Bride of the Wolf

by Susan Krinard

  That, of course, was impossible. “Is there still a bullet…inside?” she asked.

  He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t so much as acknowledge her question. She touched the margins of the wound with her fingertips. His arm tensed.

  “There is something inside,” she said. “It will…have to come out.”

  His lip curled again, this time in mockery. “You know how to remove a bullet, ma’am?”

  “No. But I have—”

  “I can fix it myself.”

  “You propose to stand in front of a mirror and poke a knife into your flesh?”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  “Not this time.” She got to her feet. “Please stay here with Joey, in case he regains consciousness.”

  Lifting the pail, she returned to the kitchen, dumped the water and thoroughly rinsed the bucket, then filled it with what remained of the hot water and set it aside while she took the thinnest kitchen knife from the wall. She opened the stove door and placed the knife blade just inside, letting the metal sit until it was red-hot.

  She leaned heavily over the sink, feeling almost faint. She had tended wounds before, as she’d implied to Holden. But this one should be in the hands of a doctor.

  Holden would never consent, of course, even if there were a resident doctor in Javelina. She must do what she could on her own.

  The water steamed as she carried it and the knife, its handle wrapped in a cloth, into the bedroom. Holden was still crouched beside the bed, watching Joey’s face. His own held an expression of worry that revealed more emotion than he would ever have consented to show her.

  She set the pail down with such force that water sloshed over the side. She reached for the support of the bed as she lowered herself to her knees.

  “Have you any liquor?” she asked.

  “Don’t keep any here.”

  “I cannot emphasize too strongly how much this is likely to hurt.”

  He finally met her gaze, and she thought she must be going mad. There was humor in his eyes, humor at his own expense.

  “I’ve felt worse,” he said.

  Perhaps he had. Perhaps he’d been shot more than once, but she saw no evidence of it on his body. The body she had never seen so fully exposed, the broad chest and shoulders, the beautifully sculpted muscles designed to create a thing of beauty and sleek power…

  Hesitantly, she reached for the red-stained bandanna around his neck. He caught her hand and held it in a grip that could have crushed her fingers if he’d truly meant to hurt her.

  “Leave it,” he said.

  “It’s filthy. It must come off, or there might be—”

  “Leave it.”

  They stared at each other. Gradually Holden’s grip softened, and she became frighteningly aware of the feel of his callused palm on hers, the slow movement of his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

  She snatched her hand free, and he let her go. Calming herself with a few deep breaths, she dipped a clean cloth in the water and began to bathe his chest and shoulder. She could feel his gaze on her as she stroked over the planes and valleys of his hard physique. She brushed his small nipple, and he sucked air through his teeth.

  For a moment she couldn’t move. She looked down to avoid his eyes, focusing on the ridged stomach and the waistband of his trousers.

  A mistake. A terrible mistake. He was clearly aroused, his…masculine parts straining against their confinement. She remembered Louis, naked in the hotel room where they’d so often met, erect with lust for her. She remembered the gush of wetness between her legs, the same wetness she felt now.

  God help her. She had not imagined her desire for him, or imagined his for her.

  Long fingers curled around her wrist. Holden pulled her arm up and placed her hand on his chest. His heart was beating as forcefully as hers.

  “You’d better finish,” he said in his roughest voice.

  Somehow she managed to do so, kneeling behind him to clean the entrance of the wound. She picked up the cooled knife, and her hand began to shake.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.”

  “If I make a mistake—”

  “You won’t.”

  The confidence in his voice almost reassured her. She positioned the knife over the hole in his shoulder, lowered it, grazed the ragged flesh with the tip.

  “Do it,” he ordered.

  He didn’t move, didn’t even gasp as she pushed the knife inside. Almost immediately it struck something hard, not far below the surface. She moved the knife against the bullet, and Holden gave a low grunt.

  “Should I stop?” she whispered.

  “Go on.”

