know you had such a fine imagination," he said. "No one controls me, Sim, not even

the wolf. And as for the lady—she's only a challenge. It amuses me to lay my trap with kindness.

She'll come to my bed of her own choice. Before I'm done, she'll spit on the name MacLean."

Sim met his stare. "Believe that, if you have to," he said. His expression altered; it softened, like

jagged rock miraculously worn to smoothness in an instant. "Give her up, Tomás. Let her go.

She'll be your death."

For a moment Tomás believed him. More than believed; he sensed what Sim feared so greatly

that he'd challenge his friend and stretch his loyalty to the breaking point.

Tomás laughed, unable to bear the alternative. "A pleasant enough way to die. But I don't

intend to let MacLean win." He grew serious and caught Sim's gaze. "There is but one thing I

demand of you. Swear, Sim—swear that you will never hurt Rowena."

"You could try to force me, like you said."

"I want your word. Your free word."

Sim was quiet for a long time. "I won't hurt her," he said in a gruff whisper. "I swear."

"And you must leave the girl Esperanza alone."

"All right."

A great weight lifted from Tomás's body. "Muy bien." He relaxed the muscles of his neck and

shoulders with a roll of his head. "Now I have other business to attend to."

Sim stared eastward, jaw set. "When do we ride out again?"

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"Patience, my friend. Soon."

He left the pistolero to smoke his last cigarette and toss pebbles into the canyon. Whatever else

Sim might be, he'd never broken his word to Tomás. Rowena was safe. He had simply to keep

the two apart, until… until…

There is no future. Only now.

But he found himself looking forward to tonight like the besotted fool Sim so mistakenly

thought him to be.

Weylin rode far out onto the plain before he Changed.

How long had it been? He tried to remember as he dismounted and left his horse to graze on

the rich grass. Eight years? Ten?

He knew all the reasons why he'd stayed human so long. Father hadn't liked Changing; he'd

disliked it so much that he pretty much ordered his sons not to do it themselves. In those days,

you didn't defy Father easily, and Weylin had never been particularly rebellious.

Cole was. There'd been a time, years ago in Texas, when he'd Changed out of sheer cussedness

and hunted other men's sheep and cattle. Weylin had been a boy then, but the senseless

slaughter and wickedness of it had sickened him.

After Cole lost his arm in the battle with Fergus MacLean, he'd refused to Change again. A wolf

running on three legs was a pathetic creature; Cole would not tolerate any hint of vulnerability.

When Father died, Cole made it clear to the family that he expected them to follow his

example. And because in their kind the wolf was never entirely absent from the man, no matter

what the shape, instinct had demanded obedience… or challenge.

Weylin wasn't interested in challenge. He'd come to see Changing as undesirable, but not for

the reasons Cole and Father had.

The fact was that being a werewolf meant you had the advantage over every other man. It

meant you could smell a thousand times more keenly, move faster than human eyes could

follow, hear a needle hit the floor from five rooms away. It meant you could always win, just by

using powers you'd been born with but hadn't earned.

It was too easy. It proved nothing of a man's worth. And Weylin had realized that he didn't

want what he hadn't come by through his own honest efforts.

So he'd walked and ridden, fought and worked as human. He could still smell and hear better

than most men, and he was damned hard to hurt. That he couldn't alter. But he prided himself

on meeting other men on equal terms. No unfair advantages, no trickery, no deceit.

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He'd held to that code until now. Today. Because the man he hunted was un hombre-lobo, and

he'd run out of human ways to catch him.

Slowly he began to shed his clothes and weapons. When he was done, he packed them neatly

in his saddlebags. His horse was well trained to stay ground-tied, but the mare hadn't been

tested in the proximity of a wolf.

There was no reason to be self-conscious here. No observers.

He took in a long breath and set off at a jog. When he'd run just short of half a mile, he stopped.

And concentrated.

And Changed.

Liquid lightning ran through his veins as if he were the center of a desert storm. He flung back

his head, transfixed. He felt his edges soften and blur, turn into mist, begin to solidify again in a

new shape. There was no pain. No awkwardness. Only a deep sense of rightness… and joy. His

coat was thick and fair. On four strong legs he bestrode the plain, his senses bombarding him

with a thousand temptations. He knew that he could run for hours, days, almost invincible. Why

had Father been so reluctant, Cole so afraid?

This was what they were meant to be.

Drunk with jubilation, he gave way to impulse and tested the power of his body. He ran, and

leaped, and slid to absolute stillness. He stalked a butterfly. He caught an unwary rabbit and let

it go. And the human part of him realized as never before what he'd given up in pursuit of duty

and justice.

Duty and justice. The words were of man, not wolf, but they broke through his trance like a

bullet through paper. He wasn't led by the wolf, living wild with no regard for human law, like

Tomás Alejandro Randall.

Randall was his reason for becoming the wolf once more. He shook himself and concentrated

on his human form. The mist closed about him, and he stood on two feet, bereft of the magic

but not of purpose.

His horse was grazing where he'd left it. He shook out his clothes and dressed again, buckling

his gun in place.

Soon he'd return to Rito Pequeño, where the villagers had been so reluctant to help him. But

he'd go as a wolf, and as a wolf he had hope of finding what he'd missed: the elusive scent, the

one faint track that hadn't been erased by man or weather.

Timing was everything now. Weylin had a good idea what would happen if Cole found Randall

first. Word had already gone out that Cole was hiring up every loose pistolero and drifter in the

Territory. They'd have no qualms about using harsh methods to get people talking—people like

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those villagers in Rito Pequeño. The longer it took to find the outlaw, the greater chance that

innocents would suffer.

And the greater chance that Weylin would be obliged to brand his own brother an outlaw.

Weylin mounted and turned toward home, considering last-minute preparations. From now on

he'd be traveling light on his own four feet. He'd have to rig up some kind of pack to carry his

clothing and perhaps a knife; clearly a rifle was out of the question.

He wouldn't need a man's weapons. No more hesitation; no more failure. When he defeated

Randall, it would be with tooth and claw and his own werewolf strength.

Nestor lit the last candle and stepped away from the table. From her seat in the corner of the

room, Rowena had watched him transform the plain little casa into a romantic bower, complete

with wine, fresh wildflowers, crystal wine glasses, and the good china. Even the sun was

cooperating, spilling velvet shafts of golden-red evening light through the square windows.

All this was, of course, for her benefit. In a matter of minutes Tomás would appear at the door,

undoubtedly prepared to charm her to the utmost of his considerable ability. Perhaps he

thought this a more appropriate setting for seduction than a cave of ancient primitives.

Ironic; should she consider herself his hostess, or his guest? The one role she refused to play

was that of helpless victim. Nevertheless, she was grateful that Esperanza would dine with

them. Her presence, like that of a trained chaperon, must surely put a damper on Tomás's

amorous intentions.

Above all, it would be vital for her to control the conversation. She'd already settled on a

pertinent topic that would serve more than one goal.

She pulled two chairs away from the table, set Esperanza in one of them, and waited with

clasped hands. When the knock came, Nestor, who stood in the shadows like a well-trained

waiter, moved to answer it.

Tomás was attired in what must be his best finery: a black jacket of cloth embroidered with

braid and silver buttons, black close-fitting trousers with the same buttons running the outer

length, a wide red sash, polished boots, and a broad-brimmed black hat rimmed with silver