From the pages of Barb Raffin...

From The Pages Of
Barbara Raffin

WOLFSONG

by Barbara Raffin

A contemporary romance
© 2000

Published by Awe-Struck E-Books, Inc.
Isbn: 1-58749-052-8

CHAPTER ONE

Madison Montgomery winced when the bus driver tossed the red Samsonite suitcases onto the slanting sidewalk. Not because they almost landed on her toes, but because the luggage had belonged to Laurel, vivacious lover-of-vivid-color Laurel. Irreverent Laurel who'd challenged the ever-trying-to-be-good-girl inside of Madison to abandon her perfection. Flawed Laurel who'd shared Madison's understanding of what it was to be a fractured soul in search of a place to fit.

Madison glanced at the highway doubling for the town's main street and the aged brick courthouse proclaiming the county seat. Small town. Old town. It was a place not so different from the one where she once did belong...before a careless driver cut short the lives of her mother and father.

Still, abandoned ten hours from her point of departure, Madison was having a moment of self-doubt, a moment of hope that the guy who was supposed to meet her had forgotten and would never show up. That she could just go inside the slice of a diner occupying the corner space behind her and buy a ticket on the next bus back downstate. But Madison Montgomery had a lost soul to vindicate and another guilt torn to repair before she could reclaim her unruffled life.

Maybe the guy picking her up waited for her inside. Madison slipped the strap of the carry-on over her shoulder, hoisted the red Pullman, turned, and entered the diner.

The place smelled of rancid grease and there were too few fluorescent bulbs humming against the yellow ceiling to compensate for the afternoon sunlight she'd just left. She felt awkward and vulnerable blinkingly searching out the face of a stranger. She should have asked for a description along with the job details. But she'd expected this Armstrong guy to be watching for her.

The scrape of chair legs at the back of the cafe snagged her attention. A man unfolded from a chrome-framed chair, a man so tall and broad-shouldered that his size dwarfed the chair, the table, the very room. Madison blinked at the colossus eyeing her through two inky slashes above cheeks darkened more by heritage than sun.

"About time you got here," muttered the mountain of blue chambray and Levi denim striding toward her.

"See ya 'round, Walker," called the sandy headed man still seated at the table.

She gaped at Walker Armstrong as he passed without a word. He towered over her five foot eight inches, his raven-wing black hair swagging across his broad, burnished brow and plunging past high planed cheeks to linebacker broad shoulders. She should be relieved that he wasn't pale. She'd joined the wolf study project in this remote corner of Michigan's upper peninsula to hunt a lighter man...like the one still seated at the Formica table, his unnaturally glinting grin aimed at her.

The diner door banged shut and she realized Armstrong had left without her. Madison closed her mouth, gave the diner patrons a sheepish glance, and bumped herself and her luggage out into the daylight.

Armstrong waited beside a baby blue, four wheel-drive pick-up truck patched with rust blithely watching her drag her luggage up the sidewalk. He nodded toward the cargo bay of the truck as she neared, his voice flat over his shoulder as he opened the driver's side door and climbed in. "Throw your gear in back."

She easily hoisted the carry-on bag over the shoulder-high side of the 4X4's cargo box. But, on her first attempt, she banged the Pullman against truck fender. He didn't give her a second try.

Wordlessly he climbed down from the cab, snatched the Pullman from her, and tossed it over the truck fender. Duly chastened, Madison scooted around the truck and climbed into the passenger seat barely before he threw it into gear and shot out into traffic.

She glanced through the rear window at the bright suitcases skidding about the rusty cargo box. Guilt nagged at Madison. She should be taking better care of her inheritance, meager it was. She should have demanded he secure her luggage with the black rubber bungee cords lumped in the corner of the cargo box.

She should have. But she didn't and she knew why before her gaze even scaled the broad shoulder beside her and broached the hood of hair from which a hawkish nose and set jaw jutted. He intimidated her. Not by his size, though that was enough in itself. Not even by the power radiating from his bunching muscles as his arm worked the gearshift lever sticking up from the floorboards. It was his tension.

She'd felt it in the cafe the minute he'd skidded the chrome chair legs back from the table. She saw it now in how his lips tightened across his teeth. A muscle popped along the sharp jawline. Why had he clenched his teeth?

She realized then that that jaw, that face all rough angles as though hewn from wood was tipped toward her. From the narrow slits above the polished copper cheeks, something dark and glittery slid in her direction.

Madison started and turned her face away, her cheeks prickling with a blush, her voice hollow and forced in her ears. "How far are we from the camp?"

"Forty miles," he answered in a flat tone, his big hands steering the truck hard from the main street into the parking lot of a supermarket.

Madison's shoulder hit the door and she braced herself as he skidded into a parking space nose-to-nose with a sub-compact, the smaller vehicle all but disappearing beyond the high, broad hood of the truck. When the truck rocked to a halt and there'd been no crash, she gaped past her white knuckled fingers clamped on the edge of the dash and through the wide windshield in wonderment.

"Meet me at the check-out when you're done," he curtly ordered, unfolding a sheet of notebook paper, tearing it in half, and handing the bottom portion to her.

By the time Madison realized she was staring at a grocery list, Walker Armstrong had disappeared through the automatic doors of the supermarket. She slid down out of the truck, her finger out of habit depressing the lock. She glanced at the red luggage full of her belongings in the open back of the truck, glanced about the sparsely filled lot, and reluctantly headed into the store.

Twenty minutes later Madison gaped at Walker's brimming cartload of meats and produce. He was frowning down at her sparse collection of dairy, canned, and dried goods.

"The list didn't say how much," she said lamely.

He plucked a fifteen-ounce can of tomato sauce from her gathered goods and muttered, "The bigger ones."

