January 15
Brady sucked in a breath when he rounded the bend and the first buildings came into view.
Whispering Springs.
The place he’d been born.
Eyes scanning, he eased off the gas, and took in the changes.
Here, on the outer edges of town, things looked the same. Mostly. There had definitely been changes, minor ones—new paint, some additions—but nothing stood out too much. He was sure he’d see more once he got to the middle of town but right here, on the outskirts of the town he’d grown up in, it was as though he hadn’t spent over a decade living somewhere else.
A wave of comfort flowed over him.
Home.
He’d finally come home.
The years away didn’t matter; in his heart he knew this was home.
Would always be home.
He’d sought out every piece of information he could before taking the job with Wild Encounters and making the journey here. The owners, Brogan Wilder and Quinn MacClellan, had intrigued him for a number of reasons. They’d managed to build a reputable company that offered wilderness adventures to shifters and humans unlike anything he’d come across in the region or the country for that matter.
Through discreet inquiries Brady also knew they were well on their way to bringing life back to an almost decimated coyote population. Both the natural packs that roamed this mountain range and the shifter pack who called Whispering Springs and surrounding mountains home.
As sovereign and regal of the Whispering Mountain coyote shifters, the two men had strengthened the pack Brady had always thought of as his in spite of not living within its midst these last thirteen years.
His chest ached, his stomach churned, bile rising up his throat, as he thought about his father’s involvement in the near destruction of the once prosperous Whispering Mountain pack.
Thinking of his father always turned his insides. Brady couldn’t remember much about the man from his early years, and his mother always insisted things hadn’t been as bad as their final years living on the mountain, except it didn’t seem to matter how much his mother said his father had once been a better man because Brady only remembered a man with a temper, a man whose anger simmered constantly and only took a small infraction—real or perceived—to set off.
Memories of the night they fled flashed through his mind.
His father’s rage before he’d stormed out of the house leaving bruises behind. His mother throwing things in bags, racing from room to room taking very few of their possessions, before finally ushering them outside. Marcus, refusing to get in the car. The fear and desperation radiating from his mother as she frantically argued with her oldest son. Her vain attempts to drag Marcus into their beat-up old truck.
From what Brady could remember, his older brother had been stubborn and had idolized their father; his refusal to leave hadn’t come as a surprise, but Marcus calling their mother a traitor and a whore had.
Brady had never wanted to hurt someone as badly as he had that night. He’d wanted to punch his brother in the face until he shut up and did what their mom wanted. Especially after she’d given up and climbed behind the wheel, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, never once looking back at the son she left behind.
She’d cried the whole fourteen hours she drove. Silent tears that streamed down her face and soaked her shirt.
He had never felt more useless or terrified in his life. At fourteen he’d been too young to defend her against his brute of a father but he had succeeded in avoiding confrontations during his early teens, protecting her as best he could by not setting off his father’s rage. His efforts had never been enough.
Everything had come crashing down around them the night they left. The whole world had shifted beneath his feet with one act of violence his mother couldn’t ignore.
Malcolm Connelly would stop at nothing to gain sovereign.
Not even murder.
Ironic how murder had driven Brady out of the mountains and murder brought him back.
A heavy sigh left his chest; the weight of all he faced sat on his shoulders like his favorite hiking pack. A burden he had no choice but to carry. Not if he wanted to stay. And he wanted to stay.
He didn’t know what kind of reception he would receive from the pack members, especially after recent events, but he hadn’t expected coming home to be easy. Not after the way he and his mother had fled. With a deep breath, he straightened his spine and focused on the town that as of today would be his home once more.
Punching the accelerator, he shot forward with a little more haste than necessary and drove toward his future.
In less than a minute he was driving down the town’s main street. Slowing to walking pace, he scrutinized the shops lining the road, seeing familiar stores as he headed toward the Den Cafe. The cafe had been a fundamental part of life in Whispering Springs from before Brady was born. It didn’t only serve great food, it served as a meeting point, a social outing, a place for pack members to congregate, to catch up, and, for the older generation, a place to gossip.
It wasn’t surprising that Brogan had suggested Brady meet him and Quinn there. He remembered them both from before he left but he wasn’t sure if they remembered him. They had to have recognized his name though.
No one had mentioned who he was—or the other reason for his return to the mountains—during his interview but they knew he’d grown up in Whispering Springs. They’d spoken on the phone several times over the last few weeks and Brady felt comfortable accepting the position with their adventure company even if returning to the mountain left him with a mix of anxiety and excitement.
Funny how something he’d longed for for years could bring such conflicting emotions.
On the one hand, he couldn’t wait to return to the town he loved and missed. On the other, he feared the very people he’d thought of as family for the first fourteen years of his life. Still thought of that way if he were honest.
