Native Wolf

by Glynnis Campbell

  "No," he bit out.

  Muttering an angry curse, she flounced off toward the entrance of the cave.

  He came up behind her, catching her elbow with such speed and stealth that she cried out in surprise. Then he hauled her toward the back of the cave.

  Of course, she thought. He didn’t want her signaling anyone below.

  Where did he expect her to sleep then? If he’d let her speak, she might ask him. Instead, she cast her glance about the cave, wondering where she was supposed to bed down.

  "Here," he said to her unasked question, pointing to a reasonably flat stretch of dry rock.

  She didn’t bother arguing with him that she’d more likely fall asleep on a bed of nails than in a cave with a half-naked half-breed. Instead, she lowered herself to the cave floor and curled into a ball on her side, facing the wall and closing her eyes to shut out the image of masculine muscles imprinted on her brain.

  She stiffened and clenched her eyes all the tighter when she felt the man stretch out beside her, far closer than decency allowed.

  She wasn’t about to fall asleep, not while he lay so near and not while lurid stories of Red-Skin abductions and enslavement kept circling in her head.

  She was going to have to make a break for it. That was all there was to it. She had to get out of the savage’s grasp. She didn’t know for certain whether rescue was on the way. But no self-respecting dime novel hero ever waited for someone else to save the day.

  Eventually, the man’s breathing slowed as he sank into a deep sleep. Outside, the rain ceased and the clouds dissipated. Blessed starlight flooded the mouth of the cave, as if showing Claire the way out.

  Her knee popped as she pressed herself up. She was sure she'd awaken him, but his breath continued, slow and steady.

  He'd left her dime novel at her feet. She tucked the precious book into her camisole. Then, edging forward with painstaking stealth, she skirted past the dozing man and across the cave floor. Finally she untied Thunder, leading him quietly to the entrance of the cave.

  The way down the mountain appeared less treacherous now. The rough edges of rock and crevice seemed muted, softened by the moon’s glow. Distance was difficult to measure in the deceptive light. What had taken an hour to climb looked like a short jaunt to the valley floor. On the ascent, she’d been far too fearful to pay attention to the route the man chose. She’d have to rely upon her own judgment for the path down.

  She took the first few paces out of the cave. The mire was slick under her feet. She experienced a pang of doubt as her heel slipped sideways, knocking a smattering of pebbles over the edge. Regaining her footing, she took a breath to steady her nerves and continued forward, guiding the horse along the narrow trail.

  The ripped ruffle of her petticoat trailed through the mud. The soles of her feet were bruised by sharp rocks. Strings of her chopped hair hung in her eyes. But she didn’t care. Soon she’d be out of her hulking captor’s clutches.

  A wisp of cloud left behind by the storm veiled the moon’s round face for a moment, obscuring the landscape, delaying her. When it cleared, she clucked softly to urge the horse forward, wincing as his heavy hooves seemed to pound upon the wet sod.

  She’d just reached the first switchback down the hill when she skidded on a mossy patch of ground and lost her balance. Cartwheeling her arms, she came down hard on her bottom and slid. Only Thunder’s rope, clasped tightly in her fist, kept her from slipping down the hillside onto the sharp granite rocks below. For an awful instant, she hung by the white-knuckled fingers of one hand, biting back cries of panic. Her rushing pulse filled her ears as gravel trickled down beside her like a vicious taunt.

  For once, Claire appreciated Thunder’s stubbornness, for if he hadn’t fought the lead, she would have pulled him down with her, and they both would have skidded down the slope. Instead, clinging to the rope with sheer determination, she managed to gather her feet under her and scramble back onto the trail.

  She flopped onto her back in relief, lying there for a full minute, all the while wondering if she’d made a mistake attempting such a daring escape. But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t overpower the muscled giant, who could carry her in one arm without even breathing heavily. So she had to rely on outwitting him.

  Wiping dots of sweat from her brow, she rose on trembling legs and stroked Thunder’s muzzle to calm him. Then she stepped carefully forward, checking each patch of ground like a skater testing thin ice. It might take longer this way, but at least they’d have a better chance of making it safely to the valley floor.