  Working by instinct, she wedged the blade under the bullet and lifted it. A gush of blood spilled from the wound, and then the bullet was out. It fell onto her skirt, and she stared at it, unable to move.

  “You done it,” Holden said.

  She had. But there was still infection to worry about, fever…

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I heal quick.”

  Slowly she bent over his back, resting her forehead against his untouched left shoulder. His breath shuddered in and out. His warmth penetrated into her skin, his scent of sagebrush and sweat and man overwhelming her senses.

  You are a whore, Rachel Lyndon.

  She straightened, her body feeling as fragile as bone china, and washed the wound. The bleeding had stopped. The hole already seemed smaller than it had just minutes ago. She felt inside the flour bag and found several strips of cotton long enough to bind around his back and shoulder. Holden remained still, unnaturally so, as if the whole process had been no more painful than a pinprick.

  “I’m finished,” she said, scooting back on her knees so that she could no longer be tempted to touch him. “Are you all right?”

  He looked over his shoulder, his stark profile untroubled by any sign of emotion. “Much obliged,” he said.

  She tucked her feet underneath her skirts and rose. “You must be sure to keep your wound clean, and change the bandages regularly. And you must rest.”

  He watched her as she returned to the bed. She could feel him following her every movement with concentration so intense that she could hardly keep her countenance.

  Doing her best to ignore him, she checked to make sure that Joey’s back hadn’t begun to bleed again. He stirred and groaned. Holden bent close to his head again and whispered a few words, which quieted the boy.

  “Joey will have to remain in bed for several days,” she said. “He must continue to lie on his stomach.”

  “He won’t like to stay down,” Holden said, gingerly touching his own bound shoulder. “But after what he’s been through, he’ll do it just to make sure he don’t have to suffer through any more of this ‘healin’.’”

  She stiffened. “I’m sorry if you found my ministrations inadequate.”

  “Your ministrations were just fine.”

  Rachel couldn’t mistake his emphasis. Her body purred like a contented cat.

  God help me.

  Seeking desperately for a neutral topic of conversation, she remembered that she still knew nothing about the circumstances of his and Joey’s injuries.

  “What happened, Mr. Renshaw?” she asked.

  “You said you’d call me Holden.”

  She folded her hands in her lap to stop their shaking. “Who did this?”

  “Best you not know.”

  “Not know?” She slid from the bed and faced him, unable to control the anger in her voice. “It is as much my business as yours, if I am to be patching up your injuries.”

  Holden gave her another of his penetrating looks. “It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s not good enough. I insist—”

  All at once he was on his feet, tall and forbidding, his brows drawn down over darkened eyes. “Outlaws,” he said.

  Rachel’s mouth went dry. Outlaws? Here? “Who are they? Where did they come from? Have you sent
someone for the…police or sheriff or whoever handles these matters here?”

  “They won’t be back,” Holden said.

  His words were so grim, so final. What had he done? He had not taken the gun he had given her, but perhaps he had access to other weapons. Surely he could not have fended off criminals without a weapon of some sort.

  She fought to keep from staring at his lean, powerful body, so suited to the kind of violence such a battle would require. Her gaze moved from his beautifully defined pectorals to his ridged stomach and the arrow of dark hair leading to the waistband of his trousers.

  “Th-these outlaws,” she stammered. “Did you—”

  “No one’s dead yet,” he said, reading her expression. “But if they do come back, if they come anywhere near the house—”

  “Surely the baby is safe here!”

  “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout just the baby.”

  Had she imagined the warmth in his voice? “Are they common here, outlaws?”

  “So long as you’re at Dog Creek, you won’t come to no harm. But maybe you’d feel safer livin’ in town.”

  “I have no intention of running away. Not because of outlaws, and certainly not because of anyone else.”

  It was impossible to read his expression. He seemed about to speak again when Maurice appeared at the door.

  “I have more cloth, madame,” he said to Rachel. “Are they all right?”

