Call of the White Wolf Read online

  John cursed soundly when his male body responded dramatically to the enticing sight of her. The incident reminded him of that day she’d returned from town and slipped from her dress while she presumed he was napping. Only this was a damn sight more erotic because now he wasn’t battling extreme pain and his body wasn’t numbed by sedatives.

  Like some disgusting, perverted Peeping Tom, he crouched there, memorizing the sight of silky arms and satiny legs. He could see just enough of Tara’s tantalizing figure in the clear water to make him break out in a cold sweat. The vague memory he had of her standing in the shadows of the bedroom, while the fuzzy haze of pain and medication hampered his vision, was nothing compared to seeing her in the light of day. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with his vision now, and his body was clenched so tightly with unappeased desire that he had to smother a groan.

  He should get up and walk away. It was the noble, sensible thing to do. But he didn’t move. He studied her as if she were the most magnificent masterpiece of art he’d ever laid eyes on—which she was. John wasn’t sure how long he would’ve been content to sit there and gawk, but the plodding of hooves, the jangle of bridles and bits and the murmur of deep voices jolted him to his senses. He’d been tracking renegades long enough to detect the sound of trouble when he heard it.

  He didn’t even consider the embarrassment he’d cause Tara when he showed up out of nowhere to alert her to the presence of unwanted intruders. He simply reacted to instinct and training. Limping as quickly and quietly as he could, he approached Tara from her blind side, then hunkered down to clamp his hand over the lower portion of her face. When he’d muffled her reflexive shriek of alarm, he contorted his body so she could see who had silenced her. John noted the absolute terror in her wide green eyes and wondered what caused such an intense reaction. When she tried to stand up—bare naked—to escape, he made a stabbing gesture with his arm toward the south.

  “Intruders,” he whispered in her ear. “Where the hell are your clothes, Irish?”

  She directed his attention to the rock steps of the miniature waterfall. John finally noticed the clothing she was soaking in the springs.

  The sound of gravelly laughter and baritone murmurs spurred John into action. He wasn’t going to present much of a threat to the intruders if he was squatting beside a naked woman, with only his knife for protection. His Colt, he was sorry to say, was unloaded and lying under his pillow on his pallet—doing him no good whatsoever. Damn, he’d let his guard down so completely during his convalescence in the canyon that he’d forgotten every precautionary rule he normally lived by.

  Scrabbling around the stone pool, John snatched up the waterlogged garments and flung them at Tara, who was trying to shield her nakedness with her hands and arms. John refused to glance in her direction for fear of getting sidetracked from his objective of keeping a watchful eye on the four riders picking their way down the narrow path.

  “Are you dressed yet, Irish?” he asked without taking his gaze off the intruders.

  “Not quite,” she whispered back.

  “Well, hurry it up….Where’s your rifle?”

  “I didn’t bring it with me, since I hadn’t planned on hunting.”

  “Great,” John said, then scowled. “And here I was counting on you to have a weapon to defend us.”

  “You’re the legendary marshal,” she snapped. “Why didn’t you bring one with you?”

  He would’ve whipped his head around to glare at her, but he couldn’t risk a distraction. Pensively, he studied the terrain that lay between him and the oncoming riders, then motioned for Tara to circle the spring and join him.

  “Keep yourself tucked out of sight,” he ordered.

  “While you do what?” she demanded.

  “I’ll circle around to confiscate the drag rider’s rifle so I can get the drop on the rest of them.”

  “With injured ribs and a gimpy leg?” she asked incredulously.

  He stared her straight in the eye. “This is what I do, Irish.”

  “Maybe so, but not when you’re incapacitated. You can save your customary heroics for when you’re well.”

  Before he could grab her, the idiotic woman rose to her feet and flapped her arms like a duck going airborne. John cursed her bravado inventively.

  “Yoo-hoo! Over here!” she yelled.

