Firewolf

by Jenna Kernan

  “All right, Brother Bobcat. Hold on. I’ve got another call. It’s Forrest.”

  Dylan heard a double beep indicating he was on hold. He disconnected and continued along. They needed water.

  “So, Cheney was here?” asked Meadow. It was the first she’d spoken to him in over an hour.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. He’s gone.” Now Dylan was wondering if Williams was a victim or some sort of suicide bomber. Kenshaw had recommended Dylan for this job, but now Dylan wondered exactly how his shaman knew this attorney who had lived down here in the valley? And why hadn’t Cheney sent one of his staff to meet Dylan up here on the ridge? If he worked with Meadow’s father, he must have people to do such things.

  “Why did he call you brother bobcat?” she asked.

  “You could hear that?”

  She nodded.

  “Bobcat is my spirit animal.” He pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt, showing her the tattoo. “This is his track.”

  She stroked a finger over the muscle of his arm and purred, her hand lingering. Dylan’s muscles twitched as he grappled with the tension now overtaking him.

  He stepped back, breaking the connection between them.

  She distracted him. Made it hard for him to think. Now the questions swarmed him again. Buzzing around his head like gnats when he reached the crest of the ridge. Nothing of the building had survived. The explosion had ripped away the rock beneath the building. The infinity edge pool that had floated above the valley on steel legs, the house, garage and guest suite—all gone.

  Dylan checked his phone for calls and found the battery dangerously low. “I’m almost out of juice.”

  “Switch it off and then check it periodically.”

  “Will do.”

  Dylan made another call to his parents’ home and reached his grandfather, Frank. He told him quickly what had happened, and that he was safe and Jack Bear Den was coming to get him. He remembered to tell the old man that he loved him before he disconnected. Frank Florez was the only father Dylan had ever known.

  When he finished, he turned off his phone.

  “That was sweet. Your father?” she asked.

  “Yes, but officially he’s my grandfather. My mother’s father.”

  “What clan?” she asked.

  “Butterfly.”

  “Same as your mother, of course.”

  Dylan could see how Meadow had gotten all A’s in school. She was quick.

  “Can I call my family?” she asked.

  That was a bad idea. Her dad would find out she had survived eventually from his radio communication. But he didn’t want her father knowing exactly where to find them.

  “Not yet.”

  She lifted a brow but said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself as they continued up the hill.

  He moved farther up and over the ridge. He had left the road to climb past the wreckage and so had not seen beyond the epicenter of the blaze to the pristine pavers of the curving drive that led to the untouched gate and gatehouse beyond the flashpoint of the fire. His mouth quirked in a smile.

  Meadow arrived beside him a moment later. Her face was dangerously red. He gave her the mouthpiece to the camel pack and she took a long drink. Then he led them to the gatehouse. The only standing structure had survived the blast by being well down the private road and back from the ridge. The fire had spared the gatehouse only because prevailing winds had carried the blaze in the opposite direction, westward from the epicenter of the blast.

  The Rustkin gatehouse was larger than his home on the rez. Dylan knocked on the front door but received no answer.

  “You said on the phone the guy would be here,” said Meadow.

  “That’s what Cheney told me.” Dylan tried again, knocking louder. Then they gave up and circled the home. He broke a window in the garage and crawled inside, then disconnected the opener and hauled up the door himself. Meadow stepped inside.

  “Phew,” she said. “Cool in here.” She glanced around. “No cars.”

  Dylan hoped the caretaker was far away because the road that circled down the unscathed side of the mountain met the burning side at the break in the ridgeline. If the caretaker had evacuated, he would not get far.

  She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted a hello. There was no reply. She turned to Dylan. “Well, we have lights and AC.”

  “Generator out back. Saw it on the way in.”

  “Let’s take a look around,” she said.

  She was a bold one, he’d give her that—perhaps a little too daring. Dylan didn’t just charge forward. He was more of a planner.

  “Maybe you should wait here.”

  “Hell with that.”

  Meadow pivoted and led the way down the hall and past the office facing the drive, through the small living space and into the kitchen in the back.

  There she stuck her entire head under the sink faucet and soaked her hair making the blue and purple turn a darker shade. Then she drank until he thought her stomach might rupture.

  When she drew back, she whipped her head up so that the ends sent a spray of water to the ceiling.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Alive, thanks to you. But I’m dizzy...and what a headache.”

  “Heat exhaustion.” Or heat stroke, he thought.

  “Never had it this bad.” She stepped aside and Dylan drank. Then he soaked his head, letting the lukewarm water wash away the sweat and sand from his short hair. The water was heaven.

  “I’m going to find a bathroom. I need a shower.”

  “I’ll check the generator.”

  She cast him a glance over one shoulder and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Had she been inviting him along? That idea should have sent him in the opposite direction because he did not want to listen to the water running while he imagined Meadow washing her tempting body clean. Instead, he watched her walk away.

