Virginia's Not for Lovers

The whitetail deer plunged frantically through the forest, with the huge gray wolf in pursuit.

With no breath to spare for anything but running, Dora Lee could only curse her own carelessness mentally. This was Montana. These woods were wild, extensive, and new to her. Of course there would be wolves. How could she be so stupid?

She poured on the speed but couldn’t shake him. She had no idea where he was herding her. Toward his pack, no doubt. Any second now another wolf would burst out of the brush for his part in the relay. They would drive her to exhaustion and when she finally stumbled they would bring her down.

The seconds stretched into minutes. No other wolves appeared. Where was the rest of the pack?

Unless he had no pack?

The son of a mutt! He was a loner, chasing her for the hell of it.

Fury replaced panic. Dora Lee stopped and whirled to confront her pursuer.

The wolf skidded to a halt so fast he almost slid muzzle-first into the pine needles and leaf litter. Dora Lee pawed the ground. Her hooves were sharp and she knew where to aim to do the most serious damage. She shook her antlerless head. Her skull was hard enough to make any predator think twice about trying to put her on his menu.

The wolf stared at her. He whined uneasily.

Dora Lee charged.

The wolf spun about to flee precisely one second too late. Dora Lee hit him broadside. He rolled several feet before coming to a halt on the mossy loam, all the wind as well as any remaining desire to chase knocked out of him. Dora Lee straddled him, glaring. She lowered her muzzle to sniff.

Abruptly she shifted. She grabbed the wolf’s ruff and shook him. “You hound! You stinking hound! You’re a shifter!”

The wolf changed form. Dora Lee gripped shoulder-length ebony hair that framed a grinning, unapologetic face. A very handsome face, if maybe sharper in the nose than what she usually went for. The body was all sharp angles and wiry muscle, not like the rounded mass of a stag. He showed off a set of teeth far too pointy for her liking. “Yeah, I’m a shifter. So?”

“Y’all aren’t supposed to hunt us. That’s what they told me in town. You got a nose on that face of yours. Didn’t you know I’m a shifter?”

He leered at her body, now human and slender and dangling a pair of naked breasts right over his hairy chest. “I know it now.”

Dora Lee spat a word her mama’d never taught her. She let go of the wolfman’s hair and sat back. Something pricked her bottom. Cud! She was sitting on top of his pronger. She bolted to her feet. “Well, now that you know, you don’t have to go chasing me around any more. So quit it.”

The wolfman set himself up on his elbows. “You’re on Hancock territory. It’s my duty to check out any invaders.” He treated himself to a thorough stare. Rude and annoying as hell. “Any more of you around? Say yes.”

She hauled in a breath, then spat it out fast when she saw the effect it had on the wolf. “These woods are for everybody. The forest ranger said so. He’s a bighorn. One of us.” A tenuous connection, but she’d use any weapon at hand. “He assured me the wolves around here—the shifter ones—don’t go after other sentients.”

“We do when we’ve got questions.” He leaped to his feet in one smooth bound, faster than Dora Lee’d expected. She made herself hold her ground. If she ran he’d just chase her again. “You’re no muley, not with that hair.” He nodded at the tawny brown wavelets spilling over her shoulders. “You’re not from around here, either, not with that accent.”

“That’s because I’m a Virginia whitetail, thank you very much. Who I am and why I’m here isn’t your outlook. You tend to your business and I’ll tend to mine and we ought to get along fine.”

“You are my business when you’re on Hancock turf. When you get back to town, you have Ranger Ewing show you the boundaries of our pack. And now, miss, I’d be happy to escort you to the border of our territory. You’ll still find plenty of woods to run in.” He held out his hand to her.

Well now. Even a carnie could act the gentleman. She’d heard the males still subscribed to a code of chivalry here in the West. Dora Lee nodded agreement and took the hand he offered.

Quick as a wink he yanked her forward. His arm locked around her waist tight as a bear trap. His golden eyes bored into her brown, dancing with wicked humor. “This is for knocking me down,” he told her. “And by the way, I’m Brett.”

The wolfman kissed her, hard and rough. Pinned against that lean but hard-as-steel body of his, she had no choice but to put up with it.

Hairy dang mutt could kiss like a son of a gun, she had to give him that.

“Oh, man,” the wolf sighed when he lifted his lips at last. “I do love the taste of venison.”

She head-butted him.

Predators have teeth. Prey have speed, hooves, and heads harder than concrete. The wolfman dropped like a rock.

By the time Brett recovered enough to lever himself off the ground, she’d shifted form again. His bleary eyes focused through the sparkle of stars on the deer bounding into the distance, her white tail flashing like a flag.

Brett wiped his mouth and grinned hugely. Would you look at those legs. He’d always been a leg man, regardless of species. And white meant surrender, didn’t it?

