Native Wolf (19 page)

"Yep."

The cold water did the trick.

Chase, freshly bathed and dressed in his trousers, lay on his belly across a flat rock overhanging the stream. He concentrated hard on the shimmering water below, careful not to let his shadow fall across the
loyawh,
trout, gliding in lazy loops beneath the surface. The fish circled the fine milkweed fiber Chase dangled in the creek, then danced close, brushing it with its fin, even nibbling at one of the worms on the slivers of bone tied along the line. But though Chase had dabbled the bait there for what seemed like time enough to grow a full beard, the trout wasn't interested.

He hadn’t fished this way since he was a boy. In Hupa, they built an
ehs,
a dam, across the river to trap salmon, or they caught trout with a net. But his father had also shown him the Konkow way of fishing, which was useful in smaller creeks and when traveling. At least, it was
supposed
to be useful. At this rate, Chase was sure that, years from now, someone would find his bleached bones still lying atop this rock and that damned fish still circling around and around the line.

Of one thing he was certain. He didn’t have his father’s patience. Sakote was renowned in Hupa for his hunting, which required an enormous amount of patience. But Chase didn’t like waiting for things to happen. He liked to
make
them happen. Maybe that was why he’d become a blacksmith. There was satisfaction in taking a shapeless lump of hard iron and, using nothing but fire and the strength of his own arm, hammering it, bending it, forging it into something useful.

If only he could forge something to eat. His stomach growled, reminding him of how little he liked this fugitive diet of roots and bulbs and ferns. They'd had that bit of honey earlier, and he'd
found a cache of shelf fungus growing on a pine to serve as their noon meal. But Claire had been reluctant to eat the ugly, spongy stuff, and even
he
found it less than appetizing.

He wiggled the line, careful not to jar loose the stone anchoring the line to the creek bed. The trout sidled near, nudging the second bone sliver. Chase held his breath, praying silently to all the gods he knew. The fish hovered in the current, and Chase gently shimmied the line again.

Come,
he thought fervently,
come, Brother Loyawh, give yourself to me.
The trout swam to the other side of the line, investigating the bait from another angle.
Yes, yes,
Chase thought,
take it
. But this time, when he jiggled the line, the anchoring rock popped up, startling the fish, and the trout wriggled away with a swish of its tail fin.

“Xongqot!”
Chase banged his fist on the rock and watched the current carry his fishing line into an underwater nest of tangled reeds.

"Is something wrong?"

Still on his belly, Chase twisted his head to look behind him. Claire stood in the bright glade, her face washed clean, her hair still damp from the creek, and her rabbit fur boots clutched in one hand. Her sheer white garment shifted in the subtle breeze, alternately clinging to her body, then blowing out to reveal her curves in the strong sunlight. He was so astonished by the change in her, so aroused by her beauty in spite of his own sobering dip in the icy creek, that he almost forgot his discomfiture at being caught in this humiliating situation.

It
was
humiliating. He was half-Konkow, after all, and the son of a great hunter. But so far, all he had to show for an hour of fishing was a sun-baked back and a fiber line snarled in the bracken.

"I took a dip, too, downstream," she admitted with a sheepish shrug.

He nearly choked as an image of her frolicking in the creek without a stitch of clothing on flitted through his mind.

Concerned furrowed her brow. "Did you hurt your hand?" She set down her slippers and stepped forward, giving him a glimpse of the rounded contours of her breasts as the cotton flattened against her. His breath stuck in his throat, and suddenly he couldn’t recall what she’d just asked him.

"On the rock," she clarified.

"The rock," he blankly echoed. Then he scowled, as annoyed by the apparent disappearance of his wits as he was at being caught in a childish display of temper. He shook his head. "No."

Hell, he hadn’t been able to think straight since morning. The memory of Claire's passionate kiss wouldn't fade from his mind.

Now that she stood before him in the light of day, as dazzling and glorious as an angel, he felt his body again begin to betray him. His heart quickened, and his
whedze,
hidden beneath him at the moment, hardened uncomfortably.

He needed to move. Hoping to conceal the evidence of her effect upon him, he sulkily pushed himself up off the boulder and turned carefully to sit facing diagonally to her, draping his elbow over his raised knees.

Her gaze dipped to his bare torso at once. She gulped, running a self-conscious hand through her hair.

The corner of his mouth drifted upward. At least he wasn’t alone in his discomfort. It amused him, this curious fascination she had with his bare chest. White men always wore shirts. Perhaps his was the first chest she’d ever seen. He didn’t know why, but the idea pleased him.

She licked quickly at her lower lip, pleasing him more. "Have you caught a fish yet?"

His pleasure dimmed a bit at her question. "Nope." He lowered his gaze, picking a piece of lichen from the rock and tossing it into the creek. "Fishing isn’t easy, you know. It requires time and patience."

She wiped her hands on her skirts and ventured timidly toward him. "Are you sure there are fish here?"

"Yep." He resisted adding that it had been years since he'd fished in this manner and that a whole creek full of trout did not ensure he’d catch one.

Claire peered past him, searching the clear water for herself, and Chase watched her at his leisure. He’d spoken the truth when he’d told her she was beautiful, even if he was more accustomed to the looks of Hupa women with their straight black hair and shining black eyes, skin the color of summer deerhide and bellies round with health. There was something about Claire—her glistening white-gold tresses, her liquid green eyes, the sweet mouth he remembered all too vividly, the captivating combination of outer frailty and inner strength she possessed—that bewitched him and lent her a loveliness all her own.

"Is that your fishing line?" she asked.

He followed her gaze. Just below the swirling water, the fiber line waved with the current, taunting him. "It was."

