Native Wolf (13 page)

Claire sat transfixed. Up till now, Chase Wolf had been a man of few words. What he was telling her must be important to make him open up to her and speak at such length.

“Soon the people began to starve. They had no choice but to take the white men’s animals for food.” His eyes took on an even darker cast. “And when they would steal a rancher’s steer, they would be shot.”

Her brow creased. Surely he wasn’t talking about her father. Her father would never shoot a native. Samuel Parker got along fine with the local tribes. He said they were trustworthy, hard-working, and loyal.

“One day, the whites got tired of shooting the Konkows and decided to send them away forever. The army rounded them all up—scores of men, women, and children—and drove them like cattle, west to a place called Nome Cult.”

Claire didn’t see how that could possibly be true. There were a few Konkows who worked at the Parker Ranch. But she remained silent to hear him out.

A taut thread of tension underlined his words. “It was a march of a hundred miles. Those who refused to go were killed. Those who went and could not keep up were killed. Those who became ill were killed.”

Claire paled. It was a horrifying story. But surely that was all it was—a story. Yoema had never told her about any march. Neither had her father.

Though his voice was quiet, he bit out the next words between his teeth. “Samuel Parker took my grandmother from her family to keep her for a slave and sent the rest on the march. My grandfather, believing his wife had been killed, refused to eat. He starved to death on the journey.”

She gasped. “Where did you hear such a horrible thing? My father never kept a slave in his life. Yoema
chose
to live with us. And except for the Two-Sons, she never spoke of family or—“

“She would not have. She didn't know if they were alive or dead.”

Claire shook her head. “No, it’s just not possible. My father is a good man. And Yoe-…your grandmother...” She hesitated. Now that she thought about it, it was curious that Yoema had never talked much about her husband or her children, only her grandsons. What
had
happened to the rest of her tribe?

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked up at him again. He believed what he was saying with all his heart. She could see sincerity in his eyes. She could also see pain.

Without thinking, she reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I think there’s been some terrible misunderstanding. I’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you. When my father…”

At the same instant, they both glanced down sharply at their joined hands.

But when Claire would have pulled away, he caught her wrist, startling the breath from her.

“What I’m trying to say is…” he began. “It's not right to hold you accountable for what your father did. I know that now.” She doubted that he was even aware of it, but he began idly running his thumb back and forth across the back of her wrist as he spoke. “But I need to make things right for my grandmother. I need to send her on her journey. I need to give her spirit peace.”

She gulped. His rhythmic stroking was doing strange things to her, soothing and exciting her at the same time.

He shook his head. “But taking revenge on the daughter of my enemy isn’t the way to do it.”

He let go of her then, and she could breathe again. Her skin still burned where he’d touched her, however, and she was having trouble thinking straight.

She creased her brow. “Do you mean to...take me home then? Back to my father? Back to my fiancé?"

He nodded.

"I see," she said.

It was the way the stories always ended—with the villain vanquished and the heroine living happily ever after. And yet a strange emotion followed that thought, an emotion she could neither explain nor excuse.

Disappointment.

She frowned. She didn’t want to go home.

“When?” she asked.

“Soon.”

“But not right away?”

“I can’t just yet.” He grimaced and tossed a pine cone onto the fire. “It’s...complicated.”

She actually breathed a sigh of relief.

“Meanwhile,” he said, “we have to keep moving. Your father probably has a whole posse tracking us. And now that we have no horse...”

Claire bit her lip. Her father might be out looking for his prize stallion, but she doubted he was looking for her. Still, she didn't think it wise to let Chase know
all
the sordid details. “I don’t think you have to worry about my father.”

He gave her a doubtful smirk. "If you were
my
daughter, I’d carve your kidnapper to bits." He bent his head forward, furrowing his hands through his thick hair. His long sigh fluttered the flames.

"But if I tell him you’re the grandson of Yoema—"

As soon as she spoke the name, an eerie, dolorous moan floated past, shattering the peace of the evening and chilling Claire to the bone.