  The downpour had done more damage to the path than Claire noticed at first. Great ruts were gouged into the vertical wall by rivulets of rain. What footprints they’d left on the way up were obliterated in the clay. Silt blanketed the bases of the sparse brush that clung to the hillside. And whole sections of the already constricted trail were undermined and washed away.

  It seemed like it took an eternity, but by some miracle she managed to coax Thunder along the storm-damaged path, almost all the way to the base of the mountain. Unfortunately, with less than a dozen feet more to descend, the trail dwindled away to nothing.

  Claire cursed under her breath. She couldn’t stop now. She could almost taste freedom. One way or another, she had to get to the bottom.

  Pressing her back against the muddy wall, she managed to sidle along a spare stretch of eroded ground to a rocky landing. But when she coaxed the stallion to follow, he danced backward, reluctant to cross the too narrow passage.

  "Come on," she whispered, tugging lightly on the rope, "you can do it."

  He tossed his head, refusing.

  "Come on, Thunder," she begged. "Just a little farther." She whistled very softly and clucked to him.

  He pranced tentatively forward, then back.

  "That’s a good boy. Come on."

  He tested the surface with his front hooves, crowding them onto the path. Satisfied the ground was solid, he bounded forward. But the stance of his back legs was too wide. His right leg crumbled the loose soil, the earth fell away, and he stepped into empty air.

  Thunder gave a startled snort, and as Claire watched helplessly, the steed tried to gain a purchase on the slick mud, to no avail. While she looked on with mouth agape, the great stallion slid on his side down the rest of the slope.

  It happened so quickly, there was nothing Claire could do. If she hadn’t let go of the rope, she would have followed him down.

  To her relief, somehow Thunder managed to get his legs under him. But no sooner did his hooves touch the ground than he scrambled up, shivered once—none the worse for his slippery slide—and shot off like a jail-breaker back through the canyon pass.

  “What the...?” Claire watched in frustration and fury, her mouth agape. She didn’t dare raise her voice to yell at the despicable deserter. But she couldn’t sputter out enough vile names under her breath for the disloyal beast who’d abandoned her without a backward glance.

  Now she’d be forced to escape on foot. And there was no time to waste. She gathered her muddy skirts in one hand and prepared to slide down by the same route Thunder had taken. She never saw the man’s shadow slipping down the mountain. By the time she noticed, he was already charging toward her like a wild buffalo.

  Chapter 6

  Chase had no time for the wide-eyed woman. He had to retrieve the horse. Hell, without the horse…

  He scowled and scaled down the mountain as fast as he could, half sprinting, half sliding. When he reached Claire, who hunkered down into a defensive ball, he leaped over her and clambered to the bottom, chasing after the runaway stallion.

  But the barn-sour beast was long gone. And there was nothing he could do. There wasn’t a man alive who could run as fast as a homesick horse.

  “Ling-miwhxiy!” He kicked hard at the dirt, spitting epithets after the beast, and then finally turned back in defeat, raking his hands through his hair and pacing off his fury.

  Trickster Co
yote must be rolling with laughter now. The woman had just put a huge wrinkle in Chase’s plans to return her in a timely fashion.

  Damn it all! He needed to get her home. The longer he kept her, the worse it would get.

  The woman was frightened.

  He was racked by guilt.

  Her father was probably half crazy with worry.

  And now that she’d made a rash escape attempt and lost the horse, putting things to rights was going to take even longer.

  He shook his head. He guessed he should have let the woman in on his plans. Maybe then she wouldn’t have interfered with them. And he supposed he should have realized she’d try to flee. But he hadn’t expected her to have so much fight left in her. She’d looked so frail and helpless last night, shivering like a wet colt in his oversized shirt. It hadn’t occurred to him that beneath that soft exterior hid the spirit of a warrior.

  He dropped his shoulders in resignation and narrowed his eyes at the mountain. He’d be damned if the woman wasn’t still trying to run off, scrambling down the muddy hill in the opposite direction.

