He shut her door, skirted around his vehicle, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
There was no figuring what was going on in Ryan McKinley’s investigative mind, but why was she bothered by the notion that he’d be leaving soon?
He considered her for a moment and then nodded. But something was off in the way he acted. As though he had to finish this so he could get to more important business back home, yet he didn’t want to let go of the business here so quickly, either. What was that all about anyway?
Ryan circled the truck around the drive and then headed toward town.
No, it was something deeper than that. Something sexy, more primal, more wolf. If she shape-shifted, would it help her to recognize better what was going on between them? Or was her usual cynicism about men blocking her ability to see what was really happening?
Giving up on psychoanalyzing the situation further, she leaned into the seat and smelled the fragrance of new leather. She noted the spotless dashboard and a medallion hanging from the rearview mirror as it swung with the movement of the truck. She tried to glimpse the words etched on the medallion, on a brass plate below the name MacKinlay.
“What does the motto mean?”
“‘We force no friend; we fear no foe,’ which was the motto for the Clan Farquharson. But some say we were associated with the Buchanan clan instead. Others say a people named MacAnleighs might have been more related to our origin.”
He didn’t say anything further, and she prompted him, “Go on. Family roots fascinate me. Sometimes the meaning of a name gives a hint to a family’s origins. Maybe something about their character that is passed down from generation to generation.”
His mouth curved up a little. “Never know. Since we had more family in the area of Braemar, we go with Clan Farquharson’s motto. McKinley is a variation of MacKinlay. Some say the name originated from the Gaelic ‘Mac Fhionnlaoich,’ meaning ‘fair hero.’”
“Fair hero. Hmm. See? What did I say?”
“Yes, but another meaning is given. ‘Son,’ for Mac, ‘of the white warrior.’” He waited for her response.
She smiled. “Seems, with the occupation you’ve chosen, you carry the gene that validates the claim for both the motto and the meaning of your name.”
“I try to live up to the name, to make my ancestors proud.”
She noticed the blanket lying on the seat between them, a predominantly blue-and-green plaid wool with black and red threads woven in, accentuating it. She ran her hand over the soft fabric.
“It’s old,” Ryan said.
“It represents the McKinley clan?”
“Yes. It was my grandfather’s.”
Chill bumps raced along her arms. Lelandi had explained to Carol how the lupus garous lived long lives, thirty years for every year after they reached puberty. So his grandfather could very well have fought in clan battles and been a clan chief even. Or not. He might have just been a sheepherder, for all she knew. She’d read so many Highland romances that the idea she could be sitting next to the descendant of one of those brawny men—barelegged, barefooted, and bare… she smiled… bare-assed men of the kilt—made her melt a little.
Ryan glanced at her and gave her a suggestion of a smile. Her cheeks instantly flushed with heat. He winked. “You may see visions of the future, but I wish I could read your mind.”
Her face heated anew. She pushed some of her hair behind an ear and looked out the windshield. “What did your grandfather do as an occupation?”
“Fought for the clan, took a mate, raised a passel of kids, and whittled in his spare time.”
“Whittled?”
Ryan chuckled. “That he did. Played the bagpipes, too.”
She sighed and touched the blanket on the seat, imagining what it would be like to fall into one of her romance novels and feel the soft plaid on a Highlander’s hardened body until he slipped it off and settled it on the heather. Hand outstretched, he’d offer to take her into his world and show her just how hardy a Highlander could be.
Her lips dry, she was sweeping her tongue over them when she caught Ryan glancing at her again. “Have you ever been to the Colorado Scottish Festival and Rocky Mountain Highland Games?” she asked wistfully. She had loved the place on the one chance she’d had to visit. All those Celts dressed in different tartans. The music. The games. The food.
“To listen to the pipes and drums, to step to the Celtic tunes, dance in the Highland competitions, participate in tug-of-war, and the parade of clans? I’ve participated every year for the past four years.”
“Do you win?”
“Every year.”
“The truth?”
He smiled. “The truth is that a werewolf’s strength gives me a bit of an advantage.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it. Have you been?”
She sighed. “Once. All those men in kilts with great-looking legs nearly did me in.”
He gave her another shadow of a smile. “Do you have a Scottish background?”
