Wolf Rock Shifters Books 1-5: Five BBW Paranormal Romance Standalone Novels (37 page)

The Richardson family, while by no means wealthy, owned twelve horses and several hundred acres of land. Most of the herd were quarter horses, who were strong and fit enough to deal with the rocky climbs through the mountains. Nash always snorted when he saw Tennessee Walking Horses and precious, delicate Morgans, whose bones looked too brittle, the horses too vain, for anything strenuous, let alone carrying a large lion shifter through mountainous terrain. He was more of the quarter horse ilk himself: densely packed, muscular and strong. As such he felt a strong bond with them, and could sense that they were more comfortable with him than they were with the tourists who came through on occasion. Often they were dressed stupidly in skirts and heels and wondering why Nash wanted to sedate their mounts before the rides.

He never did, of course; he was more tempted to give the riders themselves horse tranquilizers and leave them lying on the floor of the barn.

Nash strolled through the stable and approached his favourite of the family’s herd, a chestnut called Flak Jacket, who was so called for his ability to resist attacks. When he was a yearling he’d been jumped by a bear and he’d managed not only to kick it into a state of unconsciousness but to get away pretty well unscathed. He reminded Nash of himself.

“Hey there, boy,” said the young man, laying a warm hand on the horse’s wooly coat. His fingers carved out a series of shallow streams between the thick hair, which disappeared without a trace when he removed them.

The horse eyed him, seemingly unfazed by the contact.

“We’re going to head out today. You ready for it?”

As if in response, Flak let out a low whinny.

“Yeah, I figured you were.”

Nash settled on a mare called Daisy for the female guest who was to arrive. She was docile as her name suggested, and cow-like in her seemingly indifferent demeanour. Unlikely, at any rate, to throw the daughter of a rich, important businessman to the ground, unless the woman did something really stupid. And if she did, thought Nash, she deserved a good solid face-plant.

He was slowly grooming Daisy, whose hair was filled with the dry dust that gathers in the winter coats of horses, when a voice behind him asked, “Is she for me?”

Nash turned. A young woman stood before him in tall leather boots, tight jeans and a quilted white jacket which was cinched at the waist.

“Excuse me?” he replied, thrown by her presence. It was not yet nine a.m.

“I’m sorry; I know I’m early. I just couldn’t wait to get out here.”

“You’re…”

“Cecile.” She removed one of her gloves to shake his hand.

“Nash.”

Her grip was firm, which he respected. He found himself looking into her eyes, confused by his own state of nervousness. They were a cold blue so light as to nearly be white; the colour of ice on a glacier. Their pupils were ringed with a delicate light brown circle.

Had Nash seen her on the street, given her outfit and the fact that her makeup looked perfectly done, he would have made the assumption that she was a diva of some sort. She was far too beautiful to want to hang around in barns.

“Do you mind if we go out a little early?” she asked.

“No, not at all,” he said. “I’m just surprised. I thought…”

“You thought I’d be late and inconsiderate,” she said, tying her long, sleek black hair back into a ponytail. Nash took a moment to study her face now, which was intriguing. Lovely, but unusual. The light eyes were surrounded by black lashes and accentuated by well-groomed, thick eyebrows. Her skin was ivory-coloured. But there was something in her facial structure which looked Asian, and the combination of elements was stunning.

Nash found himself at a loss for words. He wasn’t a chatty person to begin with but in the moment he was simply unable to come up with anything to say. It was almost as though all his blood had migrated away from his brain and was seeking refuge between his legs.

“It’s all right,” Cecile was saying. “That’s what most people assume of you when you’re Conrad Malcolm’s daughter.”

“Your father is Conrad Malcolm?” he asked. Nash had heard of the man; he was a billionaire mogul known for his ruthlessness, his cunning and his lack of interest in anyone but himself. He’d never heard, though, that the man was a shifter. It seemed that his focus in life lay elsewhere. Some kept their animal sides hidden from the public eye, and Nash supposed that Malcolm was no exception to this behaviour.

The lion shifter felt almost sorry for a man who would deny his abilities, however. To Nash they were a strength, and while he would never have claimed superiority to a human, he didn’t envy them the dull simplicity of their lives. A shifter was filled with powers that humans could never understand.

