Susan Krinard - To Tame a Wolf

“You have a very nice—” He looked pointedly at her chest. She’d bound her breasts, but he’d seen what lay underneath the wrappings. “You still have to pay a price for my saving your cow, Miss Bernard.”

“She isn’t my cow.”

“Seems everything you touch ends up belonging to you.” His grin vanished. “Why is that, Tally?”

She faltered under his stare. He put his hands on her hair, slid them down to cup her face.

Mon Dieu. It was truly happening. Not like before, when he’d stolen a kiss just to prove his indifference. There was no indifference in him now. And none in her.

“What will you give me, Tally?” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. “Everything.”

THE FOREST LORD

“This story, a mating of Regency romance and old myths, is enchanting, creating a world and characters to dream upon…. The use of fae characters and ways spices up the story, turning a tale of romance between different classes into a different and magical read.”

—Affaire de Coeur

SECRET OF THE WOLF

“With riveting dialogue and passionate characters, Ms. Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and compassion.”

—Romantic Times

TO CATCH A WOLF

“[E]ach scene richly paves the way for an explosive, satisfying conclusion.”

—Romantic Times Top Pick

TOUCH OF THE WOLF

“Touch of the Wolf is a mystical, enthralling read, brimming with lyrical prose, powerful emotions, dark secrets and shattering sensuality.”

—Eugenia Riley, bestselling author of Bushwhacked Bride

ONCE A WOLF

“Once again Ms. Krinard brilliantly delivers a gripping romance, turning every emotion inside out to expose all the facets of love. She holds you spellbound with her magic.”

—Rendezvous

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PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hat Rock, Texas, 1866

THE OLD DRUNK, Charlie, was the one who came to tell Sim his mother was dead.

Others would have known earlier, of course—the madam of the brothel, Evelyn’s fellow soiled doves…and any number of clients, respectable and less so, who frequented the Rose of Texas. Gossip traveled fast in a whorehouse.

None of them bothered to pass the tragic news to Evelyn’s only son. Charlie came not because he gave a damn about Sim, but because carrying the story made him feel important. More important than a worthless, troublemaking sixteen-year-old tramp.

Sim, standing in the dusty street in front of Hat Rock’s pathetic excuse for a bank, heard Charlie’s slurred speech without emotion. He’d learned to hide his feelings early on, when he figured out that Ma couldn’t be trusted from one moment to the next. Sometimes she cuddled him and called him “my son,” but more often she cursed him as the bane of her life, the burden who had ruined her for the better things she deserved.

Sim clenched his fists and walked out of the cloud of Charlie’s whiskey-soaked breath. He strolled down the center of Main Street, making the carriages and buckboards and horsemen go around him.

Ma was dead. She’d been going at it a long time, riddled with some kind of wasting disease. But she’d kept working, even when only the lowest clients would take her. And Sim had visited the Rose every day to see if she needed anything from her only kin, if she would accept a little of the money he earned or stole in every petty way he had learned in his years on the street.

On his last visit she’d spat at him. He’d wiped the spittle from his cheek and left, though Madame Rose had tried to bribe him with promises of a hot meal and a free ride after. He’d sworn he wouldn’t go back. He’d planned to break his oath this afternoon. He could have said goodbye.

She could have said she loved him.

He laughed, startling some fine lady’s skittish horse. Her male escort, a rich rancher decked out like a pimp, spurred his long-legged eastern gelding in front of Sim and slashed the air with his quirt.

“Get out of the street, you savage,” he snarled.

Sim tilted back the brim of his ragged hat and looked the man in the eye. The man yanked on the reins. “Filthy beggar,” he muttered. “No better than a—”

His horse squealed as a length of heavy rawhide rope slapped down on the animal’s well-bred rump. The beast took off like a shot, and the lady’s mount plunged after it.

Caleb laughed the way he always did, loud and long. He beat the rawhide against his palm. “Pelado,” he scoffed. “Thinks he’s too good for the likes of us.”

His glance pulled Sim in like a brother’s embrace. Besides Ma, he was the closest thing to real kin Sim had. Except Ma had known she was dying and finally told Sim that he had a pa. One even more important than Caleb’s.

Caleb stopped laughing and gave Sim a hard stare. “What’s wrong with you? Been eatin’ leftovers out of Mowbray’s rubbish heap again?”

Sim averted his face and headed for the nearest alley. He had a lump in his throat, and he was afraid he might start bawling. Bad enough to do it in front of Caleb, but if anyone else saw…

Caleb gripped his arm. “It’s the bitch, ain’t it? What’d she do to you this time?”

“Nothing.” Sim yanked free and strode deep into the alley, where the shadows made him feel safe.

Caleb knocked Sim’s hat off his head. “Liar.” He squinted in Sim’s face. “Your eyes are all red. She hit you?” Sim shook his head and snatched at his hat. Caleb held it just out of his reach. “I know damned well you’d never hit her back, no matter how much she deserves it.”

Sim’s heart balled up into a painful knot. “She don’t deserve nothing anymore,” he said. “She’s dead.”

Caleb whistled. “Damn.” He set Sim’s hat back on his head and gently pressed it in place. “Who told you?”

“Charlie.”

“Figures.” Caleb leaned on the wall and bent one knee, wedging his boot heel against the clapboard. “She didn’t leave you anything, did she?”

Trust Caleb to ask that first. He was the one who usually planned their petty thieveries and moneymaking schemes; there was always some little trinket he coveted, some luxury he just had to have, and his father damned sure wouldn’t give him the cash. Marshall Smith was as tightfisted as they came, at least with his own family. The whole town knew that Mrs. Smith and her son lived like the poorest Mexicans, while the marshall spent what he earned on himself and the pretty puta he kept in a house at the edge of town.