Cowboy in Wolf's Clothing Read online

  Also by Kait Ballenger

  Cowboy Wolf Trouble

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kait Ballenger

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Kris Keller

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  Colt Cavanaugh strode across the pasture, holding the rim of his Stetson against the wind. The heels of his brown leather cowboy boots dug into the frozen ground, each step punctuated with murderous intent. He’d read the note scrawled in his packmaster’s hand an hour ago, yet he still seethed with anger. He’d never contemplated disobeying a direct order before, but there was a first time for everything.

  Not unless provoked, Maverick’s orders had read. During active wartime, no less. What a load of horseshit.

  When Colt reached the stables, he tore open the doors. The cold mountain air seared through his lungs, mixing with the familiar scent of manure and fresh hay. The soft purrs of several sleeping horses filled the small space. Colt spied Silver in the third stall down. In the glowing orange of the heat lamps, the silvery threads of the white Arabian’s coat shimmered. At the sight of Colt, the horse’s tail lifted high and proud. Silver was a horse fit more for a purebred high commander than the cowboy Colt was at heart, and the animal damn well knew it.

  Even his own horse suspected the dark truth of his past.

  Colt was anything but purebred.

  He grabbed an available saddle, and the attention whorse wrinkled his nose in distaste at the old, worn leather. Colt ignored him. He needed to reach the location, scope out the perimeter, and strategize his men’s placement before their enemies arrived. Thanks to Maverick and the Seven Range Pact’s orders, Colt and his men wouldn’t be running headfirst into battle tonight, but they would be armed to the teeth all the same.

  Colt led Silver from the stable, mounted, and gave the beast a commanding kick. Silver shot through the camp and into the nearby forest at breakneck speed, rushing past the darkened pines and navigating the underbrush with ease. Colt would give Silver that much. He wasn’t the most obedient working horse for rounding up cattle on the main Grey Wolf ranch back home at Wolf Pack Run, but his speed was rivaled by none.

  As they rode, the setting sun painted the Montana mountain skyline in pink and orange. Shadows elongated, chasing Colt like dark, snarling demons as evening descended onto the forest. When they reached their destination, Colt tugged Silver to a halt, dismounted, and scanned his surroundings. The forest was deadly quiet. The remaining late-spring snow blanketed even the most dangerous of sounds. He led Silver to a nearby bush, allowing him to graze on the frozen grass beneath.

  With his horse content, Colt searched for the moon. The white crescent cast a dim glow over the pines. His wolf stirred, and his eyes flashed gold before he threw back his head and released a long howl.

  The sound reverberated off the trees, and his men answered, providing him with a keen sense of his soldiers’ positions and acting as a warning to their enemies. Though Colt was the only wolf in the clearing, he was far from alone.

  Maverick hadn’t specified anything against intimidation.

  As his howl ended, Colt inhaled a sharp breath. Three vampires several meters upwind. A low growl grumbled in his chest as the scent drew nearer.

  “You failed to follow protocol,” he called out.

  One of the vampires emerged from the trees. At first glance, he appeared human, but he was far from it. The bloodsucker smiled, the moonlight revealing a sinister, sharp-toothed grin.

  Colt recognized the vampire instantly. As Grey Wolf high commander, he made it a point to know his enemies. Lucas was a crony of Cillian, the ancient bloodsucking leader of the Billings vampire coven. Lucas, neither the most powerful nor eldest of bloodsuckers, was hungry for power and a force to be reckoned with. But what the hell he was doing all the way out here near Missoula in one of the Grey Wolves’ subpack territories, requesting a negotiating meeting during wartime, Colt hadn’t the slightest clue.

  “You said one representative.”

  “You have exactly that, Commander. One representative…and my two guards. We also requested the packmaster, so promises were broken on both sides.” That sinister smile flashed again.

  A vein pulsed at Colt’s temple, but he held his features steady. He had learned long ago never to betray his emotions.

  “Maverick made no such promise. State your purpose or leave,” he said.

  Lucas broke a piece of peeling bark off a nearby tree, grinding the wood to dust in his palm. “My coven thought we might offer a deal.” He broke eye contact, turning toward the trees in a way that raised the fine hairs at the nape of Colt’s neck.

  The bloodsucker was anticipating something. Colt sensed it.

  “We’ll cease all war efforts immediately for the span of one year,” Lucas continued. “It will give you time to prepare, rally and train your subpack troops, and get the other animals in that Pact of yours on board.”

  Throughout Montana, the seven shifter clans that called Big Sky Country home formed the Seven Range Shifter Pact. They agreed to band together as allies in the face of their common enemies and for the greater interest of all shifters. If one pack went to war, all went to war.

