Native Wolf

by Glynnis Campbell

  She swallowed hard, caught off-guard by the quality of his voice—soft, deep, and full of breath, like the rare autumn breezes that rustled the pines. The fact that he spoke flawless English gave her hope.

  Perhaps she could reason with the half-breed after all. He must know he couldn't ransom damaged goods. If she could get him to remove her gag, maybe she could strike a bargain with him.

  But he wouldn’t even meet her eyes. Frowning as he towered over her, he spanned her waist with his huge hands, lifted her onto Thunder's back as effortlessly as if she were made of feathers, and then mounted up behind her.

  She kept her fists primly closed, painfully aware that the particular part of his anatomy she’d just glimpsed was only inches from her bound hands.

  Claire wondered if the man realized where he was headed. She knew from the position of the Sutter Buttes that they were traveling roughly north. They couldn’t be more than ten or twelve miles from the Parker Ranch.

  The morning wore on, and they crossed the sparsely-treed plain toward a low ridge of hills. Claire's impending need began to make itself known as the dilemma she'd anticipated earlier slowly blossomed into a full-bloomed necessity. Her struggles didn’t go unnoticed. Her captor grunted at her in disapproval when she squirmed against him. A second twitch elicited a "hold still" from him. When she twisted for the third time, he dismounted, perplexed, to scowl up at her.

  Her trouble must have been written on her face. He quickly snatched her from Thunder's back, deposited her on the ground, and nudged her toward a stand of buckbrush.

  He never let go of the tether, but he at least had the decency to turn his back. Silently cursing her inconvenient anatomy and the fact that her hands were bound, Claire did the best she could under the circumstances.

  Afterward, physically relieved and emotionally mortified, Claire refused to look into the man's face. As he lifted her back onto the horse, she stared fixedly at the shirt button in the middle of his chest.

  "Next time,” he mumbled, “say something."

  She glared down at him from atop the horse with all the rage she could muster. How in blazes did he expect her to say anything when she was gagged?

  The man let his guard drop momentarily to mount, and for one mad instant, Claire imagined she might ride off without her abductor and escape across the countryside. Impulsively, she punched her bare heels hard into the horse's flanks.

  Thunder reared, but didn't budge from the spot. By the time the stallion's hooves hit the ground, the man had swung up and steadied the startled beast.

  "And don’t kick the horse,” he growled.

  Claire was incensed. How dared this stranger tell her what she could and couldn’t do? Thunder was her father's horse. Besides, she hadn't kicked him. She'd only...nudged him. She suddenly wished the half-breed were in swinging range of her foot. She'd show him what a kick was.

  But she didn't have time to even turn and glower at him. He reached across, making a swift and startling adjustment to her seat, drawing one of her knees over Thunder's neck to let it dangle down the other flank, leaving her straddling the stallion in a most unladylike fashion and bringing a stunned flush to her cheeks.

  All at once, at the half-breed’s urging, Thunder plunged forward. As they began barreling along at a reckless pace that left the wind whistling past her ears, Claire was suddenly grateful to have her knees free to grasp on for dear life.

  The steed coursed wildly across the sod, his dull hoofbeats matching the rapid pumping of her heart. Though tempted to squeeze her eyes shut in terror, she dared not even blink for fear of tumbling to the ground. The man bent over her, folding her forward with his brutish chest until she saw the grasslands before them only in intermittent glimpses between the eager bobs of the stallion's head.

  The man's enormous arms enclosed her while he snagged Thunder's mane, and she felt the tension in his thighs as they gripped the horse's flexing muscles behind her. Horse and man breathed as one, sucking in gulps of air and huffing them out with each long stride. Her captor’s warm breath blew like a stirring wind across her ear, exciting her in ways that were almost as terrifying as the ride.

  When they slowed to breach a grove of oaks, Thunder whinnied and shivered, apparently delighted to have stretched his legs in a headlong run. Claire, too, felt a secret thrill, as if she'd done something forbidden.

  Of course it was forbidden. Her father wouldn't have allowed her to sit astride like a man. He was always after her to behave more like a lady. And he would have tanned the half-breed’s hide if he knew his prize stallion had been ridden so hard.