Before she could ask what the devil that was, Chase sprang from his haunches, dragging her up against him to protect her with one brawny arm, and faced the shadowy wood with his knife drawn.

Chase felt a cold shiver. like a rattlesnake's warning. slither along his back. His pulse pounding, he scanned the bushes. Had the white woman summoned his grandmother’s
chindin
to the world of the living?

Several tense moments passed, measured by the rapid beating of his heart. Nothing but firelight skittered over the manzanita leaves, and the only sounds Chase heard were the soft pop of flame and the shallow, quick breathing of his captive.

Finally the low cry came again. With a shaky sigh of relief, he lowered his blade and shoved it back into its sheath.

"Owl?" Claire whispered.

"Mm," he grunted. But he didn’t let her go. Nor would he until he extracted a promise from her. "Swear to me you’ll speak my grandmother’s name no more."

She wilted against him.

"Give me your word,” he said.

She shook her head. "How can I?" Her next words came out like the sad, soft sigh of the wind. "You don't understand. She was my friend. She was my mother. For heaven’s sake, she was your own grandmother. How can you bear to let her die...forgotten?"

Chase swallowed hard. Like the sliver of bone on a fishing line, her despair had caught him by the throat. He fought the strong urge to turn her in his arms so he could hold her.

Of course, he wouldn’t do that. Even his sisters knew that Chase was not the brother to run to when they needed comfort. His big arms always crushed them, and the littler girls were smothered by his ferocious hugs.

"She won’t be forgotten," he whispered fiercely, his breath ruffling her hair. "She’s the reason I’ve..." He almost said the words "come home," but Paradise had never truly been his home, had it? "The reason I’ve returned."

"You said you came for revenge."

Her words melted his heart. He lowered his tense shoulders. "I don’t know what I came for. I only know I have to make things right for my grandmother."

Holding her like this—her body soft and quivering like a dove’s—he found it hard to imagine he’d ever considered torturing her.

"Revenge never makes things right,” she murmured.

She was probably right. Hell, he wasn't sure anymore. His purpose had seemed much clearer before he’d crossed paths with Claire Parker.

"Just promise me you won’t say my grandmother’s name."

"And if I won’t promise?"

With a whispered curse of disbelief, he wheeled her about by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length.

"Why do you persist? You’re like the bee who keeps buzzing at the grizzly when the bear could smash it with one swipe of his paw."

"I persist, because, unlike you," she said pointedly, "I knew her. I loved her.” Her eyes filled suddenly with tears. “And, God help me," she choked out, “I miss her." She buried her face in her hands.

And then he did it—exactly what he should not have. He pulled her toward him and tucked her against his chest, folding his arms around her frail body as carefully as he could.

It was crazy. Her people had subjugated his. Her father had enslaved his grandmother and caused his grandfather’s death. He should despise Claire Parker.

But when he held her like this, snuggled against him—her hair tickling his chin, her sniffles wetting his bare chest—she seemed neither murderer nor oppressor. She seemed only a very sad and lonely young woman.

Without thinking, he lifted his hand to cradle her head, marveling at the fine texture of her hair. He suddenly realized why it was cut short. She must have hacked it off herself, just as he had his own, in the Konkow display of grief. Those were not what his white mother called crocodile tears. The woman’s sorrow came from her heart. She
had
loved his grandmother.

“Do chweh,”
he murmured, stroking her hair. "Don’t cry."

He continued to speak words in his tongue, words of comfort she might not understand, but words that would soothe her by virtue of the soft whisper of his language. And she began to respond, calming to his voice like a skittish mare.

It had been a while since Chase had held a woman. Yet holding Claire felt right. She fit perfectly in the cradle of his arms despite her small size. Where her soft cheek pressed against his chest, it seemed she warmed his heart. And the way she relaxed against him with such trust made him feel protective and significant.

Part of him wanted to hold her like this all night. But he expected, once she spilled all her tears and her weeping became soft sniffles, she'd squirm out of his embrace.

