Page 2 of Riding with the Rejected Wolf

"Guess I just didn't get enough sleep," I mutter, avoiding his gaze.

"Yeah, you do have those dark circles under your eyes like a raccoon that's been up all night dumpster diving." Kade chuckles, his mug clinking against the table surface as he sets it down.

I scowl at him. "Thanks for the ego boost."

"Anytime, brother." He grins, raising his hands in mock surrender.

The bell above the diner door jingles, and we both turn to see who's entered.

In walks this guy, who looks as out of place as a penguin in a desert. Suit, shiny shoes, Rolex on one wrist and an air of desperation about him that’s more pungent than the greasy scent that clings to every surface in The Broken Diner.

He scans the room, his gaze darting from one face to another before it lands squarely on me. My gut tightens, not with the warning of danger but with the certainty of a new job. Great. Anything to keep me busy so I can pretend that invite never showed up at my door.

He strides forward to our booth, his leather-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor, and stops just short of our table.

"Either of you go by the name Tracker?"

"Yeah, that'd be me," I say, as I lean back in the booth. “And who’s asking? Man like you is either lost or you've got work for me."

The man swallows, steeling himself as he takes the booth seat next to Kade, who eyes him with suspicious curiosity. "Name's Henry Richards," he says, extending a hand toward me. I give it a firm shake, noting the slight tremor in his grip. "I was told you could help me find my wife. She’s gone missing.”

SILAS

Duty Calls (and Her Scent Still Lingers)

"Missing wife, huh?" I eye the guy, Henry, across the table. He's sweating under his starched collar, his gaze darting around the diner like he expects to be ambushed by a plate of overcooked eggs. He doesn't smell like grief, though. He smells like obsession and lies, and the scent makes my wolf growl low in my chest.

"Two weeks," he says, his voice cracking. "She just…disappeared. No note, no call, nothing."

Kade lets out a low whistle. "That's rough, man. Tracker here's the best there is, though. He'll find her. For a price, of course."

I shoot Kade a look that could freeze whiskey—I don’t even know if I want to help this guy, and he’s just gone and offered my services like it’s sure thing. But the asshole just grins at me, all innocence and mocking amusement. I turn my attention back to Henry, who is now wringing his hands anxiously.

"Of course," he says, his voice a broken whisper. "Money's not a problem. I just want her back."

I cross my arms over my chest. "We'll need details," I say, fixing him with a stern gaze. "Everything you know. Name, age, description. Last known whereabouts. Any reason she might have run? And don't try to sugarcoat or hide anything. It won't do you any good."

"Mika," Henry practically spits out the name, his facade of distress slipping for a moment to reveal the anger simmering beneath. "She's twenty-eight, short but curvy—a big woman. But beautiful. Long blonde hair, blue eyes… She was last seen at her. I mean, our house in Bozeman, Montana. No good reason to run that I know of."

I raise an eyebrow at that—women don't just vanish into thin air without a good reason. But I keep my trap shut, listening as he continues to tell me about her. But something about the way he said ‘her’ and then ‘our house’ that’s making my wolf's hackles rise. His story doesn't sit right with me.

“…I mean, I work night and day to make sure she’s well looked after and wants for nothing.”

"Yeah, doubt that’s the problem, pal," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. But Kade hears me and laughs, his chuckle cutting across the conversational tension like a knife.

I ignore him and continue my interrogation. "Who was the last person to see her? Any witnesses or suspicions?"

"No, I... I was the last to see her. She didn't seem... she was just normal." His voice is shakier now, and the sweat on his brow is practically rolling down his face.

"Uh-huh," I say, raking my ringed fingers through my beard as I watch him sweat and stammer. “Got any pictures?”

"Of course," Henry stammers, opening his jacket and pulling out a mustard-colored envelope. He hands it over and inside I find a bunch of photos of the woman he’s described. But they’re taken at a distance like they came from a private investigator or something. I slide them over to Kade, who’s eyebrows lift as he studies them.

“Got any with the two of you together?” I ask, looking back up at Henry.

He gulps audibly and shakes his head. "No, I... we weren't... she didn't like being photographed. She was shy."

“What about your wedding pictures?”

---