As the restlessness in him grew, beat with his heart, he shot down the path, powerful strides tearing the fog to ribbons. Now his blood heated with the speed, and veering left, he broke through the trees toward the soft glow of lights. There the cabin stood sturdy, its windows shining with welcome. The whispers of the night fell quiet.

As he bounded up the steps, white smoke swirled, blue light shimmered. And wolf became man.

Chapter 1

When Rowan Murray got her first look at the cabin, she was filled with a sense of both relief and fear. Relief that she’d finally come to the end of the long drive from San Francisco to this sheltered spot on the coast of Oregon. And fear for the exact same reason.

She was here. She had done it.

What next?

The practical thing, of course, was to get out of the four-wheel drive, unlock the front door and give herself a tour of the place she intended to make home for the next three months. Unpack what belongings she’d brought with her. Make herself some tea. Take a hot shower.

Yes, those were all practical, reasonable things to do, she told herself. And she sat exactly where she was, in the driver’s seat of the two-week-old Range Rover, her long, slender fingers gripping white-knuckled on the wheel.

She was alone. Completely, absolutely alone.

It was what she wanted, what she needed. What she’d pushed herself to accomplish for months so that when the offer of the cabin had come, she’d snatched it as if it were a tree limb and she’d been sinking in quicksand.

Now that she had it, she couldn’t even get out of the car.

“You’re such a fool, Rowan.” She whispered it, leaning back, closing her eyes for just a moment. “Such a coward.”

She sat, gathering her energies, a small, slenderly built woman with creamy skin that had lost its sheen of rose. Her hair was straight as rain and the color of polished oak. Now she wore it pulled back, out of the way, in a thick braid that was coming loose. Her nose was long and sharp, her mouth just slightly overwide for the triangle of her face. Her eyes, tired now from hours of driving, were a deep, dark blue, long lidded and tilted at the corners.

Elf’s eyes, her father often said. And thinking of that, she felt tears welling up in them.

She’d disappointed him, and her mother. The guilt of that weighed like a stone on her heart. She hadn’t been able to explain, not clearly enough, not well enough, why she hadn’t been capable of continuing on the path they’d so carefully cleared for her. Every step she’d taken on it had been a strain, as if every step had taken her farther and farther away from where she needed to be.