Call Of The White Wolf
“Do you think he’ll ever wake up for more than a few minutes, huh?”
Tara Flannigan glanced down into Flora’s small, delicate face. Because Flora was so frail and thin, her eyes looked enormous in contrast to her milky white features. The five-year-old appeared malnourished, though Tara took great pains in preparing meals to put meat on the child’s bones and give her that healthy glow the other children had achieved these past two years.
“Tara?” Flora prompted when Tara lingered too long in thought.
“I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon,” she said as she applied fresh bandages to his mending wounds.
“But it’s been four days,” Flora pointed out.
“I know, sweetheart, but he suffered very serious injuries and it takes time to mend.”
Despite the Good Samaritan tendencies that had compelled her to rescue this man from death’s doorstep, Tara was hounded by mixed feelings. When she searched his pockets, hoping to learn his identity, she’d discovered this man called John Wolfe was a territorial marshal. She’d found several bench warrants stashed in his saddlebag on the piebald stallion that he’d apparently left tethered near the canyon rim before his confrontation with the Apache.
This man was the long arm of the law in Arizona Territory. Although Tara wasn’t sure how long the arm of justice stretched—and she hoped it wasn’t all the way to Texas!—there was a possibility that John Wolfe could make trouble for her and the children when he recovered.
Tara had made too many personal sacrifices, taken several daring risks to reunite the children and to locate this spectacular valley that was as close to paradise as she could get. With a bit of Irish luck and a great deal of willful determination, she had made a home in this secluded canyon. The day she and the children had ridden into the valley to set up housekeeping she swore it would take an act of God to make her move away. For her and the children, this valley was their long-awaited promised land.
Their exodus cross-country hadn’t been an easy one. Tara inwardly winced, remembering the horrifying incident that forced her to hurriedly gather up these children, stow away with them on a westbound train and follow the rails as far as they went. Then, they’d set out on foot to find shelter and food, and avoid notice.
God forgive her for the things she’d been forced to do in order to make a home for the five children in this remote place.
“Tara, the broth is warm. Do you want me to bring in a cup?” Maureen asked.
Tara secured the makeshift bandages on John’s chest, then glanced over her shoulder at Maureen, who waited expectantly at the bedroom door. “Yes, please, dear. It’s time to spoon-feed John Wolfe again.”
The thirteen-year-old turned on her heels, causing her strawberry-blond hair to sway across her shoulder blades. Tara smiled fondly as Maureen disappeared around the corner. These days, the young girl was eager to help, and brimming with vitality. Three square meals a day had improved Maureen’s beanpole figure. Tara dearly wished she could say the same for the fragile-looking five-year-old who was hovering beside her.
Maureen entered the bedroom with an energetic spring in her walk and didn’t spill even a drop of the steaming broth. “The boys said they’re having a devil of a time with that piebald stallion that belongs to John Wolfe,” she reported as she handed the cup to Tara. “The horse didn’t mind being put in a stall beside our two mares, but he wouldn’t let anybody but little Calvin handle him.”
“That piebald is a lot of horse for a seven-year-old to handle,” Tara murmured worriedly. “I don’t want Cal to get hurt.”
Maureen bubbled with quiet laughter. “Hurt? Not likely. It was the funniest thing I ever did see. That stallion was careful where he stepped when Cal took the reins. But when Derek and Samuel tried to brush him down he would have none of it. The boys got into a shouting match, blaming each other for making the stallion difficult to handle.”
Tara rolled her eyes in dismay as she eased the spoonful of broth between John’s unresponsive lips, then massaged his throat to ensure he swallowed the needed nourishment. Both Derek and Samuel undoubtedly had their pride smarting right about now, she mused.
Those two teenage boys were a handful on a good day. They were always squabbling and scuffling and getting defensive when she asked them to assume various chores. Their tempers flared at irregular intervals, and often without provocation. Tara wasn’t sure what had gotten into them lately. They tried her patience more times than she cared to count.
“Oops, Zohn Whoof is dribbling,” Flora said as she leaned forward to blot his bristled chin with a napkin. “He’s pretty, don’t you think, Tara?”