  He had to admire her initiative and her moxie, but she was headed for trouble. Without the horse, he doubted she could find her way home. White women weren’t used to surviving in the wilderness. If she didn’t die of hunger, she’d probably get herself killed by a mountain lion or a rattlesnake.

  He couldn’t leave her to her own devices. It was his fault she was in the middle of nowhere. It was his obligation to get her safely home.

  Fortunately, it wouldn’t be hard to catch her. She was a tiny thing. He could easily outrun and overpower her. So he crossed his arms over his chest, in no hurry, and waited for her to tucker herself out.

  She flashed him a few fretful glances, continuing her descent until she’d almost reached the bottom of the hill.

  Then he sighed and walked patiently toward her.

  Claire knew she was doomed. Without Thunder, she didn’t stand a chance against the half-breed. He was bigger, stronger, and faster than she was. But she refused to surrender. After all, Kit Carson wouldn't surrender. Davy Crockett wouldn't surrender. Buckskin Bill…

  Her eyes widened as she saw he was coming for her, walking as if he had all the time in the world, which was more unnerving than if he’d come at a run. Giving a little squeak of panic, she redoubled her efforts, resorting to scrambling away on her hands and knees when she took a tumble in the mud.

  She’d just reached the valley floor when she was suddenly hauled up by the scruff of her neck like a stray kitten. She gasped, flailing against her captor, hoping to twist free. But all her squirming didn’t seem to affect his grip in the least.

  Forgetting her promise, she sucked in a breath to yell for help, in case some stray miner was in hearing distance. But he must have anticipated that, for he quickly shifted her in his arms and buried her face against his chest, muffling her cry.

  To her alarm, she got a mouthful of bare flesh. She sputtered and beat at his restraining arms, horrified to be in such a shocking position. But it did no good. Smothered against his body, her shrieks of outrage came out as barely audible squeals. And the louder she tried to scream, the tighter he clutched her.

  Realizing he wouldn’t let her go until she stopped screaming, she forced herself to cease. But that made her even more aware of their impropriety.

  Never had she been in such intimate contact with a man. Where her mouth pressed against his taut muscle, his skin was distressingly warm and real. As he continued to confine her there, she found to her horror that she could feel his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Her own rapid breathing moistened his skin, and she could smell…and taste…the faint salt of his sweat. It was…mortifying.

  Just about the time she was sure she could endure no more, he finally spoke. His voice resonated in his chest and sounded almost as ragged as she felt. “Are you going to be quiet now?”

  She nodded, eager to be out of his embrace.

  “You promise?”

  She nodded once more.

  Slowly, tentatively, he loosened his grip on her, though he kept one hand bunched in the shirt at the back of her neck. She pulled back, and her lips released from his chest—almost, to her humiliation, like a kiss.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed,” he scolded in a harsh whisper. “Don’t run off again.”

  She might have promised not to make noise, but she hadn’t promised not to fight him. She renewed her struggles, pounding at his chest and kicking at his legs. She might as well have been battling a bull. The half-breed only grunted and hoisted her up again, leaving her swinging at empty air.

  He muttered something in his own tongue and then hefted her across his shoulder, holding her there by gripping her backside in a most indecent manner. She would have fought her way free, but just then he began trudging back up the steep rise, and she didn’t dare upset his balance for fear of sending them both down the mountain.

  By the time they finally reached the cave, she wasn’t sure if she was more blanched white with fright or flushed red with shame at his cavalier handling.

  The minute he set her on her feet, she fled to the back of the cave. She was furious...with him, with the horse, with herself. This had been her big chance to escape, and she’d failed. Worse, she’d been subjected to unspeakable humiliation at her captor’s hands.

  Seething with anger, she wrenched his shirt from her shoulders, spitting a curse under her breath with each button she unfastened. She was completely flustered and disgusted by the brazen savage, and she didn't want anything to do with him. She didn’t care if she froze half to death—she never wanted to see...or, God forbid, touch...the half-naked half-breed again.

