Wild Wolf: Black Mesa Wolves #4

Wild Wolf

Black Mesa Wolves # 4

J.K. Harper

March 2015

Tate Bardou is a successful horse whisperer living the cowboy dream. He's also a sweet heartbreaker with a panty-melting smile. As a dedicated Black Mesa Wolf Pack Guardian, his days have meaning and purpose. Yet despite his content life, something essential is missing from his soul. And damned if he can figure out what it is—until he meets stunning, half-wild Claire and everything falls into place.

Wild wolf Claire lives by her sharply honed instincts, leading a fiercely guarded solitary existence. Growing up without a pack, she was raised to believe they inhibit freedom. An independent wolf, however, leads a lonely and precarious life. When she meets Tate, her untamed heart is finally captured. Tate, however, is undeniably bound to his Pack—and Claire will never submit to their restrictive rules.

But when a dangerous wolf from Claire's past returns, Tate and his bewitching wild wolf must find common ground. Otherwise, they risk losing everything...especially what matters most to them both.

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Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Copyright Page

About J.K. Harper

J.K. Harper Books

For everyone who needs some wild in their lives

Tate inclined his head at the pretty young thing, who looked back at him with a coquettish expression on her face. Their gazes held for a moment, and Tate felt the connection between them, bewitching and ancient. Keeping his movements quiet and gentle, he took one small step toward her, then another. Slowly, he extended his hand toward her in the universal gesture of friendship.

With a sudden whinnying snort, the gorgeous filly tossed her head, kicked her heels up at him, and left him choking on dust as she galloped to the far end of the corral, bucking and farting the whole way. Once at the other end, she stood with her butt defiantly pointed at him.

Clearly, he'd charmed her.

Coughing and waving away the dust, Tate blew out his own snort of exasperation. He'd been rushing. Trying to impress new clients who had plenty of horses and deep pockets. He knew better. No female in the world liked to be hurried. They all wanted finessing and sweet talk. Even if they were a female of the equine persuasion. In fact, sometimes especially then. He'd built his horse training career based on that bone-deep knowledge. Today, he'd apparently forgotten his own rules. Love on those girls, whisper sweet nothings into their fuzzy ears, show them with his precise body language that they were queens but he was definitely king, and after the first training session he usually had them following him around as docile as a sweet, loyal pup. This one, though, was going to demand more proof he was truly worthy of being her leader.

Tate sighed. He definitely was out of practice with the ladies.

“You losing your touch, bro? Because I've seen 70-year-old guys with better moves than yours.” His brother Caleb lightly punched Tate's arm, shoving him off balance.

“Just means this one will be a challenge,” Tate replied, good-naturedly ignoring his pugnacious brother's joking insult. “Each horse teaches me something new.” Tate kept his eyes on the filly, who had both ears cocked back at them, listening. The breeze rushed by again, swirling another quick cloud of golden leaves onto the ground near his booted feet. Being mid-October, fall was literally landing in southwestern Colorado. “And I might have jumped the gun a little too soon,” he admitted. He slid his eyes toward the owners' house, a monstrous thing several hundred yards away from the horse barn. No sign of movement, and his sensitive shifter nose didn't catch a whiff of them outside. They hadn't noticed his little gaffe with their very expensive reining horse prospect.

“Never jump the gun with the girls,” Caleb advised him, tone utterly somber. “Total recipe for disaster. Take it slow. Best approach ever.”

“Right,” Tate said. He didn't bother saying that was his usual method, whether with a horse or a woman. Between the overwhelming joy and lust each of his siblings had gone through as they recently discovered their mates, Tate had felt like he was stuck in some hormonally-powered washing machine that banged him around each time he was near one of them in their happily besotted states. Every time he saw the formerly haunted Lily, she glowed. Whenever he ran into the usually reserved Rafe, his smile was content as a cat with cream. Now Caleb. His rough-and-tumble younger brother, the one who charged through life like that famous bull smashing up a china shop full of very breakable dishware, had fallen head over heels in love with a gentle, sensitive mate who'd somehow fallen right back for his dubious charms.

Tate was happy for them, of course. But it still made him slightly crazy. They walked around exuding so much bliss and spontaneous smiling, it about made a wolf a nervous wreck. Especially a single wolf who was perfectly fine with his life being that way. Uncomplicated and straightforward. No muss, no fuss. Easy and simple, just the way Tate preferred it. Not that he was opposed to a mate. But why rush into things?

His wolf rumbled with approval deep inside. Even so, the familiar deep sense of rudderless drifting nagged quietly at him. With a practiced flick of his thoughts, he banished it and grinned at his brother. Time to move on.

“You coming with me to Denver?” Some of Tate's favorite clients had taken such a shine to him they'd been recommending him to all their high society friends in the Western horse world, such as the people who owned this place about an hour southwest of Tate's home at the Black Mesa den. They'd also recommended him to friends of theirs near Denver. He flew there tomorrow morning, where a private car would pick him up and transport him to Evergreen, an insanely pricey horse enclave outside the city. There he would meet his insanely well-heeled new clients and see what they wanted done with their insanely pricey horses. He would do it depending on the actual needs of the horses, get the privilege of working with astounding animals during his weekend there, and collect a fat check at the end of it, some of which he would enjoy spending in the big city before he came back home.

It was a tough life, but someone had to live it.

Caleb shook his head, that goofy look slipping over it again. Tate rolled his eyes, which luckily were shielded by sunglasses.

