Cecily stretched out her legs, licked her lips, and began to count her wedding presents.
It had been a day like this one—crisp, cold, and ready with a gentle gift of new snow—when Morgan had gone to the wolves and left the bitterness of his old life behind.
Once more he stood on such a threshold. Once more he considered casting off his previous existence just as he shook the snowflakes from his fur. But this change was not so easy.
This change was terrifying.
He crossed the open meadow at a fast lope, paws striking the ground noiselessly as he pursued the hare. Sharp air pierced the insides of his nostrils and whistled past his ears. Scents were always more acute at this time of year, and he knew, as he passed, where the bear had chosen her den, the bobcat had made his most recent kill, and the squirrel had stored her winter provisions.
Windswept leaves and moist earth, the dry stalks of tender plants, and brittle twigs brushed his pads and the short fur that fringed his feet. Most of the last week’s snow had melted, for the days were not yet cold enough to maintain it. But soon, the wind promised. Soon, the pines whispered. Soon it will be winter again, and you must choose.
The hare dodged abruptly to the left, hoping to evade its deadly pursuer. But Morgan was more than wolf, just as he was more than man. He spun in midair and cut directly across the hare’s path. It skidded to a stop no more than a foot from his lowered head. He could hear its stuttering heartbeat as it flattened to the ground and waited in silent, terrified resignation.
Morgan touched the trembling body with the tips of his toes. Years ago, he would not have paused as he did now. A wolf did not contemplate the feelings of his victims. He thought of his empty belly and the hard winter ahead.
Sentimental fool. Morgan backed away, shaking his head in disgust. The hare remained still. Morgan bared his teeth and snapped at the air. The hare leaped straight up and was off before the mist of Morgan’s breath ebbed away.
Was this inexplicable urge for mercy not proof? Proof that, even if he wished, he could not go back to the wolves?
He heard them often, singing in the mountains. They stayed away from the ranch, but they were there. A new pack, one that would accept his presence just like the first. Until, one by one, they were killed by men or driven deeper into the wilderness.
Driven. Instinct and need drove the wolf. The thing that drove Morgan was a far more brutal master. It collared him with new memories and hopes, yanked and tugged him again and again toward those who had claimed his loyalty. Toward the ranch, and to the east and the city where
Athena Munroe lived out her life of rules, rank, and restrictions.
She would not come here. She would be a fool to do so, and Athena was no fool. Yet each time Morgan ranged a little farther to the edge of the long park, gazed up at the hills and dreamed of escape, he turned and went back.
Just as he did today.
The slow-witted cattle that browsed on the brittle grass blinked at him as he gave them wide berth. Munroe’s ranch hands, who answered to the foreman and seldom saw their employer, were not even aware that a wolf roamed the park. Morgan was careful to choose paths that concealed his tracks. The last thing he wanted was a pack of men up in arms over the presence of a lone wolf among their precious livestock.
The afternoon sky had taken on the flat gray patina of imminent snowfall, darkened with vertical drifts of smoke from the ranch’s many chimneys. Morgan circled the outbuildings and the two bunkhouses, one reserved for the ranch hands and one for the troupers. He trotted out to the barn where the troupe’s horses were stabled, nudged open the door, and jumped up into the hayloft where he kept his clothing.
He dressed and walked among the horses, making note of their condition. They were growing lazy and complacent here, just as he was.