Free A Werewolf's Valentine: BBW Wolf Shifter Paranormal Romance by Zoe Chant Page A

assurance, playing a counterpoint to West’s melodies.
    McKenzi watched her mother, grandmother, and great-aunt all get caught by the smoke and whisky of his voice as West sang about the road, then segued into ballads that told stories about various people he’d met on the road. First was one about an old woman and the Dust Bowl that made grandma stop making pastry and sit down to listen. That was followed by a funny one about an ornery old geezer somewhere in the Appalachians who everybody kept trying to make wear shoes, but he wouldn’t, then finally he turned into a crow and flew away.
    West sang a sad song about the cages of city life, then one about the open road. The next was about desert wanderers, followed by one about the lights of Los Angeles. And then, to McKenzi’s total surprise, he began strumming the intro to a familiar melody, and he sang “Las Positas Motel,” which had been all over the radio the previous summer.
    It was word for word the same song, only sung in his low, rough voice instead of Anessa Noel’s famous soprano, backed by a rock band—until the very last verse, which was new. The minor key ballad was about a woman who searched for love, but every lover turned out to want something other than love, and it had been a huge hit. That last verse changed the entire song, turning the meaning inside out: the love those unsuccessful lovers offered was never enough.
    West finished, and strummed as if nothing had happened, apparently unaware of the stares his way. Even McKenzi’s mom and dad had heard the song wafting through the air through the cottage windows as Kesley was painting.
    Rolf burst out, “I thought you didn’t sing other people’s stuff.”
    “I don’t,” West said, glancing his way in question.
    “But ‘Las Positas Motel’ is on Anessa Noel’s album.”
    West looked surprised, then lifted a shoulder. “I gave her that song. It was a parting gift. Beautiful voice, but she didn’t have any of her own music in her.” His voice was mild.
    “Her CD doesn’t have that last verse,” McKenzi said.
    “No?” He flashed a smile at her. “Not surprised.” But he didn’t say anything more, just launched into another song, this one about a truck driver driving up and down the Colorado River.
    A couple more and Grandma said, “Lunch is ready. West, would you like to eat with us?”
    He thanked her, set aside the guitar, and slid into Kesley’s place at the table. McKenzi was amazed to see him there, a wolf among cats. And yet he wasn’t the only canine. And he fit in so easily.
    The conversation stayed general, and the food, as always, was great. McKenzi divided her attention between West, watching for clues that he was uncomfortable or wary, and Rolf, whose typical fourteen-year-old total lack of subtlety made it really clear that he had something on his mind, and he was only waiting to get his relatives safely shuffled out of the way before he would spill it.
    When lunch was over, sure enough, he followed McKenzi and West back to the cottage. As soon as they reached it, he got it out in a rush. “West, I practiced those basic stances. Will you teach me some stuff? About fighting? Before the Valentine’s Dance?”
    “I can teach you a little about self-defense,” West said. “But you can’t learn much more in two days than maybe getting someone off-balance enough so you can run. If you want to get a fight going, that isn’t going to help you.”
    Rolf flushed. “I don’t want a fight. But Jeff Olsen always does. I know he’s mad that LaShawna asked me to the dance, after she turned him down.”
    West looked outside, then at Rolf, and said, “Is this dance that important? Can’t you skip it and go with your girl to a movie?”
    “ Everybody will be at the Valentine’s Day dance,” Rolf said. “A girl asked me! And if I wimp out, Jeff will think I was too wimpy to show up, and LaShawna said she has a new dress . . .”
    “Got it,” West said. “It’s