To Tame a Wolf

“Kavanagh! Don’t call me Tally-gi—”

He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Tally felt her way to the bed and sat down with a thump. Perspiration prickled along the back of her neck, and she realized what she had denied every moment of the past ten minutes.

She’d been terrified. Only part of that fear had been of Kavanagh himself. The rest had come from her utter lack of control, her mistake in underestimating a man she should have known was more dangerous than she could imagine.

Moving with short, sharp jerks, she unbuttoned her waistcoat, unbelted her gun, pulled off her shirt and unwound the bandages underneath. Her breasts ached. She slipped off the men’s britches and the suspenders that held them up around her waist. Layer by layer, she stripped down to her skin and stood naked before the washstand. She used two of the towels to bathe her body, combed out her hair until it was free of snarls and tangles, and unpacked her spare shirt from her saddlebags. She counted every minute she spent in the room.

When she was dressed again, she took the basin and refilled it from the pump between the cabin and the barn. Laundry flapped in the night breeze, but she caught no sight of Kavanagh.

She met him at the door of the bedroom. His hair was damp and his face clean. He looked her over and gave a short nod. “Good. I’ll sleep in the barn tonight.”

“No special favors, Kavanagh.”

“Be a damned waste if that bed don’t get some use.”

Not a hint of innuendo shaded his words. Tally relaxed. “All right. You take it for three hours, and I’ll take it after that.”

“After I dirty up the sheets? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. You go first.”

“You’re a stubborn tête de mule, Kavanagh.”

“Whatever that is, I’ll take it as a compliment.” He touched the brim of his hat and turned to go. She made a move to stop him. He froze.

“Why?” she asked. “You don’t like women. You don’t trust them. Now that you know what I am—”

He turned around, towering over her, though she wasn’t small or in the least bit delicate—except in the minds of the men who’d wanted her to be so. “If you was a regular woman,” he said, “I’d leave you here and forget about your brother.”

“I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

“Take it how you like,” he said. “You keep up with me the way you been doin’, and we won’t have no dustups between us.”

She watched him stalk down the hall and out the front door. The bedroom seemed strangely empty. She took off everything but her shirt and lay down, stiffly at first, trying to catch Sim’s scent on the sheets. It was almost too faint to be noticeable. She concentrated on the sounds of crickets and a whip-poor-will in the nearby meadow until exhaustion claimed her. Once she woke, briefly, to the sound of a distant wolf’s howl.

Dawn sifted through the thin muslin curtains. Tally swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled on her pants. Kavanagh’s saddlebags were gone.

She finished dressing in haste, torn between annoyance with Sim and delight at the rich scent of frying bacon. There would be fresh eggs, perhaps flapjacks, as well, and she found herself ravenous.

With her saddlebags over her shoulders, she left the bedroom and entered the living area. Mrs. Bryson had the table set for breakfast. Beth brought a pail of fresh milk from the barn. She smiled at Tally.

“If you’re looking for your friend, he’s outside with my father,” she said. She flushed a little, glancing aside at her mother.

“I hope you slept well,” Mrs. Bryson said. She carried a frying pan of eggs to the table and slid them onto a platter.

“Wonderfully,” Tally said. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Mr. Kavanagh said he wanted to let you rest up for the day ahead. He must have been out with the horses well before dawn; he’s already helped Mr. Bryson repair the corral fence.” She bustled back to the stove. “For a man who doesn’t talk much, he can certainly make himself useful.”

Indeed, Tally thought. “I’m afraid I haven’t been.”

“Never mind that. The men should be in shortly.” As she’d predicted, Bryson and Kavanagh arrived a few moments later, sharing the silent camaraderie of men who’ve labored together. Kavanagh hardly glanced in Tally’s direction. Bryson invited his guests to sit, said grace and served the meal.

Tally watched Kavanagh out of the corner of her eye. He hadn’t spent any part of the night in the bedroom, but the Brysons didn’t realize it. Her secret was safe. When breakfast was finished, Bryson saw her and Kavanagh out to the barn. The horses stood saddled and ready.

