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Native Wolf
California Legends
Book 2
SPRING 1875
PARADISE, CALIFORNIA
Chase Wolf lifted his eyes to the grand mansion shining in the moonlight, and the corners of his mouth turned down.
Natives had built this princely manor for a white man who’d probably never soiled his hands on the Great Spirit’s earth. While revered Konkow headmen and gifted shamans like his grandmother blistered their palms and bent their backs to serve the rancher, Parker and his family lived like spoiled children, untouched by harsh winds or scorching sun or the indignity of hard labor. He wondered how Parker would fare as a slave, sweating and toiling for the profit of another.
Then a dark inspiration took hold. His lips slowly curved into a grim smile.
The march to Nome Cult.
He would force Parker to endure the march, as his people had. He’d prod the rancher across a hundred miles of rugged land, without water, without food, without shelter, until there was nothing left of him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as his white mother’s Bible preached. That was how his grandmother would be avenged. That was how her spirit would find peace.
Resolve—and liquor—made him bold. He silently climbed the steps and circled the porch until he found a window left open to capture the night breeze. He brushed aside the sheer curtain. Moonlight spilled over the sill and into the darkened house like pale acorn soup.
A sudden swell of vertigo tipped him off-balance as he climbed through the window. He made a grab for the curtain, tearing the frail fabric. Luckily, he had enough presence of mind to silence an angry curse, and his feet finally found purchase on the polished wood floor.
He swayed, then straightened, swallowing hard as he perused the sumptuous furnishings of the parlor in the moonlight, feeling as out of place as a trout in a tree.
A pair of sofas so plump they looked pregnant squatted on stubby legs carved with figures of leaves. Four rush-seat chairs stenciled with twining flowers sat against one wall. Delicate tables perched here and there on legs no thicker than a fawn’s. A massive marble fireplace with an iron grate dominated the room, and an ornate clock ticked softly on the mantel. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling like a giant crystal spider, and a dense, patterned carpet stretched in an oval pool over the floor. Sweeping down one side of the room was a mahogany staircase, and the walls were adorned with paper printed in pale vertical stripes.
His gaze settled on the enormous gilt-framed oil portrait hung above the mantel.
Letting the torn curtain fall closed, Chase ventured into the room to take a closer look. The title at the bottom read, SAMUEL AND CLAIRE PARKER. Hatred began to boil his blood as he let his eyes slide up to study the face of his enemy, the evil rancher who’d enslaved his grandmother.
Samuel Parker was a portly old man with a stern, wrinkled face, a balding head, dark eyes, and a trailing gray mustache that made him look even sterner. He was easy to hate. Chase’s lip curled as he savored the thought of dragging the villain from his bed.
Then his gaze lit on Claire Parker. A wave of lightheadedness washed over him. It was only the whiskey, he told himself, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of the face in the painting. The woman was half her husband’s age, as innocent and fair as Parker was darkly corrupt. She had long fair hair, partially swept up into a knot. Her features were delicate, and her eyes were serene and sweet. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
After a good minute of gawking, he finally squeezed his eyes shut against the image. The woman’s looks didn’t matter. Her heart was doubtless as evil as her husband’s.
A flicker suddenly danced across the landing above, and Chase faded back into the wallpaper. The glow of a candle lit the top steps, making shadows flutter about the walls. And then, at the top of the stairs, the portrait of the woman appeared to come to life.
Claire Parker.
The flame illuminated her face, giving her creamy skin an ethereal glow. Her long hair had been cut since the painting. Short, blunt strands now caressed her chin. But the blonde locks shone in the candlelight like the halos of the angels in his mother’s Bible. She wore a white lace-trimmed camisole, an ankle-length petticoat…and nothing else. Timidly she descended the steps in bare feet.
He stood frozen while the woman, unaware he lurked in the shadows, crept slowly closer. He didn’t dare breathe as she brushed past him.
She hesitated, close enough for him to tell the portrait didn’t do her justice. Claire Parker was breathtaking. Yet there were dark hollows beneath her eyes that painted her face in shades of unspeakable sorrow. His heart softened briefly, and he wondered what horrible tragedy haunted her.
Then, just as quickly, he remembered who she was, what she was, and the reason he’d come. He couldn’t let a pretty face distract him from his vengeance.
But how was he going to steal past the lady to get to her husband? He couldn’t afford to wait for her to go back to bed. The longer he remained in the house, the greater his chances were of getting caught.
Hell. He had to do something. And soon.
Instinct took over. It must have been instinct. Or the whiskey. Because if he’d thought about what he was doing for one minute, he never would have taken that first step.
Sliding his knife silently from its sheath, he slipped out of the shadows and came up behind her. Before she could wheel around in surprise, he clamped a hand over Claire Parker’s mouth and set the sharp blade against her slim throat.
It happened in a heartbeat.
For one brief moment, Claire, hearing the soft sound from downstairs and sensing a shadowy presence in the room below, had foolishly believed it might be the spirit of her beloved Yoema. Hope filling her heart, she’d crept down the stairs.
