Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

Not to choose well. Angel squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what that meant. Last night. Jack Daltry. Their … lovemaking. And that was exactly what it was. Love. She knew it now. And did it ever hurt. Oh, Mama, help me! The wail tore through her, echoing in her soul. As if she had no bones to hold her up, Angel dropped to her knees. The dampness in the ground, like so much blood, seeped through her denims, chilling her.

  Close to giving up, to giving in, Angel fell forward, her palms flat on the ground, her hair cascading forward over her shoulders, brushing against her hands. She couldn’t love Jack Daltry. She couldn’t. There was too much about him, about his family and hers, about his father and her parents, that she didn’t know. But the horrible twisting in her gut told her that whatever it was, whatever had happened all those years ago … was bad. Why else would her mother not accept Wallace Daltry’s help? What could Jack’s father have done to the young Virginia?

  And if he’d done something so awful that her mother’d taken to whoring, then why was she here, accepting the man’s guilt-offering? Angel looked up. With the sun’s heat beating against her back, she stared into the distance, just above the flowers’ heads. A guilt-offering. That’s what this was—the Circle D and Wallace Daltry’s insisting she come here to take over the place. But hadn’t she thought as much, and even questioned him about it while they were still back at Red River Station? What had he said?

  Oh, yes. He’d said something about the answers being here at the Circle D. He’d said he’d tell her once they got here, once she signed those papers. The missing papers. Did they even exist? And if they did, where were they? Seth. Angel gasped, sat back on her haunches, her hands gripping her knees, her gaze taking in the world but really seeing a hateful face, a raised fist … a threat against her. That murdering little bastard. Seth. He had them. She knew it, as surely as she knew she was sitting here and staring at—

  Angel’s heart almost stopped, her throat all but closed. Chills raced over her body. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath.

  The white wolf sat in front of her, had appeared out of thin air, for all Angel knew. Perhaps she’d been here a while because she was sitting, reposed on her haunches and so close Angel could reach out and touch her. If she dared. But she didn’t … this was a wolf, after all. A big one. A flesh-and-blood creature of the wild. Angel could see that much because the animal’s tongue lolled, her ears pricked, her fur was lifted by the restless wind. Unblinking, she stared deep into Angel’s eyes.

  Terrified though she was, Angel refused to believe that this fantastic creature was the Comanche woman, Old Mother, who’d raised Jack and Seth. It just couldn’t be. People did not turn into animals. Or come back, like ghosts, to live inside them. They just didn’t. So how to explain what sat before her now, as plain as day, and seemingly willing to give her time to think this through? The amazing part was that she could think at all, Angel decided. But still, she did.

  She hadn’t heard of this particular white wolf, or its connection to the Daltrys, but she had heard before of all-white animals occurring among types that weren’t prone to be white. Like the white buffalo, which was a sacred Indian legend. Just like this white wolf is, according to Jack. And to that Comanche brave who brought Boots and Lou home.

  Well, real or legend, Angel decided, it just didn’t matter. Because there was still a wolf in front of her that could, solely with its keen blue-eyed gaze, hold her riveted in place.

  “What—” Startled at herself, Angel swallowed the rest of her words, watching as the wolf’s ears pricked forward. Was she letting Angel know she was listening, waiting for her to speak? Well, this is just plain crazy, Angel chastised herself. Had she actually been going to speak to a wolf? Did she think it would answer? But then again, the urge overwhelmed Angel, and this time, she gave in to it. “What do you want?”

  The wolf’s response again stunned Angel. She smiled … Perhaps it was more of an animal grin, just a lifting of her black muzzle that revealed more of her white and sharp teeth. Whatever it was, the wolf’s blue eyes brightened, squinted pleasantly; her ears stood straight up, twitching. And then she stood, wagging her tail with an elegant grace as she backed up several paces. She was leaving.

  “No,” Angel blurted, a hand out, all but imploring the wolf not to leave. And why she didn’t want her to go, Angel didn’t know, couldn’t say. She … just didn’t want her to, was all. As if the wolf understood, she stopped, tilting her head … watching Angel. As Angel stared into the blue eyes considering her, she recalled Jack doing the same thing a little bit ago. Amazingly, the wolf’s eyes reminded her of Jack’s—they were the same blue … held that same quality of sizing someone up that his gaze had.