  Where was he taking her anyway? She wished she could ask him. Not that he’d give her an answer. He seemed to be a man of few words, most of them vile.

  They rode on in silence, weaving through the oaks, galloping across open country, while the sun climbed higher and higher in the sky.

  By midday, they’d passed through a half-dozen of the rolling knolls that swelled the plains below Paradise. Claire was hungry and thirsty, and with each mile, her dread increased. What did the man want with her? The farther they traveled, the less chance she had of being found.

  As the sun began its westward descent, she came to a decision. There was little hope of reasoning with the savage. She couldn’t rely on her father’s rescue. And dime novel hero Daniel Boone was nowhere in sight.

  Soon she was going to have to take matters into her own hands.

  Chase glanced up at the sun’s position and then studied the terrain ahead. In another hour, they’d reach the foothills, where the land began to surge up from the valley floor—a herald of the steep, majestic ridges to come. Then he would head northeast, toward the mountains.

  So far he’d been lucky. He’d managed to stay clear of the main road, sailing hastily across open seas of grass and finding temporary harbor in the concealing oak groves.

  Still he left a trail. There was no doubt about that. He was moving too fast to cover his passage. A good tracker would know by now which way he was headed. But half a day’s advantage and Chase’s estimation of what lay ahead might give him an edge.

  And then what? Chase wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead and tried not to think about it. When they were safe, when they reached the cliffs, then he’d decide exactly what to do about his unwilling captive with the pretty green eyes.

  His stomach gurgled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since the night before. He wondered when she’dlast eaten. A woman that scrawny probably had to eat pretty often just to keep from blowing away.

  By the time another hour passed, the weary sun had tucked itself beneath a blanket of storm clouds forming in the west, and his blacksmith’s appetite had grown to enormous proportions.

  Chase had never truly gone hungry before. He’d grown up in plenty. The hunting skills of his Konkow father, the profits his white mother earned from her paintings, and the simple abundance of the land had provided him with all he could ever want. Now his stomach grumbled like an old bear.

  He supposed he should gather what food he could before sunset. Fortunately, it was the time of dunghit, spring, when shoots and roots and bulbs were ample. They might not be the tinned oysters the white lady was accustomed to, but they’d nourish her well enough.

  He guided the horse toward a shady spot afforded by a dozen sycamores, where a tiny spring fed the marshy ground. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he heard the sound of the taunting trickle. With the gag in her mouth, poor Mrs. Parker was probably drier than powdered pinesap.

  He should have stopped to let her drink a long while back...just like he should have foreseen she’d have to answer nature’s call. But damn it all, he was used to taking care of horses, not women.

  He hardly knew what to do with women. He wasn’t like his brother Drew, who, with only a wink and a smile, could have the most formidable lady eating out of his hand. Around females, Chase felt like a big, clumsy wolf.

  He dismounted, and she stiffened suddenly.
The clever lady wasn’t as weak and subdued as she pretended to be. He could see some rash, desperate plan brewing in her eyes. Her body quivered like a doe’s, ready to bolt, and her nostrils flared with rapid breath. He snagged the rope circling her waist before she could do anything foolish and pierced her wild eyes with his own in warning.

  The sun had painted the top of her nose pink, and her lips were wind-chapped, but he’d be damned if she wasn’t still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

  Guilt made him frown, which was the wrong thing to do. Her gaze grew even more reckless and determined. If it weren’t for the gag, she’d probably be screaming like a wildcat.

  Hell. How was he going to ease her fears? He meant her no harm. Well, actually, he did. Or had. But not any more. Not enough harm to make her eyes go all panicky like that.

  He carefully tightened his hand around the rope. She was apt to spook at the slightest movement, and he didn’t feel like chasing her halfway across the hills. He supposed he’d better try to talk to her.

  "I’m going to take off the gag now." She still sat as stiff as a buck catching the scent of a hunter. "But I expect you to stay nice and quiet."