"The list didn't give sizes."

Abandoning his cart in front of the bakery shelves, he plowed off with hers. She trailed, fumbling the small cans and packages out of the cart wherever he stopped while he piled in larger ones.

"I was told I'd be cooking for only four men," she mumbled miserably.

"And I was told I was being sent someone who knew how to cook for a crew," he growled back.

"Maybe if I'd been told we were shopping for the month," she snapped, her control slipping.

"We're not," he leveled. "I'll drive you into town weekly for supplies."

Resignedly Madison asked for his list of bakery needs and slunk off under his reminder, "Lots."

In the checkout line, he peered over her shoulder at the pile of breads, coffeecakes, and doughnuts capping off the cart of meat and dairy.

"Enough?" she stiffly inquired.

"Don't you intend to bake anything yourself?"

***

Walker swung himself back into the driver's seat, drawing a guarded glance from his passenger's green eyes. She should be wary. He had no use for women who toted red suitcases and colored their eyes with tinted contacts. He'd seen the blunt edge of one when she'd turned her wide eyes in the direction of the bus station. He'd gladly drive her back there and dump her off.

At the intersection, he paused longer than was necessary. Just in case she'd changed her mind about staying, he told himself. But she didn't say the words he willed her to speak.

He sighed and pulled out onto the main street, rolling them further away from the bus stop. Too late if she changed her mind now, he vowed, knowing he'd burn a U-turn if she so much as wavered. But she just sat there, pressed against the far door.

"Damn," he muttered and she jumped.

"Buckle your seat belt," he growled.

She fumbled for the straps with long, slim fingers he was certain had little experience with meat cleavers or potato peelers. He scowled and eased up on the gas pedal as they approached the highway turn-off. One last chance for her to say she wanted to go back to the bus station. But she sprawled her long legs across the floorboards of his truck as though settling in for a long ride.

He jammed the transmission through its gears, his feet punching the clutch and forcing the gas pedal alternately. She was no doubt just another city-bred girl dabbling in what was currently stylish.

As if saving wolves was a fad. If he got a look at the backside of her thigh-hugging jeans, he was sure he'd find a designer label. He knew what mattered to city girls, knew their penchant for trends and status symbols. A year ago, he'd promised himself never to be either again.

CHAPTER TWO

At least he'd secured her suitcases. Though Madison had the distinct impression that he'd bungee corded them against the back of the cab more to prevent them from banging into his groceries.

She glanced at her watch. She'd been closed in the truck's cab for half an hour with the silent Mr. Armstrong.

She peeked through her bangs at her new boss. The stoic profile hadn't changed. And she still hadn't figured out why she smelled Avon Skin so Soft every time she lifted her nose in his direction. Brut or Old Spice she'd have accepted. Off insect repellent she'd expected. But Skin so Soft?

The truck leaned around a sweeping curve, pushing Madison away from the man she had no business analyzing. Ahead, the blue edge of a lake popped into view. Between shoreline and blacktop sat a single story frame building, its whitewashed clapboard siding dusted the ruddy hue of the iron-rich dirt surrounding it. The Wonder Bread sign in one window, neon Schlitz Beer sign in the other, and pair of gas pumps out front suggested its one-stop convenience. Madison had a premonition that she was seeing the last of what this rural location called civilization.

Walker downshifted and steered the truck hard off the highway. She was grateful for the seat belt keeping her from being thrown about as the truck's tires skidded from pavement to dirt. A few jarring miles over the washboard gravel road and she was doubly grateful for the anchor.

More than aching insides, though, warned her of the wisdom of what she'd come here to do. The dwindling numbers of two rut roads snaking away from the rough lane evidenced the increasing isolation of her destination. She'd be housed with worse than the inhospitable Walker. There were three more men waiting where she headed, one of them more menacing than this one whose foot did not ease from the gas pedal even as an oncoming Jeep jumped around a corner at them.

Brush raked Madison's side of the truck as the two vehicles shot past each other. A final twisting plunge down a pair of ruts scored beneath overhanging tree limbs and the wild ride stopped in the middle of a clearing cut from lofty pines.

She'd expected the out-in-the-boondocks location. She'd expected a camp, something spare even. What she hadn't anticipated was massive terra cotta logs climbing two stories from a grassy fringe into a sun bathed patch of blue sky. The broad building was no spartan camp furrowed out of a tangle of forestation.

The truck rocked with the slam of its driver's side door, reminding Madison of the man who'd provided the pounding ride here. She opened her door and slid out, her feet touching down on the earthen driveway that ended between the surprisingly substantial cabin and a two-story, double-stall garage.

Her new employer shoved two grocery bags into her arms, lifted three more out of the back of the truck, and headed for the cabin. Madison followed along the well-worn path angling from the drive to an addition at the back of the cabin. The antiquated spring catch of its screen door protested as he opened it and, amazingly, held it for her.

She trailed him through the low ceilinged, dank screened porch housing an automatic washing machine and wash tub of a sink. Where the first room reminded her of the moss-endowed north shaded side of a tree, the kitchen into which he led her brightened like a sun turned leaf. Maybe it was the pale painted cupboards and light patterned linoleum that made the room seem airy. Perhaps what gave the room its welcoming air was the yellow, ruffled valance above the pair of French windows swung open over the worn enamel sink. Yellow wasn't a color she'd have linked with the brooding Walker.

He dropped his bags on a pale pine table along the inside wall and headed back out. Madison set hers beside his. But she lingered in the archway between the kitchen and the adjoining room.

Beneath a vaulted ceiling, the great room stretched the full width of the cabin. Hand-hewn posts the thickness of a man's forearm supported the balustrade of the stairway climbing the wall on the near end of the room. At the foot of the stairs was a massive, oak dining table. On the far end of the room, an over-stuffed leather couch and over-sized coffee table testified to her new boss' physical stature and ruggedness.