But in an instant, those hopes were dashed. A huge hand closed over her mouth, choking off her gasp of shock. And a sharp edge of cold steel pressed against her neck.
She dropped the candle, extinguishing its light. Her heart jammed up against her ribs, fluttering like a singed moth. Air whistled through her flared nostrils. Her fingers splayed ineffectually as the blade threatened her with a menacing chill. Her throat clogged with panic, and she stared ahead with blind terror, sure the knife would end her gulping any moment.
She felt utterly helpless, not at all like the heroes of the dime novels she kept under her bed. She had no revolver. She had no Bowie knife. And she had no idea what her attacker intended.
For a long, drawn-out moment, the man did nothing, which was almost worse than killing her outright, for it gave her time to think, to dread.
Who was he? What did he want? Was he going to hurt her? Kidnap her? Murder her? The panicked whimper born in her throat was cut short by his tightening grip. Who was he?
The pungent smell of strong whiskey and wood smoke rose off of him, stinging her nose. The palm crushing her mouth tasted faintly of blood. His fingers, pressed into her cheek, were rough and callused. One thick-muscled arm, slung heavily across her bosom, trapped her. Where he secured her against his broad chest, he was as hard as a tree trunk.
She didn’t dare resist, scarcely dared to breathe while the knife rested so close to her madly pulsing vein. If only she hadn’t left her scissors in her bedroom…
The man m
oved his arm to struggle awkwardly with something behind her. She squeezed her eyes tight, praying he wasn’t unfastening his trousers.
Then, for one moment, the cool blade disappeared from her throat. She stiffened like a clock spring, poised to bolt free. His hand fell away, and she sucked in a great gulp of air to scream.
But he was too quick for her. He jammed a wad of dusty cloth into her open mouth. She fought to keep from gagging, wincing as he knotted it tightly at the back of her head. Then he brandished the shiny silver blade in front of her eyes, flashing a silent threat in the moonlight.
This time, instead of cowering in fright, she let his gesture fuel her courage. Mustering her strength and calling to mind all the Buckskin Bill adventures she’d read, she swung her clasped hands across his forearm and brought her heel down hard on the top of his foot.
His forearm didn’t budge, and she felt the bone-jarring impact of her bare heel upon his stiff boot all the way up her leg. She winced in pain. If only she’d had her Sunday church heels on, she despaired, she might have heard much more out of him than just an annoyed grunt.
Instead of thwarting him, her struggles seemed to increase his determination. He hugged her closer against him, so close she could feel his hot whiskey breath riffling her hair. He raised the knife in his huge fist till it glinted with menace before her. Then he began dragging her backward across the room.
In desperation, she tried to wrench out of his iron grasp, twisting enough to catch a glimpse of his shadowed face before he jerked her back against him.
What she’d seen surprised her. Even in the dim light, she could tell he was a native. His eyes, narrowed with intent, were as dark as the night, and his short, unkempt hair shone like ebony silk. His features were strongly sculpted and handsome, from the bold arch of his nose and his square jaw to the lean cords of his neck and his strong brow. And though she couldn’t imagine why, he looked somehow familiar.
Why would an Indian attack her? The Indians who worked her father’s ranch were as docile as sheep. Still, there had been tales of scalpings years ago, perpetrated by savages who’d learned such violence from vicious white settlers. Dear God, did he mean to take her scalp?
Suddenly she could draw no air into her lungs, and a hysterical thought kept circling her brain—she’d surely cheated the man of his prize if he meant to scalp her, for only moments ago, she’d cut her hair short in mourning.
Stunned and breathless, she hardly resisted as he continued to lug her toward the open window. But when he climbed out and began to haul her over the sill, pushing her head down with one massive hand so she wouldn’t bang it on the sashes, she awoke from her stupor.
Dear Lord, the man was abducting her!
They were halfway out of the house when panic made her fight in earnest. She grabbed hold of the window, refusing to let go. Kicking at the wall for all she was worth, she twisted and flailed against him until he hissed a guttural word at her, probably an epithet in his native tongue.
In a matter of seconds, of course, his strength won out. He unlatched her hands with a sweep of his arm and pulled her out onto the porch into the stark night.
Maybe she could still make noise, she thought in desperation. Her screams might not be heard through the gag, but if she stomped on the planks and made a huge fuss, surely her father or one of the ranch hands would come to investigate.
The man must have read her thoughts. Before she could make a single sound, he picked her up, tucked her between his arm and his hip like a sack of feed, and stole off the porch with the silent step that was a hallmark of the local Indians.
Suspended as she was, with her arms trapped against her sides, she couldn’t do much more than squirm against him, which didn’t hamper him in the least.
She peered between the blunt strands of her newly cropped hair. Though he weaved a bit, he seemed to be heading for the stables.
A slender slice of moonlight spilled in when he eased the door open, but the horses were unperturbed by the presence of an intruder. Hoping to startle them into a frenzy of neighing, Claire thrashed wildly in her captor’s grip. He grunted and squeezed her tightly about the waist, cutting off her struggles and her air. Then he took a coil of rope from a nail in the wall and started forward.