“I’ve got your scent now, Virginia,” he murmured. “And two can play the game.” Considerate of her of mention she’d talked to the forest rangers. He climbed to his feet, wincing over the pain that stabbed through his head, and made his way back to his Jeep to give Ranger Ewing a call.

Dressed to Grill

Like most creative types, Jase Dearborne loved what he did for a living. Except when it sucked. Like now.

“Why aren’t you working?” he muttered to himself while he stalked around the dressmaker’s dummy. He ran his hand through his bristly hair—plum this week, the same rich shade as the shimmery fabric draped on the dummy. A bit too matchy-matchy. Maybe that was causing his block.

He went through this with every dress, every piece he sewed. He would stroll through Talbot’s Peak until something inspired him, sketch until his fingers hurt, then scoot off to Tina’s for just the right fabric. Or a different fabric, if he came across something that wowed him out of his initial idea. The plum silk had cried out to him from across the room. He knew any number of women who would look spectacular in the dress that lived in his imagination. Getting it out of his head and into the world made up the tricky part.

Once again he both thanked and cursed Dante for opening the supperclub. The ladies of the Peak wanted unique gowns to show off in and make other females jealous. To achieve that they’d have to drive into Billings and buy off the rack (horrors!) or come to Dearborne’s Designs. His little dress shop’s business had boomed, and Jase was going buggy from the pressure.

“All right,” he addressed the cloth on the dummy. “What is it you want to be?” Something flowy. Shifter women preferred garments with plenty of leg room, the better to chase or to flee, depending on their species. Ease of removal was a major requirement, for shifting and other fun reasons. Above all, they wanted to look fabulous. Jase prided himself on his ability to make any woman’s decadent fantasies come true.

The bell over the door in the front of the store chimed a warning. Jase turned his frown in that direction. He had no fittings or consultations scheduled. Why did browsers always have to barge in when he was sunk in a crisis?

Perhaps they wanted plum. This might work after all. Jase hurried to the front.

Where he promptly froze. That was no woman poking about the prom dresses and casual wear. The image of a white tail raised in warning flashed across his mind. The presence of a man in a dress shop never boded well for anyone.

And what a man. Everything about him, from his broad chest and shoulders to the way he walked, proclaimed him male in all caps, bold and underlined. That walk had set off Jase’s danger instincts. Predator, without a doubt, but what kind? His yellow eyes said wolf, but not that walk. Wolves prowled. Cats stalked. This man undulated. His fluid movements suggested limbs were an afterthought.

Oh cud. Jase’s gut did a nose dive when he realized he was looking at a dragon.

The man angled toward him, with a smile that did nothing for Jase’s peace of mind. “Are you the dressmaker?”

“I’m the designer,” Jase snapped. “There’s a difference.” He strode forward and stopped before the dragon with his head up and his spindly chest out. No one, not even a dragon, intimidated Jase in his work space. All most Peakers ever saw of deer were raised white tails and hindquarters in retreat. They tended to forget deer had hair-trigger emotions, and antlers with stiff, pointy tines.

And dragons breathed fire. Don't forget that.

Jase continued to glower upwards. His head barely reached as high as the dragon's collar. Well, cud that. You want a garment, you play nice with the designer. Nuff said.

A bit less gruffly, he added, “What can I do for you?”

“I need a new wardrobe. A suit, several dress shirts and slacks.”

Jase waved his arm to indicate the obvious. “This is a dress shop. I don’t do men’s wear.”

“And I don’t buy off the rack. It’s too difficult to find my size. I need my clothing tailored.”

“There are excellent tailors in Billings.”

“But I’m not in Billings. I’m here. And so are you.” He showed off his teeth again. “Too big of a challenge for you?”

Jase’s nostrils flared. Nothing involving fabrics or sewing presented a challenge to him. He might get blocked on occasion—okay, every cudding time—but sooner or later the ideas broke free and magic happened. If this meat-muncher figured Jase couldn’t work magic for a dragon, he could blow smoke up his own ass.

“I won’t make any promises,” he said. “Men’s wear isn’t my thing.”

“I get final say on the patterns and fabrics.”

“No,” Jase said, “you don’t. I make the clothes. I’ll decide what you look best in.”

The dragon chuckled. “I came to the right dre—that is, designer. I’m Burne.”

A dragon named Burne. How on-the-nose. “We’ll need to discuss your preferences, and I’ll need to take measurements.” He eyed the dragon warily, and made mental note of the location and condition of the shop’s fire extinguishers. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“Not at all.” A dimple appeared beside the dragon’s mouth. “Of course, I don’t wear undergarments. For best fit you’ll need to measure me naked. Will that be a problem?”

Jase gulped. His customers were primarily female. He had no trouble seeing them as bodies to be clothed. His overactive imagination pictured the dragon sans garments. He swallowed again.

“Do we have a deal?” the dragon asked.

“That depends,” Jase said. “How do you feel about plum?”