Tara smiled at the frail little elf whose distorted pronunciation of John’s name never failed to amuse her. “Men prefer to be referred to as handsome, not pretty,” she corrected the five-year-old.
“He is terribly handsome, isn’t he?” Maureen observed as she perched lightly on the opposite side of the bed.
“Yes, he is, in a rugged sort of way,” Tara reluctantly admitted.
The man was sinfully handsome, extremely muscular and practically tan all over….She jerked upright when that traitorous thought darted through her head, bringing with it a visual image that heightened the color in her cheeks. In truth, she’d seen more of John Wolfe’s virile, sinewy body while she was preparing him for her primitive brand of surgery than a young woman rightfully ought to see.
Between the anxiety of wondering if she was capable of performing the tasks of a physician, and seeing John in his entire splendor and glory, Tara had been a nervous wreck. Her hands had refused to stop shaking while she stitched his jagged flesh together, and her attention kept drifting to the broad expanse of his chest, washboard belly and horseman’s thighs.
No question about it, John Wolfe was more man than Tara had encountered in her twenty years of existence.
“Be careful, Tara!” Flora yelped. “You’re dribbling hot soup all over Zohn Whoof.”
Tara felt another wave of heat rising in her cheeks and she struggled to regain her composure. Stifling her arousing thoughts, she concentrated on feeding John the last spoonful of chicken broth, then waited for young Flora to dab up the dribbles on his stubbled chin.
“We’ll let John rest while we finish our evening chores,” she announced.
Flora stared unblinkingly at their patient. “Can I wait inside with Zohn Whoof? Just in case he wakes up? I don’t want him to be alone.”
Tara brushed her hand through the child’s shiny dark hair and smiled. She knew Flora had awakened feeling lost and alone, and had become frightened dozens of times before Tara rescued her. But these days, Flora bedded down with Maureen, who made certain she never felt abandoned.
“I don’t think John will wake up for a good while yet. You need your daily dose of exercise and fresh air.” When Flora pulled a face and looked as if she was about to object, Tara held up her hand to forestall the child. “But you can come check on John every half hour, just in case he wakes up.”
Flora hopped off the bed to follow in Maureen’s wake. Tara watched the girls go, wondering if the five-year-old had developed a severe case of hero worship for John. The girl continually reached out to touch his arm, to trace his lips, nose and cheeks while he was unaware. Maureen, too, spent a considerable amount of time staring pensively at John Wolfe. It seemed this man attracted female attention, no matter what the female’s age.
Tara glanced back to monitor the methodic rise and fall of his masculine chest. She supposed she would be every bit as infatuated by John Wolfe, if not for this nagging apprehension that he could cause her and the children serious trouble. If he discovered the whys and wherefores of how they’d come to be reunited…
Tara tamped down the uneasy thoughts. No, if John Wolfe tried to separate her from the children again, it would be over her dead body! Besides, he owed her a huge favor, didn’t he? She had saved his life. Surely that counted for something with this territorial marshal.
It better, she thought determinedly. If not, she would remind this lawman on a daily basis that he was alive because she’d dug lead out of him, stitched him back together and generously taken him into her home so he could recover.
Chapter Two
“Blast it, Tara, you promised two weeks ago that we could ride into Rambler Springs with you this time,” Samuel complained as he watched Tara retrieve her knapsack.
“You did promise,” Derek was quick to add.
“That was before John Wolfe landed on our doorstep,” she reminded the teenage boys, who had been giving her grief since she’d announced her early morning departure. “I’m leaving you two in charge.”
“But who is going to protect you in that rowdy mining town?” Samuel demanded. “You said yourself that you ran into trouble last time you were there. We should be there to protect you.”
“The incident was nothing I couldn’t handle,” she reassured them.
For certain, she’d dealt with much worse back in Texas. Raucous cow towns and mining communities were pretty much the same, in her opinion. Men could be such unpredictable, predatory scoundrels when they had several shots of whiskey under their belts. But Tara had spent enough time in the streets during her childhood, living a hand-to-mouth existence, to learn a few effective counters to amorous assaults. She wasn’t a shrinking violet by any means, and she certainly wasn’t helpless. She could take care of herself, thank you very much.