  She wadded up the shirt and tossed it at him. He caught it in one hand. Then she crouched in the dark, watching his massive silhouette as he crossed the passageway, and waited for him to put the shirt on. To her consternation, he didn’t.

  She wondered what he’d do to her. Would he punish her for losing the horse? Would he tie her up so she couldn’t flee? Would he subject her to some new degradation?

  In the end, he did nothing. He didn’t even give her a tongue-lashing. All he did was tuck the wadded shirt beneath his head and stretch out at the mouth of the cave, where she’d have to climb over him to escape.

  She rocked back onto her bottom and hugged her knees, thoroughly miserable. Curse it all, she couldn’t even escape properly. She withdrew the soggy dime novel from her camisole again and plopped it down beside her, glaring at the heroine on the cover. Claire was no intrepid Maude Burland—that was certain. Her books made it sound so easy to outwit villains. Indeed, Claire was beginning to question the accuracy of the stories.

  To add insult to injury, within moments she heard her abductor drawing in the deep, untroubled breaths of slumber, as comfortable on the hard stone as she was in her feather bed at home and as sure of her captivity as a cat with a mouse trapped under its paw.

  She dropped her chin onto her knees and scowled at the cave floor. Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, her anger began to diminish. But soon other feelings crept in to replace the anger—all-too-familiar feelings of defeat and disappointment.

  Could she do nothing right? Sometimes she felt like a complete failure. She'd never been able to please her father, and now even she was disappointed in herself.

  Why wasn't she as brave and capable as the characters in her books? Why wasn't she fearless, flawless, and tough as beef jerky? Dime novel heroes never lost their horses. They didn't bungle their escapes. They didn’t cry when their mothers fell ill and…

  Her throat tightened. Yoema had been the one person Claire could please. Her Indian mother had loved her for who she was. A tear formed in the corner of her eye as painful memories of Yoema surfaced, memories Claire could share with no one—memories of Yoema’s cheerful black eyes and healing hands, of her intriguing stories, her love of animals, her deep respect for nature. And, as on so many nights of late,
the memories kept Claire awake.

  Her chin began to quiver. Yoema had always sung her to sleep. Without that familiar song, without those nurturing arms and that gentle voice, sleep lost all its comfort.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the Indian woman beside her, brushing her hair, the long hair that Claire had cut off as abruptly as the old woman had been cut from her life. She heard the melody winding around her ears in the darkness.

  The tune started softly in Claire’s throat, almost of its own accord, thin and fragile against the heavy night. She mouthed the simple words around the lump of sorrow thickening her voice.

  "Unno winno, unno winno, unno winno."

  Though the song saddened her and a single hot tear made its way down her cheek, she continued to sing...unaware that the half-breed had awakened.

  Chase felt a prickling sensation, like a spider creeping across his flesh, as the faint song pierced the black night and his memory. It was a Konkow song, one his father had sung to him when he was a boy. The voice was weak, broken by soft sobs, but he still recognized the tune and the murmur of the words.

  As the melody continued, echoing eerily against the cave walls, the breath caught suddenly in his chest. What if it came from a chindin, a ghost, using the white woman’s voice to speak to him in a tongue he understood? Could his grandmother’s spirit be calling to him through the woman?

  With nerves stretched as taut as a curing hide, he twisted toward the girl and snarled, “Hush!”

  She gasped. He’d startled her. But at least the haunting music faded from the cave.

  "Why do you sing that song?” he hissed, his voice harsh with alarm.

  She sniffled. “Leave me alone.”

  He jumped to his feet and stalked toward her. He heard her scuttle back, but there was only rock wall behind her. He lunged forward in the darkness, grabbing for whatever he could reach. She shrieked, but his own fear made him insensitive to hers. He wadded the front of her camisole in his fist, yanking her toward him.

  "How do you know that song?" he demanded. Unlike his flippant brother, Chase believed in the spirits. He’d received visions all his life, and he knew their power. The white woman couldn’t possibly know the song she sang. It must have come through her from the world beyond.