Leather and Lace [Skinwalkers 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Read online

  Skinwalkers 1

  Leather and Lace

  Lace Eastlake can't remember how she ended up on a snowy mountain road. Hell, she can't remember her full name. Yet when two sexy cowboys take her in and nurse her back to health, she figures it can't all be bad.

  Skinwalker Zack Blackwood and his werewolf friend Chan Channing want one woman to share. When Zack brings a beautiful amnesiac home, they think they may have found their mate. But her loss of memory isn't the biggest problem in her life. She has a werewolf killer on the prowl for her.

  The men try to keep her safe, but the killer is sneakier than they thought. When he finally gets his paws on her, she's minutes away from death. If they save her in time, will her memory come back? And if it does, will her past come back to haunt them?

  Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Paranormal, Shape-shifter, Vampires/Werewolves, Western/Cowboys

  Length: 44,333 words

  LEATHER AND LACE

  Skinwalkers 1

  Jane Jamison

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  LEATHER AND LACE

  Copyright © 2013 by Jane Jamison

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62740-664-2

  First E-book Publication: September 2013

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2013 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Leather and Lace by Jane Jamison from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Jane Jamison’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Jamison’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  Dear Readers,

  It’s always a scary journey when an author starts a new series. Will readers like it? Should I write more books in the series? Then, as always, I discover what I’ve always known. To write what my heart tells me to write as well as what I hope my readers will like. I hope you’ll enjoy reading Leather and Lace as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  Wishing everyone the best,

  Jane Jamison

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  LEATHER AND LACE

  Skinwalkers 1

  JANE JAMISON

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  The pain assaulting her body was excruciating. Yet it was nothing compared to the agony that threatened to squeeze her heart until it shattered, crumbling inward on itself. She wasn’t able to think or speak, and even now, it hurt like hell to move. Although she could get her arms and legs working, controlling them was another thing. At least the world had stopped spinning.

  She didn’t comprehend what was happening to her. It was like a dream that had gone from bad to worse. A nightmare of waking hours, one where she saw what was going on, but couldn’t make sense of it.

  Someone, please help me.

  That was the last coherent thought she had.

  The pain was different now. Not as bright and sharp as before, yet dull and burning, a lingering malevolency like water torture and its relentless drip, drip, drip. Her forehead throbbed, an evil force pushing at her brain and burning behind her eyes.

  Still, her mind tried to piece together the memories.

  She could recall crying. Her sobs were useless pleas she’d known wouldn’t matter. They couldn’t change anything that had happened. She searched her mind, trying to recall what exactly had happened, but it was an elusive thing like a butterfly that flutters just out of reach. And yet, she’d continued to cry, hoping against rationality that it would make a difference. That somehow, she could turn back time.

  A stabbing sting had whipped through her right side. It had pummeled through her, invisibly tearing her apart from the inside out.

  But that had been before.

  She’d had time to regroup, to gather a tiny portion of her strength.

  The next thing she remembered was she was sitting up—or rather leaning—against the door of a car, her hand gripping the side of the seat. Then in the next moment, she was falling. The smell of gasoline assaulted her nostrils while chilly wind raked over her. She didn’t have time to shiver. Her cry had taken every bit of her meager energy.

  The world spun around her. Images of gravel had whirled until replaced with leaves and branches. The hard, rocky surface of the roadway hit her moments later, so fast that she didn’t have time to put out her hands, to prepare herself in what little way she could. It didn’t matter. She no longer had the strength to try and help herself.

  The impact of the fall drove the air from her lungs and gravel tore into her skin as her body rolled. Light flashed in quick succession, growing dark as she faced downward, then getting brighter as her body flipped the other way.

  When she finally stopped moving, she was almost relieved. Almost. But real relief didn’t come. Instead, the pain exploded, growing impossibly stronger, crueler, until at last, her mind
couldn’t handle any more. She moaned that awful sound again, a pitiful moan no one else would ever hear. She managed to push her body up and stumble forward.

