A Christmas Cowboy. Suzannah Davis

      One

      Could a mother be charged with kidnapping her own son?

      With a cry of frustration and fear, Marisa Rourke gave up her futile attempts to start a fire in the rustic hunting lodge’s massive stone fireplace. A kerosene lantern illuminated the small figure asleep in a pile of blankets on the old leather sofa. Bending over him, Marisa stroked her five-year-old son’s straight sandy hair. The golden tint was identical to her own, a happy coincidence of Nicky’s adoption.

      To her relief, his cheeks were warm and his breathing deep and easy. Love flooded Marisa, a feeling so powerful she had to close her eyes. It was followed immediately by a surge of fierce protectiveness. Nicky was hers. Hers. And no one was going to take him away from her!

      But how long before hypothermia became a threat to a small child? Outside, the December blizzard of the century had blown down all the power lines crossing the California High Sierras, and now the emergency generator refused to crank, giving the spacious, two-story log dwelling with its wide banks of wraparound porches all the characteristics of an icebox. Since cowboys were Nicky’s latest obsession, bedding down in front of the fireplace like ranch hands sleeping around a campfire had suited him just fine. In fact, so far, Nicky Latimore had found everything about this unexpected adventure with his mother perfectly charming.

      Marisa wished her own feelings were as uncomplicated. A week ago, her life had been...well, if not exactly perfect, at least contented. Despite her industrialist husband’s death in a car accident three years ago, she was managing, juggling her booming acting career as Dinah Dillman on “Time Won’t Tell,” TV’s most popular daytime drama, and her duties as spokesperson for the Adopt-a-Child Foundation with the demands and joys of single parenthood. Until reporter Marcus Craig “Mac” Mahoney had bulled his way back into her life.

      Even after ten years, she hadn’t been ready. Tall, sable-haired, everything about the tough investigative journalist from his changeable hazel green eyes to his ex-boxer’s physique had been so familiar Marisa could have wept. Instead, Mac’s scandalous accusations during the “Jackie Horton Live” television talk show regarding the illegal adoption racket of Dr. Franco Morris had turned her into a desperate runaway.

      Again.

      Shaking off a chill that bit deeper than the outside temperature, Marisa tucked Nicky’s blankets closer, reliving her panic upon learning that Elsie Powers, a Louisiana native now living in nearby Riverside, was claiming the good doctor had stolen her infant son—stolen Nicky!—under false pretenses and emotional duress. And Elsie wanted him back.

      That’s why Marisa had run, escaping from Los Angeles with her child in her housekeeper’s anonymous sedan, leaving behind the paparazzi, her agent, her lawyers and the police. Like a wounded animal, she’d come to ground in the same secluded mountain hideaway that had been her sanctuary the last time Mac Mahoney had shattered her world. Only this time, there was even more at stake.

      With a shudder of apprehension, Marisa swung a quilt around her shoulders and went back to work on the obstinate fire. Outside, the wind howled.

      It was the wind, wasn’t it? Straightening, Marisa listened hard. Something was different, she realized. Had the tenor of that inhuman wailing changed somehow? She thought uneasily about wolves, then wrenched her galloping imagination back under control. She and Nicky were safe inside the lodge—except perhaps from frostbite if she didn’t get the fire going! There was no reason to fear—

      A thump sounded on the porch, and Marisa surged to her feet. A three-sided balcony opening onto the second-floor bedrooms overlooked the large den, the base of its staircase spilling into the foyer at the front of the lodge. From her vantage in front of the fireplace, Marisa could see directly into the shadowy hall. Something struck the front door, making it vibrate on its hinges. Her heart leapt to her throat. With a quick glance at Nicky’s sleeping form, she gathered her courage, picked up the heavy cast-iron poker from the hearth and went to investigate.

      The moment she reached the door, it rattled violently again, and she jumped back in alarm. What kind of animal would attack a human stronghold? And then she heard it: faint, wind-whipped echoes above the banshee scream of air. No wolf ever sounded like that—except the two-legged kind!

      Warily, Marisa peeked through the heavy curtain covering the window beside the front door. The movement drew the attention of the snow-covered figure on the porch. A ferocious face glazed with ice and snow glared at her from the depths of a parka’s fur-lined hood. “Dammit, Marisa, open up!” he roared. “I’m freezing!”

      The blood drained from her face.

       Mac.

      * * *

      He was mad as hell and getting angrier by the minute.

      Raising his gloved fist, Mac Mahoney pounded on the lodge door again. Half-blinded by driving sleet, lungs seared by the frigid wind, feet numb inside his boots after a mile-long trek from where his Jeep sat bogged in a snowbank, he was in no mood for any of Marisa Rourke’s foolishness. By God, the woman had already caused him enough trouble to last a lifetime!

      The door creaked open a bare two inches. “Go away!”

      He caught it just before it clicked shut in his face. Now he was furious. Shoving his shoulder against the door like a linebacker, he felt the momentary resistance of her weight on the

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