“Nope. Got big plans for me and Ree this weekend. I'm taking her over the mountain to see the fall colors, then I booked a room for us at the hot springs resort.” Satisfaction rippled through his voice. “She's going to love it.”

Tate couldn't help himself this time. He groaned with theatrical alarm.

“You're such a goner. She's got you whipped pretty good.”

“Yup. She sure does,” Caleb said cheerfully, sounding not remotely concerned about it. “And I'm a better man for it.”

Tate huffed out a sigh. “Fine. At least I can head out of town on my own now. That rule of three thing got old, and fast.”

Caleb's expression darkened and Tate silently smacked himself upside the head. His wolf lowered his tail a bit and whined with regret. The agitating rogue threat had forced pack members to travel everywhere in groups of three for their safety. That very rule had helped get Caleb into some serious hot water—serious enough he'd been stripped of his Guardian duties.

If Tate could, he'd switch with his brother in a heartbeat. Tate had nothing but loyalty to his pack. Upholding the family tradition of becoming a Guardian had seemed the obvious path to him when he was a teenager. Despite that, his heart was never really in it. He'd come to realize he would much prefer to spend his life training horses, hanging out with sweet girls in town from time to time, and maybe being an on-call Guardian during tougher times. Simple, fun, and low stress.

Of course, there was no such thing as an on-call Guardian. Especially right now, with crazed rogues and an even crazier pack from Canada apparently stirring up some sort of war with all the North American wolf packs. For now, Tate Bardou was a Guardian for the Black Mesa Pack, regardless of his heart's deepest desire. And he would never let his pack down.

“It was necessary for the safety of the Pack,” Caleb said. His clipped response sounded automatic.

“It also got in the way of my training schedule,” Tate said, shrugging. The rule-of-three injunction recently had been lifted, but only for Guardians. The rogues had been suspiciously quiet since their last violent encounter with the Black Mesa Pack. No one had caught a single whiff of them for three months. Alpha still wanted all other pack members to obey the group travel rule, but he now allowed Guardians to travel alone, although it seemed like they had to fill out forms in triplicate stating their exact destinations and modes of transportation.

Despite the hassle, the reasons for which he understood, Tate had jumped at the chance to be able to train again without having an embarrassing entourage of Pack members with him—ones he had to pass off as apprentices to his slightly bemused clients. Today, Caleb had joined Tate merely as a cover up for Caleb's true mission: buying his mate some sexy present in the nearby town stores. Tate refused to know any more details than that, instead pretending to hurl when Caleb got that ooey-gooey look again as he started to describe the gift.

Caleb sure was a beaten down wolf now. But he was also an elated and frankly more peaceful one. Tate's own wolf whined again, sounding slightly puzzled.
Yeah, you and me both,
Tate thought. He pushed back the black cowboy hat he wore to get at an itchy spot just under the brim, then paused as the filly nonchalantly began to sniff at the ground in hopes of some food randomly lying around. Slowly, she'd inched her way a little closer to them, although one wary eye told Tate she wasn't quite ready to forgive him for his heavy-handed maneuvers earlier. Just as slowly, he began to amble toward the mare, making it seem as if he was just aimlessly meandering around the corral.

Caleb snorted and began to head back to the car. “Horses, horses, and then more horses. Someday, you'll find out what really matters.”

“Mm-hmm” was all Tate said to that. The young mare picked up her head, noting his calm, nonthreatening approach. Despite what he knew was laser-like attention toward him, her overall stance remained relaxed.

“I'll see you in an hour,” Caleb said, his voice getting smaller as he jogged away.

“Yeah,” Tate murmured under his breath. It was too low for a human's hearing, but Caleb would catch it. The filly did, too, pricking her ears even more sharply toward him. “Yeah, girl,” he crooned softly. “You're okay. I moved too fast for you, didn't I? Won't happen again, girl. Let's start over.”

In the distance, his truck's loud diesel engine turned over. Tate shut it out, shut out all the other sounds except his breathing and every tiny movement of the watchful horse before him. He may not be as well-rounded as his brother thought he should be. But when it came to gentling wild souls, to calming horses that were high-strung or poorly handled or simply suspicious of anything to do with humans, he excelled. This was what he loved to do, and it balanced him like nothing else in the world.

How could any woman ever hope to compete with that?

***

For the second time that day, Claire gave the contents of her compact overnight bag a critical once-over. Traveling clothes, check. Pajamas and small case of personal necessities, check. Nice outfit for her reading Saturday night, check. Small bottle of a magical decoction that would keep her nerves calm and steady not only while out among throngs of people but while reading aloud from her deeply personal work in front of an audience.... Nope. That was missing. Wasn't even invented, in fact.

Her glance went toward the kitchen. Well, she could throw in a tiny bottle of firewater, she supposed. Whiskey would calm her. But since it would also leave her a blubbering idiot, it wasn't quite the right potion to make this whole thing any easier.

Heaving a sigh, she shut the bag. She was ready as ever, which meant not very much. The best part of being a writer was the ability to do her research, write her words, and get paid all without having too much interaction with the rest of the world. The worst part was having a publisher who insisted she do readings. In fact, she was legally bound to do them. She'd almost not signed her very first contract when she came to the marketing clause requiring she not only attend but be the star attraction at certain promotional events for her books. By now, she knew how to handle them, but being on such public display still wrung her out.