The cafe came into view and Brady quickly searched the street for a parking spot. Seeing one just beyond his destination, he sped up and slipped his truck between two off-road vehicles. He set the parking brake and turned the engine off except he didn’t get out.
Muscles taut and chest heavy as though a weight pressed down on it, crushing the air from his lungs, he took a moment to get himself together. After several deep breaths, Brady grunted. With determination and a small amount of self-disgust, he yanked the keys from the ignition and popped his door.
Since the night his mother took him from his home, he’d vowed to never let fear stop him. And in the last thirteen years he’d kept that promise. He wasn’t about to break it now.
He’d already broken the one he’d given his mother on her deathbed. Not that he could have done otherwise. He hadn’t had anything to do with his brother in over decade and even he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could have changed the outcome of his brother’s life by making contact sooner.
No, his brother’s destiny had been set in motion all those years ago when Marcus had chosen to stay with their father instead of leaving with their mother.
With more force than warranted, Brady shoved his door wide and climbed out. Slamming it shut behind him, he locked the truck and headed for the Den Cafe.
Encountering no one on the sidewalk, he breathed in and out, slow and steady, his stride becoming more relaxed with each breath of crisp mountain air and step he took.
Only a thin layer of snow crunched beneath his boots. It had been days since the last snowfall, but it was still the middle of winter in Whispering Springs and crisp was a polite way to say the air froze your nose hairs and cracked your lungs.
The temperature might be mild today, the sky a blinding winter-blue, but it was still bone-chillingly cold.
In spite of the cold and his apprehension, Brady felt the town—his home—seeping into his bones, embracing his soul, and warming his heart.
Glancing up and down the street, he smiled.
God, it was good to be home.
Not one to hide his head in the sand, he didn’t think for a second that this was anything except the calm before the storm. There would be plenty to face the minute the townspeople realized who he was. He was prepared to meet whatever they threw at him; he’d come home for good, and no matter what his brother and father had done in the past, it wouldn’t stop him from being here and claiming his place in the pack of his birth.
A bell jingled above his head as he pushed through the door. The sounds of people chatting, utensils scratching on plates, hit him like a brick wall, and he smiled at the homey feel of the cafe. Stepping inside, he shut the door, blocking out the cold, and scanned the tables for Brogan and Quinn.
As his gaze passed each group, silence followed as though an invisible soundproof blanket was being laid over the room. By the time he’d located the two men he sought in a back booth, you could hear a pin drop even without the added bonus of shifter hearing.
Brady stiffened his spine and returned the smiles of the men waving him over. With deliberate steps and head high, he moved in their direction; clamping down on the anxiety eating a hole in his gut, he kept the smile on his face and his gaze on target.
He’d made it halfway across the room when it hit him.
Raw, scraping need stole the breath from his lungs and snapped every muscle in his body rigid, tore at his nerves with razor sharp edges.
What the fuck?
His groin pulsed and his cock grew hard from one heartbeat to the next. He’d left his jacket in the truck and the sweater he wore barely skimmed his hips; his jeans, old favorites, hid nothing if someone were to look. God, he hoped nobody looked.
Clenching his jaw and eyes focused straight ahead, he moved as quick as his locked muscles allowed toward the far booth and the men he’d come to meet.
Reaching the table he held out a hand to the pack’s sovereign and his new boss. “Brogan.”
“Brady.” Brogan’s grip was strong, confident. “You made good time.”
“I did.” Turning to the other owner of Wild Encounters and the pack’s regal, Brady offered his hand again. “Quinn.”
“Brady, good to have you here,” Quinn said with a quick shake.
Brogan motioned for Brady to take a seat and he slid into the booth as both men took the bench seat opposite.
“Did most of the driving at night. Plus I got away earlier than I’d planned from Nebraska,” he explained. “Once I made up my mind to make the move, I wanted to get here. Get started.”
He jerked in his seat as another wave of lust slammed into him. His gaze skimmed the room but he couldn’t pinpoint the woman who had to be here.
“Something wrong?” Quinn asked.
“Huh?” He brought his gaze back to the men across the table. “No. No. Just taking the place in. It’s not all that different from the last time I was here.”
Brady hoped neither man saw through his lie. Not that the place had changed, that part wasn’t the lie, but he hadn’t lived in a pack since leaving Whispering Springs at fourteen; he couldn’t tell if they were able to sense his deception—his discomfort.
He’d been around other shifters over the years and in spite of his mother’s assertions not all coyote shifters were like his father, they had never joined another pack. She hadn’t left his heritage in the past though; she’d told him about every aspect of being a coyote so he knew what was happening right now even if he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Never in a million years did he think he’d find his mate the first day he came back to town.
Except coyote instincts didn’t lie, and right now his were screaming his mate was right here.
In the Den Cafe.