Native Wolf
Page 10
Part of him wanted to hold her like this all night. But he expected, once she spilled all her tears and her weeping became soft sniffles, she'd squirm out of his embrace.
To his surprise, she didn't. If anything, when she was done crying, she seemed to nestle closer to him. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, resisting an almost irresistible urge to lower his lips to kiss the top of her head.
Whether it was the feminine warmth of her body, the flattering trust she placed in him, or simply that he'd gone too long without a woman, he began to respond to her closeness. His heart pumped more forcefully, and his blood warmed. He swallowed hard as a powerful wave of desire surged through him. When that surge rose to lodge between his legs, making him swell with blatant lust against her, he squeezed his eyes tight against the divine sensation.
Finally, reluctantly, he forced himself to pull away.
The last thing he expected as they parted was her barely audible sigh of disappointment, which seemed to echo his own regret.
Without her, his arms felt curiously empty. His shirt, wet with her tears, clung to his chest, leaving him even colder. But that was just the sobering slap of reality he needed. He had no business feeling such things for Claire Parker.
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I didn't mean to...to weep all over you."
His voice came out on a croak. "No need to apologize."
"I just...miss her so much." She tried to put on a brave smile.
He nodded.
"You're very...like her, you know," she ventured, "your grandmother."
He furrowed his brow. This was something he hadn’t expected. He’d never met his grandmother. But this woman had been raised by her. His grief was a matter of tradition and of moral outrage. Hers was personal.
"Tell me about her," he coaxed, beckoning her to join him by the fire. Maybe the flames would keep him warm, since he no longer had a tempting woman to do that. "Tell me about my grandmother." Then he added, "But be careful not to summon her ghost, or she may lose her way to the spirit world."
Claire sat by the fire and tucked her hair behind one ear. "Is that why you don't want me to say her name?"
He nodded. "It's bad luck to speak the names of those who are gone."
Claire bit her lip. She was managing to keep her voice calm and collected. But if Chase Wolf knew what she was thinking at the moment, he’d be far more afraid of her than of his grandmother’s ghost.
Being in his arms had felt amazing, like finding a key that fit perfectly into the lock of her heart. It seemed like she’d been waiting all her life for his embrace. And now that she’d experienced it, she didn’t want to give it up, didn’t want to let him go.
It was alarming, how right it felt, how much like coming home. She wanted him to hold her again, wanted to feel those strong arms around her, to feel the warm breath of his words against her ear.
It was madness, like being pulled into a treacherous whirlpool of desire. Yet it seemed equally mad to keep her distance when she yearned so much to be back in his arms.
She couldn't keep her eyes off of him. The firelight made his hair shine like a raven's wing. It flashed off his white teeth, gilded his skin and leaped in his dark eyes. And the thought that he’d instinctively shielded her from harm and lent his shoulder in comfort...such manly, protective gestures made her shiver with desire.
"Are you cold?" Good Lord, the man had his shirt halfway off already.
"No!" she blurted. "Thank you."
The last thing her wildly pulsing heart needed was more tinder for the fire. She should never have exposed her emotions to him, never imposed herself upon him like that, weeping all over him, for heaven’s sake. Yoema’s blood might flow through his veins, and her spirit might dwell in his heart, but he was definitely not sweet, gentle Yoema. He was a man, and he was...
A savage.
But, dear God, he was a delectable savage. The thought echoed so loudly in her head that she feared she’d said the words aloud. How could she possibly feel…that way…about a man who’d abducted her?
And yet she did. She wanted him to hold her in his arms again.
"Tell me about her," he urged, squatting on his haunches across the fire from her, his shirt gaping open, his large hands propped idly over his knees.
Claire tore her gaze away to study her tattered fingernails. “Your grandmother?” she managed to choke out. "Well, she used to tell me stories when I was a little girl.”
“What stories?” he murmured.
“She told me where fire came from. And why skunks smell so awful. And about the creation of the world by Wonomi and Turtle. You know these stories?"
