Bayou Wolf
The Taming of the Shrew . . .Tallulah Silver is tough. She has to be—because she’s the Choctaw tribe’s only female shadow hunter, and because she doesn’t know how else to survive the loss that almost destroyed her.Payton Rodgers has devoted his life to protecting his wolf pack. But when mauled bodies start to pile up in the bayou, Payton begins to wonder if Tallulah might be right about rogue werewolves deserving the blame. As darkness gathers around them, can Tallulah risk opening herself up to love again while Payton determines where his true loyalties lie?
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The taming of the shrewâ¦
Tallulah Silver is tough. She has to beâbecause sheâs the Choctaw tribeâs only female shadow hunter, and because she doesnât know how else to survive the loss that almost destroyed her. Payton Rodgers has devoted his life to protecting his pack. But when mauled bodies start to pile up in the bayou, Payton begins to wonder if Tallulah might be right about werewolves deserving the blame. As darkness gathers around them, Tallulah will have to decide if she can risk opening herself up to love again. And Payton will have to determine where his true loyalties lie.
âWe can settle this between the two of us, no need for the police,â he replied. âFor the last time, what are you doing here?â
âAnd if I donât change my answer?â
Maddening. What a shrew. Her eyes flashed, and her chest rose and fell with her hot-tempered breathing. Ah, but she was sexy as all get-out. His gaze focused on the cleavage exposed by her deep Vâneck shirt.
A leather-fringed, beaded necklace with some sort of woven charm settled in the space between her rounded breasts. He couldnât help it. Payton reached a hand out to touch it, his fingers lightly brushing her skin.
Heat sparked his fingertips and spread throughout his body, and he dropped his arm and stepped backward. For a brief instant, he caught a returning fire banked in Tallulahâs widened eyesâuntil animosity again took its place.
âWhatâs that on your necklace?â he asked, trying to break the tension.
âA miniature dreamcatcher I wove. And donât you dare touch me again like that.â
Did he imagine it, or did her voice sound a tiny bit husky? His desire doubled. Here was an opportunity. He dared, all right.
DEBBIE HERBERT writes paranormal romance novels reflecting her belief that love, like magic, casts its own spell of enchantment. Sheâs always been fascinated by magic, romance and gothic stories. Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team. Her eldest son, like many of her characters, has autism. Her youngest son is in the US Army. A past MAGGIE® Award finalist in both young-adult and paranormal romance, sheâs a member of the Georgia Romance Writers of America.
Contents
The creature had been watching her ever since she entered the forest, half-hidden in the lengthening shadows. Trees rustled in the distance. One small sapling bowed, bending over until the tip brushed the ground. It was too far away for even her keen eyesight to locate the creatureâs form or even a vague outline. But Tallulah sensed its energy emanating from the woods. A deer, perhaps? No, that wasnât right. Too bold for a deer. Whatever it was, it didnât appear to be a threatâfor now.
Red feathers and black ribbons fluttered in the bayou breeze as she fastened the dream catcher to a cypress branch. Dozens of similar artifacts hung in varying states of disintegration, a shrine to her one and only love.
Bo had died hereâ832 nights agoâin this very spot. On this lonely patch of swampland, amidst the droning roar of a million mosquitoes, with nary a loved one to hold his numbed hands. Bohpoli Leyland, one of the most courageous shadow hunters of the Choctaw, was no more.
Tallulah tidied the area, rearranging her mandalas of seashells and clumps of crystals. Usually, tending the area was a comfort, a touch of spiritual communion. Sometimes she even talked out loud to Bo, recounting the dayâs events or updating him on news of their friends. As if her words werenât merely empty vibrations dying in the wind.
But this afternoon, she couldnât shake the awareness of being watched. The longer the creature hung around, the more it bugged her. Whatever it was, the animal was curious, hungry, stupid, or some combination of all three.
She set about dusting pine straw from her little offerings to Bo. A hunk of rose quartz here, a beaded prayer rope there, an angel figurine.
Twigs snapped nearby.
Her brain and body lit into action. She quickly felt for the dagger tucked into her belt and scanned the gathering darkness. Patterns of long shadows crisscrossed the massive Spanish moss-draped oaks, the ever-present pine trees and the dense underbrush of saw palmettos. Nothing was visible out there, and only the barest of vibrations from the ground tingled the soles of her feet in warning.
Tallulah cautiously bent down and put her free hand in her backpack, where she carried her other weapons, all the while keeping her eyes and ears peeled for an intruder. She lifted her slingshot and pocketed several rocks, stuffing them into the leather pouch at her waist. They were the most effective weapon in battling the Ishkitini, birds of the night, and the only way to kill a will-oâ-the-wisp.
