Prologue
Hugh Dattner stood naked, perched atop a large boulder on a mountain he considered his. Steely gray hair rustled only slightly in the light breeze. A tall man, his skin glowed with color from the sun. His whiskered chin was strong and square and his body emanated strength. Standing above the tree-line, he could see the other four ranges that surrounded Missoula to the south, the small city lying peacefully, slightly misty in the distance. Missoula was often called the ‘Hub of Five Valleys’, a term Dattner had always considered far too prosaic—but also somehow fitting.
Today he had ranged to the northern boundary of his territory, one he had chosen for its altitude—a place of solitude where he could oversee his own domain and the forested areas his people had marked as theirs. With his keen tiger-shifter eyesight, he could see beyond Missoula to the South where Pinesdale lay. As he thought of his plans, a small involuntary snarl escaped his lips.
Today, he was setting in motion actions that could bring change, necessary but almost certainly unwanted. From Pinesdale in the shimmering distance would come that change.
Events had been set in motion.
This must be.
It was a good ten miles back to where his clothes lay hidden. He had needed the run and he felt invigorated, but he still had things to do. As he closed his eyes and triggered his shift, he felt the usual sinking sensations without alarm. Then he sat back on his powerful haunches in his feline form, his human thoughts becoming distant as the surrounding scents overwhelmed him. An elk roamed within striking range, but enough of his humanity remained that he ignored it, instead moving stealthily southward toward Seeley Lake—and toward Hugh’s problems and the destiny of his people.
* * *
The vet administered the shot of antibiotic to Jolanda, Herman Shultz’s milk cow, which completed his morning work list. He slapped Jo on the rump and she moved off into the pen. He closed and locked the aluminum gate. Removing his surgical gloves while walking into his clinic, he glanced at his watch and swore to himself. Approaching a counter loaded with equipment, specimens, coffee mugs and general junk, he dropped the syringe into a sharps disposal container.
Dr. Ian Dattner wasn’t meticulous, but managed to stay organized to his own standards, which was all that mattered, pretty much—at least as far as he was concerned. He would have to hustle to make the pickup on time. It was a job he wasn’t looking forward to. His father had insisted that he was best for the task and demanded that he be courteous and even friendly. He’d never even spoken to any of the shifters from outside his father’s territory. When strangers picked up each other’s scents while getting supplies in Missoula, they kept their distance. Just as his father’s rules demanded.
But those rules apparently had an unusual clause that was being invoked today for the first time. Ian knew his father communicated from time to time with the Pinesdale leader, but he was stumped as to how. His father was a complete Luddite, so e-mail and cell phones were out of the question. But somehow, Hugh had gotten a request to allow another shifter into the territory, had agreed, and was making Ian responsible for her. According to his father, when visitors were anywhere north of Interstate 90, they had to be accompanied at all times by someone from the Seeley Lake streak—the tiger-shifters’ term for their collective, akin to the werewolves’ packs.
His father had taken him aside last night and laid out what he wanted. Lana Ramsey was the only daughter of Alton Ramsey, leader of the streak of tigers the Seeley Lake people called the Southies. She was finishing up her undergraduate degree in archeology and needed to attend a seminar at the old Paxton Boy Scout Camp, a Seeley Lake landmark dating back to 1926. Intended for Boy Scouts, the camp had been used through the decades by many organizations including the Seventh Day Adventists and the Girl Scouts. It had also been used as a training facility for forest fire fighters and most recently, to house the Junior Missoula Drama Festival. Someone wanted to make the place historically significant by studying and documenting its history and this Southie was making it her senior project. He would meet her in Missoula, where she would leave her vehicle, and he would take her to the Boy Scout Camp and stand guard until she was ready to leave.
Unheard of. Not to mention boring.
He grabbed an apple on the way out, locking the clinic door behind him. Jeff would be in after lunch and cover the afternoon chores he’d listed for him on the i-Pad they used to keep files on their patients. Ian jumped up onto the running board of his F150, holding his apple in his teeth as he climbed into the high driver’s seat. Everyone in Montana had an off-road vehicle. Especially people who ranged for a hundred miles into the wilderness on a regular basis.
Even if I don’t have to have a truck to make it into the wilderness.
The thought prompted his claws to snick out of his fingertips. Ah, hell. I’ll need to go for a run soon—or risk terrifying the cattle the next time I have to give injections.
Maybe after he met this wanna-be archeologist.
He sighed in frustration.
Only a few days. Then he’d be back to his regular life.
* * *
Lana Ramsey’s Toyota Camry was nearing the outskirts of Missoula. The drive up the old two-lane 93 had been uneventful. Only a few oncoming vehicles. When she had gotten to Lolo though, a traffic accident in the middle of one of the main intersections had caused some delay while a tow truck maneuvered into a position to pick up the wreck and drag it away, sparkling glass and metal parts falling onto the asphalt. Through it all, she had sat tapping her fingers on the steering wheel and thinking about how the day might unfold.
Those thoughts continued as she sped up on the four lanes of Highway 12 that ran into Missoula. Like the rest of her streak from Pinesdale, she felt a deep mistrust of anyone who lived north of Missoula. Those people had killed some of her people. Though it was far in the past, shifters never forgot—not really. But there wasn’t anyone left who actually remembered those dark days. All long dead. Wasn’t it time they moved into the future? She was determined about her own future, at least. She certainly wasn’t going to be a small town homebody, someone’s wife, only free when running through her fifty square mile piece of the forest, hunting for game. She couldn’t change what she was, but she could certainly do more with her life than that.
