Wyoming Strong. Diana Palmer
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he...gets even for what the brunette did to him, with other women.” She flushed.
“He doesn’t talk about it, to anyone,” he repeated. “Why did he tell you?”
“I don’t understand why, either,” she replied. “He hates brunettes.”
“You have to make sure he doesn’t develop a taste for you,” he said firmly.
She nodded. She was remembering how it felt to kiss him, to be in his arms, and she didn’t want to. She didn’t dare tell Gabriel how things had already gotten physical between them.
“Don’t worry,” she said gently, and smiled. “I’m not suicidal.”
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER, she had occasion to remember those words.
SARA WAS DRIVING past Wolf Patterson’s ranch on a Sunday afternoon, on her way home from picking up a loaf of bread at the Sav-A-Lot Grocery Store, when she noticed a big black form in the middle of the road.
She slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting what was on the road, a huge Rottweiler. It had blood all over it.
She parked her car in the middle of the road. There was no traffic, darn the luck, so she couldn’t wave down anyone to help her. She approached the big dog. It was whining. There was blood on its side, and one leg was turned at an odd angle.
“Oh, dear.” She ran to the car, pulled an afghan out of the backseat and put it in the front seat. Then she went back to the dog. It was enormous, but maybe she could lift it. If she could get it into her car, she could find a vet. She hoped it wouldn’t bite her, but she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. She reached down, talking gently to it, smoothing over its head. “Poor, poor thing,” she whispered, and slid her arms under it.
She was wearing a yellow sweater and black slacks. Blood saturated her sweater as she struggled to pick up the huge animal. She heard a vehicle approaching and eased the dog to the ground. She ran toward the truck, waving her arms frantically.
“What the hell...!” Wolf Patterson exclaimed when he slammed out of the truck. She was covered in blood. He felt a jolt of fear. Had she been injured? “Sara!”
That was when he spotted Hellscream, lying on the road.
“What happened?” he bit off. “She’s my dog.”
“I don’t know,” she groaned. “I almost hit her before I saw her lying on the road. Somebody must have run over her and just left! Damn the coldhearted idiot who did this! I tried to lift her and put her into my car to take her to the vet, but she’s so heavy!”
“I’ll get her to the vet,” he said. He looked at Sara with narrow, shocked eyes. “Your sweater is soaked with blood.”
“It will wash,” she said. “Oh, hurry, she’s in so much pain!”
He turned and put the big dog on the seat beside him and sped away.
* * *
SARA HAD A SHOWER and washed her clothes. She hoped the dog would be all right. Gabriel had gone to see Eb Scott. She wished he was home, so that she could get him to call Wolf and ask about the dog. She was too intimidated by the big man to do it herself.
She was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee when she heard a car drive up.
She went to the door, peering out through the security port, and saw Wolf Patterson striding up to the porch.
He was wearing ranch clothes, denim jeans and a chambray shirt with a battered black Stetson and tan boots that had seen better days. Tan batwing chaps flapped when he walked.
She opened the door before he could knock.
“How is she?” she asked.
He nodded. “She’ll be fine. It’s Sunday and the staff was off, so I had to help Dr. Rydel hold her while he cleaned the wounds and stitched her up. He set the break in her leg. She’s pretty sick, but he says she’ll mend.” He hesitated. “Thank you for stopping.”
“I could never leave an animal hurt on the road.”
“Someone did. And I’ll find out who,” he added coldly.
Looking into those piercing pale eyes, she was glad she wasn’t the person who left his dog bleeding on the highway.
“Would you...like coffee?” she asked.
“Yes. Is Gabe here?”
“He went over to Eb Scott’s, but he should be back soon. Did you need to see him?”
“Yes. I’ll wait, if I may.”
“Of course.”
She poured black coffee into a mug while he straddled a chair at the kitchen table. He watched her move around the room, gathering up cream and sugar to put on the table.
“Do you cook?” he asked suddenly.
She laughed softly. “Yes.”
He was looking at the rack of cookbooks on the counter. “French cuisine?”
“I like French pastries,” she said. “We never lived close enough to a city to buy them, so I learned to make them. My father loved éclairs,” she recalled with a sad smile.
“Did your mother cook?”
Her face closed up. “Do you take cream or sugar in your coffee?” she asked instead.
His eyes narrowed on her suddenly pale face. He shook his head. “Your mother blamed you for what happened.”
She sat down and wrapped her hands around her mug. “Yes.”
“She saw you as a rival, I gather.”
He made it sound as if Sara had been grown when it happened. But it was too painful to discuss. “I don’t know how she saw me. She hated me. I never saw her again, after the trial. She died some time back.”
He lifted the mug to his lips and raised an eyebrow. “You could float a horseshoe in this,” he pointed out.
She managed a smile. “I like strong coffee.”
“So do I.” He sipped it again. “My mother turned me out when I was about four. She hated my father. I had the misfortune to look like him.”
She didn’t betray that Gabriel had already told her about this part of Wolf’s past. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what a sweet mother was. Gabriel and I never had much love from ours.”
He turned the cup in his hands. “Neither did I.”
“Is she still alive?’
His eyes were terrible to look into. “I don’t know. I don’t give a damn.”
She sighed. “I would feel the same, if mine was still alive.”
He sipped coffee. “That was one damned expensive sweater you had on,” he said after a minute. “You didn’t even hesitate to lift Hellie.”
“Is that her name? Hellie?” she asked with a smile.
He nodded. He didn’t add that it was short for Hellscream. She wouldn’t understand the reference, anyway. Hellscream was a male orc in his video game, and he thought the name was amusing for a female dog. He hated Hellscream as leader of the Horde forces.
“I bought her when I moved here. She’s three years old. My best girl,” he added with a smile, one of the few genuine smiles she’d ever seen on his hard face.
She was studying the backs of his hands. There were fine scars on them.
He raised an eyebrow. “Something you