Call of the White Wolf

by Carol Finch

  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 E
agle 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.

  “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 t
han 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.