Challenged

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the

following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Bronco: Ford Motor Company

Chapter One

Stone McAllister hadn’t been to Banff this much since he was a cub. And the town

sure had changed. Human tourists from all over the world made the air thick with

smells of polyester, cigarette smoke, and stuffed stale emotions. The small town nestled

in the mountains was nothing like the cozy haven he remembered as a cub.

That was just like humans though. Find a beautiful paradise and they all flocked

there until it lost its isolated wonder.

He parked the truck in a rather empty parking lot on the edge of town and headed

toward the large wooden structure—The Last Howl. A rather corny name for a

werewolf tavern, but he wasn’t looking for anything classy, just a cold beer and maybe

a loose bitch or two who would put out a piece of tail.

His cell phone rang as he reached the large wooden door to the tavern. Standing

outside the place, a faint smell of beer lingering through the seasoned wood, he pulled

his phone from the belt and glanced at the number on it.

“Yup,” he said, idly looking around the lot and then up at the surrounding

mountains.

“You headed home?” Marc McAllister, his older littermate, broke up from a lousy

signal on the phone.

“Yeah.” Stone felt an empty pang sting his gut and pushed his way into the tavern.

“I’ll head toward Prince George by nightfall.”

The barmaid ran a heavily bleach-scented cloth over the top of the bar, giving him

the once-over the way a bitch always did the first time she saw him. This one was worth

looking back at. Maybe he would get lucky before heading back across country to his

den.

It had been over two weeks since he’d arrived in the Kananaskis territory and

helped his other littermate, and twin, Gabe, secure his mate. After helping Gabe build

his new den, a cozy cabin up the mountain, Gabe and his new mate, Pamela, had left on

a run into the Canadian Rockies, more than likely fucking day and night.

Nothing kept him here, yet he hadn’t returned to his pack in Prince George yet.

“Are there problems there?” Marc asked.

“We’ve got a bad connection. And there’s no problems.” Stone had no intention of

letting anyone know that going home to an empty den was about as appealing as

spending a day with humans.

Marc laughed. “We figured you were just going through every bitch in the pack out

that way. But we’ll see you when you get home.”

Stone hung up the phone and gave the barmaid the once-over. “How about a shot

of whiskey?”

The barmaid nodded, reaching beneath the counter and then pouring the dark

amber fluid into a small glass. She stood with bottle in hand, watching him, as if

anticipating that he was more than a one-shot werewolf.

“I don’t know you.” She cocked her head, curiosity the overwhelming scent on her.

“Would you like to?” He slid the shot glass toward her and she promptly filled it

again.

“Yes.” Her lack of hesitation should have drawn caution. “Are you new to the

pack?”

“Nope. Just passing through.” He took his time sniffing her out.

Blonde hair streaked with red highlights layered around her face. She was young,

in her early twenties he’d guess. Her clothes were too tight, just the way he liked them

on a willing bitch. More than likely her attire got her a fair amount of tips, and a roll in

the meadow after-hours too.

She had a smell of innocence about her, yet her actions belied that. Either she was a

tease, or her youth still clung to her in spite of her willing attitude.

There was only one way to find out. The little bitch didn’t know she messed with a

professional. He slid the glass to her again, and then leaned forward onto the counter as

he stared into her sapphire eyes.

“A lone werewolf,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Where is your

pack?”

“Prince George.” He let his gaze drop, the shirt she wore cut low enough to show

off a fair amount of cleavage.

Stone was willing to bet she wasn’t as built as her clothing implied. The right bra

pushed everything up and showed it off nicely. A bitch as young as she was seldom

had cleavage like that.

“You’re a long run from home, wolf-man,” she drawled, leaning forward against

the counter to give him a better view of what he stared at.

Stone shrugged. “All depends on how fast you are.”

When she smiled, her eyes sparkled like rare jewels. His insides hardened as a more

carnal side of him surfaced.

“I imagine you’re mighty fast.”

The door to the bar opened and daylight flooded the dimly lit establishment.

“Ali, my dear…a sight for sore eyes,” a voice boomed behind Stone. “Line us up

with a few beers. When does Cook arrive?”

“The same time he does every day,” she said, laughter in her tone.

Stone adjusted himself on the barstool so he could watch Ali take several beers to

the werewolves who’d just arrived. She wore tight jeans that displayed an ass tight

enough he knew he’d explode the second he got in her. Damn.

Her jeans were black and her leather, vest-like shirt was a soft brown. Accentuated

with that blonde hair that tapered just past her shoulders and had streaks of red that he

bet she’d added from a box, she had a bad bitch look about her. And damn it if he

didn’t like them on the wild side.

The tavern slowly filled as the afternoon wore on. Apparently “Cook” had a

reputation in this town. An older werewolf, salty around the edges with a sour attitude,

prepared some of the best burgers and steaks Stone had seen in a long time.

Pack members pushed their way through the door, rubbing sleep from their eyes.

Most werewolves enjoyed a good hard run at night, and napped when they could

around working hours. The best life was one Stone had, working for another Cariboo

who understood that a workday shouldn’t start before noon—allowed plenty of time to

sleep off the carousing from the night before.

Looking around the bar, he noticed the older werewolves, their unshaven faces and

their potbellies. Their body odors and appearance told him one thing. None of them

would get a better-cooked meal at their den.

He turned back to face the bar, his mood souring. He would end up like the lot of

them.

Like hell he would.

“I get off in thirty minutes. Take me somewhere nice?” Ali’s breath sent the hairs on

the side of his neck into a full salute.

It wasn’t the only part of him that jumped to attention.

She was off and running, carrying more beers to waiting customers before he could

respond. He’d switched to beer, and nursed his second glass, not wanting to leave there

drunk. But the alcohol had wound him up, and a roll in the meadow with a hot little

bitch like that might be just the pick-me-up he needed before heading back to Prince

George.

He turned to watch her bend over, her back to him, giving him an awesome ass

shot, while she delivered an order to a table. Her laughter was melodic, her body a

perfect ten. Those black jeans hugged long slender legs, and her hips were slender, her

tummy flat. Typical tight little body for a bitch her age. Except for those tits. Full and

round, they were so much more than a mouthful. What he wouldn’t do to rub his cock

between them, watch that perky little mouth open and try to suck him in.

When she turned toward the bar, she winked at him. Damn it if this fresh young

bitch didn’t want him bad. Letting his gaze stroll down her, he enjoyed watching her

cheeks flush a beautiful pink as she disappeared into the kitchen behind the bar.

God, he swore it was a helluva lot longer than thirty minutes before another

barmaid strolled in the door, older, a bit more street-smart in her appearance, and

nothing compared to Ali.

The two females chatted amiably at the end of the bar. Noise came from all

directions now, the locals filling the place with open talk of runs, and pack business. It

hadn’t been too many years ago that werewolves couldn’t enjoy such open discussions

in public. Humans knowing they existed had its good points too. This place wasn’t all

that different from Howley’s back home.

Home. He’d been in Prince George for five years. Prior to that, these mountains had

been his stomping ground. He could see why it hadn’t been hard for his twin to set up

his den here. Home was where there was happiness, a good bitch, something to call his

own and be proud about it. Going home to that empty den, where no one waited for

him, made his gut ache. He didn’t want to do it.

Finally Ali strolled up to him, nibbling her lower lip. She smelled of beer and fried

food, which hid her natural aromas. But those large sapphire eyes, not blinking as she

moved to stand next to him, staring up at him with a look of wonder in her expression,

told him enough.

He was a curiosity to her, the all-knowing werewolf out on the prowl.

“You better not be teasing me,” he warned her under her breath.