A Man Without a Wife

by Beverly Bird

  He half expected that the phone lines had been cut, but they weren’t. The receiver dangled from the wall unit, but Dallas hung it up, waited for a moment, then put it to his ear again. There was a dial tone.

  He called Nelson Wythe first, asking him to come get Ricky and keep him for the night. Then he called the cops. And finally he hunted up the number for the Navajo Indian health-service clinic. There were too many of them, ones in Window Rock and Farmington and Shiprock, just in the New Mexico half of the reservation alone. He called each of them until he found her.

  Her soft voice sent something wild through him when she answered, but this time there was a strong chance that it was just fury.

  “It’s Dallas. I’m home. And I think you’d better get your cute little ass over here now.”

  * * *

  It was late, almost midnight, before Ellen made it to Flagstaff. It was a long drive, even on the relatively expedient interstate. And she drove slowly.

  He knew she was hiding something from him, she realized. They had had only a quick, tense conversation, but his suspicion had come clearly through the telephone line. What was she supposed to do? She was hiding something, she thought wildly, but how could she make him believe that it had nothing to do with Ricky’s trouble? Uncle Ernie had said it didn’t, and unless Shadow Tshongely was carrying twins, Uncle Ernie had never been wrong.

  Please, Holy Ones, don’t let him be wrong now. She finally stood in the parking lot of the high-rise condominium and took a shaky, fortifying breath. Then she went into the lobby.

  By the time she got to the twelfth floor and to Dallas’s unit she was almost calm, but it was a fragile kind of control. He opened the door as soon as she knocked, whipping it back, and she flinched. He stepped away stiffly to allow her to enter.

  He had started setting the apartment to rights again, but even with the progress he’d made she gasped and felt her blood draining out of her. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  “This,” he answered tightly, “is a decided improvement.”

  She noticed pale pink-silver fingerprinting dust all over everything. Something inside her started to shake. He had said on the phone that there was a problem. A problem? This was...this was violence and desperation.

  “Why?” she managed.

  “That’s what you’re going to tell me.” He slammed the door hard behind her. “But first I want you to take a good, hard look at Ricky’s room. Then if you do care about him, maybe you’ll come clean and tell me what the hell’s going on here.”

  She followed him dazedly down the hallway, dropping her purse into a chair as she passed it. “Where is he?” she asked, her voice strained.

  “I sent him to spend the night with some friends. I want to get this place fixed up before he comes back here. I don’t want him to have to deal with any more than he already has.” He flung open the door to one of the bedrooms. Ellen’s throat closed.

  “The wolfman beat us to it,” she breathed. “He thought to look here, too.”

  She glanced at Dallas to see something happen to his face. The fury there took her breath away. Fury at her.

  “You’re going to stick with this witch garbage?”

  “Dallas, that’s what it is!” she cried. “Don’t you see? For God’s sake, look at this! Someone was searching for something! Someone was doing exactly what I told you to do—going through his things, trying to find whatever it is he has that he doesn’t know is important!”

  Maybe it was because that was more or less what the cops had said—the place hadn’t been ransacked so much as searched. Maybe it was her desperation. Maybe it was the simple, horrible fact that he wanted so damned badly to believe her, that he just couldn’t bear to face the possibility that she would deliberately hide something from him that would hurt Ricky. He didn’t know, but the heat went out of him, draining fast. In that moment, he could have collapsed where he stood, he realized. Instead, he turned away from her and made his way back into the living room, the set of his shoulders hard and rigid.

  “A bottle of brandy survived,” he muttered. “Want some?”

  Ellen’s first instinct was to decline. She rarely drank. But the more she saw of the apartment, the more she knew she needed to now.

  “Sure,” she whispered.

  She stood uncertainly in the middle of the living room, as Dallas found a couple of intact glasses and poured. Despite the mess the wolfman had left behind, Ellen could see that the place suited him. It was a little bit modern, a lot eclectic—a dichotomy of tastes. Some of the furniture was strong and masculine, made of dark, heavy wood. But the pieces of artwork that remained were far more refined, subtle, hinting on beauty that had to be studied to be grasped.

  It was like him, she thought. Strong, tempered by pain rather than broken by it, still willing to find beauty and goodness where he could, even if he was a little wary of it. She took the glass he offered and sank almost bonelessly onto a sofa that had been pushed into the middle of the room.

  He dropped down beside her, leaning his head back, closing his eyes. Dallas didn’t touch his own brandy, but Ellen took a greedy swallow of hers, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

  “There were animal droppings in the hallway,” he said finally.

  Her heart lurched. “What kind?”

  “I don’t know. The cops took them. I guess they’ll find out soon enough.” He hesitated. “And the burglar alarm didn’t go off. There’s no way in hell anyone could get into this place without tripping that thing.”

  “Not anyone,” she whispered. “Something.”

  “Whatever,” he snapped bitterly.

  “I wonder if he found it.”

  He opened one eye to look across at her. “You mean this mysterious item that Ricky has that’s causing all this chaos?”

  She nodded cautiously.

  “I don’t know, but this is as good a chance as any to go through his room. What’s left of it,” he amended tightly.

