Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham

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      Then the wolves started howling again, and Molly heard Bartholomew whining softly in fear.

      “Bartholomew, you are not a hound, you are a chicken,” Molly called to the dog, trying to find a semblance of inner calm. “Those are just wolves, silly dog. Your cousins, in the grand scheme of things.”

      Her own voice sounded unnatural to her.

      And even as the sound of her words died, she was listening again. And what she heard—or rather, didn’t hear—was disturbing.

      The silence was back. A heavy silence that somehow just shouldn’t be.

      She’d left the gun by the door, and she quickly went back for it. Clutching the rifle with one hand, she carefully opened the front door again and walked back out on the porch.

      There was nothing out there. The moon was rising high now—maybe the wolves had known it was on the rise, climbing up in the sky even as the sun had died in all its magnificent splendor. She could see the yard in front of the house, the strong fence Lawrence and the men had built, and the paddocks beyond. She had gone out earlier and fed the two horses that remained in the stables, along with the chickens, and she was glad—she didn’t want to be far from the house now, or even Bartholomew, for whatever he was worth. She saw nothing, heard nothing, and yet she was afraid. She wished that she would hear the sound of hoofbeats or rowdy cowhands—or even outlaws; she could handle ill-mannered men, despite Lawrence’s fears for her. She blushed. Lawrence was convinced that she was beautiful, and that, surely, everyone saw it. She prided herself more on an admirable sense of honor; she believed in God and believed that He wanted most for everyone to be decent to one another. Whenever she said so, though, Lawrence would shake his head, smiling, rolling his eyes, and tell her that she was naive. But she was still happy. He loved her. And he was such a gorgeous man himself. Tall and strong, and so capable; she even loved his callused hands, because he got those calluses working for her. For their dreams. But he did worry.

      She had the respect and friendship of most folks in town; she certainly wasn’t afraid of them. Not even of any of the local cowhands or farmers; she could quell their bad behavior with one disapproving look.

      No, she was never afraid….

      Molly went from window to window, making sure they were all securely latched. The house had been built with a breezeway, Southern-style, so she went to the back door and assured herself that it was locked and latched, as well.

      All the lamps were on.

      The world was still eerily silent.

      She set water on the stove to make herself a cup of tea. She had best get over this silliness, she told herself. It would be weeks before Lawrence returned from his cattle drive.

      While the water heated, she marched herself into her bedroom.

      Bartholomew had come out from beneath the bed, but he was still crouched low, and he was making a strange whining sound.

      “Barty, stop it!” Molly implored. She went to her dressing table. The kerosene lamp set strange shadows to dancing around the room, something that didn’t help her jitters. Her face appeared gaunt in the mirror, her hazel eyes reflecting back at her filled with a shimmering gold. Her hair caught the light and seemed to spark with fire, appearing more red than usual. She picked up her brush and began to count out a hundred strokes.

      Bartholomew barked. She turned to look at him. “Barty!”

      He whined, and thumped his tail on the floor.

      Letting out a sigh, she turned back to the mirror.

      And that was when she saw him.

      She let out a startled scream, then turned with a gasp and relieved laughter.

      It was Lawrence. Somewhere he had changed from his cattle-drive denims and cotton shirt; he was dashing in a black suit and crimson vest, and a high black silk hat. He was so straight and strong, such a handsome man. Cajun blood ran through him; his brows and neatly maintained mustache and beard were pitch-black, like his hair and eyes. His features were strong and his mouth was generous, his smile filled with a sense of fun and just a shade of wickedness.

      She started toward him, then froze.

      There was something wrong. His face was so pale. He lifted a hand, as if to keep her away.

      “Molly,” he whispered. “Molly, I love you.”

      He was sick or injured, she thought; he looked as if he were about to fall. Filled with her love for him, she went to him.

      “What happened? My God, Lawrence, how did you even get in here? I had the place all locked up. Never mind. What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”

      She slipped her arms around him, leading him to the foot of the bed. They sank down together, and he turned and stared at her. He had to be fevered, and yet he was cold to the touch. She brought her fingers to his face, tears springing to her eyes. “My love, what’s wrong?”

      Shaking, he lifted his own hand to her face, his gaze intense as he told her, “Molly, I love you. I love you so much. You are everything that I’ve lived for, everything that’s good and wonderful and pure in life.”

      Then he kissed her, and though his lips were chilly at first, there was passion in his touch, and he seemed vibrant and vital and…

      Desperate…

      He kissed her deeply, with a hunger that was seductive all in itself. The way that his tongue moved in her mouth was suggestive and wildly sexual. She felt his fingertips on her shoulder, tugging at the cotton of her blouse, and the fabric that ripped and tore as he removed it seemed of little consequence. He threw off his hat, lifting her higher on the bed, and the fever was in his eyes as he looked down at her, then buried his face against her throat, her breast. “I love you. I love you so much. I shouldn’t be here, but I have to be here. By God, I won’t do another man ill, but I must be here.”

      She threaded her fingers through his rich dark hair. “I love you—I’ll always love you—and you belong here.”

      He said something, but it was muffled against her flesh as he kissed her breasts, laved them with his tongue, teased them with his teeth, a small pain, but one that was oddly erotic. Their clothing wound up strewn everywhere, and she had never felt more feverishly, thoroughly kissed. He seemed to cover every inch of her body even as she struggled to return the liquid caresses, his urgency streaking through her with the fury of a lightning bolt. Somewhere in the back of her mind she still worried that he was ill. But he couldn’t be that ill; no man could love with such steely passion if he were ill….

      He paid careful attention to all of her, first the entire length of her back, and then he flipped her over and caressed a slow and lazy zigzag pattern over her collarbone and breasts, down to her navel, her hips, her inner thighs, and then between them. She shrieked and clawed at him, and eventually brought him back to her. She couldn’t have felt more loved and sensual and sexual than when he rose above her and thrust into her. He loved her with his body and with his very soul, and she was dazzled and flying, whispering, crying out, soaring higher and higher. When she climaxed, the world seemed to burst like Chinese firecrackers and then tremble as if they’d been caught in an earthquake. Afterward, she clung to him, drifting back to sanity amid the shadows of their bedroom.

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