Native Wolf

by Glynnis Campbell

  It wasn’t the pain that triggered her crying. And it wasn’t fear, not really. It was grief.

  From the day that Yoema fell ill, Samuel Parker had insisted that Claire hide her sorrow. After all, no one knew the truth about Yoema's relationship to Claire. They assumed the native woman was a servant, no more. So for the sake of propriety and obedience to her father, Claire had kept a stiff upper lip and denied herself the relief of tears. Yoema had been buried quietly, and Claire was expected to carry on as if nothing had happened.

  But now she was removed from the eyes of society, stripped of everything that had kept her sailing on a shaky but even keel. Her emotions felt as raw as the soles of her feet. And her father wasn't around to witness her weeping, to be disappointed in her. So all the pain she’d bottled up inside, all the bittersweet memories she’d repressed, all the tears she’d been unable to shed, gushed forth in a torrent so powerful that before long, her chest heaved with wrenching sobs and the gag grew wet with her weeping.

  She no longer cared about the stones cutting her feet, no longer wondered about her captor. All she could think about was the woman who’d cared for her since she was a little motherless girl, who’d taught her the names of the animals, who’d held her when she was sad and lonely, who’d told her stories and sang her songs, and whose voice was now silent. Forever.

  This time, when Claire tripped on the edge of a rock, she landed hard on her knees. She expected to be dragged through the weeds, and frankly she didn’t care if he hauled her that way for ten miles. Now that the egg of her sorrow had been cracked, she realized that nothing could hurt her as much as the loss of the woman she’d called Mother.

  The moment she struck the dirt, however, her captor halted, turning to see what delayed her.

  Overcome with woe, she sank forward over her knees and buried her head. She didn’t care if he watched her. He was nobody. She didn’t have to keep a brave face for him like she did for her father. Her breath came in loud, wheezing gasps, filtered by the smothering cloth. Her throat ached with an agony of grief, and the sobs that racked her body felt as if they tore her soul asunder. Overwhelmed by heartache, she didn't notice at first that the Indian had dismounted and now loomed over her.

  His fingers suddenly grazed the top of her head, startling her, and she almost choked on her tears as she glanced up at him. Though his face swam in her watery vision, he seemed shaken.

  Of course he was shaken. Men never understood women’s weeping. But she didn’t care. She stared up at the frowning savage, openly defiant, tears streaming down her cheeks, silently daring him to ridicule her.

  His scowl deepened, and he jutted out his chin. His mouth worked as if he were trying to decide whether to swallow or spit. Then, with a whispered expletive, he released her. Winding one arm around her waist, he hauled her to her feet and nodded sharply as if to tell her there would be no more falling down.

  She wiped her wet cheek on her shoulder, staring coldly at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. He wrapped his end of the rope one more time around his hand, turned away, and remounted. His back expanded and released once with a deep breath before he clucked to the horse, urging it forward one step.

  Claire stood her ground, refusing to move. Her grief was turning rapidly to anger. What kind of a brute abducted a woman by night, forced her barefoot across rock-riddled hills, and ignored her tears of distress? In her dime novels, even the most dastardly villain possessed at least a shred of common decency.

  Damn his coal-black eyes! If he wanted her to move from this spot, he’d just have to drag her.

  When he turned to peer at her, the corners of his mouth were drawn down. He tugged once more on the rope.

  Raising her chin, she took a step backward.

  His eyes widened. He tugged again, pulling her forward a step.

  Incensed, she marshaled her strength and hauled back on the rope as hard as she could.

  To her satisfaction, she managed to alter his look of annoyance to one of surprise, though for all her efforts, he didn’t budge more than a few inches.

  His amazement was short-lived. He simply let go of the rope, and she sank with a plop onto her bottom. Before she could scramble upright, he slipped from Thunder, stalking toward her, muttering under his breath all the way.