But, prickly as the man seemed, the cacti on the sill of the broad, curtainless window that over-looked a sun-spackled river didn't fit the ambiance of this northwoods cabin. The framed Georgia O'Keefe print hanging prominently over an ancient television set didn't fit the setting, either.

Like the yellow valance on the kitchen window, the southwestern touches made her wonder about Walker Armstrong -- made her frown with thought.

"We do have indoor plumbing," snarled a deep voice from the threshold between screen porch and kitchen.

Madison spun at Walker.

"If you're finding it too rustic for your tastes -- " he growled on, " -- I'll drive you back to town soon as we stow the groceries."

His strides ate up the distance between them with such haste that Madison bumped back against the wall between rooms. He dropped the bags he carried on the table beside her and wheeled away, the screen porch door twang-banging shut behind him seconds later. He didn't want her here. He made that clear. He probably thought she was some pampered preppie. The indoor plumbing remark implied as much.

With Walker once again at the back door, she hustled to unpack the groceries and learn about the kitchen where she'd be working. She had no intentions of accepting his offer to drive her back to town. When he didn't bring in her luggage, Madison carried them into the cabin herself.

"Where shall I put these?" she asked, shrugging her shoulder beneath the strap of the overnighter while hefting the Pullman marginally higher.

From the dark gashes above Walker's cheeks, a devilish light flicked from the crimson luggage to her.

Heat flared into Madison's cheeks and she quickly amended, "I mean, where's my room?"

The mischief dimmed from Walker's eyes. "That can wait. We'll need supper on the table in an hour."

"I beg your pardon," Madison snorted incredulously, "but I've been traveling all day!"

"While the crew has been working."

"Have you any idea how early I had to get up this morning to catch the bus coming up this way from downstate?"

"You've obviously confused me with someone who cares."

Madison gaped in open-mouthed astonishment.

"You trying to catch flies?"

She snapped her mouth shut. She was going to have to live the summer with this tactless man. Besides, she might be overreacting. She was tired and stressed.

"Look, lady," he spewed through chiseled lips, "you likely got this job because you knew somebody. You probably aren't even qualified for it. I don't have to like that. But it is within my power to make you own-up to what you're being paid to do."

No, thought Madison, she was not overreacting. But she said nothing. She had pulled every string remotely within her reach to get the job, just like he said...not that she was about to admit any such thing to Walker Armstrong.

***

Precisely an hour later the voice of the man who'd already judged her inadequate boomed above the splash of running water in the porch sink. She bumped the serving platter against the inside of the microwave and winced. He was sure to fault her shortcuts.

Then again, if he wasn't accustomed to shortcuts, why did he have a microwave? Certainly he couldn't expect much with only an hour's notice.

She glanced up and found Walker standing in the entrance, drying his hands, watching her. She dumped garlic buttered green beans from pot to bowl and escaped into the main room.

She'd barely set the beans down between a bowl of rehydrated instant potatoes and basket of store bought dinner rolls, when she realized Walker was once more behind her. She turned, prepared to face his critique of her work with chin held high. But the trio of men trailing him to the table, heads tipped in her direction, snatched her breath away. Those three heads of hair shaded from ash to taupe reminded her she had more dangerous men to fool than a sullen boss. She gave herself a mental nudge.

"Go ahead and start on the salad," she said through a forced grin. "I just have to slice the meat."

She fled to the kitchen where she chastised herself for her faintheartedness. She would have to get close to these men if she wanted to learn which had destroyed her best friend's life.

She pressed the blade of the knife into the meatloaf. She knew the danger. One man. Unless they were all dangerous.

Steam rose from the cut she made, scorching the side of her hand. She drew back. Another warning against this plan of hers. But if she didn't find and expose the man who'd raped Laurel, who would?

In order to accomplish that goal, though, she needed to walk back into that big room and face four men who frightened her. Madison stared down at the sliced meatloaf -- recalled how Laurel would imitate Julia Child while drowning that particular college cafeteria mainstay in ketchup. Humor and flirtation had masked Laurel's insecurities. Snatching up a bottle of ketchup, Madison spread a smile across her mouth and served her main course with a minor flourish.

"Hamburger again," groaned the fairest headed and youngest of the quartet seated around the big table at the near end of the great room.

"But the shape," simpered the man seated beside him, his twinkling, sky-blue eyes creased at their outer edges. "It's not flat and round."

"What's the matter, Trey?" quipped the third of the fair complected trio from across the table. "Forget how to use a fork?"

This one studied at her through a manicured shaft of taupe hair. "We've had hamburgers almost every night for two weeks." He cocked an eyebrow up from a dusty brown eye. "Personally I'm glad for the variation."

Madison forced a cuteness into her voice that almost made her gag. "Help me through this first meal, guys, and I promise, no more hamburger in any form for three weeks."

"I like hamburgers," mumbled Trey.

"Two weeks then," she offered in deference to the pale imitation of the sullen Walker...who lorded over them all from the head of the table. "Now, I'm Madison and you are?"

"Dalton Adair," provided the taupe headed one smoothly, his pale eyes surveying her in a manner that sent a shiver down her spine. The playboy connected to the corporation funding this project, she mentally catalogued.

"Mike Knutson," volunteered the one who'd teased about the shape of the meat.

A notebook linked the man who had raped Laurel to the wolf repopulation project here. Did it belong to this man, the college professor in charge of the project? She searched his crisp blue eyes for hidden intent but found none.

"And this insolent pup is Trey Hautamaki." Mike nodded his ashen haired head to his right.

