Warrior Moon

by Sara Orwig

  “Now I’m fine,” he said, stepping away from her. Taking down his pistol, she followed him, leaving White Bird playing with the doll.

  “Vanessa,” he said, sounding amused, “I don’t need you.”

  “I just want to make certain you’re all right. I don’t think anyone in this town likes Indians, and a man lives on the alley and works for Elwood Parsons—”

  “Hankins. I heard him talking to you. Give me the pistol. I’ll be all right.”

  She handed it to him, hoping he could manage to get around in spite of his weak condition. She remembered Jethro chopping wood and the play of his muscles, and she knew Lone Wolf would be no match for him without the pistol.

  She stood in the darkened hall and waited, relieved when Lone Wolf returned. He moved slowly, but, although he was still weak, he looked better than yesterday. Another two days and he would be far better. When Lone Wolf climbed back into bed, she pulled the blanket over him. By the time she had tucked it across his chest, he had closed his eyes.

  “Guipago?” she asked softly, letting the name roll across her tongue. She received no answer.

  To Vanessa’s relief, she didn’t see Jethro Hankins until late in the day. As soon as she spotted him coming down the alley, she hurried inside to stay behind a locked door until it was time for a dinner tray of steak and potatoes from Elwood Parsons.

  She helped Lone Wolf, who ate his dinner and what White Bird and Vanessa left of theirs. Once again, Vanessa helped him outside. She stood at the doorway while a cold wind blew. Worried about Hankins, she waited and was again relieved to see Lone Wolf return to the house without interference.

  In the distance thunder rumbled, and she shivered as another blast of cold air struck her. The minute Lone Wolf settled in bed, he fell asleep again.

  After trying the basted gingham dress on White Bird, Vanessa bathed the child, preferring yesterday’s bath water to having Jethro bring a fresh supply to their room.

  While White Bird and Lone Wolf slept, Vanessa hemmed the red dress that needed only hooks and eyes to be finished.

  At nearly midnight, Vanessa stripped and stepped into the tub to bathe. She dressed again in the gingham, put out the lamp, and finally climbed up on the bed beside Lone Wolf.

  His head turned as he looked at her. She inhaled swiftly and sat up, starting to get out of the bed. His hand caught her wrist. “Lie back down. You slept here last night.”

  “Tonight, you know I’m here. Last night, you were unconscious.”

  “I knew you were here,” he said. “Lie down,” he ordered.

  She stretched out as if she were reclining on hot coals.

  “Vanessa, you’ll never escape from Fort McKavett with your sisters,” he said, his voice deep and resonant in the quiet. “Even if you did, where would you go?”

  “We can head south and catch the stage to El Paso and then go on to California.”

  “Why California?” he asked, turning on his good side and propping his head on his hand to look at her.

  “I don’t think my father will follow us that far,” she answered, intensely aware of Lone Wolf stretched out so close to her. “Also, my sister Phoebe has a wonderful voice. When we were living in St. Louis, Missouri, Phoebe met a woman, Eleanor Rosati with the San Francisco Opera. When she heard Phoebe sing at a party, she invited Phoebe to stay with her in San Francisco. I want to take Phoebe there and see if she can get into the opera.”

  Lone Wolf reached out to stroke Vanessa’s hair away from her face, and she felt a tingle from his faint touch. Her gaze drifted down to his mouth, and she inhaled deeply. “How can the three of you live?” he asked, his deep voice like a caress.

  “I have some of father’s money and I can sew, so I can earn wages. Eleanor said she would help Phoebe.”

  “Why won’t your father let Phoebe do something with her singing?”

  “He thinks the opera is foolish. He sees a chance for a marriage for Phoebe that will unite him with a wealthy, influential family. My father has political ambitions. He wants to be a United States senator. Frankly, I think he’d like to be the president, but he knows that’s out of his reach.”

  “And will you be content to sew, care for Belva, help Phoebe, and perhaps watch her rise to fame?”