  But Lucas’s proposition lacked long-term logistical thinking. This early in the battle, they weren’t going to strike any deals with the en
emy. Colt wasn’t eager to hear what came next. He’d rather call bullshit now and rip this bloodsucker’s heart out. But there must have been a reason the vamps wanted a delay…

  “Name your price.”

  Lucas’s face turned businesslike. “Ten of your strongest warriors.”

  “No deal.” Colt betrayed none of the hatred he felt.

  A smile curved Lucas’s lips. “Be logical, Commander. It’s only ten men. I’m offering you the lesser of two evils. Think of the lives lost in a year of war. Far more than ten.”

  “No deal,” Colt repeated.

  “You can’t walk away from this.” Lucas’s eyes flashed a deep crimson red.

  Colt allowed his wolf eyes to glow through the darkness. “That’s where you’re wrong.” Colt might not have been born a true Grey Wolf, but he was loyal to the pack, to Maverick. He’d never consider an offer that would endanger their packmates, his men. Colt advanced, forcing Lucas to ease back. “These are my soldiers. No deal,” Colt growled, low and foreboding.

  He and the vampire stood nearly nose to nose now. The heat of their breath swirled together in a smoky dance.

  “I was afraid you’d say that. You see, Commander, I really was giving you my best offer, because if you failed to accept, our intent was to take what we need by force. You didn’t think I’d play by the rules, did you?” Lucas snapped his fingers, and his two bloodsucking cronies emerged from the trees.

  Provocation enough. Colt lifted a hand and tipped the edge of his Stetson lower, signaling to his men watching through the underbrush.

  “On the contrary,” he said. From beneath the rim of his Stetson, he glared at his enemy. “I counted on it.”

  The Grey Wolf soldiers burst through the tree line just as Colt tore his blade from his ankle holster. The hilt disconnected to double as a stake, and he intended to use it.

  Four of his men took on Lucas’s cronies, which left Lucas to Colt. Despite his bravado, the bloodsucker fled. Colt bolted after him. With a quick whistle, he signaled Silver. Gripping the reins, he hooked his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle, leaning forward to urge the horse into a gallop.

  As Colt rode after Lucas, a howl from one of his men echoed through the forest, cut short by a sharp, piercing yelp of pain and confirming his worst suspicions. He should have ignored Maverick and the Seven Range Pact’s orders, gone with his instincts come hell or high water, and attacked first.

  He’d make their enemy pay for the mistake.

  Colt steered Silver into the trees, maneuvering the beast into a quick turn until they rounded off Lucas at the pass. Colt dismounted into a drop-crouch with his blade in hand. But as he rose, another bloodsucker lunged from the nearby bushes, colliding with him in a tangle of snarls.

  One of those damned half-turned vampires. He’d thought the pack had all but eliminated them at the start of the war.

  The half-turned vampire screeched as it lunged for Colt’s throat. Colt dislodged his blade, revealing a small stake on the other end. Clutching the vampire by the throat, Colt drove his stake into the vampire’s undead heart. The vampire lurched. Colt shoved the dead bloodsucker off him, stake in hand, but Lucas had escaped.

  And whatever Lucas wanted Colt’s men for, he wouldn’t succeed, because Colt wouldn’t rest this night until he found him and bled his enemy dry…

  * * *

  Dr. Elizabeth “Belle” Beaumont had been waiting for this moment, and she’d be damned if she missed this chance. Belle leaned against the wall of her cell, feigning sleep, the tattered blanket they’d given her draped over her legs.

  Tonight, she would set herself free.

  The sounds of shouting above the dungeons rang overhead. Whatever had caused the emergency throughout the Missoula Grey Wolf subpack had drawn the attention of every guard.

  Her breath swirled as she released a slow sigh. The air in the dungeons bordered on freezing. She’d never been more thankful that she was a werewolf than at this moment. Had she been one of the many humans she’d treated over the years, without the benefit of her wolf heating her from the inside out, she would have died from hypothermia days ago.

  The hurried voices of the last two guards trailed off as they pounded out of the dungeons.

  Now was her chance.

  Belle pulled the bobby pin from the nape of her neck, digging it free from the mess of snarled curls and frizz. She crept over to the entrance of her cell and wiggled the hairpin into the housing of the lock, pressing up until she felt the slight pop of the springs releasing. With shaking hands, she eased the cell door open. The hinges released a whining creak.

  Another round of shouts overhead spurred her forward. She needed to get the hell out of Dodge and fast. Slipping through the darkness, she found her way to the stairs leading out of the dungeons and climbed.

