Heather Graham - Night of the Wolves

1838
The Republic of Texas

F IRST SHE HEARD THE HOWLING of the wolves. In the West, once you got past the cities and out on the trails leading to the lands of the ranchers and homesteaders, the sound wasnt unusual. It was still eerie, but it wasnt unusual.

But this was so early .

And after that, when the air went so very still

That was when Molly Fox knew that something was wrong, seriously wrong.

Bartholomew, who was generally a fine guard dog, was acting like anything but. He started to whine, tucked his tail between his legs and, keeping low to the ground, crept into the bedroom and under the bed.

The strange silence continued. Molly listened, but she couldnt even hear the sound of the wind moving through the trees.

Taking Lawrences old rifle, she went out on the porch. As she stood there, she saw the dying sun far on the western horizon.

As she watched, it seemed to fall to the earth like a fiery globe, sending out tentacles of flame to tease the heavens. It was beautiful, but then, as if it had been enfolded in a dark blanket, it suddenly disappeared as it plummeted to the earth. The last vestiges of pink and pale yellow, mauve and silver, faded from the sky. Even twilight was gone; night had taken over.

Molly stood in the darkness for a moment, then gave herself a shake and quickly retreated inside to light the kerosene lamp on the table.

Bartholomew was still cowering in the bedroom.

Come out, you ragamuffin, Molly called, though she was still illogically unnerved herself.

She was accustomed to living out here. Lawrence and she had picked up stakes from Louisiana and come here to accept her inheritance from a father shed never met: a small cattle ranch, but not a very profitable one. Still, they had been able to hire five hands, who lived in the bunkhouse just the other side of the stables, and she even had a girl in from town to help her clean the place and keep up with the cooking, five days a week. They were young; they spent their nights dreaming and their days working hard to make those dreams a reality.

When he was off on a cattle drive, like the one he had recently left on, Lawrence didnt like to leave her alone, and hed once suggested that they splurge for her to stay in town, but she hadnt wanted to go. He worried about a rogue cowhand or a rustler, or a plain old villain of any variety, who might come along. But she knew how to shoot, and she would hear a horseman coming. Plus she had Bartholomewwho at the very least made a terrible ruckus if there was a stranger around.

He didnt usually hide under the bed.

Molly set about lighting the rest of the lamps in the parlor and dining area, kitchen, and even her bedroomshe didnt want Bartholomew spooked any further. Just moving around and doing something made her feel better.

Then the wolves started howling again, and Molly heard Bartholomew whining softly in fear.

Bartholomew, you are not a hound, you are a chicken, Molly called to the dog, trying to find a semblance of inner calm. Those are just wolves, silly dog. Your cousins, in the grand scheme of things.

Her own voice sounded unnatural to her.

And even as the sound of her words died, she was listening again. And what she heardor rather, didnt hearwas disturbing.

The silence was back. A heavy silence that somehow just shouldnt be.

Shed left the gun by the door, and she quickly went back for it. Clutching the rifle with one hand, she carefully opened the front door again and walked back out on the porch.

There was nothing out there. The moon was rising high nowmaybe the wolves had known it was on the rise, climbing up in the sky even as the sun had died in all its magnificent splendor. She could see the yard in front of the house, the strong fence Lawrence and the men had built, and the paddocks beyond. She had gone out earlier and fed the two horses that remained in the stables, along with the chickens, and she was gladshe didnt want to be far from the house now, or even Bartholomew, for whatever he was worth. She saw nothing, heard nothing, and yet she was afraid. She wished that she would hear the sound of hoofbeats or rowdy cowhandsor even outlaws; she could handle ill-mannered men, despite Lawrences fears for her. She blushed. Lawrence was convinced that she was beautiful, and that, surely, everyone saw it. She prided herself more on an admirable sense of honor; she believed in God and believed that He wanted most for everyone to be decent to one another. Whenever she said so, though, Lawrence would shake his head, smiling, rolling his eyes, and tell her that she was naive. But she was still happy. He loved her. And he was such a gorgeous man himself. Tall and strong, and so capable; she even loved his callused hands, because he got those calluses working for her. For their dreams. But he did worry.

She had the respect and friendship of most folks in town; she certainly wasnt afraid of them. Not even of any of the local cowhands or farmers; she could quell their bad behavior with one disapproving look.

No, she was never afraid.

Molly went from window to window, making sure they were all securely latched. The house had been built with a breezeway, Southern-style, so she went to the back door and assured herself that it was locked and latched, as well.

All the lamps were on.

The world was still eerily silent.

She set water on the stove to make herself a cup of tea. She had best get over this silliness, she told herself. It would be weeks before Lawrence returned from his cattle drive.

While the water heated, she marched herself into her bedroom.

Bartholomew had come out from beneath the bed, but he was still crouched low, and he was making a strange whining sound.

Barty, stop it! Molly implored. She went to her dressing table. The kerosene lamp set strange shadows to dancing around the room, something that didnt help her jitters. Her face appeared gaunt in the mirror, her hazel eyes reflecting back at her filled with a shimmering gold. Her hair caught the light and seemed to spark with fire, appearing more red than usual. She picked up her brush and began to count out a hundred strokes.