Native Wolf

by Glynnis Campbell

  He rocked his head toward her and squinted one eye. "Trouble. You?"

  "So my father says."

  "What trouble?"

  "Oh." The list was endless. "Giving cream to stray kittens. Feigning illness to get out of church. Calling Mr. Forester an old buzzard. Forgetting to close the corral gate. Dancing with the Indians."

  His brow clouded at that, and she hastened to explain.

  "Some of the ranch hands did the Acorn Dance, the Aki, in autumn. I used to sneak out at night to dance with them. My father didn’t think it was appropriate for a young lady of my station. He forbade me to join them."

  "And did you obey him?"

  She supposed her sly smile was answer enough.

  He chuckled and lay his head back on the rock, closing his eyes. "Trouble."

  They talked for a long while then, about Claire’s childhood, about his twin brother, who, it turned out, had journeyed to Paradise with him, about fishing, about nothing.

  Chase decided that sometime in the midst of their storytelling, the Great Spirit must have dropped a sleeping medicine upon them, for when he awoke later, he saw the sun had already crossed the top of the sky and now began its descent. With a muttered curse, he bolted upright, running his fingers through his hair, which had already dried.

  Falling asleep hadn’t been his intent. How long had it been? Two hours? A quarter of the day? His trousers were still damp, but then the thick denim probably wouldn’t dry till nightfall.

  He scowled. He’d been careless. No matter how fine the afternoon or mellow his mood, he still had to be wary. Samuel Parker might be looking for Claire in the wrong place, but it wouldn't be long before he realized that, doubled back, and started searching up the canyon. He could stumble upon them at any time.

  Shoving his knife back into its sheath, he glanced about for Claire. She was napping a short distance away, cradled in a nest of fallen oak leaves, her hair caressing her cheek, her chest rising and falling with each calm breath.

  He realized with sudden unease that he’d been awfully quick to trust her. She could have walked off and left him while he was sleeping. Hell, she could have stabbed him with his own knife for that matter and left him for dead. Only a few days ago, she'd been desperate to escape.

  Now she seemed determined not to return home.

  He couldn't complain. Claire was good company. She was clever and kindhearted. She was deceptively strong beneath her delicate woman’s body. And Chase liked her laugh. The shine of joy in her eyes when he'd caught that silly fish had made his heart beat like that of a proud warrior in his first battle.

  He grinned, remembering. The two fish lay quiet on the grass now. They would make a fine meal. Maybe that was what had kept Claire from leaving—hunger and the promise of trout for supper.

  Careful not to disturb her, he crept to the stream to clean the fish, remembering to thank the Great Spirit for the gift of food.

  Stringing the trout onto the fiber line to carry them, he narrowed his eyes at the lowering sun. By his reckoning, if they left now, they could make it to the ridge above Paradise by sunset.

  Tomorrow, if all went as planned, they'd begin their descent into Paradise. The next day he'd sneak into town and round up Drew. He'd have Claire back in her big white house sooner than she could say "Kisan-yiman-dilwawh."

  And if things didn’t go as planned? Chase glanced over at the peacefully dozing Claire. For her sake as well as his, he prayed no one would get hurt. If her father showed up, Chase didn’t intend to draw the first weapon. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Claire stirred in her sleep, and he inclined his head to study the delicate curl of her hand, so innocent, so trusting.

  He was going to miss Claire Parker. He liked her. He liked her smile and her shrieks and her stubbornness. He liked the way she looked when she slept, and he liked the sound of her night-soft voice beside the fire. Her tears snagged at his soul, and her laughter lifted his spirit. And the taste of her mouth, the pleasure of her body against his...

  He shook his head. It was foolish to dwell on such things. Their paths were not meant to converge, only to cross. It was best they cross quickly. Claire's father would be worried. And Drew must wonder by now what had happened to his hotheaded brother.

  Before Chase could change his mind, he slung the pair of trout across one shoulder and slogged through the leaves toward Claire, hoping the noise would wake her.

  "It’s time to go, ch’inson," he said, whispering the endearment.