  Swearing in English—since there was no such thing as Apache obscenities, and this situation definitely called for salty oaths—John slunk beneath the small waterfall, then inched along the stairway of rock so he could circle the pack of riders. Tara, damn her courageous hide, stepped into clear view to divert attention. In that wet shirt and breeches, which clung to her like a coat of paint, she got the riders’ attention, all right. Catcalls and wolf whistles echoed around the canyon walls.

  Sensing no threat whatsoever from a woman, the scruffy riders moseyed down the path toward Tara, who’d pasted on a wide smile, as if welcoming home long-lost friends. John hunkered down on the overhanging ledge and watched four pair of lecherous male eyes zero in on Tara’s shapely body—and he swore all over again.

  “And here I thought we’d just be lucky enough to find a place to quench our thirst, boys,” the lead rider purred in lusty anticipation.

  “I get her first,” the second rider insisted.

  No one’s going to get his filthy hands on Tara, John vowed silently. She’d placed absolute faith in his ability to handle this situation while she provided plenty of distraction. He might’ve disappointed Gray Eagle and the entire Apache nation because he couldn’t ease their plight on the reservation, but he wouldn’t allow Tara to meet with harm. She had a brood of children depending on her, damn it!

  “Well, well, what a pleasant surprise,” the lead rider said as he reined his steed to a halt in front of Tara.

  She lifted her gaze to the shaggy-haired hombre and said, “You’re welcome to drink your fill at my spring before you go on your way.”

  “Your spring?” One of the men smirked. “Well, ain’t that neighborly of you, honey. But we’d be wantin’ a bit more than a drink. In fact, we’re just decidin’ who’s gonna take a turn with ya first—” John launched himself off the ledge, knocking the trailing rider off his horse and giving the man a sound whack on the head with the stone he clenched in his fist. By the time the other three riders twisted in their saddles to determine what had happened, John had a Colt in his hand and was biting back the howl of pain that his flying leap had caused him.

  Tara, bless her, took advantage of the distraction he created to snatch the lead rider’s rifle from its sling on the horse’s withers. Two-against-three odds were acceptable, John decided. He’d faced worse before, plenty of times.

  He surged to his feet, ignoring the pain shooting up his leg. “Climb down,” he commanded gruffly. “The first man who makes a move to grab his hardware bites a bullet. If you want a drink, then take it now. Fill your canteens, friends. If you behave yourselves you can be on your way.”

  “Look, mister, we don’t mean no harm,” the lead rider hastened to assure him. “Don’t get trigger happy.”

  John didn’t reply, just shifted sideways so he had a clear shot at all three men—in case one of them decided to test his accuracy with a pistol.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, he reminded himself.

  Tara backed up a step to let the men approach. The strangers dipped their sweaty hats in the spring, slurped water and filled their canteens. John refused to let them water their horses because he expected they’d try to use their mounts as shields. He gathered the trailing reins to lead the horses forward, keeping himself between the men and their mounts.

  “In the future,” he told the men gruffly, “remember this is private property. Next time you pass through here, make the three-mile ride into Rambler Springs to fill your canteens.”

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?” one of the men demanded.

  He shot them a steely-eyed stare. “John Wolfe.”
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  Three pair of eyes widened apprehensively. John couldn’t be sure if the men were reacting to the over-blown legends circulating about him or if these hombres were concerned about keeping their identity a secret, for fear he’d haul them to jail. When one of the men darted a glance toward his saddlebags, John’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. Yep, outlaws, he guessed. Folks with something to hide had a habit of darting glances at their hidden stash of cash, just to insure it was safe. That reflexive glance was a dead giveaway.

  Well, hell. Some unfortunate rancher, prospector or storekeeper was probably lighter in the pocket, thanks to these scoundrels. John wasn’t going to let these ruffians ride out of here the same way they rode in—scot-free.

  John caught Tara’s movement out of the corner of his eye and nearly groaned aloud when she turned the confiscated rifle on the nearest hombre, then cocked the trigger. “Why don’t we just shoot ’em, John?” she suggested. “Nobody around these parts will know the difference. We can bury ’em alongside the other intruders that showed up uninvited last week.”

  The men’s wary gazes bounced from John to Tara, then back again.

