Awakening the Alpha Read online

  Irritation tugged at him as he thought of how the US government had pretty much ignored the prehistoric and continued presence of Indians here until 2001, when the entry fee for the National Parks was waived only for affiliated tribes. It wasn’t enough to be Native American, your particular tribe or nation had to be affiliated with that park.

  Amazing how slow governments could be, Blaze thought. Despite the fact that the only known attack on humans by wolves had happened in the Arctic, they had been killed off in the park largely due to the fears and ignorance of white people. No one stopped to consider they controlled the elk population by feeding on them. Once the wolves were gone, an explosion of elk almost destroyed the ecosystem by stripping it of the young, tender grasses, bushes, and trees they ate. Nothing was left to grow.

  Hunters were sent in to cull the elk herds. Finally, some smart government woman or man realized wolves would do that naturally and in balance.

  It fascinated Blaze the powers that be had chosen Canadian gray wolves and released them in the Lamar Valley to restock the park. Their ignorance was the irony here; gray wolves had never been extinct there. Although there hadn’t been enough of them to solve the ecosystem problem, they’d existed in a different, shifter form and had been clever in remaining hidden.

  Pulling his thoughts back to what was happening in class, he continued with his lecture. “You may open your kits now and decide how each item is used. I’m glad you remembered my instructions to bring safety goggles, blue nitrile gloves, and a brass brush matching the bore of your gun.”

  There was some discussion over the kit contents, and Blaze corrected any misconceptions over their use. Once they knew what to do, he let them begin cleaning, and soon the pungent smell of solvents and lubricants filled the room, even though the windows were open. This led to a discussion of the different brands of each and why they were used.

  Skeeter frowned. “Pee-you!”

  Blaze laughed. “You don’t like those smells? I find them pleasant. Maybe it’s because I like cleaning and caring for my weapons, love the feel of them in my hands.”

  He didn’t mention he sometimes cleaned his guns, not because it was necessary, but because he enjoyed the task. It calmed him and helped him think clearly. He’d done a lot of thinking, made important decisions while involved in this chore.

  The rumble of male voices as they kibitzed and laughed at their task reminded Blaze how much he missed the camaraderie among his former counterterrorism teammates. That life was over now he’d retired, and while this was a good thing, it didn’t erase missing his friends. There were times he felt so lonely, he thought he couldn’t stand it. He and his teammates had shared and spoken of harrowing, painful experiences they couldn’t talk—not ever talk—about with anyone else, not even lovers or spouses. You didn’t want to burden anyone else with the horrors of war.

  He walked from student to student to offer help, to redirect and answer questions. Although intent on his students, he was alert, always aware with his superior hearing and vision of what was happening beyond the windows. Whenever possible and without conscious thought, he kept his back to a wall.

  There were some habits so ingrained you didn’t—couldn’t—forget.

  When the class ended, everyone removed the newspapers in front of him and stuffed them in a plastic bag Blaze held open. As they replaced those with fresh papers from a stack just inside the door, he said, “Take your cleaning rags home and wash them either by hand or alone in the washing machine before you discard or reuse them. They’re flammable.”

  As soon as the students had packed up, ready to head for the door, he held up one hand, and they paused to listen. “Always consider a gun loaded even if you’ve just unloaded it. Mistakes happen, so never point the muzzle at anything you don’t intend to kill or maim. That includes your own feet, and, most especially, your damn dick. Remove the magazine from a pistol. Leave the first chamber empty when you load a revolver. That way, if you accidentally pull the trigger, no one and nothing gets hurt.”

  Blaze appreciated the congratulations and thanks he received. “My pleasure. If you need help with your grip, stance, and aim, sign up in the office. That class will be held on the outdoor firing range.”

  Logan was the last to leave, and Blaze was holstering his weapons when Logan approached.

  “I haven’t had or used a gun since I was a boy, and this was a good refresher.”

  “I wondered if that’s what it was for you…a refresher. You were quick to catch on.”