She scrutinized it more closely. "Mind if I try?"

He raised a brow. "You? What does a white woman know about fishing?"

She shrugged. "I’ve been a time or two."

He grinned, sweeping his arm toward the creek in welcome. He’d seen the way the white men fished, with a coarse line and a steel hook. Claire possessed neither. He wondered what she would do. He rested his chin on the heel of his hand, content to watch.

He didn’t believe his fishing line could be salvaged, but somehow, after a couple of tries, using a long stick with a twin fork at the end, Claire managed to pull it free of the reeds. It had surprisingly few tangles after all, though the bait had disappeared. Within moments, she had the wet line stretched out along the bank, inspecting the bone sliver to make certain it was secure.

Satisfied, she set about searching for bait amongst the grass growing by the stream. Using the forked stick, she prodded the soil in several places, digging at the damp ground.

She found an earthworm, but the way she held it between her thumb and one finger, as far away from herself as possible, it didn’t seem like something she wanted to do. Grimacing in disgust as it squirmed around her finger, she plucked up the fishing line with her other hand. Chase winced along with her as she pierced one end of the worm’s body with a bone sliver. Clamping her lips and working with shuddering haste, she wrapped the worm twice around the bone and attached it in the same fashion to the other end of the sliver.

Blowing out a relieved breath—the worst was over—she picked up the line and started toward him. "May I?"

Fascinated with her determination, he hopped up at once, surrendering his place on the rock. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched her stretch out along the rock on her belly. Her gown slipped up, revealing the tender hollow at the back of her knee, and Chase fought a sudden overwhelming urge to touch her there. Then she tugged the fabric down with her free hand, and he forced his eyes and his thoughts to the fishing line dropping into the water.

As she silently fished and the sun moved across the top of the sky, he observed her with growing satisfaction. It seemed she was no better at the task than he. Perhaps she had more patience, but patience couldn’t force a reluctant fish to sacrifice itself for a man’s supper.

When he tired of watching her dangle the line, he let his gaze roam lazily over her backside. The cotton clung to her, outlining the sleek length of her legs and the gentle curve of her buttocks. Her petticoat revealed ankles that appeared too delicate for walking, and the sight of her bare toes, twitching contentedly in the sunlight, coaxed a smile from him.

A curious peace settled over his bones. The warm spring sunlight made him drowsy. The quiet lapping and gurgling of the creek played like a sleeping song in his ears. Soon he found himself leaning back against the trunk of an old sycamore, then sinking onto his haunches to slouch against it, then lowering his head till it rested upon his chest, and finally letting his eyes drift shut.

Her scream sent him bolting to his feet, his heart pounding like a mallet on an anvil.

"I got him!" She squatted like a child on the rock. A fat trout flipped on the line she suspended over the water. There was a huge grin on her face.

The most he could manage while his stomach was still lodged somewhere in his throat from that scream was a weak smile and a nod. He started forward on shaky legs. He would have to disengage the fish for her before she accidentally dropped it back into the water. But just as he got to her, she managed to work the bone free. As if she’d done it a hundred times before, she tossed the flopping trout onto a soft patch of grass.

He furrowed his brow. How had she managed to land a fish? She was supposed to be a spoiled white woman who ate food out of tins. Fishing was part of
his
people’s heritage. Brief envy clouded his sunny mood.

But once he beheld the utter joy on Claire’s face, the happy sparkle of her eyes, he couldn’t help but celebrate with her. He couldn’t help but feel a part of her triumph.

"You
have
fished before," he chided, softening his words with a smile.

"I have," she admitted, grinning coyly. "Your grandmother took me fishing many times along the creek that runs through Paradise."

Claire looked so pretty when she smiled. He twinkled his eyes in return. "She taught you well."

"She taught me a lot." Her smile grew wistful as she straightened out the fishing line. "How to make manzanita cider, how to find yellow jacket nests, how to summon deer." She demonstrated, clicking two fingernails together. "She tried to teach me to make baskets, but I’m afraid my fingers are all thumbs when it comes to weaving."

He chuckled at her curious comment, and she stopped what she was doing to stare at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Your laugh," she marveled. "It sounds so much like..." Then she gave her head a shake. "It’s very nice."

Claire forced her attention back to the fishing line. His laugh
was
nice. She hadn’t noticed before, but his cheerful chuckles sounded remarkably similar to his grandmother’s. Of course, it made sense. They were from the same family after all. Claire had just never expected to hear that sound again.

She wanted to hear more of it. And that wasn't all she wanted more of. Chase might have told her it wasn't the right time or place for kissing, but there
would
be a right time and place...very soon, if she had her way.

Until then, she'd have to pursue him the same way she caught fish—with patience and determination.

"Would you like to try again?" she asked, offering the line to him. She knew how competitive men could be. Frank hated it when she bested him in anything—fishing, riding, chess. She imagined it pricked Chase’s pride that she’d caught the first trout.

But he shook his head. "The
loyawh
gave himself to
you
. It must be your day to fish."

It was difficult to hide her enthusiasm. In the long weeks since Yoema had fallen ill, Claire had spent very little time outdoors. She’d stayed by the old woman’s bedside, leaving only to gather the herbs, roots, and bark Yoema requested to make her medicines. Claire hadn’t watched a sparrow hatch or bathed in a creek or fished since last year.

She examined the line. The earthworm was gone. She’d have to dig up another. It was the one part of fishing that repulsed her.

As she turned to find a digging stick, Chase came up beside her, a wriggling worm between his fingers. Before she could say how-do-you-do, he reached for the fishing line and swiftly skewered the worm onto the bone sliver.