Montecito, California

Silver had always considered Wile E. Coyote his personal spirit guide on how not to act. So whenever he encountered a dubious situation, he asked himself: What would the Coyote do?

A flock of argumentative female voices flew through the vast open spaces of the Montecito mansion. An enormous mirror in an ornate Baroque frame hung at the T of the hallways provided a clear view into the kitchen. The four most important women in Silver's life gathered around the cluttered table, bickering up a blizzard: Ursula, his adopted mother, a Kodiak bear-shifter; Branwen, keyboardist and a raven-shifter; Fiona, his sister-in-law and fox-shifter; and Hannah, the love of his life, his wife and his mate.

Silver lurked behind a corner, eavesdropping on their discussion and watching the mirror. He wanted a particular guitar pick on the countertop... at least he was ninety-nine percent sure that's where he'd left it. Normally, Silver would've shrugged it off because searching was more effort than it was worth. This particular pick, however, made of bullet wood and engraved, had been a gift from his best man.

Trouble stood between him and his goal: the aggravated women who'd be only too ready to unleash their wrath upon any hapless male foolish enough to cross their paths. And so, Silver deliberated.

What would Coyote do? Coyote would rush headlong into danger.

"C'mon, open it," Fiona urged Hannah. The stunning redhead glared at her equally gorgeous sister. Their hair was a riot of cinnamon-red corkscrew curls; their eyes emerald green. The twins claimed to be identical down to the last freckle, but Silver could tell them apart at a glance. Each person possessed a special soul song, personal and unique.

Hannah's soul song—a musical staff tattooed over his heart.

"Why will you not open your present, Hannah? It's from your poppa," Ursula urged in a cajoling tone that emphasized her Russian accent. She owned the mansion where Silver and the rest of his indie rock band lived... freeloaded, really. Ursula treated the members of Coyote Hustle as family. Silver sometimes suspected the matriarch regarded the eclectic collection of shifters under her protection as stray pets.

"That it's from my father is precisely why I don't want to open it," Hannah said with a snort. She hovered over a laptop—connected via a cable-octopus—and her fingers danced across the keyboard.

Silver didn't know the name and function of every single high-tech device in Hannah's repertoire. He jokingly referred to the devices as her "kit". Without hesitation and with a touch of envy, he acknowledged his wife as the superior thief... a distinction that shouldn't matter as much as it did. Silver was reformed. He'd sworn off stealing, however, he made special exceptions to help his wife "product test" the occasional security system. After all, it wasn't burglary if the client had paid them to do it...

Coyote Hustle had a gig in Las Vegas on Christmas Day. They were packed and due to leave in a couple of hours. Conveniently, Hannah had a contract that required her to travel to Sin City. She'd asked for his help on a breaking-and-entering job—purely legit, of course—and he'd been only too happy to agree. That was what—he presumed—all the electronics were for.

"I don't understand. Don't you want to know what's inside?" Branwen asked. She grasped at the air above the shiny present. Self-denial—pure torture for a raven shifter... Temptation and torment shone bright in her black eyes.

"I already know what it is," Hannah shot back and then struck the keyboard with excessive force.

Tension wove knots in Silver's lower back. He knew that tone well—his wife had already worked herself into a full tail bristle. What was wrong with the other women that they didn't sense her aggravation and back down?

"It's a snow globe," Fiona supplied. "Dad gives Hannah one every year, and every year Hannah tosses it in the trash."

Silver eased forward a pace, on the verge of rounding the corner and going to Hannah's defense. Common sense cautioned against intruding, but his protective instincts urged him to charge. Quick, what would Coyote do...?

He needed to find his ACME catalog!

No, wait, that was wrong.

"But why?" Branwen burst out with pointed disapproval, and Silver winced. Censure was the exact wrong approach to take with Hannah, especially when it came to her father.

"Because my father is a bastard. He ran out on his family on Christmas Eve. All the snow globes in the world couldn't make up for what he did!" With a great huff, Hannah rose and grasped the present in both hands. She marched across the kitchen and stomped her foot down on the foot pedal of the stainless steel trash bin. The lid slapped open. Hannah thrust the gift into the garbage and turned away, swiping her palms together.

