Tender Taming

by Heather Graham

  “That isn’t fair!” Whitney protested.

  “Isn’t it? I said you didn’t want to dirty your pretty little hands and it seems that I’m correct.”

  Whitney was floundering. While indignantly feeling that she owed no explanations to this overbearing man, another part of her hated the easily read disappointment that he made no attempt to hide. Why did she feel she needed his approval; why did she so long for his respect? She had only met the man tonight!

  “You’re the one being pigheaded and refusing to understand now,” she told him quietly, raising her chin. “I wouldn’t know what I was doing—”

  “I said you were right,” Eagle interrupted curtly. “You are too soft. You wouldn’t last a day. You’d pass out after an hour’s work.”

  “I would not!” Whitney flared. “I do work for a living and I have for several years.”

  “Wow, am I impressed!” Eagle jeered lightly.

  “Damnit! You think you’re the only one capable—”

  “I didn’t say that. But I’m talking about manual labor, and I’m not sure you’re even aware of the definition of the words.”

  “Of all the conceited audacity!” Whitney flew from the couch in a rage, her hands tight fists clenched to her sides. “I can live your Micco-whatever life-style and never pass out! I am well versed in the meaning of manual labor and most of all—Mr. Eagle—I am sure that I can handle anything that you might dish out!”

  “Bravo!” His eyes were sparkling; he was laughing again.

  Stunned by his mirthful acceptance of her speech, Whitney realized belatedly that she had been goaded into agreement with his ridiculous proposal. Regret over her hasty words washed quickly through her, but how could she back out now?

  Holding her head high, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “This is a deal between us, right?” she asked in her best business voice. “We need terms. What are they?”

  “Hmmmm …” he said pensively, his eyes guarded as he perused her rigid stance from head to toe, a grin flickering. “I’ll have to think about that. The time period will be exactly one week. If you make it, you will understand why the land problem came up. And I will help you all I can; I’ll talk to Stewart for you, and I’ll make sure you both come to an amicable agreement.”

  “That’s fair,” Whitney said stiffly. “Do you have that type of influence with Stewart?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Neither the Cow Creek Seminoles nor the Miccosukees are liars,” he informed her coolly.

  “Sorry; no insult intended,” Whitney declared, her voice as cool as his. “I’m used to dealing with contracts.”

  “Indians are known for keeping their word.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  They stared at one another, two sparring partners, both determined to bring the other down. It was an ancient battle. Their eyes were locked in the simple war of the sexes: the keen, penetrating stare of the powerful man; the rebellious, determined glare of the beautiful woman.

  It was Whitney who gave way first, but unwilling to admit any type of defeat, she nonchalantly picked up her cup and sauntered to the battered coffee pot. “We forgot one thing,” she said casually. “What happens in the highly unlikely event that I lose? What will be—uh—your winning bet?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Eagle chuckled evasively. “That’s what I’ll have to think about. I’ll let you know by morning.”

  Whitney’s hand was shaking as she attempted to pour more coffee. She had to be crazy! Committing herself to a week in a primitive wilderness. Would she survive on her own? She began praying fervently that White Eagle’s family was kind and that they would accept her presence with charity.

  A hand suddenly came over hers, steadying the pot. Whitney’s skin prickled with anticipation. Eagle was standing behind her, his flesh touching the material of her shirt. “What are you afraid of?” he asked kindly.

  Lowering her lashes, Whitney whispered honestly, “Snakes and things in the dark.”

  Pivoting her by the shoulders so that she faced him, Eagle gave her a warm, sincere smile. “I’m not sending you into the jungle to be consumed, you know. Don’t you trust my ability to protect you?”

  Whitney’s eyes flew widely open. “You plan to be with me?”

  “Certainly. Every day and night. I don’t want to miss this for the world,” Eagle assured her, his eyes leaving hers to follow his hand as he gently smoothed back a strand of her straying hair. “What did you think? That I was going to dump you in the Glades and leave you?”