  “Yes, of course. I have no inclinations for fame. All I want is—” She broke off, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Is what, Vanessa?” he asked insistently, and her pulse jumped. He lay on his good side, facing her, his dark eyes studying her. He was only inches away, both of them stretched out, and she felt a yearning for his kisses that threatened all propriety.

  “It isn’t important,” she answered awkwardly.

  He caught her chin. “What is it you want?” he demanded with a quiet persistence, his gaze boring into her, his warm fingers holding her so she had to look into his eyes.

  “I want a husband who loves me, and I want children,” she confessed, blushing. “I love White Bird,” she said firmly, wishing he would turn to another subject.

  “Ahh, a husband and children,” Lone Wolf said. He traced his finger across her lips, and she felt as if she were melting inside. “You will have that, I promise you.”

  “It isn’t up to you whether or not I marry, so don’t promise it,” she chided.

  “It’s a prediction. You’re a woman meant for a man.” His finger slipped across her lips again, and she gazed at him through the darkness. He leaned closer to her, tilting her face up. His brown eyes were compelling, his rugged features handsome.

  As she gazed back at him, her heart pounded. Lone Wolf looked arrogant and virile; his desire for her was evident. With deliberation, he leaned closer. His mouth brushed hers, and the faint contact was magical.

  She closed her eyes, wanting his kiss, feeling a heat kindle inside her. Lone Wolf’s strong arm banded her, pulling her against him. She put her hand against his chest and ran her fingers across his flesh, hearing him groan, the noise muffled by their kisses.

  His tongue played in her mouth, touching her tongue, sending wave after wave of pleasure through her. His hand slid down to her breast, and she felt as if she would faint from his touch, her body swelling toward him as she slid her arm carefully around his neck.

  Logic told her to resist, to avoid sharing a bed with him, to stop the kisses. He was a tough, solitary man who was still grieving over his wife. Vanessa knew she was vulnerable, that she lacked experience. It would be disastrous to fall in love with him, she reminded herself. They belonged to different worlds. She suspected he hated most whites, and she knew nothing about his way of life.

  Yet moving out of his arms was impossible. He leaned over her; his kisses deepened, becoming more demanding. His hand played across her breast, and his thumb circled her taut nipple as warmth flooded through her. He shifted closer, his hand banding her waist and pulling her against him.

  “Don’t!” she gasped. “Your wounds will—”

  His mouth stopped her words, and she was lost because she was in his arms, stretched against his powerful body, his arm around her, his hard erection pressing against her.

  Dazed, on fire with new sensations, she felt her breasts swell against his solid chest. As her hips moved, she ached for more of him.

  With a silken touch that made her gasp with pleasure, his hand slid over her hip, down to her thigh in a fiery trail that stormed her senses.

  His kisses were passionate, deep and demanding, and she returned them wildly, her fingers winding in his thick black hair, her hand sliding over his smooth back. Logic told her she was running risks; at the same time, to be in his arms felt right and good, as if she belonged there.

  She moaned, her hips thrusting against him, feeling his erect manhood pressing against her belly. The ache low in her body between her thighs was unfamiliar, a yearning that was overwhelming.

  His leg nudged hers apart, and she moaned at the warm friction as he slid between her thighs. His big fingers slipped beneath the neck of the gingham to cup
her bare breast, his thumb playing over her nipple.

  Vanessa’s soft cries were muffled by his kisses as he caressed her, driving her to a frenzy.

  Trying to cling to reason, knowing she had to stop now or be hopelessly lost to passion, she caught his hand, scooting away from him.

  “No!” She gasped, not meaning the word to come out so forcefully. As he became still, she looked up at him. “We have to stop,” she said, starting to get out of bed. Again he caught her and pulled her down.

  “Stay where you are. I’ll leave you alone.”

  Gasping for breath, with her heart racing wildly, she faced him. She ran her fingers lightly along his jaw, and his eyes narrowed.

  “I’m so inexperienced,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “I know we should stop now or I won’t stop at all. And if I fall in love with you, I’ll be hurt—terribly.”

