Lora Leigh: Elizabeth's Wolf

I owe a debt to my passionate early readers: Judith Grossman, Wilton Barnhardt, Geoffrey Wolff, Margot Livesey, Phil Hay, and Michelle Latiolais. As well as the workshop at the University of California, Irvine.

To those who joined the party late but brought the most awesome refreshments: Teal Minton, Joy Johannessen, and Karen Joy Fowler.

To the pros: Henry Dunow, Jennifer Carlson, Bill Contardi, Ursula Doyle, Michael Pietsch, Asya Muchnick, Ryan Harbage, Laura Quinn, and Heather Fain.

Abiding thanks to: Sarah Burnes, Sarah Crichton, and the glorious MacDowell Colony.

A smarty-pants badge of honor to my informants: Dee Williams, Orren Perlman, Dr. Carl Brighton, and the essential facts-on-file team of Bud and Jane.

And to my continuing troika, whose sustaining friendship and rigorous reading and rereading are, next to tapioca and coffee, what keep me going on a day-to-day basis: Aimee Bender, Kathryn Chetkovich, Glen David Gold.

And a woof! to Lilly.

Author’s Note

I woke up about two o’ clock in the morning. I was restless and not ready to return to bed, so I opened my email. I found the letter within minutes. A list of service men and women overseas who had signed up to receive mail from those of us willing to write. Most of the names were men. Many notations on their names said that they received no mail and no care packages from home.

I read over this letter several times. No mail? No care packages? Nothing?

And suddenly Dash Sinclair slammed into my brain. I shook my head. No. Not a new story. I didn’t have time. So I went on. But I couldn’t shake that notation that I had seen under so many of those names. Receives no mail or care packages . And to me, it was unacceptable.

And there was Dash. A man alone. A man who had never received letters or packages, but one willing to give his life at any moment to save those who had no idea he even existed. Until one little girl’s letter arrived and touched his soul.

This book is dedicated to all those men and woman in our Armed Services who make our lives safe, and protect us, often with their own lives. It’s most especially dedicated to those who do this without a letter from home, without anyone to write them and tell them what their possible sacrifice means to us. It means everything to me.

God Bless You All.

The letter came at a time in his life when the battle inside his soul could have tipped either way.

The war against terrorism was still waging, years after it had begun, and in select areas of theMiddle East it was hell. The Special Forces unit Dash Sinclair was assigned to had been there for a year now; working together, becoming a part of each other’s lives, depending on each other. Until the day their transport was taken out by a well-aimed missile. It had killed the other seven men. Dash was left barely clinging to life when rescue had arrived.

At the time, he wasn’t even certain what kept him alive. He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of hiding, just plain tired of being alone. He had been closer to those seven soldiers than he had ever been to anyone, and now they were gone, leaving an awareness within him of the desolate wasteland his life had become.

Weeks later, his eyes bandaged, his wounds covered, he lay in a medicated stupor, barely clinging to life. A part of his soul howled out in fury; that restless, yearning part that never seemed to still grieved at the continued fight to survive. Why was he alive when the others had been lost?

It was then his commanding officer came to him.

“You have a fan, son.” Something inside, a primal, instinctive part of his conscience stilled then. It pushed back the pain, the memories of blood and death, and became watchful. Waiting.

He had no fans, no friends or family. And he had lost his unit. He was damned tired of hiding and fighting, and they wouldn’t let him just sleep. And now, the part of himself he had always fought to deny was awake once again. Instinctively he knew his greatest battle was yet to come.

“A nice little girl named Cassie Colder. Let me read this to you real fast. I’ll answer her until you’re well enough to do it yourself. But I have a feeling this little girl would get right pissed if you didn’t eventually answer…”

I liked your name best when the teacher gave us the list. Dash Sinclair. It has a very nice sound to it I think. Momma said it’s a very brave, very handsome name, and she bets you like it lots. I thought it sounded like a daddy’s name. I bet you have lots of little girls. And I bet they are very proud of your name. I don’t have a daddy, but if I had one, then I would like a name like that for my Daddy.

He had created his own name. Long ago. Far away. Created a name he had prayed would hide his past. Then he had fought to change himself as well. But he didn’t have lots of little girls and he wasn’t a daddy. The words his commander read seeped into his brain and a sense of urgency began to fill him.

My Momma, her name is Lizbeth. And she has brown hair kind of like me. And pretty blue eyes. But my eyes are kind of blue too. I have a really pretty Momma, Dash. She makes me cookies, and even tells me it’s okay to talk to the fairy that lives in my room with me. My Momma is really nice.

My Momma says you are a very brave man. That you are fighting to keep us safe. I wish you were here with us Dash, cause sometimes my Momma gets very tired.

Even in pain, barely conscious, a sense of alarm surged through him. He could feel fear in that simple sentence. A plea for protection. And he fought to live. He had to live. He had to save Cassie and her momma.

He saw Cassie, small and delicate, whimpering in fear. But in bright, vivid colors, he saw her mother, desperate, frightened, poised in front of her daughter like a protective she-wolf, snarling in fury. Why did he see that? Why did the image taunt him?

At other times, he was tormented by the sight of the mother watching him, her eyes half closed in drowsy passion, her body naked, slender and graceful beneath his larger frame.

It was little Cassie Colder that wrote to him, but with each line about her mother, each description, each phrase concerning the Momma who looked after her, Dash’s need grew. His sense of possessiveness, his hunger, his inborn knowledge that somehow, some way, Elizabeth and Cassie belonged to him, began to strengthen inside him. Yes. The name Dash was a good name for a daddy. For Cassie’s daddy. But it was also a good name for a mate.Elizabeth ’s mate. And once again the inborn instinct of the animal raised its head. His senses became sharper as he fought against the fog of pain and medication then. Twisting shadows of violence and the dark bloody stains of death began to emerge and coalesce around Cassie and her momma. They were his, and they were in danger. He had to live.

My Momma says you must be a very kind man. Kind men don’t hit little girls. Do they?

So innocently phrased, yet with a wealth of meaning. He strained within the dark agony that filled him, fought through the layers of pain to find consciousness, to heal. To live. Cassie and her Momma needed him.

My Momma says there might not really be fairies but it’s okay if I think there are. Cause nothing don’t exist if you don’t believe in it. And if you believe in it, then it’s real as sunshine. I believe in you, Dash … Why did he keep hearing a cry? It was inside his head, a woman’s tears and muffled sobs. But it was the child’s words his Major read to him as he fought his way back. A battle he often feared he would lose.

My Momma says Leprechauns should be real. That gold at the end of the rainbow sounds really nice .