“Listen there, why don’t cha? Not only is the good marshal charming, but he’s also intelligent.” Frank fluttered his eyelashes, mocking Grant. “Is the priest here yet?”
“Not yet,” Jock said. He peered out the window. “Be right back.”
A minute later, he returned with Daisy. Grant looked pale. Daisy wasn’t exactly in high spirits.
“Did you fill her in?” Frank asked.
“I’ll let you do the honors,” Jock said.
Frank took a deep breath, tossed his pistol aside, and grabbed the arms of Grant’s chair. Leaning forward, Frank glowered at his enemy, the man who had put a high price on his head. “Listen to me, Grant, and you listen well. You’re going to marry Daisy. The two of you are going to take a minute and plan a wonderful life, a beautiful future, but before that happens, you’re going to do the right thing by her.”
“I am.” It was a question, but Grant apparently couldn’t manage enough enthusiasm to pitch his voice another octave.
“You are.”
“Then what?” He shot Jock a sideways glance. “The two of ya expect me to just ride on out of here and go set down roots someplace else?”
“No,” Frank said, reaching for his pistol again. “After you say your vows, profess your love for one another, and make believers out of the witnesses—me and Jock will be present of course— you’ll have a fatal accident.”
“I will.”
“You will.” He glanced at Jock. “I still haven’t decided exactly how we should do this.”
“Remember he has nine lives.”
Frank massaged his jaw. “That’s true. He may have a few more left, so we can’t leave his fate to the prairie’s dog soldiers.”
“Ya think killing me will do away with that bounty?”
“No, but with you out of the way, this weeping widow will be a believable witness. See, Grant, after you’re dead and buried, Daisy here is going to be your voice from the grave.”
“She is.”
“She most definitely is,” Frank said.
“And what will her voice say, exactly?”
Frank gave Grant’s jaw a good ’ole boy slap. “Why, she’s gonna stand before this town and tell them what she overheard.”
“Which is?”
“That you lied about me and Jock. That we were your friends and you never meant to cause us any harm. You told her you were just full as a tick the day you put a bounty on our heads and your last wish was for your grieving widow to make your sins right so you could enter the next life as a redeemed man.”
* * * *
Back in WolfDen, Heck sat on the banks of the Laramie River. He hated this part of spending time with Carla. Not only did he have to listen to her frolicking around in the river, but he also had to listen to the jabs from his pack members as they placed bets on his loyalty.
A shifter’s curse was the ongoing ramble in his head. Not only was he privy to other pack members’ thoughts, but he also heard intimate exchanges between mates, too. Those conversations were what drove a fellow mad when he was inches away from a bathing beauty.
Desperate to shut out the overflow of voices, he tried again to dismiss the jumbled mix of conversations, most of which revolved around one topic—what was Heck doing while his pack masters’ woman bathed. Was he looking the other way? Was he pretending not to notice her as she swam the river? Did she spread her legs and bathe the kitty right in front of him or did she swim near the trees in hopes of maintaining some modesty?
He tried to think about food. If he thought about filling his belly, no one could tap into his head and figure out what he was thinking, let alone seeing.
At the moment, Carla was putting on quite the show, floating around on her back with her fingers stuffed in her pussy. He didn’t know that because he was watching. He realized as much because he could hear her thoughts. He was one of the few in the pack who could play around in her head.
Jock and Frank should’ve been the only two shifters with such a privilege. Pack masters were in tune with their mates and vice versa. Pack Alphas’ women couldn’t always sense the other members’ feelings or understand their thoughts, but Carla could read almost anyone’s mind. Jock had once explained it as
a gift. Carla often claimed it was a curse.