  The wolf blinked. Angel jerked, seeming to come to herself. She held a hand over her thumping heart, calling herself addled as she wondered if maybe she had sun sickness. But that wasn’t possible. It wasn’t near hot enough, and she hadn’t been out here long enough. Or had she? Was she just too sick to judge time, to know if any of this was really happening? That niggling doubt had her coming to her feet and pivoting around, seeking the barn, perhaps seeking Jack. Or just seeking reassurance that the barn and the ranch were still there, that any of this was real, that she wasn’t sick, wasn’t dreaming.

  But everything was as she’d left it, was as it should be. Including the sun’s position. It hadn’t moved. Jack was nowhere to be seen, probably still inside the barn. But still she had her answer. She was wide awake, not suffering an illness. And this wolf was real. She turned to face the white-furred creature again, half expecting her to be gone. She wasn’t. She was still there.

  Before she knew what she was doing, Angel put a hand out, took a step toward the wolf, wanting—she didn’t know what, except to touch her, to stroke her fur. Somehow, Angel knew that she needed to do that. And she also knew it would feel good when she did. The wolf remained where she was, her countenance sobering, her ears alertly pricked forward … again, waiting. Angel took another step. The wolf wagged her tail with a slow, mesmerizing sway that compelled Angel, made her want to cry.

  But still, holding her breath, Angel reached out again, this time close enough to touch the wolf. Her fingers just brushed the soft and sun-warmed fur of the animal’s square and regal head—

  “Angel?”

  A startled yelp accompanied Angel’s spinning around to face Jack. Wide-eyed and speechless, she stared. Where had he come from? her mind screamed. She’d just looked a moment ago. He hadn’t been there—

  “You’ve been out here a while, Angel. What are you doing? Were you picking more flowers?” His blue eyes squinted against the sun’s brightness.

  Angel shook her head, found her voice. “No. Not the flowers.” Then, she just had to know. “How’d you get out here without me knowing it?”

  Jack frowned, as if confused. “I just walked out here, Angel. Like anyone else would.”

  She was having none of that. “But I just looked back toward the barn, and I didn’t see you. That’s where you were when I came out here.”

  A frown marred his features. “I left the barn a while ago. But I don’t see why this is—”

  “Just tell me.”

  A silent moment passed, then Jack, clearly humoring her, drawled, “All right. I came around the other way, on the other side of the house, where the bunkhouse is. I was talking with Lou and Boots and looking things over out there. Satisfied?”

  For some reason, she wasn’t. It disquieted her to be taken by surprise like that. But she kept that to herself and said, “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Then a half-smile tried to capture his features. “What’s been holding your attention out here for so long?”

  For so long? She’d thought it’d been only minutes. “The wolf,” she said, feeling suddenly out of place again, out of time.

  Jack shifted his stance, tensed. “The wolf? What about her?”

  “She was here.”

  Wide-eyed, Jack stood up straighter. “What?”

  “She w
as here.” Angel pointed behind herself, half turning to where the wolf had been. Not surprisingly, given Jack’s interruption, she was gone. Angel’s hand drooped to her side. She stared at the trampled indentations the creature’d made, and was glad for them. They told her she wasn’t crazy.

  “Angel?”

  Again she turned to Jack, desperate for him to believe. “She was here. I saw her. I touched her, Jack. Look there”—Angel now pointed to the trampled flowers—“she did that.”

  Jack glanced where she pointed, but his gaze immediately returned to her. His expression, as well as his tone of voice, could only be termed disbelieving. “You … touched her? The white wolf? You touched her?”

  Angel frowned with a sudden spate of temper. “Isn’t that what I said? Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Because she’s—No one’s ever—” Jack cut off his own words to eye her, to look her up and down. “She let you get close enough to touch her?”

  Beginning now to doubt herself and her experience, given Jack’s response, and feeling a bit silly, Angel stood taller, pretended the knees to her denims weren’t muddy, and quipped, “I said I touched her, didn’t I, cowboy? But then you came along and spooked her into leaving. So what is it you wanted? Why’d you come all the way out here?”