Silence smashed down. A metaphorical cricket chirped. The women stirred, glancing at one another in measured discomfort.

The coppery tang of blood flooded Silver's mouth. He gulped a mouthful before his natural regeneration kicked in to heal the wound. A ripple ran the length of Silver's spine, tugging at the skin across his back. Hannah's distress called out to him through their mate bond. She was hurting... and he suffered with her. He clamped down on the impulse to go rushing to his wife's aid, but this wasn't the right time to emerge from hiding. He'd long since crossed the line that divided overhearing something on accident and deliberate eavesdropping. Was he just being a coward? Intuition informed him to stay put. As a matter of pride, Hannah fought her own battles. Interfering would only land him in the doghouse... a residence ill-suited to coyotes.

Discomfort steamrolled along. Eventually, Branwen cleared her throat and asked, "So, Fiona, when are you due?"

"August 10th, but they say twins arrive early!" Forced enthusiasm inflated Fiona's volume, several octaves above her normal speaking range.

"Oh! Congratulations!" Hannah's whole face lit up with surprise. She opened her arms and flew toward her sister. Fiona met her halfway. The women collided in an embrace.

"A double blessing! This is truly wonderful." Ursula's Russian accent grew markedly thicker with heartfelt tears. The stout little woman swept both twins into a bear hug.

Branwen shuffled her feet, pouting, and Silver ached with sympathy for the raven-shifter. Yet, his own reaction to the happy news closely mirrored Branwen's... and he wondered why. A worm of anxiety writhed in his gut. He'd been uneasy since Fiona had first announced her pregnancy a few weeks ago. Silver and Hannah had married about a month before Fiona and her husband. Fast-forward ten months... Fiona was already expecting, with twins now. When Hannah spoke of her sister's condition, she displayed nothing but enthusiasm. She anticipated becoming an aunt with joy. Silver hadn't missed the shadow that crossed his mate's face, however, when she thought he wasn't watching.

"Now you're going to need two of everything!" Branwen said.

"I had better knit faster if I am going to be ready," Ursula interjected, a grumpy complaint in her tone, but she wasn't fooling anyone. She was a natural born mama bear... and no doubt, an innate grandma as well.

"Are you happy—about twins?" Hannah asked in such a low voice that Silver almost missed her question. His ears pricked and he strained to hear.

"Of course I am!" Fiona giggled with pure delight. Silver caught a fragment of music in her laughter. His fingers moved across the imaginary strings of a guitar, plucking the chord for what might be a sweet lullaby. It pleased him, so he tucked it away in a corner of his mind devoted to songcraft.

The women’s conversation moved on to baby stuff. When Ursula brought up childbirth, Silver ducked his head and covered his ears. He beat a hasty retreat down the hallway before he inadvertently learned something he really didn't want to know. He'd almost reached the end when Fiona's pointed question cut through the clamor.

"So, when are you and Silver going to have a baby?"

Silver missed a step, stumbled, and caught himself. He froze, feeling as though the business end of a rifle had just been shoved into his face. His heart thudded and never really recovered its beat.

Hannah responded after a lengthy delay. "I don’t know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Fiona demanded.

"I mean I don't know," Hannah snapped. "We've never discussed it."

Sweat trickled down Silver's back. Anxiety wrapped its hands around his throat in a chokehold. By "I don't know", did Hannah mean she genuinely wasn't sure of the answer? Or, did the vague answer convey her apprehension about having children with him? Hannah had been telling the truth: she and Silver had never discussed children in any depth. Oh, the thought crossed his mind every now and again, but always in vague futuristic terms.

"Well, why not?" Fiona said, pestering as younger siblings of mere minutes were prone to do. "You've always wanted children."

Almost in volition of his conscious choice, Silver found himself turning, drawn down the hallway toward the kitchen once again. He dragged his feet, but they refused to obey him and stop. It was the worst fear he carried in his heart—that Hannah believed him ill-suited to fatherhood. It was a credible concern, because Silver wondered the same thing about himself.

