Call Of The White Wolf

Her respect for John multiplied, which was a shame, because Tara had the unmistakable feeling she already liked the man more than she should. They’d be no more than confidants and friends. Permitting this liaison to progress any further was an invitation to heartache. Tara had had enough of that in her lifetime. She’d suffered enough feelings of disappointment, inadequacy and rejection without inviting more of the same.

After giving herself that silent lecture, she lurched around and headed to the house to prepare lunch. To her amazement she found the children inside with John, who’d propped himself up on his improvised crutch, fashioned by Samuel from a tree limb. John was mixing up hooligan stew—which none of the children had heard of. A little of this and that, he said as he added ingredients he found in the cabinet. Tara stood aside and watched him take command of this troop of children, giving soft-spoken orders that had the youngsters hopping to do his bidding.

And later, while he sat at the head of the table, passing around food with his good arm, he began spinning yarns of an Apache legend that held the children captivated. It was the Indian version of creation, and it held Tara spellbound as well. Tara wondered why John was passing down the legends, then decided that he didn’t feel comfortable speaking of his Apache upbringing while he wandered among white society beyond the boundaries of Paradise Valley. Here he could be all he was, without fear of exposure to the outside world. In addition, she suspected he didn’t want these children to grow up with prejudices against the Indian cultures. He was, she decided, attempting to change one youthful mind at a time.

Tara had to admit that Apache philosophy was very sound, practical and down to earth. She sensed there was something else, something very subtle, going on here, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.

After the meal John announced that he was taking the children on an excursion around the canyon to acquaint them with some of the herbs that served medicinal and nutritional purposes. Tara protested that the exertion of hiking might cause a setback in his condition, but he shrugged away her concerns for his welfare. While the children were cleaning up after the meal, John gestured for her to follow him into the bedroom. Curiously, she watched him limp inside, then close the door behind them.

“What are you up to, O great warrior, White Wolf?” she asked without preamble.

He smiled indulgently. “Something you said earlier got me to thinking.”

“I hope that isn’t a bad thing—you thinking, that is,” she teased.

He cocked a thick brow. “You’re in an odd mood, Irish.”

“What can I say? I’m an odd person.” And for the life of her she didn’t know what to make of the comments flying from her mouth. Maybe it was the fact that she was unaccustomed to relating to someone other than the children. With John, she felt herself assuming an entirely different role. She wondered if her attitude and response to him was some sort of strange defense mechanism. After all, the better she got to know this man the more she liked him. And that might not be such a good thing, because his presence here was temporary and her growing fascination with him might become much too permanent.

“The point here is that you mentioned sending the children out in the world to find their place and make lives for themselves. It occurred to me that I could repay your kindness by teaching them the knowledge I’ve gained from my Apache training. There are resources of food, medicine and means of protection in the wilds that I can show them. It also occurs to me that I can share the responsibility for these children while I’m here and give you some time to yourself.”

Tara gaped at him. “Time to myself? What an utterly foreign concept. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with myself without children underfoot.”

“You can start by taking a nap,” he suggested. “On your own bed, not in the hayloft. Then try something as decadent as lounging in a chair and daydreaming.”

Her gaze narrowed suspiciously on him. “And what is the purpose of this?”

“Getting to know yourself,” he replied. “It’s part of the Apache philosophy I mentioned to the children. From what you told me, and what I’ve witnessed, you simply live to serve and care for these children.”

She stiffened defensively. “I told you why. I want them to overcome their feelings of rejection. I want them to feel wanted, needed and loved.”

“You’ve accomplished that,” he stated. “So it behooves you to regenerate your own energy. Take a nap.”

“I quit taking orders two years ago,” she told him. “I didn’t like it then, and I don’t care much for it now.”

“Really? It hardly even shows.” He chuckled, despite her annoyed frown.

“All right, Mr. Marshal, you baby-sit and I’ll lounge around. But don’t get to thinking that while you’re here recuperating you always get to be the boss.”

He opened his mouth to reply and must’ve thought better of it because he clamped those full, sensual lips together and stared thoughtfully at her. When he hobbled out of the room, Tara sank down on the foot of her bed, wondering what she was going to do with herself for an hour or two. She was in the habit of rising at dawn and working nonstop until she collapsed in exhaustion at night. She’d never pampered herself a single day in her life and wouldn’t know how to start!

“Don’t plan supper,” he added as he poked his head back inside the room. “I’ll teach the kids to hunt. We’ll return with the meal in hand and prepare it ourselves. The rest of the day belongs to you, Irish. Enjoy it.”

“The whole rest of the day?” she echoed bewilderedly.

“I’m giving you a long-needed break from your routine,” he insisted.

With that, he closed the door. Tara flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Take a nap? In the middle of the day…? That was the last thought to flit through her mind before she drifted off to sleep.