  “I understand you give private shooting lessons.”

  Blaze nodded. “I do. Hand and hunting guns.” He looked directly into the dark eyes, and, for one still moment in which the world seemed to stop spinning on its axis, he believed he gazed on the sacred heart of this man. It was a weird, almost fanciful feeling, one he’d never had before. Spooked by it, he dropped his gaze. “I’d be glad to help you. I’m not sure of my schedule for the next two weeks, but they’ll have it in the main office where you can sign up.”

  Logan extended his hand.

  Because of what had happened when their gazes met, Blaze hesitated a split second before extending his to shake. As soon as the smooth skin of the new man’s hand gripped his, his inner wolf paced restlessly. Blaze ended the shake fast. The touch had created a pain in his crotch and the urgent need to press his naked body to and rub his swollen, oozing cock across that of the man before him.

  He watched Logan leave, unable to avoid noting wide shoulders that tapered to a narrower waist and hips in just the right proportions. He turned away before he could take in the man’s ass. Instinct told him that might bring trouble he didn’t need. Just keeping his wolf shut down in this new experience took enough energy.

  For most of his twenty-one years in the navy and as a Special Forces warrior, he’d had it under control, fighting the need to change, hunt, and howl during the three days of the full moon. Usually, he handled such urges when off-duty stateside by taking long runs as a human or riding his top-model Yamaha motorcycle and driving his sports car at lightning speeds until the moon waned and he was exhausted.

  Unbeknownst to his teammates, on a few occasions he’d used his wolf to scout for his unit, especially when they didn’t have a K9 warrior with them. His nose was as sensitive to the scent of explosives and enemies as the best of the K9s. His ears heard what the ears of any other wolf or dog would. Dogs, after all, had developed from wolves, inheriting their keen hearing and unique, extensive scent abilities.

  Most of the time he’d been able to override the powerful urge to shift with the moon because he was on a mission—maybe moving with stealth to rescue a hostage, perhaps engaged in a firefight, or traveling to another black op.

  There was a night while on a rescue mission in Germany when his mood was such and the call to go wild so strong, he’d stopped resisting and let the change take him. That particular winter in Deutschland, when the moon had silvered the night, he’d shifted after racing in secret to the nearby woods. The silvery air was gray with fog, and soft white snowflakes coated his fur. He issued one triumphant howl to express the joy of being free to run and run. With his paws pounding over the quickly whitening soft loam and his lungs sucking in the cold, clean air, he was running full out when his nose caught a dangerous scent filtering through that of the trees and snow.

  Bear.

  Their team briefing had indicated there were no bears in Germany. Still, he was almost certain he smelled bear. Bears were the enemy. Wolves knew bears couldn’t be trusted not to kill and eat their pups. To protect them, wolves selected dens with entries too small for the big animals, but sometimes a bear would dig into the dens to reach the pups anyway.

  Blaze’s wolf pulled up short, lifted his muzzle, and inhaled a long breath through his wide, sensitive nostrils, confirming what he’d thought he’d smelled. In an instant, he’d whirled and stood, legs wide, tail up, prepared to attack if necessary as he peered through the fog at the large black shape mo
ving thirty yards away.

  Crouching, he’d slunk deeper into the woods and lay belly down on the snow to watch.

  The bear lumbered past, no longer swift or acutely aware, no doubt seeking a den because it was late in hunkering down to its seasonal somnolence.

  The wolf relaxed and resumed his run after the predator was out of range of scent and sight.

  Later, Blaze was watching TV news with his teammates when he learned that a bear had wandered in from a neighboring country. His wolf had stumbled on the only bear in all of Germany.

  Blaze’s entire body shook with laughter.

  “What’s so funny about a bear in Germany?” Nate Hallahan asked.

  “Noth…nothing.” Blaze wiped tears from his eyes and doubled over to laugh again.

  “Jeez, Canis, I think you’ve gone over the edge,” Jimmy Johns, his sniper partner, said before he began to laugh too.

