Native Wolf (20 page)

One side of his mouth quirked up. "You don’t like this part of fishing."

“No.” She flashed him a grateful grin. "Thank you."

"I suppose I'll have to clean the fish for you as well," he grumbled in mock disgust.

"Would you?" She playfully batted her eyelashes.

He grunted, but amusement crinkled his eyes. With a sigh, he returned to his spot beneath the sycamore to watch her.

She settled back down onto her stomach atop the boulder, this time tossing the line into the deepest part of the creek. There was a grandfather trout there, she sensed, an ancient fish that had spent many seasons growing to a grand size, a wise fish that lived far beneath the waves, thus far eluding all attempts at capture. But Chase had said it himself—it was her day to fish. Today she’d catch that old grandfather trout.

After a while, with the sun dazzling the water and the creek gurgling a lullaby, insects hovering lazily by the muddy banks and birds twittering in the brush, Claire almost drifted off as the line floated in the current. Her eyes half closed, she scarcely noticed the first tiny tug on the fiber. The second tug widened her eyes. The third slipped the line through her fingers, and she closed her fist with a gasp.

Whatever had locked onto the line was strong, bigger than anything she’d ever caught. It yanked against her grip.

"Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed, holding on with both hands now. Peering into the water, where the line jerked along the surface, she saw a flash of silver curve past. "Oh, my goodness!"

Because both hands were occupied, she couldn't get up from her belly to her knees to get a better angle on the line.

Chase came up behind her and let out a toneless whistle. "That's a big fish."

"It’s a
huge
fish."

"Have you got it?"

"I don’t know."

"Hold on."

"I
am
."

"It’s a
very
big fish."

"I know." She tried to reel the fiber in, but it was impossible to get any leverage with her elbows jammed into the boulder.

"Do you need...do you want help?"

"No!" Her heart might be beating against her ribs like a galloping colt, but she had her pride. She wound the line around her hand—once, twice. The fiber seemed so fine, so frail. Then the fish wriggled violently beneath the waves. "No!"

"Are you sure?" He crouched beside her now, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him rub an anxious hand over his jaw.

"I’m posi-" The trout wrestled with the line again, and in desperation, Claire began to haul in the fiber, hand over hand.

"Careful!"

"I know, I know." She could see the trout’s shimmering body now, battling down and then rising up through the current. The fish was enormous, easily as long as her hand and forearm combined, and powerful. If she had this much trouble controlling it in the water...

"Slowly." His fists were clenched now, as if he held the line himself.

The closer to the surface the fish came, the more violent its struggles.

Chase's voice was tense. "Do you need—"

"I’ve got him, I’ve got him!" she insisted, though her forearms strained at the fish’s wild thrashing.

And then, almost as if the wise old trout had planned it all along, at her next strong tug, the fish popped up through the water, high into the air, wrenched its body sideways, and broke the fiber line.

"No!" she cried.

Chase bounded from the rock before she finished the word. With a wild, crazed leap, he caught the airborne trout between his hands, hugged it to his chest, and dropped into the creek, fish and all, with a huge splash.

Claire’s mouth was still hanging open when Chase surfaced with the slippery fish flapping against his body and his swarthy face split by a magnificent grin.

"Got him!" he crowed.

Victorious laughter spilled out of her like champagne. Chase tossed his head, sending droplets of water scattering from his drenched locks. The sight of his snowy teeth and the dimple in one cheek made her pulse leap like a frisky lamb.

Then the trout wriggled in a last desperate attempt at freedom, and Chase almost lost him.

"Throw it on the bank!" she cried, giggling. "Hurry!"

He heaved the fish through the air, and it landed beside its now silent brother in the grass, where it flopped in exhaustion, surrendering the battle.

Chase ran both hands through his wet curls and laughed again, that laugh so like his grandmother’s. "I think the Great Spirit amuses himself at my expense."

Breathless with delight, Claire stacked her fists and rested her chin atop them. "I think you deserve to eat that entire fish yourself."

"No," he countered. "Grandfather Trout came to you."

"But you sacrificed far more for him. Your comfort..." She bit back a smile. "Your dignity..."

He swatted playfully across the water, splashing her. She squealed and scampered back from the creek’s edge.

He emerged from the stream then, and all the cockiness went out of Claire’s grin. Something about the way his wet trousers clung to him, the slow drip of water from his fingertips, and his sensual, lazy stride chased all reason from her mind.

He stood before her, brushing the water from his thighs for several moments before she realized she was staring at him.

"I look like a half-drowned wildcat," he said.

"No," she protested, her voice ragged, her heart pounding. "You look..." She swallowed. He looked breathtakingly handsome.

He peered up at her through a wayward lock of hair. "Like a
completely
drowned wildcat?" he guessed.

"No."

She watched as he stomped the water from his leather boots, then knelt to loosen his bootlaces.

"My sisters say I look like my spirit animal,
kilnadil
, an ugly old wolf."

She knitted her brows. Surely nobody said that.

"Sullen," he grunted, tugging off his boot. "And savage."

She caught her lip between her teeth. Two days ago, she might have agreed, but not now. "No. I was going to say you look..." Her pulse rushed, just as it did when she was about to do something scandalous, like cracking open a new dime novel or cursing out loud. "Lovely."

