Lone Wolfe Protector

The forest brought them together. What’s in it could tear them apart.

Maggie Sullivan is back in Wolfe Creek, determined to find out why her best friend vanished one fog-shrouded night a year ago. But it quickly becomes clear that if the folks in the secluded mountain town know what happened to her friend, they aren’t talking.

Seasoned sheriff’s deputy Koda Wolfe reluctantly agrees to help this beautiful woman, even as he tries to convince her to leave for her own good. Soon he’s compelled to protect Maggie from herself, his family’s ancient curse, and a killer who could strike again.

The nights heat up in more ways than one as Maggie and Koda begin a fiery relationship. But as they delve deeper into the disappearance, the eerie woods come alive with secrets bound to tear them apart. And someone is watching their every move.

Lone Wolfe

Protector

a Wolfe Creek Series novel

Kaylie Newell

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Kaylie Newell. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Covet is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Candace Havens and Allison Collins

Cover design by Curtis Svehlak

ISBN 978-1-63375-068-5

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition August 2014

For my parents.

Chapter One

The only thing that mattered now, was answers.

The mountains outside the little car passed in a blur. The leafy patches of autumn color were lovely, although subdued, in the early evening mist. Winter would soon follow, and no way did she want to be trapped in the mountains. Maggie Sullivan turned the knob on the radio, careful not to stop on anything too sad or too happy or too anything for that matter. Sometime during the last year, she had settled into a comfortable state of numb. Every other emotion she’d chosen not to work through, including anger and pain, would just have to wait.

She shifted and adjusted the seat belt over her shoulder, doing her best not to catch her reflection in the rearview mirror. She wasn’t someone she liked to look at anymore. Her green eyes had taken on a hollow appearance, the circles underneath them, purple and bruised-looking. She had let her curls go back to their natural state of brown. Highlighting would require caring about something as trivial as hair color, and she wasn’t fooling herself about that one anymore.

She cracked the window to get some fresh air and the smell of pine and wood smoke immediately invaded the car. Her stomach lurched and she rolled it back up again. She hated the smell of both.

Unwrapping a piece of bubble gum, she put it in her mouth, staring at the road ahead.
Aimee would tell me to take a chill pill
.
Chillax, girlfriend, she would have said.
It had been a year since she’d heard Aimee’s voice. So long. Too long.

It was one of the things Maggie missed the most.

I’ll be right back.
The very last thing Aimee’d said.

Maggie’s phone chimed from the passenger seat, and she jumped.

She glanced at it—yet another text from her mother, the third in an hour. This one was simple and to the point.
Please don’t do this.
Maggie could almost hear the pleading words uttered in her mother’s fading Irish accent. Nobody wanted this, least of all her parents. She knew they wondered if she was unbalanced or too full of grief to act rationally. The truth was, she wondered, too. But not going wasn’t an option anymore. She simply couldn’t stay put.

Shivering, she reached over to turn on the heater. When she looked up, the sign for Wolfe Creek loomed in the distance.

Tiny at first. Green and insignificant. Sitting at the edge of the dark forest, thick with trees and shrubbery. An ordinary person would have passed by without giving it a second thought. They would have driven along, too caught up in their kids’ fighting or trying to decipher their GPS, to notice much.

But as the sign, and the town, got bigger and bigger, her heart became a scared, hunted thing inside her chest. She stared with eyes that stung from lack of moisture. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel as the smell of pine and wood smoke permeated the cab. It no longer mattered whether the windows were open or closed.

She took deep, even breaths, forcing herself to relax. How in God’s name would she accomplish what she needed to if she couldn’t even drive into town without passing out?

Easing the car off the freeway, she slowed to a stop in front of another sign, this one large and brown, and boasting of Wolfe Creek’s historical status. She flipped the blinker on for absolutely no one’s benefit, and turned left onto the deserted, bumpy road that led into town.

The seat belt dug into her neck, and she gave it an impatient tug. The mist had turned to fog, cold and ominous, and forcing her to the shoulder in order to see better.

This was it. This was the place she had visited in her nightmares too many times to count. She’d memorized every detail. The mechanic’s shop with rusted-out beauties from the fifties out front. The post office, city hall, and general store, all ancient white buildings with burnished brass plaques mounted next to their front doors. She’d memorized every face she had seen that night, their expressions wary and a little resentful of outsiders. But she hadn’t been back.

Until now.

“Can I help you?”

