Beloved Wolf (8 page)

Sophie shot him a dangerous look, or at least it would have been, to anyone else. But not River. He had this maddening way of being oblivious to any warning that he might want to just shut up, mind his own business. “There's no need. Now, if you'd consider starting the car and getting out of here…”

“Yes, Ms. Colton, ma'am, anything you say, ma'am.” River turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the parking spot, turned toward the exit to the highway as Sophie fiddled with the radio, hoping to fill the silence with music and avoid any more conversation.

“And stop calling me Ms. Colton ma'am,” she said after a few minutes, because even the music coming from the oldies station couldn't stop River's voice from repeating and repeating inside her head. “It's silly.”

“Yes, Ms.— Sorry about that,” River responded, grinning at her. “I'm just trying to figure out where I fit in your life now, Soph. Not the older brother anymore, that's for sure, foster or otherwise. Not the hero in all your schoolgirl fantasies, definitely. You've just ruled out employee of the boss. So where does that leave us, Sophie? Besides counting down the days, I mean.”

“I don't know,” Sophie said, too upset to continue
verbally jousting with him. “I really don't know. Do you?”

He indicated the back seat with a slight nod of his head. “I was late because I couldn't decide which one to get, and ended up getting them all.”

Sophie turned to look at the white plastic bag in the back seat, the one with the pharmacy name stamped on it in red ink. “What are you— Oh, God! You didn't!”

“Did you want to do it? I didn't think so, because it wasn't exactly easy for me. I think the girl behind the cash register was twelve. She blushed and giggled the whole time she was loading the bag.”

Sophie bent her head into her hands. “I don't believe this. One time, River. One time. And it was my fault, so it's my responsibility. I goaded you into it, damn near double dared you.”

“Yeah, my arm still hurts where you twisted it,” River said, possibly trying for humor, but his voice had an edge to it that warned Sophie that he wasn't far from losing his temper. “You say
damn
a lot, Soph, in case you haven't noticed. Is that an advertising world word?”

“
Damn
is the advertising word for
golly-gosh-gee
,” she told him with a toss of her head. “You don't want to know their word for
damn
. I just tried to keep up, striding the fence between goody-two-shoes and being outright vulgar. Besides, it fits. In every conversation with you, Riv, it fits.” She looked back at the bag once more and shook her head. “Boy, does it fit.”

“Damned because we did, damned if we know
what happens next, damned if you are and damned if you're not? Is that it, Sophie?” River asked as he pulled into the passing lane, blew the doors off a semi rig hauling a slatted, wooden trailer filled with pigs.

“I'm just sorry it happened, that's all,” Sophie said twisting her hands in her lap.

“I'm not,” River told her, easing up on the gas as the turn into the ranch appeared over the crest of a slight hill. “I hope you are pregnant. I want to marry you, Soph, and I'll take you any way I can get you.”

“Your timing stinks. Really, really stinks.” Sophie turned her head away and closed her eyes. “Go to hell, River James. You just go to hell.”

 

Sophie sat on a chaise longue in the courtyard near the pool, an ice bag on her right knee, watching the world grow dark and the stars come out. A quiet night, a safe hideaway, time to think—and the privacy to shed a tear or two.

Marry him? The man had the audacity to want her to marry him? How dare he!

And she'd thought the worst thing that could happen to her was to see pity in his eyes when he looked at her scarred face. Man, had she been wrong. This was worse, much worse. Now he wanted to marry her—
wanted
was definitely the wrong word—because she might be pregnant.

He had his honor. He had his duty.

He was lucky he didn't have a potted palm sticking out of his head!

And all without a word of love, either. Of course, that potted palm would already be growing through
his hat if he'd dared to use that word on her. At least the man still retained
some
sense.

But, oh, how tempted she had been. That had been the worst part—that she'd been tempted to take that half loaf, say yes and close her eyes to the fact that she was now an object of pity, a possible responsibility and a woman destined to be proposed to, first, by Chet, for her money, and now because she was such a pathetic loser.

“Are we having fun yet?” Sophie asked herself as she sat forward and lifted the ice bag from her knee.

“Sophie? Are you talking to yourself? Hi, may I join you?”