One corner of Trey's mouth twitched as he gave her a sidelong look. Surely those smoky blue eyes could fade to colorless on the fringes of a dim light, she thought of the grad-student her investigating had told her had schooled at the same university where Mike taught.

Madison eased into the vacant chair at the foot of the table and Trey's pale eyes widened then flicked from her to Walker. Madison looked at Walker. His dark hair hooded forward about his face as he spooned potatoes onto his plate. Madison glanced at the men to either side of her. Mike's eyes slid away from her. Dalton's lingered, studying.

"What's wrong? Aren't I suppose to sit with you guys?"

A predatory smile curled across Dalton's lips. "We wouldn't have it any other way."

She glanced at Walker, who now seemed intent on sliding slices of meatloaf from platter to plate. She found Trey's eyes still flicking back and forth between her and Walker.

"But I did something wrong. What is it?"

"Nobody usually sits in that seat," murmured Walker, his cloak of hair sliding over his shoulders as he lifted his face.

"I'll move," she offered.

"No."

He hadn't spoken the word loudly. But its timbre stilled them all.

"Don't move." The eyes dark as a bottomless pit accented the command with a pointed glance at each man. "It doesn't matter."

***

"I don't think we should hold Madison to her promise not to cook with hamburger for two weeks," Mike groaned as he pushed back from his plate fifteen minutes later. "That's the best meatloaf I've ever eaten."

"A variation on a recipe of my grandmother's," she provided.

"You saying yours is better than your grandmother's?" drawled Dalton.

Madison caught the disapproving look Walker shot Dalton and simply answered that her grandmother didn't have a microwave. Gathering up the ravaged serving dishes, she retreated into the kitchen. She'd noticed far too much of Walker through the meal and far too little of the men she was supposed to be investigating.

She knew why, too. She'd always been sensitive to how people reacted to her. A habit formed of second-guessing the moods of the aunt who'd become her guardian after her parents' death. But, surviving the sullenness of her current landlord was the least of her problems.

Mike came up to the sink beside her, his hands laden with the Corelle he'd clicked his fork against during the meal and teased, "Don't anybody tell her where the paper plates are. We could actually save a tree this summer." He put his dirty dishes in the sink.

"Thanks." Madison smiled, genuinely. The professor's banter throughout the meal had kept the tension to a bearable level.

"We've had a year's practice at cleaning up after ourselves." Mike shrugged. "Hard habit to break"

"Not for some." Madison nodded at Walker who passed empty-handed from table to couch.

"Actually, Walker's the neatest of the bunch of us. Keeps the rest of us from completely slobbing out."

Madison eyed Mike skeptically.

"Bet you didn't find so much as a dirty spoon in the sink when you got here."

"Him?"

"You'll know who's the neat one when you come to clean the dormitory," chimed Dalton, coming up behind them.

"Dormitory?" echoed Madison.

"Walker didn't give you the grand tour?"

She shook her head. "Don't you all stay here in the cabin?"

"No," answered Mike.

"Just where is this dormitory?" she quizzed with a false brightness, both relieved and uneasy with the news that she would be housed alone with the brooding Walker. At least she'd better hope her bed was in the cabin, she latently thought.

"Upstairs of the garage. I'll be more than happy to give you a personal tour," crooned Dalton, leaning too close as he reached around her and put his plate on the countertop.

Slick and glib, the very type that made sport of women. Was that the type of man capable of rape? She wanted to carve his heart out. She wanted to slap his face. She wanted to return his innuendo with a snide remark. But none of that would foster the trust she needed to garner proof enough to put a rapist away.

"Hardly seems fair, the three of you above a garage and Walker by himself in this roomy lodge," she teased.

"The cabin is his home," snapped Trey, edging Dalton aside and dumping his plate into the sink before stalking out of the cabin.

Madison glanced sheepishly between Mike and Dalton. Mike waved a dismissive hand after the student. "Don't mind him. He's sworn off women, a casualty of love lost. Fancies himself in Walker's likeness."

"Is that what was wrong with my sitting at the foot of the table, Walker's lost love sat there?"

The relaxed contours of Mike's face tightened and the playfulness vanished from Dalton's face. Madison glanced expectantly from one man to the other but neither spoke.

"Did something terrible happen to her?" she pressed.

"The worst," grunted Dalton, stepping smartly for the back door. "She was unfaithful."

***

Madison tucked the last cleaned plate away and closed the cupboard door, flexed her shoulder blades and stretched her neck. The stiffness came more of tension than weariness. Still, she was tired, dead tired. Stepping into the main room, she eyed the red luggage still at the base of the stairs where she'd dropped them.

She eyed Walker across the room, sprawled on the couch, his boot heels propped on the thick edge of the coffee table. He was scowling at the newspaper in his hand. Apparently he didn't like what he read any more than he liked her. The latter bothered Madison's sense of rightness. She'd given him no reason to dislike her...unless she counted the less than aboveboard manner by which she'd maneuvered herself into his world.

As if that weren't enough to send her guilty conscience into spasm, the gauntness of Walker's face and the belt notched one hole beyond the old groove made by the buckle tugged at Madison's heart. She hadn't noticed that wasting about him before. Then again, she hadn't known before that he was a man scorned. Little wonder he resented any woman invading his private domain.

But she was a woman weary. "Where do I sleep?"

"Upstairs," he answered without looking up.

Madison hoisted her bags and started up the broad stairway. "Which room?"

"You can choose any bed up there you want."

Weariness must be playing tricks on her. She thought she heard a humorous note among his answer. She was on the first landing where the stairway curved to follow the wall when what Walker said sunk in.

"What do you mean, I any bed? Hasn't a bed been made up for me?"

He peered over the top of the newspaper at her. "You're the housekeeper."