“MacDonald, on my mother’s side of the family. Our motto: ‘By sea and land.’ We have an armored hand holding a cross for the clan’s crest. After I went to that one festival, I went away to college, but I hope to go this summer again. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
And see Ryan in a kilt, his legs bare, naked biceps and back straining to pull at a rope as men on the other side fight to win the game. Darien probably wouldn’t even let her go to the festivities, unless some of his people were willing to watch her.
Or if she had a mate already. And then her mate probably wouldn’t be interested in going there unless he had Celtic roots. She chewed on her bottom lip. She had to find other men who appealed like Ryan did, since she didn’t think Jake or Tom would ever make a move in her direction.
Then a new thought came to her. The librarian and masseuse were from another pack. Why couldn’t she go to their pack, or even Ryan’s, and see if someone who suited her better was in one of those packs?
She patted Ryan’s thigh, making him tense and speed up as he barreled down the road.
“I have an idea. When you have your next gathering, I’ll come to Green Valley and check out the eligible bachelors there,” she said. “Have any good hardy Scots in the bunch?”
Ryan’s mouth opened as if he was going to make a comment, but then he quickly snapped it shut. He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel and finally said, “Darien wouldn’t allow it.”
She was a little surprised at his reaction. “Funny, I thought you might be less against it than he would be. I’ve heard that a pack leader who can encourage unmated females to accept bachelors in his pack earns brownie points.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened, and she assumed she’d hit another nerve. But she wasn’t sure why this time, unless someone in his pack might truly be interested in her.
“In fact, I’ll check into Becky and Marilee’s pack while I’m at it. Surely, I’ll find someone I’ll be interested in. Don’t you think?”
Chapter 9
HELL AND DAMNATION. RYAN COULDN’T BELIEVE HOW much the petite blonde could get under his skin. One minute she’s touching his plaid, while he’s wishing he was wearing it right that moment, wondering when she’d ask the question all women asked. Did he wear anything under the kilt? Ha, what God gave him. The next minute, she’s wanting to find a mate in his pack?
How Carol could think the other women were hot and she wasn’t was beyond his comprehension. But the notion that she’d come to his pack and check out some of his bachelor males was unthinkable. Not that it wouldn’t help his standing in the pack. But hell. Seeing her mated to one of his men—not any of whom would be right for her… he couldn’t have it.
Even the notion that she’d check out the other women’s pack didn’t agree with him. Who knew what sort of men were in it? These women weren’t interested in their own bachelors. Why would Carol be? Besides, she was a special case. With special needs, because she was newly turned. She had to have just the right man.
He had no regrets about dancing close to her. He’d thought she might be feeling insecure about the way the other women looked because she’d changed into the clingy silk dress, and he’d wanted her to know she was just as hot an item in the soft pink sweater and jeans she’d worn earlier. He loved comfortable casual.
But he’d never expected her to turn his body into a raging inferno. Even now, he was still at half-mast, partly because of the way she’d danced with him, the heat and fragrance and softness of her body still lingering in his thoughts. And partly because of the way she had caressed his plaid. Envisioning his body wrapped in it and her touching him made him harden even further.
He tried not to frown at her too much as he parked at the Silver Town Tavern, the lot fairly empty. He would speak to Darien about ensuring she didn’t check out the other pack. Or his own.
“Ready?” he asked her as she stared out the window.
She snapped her head around to look at him, her expression startled, and he thought something was wrong.
“Carol?”
She smiled, but the expression was forced. “Sure. Let’s get the interrogation over with. Pronto. I’m sure you have more important business to take care of back home.”
She dropped the smile, and her look turned mutinous. Which appealed a hell of a lot more than when she was giving him a fake smile. Wondering about his own sanity, he shook his head and left the truck to get her door.
Ryan’s question had yanked her out of a vision so fast that it startled Carol, but since he didn’t believe she could see what she could, she hadn’t any plan to enlighten him. Yet given the way he looked at her, she figured he’d question her about it anyway.
“What were you thinking when I drew your attention?” Ryan asked, helping her from his vehicle.
The biting cold… silky red hair floating over her face… male amber eyes narrowed, padded armor, and a tiredness she couldn’t free herself from.
