Night of the Wolves. Heather Graham
Did he really want to go back there? Out West? Where he’d been conceived?
“All right,” he said after a moment. “When do we leave?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Exactly where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re going to Victory, my boy.”
At first he thought Vincent was trying to be poetic. Then it hit him.
“Victory, Texas,” he breathed, and the other man nodded.
Cody swore under his breath, cursing fate.
If there was any place he hated, it was Victory, Texas.
THE DREAM CAME UPON Alex as if she were watching a play. It was as if velvet curtains opened and stage lighting slowly illuminated the scene, a scene she went from watching to starring in. She was lying in her bed at first, but then she rose.
The moonlight outside the window was so tempting. Or it might have been the shadows, like wings, like beckoning arms.
They’d been warned to keep everything locked, but it was such a beautiful night. The outlaws were long gone, had ridden out of town, and the sound of the breeze against the windows was enticing. She wanted to feel the wind. Feel it lift her hair and caress her cheeks. It would be soft and balmy, as gentle as the moon glow. The breeze would lift the soft cotton of her gown, and she would feel its cool sensation on her flesh.
For a few moments she hovered by her bed, but then, almost as if she were floating, she moved toward the French doors that led out to the balcony and pushed them open.
And there was the moon. Not yet full, but it was a cloudless night, so perhaps that was why the moonlight seemed so strong. From her balcony, she could see virtually the entire town, except she couldn’t really see most of the houses, only the lights here and there where someone was keeping a lantern burning through the night.
She saw the trees, the branches that had created the beckoning shadows she had been unable to resist. Though the breeze was gentle, the branches bowed and waved as if they were in fact greeting her. She slid her hands over the rail at the balcony’s edge and felt the wood beneath her hands, warm and supportive, as if it were something living. The air moved around her, and she blushed, even though she was alone, at the way she was seduced by the erotic feel of it. The fabric of her gown, like the shadows, seemed to touch her, to stroke her with arousing fingers.
She needed to turn away.
To go inside, to lock the door.
To close away these feelings.
But even as the thought gained a foothold in her mind, the shadows continued touching her, their touch palpable, sensuous. It was as if they had substance, as if they could take her and whisk her away into the night. The shadows were taking form, as if they were giant birds, or even bats, as if they had talons and could pluck her up from where she stood and fly with her, their prisoner, into the night.
Into true darkness.
A scream froze in her throat. The dream had become a nightmare. She reminded herself that she was strong, that she knew how to fight, how to shoot. But she had no weapon, and even if she did, shooting a shadow would be of no avail, and fighting the wind was a futile task.
And then he was there.
Just as suddenly as he had appeared that day. The tall man in the railroad duster and the hat dipping low over golden eyes.
He stood straight and firm against the wind, defying the darkness.
He closed his arms around her and swept her close, and she was uncomfortably aware of the intense way he was looking down at her. His eyes, which in reality were hazel, were glowing with a true golden splendor against the night. It was like being touched by the sun, and heat coursed through her, warming her face, her limbs, and stirring an arousal she’d never experienced before.
He walked with her into her room and gently set her down on the bed. Then he touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her catch her breath, but when she would have stroked his face and drawn him to her, he rose.
“Always fight the shadows, and never listen to the wind,” he whispered. “And don’t worry. I’ll be here,” he added, as if it were a vow.
Despite the words, though, he stepped away from her and stood at the foot of her bed. “Never open your door. Believe me as you believe in God, Miss Gordon, and do not open your door,” he warned her.
She wanted to speak.
She wanted to draw him back to her.
She wanted to forget that her father had been killed, that there had ever been a past and would ever be a future.
She wanted him back.
But she couldn’t form words. It was a dream, of course. A dream turned nightmare, turned dream again. Because she was safe, and she knew it.
Because he was there.
“Sleep now, Miss Gordon.”
“Alex,” she managed to say.
“Sleep, Alex.”
And so she did.
WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes, she was alone.
Of course.
And yet she could remember every detail of the dream.
In the cold light of day, she groaned aloud, wishing she didn’t remember with quite so much clarity.
She rose impatiently and turned toward the doors to the balcony. They were closed, the curtains drawn. And it was the light of day seeping in, not moonlight punctuated by dancing shadows.
Then she noticed the door that connected her room to the one beyond. Once that room had been the nursery, but it had long ago been converted to a guest room.
She hesitated, her heart thundering, then set her hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.
The door was unlocked.
She pushed it open.
The bed was unmade, as if awaiting the maid’s attention. And lying on the bench at the foot of the bed were saddlebags. Saddlebags engraved with a name. Cody Fox, M.D.
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