REST AREA 1 MILE

Bran Cornick glanced down, saw the tank was still three quarters full. Since he wouldn't need to top off for a few more hours he decided to take a short rest now instead of driving another thirty miles to Billings on his way home. He put his turn signal on, crossed two lanes of traffic and took the exit. Slowing the SUV, he followed the twisting road past the empty lot for semis and pulled into an open parking spot. The concrete building in front of him was just like thousands of others across the country with a men's and women's restroom, a vending machine, a couple of water fountains and a phone that may or may not work.

He needed to stretch his legs and shake off the driving induced drowsiness that always hit him after a couple of hours at the wheel. He switched off the ignition and let his head fall back against the soft leather head rest. He still had at least eight hours of driving ahead of him before he reached his home in Aspen Creek and had already been on the road since dawn.

After two weeks in Denver getting home was imperative. He'd been off balance for months now, experiencing a strange, disquieting feeling of disconnect from -- what? reality? life? himself? He didn't know what it was but it was messing with head. Screwing up his concentration more and more. Not something he'd ever thought would happen to him. The ultimate control freak.

As the Marrok he was mentally linked to every Alpha in North America and through them to each member of their pack. Could tap into their powers individually and as a whole. All of that combined with his own formidable and so far, unmatched power made him a fearsome creature. Unfortunately, he was the one afraid. If his connection to himself was screwed up then it had to be affecting his pack bonds. Oh, he still knew them, could reach out and touch or control them if he needed to, but it was different. He was different.

Last year he'd tangled with a witch. A narcissistic, amoral little bitch. As evil as she was, though, she'd had no idea what she had unwittingly released in him with her magic-enhanced mind games. And as a result he had to relearn how to maintain control over his werewolves. To keep them-- and all of humanity--safe, he'd had to find and contain the Beast inside him. And he had. With the help of his son's mate he'd become better, freer, than ever before. And just when he was pulling out of it, leaving the Beast safely buried, his mate, Leah, had died in a car crash. Leah had been strong but even a werewolf isn't immune to physics and no one would have walked away from that hunk of twisted metal.

He was genuinely sorry she died, but he didn't miss her and didn't want her back. He hadn't loved her. Not at all. That was why he'd chosen her. And his status and wealth was why she had chosen him. He'd needed a mate, with all his baggage it had been the only way to spread out what it cost him to control the Beast he could become.

The woman had been selfish and stupid and he knew she'd thought him cold and uncaring but they'd shared enough trust and the small amount of respect necessary to make their mutually unsatisfying union work. Each of them taking from other without either one giving anything of themselves.

But now without her and oddly, without his constant struggle with the berserker rage that he finally achieved, he felt . . . adrift.

I'll be fine when I get back to the pack.

He opened the car door, the predator in him automatically scanning the area. He matched the few people standing nearby to their cars. Some of them searched for lost items in trunks or backseats, others stood talking while they waited for friends or family to finish using the restrooms. He was surrounded by Americana at its best. Two older couples traveling together and obviously dressed for an "occasion", a family with five children from early teens to infant making a happy noise made up of everything from quarrelling to giggling to softly hissed admonishments to behave, and three men who looked to be the same age he appeared, standing by their motorcycles drinking bottled water and debating their next destination. The only people he couldn't account for yet were the ones who belonged to the empty older model, mini-van he'd parked next to.

He was part of this moment but felt more like an invisible observer. He wished the feeling of alienation made him sad, or even angry. Instead he had the impression of being more like a balloon that was caught in a light breeze; tossed here and there touching down for just a moment before floating away again. Directionless and unconcerned.

How poetic, Bran. But instead of a pretty red balloon all you are is lonely and feeling sorry for yourself. Charles has Anna and will never be part of your life the way he was. Samuel is suffering but is finding his way without you. The truth is the pack needs their Alpha, the Alphas need the Marrok, but nobody needs Bran. Suck it up, man, you had your time with Blue Jay Woman, most never even have that no matter how long they live.

He could have argued with himself that that had been almost two hundred years ago and it hadn't lasted nearly long enough. That the healthier he got the more lonely he was. Instead he conceded victory to his inner voice. "True enough," he said, and stepped out of the car.

"Who loves Bran?" the musical, feminine voice came to him from the picnic area to his right.

He took off his sunglasses and turned to face the woman. His movements, if watched in slow motion would have looked elegant and unhurried, were a blur of motion. I know you. His heart spoke clear and unmistakable almost before his eyes focused on her. But his mind was slower, muddled by the question she'd asked. His senses all sending impossible, contradictory messages.

