Dances with Wolf

by Farrah Taylor

He brought out a big salad bowl and two steaming bowls of what turned out to be a fragrant and deeply seasoned beef stew. Putting a grateful expression on her face, she wondered whether he’d made an identical meal for every girl he’d brought to this charmingly rugged lair of his. Stop this, Abby. You are being a neurotic freak! Settle down!

  “I gotta confess,” he said, and she braced herself. “This isn’t fresh-made. I made it in bulk a month back and froze a big batch. It was the only decent thing I could whip up in a hurry.”

  “Come on,” she said. “It smells incredible.”

  “I’ve got some garlic bread just about ready. My stove’s been acting up on me, so it’ll take another minute or two.” He sat down and gazed at her from across the table. “We can start on the stew.”

  He watched while she took her first bite. He seemed pretty confident she’d like it, and he was right.

  “What’s in this?”

  “Ground beef, some spices, a few tomatoes. I just sort of followed Mom’s recipe from memory. I keep thinking to ask her to write it down, but you know. Things get a little chaotic at our house.”

  “There’s something else in here.” Abby lifted a spoon to her nose. “What is that?”

  Wolf smiled. “Chocolate.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Mom swears by it. A few ounces of unsweetened cocoa. That’s her secret.”

  Abby bent her head over the stew and inhaled. Okay, so it was Karen’s recipe. And it could have been Bridget’s Lady Gillette. But the Lucky Blue Rose?

  “Looks like you need some more wine.” Somehow she’d sucked down the entire first glass without even realizing it. Definitely not a Reese Witherspoon move. “And if I don’t rescue that garlic bread, it’ll be a lost cause.” He disappeared behind the checked curtains that separated the kitchen from the main room.

  She sipped her wine and looked into the fire. Above the fireplace were wooden-framed pictures of the Olsen family, a pair of old spurs, and a dozen or more outsized rodeo trophies.

  “Anyone would think you’d lived here a long time,” she called out to him. “You’ve made this place so comfy.”

  He opened the curtains and walked back to the table, the bread wrapped in a napkin, a wide grin on his face. “I can’t say I did it without help.”

  “Really?” Her heart pounded. “Who helped you?”

  “Who do you think?” Wolf laughed and passed the bread to Abby. “Bridget and Mom. You think they could keep their hands off this cabin once they found out I’d bought it? I know it looks lived in, but the truth is I’ve only been able to spend a few days here between competitions. Bridget and Mom scoured every flea market between here and Polson to find all these gee-gaws.”

  Her heart resumed a normal rhythm. “Oh,” she said. “Maybe Bridget mentioned it. I forget.” Of course, Bridget never had. Abby understood perfectly now why she’d never even heard about this ranch from her best friend—Bridget had been protecting her all along. Everyone thought Abby was still heartbroken, and that even mentioning Wolf would send her into a tailspin. Were they wrong? Here she was imagining Wolf had bedded half the women in the Western Hemisphere.

  “Oh yeah, they came out with a whole mess of ideas. And by the time they were done, it was like a chick bomb exploded in here.” He chuckled. “Speaking of chick bombs, did you see some of the stuff Mom and Bridge have squirreled away up in the bathroom? Toiletries, some face cream, even some tacky perfume I bought Bridge.”

  “The Lucky Blue Rose, you mean?”

  “That’s the one. The three of us went out to dinner one night, and she was complaining about not being able to find her quote-unquote favorite scent out here in the middle of nowhere. So I stopped in and grabbed her the cheapest perfume I could find at the truck stop pharmacy down the road.”

  “Really?” Relief rushed through her. “That’s a good one.”

  “I thought so. More than Bridge did, anyway.”

  How silly Abby had been, making up all these stories about Wolf the Womanizer. Okay now, Abby, stop the inquisition.

  Outside, as if agreeing with her, dry lightning rimmed the fence line and a crack of thunder pealed through the valley. She looked out the window, startled.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Wolf said. “Just a quick afternoon storm, in and out before you know it.”

  “The horses’ll be okay?”

  “Bullet’s steady as they come. She’ll lead the other two to shelter if it starts raining.”