  “You aren’t gonna listen to her, are you?” the blond-haired renegade asked worriedly.

  “Why shouldn’t I? I listened to her last week, didn’t I? She really gets bent out of shape when folks just ride in here as if they own the place.”

  “This canyon is mine,” Tara said emphatically. “I have a deed with my name on it to prove it, too. I don’t want you here. I don’t want anyone trespassing on my property!”

  Her theatrics were pretty convincing. For a moment, when she swung the rifle barrel from one heaving male chest to the next, John wasn’t sure what she was capable of doing.

  “Better drop all your hardware nice and easy, boys,” he recommended, “then lie down so you don’t look like you pose the slightest threat to this she-male. The last two travelers got all defensive and she shot one of them before I could stop her. Naturally, I had to shoot the other one so there wouldn’t be any witnesses. You can imagine what a mess we made at such close range. Took us two days to clean up the evidence of the killings.”

  Three Adam’s apples bobbed uneasily.

  “You heard him. Drop your pistols and get down!” Tara screeched.

  “Uh-oh, she’s getting prickly, fellas,” John warned, straight-faced. “Her Irish temper’s nothing to fool with, believe you me. She shot me before I could tell her I was a lawman. I’ve got two bullets in me to prove that she prefers to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  To verify his claim, John pulled open his shirt to expose the bandage around his ribs, then he limped forward to join Tara. “She nearly killed me dead, then patched me up when she discovered I was wearing a badge.”

  The men’s alarmed gazes leaped from his bandages and gimpy leg to Tara’s wild-eyed expression. Damn, the woman had missed her calling as an actress, John decided. She practically had him convinced she was loco.

  “I’m getting that twitchy feeling again, John,” Tara said as she stabbed the rifle barrel against the nearest hombre’s chest. “Let me shoot one of ’em at least.”

  “Hey, lady, take it easy,” the man chirped, hands held high. “We’re gonna drop our pistols.”

  “Then do it!” she shrieked, stamping her foot impatiently. “Hurry up!” Although the men hurriedly discarded their weapons and sprawled spread-eagle in the grass, Tara wasn’t satisfied. “I still think we should just shoot them,” she insisted.

  “You can shoot the first one who moves—will that make you happy?” John asked as he limped over to retrieve the coil of rope dangling from one of the saddles.

  “Okay, one will be good,” she replied, leveling the rifle barrel toward another shaggy head. “How about this one?”

  The man flinched. “Nobody move,” he ordered his friends.

  While Tara held the men at gunpoint, acting just crazy enough to be convincing, John sliced off sections of rope and bound up the men.

  “Easy now, Irish, give me the rifle,” he cooed. “I’ll keep an eye on them while you ride back to the house.”

  “No, you said I could shoot one of them. You promised!”

  “Maybe later, okay? My leg is hurting something fierce. I’m not up to digging more graves right now. Maybe after I have a chance to sit down and rest a bit.” When Tara breezed past him to hand over the rifle, John murmured confidentially, “Bring Samuel and Derek back with you.”

  She nodded, then vaulted onto the nearest mount. She walked the horse right overtop of the downed men before she spurred the animal into a gallop and let loose with a fine impression of a cackling witch.

  “Damn, that is one bloodthirsty she-male,” one of the hombres muttered into the grass.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” John agreed. “Last week she shot down a man for looking at her the wrong way. When I’m feeling better, I’m gonna have to find a way to haul her to jail. She’s a menace to society.” He discreetly dipped his hand into the bulging saddlebag and came up with a heavy pouch of gold and several loose banknotes. Just as he’d thought. Some poor robbery victim was missing his hard-earned money.

  While John waited for Tara and the boys to return, he hobbled over to tie up the unconscious man he’d hammered on the head. A few minutes later, Tara came thundering through the canyon with Samuel and Derek hot on her heels. The boys stared goggle-eyed at the captives.

  “Help me get these hombres on the horses,” John instructed the boys.