"You do!" the answer was chirped by a little boy who couldn't be more than four years old.

"How much do I love Bran?" the young woman, her knees slightly bent and arms reaching for the boy, was playfully stalking him as he slowly backed away his hands over his belly. Her long blue-black hair was pulled back into an unsuccessful ponytail, tendrils of her hair falling to the side making it impossible for him to see her face.

Bran moved to the front of his Escalade and leaned against the hood scrutinizing the woman--lured by her voice, her words, her looks. This cheerful tableau was more real to him than anything else had been for months. He was staring, he knew it but didn't care. He had to see her face and he really wanted to know how much she loved Bran.

The boy threw open his arms, happy excitement warbling in his voice, "This much," he yelled, and turned from her and ran.

She came up behind the child who shared his name, her body movements a study in grace, betraying a definite wolf-life agility. She picked him up with one arm, tickling his belly with the other. "And how long will I love Bran?" she asked with mock sternness.

Bran found he was holding his breath. Waiting. Knowing, without knowing why, what he wanted to hear.

"Forever and ever and ever," the boy was breathless with laughter.

"That's right, and don't you forget it, little man."

***

She'd felt the presence of another werewolf when Bran and she were washing their hands. Had snuck her young charge out back preferring to avoid any contact with him. Odds were it would be a male as there weren't nearly as many female as male werewolves and he would be curious about her. His biology would demand he know her pack rank but she was a bit of an anomaly. An unmated female lone wolf, there could be others but she had never run across any. And she knew what his reaction would be and didn't want to deal with it.

Deliberately, easily for one as depressingly . . . awesomely, she corrected herself . . . old as herself, she and her wolf hid their scent completely. Leaving nothing but the image of a young girl, barely in her twenties for the werewolf out front to sense.

She planned for the two of them to play "hunter" behind the building until he left. But Bran, with the utter lack of cooperation three year olds could be depended on for had run to the picnic area, the greener, lusher grass there attracting him.

With a sigh, but no real worry she could brazen it out, she followed him. Her plan was simple. Scoop up Bran, buckle him in his car seat and leave. Fast. No conversation and definitely no eye contact.

Calling out to the boy, saying the words to their game just the way he expected she came out into the open subconsciously planning the altering their route for the best way to avoid the wolf. She almost stumbled when she felt his eyes on her. Oh, he had presence. He was the embodiment of presence.

I know you.

The thought was lost in the realization that in over 1,300 years she'd never felt anything like it.

She picked up Bran and sliced a quick look at the still figure of the lithe, powerful male who, though he made no move at all, felt closer. Through the tangles of her hair she knew he wanted her to feel his closeness, his power. He wanted her to feel him.

Okay, he definitely suspected. But this wasn't about pack ranking or dominating an unmated female. This felt much more personal. And it wasn't coming just from him. Something was radiating between them. She felt it too strongly to deny. And whatever it was, it had nothing to do with her wolf. Her wolf was quiet, sensing no danger to her or her charge. Eanid trusted her wolf's instincts implicitly but just because he wasn't planning anything harmful didn't mean he wouldn't interfere. As interesting as this all was she had a schedule to keep, people she cared about depending on her.

He made the beginnings of a move to stop her from reaching the mini-van. She twirled with the boy in her arms, drawing another round of laughter from the warm bundle she held and avoided the body angling to intercept her.

She slid open the van door, planning on just buckling him up and climbing to driver's seat from inside to avoid having to walk past him on the sidewalk. She'd just set Bran on his feet inside the van when the boy spoke. Stridently, urgently, "I gotta' pee!"

Knowing it was futile but unable to stop herself, she tried to talk him out of it, "But you just went."

He was hopping from foot to foot, his eyes quickly becoming desperate. She knew how fiercely he wanted to be seen as a big boy and how upsetting an "accident" would be to him.

"Okay," she picked him up again, so rattled by her unsuccessful escape her wolf woke, stretched and demanded a say in what was happening. Eanid could sense her looking out through her own eyes and knew they had to be a glowing amber. With her wolf in ascendance there was no doubt he could sense what she was now.

She didn't look at him. She wouldn't. Her focus remained on the child. He was her priority and right now a great excuse to avoid a confrontation. Besides, there'd be time soon enough to deal with the stranger.

She couldn't help herself, she looked.

He was closer now, less than an arm's length away. More predatory than before. His sunglasses gone, his eyes glowed as intensely as hers.

I know you. It wasn't her wolf; it was her mind or maybe her heart.