  He was quiet a moment, his expression hesitant, his gaze not quite connecting with hers. “I’m ready to go. I’m leaving now.”

  The simmering anger that had carried Angel out here came to a boil. She stiffened … but fought to keep her feelings off her face. Feigning indifference, she shrugged, saying, “So … go.”

  Jack squinted, crinkling the skin at either corner of his eyes. “That’s all you have to say? After last night? Just ‘Go’?”

  Angel raised her chin a notch, thinking of all that had happened, thinking of how her lingering fears and doubts had made her call out for her mama. “Last night doesn’t have anything to do with this. Besides, it doesn’t seem to be stopping you any.”

  Jack’s eyes darkened. He stood there, glaring, his lips pressed together. “I don’t want to go, Angel. I have to.”

  She knew he did, and she even understood why he did. “I know that. Seth has to be stopped. It’s that simple.”

  He nodded, looking a bit relieved as he looked down at his boots, as if his blood ties to his brother shamed him. Suddenly, somehow—perhaps it was the play of the sunshine off his skin—he looked … all too human, all too capable of being hurt or killed. Angel wanted to cry. She just couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to him, of maybe never seeing him again. And she hated worse that she’d be bothered by that.

  Desperately close to giving herself away, afraid she might beg him to stay, and wanting him gone if he was going to go anyway, Angel blurted, “What’d you expect me to do, Jack? Burst out crying because you’re leaving?” He glanced up at her, his blue eyes clear, light … easily hurt. Angel swallowed and went on. “Did you come out here thinking I’d beg you to stay? Well, not me. You got the wrong girl. You need to go, so … go. Saddle up. Ride away.”

  He exhaled, shook his head, saying, “I didn’t want to leave like this, Angel.”

  “That’s too bad, isn’t it? Because the truth is, I don’t give a damn what you do, Jack Daltry.” With that, she pushed past him, leaving him standing there in the meadow. Among the wolf flowers.

  * * *

  About a half day’s southwesterly ride away from home, and stiff with caution, Jack sat his horse, holding Buffalo’s reins tightly as he surveyed the square, squat, rough-cut wood shack Seth sometimes used as his hideout. About fifty yards away, all but hidden among the afternoon shadows cast by a sheltering patch of mesquites and scrub oaks, the place appeared deserted. No horses outside, no movement inside. But still, he couldn’t take the chance on being wrong. If Seth was here … then so be it. Jack knew what he had to do. And if Seth wasn’t, perhaps there was some clue inside as to where the kid was.

  He admitted that Seth had chosen his hideout well. The shack itself and the surrounding trees could hide any number of men and their mounts among them. Jack had known them to do just that. And on more than one occasion when he’d ridden out to confront his brother. So even now, he knew, it could be that he was being watched. And, goddamn, he hoped he was. He hoped that little son of a bitch was here. Just the thought of again facing Seth, given what he now knew his younger brother had done, given how it made his heart break to imagine Seth plunging that bone-handled knife into their father’s chest, lifted Jack’s lip into a snarl.

  Righteous rage threatened to explode through him. He struggled to contain the emotion, gripping the reins tightly, his body tensing enough to make his legs hurt as they circled Buffalo’s ribs. I’ll crush the little bastard. Just kill him without a second thought. He again swept the hideout with his gaze, searching for a glimpse of his brother. Come on, show yourself, Seth. I’ll smell you out, you stinking rat.

  To Jack’s feverish mind, the shack, the surrounding trees, even the very earth the ugly little house sat on, seemed to give off the stench of corruption that followed Seth, like an animal leaving its scent, like a skunk defining its boundaries.

  His jaw clenching, his nose twitching against the odor, real or imagined, Jack forced a calmness on himself. Because riding in hell-bent could get him killed. He needed a cool, calculating mind to deal with his brother. And so, he sat there, thinking about how best to proceed. He decided that Seth wouldn’t shoot him on sight. No, he was like a coyote playing with a wounded rabbit. Seth’d want to mess with his head, see what he knew. Which would give Jack a chance to get close enough to—he surprised himself to realize he couldn’t complete the thought, even as determined as he was to see this through to its deadly end.