She didn’t know why she’d blurted that out. It was brazen and careless, and completely inappropriate. He’d stiffened and now sat staring at the toe of his boot. What a ninny she was, spilling her innermost thoughts that way.
Lovely?
Men didn’t want to be lovely. Handsome perhaps, or dashing, but not lovely. Daniel Boone and Kit Carson weren't lovely. She lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

He resumed untying the second boot. "I think maybe you wouldn't say so if I'd dropped your fish," he teased.

She glanced up. The shadow of a grin lurked at the corner of his mouth, inviting her to smile as well. "You may be right," she admitted.

He snorted. The boot came off with a sucking sound, followed shortly by wet gray socks he tossed over the branches of a bush. He flexed his bare toes in the sunlight. Lord, even the man’s feet were lovely.

She tore her gaze away and tried to think up some inane tidbit of conversation, lest he discover the unruly direction of her thoughts.

"How many sisters do you have?" she managed.

He unfastened his waterlogged deerskin pouch, then strewed its contents, tools mostly, out to dry in a sunny patch of earth. "Six."

"Six?" She leaned back against the trunk of a golden oak. "I always wanted a sister," she confessed.

"They’re bothersome." Despite his words, there was a fond smile on his face as he hung the pouch on the lowest fork of the oak.

"You look after them, of course," she chided.

He shrugged. "Someone has to keep them out of trouble." He drew his knife, setting it on the great boulder before he stretched out on his back to dry in the sun. The menacing glint of steel seemed to underscore his words.

She dug into the leaf mulch with one toe. "I
have
no brother to look out for
me
. I suppose that’s why I’m always in such trouble."

He rocked his head toward her and squinted one eye. "Trouble. You?"

"So my father says."

"What trouble?"

"Oh." The list was endless. "Giving cream to stray kittens. Feigning illness to get out of church. Calling Mr. Forester an old buzzard. Forgetting to close the corral gate. Dancing with the Indians."

His brow clouded at that, and she hastened to explain.

"Some of the ranch hands did the Acorn Dance, the
Aki
, in autumn. I used to sneak out at night to dance with them. My father didn’t think it was appropriate for a young lady of my station. He forbade me to join them."

"And did you obey him?"

She supposed her sly smile was answer enough.

He chuckled and lay his head back on the rock, closing his eyes. "Trouble."

They talked for a long while then, about Claire’s childhood, about his twin brother, who, it turned out, had journeyed to Paradise with him, about fishing, about nothing.

Chase decided that sometime in the midst of their storytelling, the Great Spirit must have dropped a sleeping medicine upon them, for when he awoke later, he saw the sun had already crossed the top of the sky and now began its descent. With a muttered curse, he bolted upright, running his fingers through his hair, which had already dried.

Falling asleep hadn’t been his intent. How long had it been? Two hours? A quarter of the day? His trousers were still damp, but then the thick denim probably wouldn’t dry till nightfall.

He scowled. He’d been careless. No matter how fine the afternoon or mellow his mood, he still had to be wary. Samuel Parker might be looking for Claire in the wrong place, but it wouldn't be long before he realized that, doubled back, and started searching up the canyon. He could stumble upon them at any time.

Shoving his knife back into its sheath, he glanced about for Claire. She was napping a short distance away, cradled in a nest of fallen oak leaves, her hair caressing her cheek, her chest rising and falling with each calm breath.

He realized with sudden unease that he’d been awfully quick to trust her. She could have walked off and left him while he was sleeping. Hell, she could have stabbed him with his own knife for that matter and left him for dead. Only a few days ago, she'd been desperate to escape.

Now she seemed determined not to return home.

He couldn't complain. Claire was good company. She was clever and kindhearted. She was deceptively strong beneath her delicate woman’s body. And Chase liked her laugh. The shine of joy in her eyes when he'd caught that silly fish had made his heart beat like that of a proud warrior in his first battle.

He grinned, remembering. The two fish lay quiet on the grass now. They would make a fine meal. Maybe that was what had kept Claire from leaving—hunger and the promise of trout for supper.

Careful not to disturb her, he crept to the stream to clean the fish, remembering to thank the Great Spirit for the gift of food.

Stringing the trout onto the fiber line to carry them, he narrowed his eyes at the lowering sun. By his reckoning, if they left now, they could make it to the ridge above Paradise by sunset.

Tomorrow, if all went as planned, they'd begin their descent into Paradise. The next day he'd sneak into town and round up Drew. He'd have Claire back in her big white house sooner than she could say "Kisan-yiman-dilwawh."

And if things
didn’t
go as planned? Chase glanced over at the peacefully dozing Claire. For her sake as well as his, he prayed no one would get hurt. If her father showed up, Chase didn’t intend to draw the first weapon. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Claire stirred in her sleep, and he inclined his head to study the delicate curl of her hand, so innocent, so trusting.

He was going to miss Claire Parker. He liked her. He liked her smile and her shrieks and her stubbornness. He liked the way she looked when she slept, and he liked the sound of her night-soft voice beside the fire. Her tears snagged at his soul, and her laughter lifted his spirit. And the taste of her mouth, the pleasure of her body against his...

He shook his head. It was foolish to dwell on such things. Their paths were not meant to converge, only to cross. It was best they cross quickly. Claire's father would be worried. And Drew must wonder by now what had happened to his hotheaded brother.

Before Chase could change his mind, he slung the pair of trout across one shoulder and slogged through the leaves toward Claire, hoping the noise would wake her.

"It’s time to go,
ch’inson
," he said, whispering the endearment.

She stretched like a contented kitten and gave him a sleepy smile that warmed him to his toes.