Bran struggled in her arms, "I can do it myself."

"I know, sweetie," she said, setting him down, taking both his hand and a deep breath, forcing calm on herself. "Let's go."

He stalked behind them, his entire aura so completely lupine she wondered he didn't change. And she knew if she made a single movement no matter how small to avoid him, he very probably would. She wondered if it was her imagination of if she really could feel his breath warm on her neck.

Eanid shivered as she pushed open the door to the ladies room waiting for the little boy to precede her. But he ran under her arm to the door across the hall. The white stick figure of a man on a blue plaque proclaimed it off limits to her and he knew it. "Here, I can do it myself," he said defiantly, knowing she would argue with him.

"I know you can, but I have to go with you and I can't go in there," her voice was strained with the bizarreness of the situation. She looked from one stubborn face to the other. Neither one of these males was going to cut her any slack. Bran would have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the ladies room now. And the werewolf, she was sure he was an Alpha, wasn't going to let her go anywhere until he got the answers to whatever questions he had.

"I gotta' go!"

Eanid and the stranger, the adult stranger -- and therefore for this one moment, her comrade -- looked at one another.

He pushed away from wall he was leaning on. "How about I check inside and make sure there's no one in there?" he asked, even though both of them knew they were the only people inside, but human limitations were always catered to when possible. And without waiting for an answer he confirmed the room was indeed empty, made sure the boy could handle all the particulars of the operation himself and told him to call out when it was time to wash his hands.

The door closed behind him and he stayed there, facing her. Crossing his arms in front of him, his posture relaxed he said, "You're unmated." It was a bald statement of fact.

"True," she replied, he hadn't asked it because he already knew the answer. Just as she knew he was unmated, it was yet another of the many very personal things werewolves could sense about one another.

"No pack bonds?"

Ah, a question this time. Not because he didn't know but because he couldn't believe it. "True, again," she answered.

"Interesting."

She didn't have to say anything to that. It was his prerogative to take the questioning where he would but she knew her own worth and it was up to her to let him know what it was.

"I've always thought so," she said calmly.

"How have you managed it?" he asked, and she could sense nothing but curiosity coming from him. "You've lived here long enough to have an American accent, although it's not your first language. Does the Alpha in your area know he has a lone female wolf in his territory?"

Oh, he didn't like that idea at all. Maybe he thought she was living in his territory without the permission all lone wolves have to get from their local Alpha.

"Actually, I move around quite a bit and I can hide my wolf," she paused and looked at his raised eyebrow, "usually," she conceded. "And since I don't cause any trouble for the werewolf community I've pretty much slid under the radar since I've been here."

"You're not under the radar now. I know you're here and I can't say that I agree that your being without pack bonds is acceptable."

"But you wouldn't have to tell your Alpha about me unless he asked. I don't think the question of lone female wolves comes up too often. And since you don't know my name or where I'm going after I leave here you don't have that much to tell anyway."

"What to tell my Alpha, yes, that is a problem," he said, but he didn't sound like it was any kind of a problem at all. He sounded like he was toying with her, and she had a very good ear.

"I am leaving."

"What if I don't want you to go?" he asked, and her ability to hear truth, truths the speaker didn't even know he was revealing, told her he wanted to stay for reasons that had nothing to do with pack accountability.

"I have to."

"But you don't want to," he stated, his ear just as good as hers. He stepped away from the door and came closer, and as he did he smiled at her. No, not at her. For her. And it was so stunning and so personal and she knew, a gift. One he didn't share with many others. She returned it; a feeling of homecoming sweeping through her.

"Mirain," he almost growled, "so very beautiful." His calloused fingers reached out and lightly touched her cheek, her jaw and his thumb traced her lower lip.

"Pyrdferth," she whispered, in awe of the handsomeness that was so suddenly revealed to her; that moved her so deeply. Her hand mimicked the motions of his. His full lower lip soft to her touch.

And then she knew. Of course, she knew him. Would know him anywhere. Know him forever. And she saw in his eyes that he knew her, too.

This is Bran. My Bran. My bard. Oh my God, my Bran is the Marrok.

How absolutely unexpected.

"Eanid," he said, and even though there was shock in his tone, she knew he wouldn't believe her if she denied it. And really, she couldn't think of a reason not to acknowledge the truth.

"Bran," she started to reply but was interrupted.

"I'm done," the boy called out from behind the closed door. And from the pride in his voice she knew all had gone well.

