Call Of The White Wolf. Carol Finch
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off to fetch a cup of water. Moments later, John felt the tin cup pressed against his lips, and he sipped eagerly. His strength abandoned him abruptly and the pain returned in full force, leaving a barrage of cold chills in its wake. He swore the drink of water was freezing like ice in his bloodless veins.
He waited impatiently for the peyote buttons that the Apache used to override pain to take effect. John definitely needed something to ease the indescribable ache spreading throughout his body.
He wondered where this brood of children who hovered around him had come from, wondered where the hell he was. All he knew was that he was alive—whether that was a blessing or not. It didn’t feel like much of one. Considering the pain and misery he was enduring he figured dying would’ve been a whole helluva lot easier.
When the peyote took welcomed effect, John sank back into the darkness that had become his ever-present companion.
Hours later—days maybe, he wasn’t sure—he heard that quiet, soothing voice calling to him from a long winding tunnel. He felt warm liquid sliding down his throat. He was vaguely aware of gentle hands moving lightly over his chest and thigh, soothing him, consoling him.
It’d been years since he remembered feeling a compassionate touch gliding over his flesh. He was instinctively drawn to the comforting presence. He wanted to open his eyes to see if that angelic face surrounded by red-gold hair was lingering above him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw from that well of beauty, purity and sweetness that seemed so foreign, yet so compelling. But he simply couldn’t find the strength to move. He felt as if lead weights were strapped to each arm and leg, holding him in place. And so he just lay there, helpless and exhausted, wondering if he’d ever find the energy to lever himself into an upright position again.
“Do you think he’ll ever wake up for more than a few minutes, huh?”
Tara Flannigan glanced down into Flora’s small, delicate face. Because Flora was so frail and thin, her eyes looked enormous in contrast to her milky white features. The five-year-old appeared malnourished, though Tara took great pains in preparing meals to put meat on the child’s bones and give her that healthy glow the other children had achieved these past two years.
“Tara?” Flora prompted when Tara lingered too long in thought.
“I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon,” she said as she applied fresh bandages to his mending wounds.
“But it’s been four days,” Flora pointed out.
“I know, sweetheart, but he suffered very serious injuries and it takes time to mend.”
Despite the Good Samaritan tendencies that had compelled her to rescue this man from death’s doorstep, Tara was hounded by mixed feelings. When she searched his pockets, hoping to learn his identity, she’d discovered this man called John Wolfe was a territorial marshal. She’d found several bench warrants stashed in his saddlebag on the piebald stallion that he’d apparently left tethered near the canyon rim before his confrontation with the Apache.
This man was the long arm of the law in Arizona Territory. Although Tara wasn’t sure how long the arm of justice stretched—and she hoped it wasn’t all the way to Texas!—there was a possibility that John Wolfe could make trouble for her and the children when he recovered.
Tara had made too many personal sacrifices, taken several daring risks to reunite the children and to locate this spectacular valley that was as close to paradise as she could get. With a bit of Irish luck and a great deal of willful determination, she had made a home in this secluded canyon. The day she and the children had ridden into the valley to set up housekeeping she swore it would take an act of God to make her move away. For her and the children, this valley was their long-awaited promised land.
Their exodus cross-country hadn’t been an easy one. Tara inwardly winced, remembering the horrifying incident that forced her to hurriedly gather up these children, stow away with them on a westbound train and follow the rails as far as they went. Then, they’d set out on foot to find shelter and food, and avoid notice.
God forgive her for the things she’d been forced to do in order to make a home for the five children in this remote place.
“Tara, the broth is warm. Do you want me to bring in a cup?” Maureen asked.
Tara secured the makeshift bandages on John’s chest, then glanced over her shoulder at Maureen, who waited expectantly at the bedroom door. “Yes, please, dear. It’s time to spoon-feed John Wolfe again.”
The thirteen-year-old turned on her heels, causing her strawberry-blond hair to sway across her shoulder blades. Tara smiled fondly as Maureen disappeared around the corner. These days, the young girl was eager to help, and brimming with vitality. Three square meals a day had improved Maureen’s beanpole figure. Tara dearly wished she could say the same for the fragile-looking five-year-old who was hovering beside her.
Maureen entered the bedroom with an energetic spring in her walk and didn’t spill even a drop of the steaming broth. “The boys said they’re having a devil of a time with that piebald stallion that belongs to John Wolfe,” she reported as she handed the cup to Tara. “The horse didn’t mind being put in a stall beside our two mares, but he wouldn’t let anybody but little Calvin handle him.”
“That piebald is a lot of horse for a seven-year-old to handle,” Tara murmured worriedly. “I don’t want Cal to get hurt.”
Maureen bubbled with quiet laughter. “Hurt? Not likely. It was the funniest thing I ever did see. That stallion was careful where he stepped when Cal took the reins. But when Derek and Samuel tried to brush him down he would have none of it. The boys got into a shouting match, blaming each other for making the stallion difficult to handle.”
Tara rolled her eyes in dismay as she eased the spoonful of broth between John’s unresponsive lips, then massaged his throat to ensure he swallowed the needed nourishment. Both Derek and Samuel undoubtedly had their pride smarting right about now, she mused.
Those two teenage boys were a handful on a good day. They were always squabbling and scuffling and getting defensive when she asked them to assume various chores. Their tempers flared at irregular intervals, and often without provocation. Tara wasn’t sure what had gotten into them lately. They tried her patience more times than she cared to count.
“Oops, Zohn Whoof is dribbling,” Flora said as she leaned forward to blot his bristled chin with a napkin. “He’s pretty, don’t you think, Tara?”
Tara smiled at the frail little elf whose distorted pronunciation of John’s name never failed to amuse her. “Men prefer to be referred to as handsome, not pretty,” she corrected the five-year-old.
“He is terribly handsome, isn’t he?” Maureen observed as she perched lightly on the opposite side of the bed.
“Yes, he is, in a rugged sort of way,” Tara reluctantly admitted.
The man was sinfully handsome, extremely muscular and practically tan all over….She jerked upright when that traitorous thought darted through her head, bringing with it a visual image that heightened the color in her cheeks. In truth, she’d seen more of John Wolfe’s virile, sinewy body while she was preparing him for her primitive brand of surgery than a young woman rightfully ought to see.
Between the anxiety of wondering if she was capable of performing the tasks of a physician, and seeing John in his entire splendor and glory, Tara had been a nervous wreck. Her hands had refused to stop shaking while she stitched his jagged flesh together, and her attention kept drifting to the broad expanse of his chest, washboard belly and horseman’s thighs.
No question about it, John Wolfe was more man than Tara had encountered in her twenty years of existence.
“Be careful, Tara!” Flora yelped. “You’re dribbling hot soup all over Zohn Whoof.”
Tara felt another wave of heat rising in her cheeks and she struggled to regain her composure. Stifling her arousing thoughts, she concentrated on feeding John the last spoonful of chicken broth,