Call Of The White Wolf
“So you must be Tara.”
Tara clutched the shirt to her bare breasts and struggled to pull her sagging breeches over her hips. Her face flushed a dozen shades of red as she shoved one arm, then the other, into her shirtsleeves. “I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said self-consciously.
“You were halfway undressed before I could tell you.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder to see his lips quirk in an amused smile. Those captivating silver-blue eyes drifted from the top of her head to her feet, missing nothing in between. He deserved a good slapping for waiting until she was undressed to inform her that he was awake. But Tara figured he’d suffered enough pain for one week. She’d overlook the incident—this time.
“You must be feeling better if you managed to crawl onto the pallet. But I warn you, if you split a stitch I’ll be none too happy about it.”
“You’re Irish. The accent is unmistakable.”
She spun around as she fastened the bottom button on her shirt. “And you’re injured. You shouldn’t have crawled off the bed,” she chided as she marched over to inspect his wounds.
The moment Tara laid her hands on him she could feel her cheeks flood with color. Touching this muscular hulk of a man while he was unconscious was one thing. Tending him when he was staring up at her with those incredible silver-blue eyes was something else again.
“I noticed your dress was torn at the waist,” he murmured. “Trouble in Rambler Springs?”
Tara glanced away quickly. “Yes, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to the children.”
He cocked his head sideways and regarded her for a long moment. “About the children.”
Tara tensed immediately, ordered herself to relax, and then graced him with a cheery smile. “Yes, what about them? I hope they didn’t disturb your sleep. They’ve been anxious for you to wake up.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on around here?”
No, she most certainly did not! Tara flashed him another bright smile. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Marshal. Now brace yourself, because I need to cleanse these wounds.”
John recognized a diversion tactic when he heard one, but he let it slide because he swore Tara had peeled off his jagged flesh when she exposed his tender wound. It was all he could do to prevent himself from howling in pain.
“Your face has gone white,” Tara observed. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” A frown beetled her brow while she inspected his ribs. “I’m going to have to cauterize this wound. The other one, too, I suspect. I bought some whiskey in town to numb your pain.”
“Is that why you ran into trouble?” he guessed correctly.
Tara nodded. Her glorious hair shimmered in the light. John had to make a conscious effort not to reach up and run his fingers through that silky mass that constantly captured his fascinated attention.
Tara rose gracefully to her feet. “I’ll fetch the whiskey from my knapsack.”
“I’d rather have a leather strap to bite down on,” he told her.
Her brows jackknifed. “Do you realize how much this is going to hurt?”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve had a wound seared. Probably won’t be the last.”
“No, I imagine not, considering your dangerous line of work. I noticed a scar on your right leg that looks like a healed knife wound. There’s a bullet hole in your shoulder, too. You’re definitely no stranger to pain and discomfort,” she murmured as she pivoted on her heels and headed for the kitchen.
When Tara walked out, John smothered a groan and felt his gaze helplessly drawn to the hypnotic sway of feminine hips. Hell! Wasn’t it enough that he’d accidentally seen his angel of mercy stripping down to her threadbare pantaloons, and found himself staring at her bare back, wishing she’d turn toward him? Damn, she was a vision—with all that creamy skin arranged more perfectly on her feminine body than any he’d ever beheld! And in his condition, he didn’t need to become aroused—but he was, damn it. He’d never be able to think of his angel of mercy without remembering the accidental unveiling of her shapely body.
John muttered an obscenity when his own unruly body stirred restlessly. This situation was entirely new to him. He’d never seen a woman naked without having her in his bed. But Tara, this beguiling angel with secrets in her eyes, was off-limits. She wasn’t going to join the ranks of the women who entered and exited his life without him giving them a second thought.
First off, he owed Tara his life. In the Apache culture, that signified that his spirit became hers. Therefore, he wasn’t in a position to follow up on the arousing sensations Tara ignited in him. He’d do what he could to help her with this brood of children, as soon as he was back on his feet, but he was going to keep his hands off her.