  She stretched like a contented kitten and gave him a sleepy smile that warmed him to his toes.

  The twilight sky drew its purple-feathered cape over the deep vale, casting the canyon below in shadow. They had made it to the crest, which rose so high above the valley floor that the emerging stars overhead seemed close enough to seize. The air was cold, the fire searing—extremes, Chase knew, that strengthened steel and man alike.

  They huddled together beside the clear-burning fire, too cold and hungry to speak, and cooked. By the time the skin on the trout began to crackle over the flame, Chase had heard Claire’s stomach growl a dozen times. Each time it rumbled, she ducked her chin in embarrassment.

  "You’re like the grizzly," he finally said, jabbing with a stick at the glowing coals, "growling for your supper."

  "Chase!" She crossed her arms primly over her belly. "Gentlemen don't mention such things." Despite her haughty tone of voice, gaiety lit her eyes.

  "Mm. And ladies don’t dance with Indians."

  She gave his shoulder a chiding shove, and then looked longingly at the fish. "Isn't it finished cooking yet?"

  "Almost," he hedged, his lips twitching.

  She sighed, resting her chin upon the heel of her hand.

  The fish was ready. But he liked her impatient pout almost as much as her laughter. Like his sisters, she was fun to tease.

  Making certain she watched him, he made a great show of studying the trout, frowning intently, angling his head this way and that, poking at the tail with the point of a stick.

  Finally, he proclaimed, “Awilaw! Now it's done."

  She wasn’t fooled for an instant. The frosty glare she sent him was tempered by a playful spark of fire. But it was the hard shove she gave him, knocking him off his heels and onto his hindquarters, that made him burst into merry laughter.

  "I have a good mind to eat them both myself," she threatened, her eyes flashing.

  He sat up cross-legged. "They’re your fish by rights," he admitted, his eyes twinkling. "The Great Spirit gave them to you."

  Her pretty mouth tightened stubbornly. "I suppose you think my guilty conscience will force me to share my catch."

  He shrugged and let out a long-suffering sigh. "I will have to rely on your mercy."

  She stared at him in mock severity, her gaze moving from eye to eye, like an enemy gauging his worth.

  And then the silence was broken by an exceptionally loud growl from his stomach, which cracked her stern veneer and sent her into helpless giggles.

  "Oh, fiddle," she said, wiping her eyes when she’d stopped laughing. "I suppose you did save that second trout."

  He grinned, then moved toward the fire. He gingerly loosened the two sticks propped over the flame, careful not to drop the fish onto the coals, and lay them atop several broad blades of wild iris leaves.

  The first serving always went to the one who'd caught the fish. Chase tugged a small piece of roasted fillet from the grandfather trout to present to Claire.

  Though it didn’t burn his fingers, he knew the fish was still hot from the fire. Crouching close to her, he blew a cooling breath across the bite of steaming trout.

  She was still smiling when he tucked the tidbit between her lips. Her tongue flicked out to capture the morsel, contacting the underside of his fingers for an instant, and a strange surge like lightning snaked through his body. Before he could withdraw, her mouth closed around the tips of his first two fingers, sucking the fish from them. His he
art pounded. It was like a kiss, the way her lips moved, a lover’s kiss.

  When he dared lift his eyes to hers, she seemed to have swallowed her humor along with the fish. Instead, desire darkened her gaze, and she appeared in no hurry to release his fingers.

  He glanced at her mouth once more, and his loins grew taut at the sight of his fingers trapped there, so huge and brutish within her delicate lips. Without warning, her tongue softly brushed his fingertips again. Hot sparks showered through him like iron striking iron, setting him afire with lust, leaving him breathless.

  When her lips parted, freeing him, still he didn’t withdraw. They had become two metals melted together, impossible to separate. He lightly grazed her mouth with the backs of his knuckles and felt her moist, ragged breath and the yielding softness of her lips beneath his fingers. He remembered how they felt upon his mouth. He wanted them there again.

  Claire held her breath, though her heart pounded forcefully.