  Samuel and Derek scrambled from the saddle to assist him. All the while, Tara was wielding the rifle and chattering about how she wanted to use the prisoners for target practice. It was more than obvious that the half-crazed, unpredictable female with a rifle struck more fear in the hearts of outlaws than a capable gunslinger. Even Samuel and Derek kept casting apprehensive glances at Tara.

  When the four men were draped and tied on the backs of their horses, John strapped the heavy saddlebags on Samuel’s mount, then drew the boys aside. Tara was still yammering about blowing heads off, diverting the captives’ attention.

  “I’m counting on you to take these outlaws into Rambler Springs and deliver them to the town marshal. Don’t stop for any reason or listen to any excuse these men might use to catch you off guard. Understand?” When the boys nodded solemnly, he added, “Give the saddlebag to the marshal, tell him I’m in the area and that I’ll be in to see him soon.”

  John noted immediately that he’d returned to the boys’ good graces by giving them a man’s job. They were eager to prove their capabilities. John just wished it hadn’t required drastic circumstances to win the boys over.

  When Samuel and Derek rode off, their captives trailing behind them, John pivoted to see Tara smiling triumphantly. He, however, was not the least bit amused by her daring theatrics. “Damn it to hell, Irish!” he roared at her. “The next time I tell you to do something, you do it. Got it?”

  Her smile turned upside down. “Well, excuse me for helping apprehend those hooligans,” she snapped back. “You needed my help and we both know it. If you think I’m the kind of person who cowers when trouble arises, then you’ve misjudged me. Furthermore, I won’t have you getting yourself killed or aggravating your injuries on my account.”

  Her chest heaved in indignation. John’s gaze dipped to the damp shirt that revealed more than it concealed. Willfully, he raised his wandering gaze to her flashing green eyes and livid expression.

  “You think I haven’t found myself in dire straits and narrow scrapes since I gathered the children and headed west?” she demanded. “Just because I didn’t go into detail about our exodus to Arizona Territory doesn’t mean there weren’t some tense moments along the way. Believe me, I’ve handled plenty of stressful situations in my time, Marshal Wolfe.”

  “Irish—”

  “I was trying to save your injured hide, damn it!” she shouted. “If those four men had gotten past us and attacked the kids in the cabin—Maureen e
specially—I don’t even want to imagine the horror they’d endure. No one’s going to hurt those kids, not on my watch. Ever!”

  He’d seen mother grizzlies less protective of their cubs, John thought. Tara was all teeth and claws. Although she was only five feet nothing tall and couldn’t have weighed much over a hundred pounds dripping wet, she had a core of steel and exhibited death-defying courage. Yet in the presence of the children she was cheerful, optimistic and kind. If he hadn’t realized it already, he knew beyond all doubt that there was more to this woman than met the eye.

  “You can calm down now, Irish. It’s over,” he said soothingly. “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat, but I’m accustomed to working alone. Fretting that you’d get yourself shot made me twitchy. The Apache custom is that when someone saves your life, then you owe that life. If you get yourself shot, or worse, and I can’t prevent it, then it’s a mark on my soul. Your safety is my responsibility.”

  By the time he was through apologizing, Tara had managed to calm down—slightly. She knew she was operating on sheer nerves and adrenaline. It’d been easy for her to act half-crazy, because that’s exactly how she’d felt. The prospect of John being injured or killed unnerved her. The thought of those men finding the children terrified her. Always before, when a tense moment passed, Tara had gone off alone to compose herself without upsetting the children. Now John was standing five feet away, and she felt the reckless urge to hurl herself into his arms and hold on until she gathered her wits….Before she realized it, she’d indeed launched herself at him, flung her arms around his neck and buried her head against his chest.

  “Good gad,” she gasped.

  She heard as much as felt laughter vibrate through his chest. “You did fine, Irish. Better than fine, actually,” he said approvingly. “I’ll admit your daring heroics scared the living daylights out of me, but you were thoroughly convincing. Did you, by chance, spend time on the stage during your pilgrimage to Paradise Valley?”

  “No, but I used to act out fairy tales to entertain the children at the orphanage,” she said against his shirt.