“You’re treating us like kids,” Derek groused. “We’re almost men.”
Tara slung her knapsack over her shoulder, then adjusted the sleeve of the one and only dress she had to her name. She took a moment to appraise the gangly boys, who seemed to be in some all-fired rush to become men. Tara preferred they remain children, but she vowed Derek and Samuel would become honorable, law-abiding grown-ups who were nothing like the rowdy miners and cowboys that showed little respect for women. Unfortunately, the boys were straining at the bit, demanding to be viewed as adults, and they were giving her fits—daily!
“I realize you are nearly men,” she replied belatedly. “And being the responsible men you are, I’m sure you realize the irrigation channels running through our garden need reinforcement after last week’s rain. The weeds around the vegetables need to be hoed and the livestock must be fed.”
The boys—young men, pardon her mistake—groaned in dismay.
“All we do is work around here,” Samuel grumbled sourly.
Tara was running short on time so she played her trump card, as she was forced to do from time to time. “Would you prefer to be back in Texas? Or back in Boston? Hmm?”
The boys—young men—clamped their mouths shut and shifted uneasily from one oversize foot to the other.
“You know we don’t have the slightest hankering for those hellholes we’ve been in,” Derek muttered.
“Don’t say hell. You aren’t old enough,” she chastised.
“We’re nearly men,” Samuel reminded her—again.
“Right. What could I have been thinking? But please refrain from using obscenities in front of the other children.”
“Anyway,” Derek continued, undaunted, “we need a change of scenery. We want to protect you from those drunken bullies in that mining camp. I could accompany you and Samuel could stay here—”
“Oh no, I won’t!” Samuel objected strenuously. “I’m older and—”
“Both of you are going to stay here and that’s that,” Tara said in no uncertain terms, then surged toward the front door. “And positively, absolutely no fighting while I’m gone. Do you hear me? I don’t have time to tend to another round of black eyes and bloody noses when I return, either.”
Serenaded by adolescent grumbling, Tara hiked off to retrieve the roan mare from the barn. She wished she could take the children into town more often, but she preferred they didn’t know she cleaned house for two older couples, one of whom owned the general store and the other a restaurant. Plus Tara cleaned the church for the parson during her weekly jaunts to Rambler Springs. The extra money provided her with funds to support the five children in her charge.
Although their vegetables, chickens, milk cow and small flock of sheep kept the family fed, she needed money for clothes and provisions. Heaven knew those two boys—young men!—were growing by leaps and bounds. Keeping them in properly fitting boots put a sizable dent in the family budget.
Hurriedly, Tara gathered up fresh eggs from the hen-house to sell in town, then mounted her horse. She’d spend the day there, working fast and furiously to dust and sweep two homes and the church, and would return exhausted, as usual. She needed Derek and Samuel to hold the fort during her absence; hopefully, they’d honor her request not to engage in another fistfight.
What had come over those two young men? Lately, they left her questioning her ability to handle them. And to think they’d been such adorable children when she’d first met them!
John felt as if he’d awakened from the dead. Every body part objected when he shifted sideways on the bed. Groaning, he pried open one eye, to see a small waif hovering over him. He wondered what had become of the flame-haired, green-eyed guardian angel that had been drifting in and out of his fitful dreams. Although angel face was nowhere to be seen, several vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.
“You’re awake at last!” the dark-eyed child exclaimed happily. “Hallo, Zohn Whoof. My name is Flora.”
“Hallo to you, miss” he wheezed, amused by her mispronunciation of his name.
The waif giggled and her enormous brown eyes sparkled with pleasure. She edged closer to the bed to pat his uninjured shoulder. “Feeling better?” she asked.
He nodded slightly. “Where am I?”
“In Paradise Valley. I’m Maureen. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John Wolfe,” the older girl said very politely.
John surveyed the adolescent girl standing to his left. With her sky-blue eyes, wavy strawberry-blond hair and sunny smile, she was destined to knock a passel of men off their feet in years to come, John decided.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Maureen,” he greeted her cordially.