  * * * *

  Zack Blackwood loved his home. After two tours, one in Iraq and the other in Afghanistan, he’d been honorably discharged from the army. He’d wasted no time in heading back to the land and house that had been in his family for as long as he could remember.

  Although he hadn’t grown up on the ranch while he was a child, he’d spent most of his summers there. He’d learned how to ride a horse and to run cattle from his grandfather. Finally, at seventeen and feeling the wanderlust that so often strikes young men, he’d left his mother’s home and had taken to traveling the world before eventually enlisting in the military. The lifestyle of a soldier had fit him well, but at age thirty-two, he was happy to have a place to call his own.

  He snorted and wondered if he was getting old. Instead, he preferred to think that it was the Apache blood in him that had brought him back to the land his father’s people claimed as theirs. The other blood that coursed through his veins had drawn him back to find the others of his kind.

  A man doesn’t own the land. Instead, the land takes a man’s heart and makes it hers.

  Zack could still hear his grandfather’s gravelly, smoke-filled voice.

  We are a part of the world around us. A man has true peace when he becomes one with it.

  Although he’d lost his grandfather many years before, Zack could still picture the ninety-five-year-old man, Ezekiel Blackwood, his dark brown eyes glistening against his bronze skin as he sat and rocked on the porch of their family home. As always in the evenings, a glass of amber whiskey was perched on the arm of the rocking chair as Grandfather puffed on the end of an old corncob pipe. He gave his wisdom as a gift to the young man who straddled the life his grandfather lived, a life that honored their ancestors, and his mother’s world living among other humans in Phoenix, Arizona.

  A youthful Zack, visiting for the summer and away from his mother’s constant watch, would take his place near his grandfather’s feet, sit on the top step, and listen to the wise words. His body hummed with the knowledge that he was a part of the forest and the animals around him, and in those few precious months he’d slough off the city’s dirt and grime that clung to his skin.

  Zack rested his wrist on the steering wheel and scanned the land around him. The quick flash of a deer’s white tail caught his eye as it bounded through the ponderosa pines. The skinwalker part of him wanted to change into a predator and give chase, but there was no time. Later tonight, once the snow had fallen and the world had gone quiet, he’d put his nose to the ground and find prey. Yet even then, it was only a game. He’d never kill when he had plenty of nourishment at home. It was the chase that mattered. Killing was a necessity that he’d grown tired of while in the service. He’d not kill again unless he had no choice.

  Zack wondered what Grandfather would think of him. Would he be proud of the man he’d become? He’d died not long after Zack had transitioned for the first time and his death had left a hole in Zack’s heart that could never be filled. Until he greeted his grandfather in the Life Beyond, he’d do his best to act as a good and decent man. One who would protect his land and the people he loved with his last breath.

  Zack’s father, a man who’d taken to drink far too often, died when Zack was still a toddler. His mother hadn’t been able to stand living on the ranch, much less around his father’s and grandfather’s people. She’d taken her child and had fled to the city. But at least, she’d allowed Grandfather to take Zack for the summers.

  If Grandfather hadn’t taken him to a meeting of skinwalkers, Zack would’ve been left alone to learn their ways. Even then he’d felt isolated, not really a part of them, because of his human half.

  He’d been born to it as all skinwalkers were. Yet even if he’d had the choice, the outcome would’ve still been the same. He was a skinwalker and proud of it.

  He drew in a long, slow breath, letting the clean mountain air fill his lungs. He’d tasted the polluted air of the cities and seen dead fish floating in nearby waters. He wanted no part of it. None of that was here and he prayed it would never thrust its diseased fingers into his land.

  He couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be. No place on earth had ever compared to the serene, yet often violent land. Yet, unlike the violence he’d seen elsewhere, the violence of the mountains was part of the nature of things. No other place could ever calm him as much as the hills of his homeland could.

  Only the locals in the nearby small town of Lost Hills knew where the Blackwood family home was located. Nestled deep into the White Mountains of Arizona, his land included a thousand acres of prime real estate.