Maggie plopped the last suitcase down on top of the other two and straightened to look across the counter into a kind, round face.

“Maggie Sullivan,” she said, careful to stay aloof. She didn’t trust anyone in Wolfe Creek, no matter how friendly they looked. “I have a reservation.”

“Oh, yes.” The woman flipped through a worn ledger. “Here you are. Our guest who’s staying—”

“Indefinitely,” Maggie said, cutting her off.

The woman, Ara, judging by her name tag, continued undeterred. “We’re happy to have you, honey.” Her curly brown hair was threaded with gray. Her large breasts and plump waist met somewhere in the middle underneath a soft, denim jumper. Grandmotherly. That’s the word that came to Maggie’s mind.

“You’ll unfortunately have to share the main bath, which is down the hall from your room. Is that okay? It’s stocked with plenty of essentials, towels, shampoo and whatnot.”

Maggie signed the debit-card receipt without looking up. “Share with whom?”

“Other guests. And we have a couple of boarders like you, staying on for the next few months.”

“Perfect,” she said, leaning down to pick up the suitcase.

“Your room is upstairs. Second on the left. Jim will carry in the rest of your bags. Just holler if you need anything, okay?”

“Thank you.” Without looking back, Maggie trudged up the spiraling staircase, glancing at the black-and-white photographs on the way up.

The place was old. Actually, old was an understatement. From what Maggie had found on the internet, she knew The Wolfe Creek Inn had been built in 1883, and had been a working hotel for most of a century. The interior, although it had no doubt seen face-lifts throughout the decades, probably looked much like it had when it first opened. The furnishings were old fashioned, but in good shape; red velvet couches, heavy draperies with gold embroidery, and huge oriental rugs with elaborate designs woven throughout. The hotel was beautiful. Authentic. It even smelled old, in that pleasant, antique-y kind of way.

Hauling the suitcase up another step, Maggie examined the photographs to her left a little closer. Like the hotel itself, they were ancient. Most were pictures of people in turn of the century clothing. Women in long dresses and high, lacy collars. Men in dark suits with beat-up hats pushed high on their foreheads.

But some were less ordinary. And those were the ones that made her balance the suitcase on the step below and lean in to get a better look. Native Americans. Women in elaborate animal-skin wraps, men with feathers hanging from thick braids, half-naked children staring at the camera, wise beyond their years. Maggie looked up at a larger photo in a tarnished silver frame. In it was a young Indian woman wearing a beaded dress. At her side was a handsome white man in an equally fancy suit. His eyes were pale and came across as almost white in the colorless picture. It was obviously a wedding portrait.

And something about it gave her the chills.

“Like what you see?”

Startled, Maggie turned. A tall man stood at the top of the stairs watching her. He leaned casually against the wall with his hands in his pockets. Her first reaction was of stunned silence. Native American, and beautiful, if that was the right word. Smooth, olive skin. Shoulder-length black hair that caught the fading light of day through the window behind him. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, his eyes, dark and cutting.

She stood there with her mouth open, before remembering to snap it shut again. She didn’t trust men. And certainly not any men in this Podunk town.

“Excuse me?”

He smiled, an unmistakable arrogance gracing his wide mouth. “Those are my great-great grandparents you’re looking at. Good ol’ Gran and Gramps.”

“So?”

“So, you just looked curious, that’s all.” He took a step down, hands still in his pockets. “I could answer any questions you might have. Any at all.”

“No, thanks.”
You could always ask him where he was that night a year ago, Maggie.

He continued down the steps, an odd mixture of grace and masculinity. When he brushed by, she caught the scent of the woods, cologne, tobacco, and something else she couldn’t quite place, but that made her entire body tense just the same.

“You let me know if you change your mind,” he said. “I’m in and out of here quite a bit.”

“I’ll do that,” Maggie said grabbing her suitcase. She climbed a few steps before turning around, but he was already gone. Apparently he was not only exceptionally good-looking, but also very quick. She wouldn’t have been able to make it down the stairs in half that time. But then again, he wasn’t hauling half his closet in a box, either. She narrowed her eyes toward the bottom of the staircase where he should have been, before turning around to head to her room.

Maggie didn’t sleep well, but that was nothing new. Bad dreams plagued her all night long, but when she woke to the precarious light of dawn, she couldn’t remember any of them. They’d vanished like mist over a lake, only their disturbing effects lingering.