  His breath left his body on an exhalation rife with sadness. Kill my own brother. Shit. Even thinking all this, though, Jack knew and accepted that it was time to act on his beliefs. Time to stand by his principles. Even when the easiest thing to do was to turn Buffalo around and ride away. That made more sense. But Jack knew he wasn’t going to do it. He couldn’t. Better to die trying than to live regretting. So, tugging his Stetson down lower on his forehead, Jack urged Buffalo from the cover of the stacked jumble of huge marble-shaped boulders he’d hidden behind.

  Approaching the shack, keeping a careful watch for any movement, for a flash of sunlight glinting off gunmetal, Jack rode cautiously in, even though logic told him the place was empty, that neither Seth nor his gang of murdering thugs was here. But still, a part of Jack hoped his brother was here, that he was inside. And that the little scum would take a potshot at him. It’d be easier that way. Just shoot him. No entanglement, no words. Just simple gut reaction. Get it over with. And go home to Angel.

  His last thought made him tense up. He gripped Buffalo with his legs, hauling back on the reins. What had he just said to himself? Go home to Angel? He stared at the shack, blinking, seeing instead a sweet, fine-boned face with black eyes and even blacker hair falling down across those eyes … eyes that sparked fire in his soul. And knew it was true. He wanted to go home to Angel. She was a part of him already. Son of a bitch. Jack notched his Stetson up, slumping in the saddle.

  Now what? He may have held her body next to his, he may know what it was like to be warm and naked with her, may know what she felt like inside, but he still didn’t know what was in her heart, what she wanted from him, what she felt for him. But he also knew … it didn’t matter how she felt about him. Because how he felt about her would keep him going, would get him through this day—and the next and the next, if he needed them—until Seth was dealt with and he could get back to her. Then he’d tell her everything he was feeling.

  And what was he feeling? Jack didn’t try to kid himself. He was too old, too experienced for that.

  He loved her. Plain and simple. Soul deep and heart-stoppingly so. With every fiber of his being … he loved her. Whether she felt the same or not for him, it really didn’t matter. It wouldn’t chan
ge how he felt. It couldn’t. Jack knew you didn’t ask for love, didn’t go looking for it. It was there … or it wasn’t. Couldn’t court it, couldn’t woo it, couldn’t hope to win it. Especially in Angel’s case. No, he had no illusions with her. A woman like her did the choosing. And a man like him would be blessed to have a woman like her. Strong and warm. Smart and funny. Determined. Stubborn. With so much love to give.

  Again Jack exhaled, wondering why his heart wasn’t soaring with his realization, wondering why he wasn’t at least feeling happy inside. But he thought he knew the why of it even as he thought it. Again … Angel Devlin. She was also a hard woman, for all her tender years. She needed saving, he knew that. She needed tenderness and patience and understanding. She needed him. Now, how to make her see that?

  Buffalo’s impatient stamp brought Jack back to the moment, back to his squinting consideration of the shack. First things first. Seth. And then Angel. Stroking his mount’s shoulder to reassure him, feeling the warm, hard muscle, the coarse hair under his hand, Jack straightened up, again urging his big-boned brown horse forward. Again he told himself that Seth might not be here, and probably wasn’t, but there might be some clue left behind that would direct him in finding his brother.

  But truth be told, Jack now admitted as he reined Buffalo in at the shack’s entrance, he was so torn by what he wanted to happen that there still remained a part of him that wished like crazy that he didn’t have to face his brother at all, ever again. He found himself hoping that Seth might harbor some fear for his older brother’s reaction to his killing their father, that he might have just ridden away, never to return. Because to kill your own brother, no matter what he’d done … well, it just wasn’t right. But letting stand the horrible wrong he’d done wasn’t anything to be abided, either. Or forgiven.

  As Jack dismounted and looped the reins over a crude hitching rail, as he kept an eye on the closed front door, he further admitted that this was quite the predicament Seth had handed him. One he had to end. So, exhaling, feeling the thudding of his heart, firming his lips and his resolve, Jack drew his gun and approached the door, hating that he knew enough of the world to know he’d face Seth again. And soon.