Besides, he wasn’t going to be here very long, John reminded himself. A flaming affair with Tara was out of the question. He couldn’t stay any longer than necessary because he had to track down that ruthless gang that was wreaking havoc in the territory. He’d also promised Chief Gray Eagle that he’d do all within his power to ease the Apache’s plight and ensure the tribe was treated humanely.
John gnashed his teeth, wondering if it was possible for one man to change the collective attitude of a white population that didn’t understand the Apache’s way of life or spiritual beliefs. Hell, for white society it was like trying to measure the familiar with a foreign yardstick. Furthermore, too many soldiers, settlers and miners adhered to the appalling philosophy that the only good Indian was a dead one.
No, John had entirely too many irons in the fire to become sidetracked by a beautiful woman who would, without question, be heaven to touch, to possess.
Although he had never known a woman he called only a friend, Tara could be no more than that. He couldn’t allow male desire to dominate his thoughts and actions. He’d be gone from Paradise Valley as soon as he was able, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, look back.
When he’d turned white again, his purpose had been twofold—to return Raven to the reservation and to use his legal authority to deal with whites that preyed viciously on each other and on the captive Apache. It didn’t matter what John wanted, desired or needed personally. He was here to serve a higher purpose. These tantalizing fantasies about Tara that chased around in his mind were nothing but a futile distraction.
At that sensible thought, John slumped on the pallet. Next time Tara touched him he wouldn’t allow himself to react as a man responded to a beautiful woman. That feat shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish, he mused grimly. After all, she would come at him bearing a heated blade to sear his jagged flesh. That should be enough to discourage improper thoughts.
The creak of the door prompted him to glance up. Sure enough, the bewitching angel carried a knife that glowed red-hot. She held a lantern in her left hand, and the expression on her face testified to her apprehension and her compassion. John tried to assure himself that cauterizing a wound wasn’t as painful as the initial gunshot, but he knew better.
This was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.
“I’m sorry,” Tara said, apologizing in advance.
John reached out with his good arm to retrieve the leather strap draped over her arm. “Just do it, angel face,” he ordered.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, especially since we both know this is going to hurt like the very devil.”
“Okay, Irish. Just do your worst.” John stared straight into her thick-lashed cedar-green eyes. “If I curse you, don’t take it personally, since you’ll be burning the living hell out of me. Deal?”
“Deal.” Tara nodded bleakly, and then braced herself on her knees while John bit down on the leather strap.
“Do the leg first,” he said around the strap. “With any luck, I’ll pass out before you sear my ribs. I hope you sent the children outside so they won’t have to hear a grown man scream bloody murder.”
“I sent them to one of the springs to pick wild grapes,” she said, her attention focused intently on the angry flesh on his leg. “Ready? On three—”
Tara didn’t wait until the count of three. She wanted to get this grisly task completed before John tensed up. Even then, he nearly came off the pallet when she touched the heated blade to his thigh. All the while she told herself that if she could prevent gangrene and spare his leg, and his life, it was worth his suffering—and hers.
Watching beads of perspiration trickling from his brow, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, noting the complete lack of color in his chiseled features was killing Tara, bit by excruciating bit. John let out a pained howl that nearly blasted holes in her eardrums. His hand clamped around her wrist like a vise grip when she reflexively eased the blade away from his wound.
“Not long enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know it. I know it. Again, Irish.” His hand guided hers downward, completing the unpleasant process.
Tears floated in Tara’s eyes as she watched him deal with agonizing pain. This, she realized, was no ordinary man. In the face of adversity, he was extraordinary. Had their roles been reversed, Tara was pretty sure she would’ve been screeching hysterically and fighting him with every ounce of strength she possessed. He, however, held her hand steady to thoroughly sear the wound.
“Damn, here I was hoping I’d pass out,” John panted as he drew her hand and the blade toward his rib cage.