  She wanted to kiss Chase again—more than anything. But he'd refused her twice now. This time, if he wanted a kiss, he’d have to initiate it.

  Meanwhile, she'd do everything in her power to convince him that the right time and place were here and now.

  She closed her eyes, relishing the delicate touch of his knuckle across her lips.

  But as before, he withdrew. When she looked at him again, his lips were compressed, and his eyes had turned cool and black.

  Undaunted, she broke off a piece off a piece of fish and offered it to him from her fingers, the way he had given her the first bite.

  He initially refused to take it. But after several heartbeats, she saw his nostrils flare, and he opened his mouth the merest bit to allow her access. She tucked the fish between them, savoring for a moment the suppleness of his lips and the smoothness of his teeth beneath her fingers. It was a dangerous thing she did, like sticking one’s head into the jaws of a lion, but longing seemed to take all the common sense from her.

  After he swallowed the fish, instead of withdrawing her hand, she timidly brushed the backs of her knuckles across his lower lip, along his stubbled cheek, sampling the textures that made up the man. Breathlessly watching his mouth, she ventured a fingertip between his lips.

  Suddenly he bit down, trapping her finger between his teeth, and her eyes lifted to his in surprise. Despite the punitive gesture, his gaze was inflamed, not by hostility, but by passion. She swallowed hard. More than anything, she wanted to press her lips to the spot where her finger was caught, to kiss him again, to feel the warmth of his breath in her mouth.

  She gasped as his hand came up to seize her wrist, forcing it gently but firmly away. He clearly didn’t intend to let her yearnings get the best of her. Yet there was no mistaking the sultry heat of his gaze and the raw desire in his voice when he spoke.

  "Supper’s getting cold." His gaze sank to her mouth, rested a moment, then dragged back up to her eyes.

  She knew his mind was not on food. They both knew it. She also knew there were a thousand reasons why she should back away and give up the senseless hope that she might receive another kiss from him. But she couldn’t. That hope tethered her there as surely as reins held a horse.

  "To hell with supper," she whispered raggedly, a mortified blush suffusing her cheeks, the oath shocking on her tongue. "My lips are getting cold."

  His nostrils flared again at her impetuous admission, and his eyes darkened to a dangerous, smoky black, like a coal, appearing cool to the touch, concealing searing fire.

  A war was waged in their locked gazes. It was too late to withdraw her rash words, too late to regret her confession. She had bared her desires to him, and now, whether he took up her challenge or cast her aside, there was nothing she could...

  Chase surged forward with a growl, half wishing to frighten her away, half wishing to ease his lust upon her mouth again. She gasped, but the fear in her breath was colored by raw desire. Sacred Spirit, he didn't know what he was doing. He caught her hand against his chest, where his heart pounded hard enough to chip iron, and held it there. Her eyes glinted in the golden light, reflecting the leaping flames of the fire and her smoldering passion, and he yearned to lose himself in their turbulent depths.

  Still he resisted her magic. He tightened his grip on her wrist until she flinched, yet she didn't cower from him. Instead, the hunger in her gaze intensified.

  He might have triumphed then had he closed his eyes, let go of her, and turned his head away. But at that moment, her lips fell open, pink and moist and inviting, drawing his gaze and sealing his fate.

  Desire weighed down his eyes, blinding him to reason, and hardened him like hot steel thrust in icy water. Before common sense could stop him, he spread his fingers to encompass her face, leaned forward, and pressed his hungry lips to hers.

  Their mouths meshed as smoothly as gears forged together. Instant lust poured into his body like molten bronze from a crucible. All control was snatched from him as she melted into his embrace.

  Gone was his resistance. Gone was his power of reason. He swept his free arm around her back, encompassing her slight shoulders and pulling her close. He laced his fingers through her hair, capturing the back of her delicate ear.

  Somehow, despite the fierce lust raging inside him, he managed to be gentle. Somehow he didn't hurt her. Something in the languishing leisure of their kiss forced him to a tenderness he'd never experienced before.