"I've always wanted children someday," Hannah said, strung tight. Silver understood her inflection; it signaled the near end of her patience.

"Why can't someday be today?" Fiona asked.

Hannah huffed. "Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean I have to be, too. We've been married less than a year."

"I always thought we'd be pregnant together," Fiona countered. "And that our children would play together and grow up as best friends."

"That sounds nice..." Hannah sighed, and grew serious. "But it's a pipe dream. I can't get pregnant just because you are. Besides, Silver isn't in any more of a rush to have kids than me."

By now, the uncomfortable tension had returned. Ursula and Branwen maintained a conspicuous silence while the sisters argued. An inability to see around corners didn't stop him from envisioning Ursula's severe frown.

"How would you know—you haven't discussed it," Fiona said.

"I don't have to discuss it to know what my mate thinks."

"Oh? Is it because of money? We could help you. Let me talk to Marcus—"

"Fiona! I don't need your money. My business does just fine, thank you."

Silver canted his head farther to the side, listening sharply, but he detected no frequency variation that might indicate a lie. Curiosity pricked at him. He understood his wife's security consulting firm turned a profit, but not how much. He'd never bothered to ask; she'd never volunteered. And honestly, it didn't strike him as strange until he thought about it. He and Hannah talked about music and art, books and movies, their hopes and fears... but not finances. The subject bored Silver to tears, and—never having had any amount of money of consequence—he disliked wealth just on principle.

"Is it because you're living under Ursula's roof?" Branwen asked suddenly. "Too much like living with a guy's parents?"

Ursula released a horrified gasp. "It is my fault that you and Silver are not making precious babies?"

Silver winced. Yet, at the same time, he wondered if Branwen had nailed the issue on the head. The raven-shifter possessed an uncanny talent for identifying the motivations that people kept hidden even from themselves. He wondered what rent ran on a LA apartment nowadays... and he understood just enough about the housing market that that he really didn't want to investigate it for sure.

"No!" Hannah all but shouted the denial and then dropped her volume. "Ursula, I love your home and it's a great honor being allowed to live here."

"Oh, nonsense, you are my solnyshko. When you and Silver do decide to start a family, your children will be my grandchildren," Ursula said. "I will be there to watch over your cubs as their nanny."

"Oh Ursula, thank you. We both love you so much," Hannah said.

"As I love you both."

Slow, hefty shuffling followed. Silver imagined the women hugging.

"If it's not about money or housing, then that only leaves one thing..." Fiona recited, as if reasoning it out as she talked.

"Fi, let it drop. Please," Hannah pleaded.

Silver blinked. He expected his mate to tell her twin to shut up—not for her to beg. The stress knots in his back worsened to the point of inflicting physical pain. Dread weighed on him, and he braced in anticipation of the worst-case scenario—Hannah finally admitting aloud that she believed Silver would make a terrible father.

"You're being obnoxious," Hannah added, restoring his faith in his mate's identity. Silently, he applauded her.

"You don't want to hurt Silver's male pride!" Fiona exclaimed.

The conversation skipped a beat, and then Ursula roared with deep, from the gut, bear-mirth. Her laughter rocked the house on its foundations.

Branwen joined in, snickering. "Hello, have you met Silver?"

Silver scowled—what the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he not a man? If cut, did he not bleed?

"That's not it either, though I'll give you points for creativity. That's your absurdist suggestion yet." Hannah's voice lilted with amusement, and Silver lay a hand over his heart at his mate's cruelty. He'd married a mean woman.

"What's the issue then? Tell me, and I promise, I'll let it go!" Fiona cried.

"You won't, but fine." Hannah released a thin sigh. "Silver's first love is his music... and children don't fit into that picture."

Silver opened his mouth to issue an adamant denial. A touch of anger thrilled through him. Untrue—his first love was irretrievably and inarguably Hannah. If forced to choose, he would set aside his guitar and never sing another note for the rest of his days. Life without Hannah wasn't life at all. He disliked the assessment that music and a family were incompatible, too, but he wasn't sure it was wrong.