"I'll get him," Bran muttered, obviously reluctant to move away. But still he went to the child and she could hear them talking. The high pitched ramblings of the child going on about his upcoming vacation to Yellowstone Park with his mom and dad. How he and Eanid had left his gramma's while it was still dark and they had breakfast in North Dakota, lunch in Montana and were going to eat dinner in Wyoming. She heard the deeper, soothing rumbles Bran made in reply while he washed the boy's hands, made sure they were completely dry and his shirt was tucked in just so.

She listened intently to their interaction and was reminded of how he had been when he traveled with her family. That part of him was still there, the part that made it impossible for him to rest until all the needs of everyone in his camp had been met.

I guess that would be his pack now.

She'd had no idea that her Bran, the Bran she knew so long ago, the sensitive young man who sang so beautifully and played -- what had been so foreign and exotic to her family -- a lyre; had been changed into a werewolf.

He'd only stayed with them for that spring and summer. He'd left just as autumn was setting in saying that he would meet up with them again in a few weeks. But he never returned and she had been changed by a rogue werewolf about a year later. She was the only one of the five of them to survive the attack. And she wouldn't have survived if the wolf hunting the rogue hadn't shown up and helped her through the transition. Eventually, she'd mated with him and they had returned to his pack in France.

"I'm ready," the little boy said to her from his perch on Bran's shoulders. "And guess what! Bran is going to Jackson 'ole, Wyoming to meet somebody, just like we're going to meet mom and dad. And do you know what he told me? His name is Bran, like me."

"Is he?" Eanid asked as they turned and walked toward the parking lot. She had the odd feeling that they looked like a family to the neatly dressed, older couple who nodded in their direction as they walked by. Father, mother, son. She wondered how she felt about that.

As she made sure little Bran -- When had they become big Bran and little Bran? -- was secured in his car seat she asked over her shoulder, "So who are you meeting in Jackson 'ole, Wyoming, big Bran?" She exaggerated the boy's mispronunciation.

She felt his start of surprise at the name and turned around to face him while he answered her.

"A friend," he said. The moment of almost-passion between them was gone now, but the intensity was still there. "A very, very old friend I thought I lost years ago."

She couldn't help it, she was a woman and a wolf, and his scent was calling to her wolf incessantly. With every breath she took she felt like she was taking him into her. He was so powerful her skin tingled with awareness and she didn't know if she was attracted to or afraid of him.

"A very, very old friend?" she practically snapped, surprised herself at her reaction, "What a lovely way to put it."

When she reached to close the van door she deliberately shoved her back into him, making him stumble a step to the side.

Her wolf was stunned. She had recognized and accepted Bran as the Marrok and what Eanid had done was unacceptable. If the wolf had been able to separate herself from her she would have bit her. That was stupid, Eanid. Very stupid and just maybe dangerous.

She immediately cast her eyes to the ground in front of Bran, her shoulders hunched, her hands loose at her sides. "I apologize," she said quietly but very sincerely, hoping that the truth of her words along with the presence of humans and the long ago affection they shared would let him accept the apology.

He didn't say anything and she realized after a moment that she didn't smell any aggression coming from him. She started to relax a little but still didn't change her posture.

"How about a very, very, special friend?" Bran asked, as he lifted her chin, his thumb again finding her lower lip. "Is that better?"

She didn't think about it, the craving for just a taste was abrupt and undeniable. Her tongue peeked out and barely touched his thumb before it immediately retreated. "Yes, I like that much better. Thank you," she said, but she hardly recognized her voice.

"Well, I have get going now," Eanid said, as she sidled past him and hurried to open the driver's door and situated herself inside. "We still have about six or seven hours until we get there," she smiled a little lamely through the open window, starting the van and putting it in reverse. He's going to follow me all the way there, isn't he? Is this a date? Bran is alive. He's the freaking Marrok! Oh my God, I can't believe I pushed and then licked the Marrok!

***

Bran could smell her fear and agitation, it was something he often inspired in the wolves around him. But right now though Eanid's fear was real enough, it wasn't because of his strength or his position. She was too old and had too much power herself to be flustered by a mere meeting with higher ranking werewolf.

Bran watched her slowly back up, stop and put the van in drive. Never taking his eyes off her, he willed her to look at him again. As soon as she did he lifted his thumb to his mouth and blew her a kiss good-bye. A blush suffused her cheeks, intensifying her scent even as she drove away.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Charles to let him know he wasn't keeping to his original schedule and didn't know when he'd be home.

****

Thanks for reading! Please review.

btw, I used two Welsh words in this story, they are supposed to mean 'beautiful' and 'handsome'. If they don't or I used them incorrectly please let me know.