  She only stared at him. He supposed he’d just have to trust her. She was probably too scared to scream anyway. Grasping her carefully around the waist, he helped her to the ground. Damn, the woman was as light as thistledown. Had hunger made her even more insubstantial?

  She stood still as he worked on the knot at the back of her head, and he gazed curiously at her shorn hair. It was the soft, pale yellow of foxtail stalks in xonsil, summer, but it was uneven, as if it had been hacked off in anger. He wondered if someone had punished her by cutting it. It must have been pretty, the way it had looked in the painting, pouring like a shimmering sheet of molten brass past her shoulders. Still, there was something about the ragged strands falling over her face that was just as pretty, sort of innocent and vulnerable.

  After he untangled the knot, he spun her around and carefully tugged the bandanna from her mouth, wincing as he saw the red marks the cloth had left along her cheeks.

  Damn. He’d done that. He’d made those marks.

  He scowled. Was he no better than the white soldiers who’d taken his people? He’d let liquor get the best of him. What he’d done was shameful. And cruel. And he deserved every...

  Before he could finish the thought, the woman sucked in a great gulp of air, opened her mouth wide, and let out a scream so piercing it would have frozen the blood of a Hupa warrior.

  Chapter 4

  The old man growled from the doorway, taking aim with his rifle. "You son of a bitch, I'll shoot you where you stand.”

  Drew Hawk sincerely hoped not. First of all, he didn’t want to die in a brothel. And second of all, he didn’t want anyone putting a bullet in him without knowing what the hell he was being shot for.

  The gunman’s obsequious young associate tried to smooth his ruffled feathers. "Now, Mr. Parker," he said, "you just let me take care of this." He rested his palm over the old man’s trembling gun hand, lowering the rifle.

  Drew breathed an invisible sigh of relief. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have dived across the bed, snatched his Colt from the night table, and fired off all six rounds before the man had a chance to blink. He just didn’t want to.

  The young man gave him a greasy smile. "I’m sure the Injun doesn’t want any trouble, do you?”

  Drew narrowed his eyes. Despite the young man’s dapper plaid suit, a head of well-oiled blond curls, and a square, freshly shaved chin, his smile looked as out of place on his face as a preacher at a faro table.

  "Oh, I’m not lookin’ for trouble," Drew said pointedly. "But I sure as hell won’t turn my back if it comes lookin’ for me."

  The young man gave him a patronizing grin. "Then you won’t mind telling Mr. Parker here where you were last night."

  "I think that’s pretty obvious." This pair of sniffing bloodhounds had come barging into his room before he’d even had a chance to wake up. He didn’t know what had happened to the beautiful angel who’d shared her bed with him. But for the whopping twenty dollars he’d paid her, he certainly hadn’t intended on spending the night anywhere else.

  The young man snaked out a hand and twisted it in the front of Drew’s undershirt. "Don’t get cocky," he sneered.

  If Drew hadn’t felt so hung over, he would have punched the man’s dainty nose halfway into his skull.

  "Frank," the old man said, dotting sweat from his furrowed brow with a handkerchief, "we’re losing precious time."

  Frank hesitated, then released him, smoothing the wrinkles out of Drew’s cotton shirt with exaggerated care before Drew batted his hand away.

  Parker stepped forward, his rifle tucked harmlessly beneath his arm now, and peered carefully into Drew’s eyes.

  "My little girl disappeared last night." The old man’s mouth trembled. He clamped it firmly shut. "Someone...took her."

  Drew smirked. "And you figure, me bein’ a half-breed and all, I must be the one who stole the little filly?"

  Frank exploded from his stance. But Drew was ready for him this time. He shot out an arm and slammed the astonished fop up against the wall.

  "Frank!" Parker bellowed. "Please."

  Frank squirmed beneath the pressure of Drew’s arm. Drew could see the dandy was itching for an excuse to beat the daylights out of him. But he wouldn’t do that while Parker was watching. So Drew let him go, straightening Frank’s fancy vest with false courtesy just for spite.

  Parker continued. "Mister, I’m not accusing you, but I’ve been ranching in Paradise for years. I know who belongs here and who doesn’t. Now it looks to me like you’re the only stranger in town."