  Leaning forward, he upended her, slinging her over one ox-like shoulder. The air whooshed out of her, and she closed her eyes against the dizzying sensation of her precarious perch. Then he tossed her sidesaddle across the horse and swiftly mounted up behind her.

  Flinging a possessive arm around her waist, he nudged Thunder forward, mumbling what sounded suspiciously like "damn fool Indian,” and rode stonily into the deepening night.

  At first she sat upright, stiff, unwilling to even think about letting her body come into contact with his. But as they rode on, mile after mile, her strength flagged. The sleep that had evaded her for days finally caught up with her, lulling her muscles into complacency and urging her eyes closed.

  She stirred once along the gently rocking ride, fluttering her eyes open long enough to note that the sky had taken on the purple cast of the far side of midnight. Then she settled back in surrender against the stranger’s chest. Her grief spent, she found curious comfort in dozing against the warm cotton shirt, safe from sorrow, safe from memories, safe from judgment.

  Hours later, the sound of soft snoring woke her. Claire opened her eyes to a morning filled with apricot-colored light. Before her, the rolling hills lay silvered with dew and dotted with dark oaks, and the rising sun stretched fingers of gold across the emerald knolls. For one brief moment, she forgot where she was and simply enjoyed the glorious view.

  Then the man—who was pressed far too intimately against her—snorted awake, and she remembered everything. Her captor had apparently slept for some time, for the horse had stopped to graze upon a patch of clover, and it looked like they were miles from anywhere.

  "Shit!"

  Claire flinched. So the savage did speak English…or at least knew one useful word. He shifted on Thunder’s back, and she realized, much to her chagrin, that unless the man wore a Colt down his trousers, her hands, bound behind her, had just brushed the most private part of his anatomy. She curled her fingers in horror, relieved when he finally dismounted.

  The stallion neighed, and then returned to chomping at the sweet grass. Her captor circled into her view, hitching up his trousers and scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then he lowered his hands from his face, and Claire saw him by the light of day for the first time.

  He was truly massive, larger than any man she’d ever seen, broad of shoulder and chest. The muscles of his arms strained the blue flannel of his shirt, and his hands looked big enough to hide a whole poker deck.

  But it wasn’t his size that made her throat go suddenly dry.

  The man was devilishly handsome. She could see now that he wasn’t a full-blooded native. His short black hair had a slight curl to it, and his chin was dark with stubble. His skin was as golden as wild honey, and his teeth were snowy white where his lips parted. Deep, brooding eyes, shadowed by fatigue, shone like marbles of obsidian as he scrutinized her. And something about him looked curiously familiar.

  "Ah, hell."

  She blinked, impressed by his command of English, if not his vocabulary.

  But the third word she pretended she didn’t hear. He turned his back to her and kicked hard at the dirt, raking his hair back with both hands.

  She wondered why he was upset. He had no reason to blacken the air with his cussing. He wasn’t the one trussed up like a steer for branding. He wasn’t the one stolen from a snug home and dragged across the hills half the night in his unmentionables. His throat wasn’t as dry as gunpowder, and his legs weren’t bloody with thistle scratches.

  He spun back around, glaring at her as if she were somehow to blame. She tried to glare back at him. But Thunder chose that inopportune moment to amble forward, stretching his neck down for a choice bunch of
clover. Claire’s eyes widened as she began to slide inexorably, helplessly from her perch toward the hard-packed earth.

  Chapter 3

  The instant Chase saw the panic in those big, beautiful green eyes, he instinctively lunged forward and caught the woman before she could slide off. Unfortunately, his efforts trapped her awkwardly between the horse's shoulder and his own chest. Her eyes widened even more, and he cursed, realizing that with her hands tied behind her, she could lend him no assistance whatsoever.

  She slipped down his body, inch by delicious inch. Her soft breasts were crushed against his hard ribs, and her flimsy petticoat rode halfway up her legs before he could disentangle himself from her. At last he managed to get her feet on the ground.

  Now if he could only regain his own balance.