He nodded.
"She called me her little white dove. She sang me to sleep and took care of me when I was ill. The grape leaves you put on my cuts—she used to do the same thing."
"My grandmother was said to be a great healer," he murmured.
She swallowed, her face still hot, as she gave him a sidelong glance. The way the fire flickered in his eyes and washed over the hollow planes of his face evoked more than just a fond memory of Yoema. His sheer strength, the breadth of his shoulders, the subdued power of his hands, and the stark, wild beauty of his features, took her breath away.
"Yes," she said absently. Then she clasped her hands upon her lap, determined to maintain her composure. "She was also a great healer of the spirit." Claire’s voice softened in remembrance. "She comforted me when my favorite old cat died." She smiled at the memory. "We even had a weda, a burning ceremony, for the poor thing."
"What else?"
"One time, I baked an apple pie for my father's birthday. I left it on the windowsill to cool, and a crow demolished it. Your grandmother replaced it for me, even though the closest thing she could manage was acorn bread."
"Mati." He used the Konkow word.
"Yes, that's right." She lowered her eyes, lost in thought. "When I complained about my freckles and the fact I was as skinny as a sapling, she would brush my hair and tell me it was prettier than the gold the miners hungered after."
She brought one hand up to her precious tresses, forgetting she’d lopped them off, and her smile wavered. Lowering her hand, she continued. "I remember one day when I was small, we went together to the general store to buy a length of calico for curtains. We were spotted by the Johnson brothers, a pair of dreadful bullies. They sneered and called me a half-breed, which, of course, was untrue, and I..." She gasped, catching her lip under her teeth, and glanced at him, but his expression as he stared into the flames was inscrutable. "Oh, dear. I didn’t mean..."
Without looking up, he replied with a snort, "There’s no shame in being a half-breed."
Claire stared at him in wonder. "That’s exactly what she said. That was the first time she told me about you, about the Two-Sons."
He said nothing, only narrowed his eyes. She noticed tension about his mouth, as if a question hovered there, waiting to be asked.
"She said your mother was a beautiful white woman from the gold camps who drew pictures," she continued, "and that your father was a great Konkow hunter. She said that when you and your brother were born, it was the will of the Creator that you be spared. She said you flew away to the north, but that you would return one day to her, that you would bring good luck, that the..." She screwed up her forehead, trying to remember Yoema’s exact words. "The broken past would be mended."
Chase was silent for so long, Claire began to wonder if he’d forgotten she was there. The moon climbed higher in the sky, and the owl they’d heard earlier hooted from farther and farther away. The fire dwindled, but he did nothing to revive it, only staring fixedly into the glowing coals as if he read the future there. Finally he spoke.
“What other way is there to mend the broken past of Nome Cult but by retribution, by an eye for an eye?” The calm of his voice chilled her, and though she was certain he meant her no harm, his solemn face appeared strangely menacing in the scarlet glow of the dying fire.
A lengthy silence followed while he gathered his thoughts. Finally he trained his forthright gaze upon her again. He exhaled deeply, like a warrior who has just waged and lost a long and grueling battle.
“Lenulya, revenge—it's not in my heart.” He shook his head. "I could never harm the spirit daughter of my grandmother."
Spirit daughter. Touched by his words, Claire stared into his midnight black eyes. Her throat closed, and rising tears stung her nose. He acknowledged her as Yoema’s child then. Spirit daughter. It was such a perfect name. Yet no one had called her that, not even her father. As close as Samuel Parker had allowed the native woman to get to her, still he’d never used the word "daughter." The relationship between Claire and Yoema was something they never spoke of, except in terms one might use for a servant or lady’s maid.
Yet this man, this stranger who didn't know her, who didn't know his own grandmother, saw what was in her heart. He recognized that their bond had been more than that of friendship, that Yoema had been, for all intents and purposes, Claire’s mother.
His simple words soothed her ragged spirit and lifted a heavy weight from her soul. At last, someone understood.