  What about me? Abby wondered crazily. Will you lead me to shelter, Wolf? Just for a minute she allowed herself to imagine his hands running over her body, and shivered with delight at the thought of them scratching her back, maybe even leaving marks. Even to herself, Abby made no sense. Around Wolf, she was an outright mess, jealous one minute, desperate for his touch the next.

  Suddenly, there was a sound at the door. Feet scraping the mat followed by a series of rough knocks.

  “Company?” Abby asked. She looked at her watch. It was already four fifteen. Nearly five hours of daylight left, but when were they going to get their training in?

  “Wasn’t expecting anybody.” Wolf crossed the room in three reluctant strides. “Roy Bonner,” he said as he opened the door. “Expected you later, man. Way later. I said Tuesday morning, didn’t I?”

  “Just need that digger, if you don’t mind. Didn’t think you’d have company.” Roy Bonner, tall and broad but gawky as hell, stumbled into the living room and stood awkwardly in front of Abby, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “It is Saturday, Roy.” Wolf’s voice lowered a notch. “In case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Exactly. A night for Packer’s Roost, not for a quiet dinner at home.” Roy sniffed the air and glanced curiously in Abby’s direction. “Oh, I see what you’ve got going on in here.”

  “Abby, Roy,” Wolf said. “Roy, Abby.”

  Abby stuck out her hand. “I’m just a friend of Wolf’s from home,” she said. “From the Flathead.”

  He took Abby’s hand as if he’d never shook a woman’s before, then gave Wolf a look, like nice taste in friends. Wolf, all business, didn’t take the bait, completely ignoring the look, as if they were all still in high school and he were honorably protecting her reputation. “Abby’s come up to help me out with Bullet, Roy. Just a courtesy visit on her part.”

  “Ah, nice,” Roy said. He gripped Abby’s hand and then backed away to stare at her even more unabashedly. “That mare was the best thing that could ever happen to a hard-luck cowboy like Wolf. That is, until she threw him on his ass.”

  Abby looked sharply at Wolf. “Bullet threw you? When did that happen?”

  Wolf shrugged and sat back down without offering a chair to Roy. Obviously, he was trying to keep the visit as short as possible, but Roy didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d respond to a subtle message. “That’s how I found out she was in trouble. We were at Roy’s brother’s arena fooling around two weeks ago, and she just went down like a top.”

  “You never noticed any swelling before?” Abby frowned.

  Wolf looked embarrassed. Why hadn’t he told her about the fall? Then she realized: Wolf, amazingly decorated ranch home notwithstanding, was a cowboy, through and through, and there was no way a cowboy would tell anybody about falling off a horse unless he absolutely had to.

  Roy, an amused expression playing across his face, looked back and forth between Wolf and Abby, then pulled a third chair up to the table.

  “I’d feed you if I’d invited you,” said Wolf.

  “No problem, I ate already,” said Roy. “But I wouldn’t turn down a glass of vino.”

  “One glass, Roy,” Wolf said. “Abby and I have to get back to Bullet’s training.”

  “With this storm? Not likely.” Roy leaned back in his chair. Abby imagined the antique busting into a hundred pieces under his weight.

  She swiveled around, picked a tumbler up from the hutch behind her, placed it in front of Roy, and poured him
a glass. “So since you were there when Bullet and Wolf went down, do you remember how it happened?” she asked. “Was it on a turn? Or did her legs just fold under her?”

  “Looked to me like our friend here was turning her too fast,” said Roy. “What, are you some kind of vet or something?”

  “Abby works with injured horses,” said Wolf vaguely, like he was hoping that’d be the end of Roy’s questions.

  “I use my intuition to figure out what’s going on,” she said. “Sometimes it’s systemic—and sometimes the injury is more about fear.”

  Roy cocked his head and looked at her sideways. “You’re not one of those horse whisperers, are you?”

  Abby grinned. “That’s kind of a catchall term. I just call myself a healer.”

  “Oh, brother,” Roy exhaled dismissively, as if she’d just told him she planned to cure Bullet with the power of positive energy, as if she were a dim-witted hippie who thought horses were magical and “spiritual.” But she was used to this kind of contempt for her area of expertise. A cowboy’s mind was a tough thing to change, but she’d done it before, and she’d do it again.