  The gears turning in Drew’s head ground to a sudden halt. Ranching in Paradise. Parker. Hell, the old man must be Samuel Parker of the Parker Ranch. Wasn’t that where Chase had been headed last night?

  Years of playing poker allowed Drew to keep a straight face. But this news was like a fifth ace turning up in his hand all of a sudden, and he knew he’d better bluff his way out of this game fast.

  "Well now, that’s a fact," he said congenially. "I am a stranger in this town. But I just arrived yesterday. I’ve hardly had time to wet my whistle, let alone perpetrate any mischief."

  Drew’s mind whirled. Parker must have questioned the madam. That’s how he’d found out Drew was upstairs. But she hadn’t volunteered the fact that Drew had a twin brother. God love the savvy madam, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

  Meanwhile, the old rancher seemed lost in his thoughts. "The kidnapper cut off her..." His voice broke as his fretful gaze wandered restlessly over the planks of the floor. "Cut off her hair."

  Drew’s eyes flattened. Chase wouldn’t have done something like that to a little girl.

  "We figure it was an Injun," Frank sneered.

  "Truth is,” Parker amended, “I don’t know what to figure." He fixed Drew with eyes as cold and hard as his rifle barrel. "But if you know anything..."

  Drew slowly shook his head. "I was up here all night, entertainin’. The madam can vouch for me."

  It was a gamble, counting on the madam. She might have covered for Drew, him being a paying customer and all, but her loyalty concerning his brother could probably be bartered for a couple of gold coins.

  Parker nodded, brushing back his gray mustache with solemn dignity. "Sorry about the rifle."

  "Understandable. If it were my little girl, well..." Drew left the thought unfinished.

  The old man nudged Frank out the door. "If you hear anything..."

  "I’ll be sure to let you know."

  No sooner did the door clap shut than Drew snagged his shirt and trousers from the bedpost, eager to find out what had happened to Chase.

  The woman scared the hell out of him.

  How she’d managed to hide so quietly under the covers, he didn’t know. But when she suddenly threw back the bedclothes, his heart jumped into his
throat, and he went for his gun.

  Fortunately, her gasp brought him to his senses before he could fire off a round. But it was a shaky hand he ran through his hair as he placed the Colt back down on the night table.

  "Sorry, ma’am," he wheezed, sinking weakly down onto the edge of the mattress.

  Damn, he’d forgotten how breathtaking she was. Or maybe now that he was sober, he saw her more clearly. Loose black ringlets trailed recklessly over her shoulders, which were deliciously bare except for the thin ribbons of lace holding up her camisole. Her skin glowed the shade of pressed olives, smooth and rich, as if someone had poured oil in just the right amount over her delicate bones. Her white cotton camisole was laced up over her bosom now, but he remembered glimpsing the sweet upper curve of her breasts. Fine, dark brows arched over deep whiskey-colored eyes, and her chin possessed the most flirtatious cleft. But that full, expressive, ruby mouth of hers and that tiny, seductive mole situated right beside it—that was what strained his drawers to bursting.

  In fact, seeing her all breathless and fretful, her lips parted and sleep-swollen, Drew could easily talk himself out of chasing after that fool brother of his. Hell, Chase probably didn’t have anything to do with the little girl that had gone missing anyway. His brother generally steered clear of children and other small creatures, always afraid he’d hurt them.

  Chase had had way too much to drink last night was all. He’d likely just passed out in a field somewhere. He sure as hell didn’t need Drew’s help. Chase always landed on his feet. He was the sensible twin. If anyone was going to get into trouble, it was Drew. Besides, Chase had said it himself—this was his journey. Drew had only come along for the adventure.

  As he lay back on his elbows and let his eyes drink their fill of the lovely lady before him, he thought the woman tucked delectably into his bed looked like the adventure of a lifetime.

  Chapter 5

  At the woman’s earsplitting scream, Chase’s heart vaulted into his throat like a spooked jackrabbit. Dropping the bandanna, he lunged forward and clapped a hand over her mouth, instantly cutting off her cries. He cast his glance wildly through the trees. If the woman had alerted anyone...