“Rebecca?” Sophie swung her legs over the edge of the chaise and stood up, held out her arms. “Oh, it's so good to see you!”

Rebecca Powell had been one of the many emotionally challenged foster children taken in by Joe and Meredith Colton over the years, and still lived nearby now that she was past thirty and had been out on her own for years. She was a teacher, working mostly with those children with learning disabilities.

Tall and willowy, with the body of a dancer, Rebecca wore her long brown hair in a French braid, had the kindest blue-gray eyes Sophie had ever seen, and was, according to family gossip, the oldest living virgin in California.

Rebecca returned Sophie's hug, then the two of them sat down, holding hands for several moments as they continued to look at each other.

“So?” Sophie said at last, as they grinned at each
other. “I know it's kind of dark out here, but what do you think?”

Rebecca's smile was slow and sweet. “I think I'm still six years older than you, and always will be. Will you still be so glad to see me when my hair starts turning gray? Or will that gray hair change your opinion of me?”

“You always did know just what to say, didn't you, Rebecca?” Sophie said, relaxing. “And I've got to stop this. It's like comments on this scar are a sort of litmus test I'm making everyone take before I can relax around them. I should have known better than to worry what you'd think.”

“Maybe, but I should have done more thinking than I've done since hearing about your…your incident. Me, more than anyone else. But I didn't, and I want to apologize for that.”

Sophie shook her head slowly. “What are you talking about?”

Rebecca shrugged her shoulders, sighed. “I was coming over tonight or tomorrow anyway, to welcome you home, figuring you should be allowed to deal with the multitude over the course of a few days, rather than all at once. We're a pretty intimidating bunch, taken all at once, right?”

“Right,” Sophie agreed warily. “Go on.”

“Yes, well, as I said, I was coming over anyway. But then River stopped by just as I was having dinner, and he told me you might be having a little problem…”

Sophie put her hands to her temples and pushed,
trying to keep her head from exploding. “He had no right—”

“Is he wrong, Sophie? Are you fine out there in the big bad world? Back to fighting form? Not looking at anyone and everyone as if they might just try to jump you, or knife you, or scare you back into your hideyhole? Can you trust, Sophie? How much confidence do you have in the good and the decency of your fellow man?”

Sophie swiped at her stinging eyes with the backs of her hands, sighed. “You know, don't you, Rebecca? You've been there.”

“Been there, done that, have the scars and the T-shirt to prove it,” Rebecca agreed. “And, unfortunately, even with all the therapists Meredith and Joe sicced on me, I'm not entirely over it yet. However, I'm better now than I was, better than I'd ever expected to be. I can function out there in the cold, cruel world, and can even see it as warm and kind again. You don't want to spend the rest of your life jumping at shadows, Sophie. Trust me on this. You've got to face your fears down, keep your chin up and don't let anyone or anything dictate how you live the rest of your life.”

Sophie nodded, agreeing. “I think I hate that the most—that someone else has stripped me of my confidence, altered the way I look at life. Nobody should have that kind of power over us. Over our hearts, our minds, our reactions.”

“So you're mad? That's good. As a matter of fact, it's probably half the battle. Get mad, stay mad, fight. Take back your life. Take back your independence.
Take back your right to walk the street, live your life without fear. Wiser, yes. More careful, definitely. But out there, Sophie. Don't let one man, one admittedly terrible incident, strip you of your freedom. He can't have that power over you, you can't let him have that sort of power over you. Get mad, cry, get it out of your system, and then move on.”

“He's dead, you know,” Sophie said, sniffling, wiping her eyes once more. “Dad told me, tonight, after supper. He died of a drug overdose about a week after the attack, but nobody made the connection for a while. He's gone. He can't hurt me anymore.”

Rebecca reached out and squeezed Sophie's hands. “He never could hurt you, Sophie. Not in all the ways that count.”

“Hey, there you are!”

Sophie and Rebecca turned to see Emily and Liza approaching, the latter carrying a plastic bag from a local video rental store.

“We've come in search of any females with tear ducts,” Liza said, waving the bag in front of her. “We rented three chick flicks, and with three you get free microwave popcorn. So, who's game?”