  She strode down the hall that presumably led to the bedroom and bath. On the way she dropped the shirt he had lent her, giving him an unforgettable view of her back broken only by the lace bra. He’d kept her from being burned. Every inch of her was perfect, if dirty. Her tan covered her skin all the way to her bottom, which seemed very white by comparison above the scrap of pink lace. She cast a final glance over her shoulder and gave him a wink.

  “You’re up next.” She reached behind her back and unfastened the bra as she turned, heedless of the glimpse she gave him of her body in profile. She was smaller up top than he had imagined, small and round and perfect. Thanks to him.

  Dylan found the generator ran on propane and had switched on automatically when the power quit. How long it would last was just a guess, but he thought this would be the place to bed down tonight. Still, he would be careful about what electricity they used. He did a perimeter check familiarizing himself with his surroundings, then returned to the house and checked the rooms. The kitchen had a small table and chairs, and both the living room and the single bedroom were furnished. Someone had been living here, judging from the books, laptop and half-full coffeepot. The mail on the counter was addressed to David Kaneda. Dylan used his camera to snap a shot and sent it to Jack Bear Den with the message that they had reached the caretaker’s house, which was empty. Jack’s replay was the letter K.

  Okay.

  He busied himself filling his camel pack and then checking the landline, which was dead. The security system was not yet functioning, though the metal gate across the drive was locked. Unfortunately, the wall was not finished and a temporary road had been graded beyond the gate for construction vehicles to complete one of the most expensive homes in Arizona—and the only one that broke the ridge. Was that why they had blown it up?

  They’d achieved a two-for-one, endangering the affluent community in the v
alley, as well.

  He searched the cupboards and refrigerator. The refrigerator had bottled water, some of those sixty-four-ounce soda-fountain drinks and leftovers from lunches, some fruit, two half sandwiches—one meatball and one roast beef that smelled edible. On the counter he found chips.

  Dylan arranged some of the food on the kitchen table and listened but did not hear the water running.

  “You done?” he called.

  “I didn’t start yet.”

  “Why?”

  “No soap.”

  Meadow called from the shower. “Is there soap out there?”

  He searched and came up with a bottle of liquid hand soap and was halfway down the hall when he paused as all kinds of erotic images flooded him.

  Dylan debated his options. Sex meant nothing to her. He patted his front pocket where his wallet held two condoms. He had principles, but he was still a man.

  “Dylan?”

  “I found some.”

  He stepped into the steaming air of the bathroom. The glass door gave him a pretty fair image of what she looked like naked and wet. He growled and lifted the soap over the top of the glass barrier.

  “There are no towels,” she said, accepting the soap and then tipping her head back to let the spray of water cascade over her crown.

  “They’re in the linen closet in the hall.”

  She rolled back the shower door. He didn’t look away.

  “So, do we have a bed?” she asked. She was so casual about her body and sexuality. Do we have a bed?

  “There’s only one.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Now his skin was prickling and his body responding to the possibilities she raised.

  “Is that all you ever have on your mind?” he asked.

  She faced him, pressing herself against the glass, giving him a view he would never forget. “Only since I met you.”

  He didn’t believe it, but he found himself growing hard.

  “Why don’t you step in? I’ll wash you off.”

  “Meadow, I don’t even know you.”

  “You will if you get in here.”

  Dylan untied his boots and stripped out of his clothing. He retrieved his wallet and one condom. Then he ignored his conscience, slid back the door and stepped into the shower with Meadow.

  Chapter Seven

  “Man,” she said, her smile widening. “You are fine to look at.”

  “You sure about this?” His body pulsed with need.

  “Totally.”

  He’d never slept with someone who said totally. It wasn’t right. Dylan dropped the condom onto the tiled shelf and closed the shower door.

  “I thought I had burned my back in the shelter.” He presented it to her. “But I don’t feel any burns.”

  Her hands caressed his shoulders as the water pulsed on his skin.

  “Perfect,” she said. She soaped him and lathered his skin from his neck to the back of his legs while his body built to a thrumming need to touch her.

  Meadow’s hand slipped down his arm pausing at the tattoo.

  “I like this. It’s well done. That’s a medicine shield. Right? And eagle feathers?”

  He nodded, watching her as she traced the design.

  She slipped around in front of him and repeated her ministration on his chest.

  “I’ve wanted to touch you since I saw you with that ax. Then you were on top of me and I could barely breathe.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It’s a one-person shelter. We might be the first to ever share one.”

  Her hands stilled on his chest.

  “Dylan, I know you said you don’t...you know. But I really like you.”

  “That why you wouldn’t speak to me?”

  “That was childish. I was so hot and thirsty.” She lifted up on her toes and kissed his cheek. He tilted his head and kissed her back, their mouths melting and tongues dancing.

  What was he doing? She was trouble. This was Theron Wrangler’s youngest daughter. Chances were good that she was involved in this. Maybe he could find out.