He quickly found what he wanted—Thunder, her father’s five-year-old prize stallion. He unlatched the gate and, stroking the horse’s chest, nudged Thunder out of the stall. With one hand and his teeth, he managed to fashion a loop to slip over the horse’s head.
She expected he’d make a break for it. He’d swing up bareback and throw her across his lap, slap Thunder’s flank, let out a war whoop, and race into the night. As soon as he did, of course, a posse of her father’s men would mount up and ride after him like the devil. They’d put a bullet in the villain before the moon rose even halfway across the sky.
But he did no such thing. He led Thunder out of the stable as stealthily as he’d come in. To her amazement, the normally headstrong stallion followed willingly, as if the two of them were partners in crime.
Still clamped firmly under the brute’s huge arm and against his lean hip, Claire tried to calm her racing heart and make sense of things. Surely this couldn’t be happening. Surely a stranger couldn’t march up to the front door of the formidable Parker house in the middle of the night, snatch her from her own parlor, and make off with her by the light of the full moon.
Yet no one had heard him come. No one had roused when he left. It would be morning before anyone missed Claire. And, heaven help her, she’d left a note saying she was running away. Her father probably wouldn’t come after her at all.
What were the man’s intentions?
Obviously, he didn’t mean to kill her. She’d be dead already if that were the case. Maybe he meant to hold her for ransom. Samuel Parker’s prosperity was well known. This savage wouldn’t be the first scoundrel to go after her father’s wealth.
But he was by far the boldest.
They’d left the drive now, gone out the gate, onto the main road. The land on the other side was wild, uncultivated and overgrown, and the Indian led Thunder straight into the weeds. Tall grasses brushed the horse’s flanks and whipped at Claire’s petticoat as she sagged in the man’s grip.
Once they’d descended the rolling hill, out of sight of the Parker house, he stopped to remove the noose from Thunder’s neck. Seizing the opportunity, Claire thrust out with her feet, kicking one of the beast’s hocks, hoping to spook the horse into galloping back to the ranch.
But the Indian calmed the animal with a few murmurs and a pat to Thunder’s flank, turning on Claire with a withering glare, as if she’d kicked the horse just for spite.
He righted her then, planting her atop the weed-choked ground. Before she could catch her balance, he dropped the noose about her, cinching it tightly around her waist.
When he casually swept up the hem of her petticoat, exposing her knees, Claire’s eyes widened, and her heart skittered along her ribs. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about the man’s intent after all.
But, drawing his knife, he slashed a long strip from the hem and let the garment fall. Then he put away the blade and seized one of her hands.
Instinctively she pulled away, but was caught fast in his great fist. He looped the cloth around her wrist, pulled it behind her, and crossed it over the other hand, knotting the cotton strips together.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped back, his thumbs hooked insolently into the waistband of his trousers. She stared at him, wondering how intoxicated he must be to take pride in subduing a woman her size.
He must have read her mind. A scowl darkened his features, and for a moment, Claire thought she detected a hint of shame marring his drunken arrogance. Then he growled and turned his back on her, destroying all notions of civility.
In a movement surprisingly fluid for such a large man, he swung up atop Thunder. Coiling the loose end of the rope around his fist, he nudged the horse forward. The rope pulle
d taut, and Claire was forced to follow.
Caught off guard, she staggered and almost fell. What kind of abduction was this? Surely the man would want to flee as swiftly as possible to avoid capture. Why wasn’t he sweeping her up and tearing off across the countryside?
He rode slowly, but keeping up was difficult. Claire was no longer accustomed to walking barefoot. Her father had cured her of that uncivilized habit years ago. The ground was rocky and uneven. Every few steps, she winced as star thistles bristled against her ankles and sharp pebbles poked her heels. Burrs caught in what was left of her lace hem, and her petticoat grew sodden with its harvest of dew.
She twisted her ankle on a stone and nearly went down again. The pain as she hobbled forward made her eyes water, but she didn’t dare stop. She feared if she hesitated, he’d ride on anyway, dragging her through the thistles.
But despite her best efforts to be stoic, her eyes filled, and the stars and the moon and the ground blurred before her. A trickle wound its way down her cheek and was swallowed up by the cotton binding her mouth.
It wasn’t the pain that triggered her crying. And it wasn’t fear, not really. It was grief.
From the day that Yoema fell ill, Samuel Parker had insisted that Claire hide her sorrow. After all, no one knew the truth about Yoema’s relationship to Claire. They assumed the native woman was a servant, no more. So for the sake of propriety and obedience to her father, Claire had kept a stiff upper lip and denied herself the catharsis of tears. When Yoema died, there had been no funeral, and Claire was expected to carry on as if nothing had happened.
But now she was removed from the eyes of society, stripped of everything that had kept her sailing on a shaky but even keel. Her emotions felt as raw as the soles of her feet. And her father wasn’t around to witness her weeping, to be disappointed in her. So all the pain she’d bottled up inside, all the bittersweet memories she’d repressed, all the tears she’d been unable to shed, gushed forth in a torrent so powerful that before long, her chest heaved with wrenching sobs and the gag grew wet with her weeping.
Native Hawk (California Legends Book 3) Page 25