  “It is not my intent to hurt you, Vanessa,” he said solemnly. “If it were, I could have done so that first day.”

  “I didn’t mean that kind of hurt. I meant if I fall in love with you,” she said, her voice tight with the emotion of baring her soul to him. “You never would love me in return, and our lives have to part. Your way is not the same as mine.”

  Lone Wolf ran his fingers through her hair and caressed her slender throat. He was torn between taking her and wreaking revenge, and respecting her. And the latter was winning in the battle because he admired her. She had been courageous, resourceful, and at the same time she had obeyed him when it seemed necessary. She had saved White Bird that first night and had also saved his life by tending his wounds.

  He ached with wanting her, and he tried to push his desire aside as he pondered what to do with her; but it was difficult to ignore the clamorings of his body when Vanessa was stretched out only inches away from him. He let his hand slide down her arm, shifting to her hip, down to her thigh. Her eyelashes fluttered and closed for an instant, and he wanted to lean forward and kiss her again.

  Instead, he stroked her thigh and slid his hand back up, brushing one soft breast. She inhaled swiftly, and he was amazed again that her father deemed her unmarriageable because she was a beautiful, warm, responsive woman.

  And at the thought of her father, he frowned. Her father was a railroad man; and all the railroaders Lone Wolf had known were ruthless, filled with greed, and Indian-haters.

  Lone Wolf wound his fingers in Vanessa’s hair and tilted her face up toward his. “You said you lived in Kansas. Has your father been connected with a railroad in Kansas?”

  The question hung in the silence between them, and he guessed her answer before she spoke.

  Suddenly cautious and uncertain, Vanessa knew she should answer with care. At the same time, she wanted to be truthful. Remembering that she had lied to him about her name, she looked him directly in the eye.

  “Papa started to build a line across northern Kansas at Topeka and headed west, but the war interfered.”

  “A Kansas railroad crew killed my wife. They used her for their pleasure and then stabbed her and left her to die.”

  Vanessa gasped and touched his cheek with her hand. “How dreadful,” she said, hurting for him, suspecting her father might have encouraged the killing by his bounty on dead Indians.

  “Would your father fire such men from his crew if he knew what they had done?” Lone Wolf asked, his voice harsh with smoldering anger.

  She stared into Lone Wolf’s eyes. She wanted to answer yes, but the truth was no. Her father would condone what they had done because he had no use for Indians. He treated them with far more contempt than he had for stray dogs.

  “Answer me, Vanessa,” Lone Wolf demanded, pulling her hair so her head was tilted back further.

  “No, he wouldn’t care,” she replied forthrightly. “My father doesn’t like Indians.”

  Fury surged in Lone Wolf and he leaned closer, his mouth coming down hard on hers, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth. He yanked her against him, his arousal pressing against her. For a moment he wanted revenge, wanted to inflict his will on the white woman and her hated father. He shifted over her, pushing her legs apart. And then her slender arm circled his neck and she pulled him down, moaning softly as she kissed him back.

  He felt the softness of the lips beneath his, felt her pliant yielding to him; and he remembered it was Vanessa he held, not a stranger, not a white woman who hated him or his people, but a warmhearted woman who had tended him and cried over White Bird.

  As she tightened her arm around his neck and clung to him, he released her abruptly, his emotions seething. He was on the brink of revenge, anger tearing at him; yet too easily he could recall her facing him bravely or holding White Bird and crooning softly to her. He was caught between two warring urges. She was a virgin, and it would be as important to her people as to his that she remain pure for marriage.

  His breathing was ragged while he struggled with his emotions and this time she turned on her side and propped her head up to look down at him. “You’re angry with me—only it’s anger against my father more than me.”

  “I loved my wife, and she was treated brutally. She was innocent and had done nothing. I have hated all whites for what those men did to her. They were Kansas railroad men—like your father—so I find that difficult, Vanessa. I’ve dreamed of revenge.”

  She turned on her back, unable to answer him because she could understand his hurt and hatred. And in spite of the chasm between their worlds, her body raged with fire for him. She was beginning to feel a closeness to him she had known only with her sisters. Suddenly she rolled over to touch his jaw.