His intense gaze locked on hers again. He stared unblinking at her, while what must’ve been excruciating pain blazed through him. Unintentionally, he nearly crushed the bones in her wrist in his effort to force her to finish the gruesome task. When she would’ve pulled away again, he ensured that she remained steady and relentless. Tara was crying by the time he allowed her to withdraw the knife, and she practically collapsed beside him when the gruesome deed was done.
“You’re one hell of a woman, Irish,” he said, between gasps of breath.
“You did most of the work and endured all the pain,” she reminded him as she wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow, his upper lip. “Were I you, I’d have fainted dead away minutes ago.”
She was so close to him and he was so overcome with pain that he wasn’t thinking clearly. That was his only explanation for what he did next. He up and kissed her right on the mouth, just like he’d told himself he was not going to do—ever. He was pretty sure he got lost in the sweet taste and compelling scent of her, because the next thing John knew the world turned as black as the inside of a cave and swallowed him up.
Dazed, her lips tingling, her body shimmering with unfamiliar sensation, Tara gaped at her patient, who’d collapsed unconscious on the pallet. In the first place, she couldn’t believe he’d kissed her. Secondly, she couldn’t believe she’d kissed him back. But she supposed if any man ever deserved to steal a kiss—and get away with it—it was John Wolfe. Considering what he’d endured, he probably hadn’t realized what he was doing. Either that or he’d sought comfort in a moment of maddening pain.
Like a crawdad, Tara scuttled backward, then covered John’s limp body with the sheet, which had shifted sideways during the ordeal by fire. While she cleaned and bandaged the wounds, she decided she’d treat the unexpected kiss as if it had never happened. Chances were that he wouldn’t remember it, anyway.
It didn’t mean anything. She could not let it mean anything, she told herself firmly. Still, the feel of his lips devouring hers with something akin to desperation left sizzling aftershocks rippling through her body.
Tara willfully shook off the tantalizing sensations and climbed to her feet. She tiptoed over to retrieve her sewing kit so she could mend her torn dress. Now was as good a time as any to repair the damage. And she’d do so as soon as her hands stopped shaking and she could breathe without John’s masculine scent clogging her senses completely.
Chapter Three
During the days that followed, John’s energy returned gradually. He received periodic visits from the brood of children. They came alone. They came in pairs. They came in a group. But Tara never once approached him without a chaperone of one or two children following at her heels. He reckoned the impulsive kiss he’d planted on her dewy, soft lips was responsible for her standoffish manner.
Not that he blamed her. He’d been more than a little surprised by it himself, especially after he’d sworn up one side and down the other that there could be nothing more than friendship between them. He supposed the agonizing pain of the ordeal had triggered the impulse, making natural instinct difficult to control.
He should apologize, but the truth was that he wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her. She was the one taste of purity and sweetness in his violent and isolated world. He wouldn’t let it happen again, of course. His Irish angel of mercy was now, and forever more, off-limits.
“You want some bread and wild grape jelly, Zohn Whoof?” young Flora asked as she sank down cross-legged beside him on the pallet.
John smiled at the cute little tyke who had already wedged her way into his heart. He couldn’t help himself. The kid was warm and giving and altogether adorable, especially when she invented her own unique way of pronouncing his name.
“Bread and jelly sounds mighty good, half-pint.”
Flora slathered jelly on a slice of bread, then handed it to him. “I help Tara make the jelly. We have jars and jars of it stored in the root cellar.”
John sighed contentedly at the first bite. Someone around here really could cook, and he presumed it was Tara. Of course, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t much that she couldn’t do well. He’d watched her come and go from dawn until dusk without a single complaint. She always had a smile and kind word for the children. Her organizational skills, he’d noted, were a marvel, and she made time for each child’s individual needs.
This unique family fascinated him, even though the life they led was utterly foreign to him. It’d been years since John had felt family ties, felt as if he belonged anywhere. Not that he belonged here, of course. But this family didn’t treat him as an outsider, the way most folks did when he ventured into one town, then another. Usually, people didn’t engage him in conversation or venture too close. He figured most folks considered a man who was part lawman, gunfighter and bounty hunter unworthy of respect because he dealt with evil, violence and death on a regular basis.