“Yes, unfortunately he is my father,” said Cecile. “Or fortunately, depending on how you look at it.”

“I mean, I haven’t met him or anything. I haven’t really been around here for the last few years.”

“Well, we only just moved here, really. My dad is an…interesting man. Unapproachable, like a lot of men who care more about money than people. Add to that the tiger inside him and you have someone who’s somewhat terrifying. Though I’d say lately that he’s forgotten his shifter roots. It’s been a long time since any evidence of the tiger’s shown up.”

“Ah,” said Nash, who felt slightly uncomfortable with her candid talk. “I can’t imagine losing your animal. Unless something traumatic happened, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, my mother died a long time ago. I don’t think that helped. He was a different man back when she was alive.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nash quietly.

“No, I’m sorry,” said Cecile, who let out a shallow laugh. “Sometimes I resent him for the way people perceive me. I forget that he’s human and then someone like you reminds me.”

“It’s okay.”

“Here, let me do that,” she said, taking the curry comb from Nash, who’d stopped grooming the mare. Cecile began to brush Daisy, carefully combing the small knots out of her tail as she went. Nash watched her, his eyes moving up and down her body as though he had no control over them whatsoever. What was going on with him? He couldn’t speak and his body was behaving like it had never come upon a woman before.

I sure would like to come upon this one,
he thought, chastising himself afterwards for his own dirty mind.

Stop it,
he told himself.
Breathe. She’s just a girl.

Her shape was a familiar one, common to most of the women in Wolf Rock. It was one that Nash had missed while away at school. College
girls, since he was convinced that they weren’t yet
women
, were often stick-thin and wiry, the sorts who read fashion magazines and wondered why they didn’t look like the mass of airbrushed models they always saw despite their lack of meat. Cecile had curves, and it was her round backside that Nash noticed first, as she bent to deal with one particularly stubborn knot. Its ripe roundness caused a visceral reaction in him, to the extent that he let out a chuckle at his own expense. He felt himself salivate a little, as though she were a piece of fruit to bite into.

“What’s going on?” asked Cecile, dropping the tail and looking up at him.

“Nothing. Just…watching you. I suppose it’s not common to have clients do their own grooming.”

“I like getting my hands dirty,” she said, and winked at him, smiling.

“So you’re a shifter,” he asked. “A tiger, like your father.”

“Yeah. And you,” she said as she grabbed a pick and lifted Daisy’s back left hoof to clean, “are a big strong lion, or so your parents tell me.”

“I am.”

“I don’t know a lot of lions. I come from a long line of tigers. Back in the day they used to refer to ours as something like ‘spirit animals,’ but of course my ancestors knew better. It was more that the animal was the essence of the soul.”

“A white tiger. I’ve never met one. I guess this makes you my first.”

“I’m pleased to be popping your white tiger cherry, Nash,” she said, the hoof between her thighs as she dug out a few tightly-packed stones and dried earth. Nash found himself envying that hoof.

A
s they groomed the horses
, Nash and Cecile took their time in the stable, talking. Neither seemed in a rush to head out.

“I spent a lot of my childhood around horses,” the tiger shifter told Nash. “Only when my father moved here, to the mountains, did it stop. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t you have horses? Don’t all rich people?”

Cecile punched him lightly in the arm. “You really do have a lot of pre-conceived notions about the wealthy, don’t you? Anyhow, I suppose you’re right. My dad came out here and did the nouveau-riche thing. He bought a fancy chalet. I was hoping for a ranch. He hired designers to ‘class it up,’ which seems to mean that he spent a fortune on decorators to buy incredibly expensive ‘rustic’ furniture.”

“That sounds sort of awful,” said Nash.

“It sort of is. I mean, it’s undeniably beautiful, the chalet, but more like a mansion, really, and it’s sterile. Not homey; not warm. That’s one reason I found this place and…you.” She looked into his eyes now, and he thought that he perceived a change in tone with the word “you.”

“I have a fantasy,” continued Cecile, “that involves a place that’s undisturbed by wealth.”

“You’ve come to the right ranch then,” laughed Nash. “You won’t find any wealth here.”