  “Well, you didn’t say,” Whitney hedged nervously, stuttering in an attempt to hide the rush of heat that flooded through her at his touch. Day and night! She would sleep in the woods with this man—with this compelling stranger who affected her as no one had before—for an entire week. Her throat went dry and her breathing became short and gaspy. Her heart was pounding mercilessly. Couldn’t he hear it? Oh Lord! She was thrilled; she was terrified. Where was her rational thought? If she had any sense in her at all, with the first light of morning she would run away … as far away as she could possibly get from the uncanny power of White Eagle.

  “I don’t happen to have to be anywhere myself for a week,” Eagle was saying amiably. With a shrug and a blink she might have missed, he added, “It’s a slow season for alligator wrestling.”

  Smiling weakly, Whitney pulled gently from his hands and strolled back to the couch. “Will your family accept me?” she asked.

  “The ‘family’ I’m taking you to is my grandmother. As you’ve so observantly noticed, I’m half white. Three quarters, if you want to get technical. But Morning Dew is full-blooded Miccosukee. She is a direct descendant of the great chief Osceola. If anyone can teach you the ways of our people, it is she.”

  “Oh!” Whitney said, puzzled. If White Eagle was only a quarter Indian, why was he wasting his life in the swamp? Questions about his white heritage rose in her throat, but she didn’t get a chance to voice them.

  White Eagle followed her and playfully pulled her from the couch. As she stared at him indignantly, he pointed to a pile of sheets and pillows neatly arranged in the corner of the cabin. “Grab yourself a blanket and I’ll make up your bed. This is an ingenious non-Indian invention known as a Castro convertible.”

  Laughing as she sprang from the couch, Whitney obediently retrieved the bedding from the corner of the room. White Eagle lifted the bottom rung easily and the couch unfolded into a large bed. He motioned for Whitney to toss him a sheet, and between them they silently made the bed. Plumping a single pillow on the crisply clean under-sheet, Eagle bowed gallantly. “Enjoy, Miss Latham. Tomorrow night you will be sleeping with the stars.”

  Granting him a dry smile, Whitney crawled hesitantly onto the converta-bed and pulled the top sheet primly to her chin. “Where are you going to sleep?” she asked him nervously. “I—I don’t mean to kick you out of your own bed!”

  “I’ll be on the other couch and I’ll be fine,” he assured her, smiling down from what seemed an incredible height. Her dark hair was spread in a beautiful, fluffy fan across the white pillow, and the eyes that gazed tentatively at him in return were like seas of jade. An ache shot through White Eagle with a force that almost doubled him over. It was more than simple desire for a lovely woman that pained him, but he refused to question his feelings. Stiffening to a posture as regal as that of any of his warrior ancestors, he growled a quick “Good night” and spun away in a smart turnabout Moving deftly around the cabin to extinguish all but one of the gas lanterns, he added briskly, “I’ll leave this light going so that you won’t be in total blackness. Just don’t panic in the night and go thrashing about and knock it over.”

  “I won’t,” Whitney promised, closing her eyes.

  A few moments later she heard a feint creak as he lowered his weight onto the couch opposite her. Opening her eyes narrowly, she could see his form dimly in the pale, remaining light. The muscle
s of his golden back rippled even in relaxation; the trim length of his legs, still encased in the worn jeans, hung precariously off the couch. He was turned away from her, his black crop of hair resting on a pillow he had bunched beneath his head. Whitney watched him for several moments, then sighed complacently and closed her eyes. Even in the swampland of the Glades, she felt an innate security knowing that he slept just a few feet away, his easy breathing audible if she listened closely.

  In her exhausted state Whitney began to dream. She was back in the muck, following a path to the light. She ran and fell, floundered to her feet, ran and fell again. The earth sucked at her, refusing to release its grip. She could see the light clearly, shining so near! But no matter how desperately she clawed for freedom, the muck dragged her down.

  A noise came from behind her, and in the confused state of her dream she knew that it had to be White Eagle. But it wasn’t. White Eagle stood ahead of her, framed in the glow of the light as a dark form, his arms crossed over his chest, his feet a foot apart and planted firmly to the ground.

