Native Wolf (6 page)

The sun had painted the top of her nose pink, and her lips were wind-chapped, but he’d be damned if she wasn’t still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

Guilt made him frown, which was the wrong thing to do. Her gaze grew even more reckless and determined. If it weren’t for the gag, she’d probably be screaming like a wildcat.

Hell. How was he going to ease her fears? He meant her no harm. Well, actually, he did. Or had. But not any more. Not enough harm to make her eyes go all panicky like that.

He carefully tightened his hand around the rope. She was apt to spook at the slightest movement, and he didn’t feel like chasing her halfway across the hills. He supposed he’d better try to talk to her.

"I’m going to take off the gag now." She still sat as stiff as a buck catching the scent of a hunter. "But I expect you to stay nice and quiet."

She only stared at him. He supposed he’d just have to trust her. She was probably too scared to scream anyway. Grasping her carefully around the waist, he helped her to the ground. Damn, the woman was as light as thistledown. Had hunger made her even more insubstantial?

She stood still as he worked on the knot at the back of her head, and he gazed curiously at her shorn hair. It was the soft, pale yellow of foxtail stalks in
xonsil
, summer, but it was uneven, as if it had been hacked off in anger. He wondered if someone had punished her by cutting it. It must have been pretty, the way it had looked in the painting, pouring like a shimmering sheet of molten brass past her shoulders. Still, there was something about the ragged strands falling over her face that was just as pretty, sort of innocent and vulnerable.

After he untangled the knot, he spun her around and carefully tugged the bandanna from her mouth, wincing as he saw the red marks the cloth had left along her cheeks.

Damn.
He’d
done that.
He’d
made those marks.

He scowled. Was he no better than the white soldiers who’d taken his people? He’d let liquor get the best of him. What he’d done was shameful. And cruel. And he deserved every...

Before he could finish the thought, the woman sucked in a great gulp of air, opened her mouth wide, and let out a scream so piercing it would have frozen the blood of a Hupa warrior.

The old man growled from the doorway, taking aim with his rifle. "You son of a bitch, I'll shoot you where you stand.”

Drew Hawk sincerely hoped not. First of all, he didn’t want to die in a brothel. And second of all, he didn’t want anyone putting a bullet in him without knowing what the hell he was being shot for.

The gunman’s obsequious young associate tried to smooth his ruffled feathers. "Now, Mr. Parker," he said, "you just let me take care of this." He rested his palm over the old man’s trembling gun hand, lowering the rifle.

Drew breathed an invisible sigh of relief. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have dived across the bed, snatched his Colt from the night table, and fired off all six rounds before the man had a chance to blink. He just didn’t want to.

The young man gave him a greasy smile. "I’m sure the Injun doesn’t want any trouble, do you?”

Drew narrowed his eyes. Despite the young man’s dapper plaid suit, a head of well-oiled blond curls, and a square, freshly shaved chin, his smile looked as out of place on his face as a preacher at a faro table.

"Oh, I’m not lookin’ for trouble," Drew said pointedly. "But I sure as hell won’t turn my back if it comes lookin’ for me."

The young man gave him a patronizing grin. "Then you won’t mind telling Mr. Parker here where you were last night."

"I think that’s pretty obvious." This pair of sniffing bloodhounds had come barging into his room before he’d even had a chance to wake up. He didn’t know what had happened to the beautiful angel who’d shared her bed with him. But for the whopping twenty dollars he’d paid her, he certainly hadn’t intended on spending the night anywhere else.

The young man snaked out a hand and twisted it in the front of Drew’s undershirt. "Don’t get cocky," he sneered.

If Drew hadn’t felt so hung over, he would have punched the man’s dainty nose halfway into his skull.

"Frank," the old man said, dotting sweat from his furrowed brow with a handkerchief, "we’re losing precious time."

Frank hesitated, then released him, smoothing the wrinkles out of Drew’s cotton shirt with exaggerated care before Drew batted his hand away.

Parker stepped forward, his rifle tucked harmlessly beneath his arm now, and peered carefully into Drew’s eyes.

"My little girl disappeared last night." The old man’s mouth trembled. He clamped it firmly shut. "Someone...took her."

Drew smirked. "And you figure, me bein’ a half-breed and all, I must be the one who stole the little filly?"

Frank exploded from his stance. But Drew was ready for him this time. He shot out an arm and slammed the astonished fop up against the wall.

"Frank!" Parker bellowed. "Please."

Frank squirmed beneath the pressure of Drew’s arm. Drew could see the dandy was itching for an excuse to beat the daylights out of him. But he wouldn’t do that while Parker was watching. So Drew let him go, straightening Frank’s fancy vest with false courtesy just for spite.

Parker continued. "Mister, I’m not accusing you, but I’ve been ranching in Paradise for years. I know who belongs here and who doesn’t. Now it looks to me like you’re the only stranger in town."

The gears turning in Drew’s head ground to a sudden halt. Ranching in Paradise. Parker. Hell, the old man must be Samuel Parker of the Parker Ranch. Wasn’t that where Chase had been headed last night?

Years of playing poker allowed Drew to keep a straight face. But this news was like a fifth ace turning up in his hand all of a sudden, and he knew he’d better bluff his way out of this game fast.

"Well now, that’s a fact," he said congenially. "I
am
a stranger in this town. But I just arrived yesterday. I’ve hardly had time to wet my whistle, let alone perpetrate any mischief."