"So this is all about music?" Fiona managed to skew the question into a tightly coiled spring.

"Silver wants his freedom so he can pursue his music." Hannah talked forcefully over her sister. "Babies mean diapers and responsibility... and don't get me wrong, I love the band, but that's not how you're supposed to raise a child. And I know Silver well enough to know he'd agree with me."

Silver winced. Hannah had him pegged. He agreed with everything she'd just said... but he also thought this Silver fellow sounded like a selfish jerk. What about what Hannah wanted?

"That's so sad." Fiona gave an exaggerated sniffle.

"It is what it is." Hannah wielded finality like a closing door, ending the discussion. With forceful enthusiasm, she asked, "Can you give me a hand getting all this back to the bungalow? I'm supposed to be packed by now, and I haven't even started."

"Sure," Fiona agreed. The sound of chairs being pushed out and objects moved followed.

"Shit, I need to pack, too," Branwen said. "Disco will be pissed if we leave late. He has everything calculated to avoid traffic."

"Someday, someone should tell that man we live in LA," Hannah said, and the others laughed. Their voices and footsteps retreated, growing fainter.

Silver waited until the back door shut before he emerged from hiding and rounded the corner to the kitchen. He trudged along, nursing his wounded pride. If he'd been in his coyote form, his tail would've dragged on the ground. Of course, he had no one to blame but himself—served him right for eavesdropping.

Ursula turned as he approached the island. She regarded him with a sorrowful frown, and he suspected she'd known he'd been there all along.

He stopped before the stainless steel trash bin and stepped on the foot pedal. The top popped open. A Christmas present lay on its side atop a layer of crumpled brown packaging. Silver fished it out and set it on the counter.

"Ah, Silver, poor fellow. Are you okay?" Ursula came to stand at his side.

"My ego's a bit bruised, but I'll live." He flashed a carefree smile and rolled his shoulders.

Ursula tsked and shook her head. She watched while he untied the glittery bow and tore through the mirror-bright paper. From his disreputable past, Silver had some experience with producing counterfeit designer products. To him, the Neiman Marcus gift box looked genuine, as did the snow globe it contained. The glass ball enclosed a patchwork Christmas tree in yellow and green, red and blue, and a dash of white or teal stripe here and there.

He gripped the mirrored base and turned it. White confetti flakes swirled about the tree. Silver pursed his lips. In his opinion, Hannah would've loved it... if the expensive gift had come from anyone other than her father.

"Such a pretty bauble. It's a shame to throw it away." Ursula extended her arm, hand open.

He considered, then passed her the globe, but hesitated to let go. A sliver of guilt about going behind Hannah's back wedged beneath his skin, but he ignored it. Silver had grown up dirt poor, so he despised waste.

"You'll make sure it goes to some good use?" Silver asked Ursula.

"A little girl will be very happy on Christmas morning, and your Vixen will never be any the wiser." Ursula nodded heavily and raised her hand in pledge. The gesture was a touch old-fashioned, but the Russian woman never made frivolous promises.

"Thanks." He released the globe into her care and swept the torn wrappings and the box into the trash. He scanned the kitchen counter and glimpsed his missing guitar pick next to the fruit bowl. The metallic taste of irony coated his tongue as he pocketed it. His search had yielded far more than he'd bargained for.

He turned to go.

Ursula addressed his back. "Take out the garbage, will you? The can is full."

"Yes, ma'am." Silver chuckled and Ursula echoed him with her own husky laugh. He extracted the trash bag from the bin and tied off the drawstrings.

"Silver?" Ursula said his name in a too-serious tone.

Questioning, he arched his brow and glanced over. She caught his gaze and said, "Whatever ridiculous, impractical plan you're concocting—"

"Who, me?" He gasped and covered his heart.

"Yes, you." She narrowed her eyes in a daunting stare. "Stop now. Go talk to your mate before you do something tragically stupid."

"Yes, ma'am." Silver smiled, lying through his teeth.

"There is no law for fools." Ursula huffed and stomped her feet.