  She answered his caresses, slipping her soft arms up toward his shoulders. The forgotten iris leaves with his supper of trout spilled and scattered upon the ground, but he didn't care. Her fingers burned like newly forged steel upon the back of his neck, branding him.

  Lost in a vulnerable haze no sane man would ever enter—deaf to the night, blind to the peril around him—he willingly succumbed to the sensuous fog of her embrace. Soon it seemed the two of them were all that existed.

  It was like a vision in the sweat lodge, this sensation, something far beyond the simple desire he had felt with lovers who'd come before. Strong magic seemed to enter his lungs like the sacred smoke of the dream pipe, filling him with languid swirls of emotion and powerful spirit messages.

  He belonged here.

  This was the completed circle.

  It came to him as clearly as the stars in the midnight sky.

  This was his destiny. This was the will of his grandmother, Yoema.

  Startled, he pulled back, tearing free of her, wrenching himself from the astonishing vision. He stared down at Claire Parker, incredulous. How could it be? He had come for revenge, not reconciliation. Hadn't he?

  Claire’s mouth was swollen from his kissing, and her cheek bore the flush of desire. Her eyes were still glazed with passion as she looked up at him, but distress and frustration were gathering like a brewing storm.

  "What?" she asked. "What’s wrong?"

  He stared down at her a long while, asking himself that very question. The fire snapped softly, and a rare night breeze sighed through the uppermost boughs of the cedars, bringing with it the clean scent of evergreen and riffling the hair of the woman before him.

  She was beautiful. Starlight swathed the crown of her head in a silvery veil while firelight burnished her face to the shade of ripe peaches.

  She was kind and generous, tender and strong, the kind of woman a man would be proud to claim as his.

  And her kiss—her kiss made him forget himself, forget his troubles, and reminded him of what was right and good in the world.

  So what was wrong? Other than the fact that she was a white woman whom he hardly knew, a woman who belonged to another man, a woman he'd stolen for revenge?

  He knew all this, and yet all the arguments in the world couldn't outweigh the seductive invitation in her eyes and the raging need in his body, too compelling to ignore.

  "Nothing," he lied. "Nothing's wrong."

  Chapter 15

  Claire closed her eyes, savoring the taste of him. His mouth, wild and dangerous, seasoned their kis
s with forbidden spices that tantalized both her tongue and her thoughts. Scarcely aware of it, she began to answer him, moving her lips over his, sighing against his mouth, gasping as their breath mingled, as their tongues flitted tentatively out and dared to touch.

  His fingers pressed lightly into her cheeks as he angled his head to seal his claim upon her. She clutched at the fabric of his shirt, sure she would sink beneath waves of desire if she let go.

  It was mad. It was foolish. Utterly reckless. And yet she’d dreamed of nothing else since she’d kissed him that first time. She hoped that this was at last the right time and place, because she didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to think. Her heart pounded crazily, and a strange, sweet lethargy poured over her like maple syrup over griddlecakes.

  Within her, wild fire burned, stealing her breath the way brandy did, spreading outward from her belly, and warming her in untouchable places. She felt curiously alive and tingling, like a long-haired cat in a thunderstorm.

  His skin was hot against hers. The stubble of his jaw and his callused fingertips felt familiar and yet foreign. Still, far from afraid, she was intrigued by the mystery of his maleness. His touch, his taste, his scent were exotic. His size was daunting. But she felt that she belonged here in his arms and that the two of them were somehow meant for this.

  His free hand slipped through her hair to clasp the back of her head, pulling her even closer. She slid her arms up around his neck, marveling at the rapid pulse that beat along the sides of his throat. Her own heart raced as he drew her forward, crushing her breasts lightly against his chest.

  Then, when she thought she could bear no more, when she thought she might swoon with pleasure, he groaned against her lips, a groan torn from the depths of his throat, an animal sound, and she felt lightning surge through her veins, pricking up the fine hairs in her ears and electrifying the place between her legs.

  She answered with her own unconscious moan, unable to speak or move or think. Her voice might have been that of a stranger, for she’d never heard such a sound come from her throat, a moan of longing that seemed to stem from her soul.