Rebecca looked at Sophie, who nodded her agreement.

“Why not?” Sophie said, getting to her feet. “A good cry sounds like just what the doctor ordered. Right, Rebecca?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Rebecca agreed, and the four of them headed back to the house, ready for a long evening of movies, of talk, and hopefully sprinkled with more than a few girlish giggles.

Just what the doctor ordered.

R
iver used a fat marker to cross off yet another day on the calendar that hung on the wall just inside his office in the stables.

Ten days. Ten of the longest days and loneliest nights in his life.

He saw Sophie at the dinner table every night. But trying to hold a private conversation in the Colton household was about as impossible as spitting upwind in a tornado, and Sophie never appeared until the dinner gong rang, then took off again for her room the moment the meal was over.

Not that she was hiding in her room, becoming a recluse. On the contrary. She was always out. Rebecca picked her up some days and took her to the Hopechest Ranch, and Amber or Emily drove her into
Prosperino to shop, to visit the library—and to her physical therapy sessions.

River had been cut out of the picture, almost surgically removed.

He knew what she was doing. The question in his mind was why he was allowing her to do it.

 

Sophie walked out into the courtyard, then stopped, amazed to see her mother, dressed in her old gardening clothes, down on her hands and knees, pulling weeds.

The sight brought back so many memories of Meredith as she had been years ago. Loving the feel of the rich earth under her fingernails, swiping at an errant lock of hair that had fallen forward and carelessly smudging her cheek. Talking to her flowers, singing to them, babying them as she babied her children, loving them as she loved her children.

How long had it been since Sophie had seen Meredith pinching off dead blooms, planting new varieties of flowers she'd ordered from the dozens of nursery catalogs that arrived at the ranch with such regularity that Joe Colton had once asked his wife if she planned to bury them all in catalogs.

Years. It had been years.

Rather than disturb her mother, Sophie stood very still, watching as Meredith leaned closer to one of the copper tags that were pushed into the ground in front of every different type of flower, every shrub and small tree.

The tags had been Meredith's idea, and she'd expected all of her children to read them, learn as many
of the names as they could. Several varieties of tea roses. Begonias. Brilliantly blue lobelia. Sea thrift and dianthus and petunias. The tags held the more common, everyday names, and the Latin names as well, as Meredith had always harbored the hope that at least one of her children would take more than an “Oh, aren't they pretty colors!” interest in gardening.

Her garden was one of the most startling disappointments to the family, when Meredith abandoned it after her accident, just as if she'd never cared about flowers, about living things.

Living things, like her own husband, her own children, the children she had taken under her roof, into her heart.

As far as Meredith was concerned, Sophie knew, she had only two children. Joe Junior, who had shown up on the Colton doorstep, a newborn, six months before the automobile accident, and Teddy, who had been born a year later.

Everyone else had just seemed to sort of disappear from Meredith's line of sight, escape her interest. Except for Emily, of course. Emily was actively shunned, detested, perhaps because Meredith wouldn't have been in the accident at all if she hadn't been driving Emily to a visit with her natural grandmother.

It wasn't rational. None of it was rational. The past nine years hadn't been rational. So Sophie had fled, stayed at college, visited friends during the summer breaks, come home only for holidays then and ever since. Unwilling to see River, who had rejected her, unwilling to open herself to the rebuffs of her mother,
who had proved her disinterest yet again by not coming to San Francisco after the mugging.

And yet…and yet…

Sophie loved her mother. How could she not love her mother? Seeing her today, seeing her like this—dressed in old clothes, without regard of her manicure—watching her indulge in such a well-remembered domestic activity—well, it felt good to see it. It felt very, very good.

“Hi, Mom,” Sophie said at last, walking over to where Meredith knelt, peering at one of the copper tags, this one stuck into the ground just in front of an oleander bush. Meredith had, in fact, just been reaching out with a small pruner to snip off one of the oleander branches as Sophie spoke.

“Wha-what!” Meredith exclaimed, jumping back slightly on her knees, dropping the pruner. She whirled around and glared up at Sophie. “You! How dare you sneak up on me like that?”

“Sneak up on— I didn't sneak up on you, Mom,” Sophie said, all the sunlight having suddenly gone out of her day. “But I am sorry if I startled you.”