Drew’s mind whirled. Parker must have questioned the madam. That’s how he’d found out Drew was upstairs. But she hadn’t volunteered the fact that Drew had a twin brother. God love the savvy madam, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Meanwhile, the old rancher seemed lost in his thoughts. "The kidnapper cut off her..." His voice broke as his fretful gaze wandered restlessly over the planks of the floor. "Cut off her hair."

Drew’s eyes flattened. Chase wouldn’t have done something like that to a little girl.

"We figure it was an Injun," Frank sneered.

"Truth is,” Parker amended, “I don’t know what to figure." He fixed Drew with eyes as cold and hard as his rifle barrel. "But if you know anything..."

Drew slowly shook his head. "I was up here all night, entertainin’. The madam can vouch for me."

It was a gamble, counting on the madam. She might have covered for Drew, him being a paying customer and all, but her loyalty concerning his brother could probably be bartered for a couple of gold coins.

Parker nodded, brushing back his gray mustache with solemn dignity. "Sorry about the rifle."

"Understandable. If it were
my
little girl, well..." Drew left the thought unfinished.

The old man nudged Frank out the door. "If you hear anything..."

"I’ll be sure to let you know."

No sooner did the door clap shut than Drew snagged his shirt and trousers from the bedpost, eager to find out what had happened to Chase.

The woman scared the hell out of him.

How she’d managed to hide so quietly under the covers, he didn’t know. But when she suddenly threw back the bedclothes, his heart jumped into his throat, and he went for his gun.

Fortunately, her gasp brought him to his senses before he could fire off a round. But it was a shaky hand he ran through his hair as he placed the Colt back down on the night table.

"Sorry, ma’am," he wheezed, sinking weakly down onto the edge of the mattress.

Damn, he’d forgotten how breathtaking she was. Or maybe now that he was sober, he saw her more clearly. Loose black ringlets trailed recklessly over her shoulders, which were deliciously bare except for the thin ribbons of lace holding up her camisole. Her skin glowed the shade of pressed olives, smooth and rich, as if someone had poured oil in just the right amount over her delicate bones. Her white cotton camisole was laced up over her bosom now, but he remembered glimpsing the sweet upper curve of her breasts. Fine, dark brows arched over deep whiskey-colored eyes, and her chin possessed the most flirtatious cleft. But that full, expressive, ruby mouth of hers and that tiny, seductive mole situated right beside it—that was what strained his drawers to bursting.

In fact, seeing her all breathless and fretful, her lips parted and sleep-swollen, Drew could easily talk himself out of chasing after that fool brother of his. Hell, Chase probably didn’t have anything to do with the little girl that had gone missing anyway. His brother generally steered clear of children and other small creatures, always afraid he’d hurt them.

Chase had had way too much to drink last night was all. He’d likely just passed out in a field somewhere. He sure as hell didn’t need Drew’s help. Chase always landed on his feet. He was the sensible twin. If anyone was going to get into trouble, it was Drew. Besides, Chase had said it himself—this was
his
journey. Drew had only come along for the adventure.

As he lay back on his elbows and let his eyes drink their fill of the lovely lady before him, he thought the woman tucked delectably into his bed looked like the adventure of a lifetime.

At the woman’s earsplitting scream, Chase’s heart vaulted into his throat like a spooked jackrabbit. Dropping the bandanna, he lunged forward and clapped a hand over her mouth, instantly cutting off her cries. He cast his glance wildly through the trees. If the woman had alerted anyone...

She wriggled free and took another swig of air. This time he caught her before she could make a sound, trapping her between his hands, one over her open mouth, the other behind her head.

But like a squirrel that's fought its way out of a basket trap more than once, she wasn’t giving up. She bared her teeth and chomped down hard on his palm.

It hurt like hell. His blacksmith’s calluses protected the meat of his hand from too much real damage. But her sharp teeth still managed to break open the skin where the barbed wire had already cut him. He released her like a hot poker, glancing in shock at his bleeding hand.

She spat on the ground, apparently averse to the taste of his blood.

Annoyed at his inability to control such a small creature, he snatched her by the front of her camisole and dragged her toward him until she dangled on her toes. Shards of gold shot through the serpentine green of her eyes, and her gaze still glimmered in rebellion.

He lowered his eyes. At the spot where he clenched her camisole, something peeped out above the lacy top—the yellowed pages of a book. He narrowed his gaze. What the hell was that?

Her eyes widened in panic. “No!”

Too irritated with her to consider the wisdom of his actions, he set her back on her feet, and then seized the corner of the book and withdrew it.

She gasped in disbelief, turning bright scarlet.

He scowled at the orange cover.
THE TRAIL HUNTERS OR MONOWANO THE SHAWNEE SPY
, it read. Under the title was a drawing of a native man holding hands with a white woman in the middle of a forest. The coincidence was unnerving.

With a disconcerted blink, he curled the soft-covered book and smacked the roll against his palm. "I only meant to let you get a drink of water." He sniffed. "But maybe I should just gag you again." He hoped she couldn’t guess that his threat was as full of holes as a maiden’s first basket. "What do you think? Do you think you can be silent?"

She swallowed hard. She might be stubborn, but her thirst apparently outweighed her desire to disobey him, so she gave him a nod of consent.