Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham

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.

      She lay still, catching her breath for the longest time, and then she curved into him and said, “Lawrence, why are you back? You’re not due for—”

      He brought his fingers to her lips. “In time,” he whispered. It almost sounded as if he were crying, but she didn’t question him. She knew him well enough to know he would answer in his own time. They had grown up together, had spun their dreams for a life with each other forever.

      He held her close for a long time, and then they made love again. Throughout, he whispered “I love you” so many times that she lost count.

      And when she slept, it was in the comfort of his arms, basking in the love of their youth and their dreams for the future.

      But in the morning he was gone.

      She was amazed, disbelieving. She even went into town and asked if anyone had seen him. Sheriff Perkin looked at her as if she were plumb crazy.

      “Why, Molly, my dear, you know he’s off on the trail with his hands. Honey, the man’s barely left. He wouldn’t be human if he’d made it back here so fast, now would he? Are you sure you’re all right out there? You’re looking kind of peaked. You ought to come in and stay with my Susie. With our boys off helping on the cattle drive, she’s right lonely.”

      Molly thanked him but said that she couldn’t stay. She went home, completely perplexed. Lawrence had been there on what she’d come to call the night of the wolves, for that eerie howling. She knew it. She could still see his eyes, still hear his words, feel his touch. He loved her; he had made love to her.

      It was two days later when Doc Smith came out with the sheriff and his sweet wife, Susie. All three were pale and drawn.

      She knew something was wrong. She had actually known it from the moment she heard the horses’ hoofbeats. She stood on the porch, clutching the rail as they approached. By her side, Bartholomew let out a low and mournful howl.

      Just like the wolves.

      She was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. And when the sheriff walked toward her, his old bulldog face filled with grief, she knew.

      “No!” she said. “No, he’s not dead. Lawrence isn’t dead. He isn’t, he isn’t, he—”

      “My poor dear!” Susie Perkin, pretty and round, hurried to Molly, taking her into her arms.

      “They were attacked right outside town, just a few days after they left. Cattle rustlers, I’m thinking, ‘cause there wasn’t sight nor sound of any cattle to be found,” Sheriff Perkin said. “Cattle rustlers … Comanche or Apache, most like. We can’t rightly tell which. But there are some arrows at the site … some feathers, but—”

      “No!