"But -- "

He snapped the newspaper up between them, effectively cutting her off. She eyed the balcony overhanging the half of the room where he sat. Beyond the rustic railing, a broad dormer housed a pair of metal frame cots, but no walls.

Alarmed, she glanced right and left into the shadow shrouded lofts above the front porch to the far side of the balcony and the kitchen on the near side. Their beds were sturdier, but one fact screamed at Madison.

"There are no separate rooms up there!"

Walker folded the newspaper down against his denim-molded thighs, the expression he lifted at her smug. "Your point is?"

"Where do you sleep?"

CHAPTER THREE

The aroma of coffee made Madison smile even as she slept. Mama always had a pot brewing bright and early. Any minute now, she should hear Papa's deep, cheery, "Rise and shine, Sleepyhead."

Madison wriggled deeper into the saggy, old mattress. The bedsprings creaked. The coziness elicited a throaty purr from her. No wonder she was reluctant to climb out of her little loft in the peak of the roof most mornings.

Her eyelids opened once, twice, a fluttering third and fourth times. Somewhere in her reluctant awakening, she registered the difference between the pine ceiling over her head and the one in her dreams.

Madison sat bolt upright and nearly bumped her head on the slanting ceiling. In spite of her apprehensions about the sleeping arrangements, she'd fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

And left Walker Armstrong to take any bed he wanted.

Left him to take her…had he so chosen to do so.

But a quick scan past the iron scrollwork of the footboard and the rough hewn balustrade beyond, revealed the bed in the opposite loft had never been made-up for sleeping. As for the cots beneath the dormer windows, Walker Armstrong would have had to practically bend himself in half to fit in one of them. Apparently her reluctant host had not lied about having a private bedroom on the main floor.

The sharp clank of a frying pan jolted Madison out of the iron frame bed in the loft at the top of the stairs. She tugged on her jeans, tucked in the tails of the T-shirt in which she'd slept, and raced down the steps. A quick detour into the bathroom beneath the wide stairs and she splashed cold water on her face and popped in her contact lenses.

She stared at the green eyes in the mirror above the sink as she slipped the contact case into her pocket. She still wasn't used to their brightness. They'd been Laurel's idea back in the days when they'd together lamented Madison's dateless state.

As if a pair of tinted contacts could enliven chocolate brown locks beside Laurel's flashy blondness. As if green eyes would make-up for less than ample curves. When her quest was done, when she no longer needed their flashing attraction, Madison intended to get rid of them.

The clatter of a second pan being taken from the stove drawer jarred her out of the bathroom. She stopped in the narrow archway between great room and kitchen. Walker's presence in front of the oversized range all but blocked her passage. She bet disapproving, dark eyes slanted in her direction beyond the swag of his black hair; and she wasn't a betting woman. But she was well versed in the virtue of placating, thanks to the demands of her guardian.

"Sorry." The soft, uncertainty of her voice ruffled the hairs on the back of Walker's arm. "Guess I forgot to ask what time to have breakfast ready."

"Sun-up," he snapped and slapped a thick strip of bacon into the iron frying pan in front of him.

"Want me to do that?" she asked.

"Just set the table," he muttered, determined no woman would ever get under his skin again, especially not one timid as a church-mouse.

She passed behind him, a cool, sweet smelling breeze. Damn her and all her gender, he silently swore. When she breezed past him a second time, he glanced after her.

She hadn't combed her hair. Not that that little crop she had on her head would need much. One tuft in the back stood contrary to the lay of the rest, a second, longer look revealed. The woman he'd almost married wouldn't have been caught dead with a hair out of place.

Walker grimaced. He didn't like thinking about Jordan. But Jordan was the yardstick against which he measured women these days. No Eddie Bauer shirt or Guess jeans were more artfully displayed than on his former fiancé. How was it then that Madison Montgomery reaching across his table with a handful of flatware made him think her the better model for denim and flannel?

Maybe it was the way her jeans tugged across the inverted heart shape of her behind that prompted the evaluation. Maybe it was because Jordan hadn't even owned a pair of jeans before he'd invited her to the cabin. That she'd bought only one pair should have alerted him to how brief she'd intended her visit to be.

With a jaded eye, Walker searched the jeans gloving his housekeeper's backside for a designer's mark but found none. They may never have born a hundred-dollar price tag and she may be built for denim the way Jordan was built for linen, but Madison Montgomery could manipulate all the same. Hadn't she won over Mike and Dalton with her cheek dimpling smiles every time they'd complimented her on her supper?

Not that it took good cooking for any broad to win over Dalton, seared the fact through Walker as he stabbed at the sizzling bacon in the frying pan. It didn't take much of anything for a woman to attract that man's attention.

Mike, though, was just an easy going kind of guy. Just like him to make a fuss over that meatloaf of hers. Remembering the meal triggered a flood of saliva in Walker's mouth and, before he could catch himself, he thought what a shame that there wasn't any meatloaf leftover for sandwiches today.

"Shall I cook the eggs?" she asked, once again framed between the two rooms. He didn't like her being that close.

"I'll do the eggs," he snapped back at her, shifting to give her more room to pass behind him...willing her to pass.

"Toast then," she chirped and sailed to the four slice toaster on the countertop beyond the stove.

Walker scowled. Perky was even worse than mousy. Three months of perky would be three months more than he could stand.

"We need bag lunches," he growled. "And clean the dormitory. The men have been sleeping in the same sheets for two weeks. Laundry's piled up, too. Washing machine and supplies are on the back porch."

"What, no dryer?" she asked with a vexing cheerfulness as she popped bread into the slots of the toaster.

"Out back," he barked. "First rope to the right. You do know how to use a clothespin, don't you?"

"Sure do," she sang back and his blood pressure edged another degree higher.

"Have dinner ready when we get back."

