Carla stared at him with this perplexed look which made Jock wonder all the more. Had Grant really watched Carla in action with these wicked props he’d mentioned?
“That’s all right, sweetness. Don’t worry ’bout a reply. I can make heads and tails out of this. Anyhow, you were in the barn doin’ whatever it is that you do out there—in the loft—and well, what I came up with after a-prowlin’ around is that you were makin’ a little too much noise.” He stood taller and his lips spread into a mischievous smile. Leaning against Jock, he added a whisper, “How’d I do? Did ya like that?”
Jock studied the pretty lady. “Carla? How close was Grant’s guess?”
“What sort of squealing?” Carla arched a brow and watched them through suspicious eyes.
Grant shrugged. “That voice of yours is as fine as cream gravy when you go to hollerin’ and such.”
“Grant,” Jock muttered, giving his buddy a one-word warning he would inevitably ignore.
Copping a strut, Grant approached the porch, working what little swagger he possessed. “Come on, Carla. You know what I mean. You can’t kick up a row and expect no one to hear ya. I ain’t been a man for all these years for nothin’. I can spot an experienced woman.” He cupped his ear, slung his arm off to the left, and quickly added, “And I can hear one from way over yonder.”
Before Jock had a chance to smooth things over, a disgusted gasp fell from Carla’s mouth. “Well I’ve never in my life.”
“Me neither,” Grant admitted. “But after what I’ve witnessed, I’d be the first man to say you are a soiled dove to the manner born. And I’d be the first to mention yer geared up to teach even an experienced fella a thing or two.”
Carla’s eyes filled with tears. Before Jock saw the slap coming, she opened her hand and her palm connected with Grant’s cheek.
“I don’t know who you think you are, Grant Ford, but if you’re trying to make a mash on me, I can promise you, I’m not impressed!”
Grant stared back at her with wide eyes. “Surely to God you ain’t offended.”
“I am indeed!”
And of course after that, Miss Carla Cassidy did what Jock suspected she might. She walked inside, slammed the door in their faces, and never so much as bothered to say good-bye.
“Happy now?” Jock asked, without blinking an eye.
“I like ’em a little hot under the collar. Trust me, friend. I know what I’m doin’. Let’s go for a run. When we get back, she’ll be fit to be tied—and I mean that in the literal sense.”
Jock couldn’t help but think about Grant’s earlier words. One of these days, Carla would open the door and greet her husband. Considering what had transpired, Jock had a feeling she’d slam that door just as quickly if she thought her potential suitor was named Grant Ford.
* * * *
Carla was mad enough to go into town and talk to the marshal. Jock and Grant had been riding in and out of her life for over five years now. Never once had she given either one of them reason to believe she was a fancy gal, a woman who had the luxury of lying on her back and earning her room and board instead of working like a man to afford her lot in life. If Carla had spread her legs, she’d done so for free while providing comfort for the man who’d stopped by to check on her more than anyone else in this town.
Living on the outskirts of Laramie in the wide-open prairie referred to as WolfDen, Wyoming, Carla occasionally spotted a stagecoach passing through and every day or two, a rider might stop by and ask for directions. She made her living off the land and kept her hands and nose clean. She rarely went into the town of Laramie and had yet to take a notion to ride off into the sunset with a wild outlaw. She’d received the offer every now and again.
She wished she’d taken a second to set Grant straight. She’d only been with one man. At times, she considered Frank Smith a mistake and other times she thought he might have been good fortune in disguise. Regardless of what he was or what he ever would be, Frank Smith had been in her bed because he was available. He’d expressed enough admirable interest and he’d promised to teach her things no other woman in Wyoming would ever know.
A smile tugged at her lips as she looked around her empty cabin and relived some recent delicious memories. Frank had taught her life lessons. He’d schooled her on how to become a woman.
Right there in that very room, Frank had tied her up and secured her body to every piece of furniture—the chopping block, the small square table, both rocking chairs, and the double cot she’d shared with him on numerous occasions.
Frank was a suspicious character. She was only leery of him because of the rumors surrounding him. Carla had talked to a few women folk who swore Frank was part human, part animal. The last time he stopped by for dinner, she asked him what he thought about that.
He’d thrown his head back and laughed aloud. His dark eyes had turned to soot as a smoky mist filled the rims and threatened to distort the natural black hue. She couldn’t help but think of the wolves then. And her earlier attack came rolling back to mind.
She’d been in the barn, protecting Joy. She’d fanned two wolves away, but the larger beast stayed behind. He had tossed his head back and released a toe-curling howl. She soon realized his vocal summons had been deliberate and the only way he knew how to lure the other wolves to her property.
Trembling at the thought, Carla crossed one arm under her elbow and gnawed on her thumbnail. Several intelligent women had warned her against Frank Smith.
Some of the women at the church even said he was a wild and reckless man, kind of like windblown tumbleweed. It was hard to say where Frank had been the day before or where he might spend his next night.
Several people claimed to have seen him transition from man to wolf. An old Indian chief had called it phasing and once stated he’d watched Frank phase in a territorial battle where Frank and another wolf wiped out half a tribe.
Still, Carla was a woman who believed what she could see. She rarely gave second thoughts to petty gossip an