To his surprise, she didn't. If anything, when she was done crying, she seemed to nestle closer to him. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment, resisting an almost irresistible urge to lower his lips to kiss the top of her head.

Whether it was the feminine warmth of her body, the flattering trust she placed in him, or simply that he'd gone too long without a woman, he began to respond to her closeness. His heart pumped more forcefully, and his blood warmed. He swallowed hard as a powerful wave of desire surged through him. When that surge rose to lodge between his legs, making him swell with blatant lust against her, he squeezed his eyes tight against the divine sensation.

Finally, reluctantly, he forced himself to pull away.

The last thing he expected as they parted was her barely audible sigh of disappointment, which seemed to echo his own regret.

Without her, his arms felt curiously empty. His shirt, wet with her tears, clung to his chest, leaving him even colder. But that was just the sobering slap of reality he needed. He had no business feeling such things for Claire Parker.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I didn't mean to...to weep all over you."

His voice came out on a croak. "No need to apologize."

"I just...miss her so much." She tried to put on a brave smile.

He nodded.

"You're very...like her, you know," she ventured, "your grandmother."

He furrowed his brow. This was something he hadn’t expected. He’d never met his grandmother. But this woman had been raised by her.
His
grief was a matter of tradition and of moral outrage.
Hers
was personal.

"Tell me about her," he coaxed, beckoning her to join him by the fire. Maybe the flames would keep him warm, since he no longer had a tempting woman to do that. "Tell me about my grandmother." Then he added, "But be careful not to summon her ghost, or she may lose her way to the spirit world."

Claire sat by the fire and tucked her hair behind one ear. "Is that why you don't want me to say her name?"

He nodded. "It's bad luck to speak the names of those who are gone."

Claire bit her lip. She was managing to keep her voice calm and collected. But if Chase Wolf knew what she was thinking at the moment, he’d be far more afraid of
her
than of his grandmother’s ghost.

Being in his arms had felt amazing, like finding a key that fit perfectly into the lock of her heart. It seemed like she’d been waiting all her life for his embrace. And now that she’d experienced it, she didn’t want to give it up, didn’t want to let him go.

It was alarming, how right it felt, how much like coming home. She wanted him to hold her again, wanted to feel those strong arms around her, to feel the warm breath of his words against her ear.

It was madness, like being pulled into a treacherous whirlpool of desire. Yet it seemed equally mad to keep her distance when she yearned so much to be back in his arms.

She couldn't keep her eyes off of him. The firelight made his hair shine like a raven's wing. It flashed off his white teeth, gilded his skin and leaped in his dark eyes. And the thought that he’d instinctively shielded her from harm and lent his shoulder in comfort...such manly, protective gestures made her shiver with desire.

"Are you cold?" Good Lord, the man had his shirt halfway off already.

"No!" she blurted. "Thank you."

The last thing her wildly pulsing heart needed was more tinder for the fire. She should never have exposed her emotions to him, never imposed herself upon him like that, weeping all over him, for heaven’s sake. Yoema’s blood might flow through his veins, and her spirit might dwell in his heart, but he was definitely not sweet, gentle Yoema. He was a man, and he was...

A savage.

But, dear God, he was a delectable savage. The thought echoed so loudly in her head that she feared she’d said the words aloud. How could she possibly feel…that way…about a man who’d abducted her?

And yet she did. She wanted him to hold her in his arms again.

"Tell me about her," he urged, squatting on his haunches across the fire from her, his shirt gaping open, his large hands propped idly over his knees.

Claire tore her gaze away to study her tattered fingernails. “Your grandmother?” she managed to choke out. "Well, she used to tell me stories when I was a little girl.”

“What stories?” he murmured.

“She told me where fire came from. And why skunks smell so awful. And about the creation of the world by Wonomi and Turtle. You know these stories?"

He nodded.

"She called me her little white dove. She sang me to sleep and took care of me when I was ill. The grape leaves you put on my cuts—she used to do the same thing."