Chapter 2
TWO
LANIE
All the Places We Don’t Fit
I called my best friend’s brother a dirty cowboy.
My car eats the miles between Coyote Falls and Winnie’s townhouse as I berate myself a dozen times over for the faux pas of essentially labeling what is clearly a wealthy man a cowhand. And for getting busted ogling his naked chest to boot.
There’s really no coming back from that.
No matter how hard I concentrate on the road, I can’t shake the image of the shirtless rancher and the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to devour. Part of me is kind of okay with that. Or more than okay with it.
Which, as a sex-starved biologist who spends more months of the year with wolves than I do with real people, makes our three-hour return trip utter hell.
I sang—badly—the entire trip out to Coyote Falls, when Winnie asked me to pick Sally up after an emergency work call.
Winnie spends most of her hours on alternate shifts and often asks me to babysit since I’ve moved in on a semipermanent basis—in lieu of rent, which she flat out refuses to take in any case, no matter how often I offer her cash.
But I wasn’t expecting Cord. The return trip is something else.
Getting my ovaries in a twist over a shirtless, off-limits, and sexy-as-a-Montana-sunset rancher shouldn’t top up my spank bank.
Check your sex drive at the ranch gate, Lanie.
A tired sigh brings me back to the confines of my trusty car. A glance in my rearview mirror confirms that Sally’s tucked herself beneath a blanket gifted to me in Alaska, handmade by my host during my research phase.
The woman’s creations are amazing. She incorporates traditional patterns from her region and an image of a magnificent wolf emerges from the center of the blanket, complete with wiggly ears, reminiscent of the wolf pups I observed there.
When I was Sally’s age, I could never have imagined that studying wolves would become my career.
I found my calling when a wolf emerged from the tree line while I was hiking during my teens.
The creature’s stillness, the way it merged with the mountain itself, spoke to me.
And the more I learned about wolf behavior, the more invested I became until the wilderness seemed more like a home than four walls did.
I knew even then I’d never be comfortable in a nine-to-five job plus house and spouse lifestyle since.
Straight after college, I walked away from standard job hours for research stints in Alaska and never looked back.
Seeing Sally curled under the blanket gives me a pang. I’m glad someone else gets use from the handmade gift intended for someone who might use it for a family of their own one day.
A family that, with my nomadic, geek-worthy lifestyle, simply wasn’t on any horizon I could see.
“Did you enjoy your time with Ra—Uncle Cord?” I catch my slip.
“Always! I shot people.” Sally beams, tugging the blanket over her chin until all I see is eyes and hair.
“You did?” I start as a truck flashes past. I shake my head, trying to focus. Cord lets her shoot with what, exactly?
“We get paint everywhere. Even the cows turn blue! And I hit Billy in the chest. A bull eyes!”
“Bullseye,” I correct her. A paintball gun.
That makes more sense. I stifle a giggle, realizing I don’t need to turn the car around to rip the man a new one.
He’s too intimidating for that and my little old car may not survive his mile-long driveway a second time.
Okay, so it’s not that long, but some of his potholes are deadly.
“I’m glad you had fun. Do you want any snacks? ”
“Later, please? Cord fed me lots.”
Brownie points earned right there, rancher boy.
Sally yawns, shifting to face toward the window. Soft snores fill her side of the car moments later, and I wish I could join her.
I envy her ability to shift from one situation to another with resilience.
Like the wolf pups I study, their impulsiveness and ability to take in change protects them from other stresses.
Sally can socialize with Cord and his farmhands with apparent ease, while I struggle to converse with one man at his own front door.
Albeit a shirtless one.
The man has some incredible genes. I bite my lip, remembering that physique, which covered all the bases—broad shoulders slimming to that vee that features on bodice rippers in airport bookstores.
Droolworthy—if somewhat paint-splattered—toned forearms, the defined muscle probably earned from hours of hard labor on his land.
Tight ridges of muscle form a set of washboard abs that disappear where his jeans meet tanned skin detailed with a hint of ink I want to discover firsthand.
