Call Of The White Wolf. Carol Finch
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angel face was nowhere to be seen, several vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.
“You’re awake at last!” the dark-eyed child exclaimed happily. “Hallo, Zohn Whoof. My name is Flora.”
“Hallo to you, miss” he wheezed, amused by her mispronunciation of his name.
The waif giggled and her enormous brown eyes sparkled with pleasure. She edged closer to the bed to pat his uninjured shoulder. “Feeling better?” she asked.
He nodded slightly. “Where am I?”
“In Paradise Valley. I’m Maureen. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John Wolfe,” the older girl said very politely.
John surveyed the adolescent girl standing to his left. With her sky-blue eyes, wavy strawberry-blond hair and sunny smile, she was destined to knock a passel of men off their feet in years to come, John decided.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Maureen,” he greeted her cordially.
The girl beamed in delight, opened her rosebud mouth to reply, then got nudged out of the way by a small boy with coal black hair, a gap-toothed smile and a scar on his chin. “I’m Calvin and I’m seven years old,” he introduced himself.
“A pleasure to meet you, Calvin,” John replied.
From the shadows, a tall, gangly adolescent boy with dark brown hair and gray eyes emerged. The boy drew himself up proudly, and John expected the kid to beat his chest like a warrior exploding into a war whoop. “I’m Samuel. I’m fifteen and I am in charge here—”
“No, you aren’t. We’re both in charge. Tara said so.”
John glanced toward the foot of the bed to appraise the offended boy, whose sandy-blond hair hung over one blue eye.
“I’m Derek. I’m fourteen and I’m half in charge.” He glared at Samuel, then returned his attention to John. “If you need anything, I’m the man you want to see.”
John swallowed a smile. He supposed at one time in his life he had struggled from adolescence to adulthood, but it had been so long ago he didn’t recall it. He felt a century old in the presence of these children. The nagging pain in his ribs and thigh drove home the point that the hellish experiences of his profession weren’t making him any younger. In fact, he’d come perilously close to dying in his thirtieth year, thanks to the desperation and treachery of his brother, Raven.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Derek,” John said. “I do need something, as a matter of fact, but I prefer not to have these pretty young ladies in attendance.”
The boys realized his discomfort immediately and shooed the girls from the room. Moaning in misery, John levered onto one wobbly elbow—and received one helluva head rush. The brightly decorated room, which boasted mason jars filled with wildflower bouquets, and curtains made of feed sacks and ribbons, spun furiously, making him nauseous.
“Here, we’ll help you,” Samuel offered, grabbing John’s good arm.
“I’ll get the chamber pot,” Derek volunteered.
“Uh, you can take it from here, can’t you?” Samuel asked, his face coloring with embarrassment, as Derek placed the pot near the side of the bed. “Me and Derek and Calvin will be right outside the door if you need us.”
Five minutes later, the boys returned to ease John back into bed. Sitting up for only a few minutes had been exhausting. John was anxious to settle in for another much-needed nap, but Maureen and Flora arrived with a loaf of bread and some broth.
“Tara said you should eat if you woke up,” Flora informed him.
By the process of elimination, John figured Tara had to be the absentee angel of mercy. “Where is Tara?” he asked.
“She rode into Rambler Springs to fetch supplies and sell the extra eggs,” Samuel reported, then scowled. “She wouldn’t let us go along to protect her from those rascally miners, though. Made us stay here to take care of y—”
John smiled when Samuel’s cheeks turned the color of the sandstone spires in Paradise Valley. “I’m most grateful you stayed behind. Does Tara usually have a problem with the miners?” John wouldn’t be surprised to hear it, considering her bewitching face and that cap of curly, reddish blond hair. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the rest of her, but from the neck up, his angel of mercy was the stuff masculine dreams were made of. He should know, since he’d had his fair share of them during his recuperation.
“Sometimes Tara has trouble with the miners,” Derek reported. “But she won’t let me and Samuel be her bodyguards. She says she can take care of herself.”
“Tara can take care of herself,” Maureen interjected. “I saw her do it a couple of times back in—”
When Maureen shut her mouth so quickly that she nearly clipped off her tongue, John noticed the other children were staring at her in horror. Instinct and training told him that they had been instructed not to spill their life stories. He couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Is Tara your mother? Or…older sister?” John asked.
“No, she’s—ouch!” Little Flora yelped when Samuel trounced on her foot.
Yep, something was definitely going on here that angel face didn’t want John to know about. Which brought him around to posing the question he had intended to ask earlier. “How did you know my name?”
“That’s easy,” Flora gushed. “Tara found your horse and searched through your saddlebags. She said you were a marshal and that we should watch what we said around you.”
The other children groaned in dismay. There was definitely something going on here that a territorial marshal wasn’t supposed to find out about. But how bad could their secret be, considering that they were amusing, well-behaved children? John couldn’t imagine.
When he opened his mouth to fire another question about Tara, Maureen crammed a slice of bread in his mouth. Flora handed him a spoon so he could chase the bread with broth. John’s taste buds started to riot. Damn, he couldn’t remember eating such tasty food. By the time he slurped the last drop of the delicious broth and ate half a loaf of bread he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes from slamming shut.
“Tara said you needed plenty of rest,” Samuel said, hustling the children from the room. “Just give a holler if you need anything else.”
When the children filed out, John settled himself carefully in bed, then noticed the pallet near the south wall. He suspected his angel of mercy had camped out on the floor while he lounged in her bed. Well, enough of that. He wasn’t going to inconvenience angel face more than he already had. Hell, he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground—had done it for years.
Clutching the side of the bed, John dragged himself sideways until his feet were planted on the floor. He bit back a yelp when he eased down on his tender leg and strained the wound on his ribs. Huffing and puffing for breath, he dragged himself toward the pallet.
If he hadn’t felt so damn guilty about betraying Raven he’d curse that bitter Apache for shooting him to pieces. But Raven had been cornered and threatened with hated captivity. It was understandable that he’d react violently. John wondered if he would’ve reacted the same way, had he been in his adopted brother’s moccasins.
But damn it to hell, Raven would make things a hundred times worse for himself if he continued to scout for those cutthroats who were plundering the territory. However, John refused to believe Raven had stooped to killing the settlers and miners left in the outlaws’ wake of destruction.
Raven had only been desperate for a taste of freedom, John assured himself. He himself knew the feeling well. He remembered the sense of relief he’d experienced five years ago when Gray Eagle insisted that he cut his long hair, disguise himself in white man’s clothes and sneak away from the reservation. But John’s freedom had come at a steep price and carried a wagonload of tormenting