He lowered his gun and stared at the skull mask and at the very human gaze watching him from behind fur and bone.
Whoever the Wolfman was, he was very much a part of nature, just like any other man. Lars hissed when the long claws tore at his arm, and Cole kicked the offending hand, stepping on their captive’s wrist once it was down. Hair fell into his face as gusts of wind brought in the scent of ice and pine, but he ignored them and raised his voice, looking between the trees.
“We’ll shoot both his legs if you all don’t come out!”
Lars used all his weight to keep the snarling, writhing beast down, but despite Cole’s warning, something bolted out of the darkness, straight at him. The wind dimmed the flames somewhat, but what Cole saw in their unsteady glow was a wolf made of bone, leaping across the clearing with a loud rattle, its eyes red as if it were about to take them to hell with its teeth. Cole shot the same moment the beast changed direction and squeezed its muzzle on his arm with a low roar.
The Wolfman cried out as if he were the one being hurt. “No!” It was a deep rasp from the bottom of the man’s chest. “No. Go home.”
Cole stumbled when the wolf let go, leaving holes in the sleeve of his thick coat, but the animal listened to its master, already backing away toward the nearby trees. Only then did Cole see that the thing was just a large dog dressed in a costume of leather and bones. Something rattled as it moved, so there had to be attachments on him to make the noise.
Smoke and mirrors.
But why would the Wolfman… help him?
When the dog whimpered its unease from the darkness, their captive repeated in a roar. “Go home!”
That voice. It was hoarse and low, but he recognized it. Its familiarity made something grow deep in Cole’s throat, and as the dog skittered away, he dipped forward, grabbed the mask and yanked it off to reveal a face. Covered by a red, matted beard, it didn’t look quite how Cole remembered it, but those green eyes, and the large nose with a bump in the middle?
Cole let out a strangled mewl when he spotted the old, curved scar on the cheek, emerging from under auburn strands, and that was when he knew for sure.
Just when he’d stopped searching for Ned O’Leary… he’d found him.
Chapter 3
After seven long years, Cole had resigned himself to believing that he’d never find Ned O’Leary. Maybe deep in his heart he’d even hoped to never see the bastard again, but now the green eyes looked at him with a familiarity that cut through Cole’s breast bone and made a stab at his tender insides.
His temples pulsed. His mouth dried. His stomach hurt as if he’d been punched.
Ned O’Leary had used him. He’d feigned devotion and had stolen Cole’s heart only to squash it like a bug. Used him to destroy Tom. Used him to destroy the Gotham Boys. Sent so many people Cole cared for to the gallows and many more—to prison. And now he was here. At Cole’s mercy.
Fury rattled through Cole and formed his right hand into a fist. And then he was on Ned, smashing his knuckles into his cheekbone, because somehow he couldn’t bring himself to break the damn fuck’s nose.
The maggot under him whined and cowered, trying to shield his face by turning it away.
“Cole!” Lars yelled in an impatient tone as if it wasn’t the first time he spoke up. The thudding in Cole’s ears might have made him deaf for a while. “Get the shackles first. You can pummel his face later.” Lars struggled to keep Ned’s arms behind his back, and just the thought that Ned could still flee and evade Cole for another seven years made Cole move.
With mush in his skull instead of brains, he rose and staggered toward his saddlebag, kicking away crumbs of hard snow. Where had he put the cuffs? They’d be in the same compartment as usual, yet he struggled to think and only found the irons once he touched them while rummaging through the bag.
Ned O’Leary.
He was here.
He was the damn Wolfman, and had been hiding away in the mountains for at least five years!
Cole was glad Lars had rolled Ned around, because seeing his face, even if changed by facial hair and years, was too much to handle. He needed to get a grip. Calm down.
The click of the lock was what finally let him breathe. O’Leary was confined and would not run from him anymore.
Ned thrashed the moment Cole stepped away, but Lars punched the back of his head with a happy whistle that filled the air with vapor. And Cole froze. Even though all he’d wanted for the past seven years was to rip Ned open, get his answers, and leave him to vultures, his ribs felt like a tight cage around his lungs and heart. The snow might have been stained red due to Cole’s own actions, but this vengeance was only his to take.
He shoved at Lars, irrationally angry over him touching Ned in any way, but their bounty took a chance and ran for the trees, hopping through the snow with his arms pulled back. Cole wished he had a lasso on him. Or better yet, be as proficient at throwing the thing at a moving target as Ned had been in his youth, but since none of those things played in his favor, he ran after his bounty with a roar that belonged in a bear’s throat, not his.
Blood rushed to his head and made his temples pulse with fury, but despite days of fatigue weighing down his muscles, his predator drive was as strong as ever, and he felled Ned by throwing himself at him from the back.
Ned gave a low huff and tried to rise under Cole, but a punch in the ribs got him right back down. “I caught you. And I’ll bleed you dry,” he growled into Ned’s ear while Lars labored through the snow.
It struck him that if he hadn’t seen Ned’s eyes, he wouldn’t have recognized him. Not because of the beard, or because he’d grown sturdier, but because the scent Cole used to so love was gone, overshadowed by the sharp odor of sweat, smoke, and not enough soap.
“You’re done terrorizing the locals,” Lars huffed as he caught up. He stood over them in silence, as if he didn’t know what to do about Cole continuously pressing their captive to the ground with his entire body weight.
Lars cleared his throat. “Cole? Get off him, so we can get a look.”
It was the wakeup call Cole needed. He rolled off Ned and watched Lars haul the cuffed bastard up by the arm, then drag him toward the campfire.
Ned didn’t put up a fight anymore, so Lars picked up some snow and rubbed it over Ned’s face to wipe the blood from his features. “Let me get a better look at you.”
Cole followed them in broad steps, his blood so hot he was surprised the snow wasn’t melting around his boots. And as he came closer and saw Ned in the bright glow of the fire, his stomach squeezed as if he were hanging off the edge of a steep cliff. Like that time he’d almost fallen off a rail viaduct and only Ned’s intervention had saved his hide.
Even now, Cole remembered each freckle on that disproportionately big nose by heart.
“Look at the scar on his cheek, Cole. I knew it. Ned O’Fucking-Leary!” Lars laughed out loud despite still being out of breath. “You think they’ll pay us both bounties?”
Cole remembered that scar so well. Zeb had kicked Ned in the face during a scuffle, and his spur had cut through Ned’s cheek, leaving a deep scar. It still curved upward, and while the color of the line in flesh had faded, it remained clear, just like Cole’s desire for Ned had been that day.