  Whitney’s head turned irrevocably in an out-of-sinc slow motion. She didn’t know what she would see behind her and dreaded the confrontation with paralyzing panic, yet still she turned her head, slowly, slowly, slowly …

  Outside in the night, a bird shrieked a high call. It coincided with the earsplitting scream that Whitney rendered as she reared up in the bed, trembling uncontrollably with terror.

  “Whitney! Whitney!” Strong arms cradled her as she fought her way from the murky depths of the dream to reality. The blurry world came into focus and she saw that White Eagle was beside her, his face unmasked for once, his eyes naked pools of tense concern.

  “I—I was dreaming,” she babbled, “about something hounding me. It was coming for me. Oh God! How horrible!”

  “Hush, Whitney, it was only a dream.” He sat holding her, swaying in a slight rocking motion until her trembling subsided to small shudders.

  As her sense of fear lessened with each waking moment, Whitney began to feel faint twinges of embarrassment. Here she was, self-proclaimed rugged woman of the world, wailing like a banshee over a dream!

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, suddenly very aware of the arms that held her with soothing comfort. “I didn’t mean to disturb your sleep. I don’t usually do things like this—”

  He was smiling gently. “It’s all right. You really did have a rather hairy first introduction to the Glades. Probably a delayed reaction.”

  “I guess,” Whitney said sheepishly.

  Pushing her to arm’s length, White Eagle probed her eyes intensely. “You don’t have to go through with this deal of ours,” he said, his expression carefully guarded again.

  Whitney bristled. He was thinking her a cowardly quitter. “I most certainly do intend to go through with our deal, and more important, I intend to win.”

  Eagle shrugged, and Whitney could see the gleam of perfect white against the bronze of his face in the darkness as he nonchalantly grinned. “That is something only the future will tell!” He released her shoulders. “Are you okay now?”

  “I—uh—yes,” Whitney answered. He was rising, and a thickness was catching in her throat. She didn’t want him to leave her. His touch stilled all thoughts of fear and terror. “Wait!” she said impetuously, clutching his hand. He paused and stared down at her with expectant, raised brows. “Don’t go. I mean—” She knew she was blushing furiously and she tossed her head to form a fluffy veil of hair over her telltale features. “I am kicking you out of your bed. You must be horribly uncomfortable on that couch—your feet hang off it! We’re going to be sharing a chickee for a week so we might as well share the comfort of a mattress for the night.” Not daring to look into his eyes for fear of rejection, Whitney gazed with what she hoped was casual nonchalance at his jaw. There was an erratic tic beating in the hollow of his cheek.

  “Are you still frightened?” he demanded tightly.

  Miserably Whitney whispered, “Yes.”

  He gave a funny sigh that sounded like a groan. “Move over,” he muttered irritably, “and I’ll ward off the nocturnal demons. From this side of the bed, at least.”

  Whitney scrambled across the bed, scarcely daring to breathe. She had just asked a stranger to sleep with her. God, what was happening to her? But he didn’t seem like a stranger; in the short time since they had met, she had come to feel that everything in her life before this evening had been inconsequential. She couldn’t imagine anymore not having known him.

  Hearing the rise and fall of his breathing, she wondered if he slept. He had been so kind when she screamed, tender even. But when she asked him to stay, he had been irritated, brusque. Unbidden tears suddenly formed in her eyes. Oh well, what had she expected? She had burst upon his evening and showered him with mud, then disturbed his sleep. And, however grudgingly, he had complied with her request and now lay beside her so that she might get some rest. She would lie very quietly, not even move. She would not waken him again.

  But White Eagle wasn’t sleeping. He lay awake tensely, his body groaning in protest. Damn! Didn’t she know what she was asking of him? His fingers ached to reach out and touch her; his nostrils were filled with her clean, fragrant scent. Every nerve in his body cried out.

  Long after she had fallen back to sleep, Eagle still lay awake. He turned on his side to watch her. The rich splay of her hair was spread in wild disarray over the bedding. Her lips were curled in a small, sweet smile. Who was this lovely enchantress, he wondered whimsically, not trusting her gentle countenance. Only time would tell.