  Soon the entire team had joined him, proving the old idea that laughter was contagious. Even if you didn’t know what was funny.

  Now, on the edge of the mighty Yellowstone, loneliness rolled through him at the loss of closeness to those men. He wondered where they were now and what mission they were completing. As Blaze looked out the window at the dense woods stretching into the park, he wondered if it had been a mistake to return here. He was more human than wolf now, yet every full moon of the six since his arrival, the deep green of the forest had called to him like a siren luring a sailor to his death. He’d resisted each time, but for how long?

  He felt he stood on the edge of making a major decision for his life. Maybe he should leave this place of his roots. Buy a place in a city near the ocean. Southern California, maybe. Some SEAL teams were based on Coronado Island, next to San Diego, and any woods were miles and miles from salt water. It was something to think about. He sighed, cracked his knuckles, and left after locking and testing the door to confirm the room was secure.

  Chapter 3

  Logan Rider strode toward the range office with a lighter step. He’d enjoyed the class and found the instructor unusual and interesting. In fact, he fascinated Logan. Blaze Canis had what was known as presence. He seemed to fill the room, not just because he was a large man but because there was no question that he was in charge. There was an air of relaxed confidence about him and an acute awareness of the students. He’d been particularly perceptive about Skeeter, who was obviously insecure in the company of mature men and hungry for recognition. Canis had taken the perfect way to allow the teen to feel he belonged.

  The face and form of the man intrigued him as much as the way he’d handled the class. His face alone cried out to Logan to be sketched, with its well-proportioned nose and the fine crow’s feet showing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. His lips were just full enough to appeal, and high on his forehead above his left eye was a silvery scar half an inch wide running into his hair line. Considering his background, it was probably a graze from a bullet. His face had character and matched the man.

  At just over six feet, Canis’s build was solid and fit, with long legs and a reach to match. With his artist’s eye, Logan guessed his weight at a hundred and eighty to ninety-five pounds. When he’d leaned down to inspect the revolver Logan had brought, Logan had glanced down on the instructor’s head and wondered who, if anyone, had styled the man’s hair. It was short and untamed, running every which way. Periodically, Canis would run his fingers through it, as if to bring about order that never happened. Logan was sure this was an unconscious act.

  Wiry, with shades of gray, hints of black, and a touch of reddish brown, the hair was white at the temples.

  Logan’s hair hadn’t been cut since birth, and it was easy to brush it and let it fall free, tuck it behind his ears, braid, or fasten it in back. Yet he couldn’t imagine this man letting his hair grow much longer. It wouldn’t suit him the way the untamed look did.

  There had been that odd moment when Logan looked into his green eyes and was almost hypnotized by the tiny flecks of mustard and gold in them. In those brief seconds, the gold seemed to spin a thread toward him and connect. He’d felt tethered to this stranger in an intensely sexual way, almost as if the thread had lassoed his dick and balls. His penis had responded by beginning to fill.

  With the feeling came a vision of a four-legged animal in the misty distance. From its ears, he could tell it was Coyote, the Trickster. The creature that enjoyed playing humorous or, often, cruel tricks on humans.

  What the fuck?

  The instructor had looked away, breaking the contact. The feeling dissipated. Yet the abruptness with which he’d turned made Logan suspect Canis had felt something unusual as well. Logan wondered if it too was deeply sexual. If it conjured up visions of naked bodies, hot and sweaty in rumpled sheets, hands on the other man’s big cock. Of grunts and groans as they stroked and strained to reach that brief moment of pumping before they spurted their slippery, silvery seed on each other’s bellies and hands.

  The thought came to him that if he still lived on a reservation, he might’ve heard the tribal shaman shake his gourd rattle and chant to the tight tempo of the elders’ small drums sending him a message. A warning?

  Well, there’s a helluva thing to think about, Logan Swift Rider.