The girl beamed in delight, opened her rosebud mouth to reply, then got nudged out of the way by a small boy with coal black hair, a gap-toothed smile and a scar on his chin. “I’m Calvin and I’m seven years old,” he introduced himself.
“A pleasure to meet you, Calvin,” John replied.
From the shadows, a tall, gangly adolescent boy with dark brown hair and gray eyes emerged. The boy drew himself up proudly, and John expected the kid to beat his chest like a warrior exploding into a war whoop. “I’m Samuel. I’m fifteen and I am in charge here—”
“No, you aren’t. We’re both in charge. Tara said so.”
John glanced toward the foot of the bed to appraise the offended boy, whose sandy-blond hair hung over one blue eye.
“I’m Derek. I’m fourteen and I’m half in charge.” He glared at Samuel, then returned his attention to John. “If you need anything, I’m the man you want to see.”
John swallowed a smile. He supposed at one time in his life he had struggled from adolescence to adulthood, but it had been so long ago he didn’t recall it. He felt a century old in the presence of these children. The nagging pain in his ribs and thigh drove home the point that the hellish experiences of his profession weren’t making him any younger. In fact, he’d come perilously close to dying in his thirtieth year, thanks to the desperation and treachery of his brother, Raven.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Derek,” John said. “I do need something, as a matter of fact, but I prefer not to have these pretty young ladies in attendance.”
The boys realized his discomfort immediately and shooed the girls from the room. Moaning in misery, John levered onto one wobbly elbow—and received one helluva head rush. The brightly decorated room, which boasted mason jars filled with wildflower bouquets, and curtains made of feed sacks and ribbons, spun furiously, making him nauseous.
“Here, we’ll help you,” Samuel offered, grabbing John’s good arm.
“I’ll get the chamber pot,” Derek volunteered.
“Uh, you can take it from here, can’t you?” Samuel asked, his face coloring with embarrassment, as Derek placed the pot near the side of the bed. “Me and Derek and Calvin will be right outside the door if you need us.”
Five minutes later, the boys returned to ease John back into bed. Sitting up for only a few minutes had been exhausting. John was anxious to settle in for another much-needed nap, but Maureen and Flora arrived with a loaf of bread and some broth.
“Tara said you should eat if you woke up,” Flora informed him.
By the process of elimination, John figured Tara had to be the absentee angel of mercy. “Where is Tara?” he asked.
“She rode into Rambler Springs to fetch supplies and sell the extra eggs,” Samuel reported, then scowled. “She wouldn’t let us go along to protect her from those rascally miners, though. Made us stay here to take care of y—”
John smiled when Samuel’s cheeks turned the color of the sandstone spires in Paradise Valley. “I’m most grateful you stayed behind. Does Tara usually have a problem with the miners?” John wouldn’t be surprised to hear it, considering her bewitching face and that cap of curly, reddish blond hair. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the rest of her, but from the neck up, his angel of mercy was the stuff masculine dreams were made of. He should know, since he’d had his fair share of them during his recuperation.
“Sometimes Tara has trouble with the miners,” Derek reported. “But she won’t let me and Samuel be her bodyguards. She says she can take care of herself.”
“Tara can take care of herself,” Maureen interjected. “I saw her do it a couple of times back in—”
When Maureen shut her mouth so quickly that she nearly clipped off her tongue, John noticed the other children were staring at her in horror. Instinct and training told him that they had been instructed not to spill their life stories. He couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Is Tara your mother? Or…older sister?” John asked.
“No, she’s—ouch!” Little Flora yelped when Samuel trounced on her foot.
Yep, something was definitely going on here that angel face didn’t want John to know about. Which brought him around to posing the question he had intended to ask earlier. “How did you know my name?”
“That’s easy,” Flora gushed. “Tara found your horse and searched through your saddlebags. She said you were a marshal and that we should watch what we said around you.”
The other children groaned in dismay. There was definitely something going on here that a territorial marshal wasn’t supposed to find out about. But how bad could their secret be, considering that they were amusing, well-behaved children? John couldn’t imagine.
