Call Of The White Wolf

Before Tara could fully regain her composure and stash away her unsettling thoughts, Samuel and Derek bounded off the front porch and dashed toward her.

“I’ll tend your horse,” Samuel volunteered.

“I’ll carry your knapsack,” Derek insisted.

Tara shook her head, helpless to understand why the boys—young men—were falling all over themselves to assist her. When Derek snatched up her knapsack, she settled her left elbow over the rip in her gown. “Thank you, boys…er, gentlemen.”

“You’re welcome,” they said in unison.

“John Wolfe finally woke up this afternoon,” Derek reported.

“Did he?” That was encouraging. Tara made a mental note to carefully inspect and cauterize his wounds if they hadn’t healed properly by now. She didn’t want to risk gangrene setting in. Her injured patient didn’t need any setbacks, especially one as dangerous as gangrene.

When she surged through the door, Maureen was at the stove stirring the stew Tara had prepared at dawn. The aroma tantalized her taste buds, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch and was ravenous. Nodding a greeting, she headed for the bedroom to change clothes.

Quietly, she inched open the door, then did a double take when she noticed the empty bed. To her shock and dismay, John was sprawled half on, half off her pallet in the corner. What in heaven’s name did he think he was doing? He was seriously injured and he needed the comfort of her bed.

Muttering silently at the sleeping invalid, Tara tiptoed across the room to shed her torn gown and don her usual attire of men’s breeches and shirt. She turned her back on John to pull on her shirt, then nearly came out of her skin—and there was a lot of it showing, blast it!—when his husky voice rumbled behind her.

“So you must be Tara.”

Tara clutched the shirt to her bare breasts and struggled to pull her sagging breeches over her hips. Her face flushed a dozen shades of red as she shoved one arm, then the other, into her shirtsleeves. “I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said self-consciously.

“You were halfway undressed before I could tell you.”

Tara glanced over her shoulder to see his lips quirk in an amused smile. Those captivating silver-blue eyes drifted from the top of her head to her feet, missing nothing in between. He deserved a good slapping for waiting until she was undressed to inform her that he was awake. But Tara figured he’d suffered enough pain for one week. She’d overlook the incident—this time.

“You must be feeling better if you managed to crawl onto the pallet. But I warn you, if you split a stitch I’ll be none too happy about it.”

“You’re Irish. The accent is unmistakable.”

She spun around as she fastened the bottom button on her shirt. “And you’re injured. You shouldn’t have crawled off the bed,” she chided as she marched over to inspect his wounds.

The moment Tara laid her hands on him she could feel her cheeks flood with color. Touching this muscular hulk of a man while he was unconscious was one thing. Tending him when he was staring up at her with those incredible silver-blue eyes was something else again.

“I noticed your dress was torn at the waist,” he murmured. “Trouble in Rambler Springs?”

Tara glanced away quickly. “Yes, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to the children.”

He cocked his head sideways and regarded her for a long moment. “About the children.”

Tara tensed immediately, ordered herself to relax, and then graced him with a cheery smile. “Yes, what about them? I hope they didn’t disturb your sleep. They’ve been anxious for you to wake up.”

“You wanna tell me what’s going on around here?”

No, she most certainly did not! Tara flashed him another bright smile. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Marshal. Now brace yourself, because I need to cleanse these wounds.”

John recognized a diversion tactic when he heard one, but he let it slide because he swore Tara had peeled off his jagged flesh when she exposed his tender wound. It was all he could do to prevent himself from howling in pain.

“Your face has gone white,” Tara observed. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” A frown beetled her brow while she inspected his ribs. “I’m going to have to cauterize this wound. The other one, too, I suspect. I bought some whiskey in town to numb your pain.”

“Is that why you ran into trouble?” he guessed correctly.

Tara nodded. Her glorious hair shimmered in the light. John had to make a conscious effort not to reach up and run his fingers through that silky mass that constantly captured his fascinated attention.

Tara rose gracefully to her feet. “I’ll fetch the whiskey from my knapsack.”

“I’d rather have a leather strap to bite down on,” he told her.

