Rejected Mail-Order Bride is Rescued by a Lonely Sheriff – She Has No Idea He’s a Shifter

Chapter 7

The town hall blazed with lamplight and music the night Lucy Sutton came home. Someone had produced a fiddle, another a harmonica, and the whole town was dancing its relief — Emmett Sutton swinging his daughter in a careful circle, her laughter ringing off the rafters.

“Quite a turnaround,” Mrs. Whitlock observed, appearing at Margaret’s side with two steaming cups of cider. “Haven’t seen Emmett smile like that since before Martha passed.”

“Nothing like nearly losing something to make you appreciate having it.”

“Wise words.” Mrs. Whitlock studied her shrewdly. “You look exhausted, dear. No one would fault you for retiring early.”

Margaret’s muscles ached with a bone-deep weariness — the search, the cold, the constant vigilance of living a lie. But her eyes kept scanning the room for a tall figure that had been conspicuously absent all evening.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded.

Outside, the air stung her cheeks, and fresh snow glittered in the moonlight like scattered diamonds. She had gone half a block when the prickle of being watched ran down her spine.

Gideon stood a few paces behind her, outlined against the night.

“Sheriff.”

“Miss Whitfield.” He fell into step beside her. “You left early.”

“As did you.”

“I thought I’d escort you home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking two blocks alone.”

“I’m aware of your capabilities.” There was an edge to his voice she didn’t understand. “You shouldn’t have come into the forest tonight.”

“I would have come no matter what you said.”

“I know.” He stopped, and she stopped with him, and the silence between them was suddenly enormous. “Do you have any idea what it did to me,” he said slowly, “watching you push through that blizzard?”

Margaret’s spine stiffened. “What it did to you? I wasn’t aware my actions required your approval, Sheriff.”

“They don’t.” He closed the distance she’d created. “And I don’t like it. I don’t like standing by and watching you endanger yourself.”

“How dare you.” Her voice shook. “You’ve known me barely six weeks—”

“Six weeks is enough.” His amber eyes had darkened to burnished gold. “Six weeks of being haunted by your presence. Six weeks of a torment I cannot name and cannot master.”

Her breath caught. She had thought he was speaking from duty, from the authority of his office. But the way he was looking at her now was something else entirely.

“You speak as though I’ve bewitched you.”

“Because you have.”

One large hand rose to brace against the gate beside her head, his sleeve brushing her cheek. “Your presence in this town — greeting me each morning, looking at me with those eyes — it’s torment enough, even knowing you’re not here for me.”

“What do you mean?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

A bitter smile touched his lips. “You think I wouldn’t recognize Henry Whitfield’s sister?”

She gasped as he leaned closer, dipping his face toward her neck, drawing a slow, deep breath of the cold air between them.

“Family shares more than features,” he murmured. “You carry his scent. Though yours is sweeter. More dangerous.”

“Sheriff.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “You’re being inappropriate.”

“You’re right.” He straightened, and she watched him fight for control. “God help me, Margaret. I’ve tried to keep my distance. But tonight, seeing you in danger—”

“Your safety is not my concern—”

“You are the most controlling, arrogant, infuriating man I have ever encountered.”

“And you,” he growled, “are the most stubborn, reckless woman.” His eyes blazed, and then his mouth was on hers.

She froze — her first kiss stolen in the moonlight by the very man she had come here to expose. For one panicked heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. Then something primal awakened in her, and her hands clutched his coat, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The impropriety, the danger, the lie she was living — none of it mattered against the overwhelming heat of his lips on hers.

He wrenched himself away, breathing hard.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was raw. “Forgive me. It won’t happen again.”

“Gideon—”

“Good night, Miss Whitfield.”

He strode away into the darkness, and she stood at the gate with her lips burning and her heart a wreck, watching him disappear.

And then, from the mountains, a wolf howled. Long and lonely.

The sound sank into her bones. She had spent six weeks trying to believe Henry was wrong — that the sheriff was only a stern man in a leather coat, that the child’s amber-eyed wolf was a grieving girl’s invention.

But she had kissed those eyes. She had felt them burn into her.

And now, from the dark edge of the trees, she felt them watching her still.