  What the hell had he been thinking last night, stealing a white woman? Whatever was in that whiskey, it must have robbed him of his last bit of sense, making him believe he had a hunger for vengeance and the stomach for violence.

  Chase wasn’t a killer. Or a kidnapper. Hell, he wouldn’t even step on a spider. Cruelty didn’t come naturally to him.

  Neither did embracing a beautiful woman. Women didn’t come close to Chase much. His size usually scared them off. And if that didn’t do it, his scowl would.

  Not this one. The lady might be a tiny thing, as pale as a flower, as delicate as a fawn. But there was strength in her spirit, fire in her heart. Damn, even in his sleep, his body had gotten riled up over her.

  A moment passed before Chase realized his arms were still wrapped around the woman. Outrage sparked in her eyes, and he released her like a white-hot poker.

  She probably figured he meant to ravage her. He was sure white men did such things. But Chase would no sooner take a woman against her will than he’d brand an animal.

  He stepped away, shaken. He managed to keep enough wits about him to gather the end of the rope in his fist so she wouldn’t run off and get herself into worse trouble. Then he sank down onto the trunk of a fallen tree to consider his predicament.

  Shit! Why hadn’t he listened to Drew? Chase had obviously had more whiskey than sense last night. And today, unlike the sweet flavor of revenge he’d imagined, the reality of holding a helpless woman captive left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing sideways at his hostage, who looked like some beautiful snow-white angel dropped out of heaven into the dirt. What the hell had he done?

  A half-breed couldn’t kidnap a white woman, particularly the wife of a rich rancher, and not expect half the population to come after him with guns blazing.

  Worse, the horse he’d borrowed was a fine-looking animal, probably breeding stock. Hell, Parker might mourn the loss of his stallion more than his wife. Chase didn’t know what they did to a man who took another man's woman, but they hanged you for horse thieving.

  He scratched uneasily at his throat.

  Vengeance had seemed like such a good idea last night. Now it felt like the biggest mistake of his life.

  He squinted into the dawning day. Unlike his brother, he measured the hour not with a pocket watch, but by the position of the sun. By now the old rancher would be missing his young wife. He’d probably already assembled a search party.

  Chase winced as his gaze followed the meandering path of bent grass they’d left in the meadow. A child could track them along a trail like that.

  He peered again at the woman tethered to him. She stood straight and proud, for all her crying last night, and there was something alluring about her sleep-mussed hair and dirt-smudged face.

  He should probably just let her go, her and the horse. He could untie her, put her on the stallion, give the horse's flank a slap, and send the rancher's precious wife safely home, none the worse for wear, before she could burn his ears with a spate of well-deserved cussing. Then Chase could clear out, go back to Hupa, and forget he’d ever passed this way.

  It sounded like a perfect plan. There was just one problem.

  His brother Drew was still in town, and the town wasn’t all that big. Sooner or later, Drew was bound to cross paths with Mrs. Claire Parker. And of course, the instant she laid eyes on Chase's twin, she’d tattle to her husband that that was the no-good half-breed who’d made off with her.

  Chase couldn’t put his brother in harm’s way like that. The twins had a habit of looking out for each other. Drew might be clever, but he’d never slip through the noose of a powerful husband bent on vengeance.

  No, Chase couldn't let the woman go until his brother was safely out of town. He wouldn’t allow Drew to pay for his stupid mistake, especially since Drew had tried to talk him out of it. This was his problem, his destiny. The Great Spirit had set him on this journey. And no matter how impulsive Chase’s actions had been last night or how much danger he now faced, he had to confront that destiny alone.

  Whatever he did, he’d have to do it soon if he didn’t want Parker's men breathing down his neck.

  He supposed he should say something to the woman. He should put her fears to rest, let her know he meant her no harm, explain that it had all been a mistake.

  But, damn it all, he didn’t have Drew’s slick way with words. Every time he opened his mouth, trying to find a reasonable way to explain what he’d done or to justify what he was about to do, he had to close it again.

