Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham

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       Praise for the novels of

      HEATHER GRAHAM

       writing as Shannon Drake

      “Drake constructs a well-drawn plot and provides plenty of sexual tension and romantic encounters as well as exotic scenery.”

       —Publishers Weekly on The Pirate Bride

      “Bestselling author Drake … keeps Ally’s relationship with her aunts and godparents playful, forming an intriguing contrast with the grim progress of the murder probe, while satisfying romantic progress and rising suspense keep the book running on all cylinders.”

       —Publishers Weekly on Beguiled

      “Drake is an expert storyteller who keeps the reader enthralled with a fast-paced story peopled with wonderful characters.”

       —RT Book Reviews on Reckless

      “[Shannon Drake] captures readers’ hearts with her own special brand of magic.”

       —Affaire de Coeur on No Other Woman

      “Bringing back the terrific heroes and heroines from her previous titles, Drake gives The Awakening an extraspecial touch. Her expert craftsmanship and true mastery of the eerie shine through!” —RT Book Reviews

      “Well-researched and thoroughly entertaining”

       —Publishers Weekly on Knight Triumphant

      Also available from

       HEATHER GRAHAM

      writing as

       SHANNON DRAKE

      THE PIRATE BRIDE

      THE QUEEN’S LADY

      BEGUILED

      RECKLESS

      WICKED

      Night of the Wolves

      Heather Graham

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To some of my favorite Aussies,

       with a bit of Kiwi, too.

      Rosemary Potter

      Cherie Watts

      Christina Tanvadji

      Frances Bomford

      Monthiti Danjaroensuk

      Margaret Bell

      and

      Mandi Hutton

       PROLOGUE

       1838

       The Republic of Texas

      FIRST SHE HEARD THE HOWLING of the wolves. In the West, once you got past the cities and out on the trails leading to the lands of the ranchers and homesteaders, the sound wasn’t unusual. It was still eerie, but it wasn’t unusual.

      But this was so early.

      And after that, when the air went so very still …

      That was when Molly Fox knew that something was wrong, seriously wrong.

      Bartholomew, who was generally a fine guard dog, was acting like anything but. He started to whine, tucked his tail between his legs and, keeping low to the ground, crept into the bedroom and under the bed.

      The strange silence continued. Molly listened, but she couldn’t even hear the sound of the wind moving through the trees.

      Taking Lawrence’s old rifle, she went out on the porch. As she stood there, she saw the dying sun far on the western horizon.

      As she watched, it seemed to fall to the earth like a fiery globe, sending out tentacles of flame to tease the heavens. It was beautiful, but then, as if it had been enfolded in a dark blanket, it suddenly disappeared as it plummeted to the earth. The last vestiges of pink and pale yellow, mauve and silver, faded from the sky. Even twilight was gone; night had taken over.

      Molly stood in the darkness for a moment, then gave herself a shake and quickly retreated inside to light the kerosene lamp on the table.

      Bartholomew was still cowering in the bedroom.

      “Come out, you ragamuffin,” Molly called, though she was still illogically unnerved herself.

      She was accustomed to living out here. Lawrence and she had picked up stakes from Louisiana and come here to accept her inheritance from a father she’d never met: a small cattle ranch, but not a very profitable one. Still, they had been able to hire five hands, who lived in the bunk-house just the other side of the stables, and she even had a girl in from town to help her clean the place and keep up with the cooking, five days a week. They were young; they spent their nights dreaming and their days working hard to make those dreams a reality.

      When he was off on a cattle drive, like the one he had recently left on, Lawrence didn’t like to leave her alone, and he’d once suggested that they splurge for her to stay in town, but she hadn’t wanted to go. He worried about a rogue cowhand or a rustler, or a plain old villain of any variety, who might come along. But she knew how to shoot, and she would hear a horseman coming. Plus she had Bartholomew—who at the very least made a terrible ruckus if there was a stranger around.

      He didn’t usually hide under the bed.

      Molly set about lighting the rest of the lamps in the parlor and dining area, kitchen, and even her bedroom—she didn’t want Bartholomew spooked any further. Just moving around and doing something made her feel better.

      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