  Hon-Dah Ranch wasn’t the largest ranch in the state, but it wasn’t the smallest, either. Its location, however, was perfect. Even now, whenever he had to go into a large city for supplies, he’d get a rush of pride whenever he passed the spectacular scenery of the Mogollon Rim, an escarpment with awe-inspiring views. Closer to the home, the tree line would grow denser and he’d often stop to take a quick walk along the edges of one of the many lakes in the area. With the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forests drawing visitors each year, he’d sometimes encounter carloads of vacationers headed to a variety of activities, but once he pointed his Jeep Wrangler down the long gravel drive that led deeper into the woods and toward his house, he’d forget about them and the rest of civilization.

  At home, he put everything and everyone behind him. His house was built into the side of a mountain utilizing a cave that his ancestors had lived in. The cave was often a meeting place for the rest of his people. The other half of the home was a log cabin that had been built in front of the cave and had all the amenities any modern-day home had. The house was a legacy to his descendants as well as a testament to the future. As far as he knew, no other home was like it.

  Home.

  The word that had little meaning to him as a young man traveling the world now meant more than he could put into words.

  He knew the roads around his ranch like he knew the back of his hand, letting his mind wander as he took another turn and headed toward the outskirts of the ranch’s boundaries. It didn’t happen often because of the isolated location of the ranch, but every once in a while a vacationer would wander astray and wind up lost on the road that hugged the western part of his land. Once, he’d even found a family of four, their minivan stuck in a snow bank with their gas running low. Getting them up to a secondary cabin, one that he rarely used, wasn’t something he’d wanted to do, but it was better than dealing with their cold bodies after they’d died from a night out in the elements. And it was a lot better than taking them to his mountain home. He rarely brought anyone from the outside world to his house. His home was his sanctuary and a secret he’d guard with his life.

  Thankfully, Chan, his self-appointed brother, felt the same way.

  He’d met Milton Walton Channing, aka Chan, in the army. The wealthy son of a New York City socialite and a billionaire Texas oil man, Chan had irritated Zack from the second they’d met. Not only had the talkative “spoiled brat” made Zack want to cut his own ears off just to stop having to listen to him, but Chan had gotten them into trouble when he’d pulled Zack into a fight with a couple of soldiers from another squad. They’d ended up taking the punishment together, and after a day of latrine duty, Zack had realized that there was more to Chan than a quick grin and a sickeningly optimistic attitude.

  A month later, Zack felt like he owed his life to Chan when he’d pulled Zack out of an overturned Humvee that had been struck by an IED, an improvised explosive device. Zack didn’t remember much about the attack other than seeing Chan’s face as he’d slung him over his shoulder and carried him to safety.

  That’s when he’d realized that Chan was a werewolf with shifter strength.

  They’d been inseparable ever since and Zack, realizing that they may not have been broth
ers by birth but were made brothers by circumstances, had invited Chan to live on the ranch with him.

  Two years later and they’d managed to take the struggling ranch and turn it into a profitable enterprise. Chan handled investments that had made them several hundreds of thousands of dollars and took care of most of the finances. Surprising Zack, his friend had picked up the cowboy life fast and helped out with the cattle whenever he could, saying that he preferred it to “pouring over a bunch of numbers.” But when a decision that concerned livestock came up, he always gave in to Zach’s expertise.

  Zack glanced around, checking for anything out of the ordinary.

  Good. No vacationers. No problems.

  Yet.

  He kept the vehicle going down the road. Although he didn’t see any cars, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen later in the winter season. His gaze slid skyward, noting the gray, overcast conditions.

  Storm’s moving in.

  Maybe, just maybe he’d get lucky this year and all the tourists would have enough sense to get to lower ground before the snow fell.

  He’d just gone around another turn when he had to slam on the brakes. “Shit!” His palm pressed the horn, blaring at the obstacle in the road. When there was no reaction to the loud blast, he pulled his hand back and squinted.

  What the hell is she doing out here?

  The petite blonde woman had her head down. Her shoulder-length hair fell forward in unruly waves and hid her face. She shuffled along moving at a pace that would’ve made a snail complain about the slow going.