  “I’m sorry for what happened, for your loss, and your hurt.”

  He stroked her hair away from her face, gazing at her, and she couldn’t tell whether his anger had abated or not. She lay back down and gazed into the darkness, wishing he would turn and pull her into his arms again and kiss her, yet knowing it was better that he had stopped.

  Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, and in seconds rain pattered lightly against the windows.

  “I find it difficult to believe that your father couldn’t find someone to marry you,” Lone Wolf said, the words coming out gruffly.

  “He would only approve of someone wealthy, high in the military or political life, and the suitable men we knew were not interested in marrying me.” While Lone Wolf turned his head to study her, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’ll have to admit, I didn’t cooperate when I was introduced to them because I didn’t want to marry any of them.”

  Lone Wolf tugged lightly on one of her curls, and she felt the faint pull against her scalp. Her nerves tingled; her body still felt on fire, and he was only inches away. She fought the urge to reach out and slip her arm around his neck again.

  “And there was no young man who wanted to court you?”

  “Anyone I might have liked Papa detained from calling or arranged to have transferred. My father has been at military forts most of my life. He was an officer for years. The brief time in between his military service and the War Between the States was the only time we didn’t live at forts.” She looked into Lone Wolf’s dark eyes. “After a while, if Hollings doesn’t find me, I imagine my father will offer a reward.”

  “Why would he offer a reward when he was sending you to a convent to get you out of his life?”

  “He doesn’t like to have his way thwarted. And he may suspect I’ll come back for Phoebe and Belva. I could be wrong—perhaps he will let me go and consider himself well rid of me, but I don’t think so. He has always had to have his way.”

  “Do you think you can do better raising your sister Belva than your father?”

  “Phoebe and I discussed that and, yes, I think I can,” Vanessa replied firmly, turning to face him and propping her head on her hand, “because I’ll love her. Life may not be as easy, but love is more important than comfort.”

  “Not all women would agree with that,” he replied dryly.

  “If you�
�re caught with me, it could be very dangerous for you.”

  “I know it’s dangerous for me. I could be killed for traveling with you. But don’t forget, if we’re discovered like this, your reputation is destroyed.”

  “I don’t see that my reputation matters if Papa is sending me to a convent anyway.” She studied Lone Wolf, curious about him. “What is White Bird’s Kiowa name?”

  “Tainguato.”

  “Tainguato,” she said. “Guipago and Tainguato. How did you get the name Lone Wolf?”

  “It was Gray Wolf, but after my wife’s death I have wanted to keep to myself and not take another wife. I loved my wife and cannot imagine loving another. Not yet. My name was changed to Lone Wolf because I am alone and I dwell in my tipi without anyone. They have all been killed. My father died in a battle with Apaches; my mother and wife were killed by whites. My brother and his wife were killed by soldiers.”

  “You have White Bird.”

  “Yes. And I promised to care for her and I will.” He tugged a lock of Vanessa’s hair through his fingers. “Now I also have you with me.”

  “That’s not permanent. Soon you’ll be well enough to get along without me, and I’ll go.” She studied him solemnly. “And if you decide to do so, you can get rid of me easily.”

  They stared at each other, and her heartbeat quickened. What ran through his mind? Would he take her captive as soon as he could? As she stared at him, she suspected he would. He was accustomed to a fierce life that involved fighting for survival so he would not be bound by the polite constrictions that would hamper many white men. On the other hand, many white men would not be bound at all, but would have tried to possess her by now or take her gold.

  Lone Wolf stroked her head, his fingers combing through her hair. “I would never destroy you,” he said in a husky voice. “I might keep you and take you back with me, Vanessa, but I will never hurt you.”

  “I don’t want you to take me back,” she answered quietly, “because I have to take care of my sisters. And Phoebe should have her chance at the opera. She has a beautiful voice that’s wasted out here.” She turned to study him. “What is it like for women in your tribe? Do they obey the men?”