  When Belle emerged into the night, the fresh scent of the surrounding pine forest filled her nose. She hadn’t realized how dank the dungeons had been until she was here now, in the fresh mountain air. She scanned her surroundings. To the left, the open pastures and ranchland of the Missoula subpack. To the right, lit by firelight, was an army encampment temporarily housing the Grey Wolf soldiers. With the start of the war only weeks earlier, the Grey Wolf soldiers from Wolf Pack Run, the main ranch and compound, were here in Missoula to train the cowboys of the Missoula Grey Wolf subpack into soldiers. Considering her ties to the Wild Eight, they’d see Belle as an enemy—even without knowing the dark truth of her circumstances.

  Shouts and yelling sounded from that direction.

  It was now or never.

  Belle bolted toward the safety of the forest.

  Toward freedom.

  As she ran, her foot landed in a bramble bush, the icy thorns slicing at her leg. She bit her lip to keep from crying out but didn’t stop to assess the wounds. She needed to keep moving.

  Belle wasn’t sure how long she ran, but she didn’t stop until her legs refused to carry her any longer and she collapsed on all fours into the snow. The cold tingled into her limbs, but she ignored it, staring up at the gorgeous crescent moon shining through the treetops overhead. She fought the urge to let out a victorious howl as she prepared to shift into her wolf for the first time in days. The feeling would be exquisite. She felt the rapid thrum of her pulse as she struggled to calm herself enough to find her focus.

  And then she heard it.

  A rustling nearby in the trees.

  She rose onto her knees. The blanket of snow covering the ground had soaked through her worn jeans, chilling her to the bone. From the close proximity of the noise, her options were limited.

  Find or be found.

  Lowering herself onto all fours, she calmed her breathing and steadied herself, finding the place deep inside her where her wolf struggled to break free. In the pale moonlight, her beast came forth with ease. A quick twinge of pain followed by a sweet release, and her fur instantly warmed her. Her clothes fell to the ground beneath her. Shaking the snow from her furred coat, she dragged her clothing beneath a nearby bush to cover her tracks and slipped into the cover of the underbrush.

  Slowly, she prowled toward the source of the noise. Keeping downwind, she zeroed in on the rustling coming from the edge of a nearby clearing. As she peered through the undergrowth, her heart stopped.

  The first thing she saw was a horse. From the thin shape of its face, she recognized it as a purebred Arabian. They may not have bred yearlings on her mother’s ranch growing up, but they’d owned enough horses for her to know what she was seeing. But it wasn’t the horse that caused her pulse to race into overdrive.

  It was the sight of the cowboy beside the steed.

  In this neck of the woods, if his Stetson wasn’t enough to give him away as one of the Grey Wolf cowboys, the earthy scent that drifted on the winter breeze was. She recognized him instantly as one of her kind. He smelled
of pine, dark spices, and clove, a warm and welcome scent that was far too pleasant for her liking. But if he was a guard, he hadn’t served on her cellblock. She would have remembered, because whoever he was, he smelled divine.

  The Arabian sniffed through the undergrowth again, causing the rustling noise she’d heard.

  Inhaling a steady breath, Belle inched backward. She needed to get the hell outta here before he discovered her, but the sound of his deep voice froze her in place.

  “Find anything?” he asked.

  A small band of wolves stepped into the clearing, all in human form. One of them stepped forward. “No, Commander,” he answered.

  Commander. The haunches of Belle’s fur bristled. These weren’t just any wolves. They weren’t even guards. These cowboys were Grey Wolf warriors.

  If they found her, she’d have no choice but to run for her life. She’d never been much of a fighter, and she-wolf or not, her skills would be no match for a well-trained alpha male. Did they know she’d escaped?

  The fur of her tail prickled. No. She couldn’t go back to a cell. She was innocent, though she knew they’d never believe her. She was a Rogue, an outcast. According to pack wolves like them, not to be trusted. It was the unfortunate way of their world.

  The commander’s voice chilled her. “Spread out and cover more ground. We can’t let this one go.”

  The other wolves obeyed, leaving the commander in the middle of the clearing. Her heart sank further as each wolf prowled in a different direction, lessening her chances for an easy escape.

  With his back still turned to her, she watched the commander’s wide shoulders rise and fall. For a moment, he leaned his weight against his horse before he removed his Stetson. Setting it on the horse’s saddle, he ran a hand through his short hair, leaving it slightly ruffled. It was pale brown in color, almost dirty blond.

  He must have decided to shift and search like the men he’d given orders to, because he chose that moment to reach down and tug the hem of his shirt over his head.

  Had Belle been in human form, she would have had to stifle a gasp. The spine and musculature he revealed were rippled with sinew, but the scars were what stole her breath. Even in the dim glow of the moonlight, her wolf eyes allowed her to see. The commander’s body was a history of battles won and lost, wars waged on behalf of a supernatural empire.