“Should have kept the cane,” Meredith muttered, rubbing her dirty hands together as she got to her feet. “At least I heard that coming. Well, what do you want? I know you didn't come out here just to frighten me. Or did you?”

Well, so much for a shared, idyllic moment among the posies. “No, Mom, I didn't come out here to frighten you. But I can help, since you taught me years ago how to tell the difference between a weed and a flower.”

Meredith looked down at the small pile of uprooted plants lying on the patio stones. “Oh, them. I'm done now.” She bent down, picked up a few sprays of oleander she'd cut from the bush and tucked them into the pocket of her slacks. “What dirty work! I need a bath.”

Without another word, Meredith walked back to the French doors that led to her bedroom, leaving Sophie, and the pulled weeds, behind.

Sophie bent down to pick up the weeds, then went down onto one knee when she took a closer look at the wilted plants. Two petunias, one begonia, and two other uprooted plants she was pretty sure were sea drift. Meredith hadn't been pulling weeds—she'd been yanking out young plants, not yet budding flowers.

Why? Why would she do something like that? It was almost as if she'd not known what she'd been doing, hadn't recognized the plants, pulling whatever was closest, just to make it look as if she was busy. No. That was ridiculous, and Sophie banished the thought.

Looking at the oleander bush, Sophie traced her fingers over one of the bottom branches, able to see where the pruner had made fresh cuts in the younger growth.

Meredith had pulled, then left behind, flowers. She had trimmed oleander and taken it with her. It made no sense. It made no sense at all.

“Oh, Sophie?”

Sophie got to her feet, looked at her mother, who
had come back into the garden. “Yes? I was just cleaning up the…the weeds.”

Meredith gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, that. Don't bother. It took me all of ten minutes to get bored with that. That's why we have a gardener, you know. Let him earn his keep.”

Her mother was referring to Marco as a gardener? A simple employee? Inez and Marco had been at the ranch as long as anyone could remember, and they were more family than employees. Why, Meredith and Marco used to have a loving, running feud on Meredith's sometimes micro managing “his” gardens. The two of them often dug in the dirt side by side. Now Sophie just stared at her mother, unable to speak, to find an answer to the woman's callous statement. So she just nodded.

“Yes, well,” Meredith said, looking down at her hands. “I've ruined my nails, haven't I? I suppose I'll have to go into town and have new tips put on. Oh, well. But, before I go, I wanted to tell you something, my dear. Something that will put a smile back on that sour puss of yours that you've been parading around in front of us all since you've been here.”

Sophie wet her lips. “Oh? Really? What have you done, Mom?”

Meredith's smile was absolutely dazzling. “Why, I did what should have been done a long, long time ago. I've called and invited Chet Wallace to come up here for the weekend, or longer, if he wants. He should be here before dinner tonight, so I suggest you go…do something about yourself. Change your clothes—and for pity's sake, put some concealer over
that scar. You look entirely too much like me for me to feel comfortable looking at you now.”

Sophie realized her mouth had dropped open, and closed it, but by the time she could even begin to form a reply to her mother, Meredith had turned on her heels once more, heading toward the French doors.

“Oh, God,” Sophie whispered at last, all but staggering to a nearby chair and collapsing into it. Chet? Coming here? She didn't want to see him. She certainly didn't want River to see him.

River!

Sophie jumped to her feet, the uprooted flowers and trimmed oleander forgotten, and headed toward the stables.

 

River sat rump down in the dirt, his arms propped behind him, glaring up at the roan stallion. The damn horse was just standing there, reins dragging, looking as innocent as a six-week-old kitten. As he watched, the roan bared its huge teeth, lifted its head and gave a horsy laugh.

“Oh, so you think you're funny, do you?” River challenged, standing up, absently using his aged cowboy hat to beat the dust off his backside. “That's just because you don't know who's boss.”

“Yes, he does!” Drake Colton called out from his perch on the top of the five-bar split rail fence. “And I've got a clue for you, River—it's not you.”

River hid a smile, looked over at the navy SEAL, home on leave, and quipped, “Wise-ass. What are
you doing here anyway? Don't you have to swallow a fish whole, or go balance a ball on your nose?”