“You be careful up there,” Bryson said, passing Kavanagh a bundle that Tally guessed must contain fresh food. “No Apaches as far as I know, but still plenty of places to get into trouble. I’ve been hearing wolves lately.”

Kavanagh seemed to take the warning in the spirit it was intended. He swung into the saddle. “We’ll get by.”

Bryson gazed up at the sky. “I’d swear it’s going to rain. Not that I’m complaining, mind you—rain in the dry season is always welcome. But I hope it doesn’t interfere with your search.”

Tally followed his gaze. She hadn’t considered bad weather to be a factor in finding André, but Bryson was right. Clouds had gathered sometime in the night, and the look of them boded a rare late-spring rain.

She concealed her worry and gripped Bryson’s hand. “Please thank your wife and daughter for their hospitality.”

“That I will. You’re welcome any time. Good luck.”

She tipped her hat and mounted Muérdago. With a last wave, she reined east along the canyon that curved deeper into the mountains. She let the gelding pick his path, since there was really only one way to go and her thoughts were otherwise occupied. Kavanagh rode beside her, easy in posture and expression.

What had he said last night, after he’d kissed her? Now that’s done. A chore to be gotten out of the way, an irritating distraction vanquished. Certainly nothing bad had come of it, except a little wounding of her pride.

So why couldn’t she let it go, as he did? Was it anger she felt, that a man had bested her…or something else entirely?

“How did you sleep?” she asked casually.

“About as well as you.”

“You left the bed to me all night. You’re in danger of being mistaken for a gentleman, Kavanagh.”

He cast her a grim, searching look. “I’m no gentleman, and you’re no lady. That’s the bargain.”

She knew that he meant he had no expectations of her except that she do her part to find André. Kavanagh didn’t know what a precious gift he’d given her—the gift of equality and respect.

She wondered if he would accord his Esperanza such a privilege.

Morning light cast long shadows in the canyon. The gain in elevation along the watercourse brought more pines interspersed with oaks. The forest closed in on either side of the path; red fox squirrels flashed bushy tails in warning. Clouds continued to gather in the southwest, thicker and darker than before.

The first notched pinnacles appeared just as the horses rounded a sharp bend in the arroyo. Red columns, many joined in wall-like ramparts, others standing alone, towered above the trees. Some were shaped like strange animals or birds or gesturing men. Deep joints, like miniature slot canyons, ran between them.

“We’ll see a lot more of those,” Kavanagh remarked, deftly guiding his stallion over a bulging mass of rocks. “This broken terrain was what made the Chiricahuas so good for the Apaches trying to escape the army. Wasn’t easy for men to pursue on horseback.” He glanced at the lowering sky. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

Kavanagh remained in the saddle for the next mile. Often he bent low over Diablo’s barrel, supple as a cat, to examine the ground. When the main trail branched, Kavanagh chose the fainter course. But soon the way became rough and uneven, pushing between ocher turrets and thick stands of pine.

“We walk,” he finally said. Tally dismounted and took Muérdago’s lead. The air was rarer here than at Cold Creek, cooler and sharper. She saw traces of snow on the highest mountains. At noon they briefly stopped for Mrs. Bryson’s sandwiches, made of that morning’s fresh bread and leftover bacon. Kavanagh checked the horses’ hooves for stones, and then continued along the track. He sifted dust between his fingers and paused to contemplate the very rocks as if they spoke to him.

“Your brother came this way,” he said in answer to Tally’s questioning look. “He moved slowly. One of his mules was lame.” He gazed at the steep slope ahead. It was almost impossible to pick out any sort of trail amid the rubble, low shrubs and pinnacles. “I’m going on alone, on foot. The horses can’t travel quick enough in this country. You’ll have to stay here and watch them.”

“I agree, Mr. Kavanagh,” she said. “I’ll make camp.”

He blinked, as if he’d still expected her to argue in the way of a “normal” female. And then he smiled. The expression transformed him—for an instant, no more, just long enough for Tally to glimpse that playful boy who’d splashed her in Castillo Creek.