“Excellent. It seems to me that material possessions and wealth are very human things. When my mom died, my sister was ten, and I was in my early teens. That’s when my father seemed to, I don’t know, forsake the tiger inside him. He became more human each day.” Cecile was brushing Daisy gently again, absent-mindedly allowing the soft bristles to massage the mare, who seemed perfectly happy about it. “He became more materialistic and greedy as time went on. Not to mention thick-headed and stubborn as anything.”

“Why do you think that is?” asked Nash.

“I don’t know. Maybe the grief was too much for him. Maybe he needed to shut down. You would think that voiding yourself of emotion would make you less human but it seemed to have an even more detrimental effect: he lost his tiger as well. He shed his ability to be kind, to think of others, to nurture and to protect. Everything in his life seemed to motivate him towards a sort of monetary success that had never mattered to my mother, my sister or me.”

“It sounds like you’re right,” said Nash, who was slowly emerging from his own shell. “He shut down. He put up walls. His success replaced human emotion.”

“I suppose that’s what it is. And it hasn’t only affected me. My sister left a while back for Europe. She said it was to travel, maybe study. But I think it was to escape from dad. I think it hurt her too much to see what was happening. When he shut down he seemed to stop loving us. He’d always cared so much, been so happy in our little family. Then suddenly my sister felt rejected. It was awful for her.”

“Do you have a good relationship with her?”

Cecile smiled then. “Great,” she said. “I miss her like crazy. I can’t wait ‘til she’s home.”

“Good. I hope she’s home soon,” said Nash.

“Me too. So…” Cecile looked at the lion shifter a little coquettishly now. “When I looked up ranches to go riding, this place came up with rave reviews. But none of them mentioned the very attractive young lion shifter who seems to run the place.”

Nash seemed to blush. “I haven’t been here,” he said, kicking himself for not denying his attractiveness.

When Cecile had first laid eyes on Nash she’d thanked her brain for telling her that morning to wear her sexiest sensible boots and for actually bothering with makeup. Though the lion shifter looked like the sort of man who didn’t care much about these things; he exuded the sort of ruggedness that seeped out his pores. He was the sort who would spend days on horseback, developing strong legs and a strong sense of freedom. In that sense, she thought, he was the opposite of her father; he had a bond with nature and with animals. Her father pretended that such things didn’t exist.

In Nash, Cecile saw herself. A roamer who didn’t like being held down in one place. But also an intensely private man—well, an intensely private man in well-fitting jeans which showed off a mouth-watering bulge in the front, but then again, who took notice of things like that? Other than horny female tiger shifters, that is.

His face was beautiful; hazel eyes against bronze skin, a square jaw with high cheekbones that looked like they’d been carved out of mahogany.

A tuft of his light hair seemed to suspend itself over his forehead and she found herself wanting to reach out and to push it away, though it never did drop down.

Cecile felt that she could see the lion in his human face, and told herself that it was further proof of how strong the animal in him was. In the meantime, the sleek white tiger who dominated her instincts and desires was pacing inside her as though trapped in a small cage, wanting to jump at the object of its desires. To attack him playfully, and to puncture his flesh gently with a jagged tooth. To claim his body as her own.

This was a new sensation and Cecile found herself carried off from time to time, as though she’d been drugged. Her mind was addled and occupied with thoughts of Nash’s scent and of how his skin must feel and taste. She had to fight her inner cat just to stand still. In truth, grooming the horse was simply a way to keep her hands occupied. She began to clean out Daisy’s last hoof in order to keep from saying anything too forward.

“All done,” she said as she let the fourth hoof drop to the ground with a thud. Daisy, who’d been half asleep through the entire process, raised her head now, wondering if she could go back to her stall and lie down.

“All right, let’s get them tacked up,” said Nash, who grabbed the nearest saddle and flung it over the disappointed mare’s back. Daisy let out a snort of derision.

Cecile stood back and watched. The young man’s back view was as good as his front, she thought. From behind she could see that his blond hair was close-cropped and the back of his neck was tanned, which meant that even in the winter he spent a good deal of time outside. The behaviour of a proper male, and the mark of a shifter.