When he opened his mouth to fire another question about Tara, Maureen crammed a slice of bread in his mouth. Flora handed him a spoon so he could chase the bread with broth. John’s taste buds started to riot. Damn, he couldn’t remember eating such tasty food. By the time he slurped the last drop of the delicious broth and ate half a loaf of bread he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes from slamming shut.
“Tara said you needed plenty of rest,” Samuel said, hustling the children from the room. “Just give a holler if you need anything else.”
When the children filed out, John settled himself carefully in bed, then noticed the pallet near the south wall. He suspected his angel of mercy had camped out on the floor while he lounged in her bed. Well, enough of that. He wasn’t going to inconvenience angel face more than he already had. Hell, he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground—had done it for years.
Clutching the side of the bed, John dragged himself sideways until his feet were planted on the floor. He bit back a yelp when he eased down on his tender leg and strained the wound on his ribs. Huffing and puffing for breath, he dragged himself toward the pallet.
If he hadn’t felt so damn guilty about betraying Raven he’d curse that bitter Apache for shooting him to pieces. But Raven had been cornered and threatened with hated captivity. It was understandable that he’d react violently. John wondered if he would’ve reacted the same way, had he been in his adopted brother’s moccasins.
But damn it to hell, Raven would make things a hundred times worse for himself if he continued to scout for those cutthroats who were plundering the territory. However, John refused to believe Raven had stooped to killing the settlers and miners left in the outlaws’ wake of destruction.
Raven had only been desperate for a taste of freedom, John assured himself. He himself knew the feeling well. He remembered the sense of relief he’d experienced five years ago when Gray Eagle insisted that he cut his long hair, disguise himself in white man’s clothes and sneak away from the reservation. But John’s freedom had come at a steep price and carried a wagonload of tormenting guilt, awkward adjustments and excessive frustration.
He decided not to rehash his recent past. He was in serious pain and thoroughly exhausted. He definitely needed another nap. Everything else would have to wait until he felt better—if that day ever came.
Tara brought the roan mare to a halt beside the barn, then dismounted. She tugged at the torn waistband of her gown to conceal the damage. She refused to let Samuel and Derek know she’d encountered two drunken miners who tried to drag her into an alley.
Men! Honestly, there were times when Tara wondered why God had populated the planet with those heathens. No way was she going to allow Samuel, Derek and Calvin to grow up to behave so disrespectfully. Today’s incident stirred horrifying memories of that awful night in Texas when—
Tara refused to think about that again—ever. No one would find out what had happened, she reassured herself. She was safe with her secret—unless Marshal Wolfe started digging into her past. But he wouldn’t dare hold that incident against her, because she’d explain her situation with the children. Somehow she’d make him understand and forgive her for what she’d done.
Before Tara could fully regain her composure and stash away her unsettling thoughts, Samuel and Derek bounded off the front porch and dashed toward her.
“I’ll tend your horse,” Samuel volunteered.
“I’ll carry your knapsack,” Derek insisted.
Tara shook her head, helpless to understand why the boys—young men—were falling all over themselves to assist her. When Derek snatched up her knapsack, she settled her left elbow over the rip in her gown. “Thank you, boys…er, gentlemen.”
“You’re welcome,” they said in unison.
“John Wolfe finally woke up this afternoon,” Derek reported.
“Did he?” That was encouraging. Tara made a mental note to carefully inspect and cauterize his wounds if they hadn’t healed properly by now. She didn’t want to risk gangrene setting in. Her injured patient didn’t need any setbacks, especially one as dangerous as gangrene.
When she surged through the door, Maureen was at the stove stirring the stew Tara had prepared at dawn. The aroma tantalized her taste buds, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch and was ravenous. Nodding a greeting, she headed for the bedroom to change clothes.
Quietly, she inched open the door, then did a double take when she noticed the empty bed. To her shock and dismay, John was sprawled half on, half off her pallet in the corner. What in heaven’s name did he think he was doing? He was seriously injured and he needed the comfort of her bed.
Muttering silently at the sleeping invalid, Tara tiptoed across the room to shed her torn gown and don her usual attire of men’s breeches and shirt. She turned her back on John to pull on her shirt, then nearly came out of her skin—and there was a lot of it showing, blast it!—when his husky voice rumbled behind her.