Although his leg ached fiercely, and it felt as if someone was trying to pry apart his ribs with a crowbar, John hobbled back through the canyon while the children bounded around him. Their survival excursion had been a success. John had pointed out a variety of plants and explained how each herb served as a remedy or as food, and how to tell which plants were which. Paradise Valley was a veritable greenhouse of roots, seeds and bark that the Apache used to treat maladies and to season food.

John had also directed the children’s attention to a mesquite tree and informed them that it was referred to as the Apache survival tree because it served so many useful purposes. From it a man could acquire food and medicine. The tree limbs could be burned in winter without drawing unwanted attention because the wood gave off very little smoke. Since the fragrant mesquite flowers attracted bees, the tree was also a reliable source of honey. The pods and beans could be used for flavoring, for eating or fermented for drinks. The leaves, he’d told the youngsters, were used for making tea and poultices. The gum of the tree could be applied to wounds and sores or even boiled to make candy.

All the while that John was pointing out ways to survive off the land, the children were amazingly attentive and treated him as if he were a part of their family circle. He never thought he’d experience that feeling again after he’d sneaked away from the reservation. But here, living in this space out of time, he felt as if he truly belonged somewhere. It was a most gratifying feeling—

Whoa, don’t get sentimentally attached, John cautioned himself as he stared at the cabin in the distance. He had a mission to conduct, as soon as he was able. Any emotion these children stirred in him must be restrained.

John didn’t lead the kind of life that invited tender feelings. Just look what had happened when he let emotion cloud his judgment during his disastrous confrontation with Raven. John knew damned well and good that a cornered Apache—even a blood brother—was the most dangerous of enemies. Feelings had gotten in John’s way and he’d nearly paid for the mistake with his life. He had to erect an emotional barrier between himself and these adorable kids or he’d be reduced to a useless mass of sentimental mush.

Loaded down with wild potatoes, grapes and the rabbits that he and the children had snared without using noisy weapons that attracted unwanted visitors, John halted near the cabin to show the boys how to build a small mesquite campfire to roast the meat, while the girls trooped inside to steam the wild vegetables.

With his leg throbbing in rhythm with his pulse, his ribs burning fiercely, John decided he’d overdone it—and then some. He crawled onto his pallet to catch some shuteye before the children served up supper.

Feeling amazingly relaxed and refreshed, Tara returned from a leisurely bath at one of the secluded springs on the west end of the canyon. The trickling waterfall that cascaded over a stairway of rocks was like her private corner of heaven. That, coupled with an hour’s nap, made her feel like a new woman.

As John had suggested, she’d gone searching for herself, never realizing she was lost because she’d never devoted any time whatsoever to herself. She still might’ve been sprawled in the shallow stone pool if a tarantula in search of a drink hadn’t crawled over her arm.

Tara pulled up short when she spied the boys gathered around a small campfire in front of the cabin. Ah yes, she’d almost forgotten that White Wolf’s warriors-in-training were in charge of supper. From the tantalizing aromas drifting toward her, this meal was going to be worth the wait. Her stomach growled in eager anticipation.

“Feeling better?” Samuel asked when he noticed her. She smiled and nodded.”

“Good. After your hyena seizure we were worried about you.”

“Yes, well, John said something that struck me funny,” she hedged. “I wouldn’t actually call that a seizure.”

“Sure you’re okay?” Derek questioned, studying her astutely.

“Peachy perfect,” she enthused. “Where are the girls?”

“Cooking the vegetables we gathered in the wilds,” Calvin replied. “This is gonna be a humdinger meal.”

“No doubt.” Tara noticed the sense of confidence and accomplishment the boys exuded after their afternoon with John. His attempt to teach self-reliance was obviously a smashing success. Even young Calvin, who was usually self-conscious about his limp, was practically strutting around the campfire like one of the roosters. Of course, she didn’t think Samuel and Derek needed more spring in their cocky strides. The boys—young men; how could she keep forgetting?—had been exhibiting all the signs of rebellious adolescence for the past six months.

Samuel squinted skyward. “According to the location of the sun, it must be about five o’clock,” he announced with all the authority of an expert astronomer. “Supper should be ready in an hour.”

“It’s more like five-thirty, I’d say,” Derek argued.

“As if you’d know, squirt,” Samuel said, then snorted.

Suddenly, a scuffle erupted, though Tara couldn’t say exactly how it happened or why. One minute the boys were chitchatting, and then wham! Fists were flying. One fist caught Derek in the nose. He yelped in pain and outrage, then launched himself forward to tackle Samuel so he could pop him in the eye.

“Stop it!” Tara shouted.

They didn’t cease and desist, but rolled in the grass, growling and snarling like panthers in the heat of battle. One clenched fist flew, then another. Muttered curses erupted.

“That’s enough!” The booming male voice came from the front porch.

Tara lurched around to see John propped on his improvised crutch, glaring pitchforks at the boys. His raven hair was standing on end.