"Thank you," she choked out.
He frowned as if he didn't deserve her gratitude. Then he awkwardly cleared his throat and nudged the coals with the toe of his boot.
Despite his dark scowl, a wave of familiar comfort washed over her as she gazed at him. There was no mistake. Yoema lived in the warm copper of his skin, the obsidian black of his hair, and the soft twinkle of his eyes.
She murmured, "She would have been proud of you."
The furrow between his brows deepened at her words. He clearly didn't believe her. "You should sleep now," he grunted.
She nodded.
But sleep was far from her mind. Though she curled up on her bed of fragrant pine boughs, she lay awake, musing on Yoema's mysterious prophecy about mending the past and wondering what part the woman's handsome grandson played in it. Dozens of questions kept her brain buzzing.
What had happened to the other Two-Son? Were Yoema's other relatives alive? Was Chase's story of Nome Cult true? Why hadn't her father or Yoema ever mentioned the march? Chase had said he wouldn't take revenge on her, but what were his intentions toward her father? Where was her father? Where was Frank? Had he found her note? And if so, were they worried about her or just disappointed?
Much later, as the moon sat skewered on the point of a lightning-ravaged cedar, Claire tossed and turned on her makeshift bed, sighing with the effort of quieting her mind.
Suddenly, Chase’s voice intruded upon her restless thoughts. It was rough and low, more whisper than song. But the kind gesture moved her and brought a tiny smile to her lips. "Unno winno, unno winno, unno winno."
She drifted off to the familiar strains, snuggling more deeply into the soft bed. The lullaby of sweet memories rocked her to sleep, and the fragrance of pine scented her dreams.
Chapter 10
The amber light of the rising sun poured through the pines like water through a fishing net, warming Chase's bare chest. Rising to his elbows, he looked down at his sleeping captive, who lay curled on the boughs, wrapped in his shirt. Her delicate lashes rested like soft feathers against her cheek, and her lips parted with each breath.
He wished he didn’t have to wake her. She slept so peacefully, her eyelids undisturbed by dreams, her breathing slow and deep. But the past evening they’d spent too much time in what his mother called dawdling, and they needed to go soon. Heading in this unexpected direction, he’d probably lost his trackers. But he couldn’t be sure.
He squinted into the dawn and scrubbed at his jaw. His face was rough with whiskers. They itched. Perhaps he’d shave first. Then he’d wake her.
Edging quietly toward the cedars a good distance away, he took a whetstone from his pouch and started to hone his knife. The woman stirred once to the raucous cry of a nearby jay, but fell immediately back to sleep. Chase resumed sharpening, and then proceeded to scrape the stubble from his cheek.
He was troubled by some of the harebrained notions that kept flitting through his mind, ideas like spending more time with the white woman, listening to more of her memories about his grandmother, sharing stories about his life in Hupa.
It was nonsense, of course. He had to take her home. These weren’t the days when a warrior stole the woman of a neighboring tribe and kept her for his own.
Besides, he thought, flinching as the blade nicked his jaw, Chase Wolf didn’t need a woman to clutter his life, especially not a white woman. He was content to live alone in his village, among his own people, with no burden other than the demands of his work.
And Claire Parker? She belonged with her father in that big white house with servants and feather beds and barbed fences to protect her from the dangers of the natural world. He snorted in self-mockery, imagining her recoiling in horror at the sight of his humble cedar plank home in Hupa.
He studied her again. She looked so damaged and helpless, lying there in her frayed and dirty petticoat. Her skin was chafed, and her hair was tangled like the straw on a stable floor. He wouldn’t blame Parker for thinking the worst when he saw his daughter.
He pinched a drop of dried sap from the cedar trunk, crushed it, and pressed the powder against the small nick along his jawbone, stanching the blood.
Then he trudged back to the bed of boughs, hoping the crunch of pine needles beneath his boots would wake the woman. But she slumbered on. He crossed his arms over his chest. He supposed she slept so well because she’d lain awake half the night. It was good he’d finally lulled her to sleep with that Konkow song.