John had pried bits and pieces of information from the younger children to appease his curiosity about Tara, though he told himself repeatedly that his fascination with her was ill-advised and impractical. He’d discovered that Tara was a passable markswoman who could put wild game on the table to feed her brood. That she harvested and processed vegetables from the garden, and had somehow managed to acquire the livestock that grazed in the canyon. He was incredibly curious to know how these acquisitions were made on her limited budget.
There were, however, two other things about Tara that he didn’t know and was dying to find out—where had she acquired her unique family and where had she been sleeping since John crawled onto the pallet so she could sleep on her bed. She wasn’t using the bed, he’d discovered. He figured he’d ferret the information from the loquacious five-year-old who was feeding him bread and jelly. If there was one thing he’d learned about Flora it was that she loved to talk, and most of the thoughts bouncing around in her head made their way to her tongue.
“Do you have another bedroom in the cabin where you and the other children sleep?” he asked nonchalantly.
Flora sampled a piece of bread, then nodded. “Maureen and I sleep in the other bedroom and the boys sleep in the loft above us.”
“Tara has been sleeping with you, too?”
She shook her dark head. “Nope, she moved into the barn loft.”
The barn loft? John cursed under his breath. That woman was making all sorts of sacrifices for him and the children. He was the one who should be sleeping in the straw. He’d slept in the great out-of-doors for years and was accustomed to it. On rare occasions, while on his forays to track down criminals, he rented a hotel room.
“Tell Tara that I’ll be trading places with her,” John requested.
“Can’t do that,” Flora replied as she wiped her mouth, smearing jelly on her chin. “Tara says she wants you somewhere that’s clean and dry so you can mend properly. She also says the boys are gonna take you to the spring to bathe tomorrow. She says the mineral spring we found near one of the rock ledges will be good for you.”
“Hmm, Tara sure has lots to say, doesn’t she?”
“Certainly does,” Flora agreed. “But most of all, and she says this is very, very, very important, we’re a family and we’ll be together forever. She says no one will break our family apart ’cause we belong to each other.”
John wondered why that was the first commandment in the gospel according to Tara. Who wanted to break up this unusual family? And why did Tara instill that sense of unity and belonging in these children? It sounded a mite overprotective to him, but what the hell did he know? He hadn’t been a part of a clan for over five years.
“Where did you meet Tara, half-pint?” he asked.
Suspicion filled those wide, soulful eyes. “Tara says we’re not supposed to say anything to anybody about where we came from or how we got here. It’s a secret.”
Interesting, he mused. Maybe Tara had something to hide. If she thought he’d sit in judgment she was mistaken, because John Wolfe wasn’t who folks thought he was, either. After all, he’d slipped away from the reservation under cover of darkness, without permission.
According to the Indian roll call conducted the morning after Chief Gray Eagle bade him to escape and return to white society, White Wolf didn’t exist and his name wasn’t to be uttered again. In the Apache culture, the name of a deceased person was rarely mentioned. As far as the tribe was concerned, White Wolf was dead and gone.
Maybe he needed to have a private talk with Tara and assure her that whatever concerns his presence provoked were unnecessary…unless there were criminal charges involved and she felt threatened by his profession as a law officer. Damn, this could get ugly, thought John. Maybe he didn’t want to unlock those guarded secrets he saw flashes of in Tara’s eyes, after all.
“I have to leave now.” Flora popped to her feet. “Tara says I have to walk the lambs around the canyon to make ’em stronger.”
John suspected these compulsory walks were designed to build little Flora’s own stamina. The child was entirely too frail and thin.
“Calvin has to go with me,” Flora added as she scooped up the jar of jelly and leftover bread, “just in case I have trouble managing the sheep.”
Calvin, the seven-year-old with the noticeable limp, he mused. No doubt Tara ensured Calvin was getting his daily requirement of therapeutical exercise, too.
To John’s complete surprise, Flora abruptly reversed direction, dropped to her knees in front of him, then flung her bony arms around his neck to hug him tightly. “I love you, Zohn Whoof,” she whispered in his ear. “Maybe when you feel better you can walk the lambs with Calvin and me.”