Her brows jackknifed. “Do you realize how much this is going to hurt?”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve had a wound seared. Probably won’t be the last.”

“No, I imagine not, considering your dangerous line of work. I noticed a scar on your right leg that looks like a healed knife wound. There’s a bullet hole in your shoulder, too. You’re definitely no stranger to pain and discomfort,” she murmured as she pivoted on her heels and headed for the kitchen.

When Tara walked out, John smothered a groan and felt his gaze helplessly drawn to the hypnotic sway of feminine hips. Hell! Wasn’t it enough that he’d accidentally seen his angel of mercy stripping down to her threadbare pantaloons, and found himself staring at her bare back, wishing she’d turn toward him? Damn, she was a vision—with all that creamy skin arranged more perfectly on her feminine body than any he’d ever beheld! And in his condition, he didn’t need to become aroused—but he was, damn it. He’d never be able to think of his angel of mercy without remembering the accidental unveiling of her shapely body.

John muttered an obscenity when his own unruly body stirred restlessly. This situation was entirely new to him. He’d never seen a woman naked without having her in his bed. But Tara, this beguiling angel with secrets in her eyes, was off-limits. She wasn’t going to join the ranks of the women who entered and exited his life without him giving them a second thought.

First off, he owed Tara his life. In the Apache culture, that signified that his spirit became hers. Therefore, he wasn’t in a position to follow up on the arousing sensations Tara ignited in him. He’d do what he could to help her with this brood of children, as soon as he was back on his feet, but he was going to keep his hands off her.

Besides, he wasn’t going to be here very long, John reminded himself. A flaming affair with Tara was out of the question. He couldn’t stay any longer than necessary because he had to track down that ruthless gang that was wreaking havoc in the territory. He’d also promised Chief Gray Eagle that he’d do all within his power to ease the Apache’s plight and ensure the tribe was treated humanely.

John gnashed his teeth, wondering if it was possible for one man to change the collective attitude of a white population that didn’t understand the Apache’s way of life or spiritual beliefs. Hell, for white society it was like trying to measure the familiar with a foreign yardstick. Furthermore, too many soldiers, settlers and miners adhered to the appalling philosophy that the only good Indian was a dead one.

No, John had entirely too many irons in the fire to become sidetracked by a beautiful woman who would, without question, be heaven to touch, to possess.

Although he had never known a woman he called only a friend, Tara could be no more than that. He couldn’t allow male desire to dominate his thoughts and actions. He’d be gone from Paradise Valley as soon as he was able, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, look back.

When he’d turned white again, his purpose had been twofold—to return Raven to the reservation and to use his legal authority to deal with whites that preyed viciously on each other and on the captive Apache. It didn’t matter what John wanted, desired or needed personally. He was here to serve a higher purpose. These tantalizing fantasies about Tara that chased around in his mind were nothing but a futile distraction.

At that sensible thought, John slumped on the pallet. Next time Tara touched him he wouldn’t allow himself to react as a man responded to a beautiful woman. That feat shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish, he mused grimly. After all, she would come at him bearing a heated blade to sear his jagged flesh. That should be enough to discourage improper thoughts.

The creak of the door prompted him to glance up. Sure enough, the bewitching angel carried a knife that glowed red-hot. She held a lantern in her left hand, and the expression on her face testified to her apprehension and her compassion. John tried to assure himself that cauterizing a wound wasn’t as painful as the initial gunshot, but he knew better.

This was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.

“I’m sorry,” Tara said, apologizing in advance.

John reached out with his good arm to retrieve the leather strap draped over her arm. “Just do it, angel face,” he ordered.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, especially since we both know this is going to hurt like the very devil.”

“Okay, Irish. Just do your worst.” John stared straight into her thick-lashed cedar-green eyes. “If I curse you, don’t take it personally, since you’ll be burning the living hell out of me. Deal?”

“Deal.” Tara nodded bleakly, and then braced herself on her knees while John bit down on the leather strap.

“Do the leg first,” he said around the strap. “With any luck, I’ll pass out before you sear my ribs. I hope you sent the children outside so they won’t have to hear a grown man scream bloody murder.”