Spirit Of The Wolf. Susan Mallery
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“An admirable goal,” Ruth said, no longer paying attention to all of Zeke’s words. His mother had died? She tried to remember hearing about the death of a rancher’s wife in the past few months. There hadn’t been any except—
She stopped in the middle of the path and stared at the child. The sound of her heart was suddenly loud in her ears. “What is your last name, Zeke? Tell me.”
“Kincaid.”
She tried to speak but could not. Zeke Kincaid. Caleb’s son. She forced herself to start walking again, wondering why she hadn’t noticed the similarities in the eye color, the smile. Even the attitude of defiance was the same.
She told herself it didn’t matter where the boy came from. His parents—his father especially—were not her concern. She told herself that it had been nearly nine years and that she could barely remember what Caleb looked like. They had been friends for a brief time. Nothing more.
Then she tried not to think about any of it because what was the point of lying to herself?
She saw someone walking toward them. Relief filled her when she recognized her brother, John, and she nearly broke into a run. John would take care of Zeke, finding him work, then escorting him home when he was ready to return to his father.
“This is Zeke,” she said by way of introduction and quickly explained how the boy wanted to join the tribe.
John listened solemnly, then offered to take Zeke so they could find some work for the boy. Ruth waved as they walked toward the barn. She remembered the recently slaughtered steer and thought that her brother might set Zeke to work scraping the hide. A smelly, difficult task guaranteed to convince any seven-year-old boy that he did not want to be an Indian after all.
Ruth returned to her small house. The herbs she’d collected required preparation before they could be dried. She would have to…
She sighed when she realized she didn’t remember what she had to do. It was as if everything she’d ever known had been thrust from her head, leaving her empty except for her memories of Caleb Kincaid.
“Foolish dreamer,” she murmured as she stepped into the workroom at the rear of her house and closed the door behind her. She set her basket on the floor. “That time is long finished. My future is here.”
She clutched the familiar, wooden table that stretched the length of the room. The wood had been rubbed smooth. A shelf held her bowls and grinder. Dozens of glass jars and bottles sat on the far wall, each filled with different leaves or roots, extracts or combination of plants.
It was here she blended the teas and poultices that healed those in need. Long ago she had made the decision to dedicate herself to her people. Upon her birth she had been granted a gift, and using that gift was her destiny. There could be no other.
For much of her life she was content with the solitude that healing demanded. But sometimes, when she heard the laugh of a child or the soft conversation of a couple in love, she longed for something different. To have had the life offered to everyone else. Sometimes, like today, she remembered a man’s passionate kisses.
Without meaning to, she became lost in the memory of the strength of Caleb Kincaid when he’d taken her in his arms. He’d been tender. So very understanding. His large hands had slid around her body, drawing her close, yet allowing her the freedom to escape if she needed to. She’d thought she would be afraid, but instead she’d welcomed him. Even now her body heated as she recalled their passionate kisses.
He’d claimed to love her and had asked her to be his wife. When she’d refused, he’d married someone else within a few months. As if she, Ruth, hadn’t mattered at all.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said aloud, as if speaking the words forcefully would make them true. “He doesn’t matter.”
She had never loved Caleb, would never have married him. She was content with her place in the world. Healing others was a great gift and she was grateful to have been honored by the sacred trust. Her life here was what mattered—not the past.
* * *
THREE HOURS LATER, Ruth had nearly forgotten Zeke Kincaid was still in the village. At least that’s what she told herself as she hung tender roots to dry. She wasn’t listening for his voice, nor that of his father. For Caleb would know where his son had run to.
It was late in the afternoon when someone knocked at her back door. Her heart jumped into her throat and she had to take a steadying breath before she could cross the scarred wooden floor to let in her visitor.
Her brother stood on the rear step, a dirty and obviously tired Zeke behind him.
“Our young friend has decided he wishes to return home,” John told her.
“I see.”
She noticed dried blood staining the boy’s fingers and knew that John had set Zeke to work on the hide. She couldn’t blame the child for giving up. If she had to spend her day on that particular chore, she would take off for parts unknown as well.
“You might like to take him home,” John said. “Zeke has told me there has not been a woman in the house since the passing of his mother. Caleb and Zeke are in need of a temporary housekeeper. It would just be for a short time. I knew you would welcome the opportunity to repay the family for its kindness to you.”
Ruth opened her mouth to protest, then pressed her lips together. Not only couldn’t she think of a single thing to say, but she had no breath with which to speak. John’s words hovered in the afternoon, echoing like the call of the wolf.
She wanted to tell him no, that she would not, could not go to the Kincaid ranch. It was sad that Zeke had lost his mother and Caleb had lost his wife, but they weren’t her family. As for her debt—she didn’t want to think about that.
The thought of seeing Caleb again, speaking with him, made her light-headed. She felt as if the world had started to spin and she was afraid she would lose her balance and fall.
“I would not have suggested this if I thought you were disturbed by going back to the ranch,” John said, his dark eyes seeing far more than they should.
Pride came to her rescue, stiffening her spine and making her straighten. “I’m not afraid.” She gestured to her workroom. “But it’s spring and there are many plants for me to gather. I’m very busy.”
John kept his attention on her face. “The boy has no one but his father. Caleb has only the boy. Caleb’s brothers are gone.”
She wanted to scream her protest. John might be wise and a good leader of their people, but sometimes he was nothing more than her annoying brother.
She knew that if she told him she couldn’t face the ghosts from her past that he would insist she stay here. John would never do anything to hurt her. But she couldn’t bring herself to admit that truth—not even to herself. It had been nearly nine years, she reminded herself. Why would she think that seeing Caleb again would bother her?
Zeke stepped around John and stared at her. “Can you make biscuits? Pa makes stew and he can fix eggs, but his biscuits are hard enough to be horseshoes.” He grinned. “At least that’s what my ma used to say.”
His humor lasted for a heartbeat, then faded as if he’d just remembered his mother was gone forever. Ruth could have stood against anything except the sadness in the young boy’s eyes. John was right—Zeke was now alone in the world. How long had it been since he’d seen a woman smile at him? When was the last time he’d heard a soft voice speaking words of comfort?
“Zeke tells me that his father has hired a new housekeeper. She’s due to arrive at the end of the month. That’s only two weeks away. Surely your plants can spare you that long.”
She bowed her head to the inevitable. “I’ll go with him. Please ready my horse while I pack my bag.”
In less time than she would have liked, she