  It was so ridiculous, he laughed at himself. Still, he wondered how Canis’s lips would feel pressed against his own and if his primed cock would feel like steel in a velvet glove in Logan’s hand or deep in his ass. There was no harm in wondering, but it was best to keep the Trickster in mind.

  Inside the office, a petite but older blonde woman looked up and smiled. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Her face changed when she took in what he was.

  Annoyance thrummed through him. You’d have thought he was a Muslim terrorist. Even in this day and age, there were people who feared Indians…almost as if they expected to be robbed or scalped. True, some Natives were druggies, drunks, and thieves—as some whites were—and this woman didn’t know him. Being an inch or two taller than Canis and heavier might have intimidated her. Still, since he was polite and dressed in clean, new clothes consisting of tan cargo pants, a V-neck tee and expensive boots, there should have been nothing threatening about him.

  In the abrupt pause that followed her greeting, Logan said, “Mr. Canis told me I could sign up here for a private appointment with him on the shooting range.”

  Naming Canis apparently created a stamp of approval, for she dropped her gaze and busied herself with the appointment book. “Hand or long gun?”

  “Hand. As soon as he has an opening I can make.”

  She handed him a card with a time the day after next.

  “Thanks,” he said

  “Check in here in the office. Mr. Canis will meet you and take you to the range. Remember, Montana has an open-carry rule, but you need a permit if you conceal your weapon.”

  It seemed obvious she hadn’t bothered to see the revolver holstered in plain sight on his hip. “Yes, ma’am. I was born in Montana.” He smiled at the wary woman.

  What he really wanted to do was lean in and say, Boo!

  But he didn’t. She was so tense, she’d probably have a heart attack. As a Shoshone warrior, he was required to respect his elders.

  He climbed into his sports car, which had never been available for public sale because it was a concept crossover vehicle. He’d purchased it secondhand from a company exec. When the two doors of his Hyundai NEOS were open, the deeply bronzed car resembled a flying insect with wings. Logan was the second owner and had had it a while, but he loved it. There was a certain humor to driving it into the park, because it resembled a great beetle in all that wildness.

  The motel outside Montana’s West Yellowstone gate into the park was his first stop. He checked into a clean room nicely furnished in earth tones and tossed his duffle onto the bed. He unzipped and took a pee, then washed his hands and face when he’d finished. The altitude was dehydrating, so he filled a glass with water and drank i
t down. The water was naturally soft and sweet to the taste. To satisfy his rising appetite, he walked to a nearby café and ordered a large sandwich, fries, and a soft drink for lunch. A slice of pumpkin pie a la mode served as his dessert.

  He was back in his room and had just finished brushing his teeth when his cell chimed. “Hello.”

  “It’s your lover man, Bernard, here. How’s the trip?”

  There was a time in the past when he’d have been happy to hear from Bernie, but his cloying dependence on Logan was wearing thin. They’d quarreled when he left for this trip, and the call seemed intrusive, showing a lack of regard for Logan’s need to be alone for this special journey. Bernard was taking his vacation too, and he’d been beyond miffed because Logan insisted on traveling without him.

  “I could fly out and join you. Rent a car and be there tonight.”

  As he’d explained before he started on this journey, Logan sighed as weariness flooded him. “This is a trip back to my childhood. I’m going to visit my grandfather.”

  “So…you’re saying I’m not good enough to meet your family?” Bernie’s voice rose higher until it reached a shrill whine.

  “I’ll be staying with him on the reservation,” Logan said with all the patience he could muster. The whine grated on his nerves. A sound in recent months that had become increasingly irritating.

  “Oh, don’t pull that Indian stuff on me. A lot of whites visit reservations.”

  “You don’t understand. We can’t share a bed in my grandfather’s house.”

  “Then we’ll stay in a motel.”

  Logan checked his watch. “As I told you before I left, there are no motels anywhere near the reservation, and I came here to spend time with my grandfather.” Not to fuck and fight with you. Or listen to your whines. “Look. I’ve got to get going, and I don’t have time to go over what’s already been settled. I’ll call you when I get back in town.”