"Which will be?" she inquired sweetly, chin tilted saucily at him.

"Between six and nightfall."

"Anything in particular you want?"

"Why don't you just surprise me," he said, facing her, lacing his words with all the sarcasm he could muster.

The corners of her mouth twitched and the cheeriness faded from her features. If it hadn't been for the false color of her widening eyes, he might have pulled in his horns. He might even have apologized.

***

She'd actually had Walker on the defensive...for a minute maybe. Madison wasn't sure whether that was good or bad. She wasn't accustomed to having the upper hand with anyone.

Then he'd looked at her through his pained eyes, his tone as prickly as a thorny rose, and guilt silenced her. Walker Armstrong had his demons and she had hers. Hers required her to find justice for Laurel, not develop adversarial skills on some guy rebounding-from-the-stings-and-arrows of love.

Besides, she might need Walker Armstrong's protection. Wiser for her to make peace rather than war with the man. That in mind, she'd set no place at the foot of the table where his betrayer had sat and vowed to placate the man from then on.

"Scrambled again," whined Trey when she served up Walker's platter of eggs.

She straightened between Trey's and Mike's chairs and locked eyes with Walker. Distrust flickered at her from the onyx depths of Walker's.

"Been getting a lot of scrambled eggs lately, huh guys?" she said, carefully avoiding placing blame.

"Enough that we've forgotten their original shape," snorted Mike.

"I think I could manage made-to-order eggs a few days a week," she offered, noticing the squint lines at the edges of Walker's eyes deepen.

"I'll take mine sunny-side-up," drawled Dalton suggestively. "Two of them, high and rounded."

Walker's features tightened. Before she could figure out why, the spring catch of the back porch door creaked in protest and he glanced toward the sound. Seconds later, a khaki uniformed man walked into the room.

"Hey Swede," chorused the trio of paler men around the table.

"Even a place set for me today," the newcomer blew, plopping down beside Dalton in the place Madison had set for herself. "How's that for coincidence?"

"Coincidence hell," blustered Mike. "You know what time we eat breakfast."

"And with that nose of his," quipped Dalton, "our friendly Game Warden usually ferrets out whenever else we've got food on the table. So you'd best always make extra, Madison."

The uniformed man's piercing blue eyes zeroed in on Madison who still stood at Trey's shoulder. They examined her with a solemnity the rest of his face didn't exhibit. A shaft of dark blond hair bobbed as he nodded to her. "Swede Olafson, ma'am. I'm somewhat of a semi-regular at Walker's."

Madison forced a smile at the long weather-polished face of yet another who fit the vague description of the man she hunted.

"Oh now Swede, don't be so modest," Mike chided. "You're a regular moocher."

"If my wife stayed home and cooked," quipped Swede, "I wouldn't have to mooch."

Trey shuddered. "Better that Sophie stays out of the kitchen."

"The pup here doesn't much care for casserole surprise," Mike explained for Madison's benefit.

"I don't even want to think about what those soggy brown things were on top of the last one," Trey said.

"I'm sure it was quite delicious for those who like casseroles," ventured Madison, feeling a little sorry for Mrs. Olafson who wasn't there to defend herself.

This elicited a snort from Swede and an emphatic, "No. Trey's account is correct. My Sophie's cooking is awful. Just ask Walker. He damn near starved to death this past winter, what with her trying to feed him."

"We're all better off Sophie chose career over cooking."

This last was spoken by Walker with a drollness Madison wouldn't have thought Walker capable of. The others clearly weren't surprised by it. They dissolved into laughter. Even the line of Walker's mouth softened.

But she wasn't here to contemplate how a full smile might warm Walker's face. Madison set a place for herself at the foot of the table and eased into the seat opposite him...once again. He glanced at her and his brow furrowed.

That shouldn't matter to her. He shouldn't matter. The paler men were the objects of her interest. She should be studying them, listening to what they said. There had to be a clue she could use somewhere in their conversation.

But they talked between mouthfuls of bacon, egg, and toast only of the lone wolf for whom they searched. They gulped coffee and debated reliable sightings. They shoved back emptied plates and spread out plat maps over which they plotted where next to search out the elusive wolf. She ceased to exist for them. Though, as she cleared the table around Walker, his shoulders tightened.

Not that she should care. She wasn't responsible for his sour disposition. Maybe that dour attitude of his was even the reason behind his fiancé’s adultery.

Madison scraped the leavings from the breakfast plates into the garbage pail on the screen porch, annoyed that she wasted even a minute pondering the wounded Walker. She had the last plate in her hand when she noticed the rangy form beyond the screen door, his yellow eyes flicking between her and the plate. She was no lupine expert, but she was certain wolves didn't carry their tails curled tightly over their backs.

Madison opened the screen door. The leggy canine stepped back stiffly. She stepped out onto the stoop. He lowered his head and eyed her cautiously. She set the plate on the ground and retreated to the stoop.

The dog was licking the last traces of bacon grease from the dish when the screen door creaked open behind Madison and a frowning Walker strode past her. The wolfish animal turned and trotted after him.

"You shouldn't have come out alone to meet Wolf," Mike murmured as he stepped around her onto the path.

"Wolf? Is he?"

"Halfway," grunted Swede as he paused beside her. "Siberian bitch of mine run off with that lone wolf we're looking for. Got herself shot raiding Tom Maki's chicken coop up the road. She was full of milk. By the time Walker and me tracked down her den, Wolf was the only pup still alive."

"Lady's got a lot of pluck, facing him down by herself," chirped Dalton over Swede's shoulder, his dusty eyes narrowed.

"He didn't seem such a menace," parried Madison, suspicious of the emphasis being placed on the hybrid's supposed danger.