  He stood and went down the hall again. After a moment, Ellen followed him.

  They worked for a steady hour, stuffing trash bags, sifting through toys and clothing and odds and ends, tossing what had been slashed or ruined. But nothing unusual jumped out at them, nothing that seemed out of place or suspicious. Her throat tightened until she could barely breathe. She understood Dallas’s rage now. Each harmless little-boy treasure that she picked up filled her with fury of her own. How could anyone do this to him?

  By the time they were finished, tears burned at her eyes. She wanted to find the wolfman herself, single-handedly wanted to kill him, torture him slowly, make him suffer for what he was doing to this child, her child, and what he had already done.

  “That’s it, I guess,” Dallas said from behind her. “At least it’s everything I can do tonight. I’ll call the furniture store and order a new mattress and box spring tomorrow.”

  “And curtains,” she whispered inanely.

  Her voice was so low, so husky, so tight, it made him look at her sharply. She was crying.

  “Oh, God,” he murmured.

  He acted out of instinct, out of an inbred masculine chivalry that couldn’t stand to see a woman weep. He couldn’t wonder why she was taking this so hard, though he felt like crying as well—his throat had been alternately tight with grief and rage all night. But now it only mattered that she was taking it hard, and he hurt too. He hurt and he was confused and panicked. So he acted on emotion, crossing the short distance between them, scooping her up in his arms.

  She clung.

  Despite all her thorny distance, despite her temper and her rigid independence, she buried her face against his neck now. He could feel the wet heat of her tears there and it shook him. He took her into the living room and eased her down onto the sofa again, looking for the glass of brandy she had left there before they had gone to Ricky’s room. He couldn’t find it. He glanced back up into her haunted eyes, then he groaned.

  The hell with the brandy. The hell wit
h everything, he thought. Among such ruins of hatred and anger, the only thing left to do was grab sweetness and warmth. He leaned up over her and ran his tongue over the delicate line of her jaw, drinking up the tears there.

  She shuddered, then reacted with such sudden heat and fervor it almost undid him immediately. Her arms came around his neck and she drove her fingers into his hair, bringing his mouth to hers.

  “Please,” she whispered throatily. “Just...please.”

  He kissed her again hard, as though to drown in her and forget all the reasons he might not want to. He swept the warm secrets of her mouth with his tongue, deeper, and found his hands on either side of her head as well, holding her still for the assault. But she didn’t fight him this time, either, didn’t protest. She only pushed herself into him hungrily, molding herself against him like warm wax.

  He had no defenses left against that, none at all.

  He eased her backward until she was lying on the sofa, then he came up over her. She felt his weight settle atop her easily, a slow, inexorable pressure that deepened with each thrust of his tongue. She gave a little cry as some small rational part of her writhed in guilt and protest. She had one flash of sanity. If she made love with him, then it would matter that she was Ricky’s natural mother. If she crossed that treacherous line between acquaintance and lover, then the truth would cease to be something it served no purpose to tell him. It would become a violation of trust, something dark and vile that she was keeping from him, a secret he did need to share because he had become an intimate part of her life.

  And in that moment she couldn’t care.

  Maybe she would tell him. Later. But now he was hot and heavy on top of her, now he seemed as desperate as she felt. He was pulling hard at her blouse, trying to get it free of her jeans, as if to love her fast and hard before he could change his mind, as if he wanted to take everything he could for himself before sanity returned. When her buttons scattered, it ignited something within both of them, something that drove each of them past the point of reason.

  He wanted—needed—to find her skin again, smooth and soft and warm. He slid a hand up her stomach to her breasts and encountered more frustrating fabric, lacy and intrusive. He tore at that, too, and found her breasts, full and round, her nipples tightening in anticipation of his touch. That drove fire through him as nothing else could. He had barely even touched her yet and she was reacting, wanting and aching, too. He watched them, mesmerized.

  God, Mary, I’m so sorry. I’m only a man. But Mary was no more in his heart now than she had been the previous time—he could no longer find her, could no longer see her, and he was all out of willpower and control. He closed his mouth over the breast of this warm, alive, complicated woman beneath him and felt her arch into him with a groan. He felt her hands rake down his back and he took her nipple between his teeth, laving it with his tongue, tasting flesh that was hot and pliant and so, so good.

  Ellen felt sensation explode in her, radiating out from where his mouth touched her, snaking into her limbs and leaving them tingling and weak. She pulled at his shirt as well, needing so desperately to touch him back, to feel skin against skin. Buttons flew again and then finally, finally he laid flat against her breasts. The soft hair on his chest tickled and scratched even as the heat of him soothed.

  His mouth sought hers again, demanding, fevered. His hands found the sides of her breasts, cupping them, sliding down over her ribs, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more and he needed it now, with no more waiting, no more restraint. He eased off her to find the zipper on her jeans, tugging at it roughly, peeling the offending denim down over her hips, even as she struggled with his own. His hand found the waiting warmth of her through her panties, then he pushed it aside to touch her flesh, not willing to take the time for finesse.