  She stirred in her sleep and inched closer to him, her small frame curving perfectly against his large one as she unconsciously sought his warmth. Eagle groaned aloud softly. Sighing, he slipped an arm around her and his hand fit over her midriff, just below the soft swelling of her breasts. She nuzzled comfortably in his hold, naturally, as if they had lain together hundreds of times before.

  With the warmth of her body radiating through him, White Eagle finally slept. His dreams, too, were of a turbulent nature. The times were long ago, and he was able to follow his natural instincts. And when he found his beautiful witch, he simply made her his and rode away with her into the sunset.

  The thought was still with him when he woke to the dawn, and he grinned at himself with wry humor. Wasn’t that really what he was trying to do?

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BRIGHT HEAT OF the sun streaming in through the open window brought Whitney slowly out of a deep and pleasant sleep. For several minutes she lay in the groggy, relaxed state that was between unconsciousness and full awareness; then as she recalled where she was and the events of the previous night, she opened her eyes with alarm and quickly scanned the room for White Eagle.

  He was nowhere to be seen, but her overnight bag and suitcase were sitting at the foot of the bed. Sometime that morning he had made a trek to her car and procured her things.

  Smiling with gratitude, Whitney leaped from the bed to burrow through her clothing. She was thankful that she was well supplied with jeans. Grabbing a pair, she delved through her more feminine blouses and chose a plain, tailored western-style shirt in a light blue denim. Serviceable certainly! She only had one pair of boots with her, and they were fashionable, soft kid leather. They would be better than nothing, she decided. They would be ruined, but they were replaceable and her feet were not!

  By the time she had finished dressing and had returned the bed to its original couch state, the pleasant aroma of something cooking began to drift through the window. Giving the room a once-over glance and satisfying herself that she had left it impeccably neat, Whitney brushed her hair into a tie at the back of her neck and hurried out the cabin door.

  On the top step Whitney paused and allowed her eyes to roam over the landscape. Things had changed overnight. The cabin, she realized, was built on a spit of high ground, and it was surrounded by a semblance of lawn. In the distance the sawgrass rippled in the breeze,
shimmering like foam-flecked waves on an ocean. To the far left she could see an oasis of cypress trees, dripping prettily with moss. The scene, she had to admit, was beautiful.

  “Whitney! Come on down.”

  Her attention drawn back to the present, Whitney snapped her gaze to the right edge of the “lawn.” White Eagle, similarly appareled as herself in a dark blue work shirt and black jeans, was leaning over one knee as he poked at a small cooking fire. Whitney caught his brilliant blue gaze, and little butterflies began to flutter in her stomach. How could anyone be so damned, rawly attractive?

  And he wasn’t alone. A sandy-haired young man in a Coors beer T-shirt and sneakers sat on the other side of the fire with a woman as stunningly attractive as White Eagle. Her eyes were the same brilliant blue, her hair the same slick raven black. It hung down to her waist in shining waves, framing a good-natured, beautifully sculpted face. For a moment Whitney felt her heart pull with the strings of jealousy. Then a silly smile of relief twitched her lips. With the remarkable resemblance, the woman could only be White Eagle’s sister.

  Her hands stuffed shyly into her pockets, Whitney started across the grass toward them, realizing happily that Eagle had used her first name. In fact, after having addressed her as Miss Latham during their early conversations, he had also called her Whitney when he had come to comfort her after her nightmare …

  “Miss Whitney Latham,” he was saying now as he stood with the sandy-haired man and the woman, “I’d like you to meet my sister, Katie Eagle, and her husband, Randy Harris.”

  As Whitney accepted their friendly handshakes and returned their welcoming smiles, she wondered uneasily why it seemed that her host had stressed the surname Eagle and glanced warningly at his sister. It must have been her imagination, she decided; no one else had appeared to notice.

  “Randy is with the Bureau of Indian Affairs,” White Eagle added as they all sat back down around the fire. “He’s in charge of some of the cattle projects at the Big Cypress Reservation. He and Katie have volunteered to show you around up there next week.”