  “Joey will heal,” Holden said. “I’ll be back on the range in a few hours.”

  “You will not,” Rachel said.

  Holden folded his arms across his chest.

  Maurice looked back and forth between them, his eyes bright with curiosity.

  “You got no say in it, Mrs. McCarrick,” Holden said. “There’s only me and Charlie and Joey now, and Joey’ll be off his feet for a few days.”

  “Why don’t you hire more hands?” she asked, exasperated. “Or if that is not possible, I can certainly do some of the things Joey did, at least near the house.”

  Once again Holden’s eyes were on her, weighing, measuring.

  “You said you wanted to milk the cow.”

  A little thrill of fear delayed her answer. “Yes.”

  “Reckon we might use your help.”

  The turnabout didn’t surprise her as it might have done only hours before. Had her treatment of Joey improved his opinion of her? Or had their unwonted intimacy, her hands on his body…

  Holden’s nostrils flared. He made a slight, almost imperceptible gesture with one hand, and Maurice retreated, his surprisingly light tread quickly receding down the hall.

  “You stay with Joey,” Holden said. “I’ll let you know when we need you.”

  She moved away, hoping to put a safer distance between them. “I am delighted that you think I am suited for such work after all,” she said.

  He met her gaze with a look that brought the wanton to her knees. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I don’t doubt you’ll be very good.”

  Before she could recover her senses, he walked out of the room. Afraid to jar Joey and wake him if she sat on the bed, she felt her way to the chair against the opposite wall and fell into it.

  I will not give in. He will not win.

  And neither would the wanton Ellie Lyndon.

  Rachel rose and went to the small window, where she gazed at the bleak western horizon.

  Oh, come soon, Jedediah. Come soon.

  LUCIA WAS ROCKING the baby in her arms when Heath entered the room. Her own child lay on the bed, kicking and babbling.

  “Señor Renshaw,” Lucia said, her round face creased with worry. “Is all well?”

  Heath bit back a retort the woman didn’t deserve and gave a short nod. “Joey’s all right,” he said.

  Her dark gaze took in his half-dressed and bandaged condition. “You, too, are all right?”

  “A scratch,” he said.

  “Bueno.”

  He couldn’t say the same. He’d lied to Rachel about what had happened, just as he was lying to Lucia now. But he’d decided, halfway between the creek and the house, that he couldn’t tell her the truth, and he’d convinced Joey to keep the secret. If Rachel knew what Sean had done…

  Hell, it would give him plenty of satisfaction to make her see what Sean really was. But Rachel was as unpredictable as Texas weather. He didn’t know how she would react, whether she would think he was lying or charge off to confront Sean at the Blackwells’. Even if she didn’t, she would probably figure that Heath wasn’t going to let Sean get away with it.

  Why did it matter what she thought? How many times had he asked himself that question?

  “Did you come to see the niño?” Lucia asked.

  He looked down at the curled pink fists poking out from the top of the blanket and the snub of a nose that wrinkled as he came nearer. “How is he?”

  “He is very strong. And happy. He never cries.”

  And he no longer looked even a little gray. Heath had seen the improvements a few days ago, but he’d made himself wait to make sure there would be no question about the kid’s health. It was a good thing he had, or he wouldn’t have been able to save Joey or take care of Sean.

  “Do you wish to hold him?” Lucia asked.

  He backed away. “I’m in no fit state,” he said. “Can you keep him for a while?”

  “It is no trouble. But the child misses Señora McCarrick when she is away. I see it in his eyes.” She cradled the baby close again and crooned to him in Spanish. Heath crept out and headed straight for his cabin. As soon as he was inside, he pulled the bandages from his shoulder, wadded them into a ball and tossed them on the table.

  The wound was nearly healed. He’d told Rachel the truth when he’d said he could fix it himself. It would have closed fast on its own, ejecting the bullet naturally even if he stayed in human shape, but a single Change would have taken care of it in less than a minute.