"Wolf's not keen on women," muttered Trey as he skirted them and lumbered after Walker. "Didn't like the last woman who came here at all."

***

So, he didn't like the last woman who came here.

Madison stared down from the dormitory window at the gray wolf-dog belly-flopped in the driveway, but she was thinking of the dog's master. She should be so lucky that her only problem was a contrary boss. But she had a rapist to expose.

She turn

ed away from the window. It had taken little deductive reasoning to determine which of the room's three cots and their immediate living areas belonged to which man. The white T-shirts were Mike's. Those emblazoned with college insignias had to be Trey's. While the black silk shirt inside the wardrobe beside the third bed could belong to no other than a man who'd grown up in privilege and spoke in glib innuendoes. Dalton Adair likely thought no woman beyond his charm. But, was he a man to tattoo a harpoon-skewered mermaid on his chest then taunt a women with it before raping her?

***

Dalton worked to free the ropes from the metal rings set into the slatted dock on which he knelt and Madison stood, a devilish grin curling his lips as he peered up at her.

"How about it, Madison? Take a little ride up river with me to look for wolf sign?"

Madison wanted to turn and run, not stand there and smile back at the playboy's innuendo. But she also wanted to see his chest, to discover if he was the man whose game of victimizing included showing off a certain tattoo before doing his dirty deed. Maybe beneath a mid-day sun on a boat in the middle of a river he would remove his shirt.

But it was foolish to contemplate a boat ride alone with a man who was possibly a rapist. If only the authorities had done a chest-by-chest search of all possible candidates. If only they'd taken Laurel seriously.

If only Laurel had reported the crime sooner…while some of the physical evidence yet remained.

But for a few ifs, Madison wouldn't be here acting the avenging angel. Not that she was about to let herself be trapped in the middle of a river with a rapist.

"Anybody else coming along?" she asked.

"Me," sounded Walker's lead-timbered voice a beat before his boots hit the dock.

Madison jumped and Dalton steadied her with a hand to her elbow. Funny, that the man she suspected of a horrible crime against womankind should play the gentleman while the man who unnerved her was innocent. Or rather, not guilty. Somehow innocent didn't fit Walker.

"How about it?" pressed Dalton. "Up for a ride?"

She had the necessary chaperon. She smiled at Dalton. "Sure. I'd love a boat ride."

Walker watched Dalton hand Madison down onto the center seat.

"Aren't you the gentleman," she chirped.

Walker scowled and dropped heavily onto the bow seat. The boat rocked violently. Madison frowned at him. No doubt she'd have preferred taking this little excursion alone with Dalton. But this was a working camp. If she didn't like his coming along, too bad.

Dalton took the stern, shoved off, pull started the outboard motor, and steered the craft hard away from the golden shallows into the black depths of mid-river. Madison shivered. If she expected Dalton to warm her up, she had a long wait ahead of her, Walker estimated. He'd be damned before he took over the helm so the two of them could get cozy.

She'd made a mistake. It was cooler, damper out on the river. Dalton wasn't going to take his shirt off. As for Walker acting as chaperon...

Madison tried to see into the hood of dark hair funneling around Walker's face. Maybe Dalton wasn't the only man in the boat from whom she needed protecting. She gripped the edge of the plank seat to either side of her hips and braced her feet against the bottom of the boat.

Walker noticed the legs bent at a sharp angle between them. Legs were what he'd first noticed about Jordan. Slender, shapely legs that climbed from navy blue, high-heeled pumps past navy blue skirt hem. The slit in that tailored skirt had teased him with a hint of how much further those legs reached. He'd loved slipping his hand inside those splits and sliding it the silky length of her stockinged leg. Why did a bare pair crooked from denim cut-offs to white canvas tennis shoes stir memories of that sophisticated set?

Because the woman on the boat seat opposite him played a game same as had his deceitful fiancé. He'd spotted it the first time she'd smiled at Dalton, had heard it when she accepted Dalton's invitation. Being on the losing side of a love-triangle once had been enough to end Walker's enchantment with games.

She scratched at a mosquito bite on her calf, her narrow shoulders hunched, her eyes big and round as they scanned the heavily forested riverbank. Maybe she wasn't the player he thought she was. Maybe it was his viewpoint that was tainted.

Maybe he should give her a break.

He dug the travel-size bottle of Skin so Soft from his back pocket and tossed it to her. "Put that on. It'll keep the biting insects away."

She looked at the bottle, then at him. She looked at him so long that he added, "It doesn't work for everybody. But it works for me."

One corner of her mouth tugged upwards and, for a moment, he thought she was going to tease him about his choice of insect repellent. Part of him almost wanted her to do just that. But she said only, "Thanks."

-- Then set about coating her long legs with the oil.

Something deep inside him twinged, a desire he hadn't known in over a year. He forced himself to look away from her exhibition -- forced himself to study the landscape to either side of the river when it was the contours of the legs spread within touching distance that begged for his attention. He wasn't ready for that kind of diversion.

Or was he?

She'd just screwed the cap back on the bottle when Dalton steered the boat around a bend in the river more sharply than was necessary. Madison skidded across her seat, dropping the bottle and scrambling for a handhold. Dalton caught her one-handed by the waist before Walker even thought to rescue her. She should have looked pleased. Dalton was they guy she was after, wasn't he?

But, oddly Madison Montgomery's eyes were wide with fear.

"She's got her balance," he curtly informed Dalton. "You can let go of her."

So Walker would protect her. Madison was so relieved, she didn't even explore why Walker had intervened. She was safe, safe enough to pursue uncovering information if not a chest. Twisting on her seat, she lifted her chin over her shoulder at Dalton. "Thanks for the helping hand."

Damn her, Walker silently cursed. Whatever had made him think Dalton's touch had troubled her?