Drake, both his coloring and his smile so like Sophie's, put his arms out straight in front of him and clapped his hands as he made seal-like noises, then shot back, “Did I ever tell you I know how to kill a man sixteen different ways with my bare hands?”

River grinned. “Yeah, but can you walk and chew gum at the same time?”

“Hey,” Drake protested, “that's complicated. Just give me the easy stuff, like plowing through steamy jungles or setting up underwater explosives.”

“Right,” River said, advancing toward the roan, who was pretending not to see him, even as the stallion started slowly backing up, prepared to make a break for it. “Now shut up and watch a master work, okay?”

“I kneel at your feet, oh master, to watch the miracle,” Drake told him. “Shall I fetch the liniment?”

Smiling wryly, River held out his hand and slowly approached the roan. His voice low, soothing, he began talking to the horse, speaking to him in his Native American grandmother's tongue, telling the roan that he was magnificent, a truly splendid beast, and how much he, this lowly man, would be honored to be allowed on his back as they rode, rode like the wind, the roan's fleet hooves flying, all the power of his strong, pure heart and wild, brave spirit unleashed. Man and beast, as one, moving free across the land.

It wasn't the words, because the roan didn't understand the words. It was the sound of River's voice as he said those words, the look in his eye, the firm
yet gentle touch of his hand against the stallion's sleek neck. It was the bond, an unspoken bond, that River felt with nature's creatures, that the horse recognized. He had nothing to fear from this man.

River kept talking as he slowly undid the cinch of the saddle, let it slide down to the dusty ground. He took off the bridle, removed the bit from the roan's tender mouth. “We don't need any of this, do we, boy? Just you and me, boy, just you and me.”

There was a small sound from the direction of the fence, where Drake sat, and River spared a moment to look over, saw Sophie standing on the bottom rung, with her forearms braced on the top of the fence. She didn't say anything, because she knew better, but if he didn't stop looking into her eyes he would soon lose the rapport he'd gained with the stallion, lose his concentration.

“Pay no attention to the beautiful woman standing on the fence. Nobody's going to bother you, boy, I promise,” River said, still reassuringly stroking the roan's coarse mane. “See? No more saddle. No more reins. Just you and me. We're just going to take a ride, if you let me. Just a small ride, around the corral. If you let me. Will you let me? Will you honor me with your trust?”

River took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then, grabbing on to the roan's mane, his movements fluid, graceful, he half tugged, half leapt, until he was, within an instant, sitting on the stallion's bare back.

No bridle, no reins, no saddle. If the stallion bucked, as it had before, River would be tossed to the ground again.

River sat very still, waiting for the stallion to make up its mind—toss him off or accept him. And then, with one hand still tangled in the roan's mane, his body bent forward so that his mouth was near one pointed ear as he kept up his reassurances, his praise, River gently pressed his knees against the horse's flanks, urging him forward.

The roan, that had minutes earlier tossed River high in the air as it had bucked and kicked, walked around the corral on dainty feet, as if carrying a precious cargo.

River had the stallion slowly circle the corral three times, then dismounted, turned the roan over to one of his assistants, who could now easily slip the bridle back on and lead the horse away.

“Good job, buddy. You always were a show-off,” Drake said as River approached the fence. River ignored him, looking straight at Sophie. Drake, who didn't become a navy SEAL by being unobservant, excused himself, saying something about having a job to do back up at the house.

“You haven't lost your touch,” Sophie said as River climbed over the fence and jumped down in front of her. “That was very impressive.”

“Actually, it was very stupid. I should have known he didn't want the bit. Not until he trusted me. But we'll be all right now, I think. His owner should be happy, once the two of them are reintroduced.”

Sophie frowned. “He's not ours?”

“Nope. He belongs to a rancher on the other side of Prosperino. I'm doing him a favor. Something tells me his last owner was heavy handed with the bit, and
probably the quirt. He'd supposedly been broken to the saddle but was still pretty much unridable when Erik got him—dirt cheap, I might add. Now that he trusts me, it'll just be a matter of getting him to extend that trust to Erik. He'll make a fine animal now, a fine stud.”