  It wasn’t like she was going to forgive him for kidnapping her. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to understand why he meant to hang onto her a little while longer.

  So he dealt with the problem in his usual way—with silence. He didn’t untie her for fear she’d try to escape and hurt herself. He didn’t meet her eyes, knowing the innocent confusion he'd see there would only frustrate him. And he gave up trying to talk to her. He needed to focus instead on figuring out just where they were going.

  He supposed he was lucky the horse hadn’t moseyed back to the Parker Ranch while he dozed. The beast probably would have gone by the main road, whinnying at the gate to announce their arrival.

  There was no question in his mind that he had to return Mrs. Parker to Paradise as soon as possible, then hightail it back to Hupa with his brother, even if he had to drag Drew from between some woman's thighs. What he needed was a discreet back entrance to the town that would allow him to slip in and out without attracting attention. But since he was in unfamiliar territory, he’d have to rely on his native instincts to help him read the land and find that back door.

  In the distance to the southwest, a small range of buttes rose up in distinctive humps from the flat grasslands. The Konkow called the buttes Histum Yani, the Creator’s sweathouse. Drew and he had kept them on their right shoulder on the journey here.

  He squinted toward the foothills where the sun was rising. According to his father, just below the ridge upon which the town perched, a deep canyon cut through the earth, creating a valley. Long ago, his father’s sister Towani had lived in that valley, before her husband Noa had taken her away to his home on the island of Hawaii. Chase remembered his father saying that a forked creek wound through the canyon, and caves pitted the steep stone walls.

  If he followed the creek upstream, it had to eventually rise to its source, somewhere above Paradise. On horseback, the journey shouldn’t take more than a day or two, and once there, he could make his way back down and enter the town from the uphill side. No one would expect him to circle back into the mountains and come from that direction, especially since his tracks so far had led in the opposite direction, toward the wide, fertile grasslands and civilization.

  To elude his trackers, he’d have to move quickly. He was in open prairie at the moment, completely vulnerable. He needed to get out of sight, and he needed a place to hole up for the night. He wondered how far the caves were. Maybe if he rode swiftly, he could make it there by nightfall.

  First, however, he needed to relieve himself of the excess whiskey he’d had last night.

  He was halfway to his feet when he felt
the woman's wide-eyed gaze on him.

  Hell.

  He couldn’t just drop his drawers in front of her. He obviously hadn’t worked out the details of this brilliant kidnapping plan. But then he hadn’t imagined his victim would be a lady.

  And now that he had her, he was troubled by the fact that she was so...real. Things would be a hell of a lot easier if she were flat and lifeless, like the portrait hanging in Parker's mansion. Instead, her big green eyes were clear and perceptive, filled with wariness and intelligence and courage. It was unnerving.

  He silently cursed his quandary. He’d do his best to take Mrs. Parker’s sensibilities into consideration, but he wasn’t about to leave her unguarded to go find a tree.

  So he compromised. Tugging her along on the rope, he found a waist-high clump of buckbrush to use as a screen between them, turned his back, and used his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

  Claire felt her cheeks go hot with embarrassment. Lord, had the savage no decency? How could he do...that...right in front of her? It was uncivilized. Thoroughly disgusting. Utterly vile.

  And yet a darker thought taunted her, nibbling at her brain like a mean little mouse gnawing at the underside of a horse trough. What was she going to do when she faced the same urges? Fortunately, she was too edgy to relieve herself just now, and when the half-breed whipped toward her, buttoning up belatedly enough to give her an unexpected glimpse of bronze flesh and black curls, all such urges fled.

  She squeezed her offended eyes shut, trying to erase the image that now seemed branded upon her brain, and didn't move until she felt a tug on the rope circling her waist. She took one blind step, stubbing her toe on a rock, and sniffed sharply against the pain.

  She shot her captor a glare full of blame. His mouth worked, as if he were simultaneously displeased and disgraced. Then he spoke his first civil words to her. "We’ve got a ways to go. I'm going to put you on the horse."