  Roy pushed his glass, which he’d managed to empty in no seconds flat, toward her. She glanced at Wolf. He shrugged, looking miserable as she poured Roy’s wine. She wondered why he didn’t tell this jerk that Dr. Vickers, a vet so respected they might even know of him in Choteau, had sung her praises? Better yet, why not tell Roy that he, Wolf, admired what she did enough to hire her to weigh in on his favorite mare? Was he a believer or not?

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Roy said and took a long pull of the pinot noir. “So you work miracles, do you?”

  “I try to stay away from that word. But I can work with injuries some people have given up on.”

  Wolf pushed his chair back again and stood behind Roy. “You just came to borrow a posthole digger, didn’t you, Roy?”

  “And maybe hustle you both down to the Roost for a beer or two.”

  “I’m not staying the night,” Abby said.

  “Like hell you’re not,” Roy said. “It’s positively pissing out there, girl.”

  Abby had to admit it—unless the rain seriously slowed, it would be foolish to get behind the wheel. “Just my luck,” she said. She fished her phone out of her pocket, grimacing as she saw the single bar on her phone—cell phone coverage was spotty as heck out here, she was learning. Just as well—she dreaded telling her mom she would have to spend the night. As soon as her mom found out about it, she’d tell Karen, Karen would tell Bridge, and Bridge would read her the riot act.

  “Bad luck for you,” said Roy. He stumbled to his feet without taking his eyes off Abby. “Fantastic luck for Wolf.”

  Wolf ignored the comment. “Abs, I’m going to help Roy load the digger onto his truck.”

  “In this rain?” she asked. Wolf gave her a private look like, you want this guy back again tomorrow? She smiled.

  “Better grab a slicker, buddy,” said Roy. “It’s raining cats and coyotes out there.” His next remark was drowned out by another clap of thunder.

  Abby reached for the stew bowls. “I’ll just clean up, then.” She sighed as she peered out into the pasture. Rain was falling in sheets, obscuring the mountains, the tree line, and everything in between.

  “Don’t touch a thing,” said Wolf. Then he whispered, “I’ll be back in ten. Then we’ll…figure out a plan.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Roy called over his shoulder. “Abs.” He laughed to himself. “Come on, Wolfsie, let’s do this.”

  The door closed behind the two men.

  Abby sat at the table for a minute before clearing and washing the dishes, a violation of Wolf’s wishes, but the surest way to calm her restless thoughts. After she finished, she dried her hands and walked over to the stone fireplace. Wolf had laid a small pile of twigs and old, sawed-up fence posts. She struck a match against the hearth and held it against the tinder. The clock chimed five.

  She took off her boots and curled up on the dark-red love seat. Warming herself against the storm now raging outside, she wrapped a green Army blanket over her knees and stared into the fire until her eyes grew heavy. Suddenly, she was exhausted. It was probably her own doing—all the idiotic fantasies of Wolf’s fictional romances with wearers of tacky perfume. And then this Roy idiot, a much-needed reminder, in dopey human form, of the macho cowboy world that Wolf called home. This was a place where she was nothing more than a stereotype, and probably always would be.

  All of this was so overwhelming. Abby just needed a minute in front of the fire to collect herself. It was pretty darn comfortable here, the wood crackling, flames licking the chimney while the storm raged outside. Not bad at all, to be here under this blanket. She wouldn’t fall asleep, though. That wasn’t the plan. She’d just…take a little rest…just…for a few…seconds…

  …

  Damn Roy Bonner. Careless with horses, forgetful with tools, a wet blanket all over Abby’s first visit to the cabin.

  Wolf’s “friend” had kept him for forty-five minutes while the thunder and lightning raged over his acreage and as far as the eye could see. By the time he got back to the house, it was nearly six. Ordinarily, there’d be three solid hours of daylight left, but the weather had darkened the sky to near black. The rain came in waves, pummeling the tin roof of the lean-to and bending the new birches that lined the driveway like so many toothpicks.