When she arrived at the University of Montana in Billings and began classes, her eyes were opened. Everyone had always assumed that she would marry like her friends and start producing kittens—but now, she was suddenly faced with a new vision of what her life could be. After only a couple of months of collegial dorm freedom—interspersed with dangerous runs in the forest near the campus—she determined that settling down into home life was not for her. Now, four years later, she was almost free.
Well, as free as any super-territorial tiger-shifter could be.
Her father thought he was so smart, using the landline at the Pinesdale Recorder to suggest her appointment to the Paxton Historical Committee. When Lana had spoken with the chairperson, Mrs. Whitley from Missoula, she could sense that bringing Lana onto the team had not been the chairwoman’s idea. Lana knew her father had some agenda in seeing that she traveled to the Seeley Lake tigers’ territory. Trying to cover his tracks, he had fawned over her as she prepared to leave, pretending to worry about her safety, even insisting she share a cup of herbal tea and some biscuits so she wouldn’t get weak on the trip.
So out of character, she thought as she entered the parking lot of Walmart cautiously and parked at the far end where she was to meet the Missoula streak’s emissary. She would keep all her senses on high alert for the remainder of the afternoon.
Putting the transmission in park, she watched an off-road Ford pickup, half-covered in mud, race across the lot toward her.
Of course he’s driving a pickup. How perfectly stereotypical.
* * *
Pulling in beside the Camry, Ian jumped from the truck as a young woman opened the small car’s driver door. “Hi. I’m here to take you to the Camp.”
“I assumed.” Lana’s smile took away any sting from the words. She leaned back into the car to drag a briefcase and an overnight bag across the seat, exiting backside first, then rose up on one foot on the Ford’s running board and opened the small door to the crew cab back seat. Thrusting her bags in, she slammed the back door and opened the passenger door. Holding the handle, balanced on one foot, calf muscles flexing, she looked down at Ian with raised eyebrows. He was still watching her, not sure what to say. She took away the option.
“Let’s roll, cowboy.”
Ian hurried around to his own door and climbed in, starting the truck without a word or a look in the girl’s direction. He was used to being in charge of things, but something about this woman had thrown him off right from the moment she thrust her ass out of the Camry door. She was lovely. He felt off-balance and it irritated him.
As they left the center of Missoula and traveled toward the Highway 200 turnoff, they both remained silent. Ian kept his eyes on the road, stopping at a red light. He took the opportunity to peek at his passenger as she read something on her phone.
Wow. Those cargo shorts with all the pockets scream ‘Look at me, I’m an archeologist’. But the calves are nice. Tanned. Always liked bare feet in sandals. And that white-blonde hair. Wonder if she has some Scandinavian background. Wonder what her fur looks like?
Suddenly he realized he’d been staring while the light had turned green. He popped the clutch, stalled out, making her look up and glance over at him with what seemed like disdain. He felt off. Damn it, this was his territory. She was the interloper. He was in control. Not to mention he was the male. He sped up, determined to keep his attention on the road and get her to the camp as quickly as possible.
The longer they drove in silence, the more confusing his feelings became, both mental and physical.
Hands sweating, tight on the wheel, he sped right through Seeley Lake on his way to the marina. Maybe once he got in the boat, his head would clear.
Suddenly they were entering the marina. He drove to the side of a white clapboard building and slammed on the brakes, rolling down his window. He was sweating, breathing heavily.
Finally she noticed he was in some kind of distress and spoke urgently. “What’s wrong? Do you need a doctor?”
Opening the door and climbing out onto the running board he looked in at her and barked a laugh. “I am a doctor.”
He peered at her closely, his sudden realization sparking through him. “My God, you are in heat. Are you people crazy? I could have shifted while driving and killed us both.”
“I’m not in heat. Not even close.” She shook her head, frowning. “But I feel weird too.”
But Ian was already running for the marina boathouse. Two humans were across a roadway pumping gas into an old farm truck, talking while smoking. He could hear everything too clearly. One was asking about how cold the beer was. Lana jumped from the truck and followed him.
By the time she caught up, Ian was in the boathouse, panting. As they had been entering the marina, and even though he had never mated, Ian recognized what was happening. He’d had a large dose of pheromones from his passenger. It demanded he shift. If he remained human, he would attack her aggressively, overpowered by his animal instincts. It was difficult to balance humanity with beast instinct, keeping emotion under control when it came to mating.
Lana came bursting through the door. It slammed behind her and he heard a lock click. Before he could even will it, Ian was in his animal form, a 500-pound tiger, eleven and a half feet long—almost twice Lana’s tiger size. A slow growl came from deep in his throat. His khaki pants and polo shirt lay behind him where he’d abandoned them in his haste to strip them off.
Through his cat’s eyes she looked full of blood, teeming with life, exuding sexuality. He began to move toward her, his feline body responding.
The two full-grown tigers circled each other in the cool of the boathouse, sniffing and touching noses. Little of their human selves remained.
* * *
Lana jerked awake, her heart beating. She could still feel the effects of the dream-memory, the onset of her mating heat induced by some herb in the tea her father had made for her, she was sure of it. Ian had believed so, too—he’d shared his experiences from that day with her so often that now she even dreamed his part of the story.
She’d never seen a more beautiful tiger than Ian. The thought of him still brought tears to her eyes. Blowing out a breath, she swiped them away roughly.
I’m not in Missoula anymore. Not an archaeologist. Not in falling love with Ian Dattner—and definitely not about to mate with him.
Time to get up and face my new life.
Time to be Lana Sparks, waitress in San Antonio, Texas.
Time to remember that I’m on the run, and will never be that other woman again.