The look in her eyes...her false green eyes. He should have known the frightened expression was a ploy meant for Dalton. He should have remembered that uptown girls preferred uptown boys with money-stuffed pockets. No doubt she'd made the connection between Dalton's last name and the corporation where she'd interviewed for this job. Maybe she even knew Dalton's old man was the founder, CEO, and major stockholder of AdairCor. Appropriate that the angle of her trim eyebrows should resemble the sweep of a falcon's wing -- a predator's wing.

Dalton leaned in close to her and her knuckles whitened on the edge of her seat. Not that Walker was about to let himself be fooled again by any show of helplessness, especially not when she tipped her head in unison with Dalton's toward the sky where he pointed. Walker refused to contemplate why he noticed the slope of her throat or the way the wind rifled her mink-brown bangs back from her forehead.

Her chin dropped as an eagle plummeted from the sky and her mouth rounded in wonder as the bird of prey snatched a trout from the river. He'd give her credit for being duly impressed. In this age of titan-sized telephoto lenses and high-speed film, most people preferred nature in close-up shots on a television screen while stretched out in easy chairs.

"Pictures don't really show their size, their power," she murmured in an awe-struck voice.

"No, they don't," Walker answered before he caught himself, before he could remind himself that she was not a person with whom he wanted to share how often he'd tried to capture the power of that majestic bird on film but had failed.

Yet, she studied him with an interest that made him want to reconsider sharing his dreams. Then Dalton nudged her shoulder and pointed out the towering pine where the eagle perched, eating his trout.

"What about you, Dalton," she said, sighting off Dalton's upraised arm, "were you awed by the sheer size and power the first time you saw an eagle up close and personal?"

Walker grit his teeth. He should take pleasure out of the irony that she hunted Dalton since Dalton's predatory prowess equaled that of the eagle while Madison's was more like that of the trout which the eagle devoured.

Yet, when the cadence of Dalton's response matched the pattern of that Dalton used when wooing prospective bedmates, Walker bristled. He knew why.

But he didn't know why he cared. A year ago he'd have simply smiled and watched Madison play out her hand. The innocent acting ones, and this one with the scrubbed next-door-girl looks was no doubt using that ploy, thought they had Dalton fooled. In the end, Dalton always had them serving up themselves to him for breakfast, dinner, and dessert.

Maybe the current flirtation bothered him because Dalton knew better than most how such amusement had ended for him. Silently, Walker cursed Dalton for bringing a woman here. He cursed them both for thinking to play their wretched games under his nose.

As enchanted as Madison was by the doe and twin fawns grazing on the shore and the otters skidding down the riverbank Dalton pointed out through the next half hour, local flora and fauna wasn't the sort of information she needed. Then there was the glum Walker. She simply had to stop letting him distract her. She had a rapist to ferret out and the silver-tongued Dalton headed her suspect list. But did he have opportunity?

"How long have you been part of the wolf study?" she asked Dalton.

"From day one."

"Through last winter, even?"

"More or less."

"More or less?" she probed.

He flashed a smile. "The dorm over the garage isn't insulated for winter use and Walker wasn't ready to have anyone else living under his roof."

From what Madison could tell, Walker still wasn't ready to share his living quarters. But that wasn't the issue at hand.

"So, you stayed in town?"

"Booked a condo up at the ski lodge."

The ski lodge...where Laurel had spent her winter vacation. Madison's blood drummed in her ears. Opportunity.

"Got a little crowded when Trey joined us over the Christmas break," he continued. "But we managed."

Madison's heartbeat slowed. "Us?"

"Mike and me."

Back to square one. All three men had opportunity.

"If you want to know about the project," Dalton added, "Mike's the expert."

"How'd he come to choose this place?" she asked, hoping to learn something about one man or the other that might narrow down her search.

"I told him about Walker's pet."

"Why?"

"Because Mike was a favorite professor of ours."

She'd meant, why had he told Mike about Walker's Wolf? The answer he'd given, though, piqued her curiosity.

"Ours?" she probed.

"Walker's and mine."

"You and Walker were college classmates?"

"Yeah, you heard right," Walker growled. "I'm a college boy. Didn't expect that of a man like me, did you?"

The wind direction shifted, pulling the hood of hair away from one side of Walker's face. She searched his features for hint of the man who'd only minutes ago shared his Avon Skin so Soft with her -- searched for a reason for his defensive response. But the hard hewn contours of Walker's face gave-up nothing.

She started to turn toward Dalton. The plank on which she sat vibrated. She glanced at the feet propped one over the other between her hip and the gunwale, Walker's feet. She didn't have time for these wounded-by-love games. She turned to Dalton.

"So, you got involved studying wolves because of a favorite professor?"

Dalton hesitated before answering. "More or less."

There was that more or less thing again. And there went the feet beside her again, shifting, thumping against the bench seat. Madison glanced at them, then followed the sprawl of the denim-gloved legs from buckskin Wellington’s to cowhide belt.

"What do you mean, more or less?" she asked almost by rote, her gaze riveted to the area of Walker's belt buckle...or the vicinity slightly below.

Realizing what she was doing, Madison blinked and blushed and hoped Walker hadn't noticed. Their eyes met just as Dalton commented about not having anything better to do. A light gleamed in Walker's black eyes and she swore one corner of his mouth actually twitched with amusement. He'd not only caught her, he'd enjoyed catching her.

She glowered at Walker and started to turn once more to Dalton. A muscle molded jeans leg brushed her thigh and she spun at Walker with a dark look. Which he undoubtedly missed because his gaze was fixed on her legs.

"Enjoying the view?" she snapped.

The black-as-night eyes slid up the front of her, their fractured light pinning her like a butterfly to a cork backed shadow box and Walker tossed, "Not particularly."

...