She sat up in bed and looked around. The room, like the rest of the Inn, was old fashioned. An antique mirror hung above the dark wood dresser, and several photographs of the hotel itself graced the walls that were painted a cheerful butter yellow. It was chilly, despite the elderly furnace’s efforts to warm the place up. It creaked and popped in the corner as Maggie pulled the white eyelet bedspread up to her chest.

Today was the day. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Now that she was here, she wasn’t entirely convinced she’d made the right decision. But there was no turning back now. She had no idea where to start, but she wasn’t going to leave this place without some answers. She needed them. To move on. To let go.

Throwing back the covers, she hopped across the frigid hardwood floor to her suitcases. Later today, she’d unpack. Get relatively comfortable in the room. But for now, she just wanted a hot shower and a cup of coffee. Grabbing a sweatshirt and some jeans, she made a beeline to the bathroom down the hall. Not in the mood to meet any other guests or compete for bathroom time for that matter, she was relieved when she didn’t come across anyone else. She showered and dressed quickly, not bothering to dry her hair, and headed downstairs.

A chipper Ara stood behind the counter again. Honestly, everything about this woman seemed genuine. Not that it mattered to Maggie, of course.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Okay,” Maggie said. “But I usually don’t sleep great wherever I am.” She shrugged, eager to change the subject. “Do you have any recommendations for breakfast?”

“The Arrowhead Café is very good. They serve comfort food and the likes.”

“Where is it?”

“Back down that way about a block and a half. You can’t miss it. Big sign. Lots of pickup trucks out front.”

Lots of pickup trucks.
Could this place get any more
Deliverance
?

Ara eyed Maggie’s wet hair. “You’ll need a jacket, honey. It’s cold out.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” Maggie walked out, catching the screen door before it slammed.

Gritting her teeth, she dug her hands into her jean pockets.
Crap.
It
was
cold. But she’d rather sit on hot coals than go back and get a jacket, or admit she was wrong to anyone. Even sweet Ara, whom she’d really wanted to hug this morning, in spite of herself.

She walked down the side of the road with her chin tucked into her chest. Her damp curls lay against the back of her neck like a wet blanket, and she had to work to keep her teeth from chattering. A pile of leaves burned nearby, and the smoke stung the inside of her nose.

Making her way to the café, she kicked up clouds of dirt with her sneakers, and wondered what Aimee would have thought about all this. She had a pretty good idea. She’d think Maggie was nuts, just like everyone else. Who else would quit their job and take every penny of their savings to embark on a wild goose chase that had a very good chance of ending no better than it began?
Margaret Sullivan, that’s who.
Maggie imagined her mother spouting off this last sentence in her most jaunty St. Paddy’s Day voice.

Looking up, Maggie studied the mostly deserted main road through town. It was still fairly early, but shouldn’t there be people out walking? Driving to work? Her footsteps punctuated the strange silence, but did nothing to ease the chills that had popped up along her arms. In fact, her skin prickled everywhere and she shuddered. Slowing, she looked over her shoulder.
Nobody.

But the sudden feeling of someone watching had taken hold. The fact that she couldn’t see anyone didn’t matter. She
felt
them. She glanced at the shrubbery to her left, which as far as she could tell, led straight into the forest. It was dark and wet, with drops of condensation spattering steadily on the blanket of dead leaves below.

“Hello?”

Her voice didn’t sound like her own. Anxiety laced it like poison. It was hard to believe there’d actually been a time when she hadn’t been scared of her own shadow. But things had changed a year ago. She’d changed.

She stood there a second longer, staring into the bushes as if they were going to come alive or reveal a secret only she would be privy to. Still nothing.

Taking a small step away, and then another, she had to resist the urge to turn and break into a run.

When Maggie finally got to the café, three blocks over, her heart had slowed to a normal rhythm again. Looking around, she made a mental note that Ara seemed to be right about a lot of things. The temperature being only one. The parking lot was full of trucks; four-by-fours, twin cabs, lifted, lowered, you name it. The only thing they all had in common was a thick layer of mud coating their oversize tires. And over the mud, a layer of dust, as if the hillbilly fairies had sprinkled it there in afterthought.

So this is where everyone is.
Apparently breakfast was an important social event in Wolfe Creek. Bracing herself, Maggie walked in the front door.

Every soul in the café stopped and looked up. After a few uncomfortable seconds, a pretty waitress smiled and gestured toward a table in the corner. “Have a seat.”