Once A Wolf (29 page)

always been revenge: to take what was Cole's and laugh while he tried to get it back.

"Is her life in danger?"

"You said not to waste your time, MacLean. Now you're wasting mine. I don't like this town."

He spat with perfect aim into the nearest cuspidor. "You want her back, or don't you?"

Cole reminded himself again that this man might be of use before he died. "You're ready

enough to double-cross your friend."

Kavanagh leaned over the table, eyes narrowed. "I don't have any friends, MacLean. Tomás

betrayed all his companeros when he decided to take your woman. He did it for himself. I won't

go down with him when she gets him killed."

"You just said I'd never find Randall."

"Not where he is now, and not soon. But you won't give up, will you, MacLean? Tomás think

he's tough, but he's not like you. You'd do anything to get him, kill anyone who stands in your

way. Like I would in your place."

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"Don't compare yourself to me, you son of a bitch."

Kavanagh shrugged. "Like you said, we understand each other. You're powerful because

nothing stops you. I know you'll get Tomás eventually. I don't plan to be on the losing side of

the final war."

"You should have thought of that before you rustled MacLean cattle."

"Maybe I've seen the evil of my ways. Maybe I've gotten used to living."

"Is that what you want for bringing back my fiancée? Your life?"

"I don't expect gratitude, MacLean. Just a pardon from the governor, and your word to let me

leave the Territory alive."

Cole laughed sarcastically. "That's all?"

"You have the influence. The governor will do it if you ask him."

Scum or not, Kavanagh knew the way of politics in New Mexico. He didn't underestimate the

MacLeans' clout in the Ring that made the Territory's unofficial law.

"Yes," Cole said. "I have the influence. Why should I believe you can get Lady Rowena way from

Randall?"

"Because Tomás trusts me."

And that was Randall's fatal flaw, that he could trust a man such as this. It was an error Cole

would never have made. Nor would Kavanagh. Self-interest, not trust, would bind any

agreement between them.

Until Cole had what he wanted. Then all bets were off.

Cole ran his finger up and down the ivory grip of Kavanagh's Peacemaker. "I'll guarantee your

life if you bring me the lady—and Randall." No.

The answer was too swift. "I thought you didn't owe him any loyalty."

"Stealing the woman is one thing. Going up against Tomás—that's suicide."

"Do you think it's safer going against me, Kavanagh?"

The outlaw pushed his chair back from the table. "That's why I'm here. Have we got a deal?"

As far as Cole could see, the advantages were all on his side. If Kavanagh succeeded, it would

save him the time, trouble, and expense of finding Randall's weakness. And Kavanagh wouldn't

survive to use his governor's pardon.

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"All right," he said. "I'll let you leave Las Vegas alive, this time. I'll give you two weeks to return

with the Lady Rowena, unharmed. And untouched."

The question was evident in the outlaw's eyes: What if she has been touched? Cole didn't

bother to answer. Rowena's virtue was unassailable; she'd die before submitting to any would-

be rapist.

"Bring her back," he said, "and you'll have your pardon and a week to get out of the Territory."

The door creaked open behind them; Kavanagh's gun fairly leaped from the table and into his

hand. The bartender stood knock-kneed in the doorway with a pair of smudged glasses and a

bottle balanced precariously on a tray.

"Your drinks?" he said in a high voice.

Kavanagh holstered his revolver and snatched the bottle from the tray before the bartender

could set it down. He took a long pull and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"You got a deal," he said, thrusting the bottle at Cole.

With open scorn Cole took the bottle, set it on the table, deliberately cleaned the mouth with

his handkerchief, chose a glass and poured himself a measure. "Deal."

He accompanied Kavanagh to the rear door of the saloon and signaled his men to let the outlaw

go. Kavanagh's sharp eyes picked out the hidden observers one by one.

"Tell them not to follow me," he said.

Cole had already considered and discarded that plan. Kavanagh was too smart to let them trail

him far. Only a werewolf could succeed in pursuing such a man without being detected and

stopped.

Damn Weylin for being gone when he might finally prove useful.

As Kavanagh mounted and rode west out of town, Cole was almost tempted to follow himself.

To see Randall dead, once and for all…

Phantom pain thrust into the stump of his arm like a white-hot branding iron. No. Randall

wasn't worth his personal effort. Not until every other possibility was exhausted. And he had a

very strong premonition that trusting Sim Kavanagh was the first of Tomás Randall's final, most

deadly mistakes.

Weylin picked up the horseman's track at midmorning, just beyond the village of Tecolote,

roughly ten miles southwest of Las Vegas at the edge of the Santa Fe Trail.

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He recognized the scent immediately and felt the grim pleasure of long-awaited victory. After

only four days of running as a wolf, out of contact with his brother or any human being, he'd

found what he'd sought for so many years.

He followed the spoor with an ease impossible in his human form, running silent and unseen at

a steady, ground-eating lope. The rider pushed his mount hard, keeping away from the main

trail where settlers and merchants drove their carts and wagons. It was well past sunset when

he stopped to rest at the place called Glorieta Pass.

Weylin lay among the trees downwind from his prey and watched Sim Kavanagh make camp for

the night. In all those years of tracking Randall's band, he'd never come so close to the outlaw

said to be even more ruthless than Randall himself. Sim Kavanagh was wanted in several states

and by the federal government for crimes too innumerable to count; the man who brought him

in would be acclaimed a hero.