He crouched beside her. Her breath fluttered the collar of the shirt, his shirt, the one he’d tucked around her last night when he felt her shivering beside him.
He reached down and grasped the toe of her rabbit fur moccasin. She didn’t awaken.
He gently jiggled her toe. Still she slept.
He took hold of her ankle and jostled her foot firmly. "Claire."
She opened her eyes in panic and rose on her elbows, mumbling, "Late for church?"
He smirked.
"Oh!" she sighed when she’d blinked the fog from her eyes. "Oh. I dreamt it was Sunday, and...never mind. You wouldn’t..." She shook her head.
He understood, a little. His mother had spoken of church, of the whites’ Creator and how they feared him. He supposed it was that fear that had brought her awake so suddenly.
"You..." She wiped at one sleep-glazed eye with the back of her hand and studied his face. "You shaved."
He grunted self-consciously, wishing he hadn’t bothered. The twinkle of approval in her stare made him uncomfortable.
She finally lowered her gaze to scrub vigorously at her face, like a raccoon washing. Her voice was muffled by her hands. "My, I haven’t slept so soundly since..." She broke off abruptly, peering at him over her fingers with sudden tenderness. "Thank you," she murmured.
He scowled. What could she possibly have to thank him for?
"For singing me to sleep," she said.
Fondness shone in her eyes now, too much of it. Uneasy, he looked away and flicked a beetle from his boot. "You would have kept me awake all night if I hadn’t," he grumbled.
The woman shouldn’t be grateful to him. For anything. He’d put her through much misery. He deserved her hatred, not her thanks.
But she smiled at him, not believing his grousing for one moment, then flushed pink when she lowered her gaze and noticed he was bare-chested. Realizing where his shirt had gone, she extended the crumpled garment toward him. "I’m sorry. I...I don’t remember—"
"You were cold," he explained, taking the shirt. He slipped
his arms into the sleeves. The cotton was still warm from her body.
Shaken by the direction of his thoughts, he quickly buttoned up the front, then gestured toward the bushes. "If you need to..."
She evidently did, for she scurried to enjoy the rare opportunity he allowed her to be alone. He dismantled the bed of boughs and picked wild grape leaves while she took care of her needs. When she returned, he motioned her to sit on the rock near the ashes from last night’s fire.
Her limp seemed less pronounced now. Her feet must be healing.
She didn’t say a word until he'd un-knotted the moccasins and unwrapped the fur, then carefully peeled the withered leaves from the broken skin. "Do they look better?"
He gave her a curt nod, then bundled the new leaves over the healing sores and replaced the moccasins.
"Thank you," she said softly.
There it was again—gratitude he didn’t deserve.
He brushed his hands together brusquely and stood. "If you don’t heal, you’ll slow our progress," he tried to convince her, his words expressing none of the compassion he felt.
"I see." Again, she wasn’t fooled. And her knowing smile only increased his irritation as they started down the slender deer trail that wound along the mountain.
Samuel Parker turned his mount to get a better look at the lone animal grazing on the far hilltop. “Is that...Thunder?”
Frank, always eager to be in the thick of things, drew his pistol. “You and the men stay here, Mr. Parker. I’ll go take a look-see.”
Frank rode off while Samuel waited stoically on his horse. Only by virtue of the iron backbone that was a hallmark of the Parker breed did he manage to keep his dread in check. After all, it wouldn’t do to let his ranch hands see him unmanned by the fear wrenching at his gut. If that was indeed his stallion, where was Claire?
He hadn't wanted to let anyone in on the details of what he'd found in Claire's room, but there was enough evidence to suspect foul play. If she'd truly meant to run away as her note indicated, she would have taken her packed bag. But there was a fresh set of clothing on her bed. She'd left behind those infernal dime novels she was always reading, the ones she thought he didn't know about. She'd never saddled up the dappled mare like her letter said. And her beautiful golden hair...