  But he couldn’t have left Joey. And when he’d seen how gentle Rachel was with the boy, he’d wanted her hands on him, her slender fingers brushing over his chest, soothing and making him hurt all at the same time. He’d forgotten the danger when she’d leaned her head against his shoulder, when he’d felt her breasts pressed against his back.

  He spun around and hit the table with his fist. It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t do a damn bit of good to deny it. He didn’t just want her. He didn’t just respect her grit or her skill. He was starting to like her.

  She’d treated Joey as though he was more than just a scrawny, unlettered orphan. She’d stroked his hair and sung to him with the same kindness she’d always shown the baby. And she’d cared about Heath’s pain just the same as she’d cared about Joey’s.

  But liking her was unnatural. He didn’t like women. And it only made things worse, so bad that he’d reminded her to call him Holden and told her she would be safe at Dog Creek. He’d had enough sense to suggest she leave the ranch, but he hadn’t argued when she’d refused.

  Then there was the hunger between them that wasn’t even close to going way. It wasn’t just her scent, or how she got so wet when he was close to her. Not even the deliberate way she tried not to notice his hardened cock. It went deeper than he could understand.

  He should have despised her for betraying Jed, even in her heart. But he couldn’t. Rachel Lyndon might know what she wanted, but she would never act on it. She would keep fighting her desire even while her body shouted an invitation for him to take her. And he would keep making it harder for her with stupid jokes meant to provoke and punish her for his own weakness.

  Heath pushed his hands through his hair and sat on the edge of his bunk. Find yourself a whore. There was one in Javelina who would be happy to take his money. Rachel never had to know how far he’d fallen.

  He got up again, filled a pail from the outside pump, and took a clean pair of britches and a shirt to the shed the hands used as a bathhouse. He stripped down to the skin and poured the water over himself, letting th
e shock of the cold wash away his lust.

  It wasn’t enough, but the only other way he knew to work it off wasn’t safe right now. He’d taken a big enough risk in attacking Sean in wolf shape in broad daylight, however much he’d enjoyed it.

  Just the way he would enjoy making Sean pay.

  Heath rode back out to the western reach of Dog Creek, where he found the beeves Sean had tried to drive off back on the right side of the creek. He drove them east a little ways, then kept on going, smelling out any strays or mavericks he and Joey might have missed, and marking their locations for branding.

  By the time he was back at the house, it was nearing sunset. He saw to his mount, made sure that Apache was resting well after the day’s exertion, and checked up on a mare that was expected to foal any day now. Going to see Joey would be about the worst thing he could do. She was with him.

  He was ready for a good run. Once twilight had faded from deep purple to black, lit by the nearly full moon, he walked out onto the range, shed his clothes and Changed.

  Chapter Eight

  NOTHING COMPARED TO running as a wolf. Heath had ridden plenty of good horses at top speed across prairie and open range, both in his years as an outlaw, and as hand and foreman at Dog Creek. But not even the fastest ride could compare to sweeping over the ground on your own four paws, the wind in your fur, leaving the rest of the world in your dust.

  Memories coiled in Heath’s still-human mind like rattlers waiting to strike. The first time he’d discovered he could Change, he’d had no other loups-garous to show him the way and ease him through the transformation. He’d stumbled along in a shape he hadn’t learned how to control, assaulted by sounds and smells and sensations he didn’t have a name for.

  He’d known since he was old enough to understand anything that he didn’t belong to the Mortons. He hadn’t known his real name then. They’d taken him in when he was little more than a baby. They’d given him food and shelter. But he was never their son, not in their eyes or his.

  He’d thought for a while that Ma Morton had loved him, even though Pa Morton had worked him like a slave from the time he was big enough to help around the farm. When he’d proven stronger than most boys his age, he’d been given enough work to kill a horse, and Ma hadn’t been able to stop her husband. Regular beatings reminded him just what he was worth.