It took great discipline for Weylin to remain quiet and still. So long, so long he had waited for a

moment like this. His wolf's blood cried out for action; the hair remained stiff and erect along

his spine, and he hardly cared about the emptiness of his belly or the ache in his paws.

Kavanagh might run with a werewolf, but he was no match for one.

Weylin growled deep in his throat. Power flowed through him, muscle and sinew and bone,

begging to be used. All this he'd given up in refusing to Change, just for some antiquated notion

of fairness and honor.

Men like Sim Kavanagh didn't hesitate to use their advantages to get what they wanted. Skill

with a gun, cleverness, or a convenient lack of scruples—those were human talents to be

wielded in the service of greed and cruelty. There was no reason in the world that one born

more than human shouldn't embrace his birthright in the service of something far greater.

Weylin stretched, feeling the strength in a body made to run and leap and hunt with perfect

efficiency. If he'd ignored Cole's disapproval and done this from the beginning, Randall's career

of harassment, theft, and murder might have ended before it began.

As Kavanagh's might be ended here and now. But he was Weylin's best chance of finding

Randall's hidden lair.

Kavanagh finished his scanty meal of jerky and lay down on a thin blanket with his saddle for a

pillow. His horse stood hip-shot beside him, dozing. Weylin laid his head on his paws and

waited. He fell into a light sleep and jerked awake, only to find Kavanagh turning onto his side

with a restless motion.

The next time he woke, Kavanagh was standing over him, his gun fixed on Weylin at point-blank

range.

He leaped up. The gun fired, and searing agony sliced into his side. He fell, all four legs splayed

as if in the throes of death. Then he lay still.

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Kavanagh nudged him with his boot. Weylin knew he could kill with a well-aimed shot to the

heart or the head; his only hope lay in pretending that the first shot had hit its mark.

Perhaps it had. Weylin felt blood mat his fur as his limbs lost all sensation. Was this death? Was

this what Kenneth and Father had felt in their final moments?

His breaths came too shallow for Kavanagh to detect. After a little while the outlaw walked

away and left him to finish dying alone.

Thirteen

Four days. Four days Tomás had been gone, and instead of the relief and sense of freedom his

absence should have brought her, Rowena felt only restless worry and a strange sort of

loneliness.

She felt it now as she stood by the window and gazed out at the pale salmon cliffs, watching for

his return. He, Kavanagh, and another of his men had left the canyon the very same evening of

her devastating encounter with him by the waterfall. She remembered, quite painfully, the

hours following that meeting, when she'd tried to prepare herself for their next inevitable

confrontation. Planning what she'd say to him. How she'd act. What she would do to make sure

such a thing never happened again.

But her thoughts had been all confusion and her emotions in turmoil long after she returned to

the village. She'd allowed herself to breathe a bit easier when he didn't show up for dinner that

night. And then Nestor had told her he'd ridden out.

Just like that, without a word to her. Leaving her to imagine what reckless and dangerous acts

he might commit to defy and impress the world. Consigning her to relive the dreamlike

moments in the pool beneath the waterfall and suffer the aches and fears and ecstasies those

forbidden memories evoked.

Compelling her to find some purpose and occupation here in this robber's nest—or go quite

mad.

"Senorita?"

Pilar tugged on her sleeve. She glanced down with a smile, making a serious effort to cast off

her distraction.

"Look, señorita!" The girl held up the small, chipped slate proudly. "I can write 'cow' in English

and Spanish!"

"So I see. Excellent work, Pilar."

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And, indeed, it was—better than Rowena could have hoped after a mere three days'

instruction. Pilar was her most advanced student, eager to learn. Rowena had little enough to

work with in this makeshift schoolroom, and her pupils were not always attentive during the

handful of hours they spent with her.

But it was a start. The day following Tomás's disappearance, when she'd first conceived the idea

to begin teaching the children of the canyon, it had seemed an unlikely scheme. She couldn't

abide spending all her time searching for a way to escape, especially not when she saw that she

might do some good for the children even before he returned.

She'd gone to Nestor for help; much to her satisfaction, he had agreed. He'd accompanied her

that very morning to see the children's fathers as they went to work in the fields along the

stream. The men had reacted to her proposal with reserved surprise at first, and then with

growing interest. In the end, they'd agreed to let the children come to her for basic schooling in

English for a few hours a day.

Pilar and Enrique, the orphans, were another matter. They had no family demands on their

time and few chores to perform. Pilar was enthusiastic at the prospect of learning, Enrique less

so; the boy had thus far come to school but once in three days.

The others made up for his lapses. Rowena glanced around the main room of the casa. Gita, too

young yet to begin any formal instruction, sat in the corner and played with a carved wooden

dog. Pilar, Gertrudis, and Aquilino sat at the table, sharing the slate to practice their letters,

while Miguel and Catalina sang the English nursery song she'd taught them, carefully sounding

out the new words.

Considering that only Enrique and Pilar spoke much English, they'd made remarkable progress.

Nestor had been invaluable as translator and familiar figure of authority. Moreover, he'd

miraculously conjured up several schoolroom supplies she hadn't dared to hope for: the slate

for writing, a box of broken chalk and stubby pencils, a pair of books in English. Nestor couldn't

tell where they'd come from or who had last used them.

They would certainly be put to excellent use from now on. Not only was she able to begin

teaching the children basic English, but she was learning Spanish as well. The boys and girls

found it most entertaining that she was so ignorant. The first day had been spent trading