  She didn’t want it anyway, wouldn’t have been able to tolerate it, not now, not after so long. Her decision had been made, for right or wrong, and now she was so hungry, craving him in a way that was driving and intense. Her hands slid down under the elastic of his own briefs, finding skin, more skin. She pushed the cloth away desperately to wrap her hand around the hardness of him.

  He made a moan that sounded like a protest, and she understood. There was no time to savor, to explore. He tugged at her panties and they tore, then finally she felt him probing her, seeking entrance.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “Please.” But even as she ached for him, wanting him, his weight shifted.

  The sofa was narrow and he tried to brace himself above her, some small, still sane part of him aware of hurting her with his full weight. It was impossible not to.

  “Down,” he managed. “Get down. On the floor.”

  She rolled and he tumbled with her and then he was on top of her again. And this time when she felt his hardness she was able to wrap her legs around him, holding him, greedy, not willing to wait any more.

  He drove into her hard and fast and then he went very still. She was afraid to look into his face and afraid not to. What she saw there drove the breath from her lungs.

  Tenderness. I don’t deserve it. Amazement. How did this happen? Greed and hunger, heat and indescribable pleasure. Yes, yes, I feel it, too. Finally he moved inside her again, slowly at first, then harder and faster still, more and more until she felt him stiffen above her and release crashed through her, too.

  Even as he felt the delicate spasms of her body, he let himself go. And in that moment there were no wolfmen, no problems, no doubts. There was only Ellen and Dallas buried his face in her hair again, filling himself with the scent of her, dark and delicious.

  He was whole again. And he knew, no matter what happened now, no matter that she might change her mind again and want him to, he wasn’t going to be able to let her go.

  Chapter 12

  Ellen woke on the sofa with no memory of how she had gotten there. She sat up stiffly, rubbing her neck. There was a sharp pain there from the awkward position she had been lying in, and the small of her back still hurt. Now there were twinges in too many other parts of her body as well.

  She looked sleepily around the living room. Dallas was gone.

  Her heart thumped. Had he moved her to the sofa, then gone to his own bed? Somehow the thought was more than she could bear. Perhaps it was better that things not get any more intimate between them than they already were. But still, it hurt.

  Then she realized that she smelled coffee brewing. She heard a cupboard thump in the kitchen and saw that the sofa pillows were still scattered about the living room floor. Dallas would have been concerned for her comfort there, she realized suddenly. He would have moved her. She was absolutely certain that if she went down the hallway and peered into his room, his own bed would be untouched. He had slept on the floor.

  It touched her, making her feel warm and tender and vulnerable inside. She got up slowly and started to dress, then she realized that the only piece of her clothing that was whole was her pair of jeans.

  That shook her. They hadn’t made love last night so much as they had...imploded. Last night. She would have to tell him the truth now. What they had done had changed everything.

  “I can spare a shirt,” he said from the kitchen door.

  Ellen jumped, her eyes flashing up to him. “Thanks. I guess I need it.”

  He went down the hallway and came back with one, tossing it casually over the sofa. If he was unnerved by what had happened between them, he didn’t show it.

  She pulled the shirt on, then she followed him into the kitchen. There was a cup of coffee waiting for her on the breakfast bar. She took it and sipped, touched by that, too.

  “I need to use the phone,” she murmured finally. “What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “Oh, my God.” Everything but the clinic fled from her mind. “Saint Catherine is going to be beside herself.”

  He leaned back against the counter, draining his own cup, watching her as she reached for the telephone. “Saint who?” he a
sked. “Are you at the orphanage today or at the clinic?”

  “The clinic,” she answered. She put the call in and chewed her lip as she waited for Catherine to pick up. For some reason he grinned as he watched it and she stopped, feeling self-conscious.

  Seven rings, eight... It was busy then. Otherwise Cat would have grabbed the phone right away.

  When she finally answered, Ellen hurriedly explained her absence, mumbling half-truths about getting stuck in Flagstaff overnight. Cat pressed the issue. Ellen held the phone away from her mouth to swear quietly and colorfully.

  When she hung up, Dallas was still looking at her quizzically. “The health service employs saints?”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” she muttered, sliding onto one of the chairs. “They usually send us the dregs of the medical profession. She’s the first qualified medic we’ve had who’s chosen to stay on the Res.”

  “And you resent the hell out of her anyway.” At her surprised look, he added, “It’s written all over your face.” And in your eyes...the way all your emotions are.

  Ellen lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “We just got off to a rocky start.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s perfect and she plays by the rules. That irritates me. And she married someone I was in love with,” she heard herself say before she knew she was going to.

  Dallas felt his jaw go slack. He realized that he was getting so used to her avoiding personal discussions, sidestepping anything about her life or her feelings, that when she did tell him something it threw him off stride. Now he felt an alarming stir of something that might have been jealousy. Was in love with, she had said. Past tense.

  Her face closed down and her eyes slid away. “Uh-huh,” he said quickly. “You started, so finish. What happened?”

  She slanted a look at him that didn’t quite stick. “Nothing,” she said shortly. “There was nothing between Jericho and me but feelings, and they were all on my side. I practically grew up with him. He’s clan. That means it would be incest for anything physical to happen between us. So nothing ever did.”