Not that I ogled, exactly. I just… Okay, so I ogled a little.
And he still had a bit of dirt on him. That should’ve detracted from his sex appeal, but good jeans—cowboy pun fully intended—and a smattering of scars that tell their own story only added to Cordell Rand’s rough brand of attractiveness.
And those eyes—a cool sapphire blue that should not be able to draw heat inside me, but they do anyway.
I swear my brain left the building the moment I stepped inside his house. Homestead, he called it. The place has more rooms than a palace. That he spent months—years, even—building his home stirs something primal inside me that I pushed away long ago.
I remind myself I chose a nomadic lifestyle; that it allows me to do what I love.
I can blame my distracted state of mind on being on my own for too long, immersed in wolf behavior, and not around people so much.
Maybe that could be the topic of my next paper.
Scientist investigates internal struggle: female versus wolf.
Winnie had a field day explaining that one to me.
Somehow, I doubt funding will come easy; grants will be tough to secure for that topic.
Winnie has been on my case about spending so much time alone and already tried to set me up with a few randoms, despite my adamant rejection of any and all blind dates.
So far I have managed to avoid her matchmaking tendencies.
Now I wonder if the claim that she was called in to work isn’t another of her attempts.
The thought of Cord building the house out there with just a handful of men to help him draws an image of strength and sweat-beaded shoulders.
I understand his desire to live in the remote region of Montana for its beauty alone.
Harsh gray granite peaks that rise beyond warm golden grasslands create a stark contrast around the homestead.
Hell, the ranch looks like something out of a movie.
Stunning, and remote.
Like its owner.
I can’t forget the forest I glimpsed beyond the house that I suspect has something to do with the signage that proclaims the property’s name, Coyote Falls, at his entrance gate.
A large part of me wonders if the land beyond the house might be a suitable habitat for wolves near Cord’s western boundary, and just how far that border extends.
Still, it’s a lonely existence if he has no one to share it with apart from a few ranch hands and his niece every other weekend.
But a homestead means staying in one place for any length of time, and that simple concept caves the small walls of the car in around me.
The freedom my research provides earns me coveted breathing space away from everyone else.
I can’t imagine a life that isn’t mainly spent deep in Alaska’s remotest corners in search of my elusive gray wolves.
Even Winnie’s offer to live with her and Sally is restricting, though I know she doesn’t see it that way and means well.
Just like with the constant string of dates.
My job has alienated me from more than just a regular lifestyle, friends, and the usual things like claiming a home of my own, even though I have one, of sorts.
But that house isn’t really mine. And I know I’d be welcome to return to the families who have hosted me if I want to revisit Alaska to complete my research, much-needed funds permitting.
Or to escape from the world when it grows too noisy or too full.
The traffic increases as we approach a small town, the sun low to the horizon.
Valiant Peak. I passed through on the way to collect Sally, frowning at the touristy-type banner that declared a dire wolf sighting.
The recent scientific miracle, bringing back a clutch of pups, has brought out more than one crazy claim across the world.
Apparently, this town isn’t immune to the growing hysteria, judging by the giant, almost comical caricature of a dire wolf on the poster, which is nothing but dangerous to the local wolf population.
Think Jaws, but with wolves. Fear drives people to do terrible, stupid things.
A billboard announces the Valiant Peak Invitational, the words superimposed over the image of a familiar silhouette posed on the back of a bucking bull at the height of its leap.
I just banished Cord’s shade from my car, and now he’s back again, somehow sexier than ever.
I don’t even need to see his face to recognize those shoulders.
Dammit, cowboy.
I snort my derision as I pass the dire wolf sign, though unease swoops in my stomach.
Myths might be fun for the locals and encourage a little extra tourism for the otherwise sleepy town, but evidence suggests that dire wolves died out over ten thousand years ago.
One scientific miracle doesn’t necessarily create a threat for Cordell’s local town, or any town, despite the leaps that one firm made in resurrecting what appears to be dire wolf DNA.