  It was an excuse to have her—and a thin one at that—but he took it. He broke the kiss and turned her so that her perfect white bottom molded to his hips. His erection slid between her legs and she pushed back.

  “What is it you want, Meadow?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?”

  He cupped her breasts, toying with her nipples, pinching until her head fell back against his chest and she cried out in excitement. Then he stroked her stomach, thighs, the inside of her thighs. She opened her legs and he flicked a thumb over the tiny bud of pleasure. Meadow rubbed back against him, making it hard to concentrate.

  “Why were you here, Meadow?” he whispered. “Why today?”

  “Bad timing,” she answered.

  “Whose idea was it, this filming of the construction?”

  She gasped and braced her hands on the tile, giving him more pressure as she pushed back, her slippery thighs caressing his erection. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  “Who?” he repeated.

  “My father. He said I’d be doing him a favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “A fast-motion montage of the home breaking the ridge, spoiling the natural beauty of the mountains.”

  And a fast-motion view of it tumbling down again.

  “He sent you today?”

  She nodded, her vocalizations now tiny cries.

  And Kenshaw had sent him today.

  “No more talk,” she said, and rubbed against him. His fingers glided over slick flesh and she trembled.

  Meadow’s cries grew louder and her body jerked as her pleasure took her. Dylan held her as she turned into his arms, pressing her cheek to his chest. She fit just perfectly against him, and for a moment he wished she was someone else, someone he could keep.

  “You’re good,” she whispered.

  She reached between them, grasping him with experienced hands. Dylan knew he should step away. He tried, but it only gave her better leverage. Her clever fingers and water all worked against his best intentions. She stroked and his body hummed with the building need.

  “We’ll save the condom for later,” she said. “How’s that?”

  She glided against him, trapping his erection between her soft stomach and her hands. His head fell back and he knew he was lost.

  He didn’t last long and had to brace his arms against the glass and tile to keep his knees from giving way. The truth was that he’d felt something with Meadow that was unfamiliar...longing. He admitted to himself that he wanted her. Wanted all of her. Wanted to stretch her out on that bed and slowly explore every inch. He wanted to take her to see the sunset over Turquoise Lake and to see the spot where he dug out the best turquoise from the vein deep in the heart of his reservation and the vein of the sacred blue stone that threaded through the canyon along the river.

  But he admitted what this was for her—just a quick, meaningless encounter or, worse, a thank-you. Her hands fell away and the emptiness yawned inside him.

  She smiled up at him. “You always talk so much?”

  He shook his head. “Not usually.”

  “You’re no expert interrogator, that’s for sure. You should sneak up on things. Not just jump right at it.” She lifted the bottle of hand soap. “Want me to wash your hair?” she asked.

  Dylan sighed. He’d been too overt again. “No. Meadow. I’ll do it. What you said before, was that all true?”

  “I have no reason to lie, though I’m super good at it. Ask me something personal?”

  “Have you done this before?”

  Her eyes went wide.
“Never. You’re my first.”

  A shot of regret pierced him. She’d led him to believe she was experienced.

  “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have...”

  “Oh, relax. I was lying. I’d better get out.” She handed over the soap.

  “You’re very casual about sex,” he said.

  She pressed a hand to her hip. “That wasn’t sex, Dylan. That was a hand job. If we have sex, you’ll see the difference.”

  He made a strangled sound that was his best attempt at a laugh.

  She let her hand slide back to her side. “I’m starving. Find anything to eat?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  She strode naked and dripping out the door. Brazen, his mother would say. Uninhibited, he thought. Did it bother him that she was experienced?

  Double standard if it did, he thought. But he found himself unsettled by the encounter. It wasn’t until the suds were streaming over his face and chest that he realized why. It wasn’t that she had had other men—it was that he didn’t want her to have any more. Except him.

  “That’s crazy,” he said, and rinsed. “You have as much chance of keeping her as catching wildfire.”

  He shut off the water, using his hands like the blade of a squeegee to shuck off the excess water. He shook his head, sending droplets flying. He was only damp when he stepped onto the tile floor and reached for his jeans. The smell of smoke hit him instantly, but there was no help for it.

  Meadow returned with a towel cinched about her hips. She extended a second one to him.

  When he reached the hall, it was to find Meadow standing half-naked in the corridor beside the open accordion doors. Inside the closet sat a stacked laundry and shelving with clean linens and bath towels. She tossed her bra and panties into the washer leaving herself naked.

  He lifted the shirt so it draped on his index finger.

  “Looking for this?” he asked.

  “It stinks. Throw it in here.” She stepped aside.

  “Do you do everything naked?” he asked.

  “Only the important things.” She shot him a blazing smile full of perfectly straightened white teeth. She collected the rest of his clothing and tossed them into the washer.

  “My dad could send a helicopter for us. Want me to call him?” she asked.