  First, Roy wanted to know about Abby’s horse whispering, like it was a comment on Wolf’s manhood that he’d resort to such touchy-feely techniques. Then, he asked all kinds of other questions about Abby, which Wolf refused on principle to answer. He’d never been one to kiss and tell, especially when he hadn’t even made a move in the first place. But Roy seemed to revel in Wolf’s impatience, asking to borrow a half-dozen other tools, too, since he’d taken the trouble to drive all the way out there and all.

  After Roy’s truck finally roared down the driveway, spitting gravel in its wake, Wolf walked back from the barn, determined to continue what he and Abby had started. Did she still think about him, the way he so often thought of her? He allowed himself one quick fantasy: sweeping all the dishes off the table; letting them clatter all over the rough wood floors; pulling Abby up into his arms, then taking her, right there in the dining room. Stella would get the hint, and skedaddle upstairs. He’d have Abby to himself, for hours and hours.

  But after he closed the front door, the cabin was too quiet, the dining table cleared, cleaned, and deserted, the candles burned down to pools of wax.

  “Abby,” he called up the stairs toward the loft. “Abby, come on back down here. Sorry that took so long.” He wondered if he’d hurt her feelings, taken a step backward again, as if hanging out with Roy had been his preference. He glanced through the open curtains to the kitchen. The dishes were rinsed and neatly stacked on the drain board. In the hearth, two new logs burned.

  He walked over to the fireplace, muttering under his breath, then turned toward the couch. Abby was sprawled across the pillows, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes closed. Her dark hair swirled around her shoulders and spilled over the pillows. At her feet on the hooked rug, Stella lay snoring.

  “Abby,” he whispered. He pushed an extra pillow under his knees and knelt next to the couch to watch her breath rise and fall. She looked so natural lying there, like she belonged somehow. He was half-tempted to lie down next to her, but stopped himself. He was glad she’d fallen asleep. All those questions she’d asked had almost felt like flirting, which could have led to more flirting, which could have led to…God knows what. In a way, he was thankful to Roy. After all, hooking up with Abby would be easy as taking a dive off a bucking bronc. But actually making it work with her? That would require skills Wolf wasn’t sure he had.

  He watched her for a few minutes, her beautiful brown skin turning almost gold in front of the fire. Lord, was she a beauty. Those high, regal cheekbones, her exquisite fine face like a bright shining reward especially for
him. He hadn’t come across a woman as beautiful as Abadabun, not ever. He wondered if maybe she was attracted to him, too—by her nervousness, and by the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her expression changed from regal to girlish and vulnerable.

  It was a shame they couldn’t just go at it like a couple of teenagers, and then wash their hands of each other when they were done. But Wolf didn’t see Abby that way, and never had. It was more than that, too. He realized, watching her, that Bridget and their parents weren’t the only reason he needed to steer clear of her. It was also the two of them, the inevitable complications that would rise up between them the moment they’d so much as kissed. His simple, straightforward life would turn into chaos and confusion if he ever made that mistake. She’d try to do the one thing he’d never let a woman do: tame him.

  An ember cracked in the fire. It was only seven thirty, too early to go to bed. But he was tired, and Abby was obviously exhausted. Wolf allowed himself to close his eyes. He’d just lean against the couch for a few minutes, no more than that.

  …

  He woke to the sound of Abby’s voice. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “What time is it?”

  He looked at his watch—it was eleven thirty! He couldn’t believe he’d let their whole evening slip away. “Time to get you tucked in, little lady.” Wolf tried to cast away the remnants of sleep and picked Abby up, blanket and all, whisking her up the stairs. He hadn’t held her like this in years, not since a night in their junior year when they’d roasted marshmallows by the river with Bridget and a couple of his football buddies. He could feel her light breath on his neck and he allowed himself a peek at her. She looked so peaceful.

  She barely stirred, even as he tucked her in, jeans and all. As he closed the door, she exhaled, “Wolf…” so quietly that he thought he might have imagined it.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning, Abby’s cell phone rang, waking her from a deep sleep. She sat up in the cozy bed and looked around. She was all alone. No telling where Wolf was. She couldn’t even remember how she’d gotten to bed. Ever the big brother, he must have carried her up the stairs.