John battled to draw breath after Flora scurried off. He couldn’t afford to become attached to these endearing children, damn it. Gray Eagle had given him a lifetime assignment of protecting the Apache from the whites. Plus Raven was running loose, aligning himself with a merciless outlaw gang, giving the Apache a bad name—as if the whites’ publicity hadn’t given the tribe a bad reputation already.
John had witnessed firsthand the atrocities committed against Indians. They’d been slaughtered like buffalo—women, children, elders and warriors alike. They’d been poisoned with strychnine, herded onto reservations and forced to sign treaties that gave white men their valuable and productive lands. In fact, Gray Eagle had been ordered, under penalty of death, to sign over several strips of land where silver and copper deposits had been discovered so the prospectors could mine the ores without sharing with the Indians.
John had done his damnedest to prevent the whites from stealing the Apache blind, but to no avail. He’d reclaimed his white heritage hoping to make a difference—and he’d failed, time and time again. It was enough to make a grown man weep, especially when he cursed himself countless times for being born white and growing up Apache. Half the time John didn’t know who the hell he was or where he rightfully belonged. And now this sweet little child, with her hollow eyes, pasty skin and delicate bones, was gushing with affection for him and looking up to him as if he were her beloved father. The kid was killing him, while he was trying to maintain an emotional distance from her and the rest of this extraordinary family.
John sighed heavily. This child and her entire family were definitely getting to him, hour by hour, day by day. He couldn’t afford to become attached, because it would make leaving this valley more difficult. He’d locked away all sentimental emotions the day the Apache captured him as a child and started training him to be one of them. If he allowed all these conflicts that roiled inside him to surface he wouldn’t know how to deal with them. He wasn’t sure he could face a single one without his thoughts getting all tangled up with the other feelings he’d buried in order to survive all the trials he’d faced in his life.
Besides, this family really didn’t have a place in his world, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He went about his grisly business of tracking down and apprehending vicious criminals that were overrunning the territory. No feelings allowed, John told himself sensibly, and he’d better not forget it. Life was a test of survival—that was the gospel according to John Wolfe.
Tara wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing her patient fresh from his bath at the mineral springs where the boys had taken him. When she returned from doing chores in the barn, he was sitting on the wooden bench on the front porch. She missed a step when her gaze landed on his face, now devoid of the week’s growth of dark beard. To say that John was ruggedly handsome, with his bronzed skin, athletic physique, electrifying eyes and sensuous lips, had to be the understatement of the decade. The entire package of lean, powerful masculinity was enough to increase her heart rate and leave her feminine body aquiver.
Lord, listen to her, Tara scolded herself. She sounded as bad as Flora and Maureen, who sang John’s praises the whole livelong day. Of course, Tara had asked around Rambler Springs to see if anyone had heard of Marshal Wolfe. What she’d discovered was impressive and unnerving at once. This man who braved death on a daily basis was the stuff legends were made of, according to Wilma and Henry Prague, who ran the general store, as well as Corrine and Thomas Denton, who owned the restaurant. It was true that Wilma Prague was long-winded and tended to get caught up in the tales she liked to spin, but the hearsay she’d conveyed had kept Tara on the edge of her seat. John Wolfe’s feats of capturing the worst criminals in the territory were nothing short of phenomenal.
“Good morning, Irish,” John greeted her, breaking into her thoughts.
“Morning,” Tara murmured as she sank down on the bench beside him. “How are you feeling after your bath?”
“Revived and not the least bit anxious to spend another day indoors.”
“Not accustomed to it, I suppose, considering your line of work.”
He inclined his shiny raven head. “Exactly, which is why we’ll be switching sleeping quarters this evening,” he asserted.
That sounded like an order, and Tara had never been much good at taking them. “Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe, but I’m the one in charge of your rehabilitation. I’ll decide where you’ll sleep, especially when this happens to be my house you’re convalescing in.”