Call of the White Wolf

by Carol Finch

  “Good, I’m glad we have that settled and out of the way,” she said, flashing him a smile. “As for the sleeping arrangements, you’re staying in my room and I don’t wish to hear another word about it.”

  He smiled a mysterious smile, then shrugged. “Have it your way, Irish. I suspect you usually do.”

  Tara snapped her head around and frowned at him.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” she challenged.

  “Only that you’re accustomed to controlling the children, though I admit you rule with such a gentle hand and winsome smile that they don’t realize they’re being bossed around.”

  “I suppose you’re accustomed to probing and prying and sticking your nose in various places because of your line of work.” Tara snapped her mouth shut, amazed that she was addressing John in such a sarcastic tone. Blast it, this man didn’t fit into the nice, neat world she’d created for the children and herself in Paradise Valley, and she was having trouble dealing with him. Why was that?

  He shrugged a broad shoulder, seemingly unoffended by her sassy rejoinder. “I suppose you’re right, Irish. I do spend considerable time grilling witnesses before I track criminals. I’m inquisitive by nature and by habit….So, how’d you come to acquire this abandoned homestead here in what the Apache call the Canyon of the Sun?”

  Tara blinked in surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “About the abandoned ranch, you mean? The boys told me. They don’t seem to be quite as cautious about divulging information as you are. No doubt you instructed them to watch what they said around me. Now why is that?”

  Tara opened her mouth to ask how he knew she’d instructed the children not to reveal more than necessary about their past, then figured she could already guess the answer. Flora had difficulty refraining from telling everything she knew, just to hear herself talk. So did young Calvin. He’d jabber all day if you let him.

  Tara decided that telling the truth—or as much of the truth as she could—wouldn’t do any harm in this instance. “I acquired the deed to this abandoned farm after the children and I happened onto it, while searching for a shelter during a storm. When I inquired about the ranch in Rambler Springs, I learned the previous owners had left during the Indian uprising six years ago. Since the Apache were confined to San Carlos, it seemed safe enough to set up housekeeping here.” She peered questioningly at him. “How did you know this is sacred ground to the Apache?”

  He was silent for a long moment while he scanned the panoramic valley with its towering cap rock, wild tumble of boulders, canopies of cedars, cottonwoods and pines, and its refreshing springs. Then he shifted slightly, and his solemn gaze probed hers with an intensity she’d come to expect from him. John didn’t simply look at her; he examined, studied and looked into her, as if he were reading her private thoughts.

  “If I tell you the truth about that, will you explain how you came to acquire this unique family of yours, Irish?”

  She knew he saw her flinch, for his astute gaze never seemed to miss a thing. She was beginning to think the phenomenal feats, the unerring instincts and tracking skills that Wilma Prague raved about weren’t an exaggeration. There was an extraordinary aura about this man—especially now that he was recovering from his injuries. He was sharply attuned to everything that transpired around him. He had a sixth sense she envied.

  “Irish?” he prompted, holding her captive with nothing more than the intensity of his silvery stare. “What I’m offering here is something you can hold over my head, in exchange for something I can hold over yours. That will keep the battleground even, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “We are going to do battle?” she asked, smiling impishly.

  “I don’t know. Are we?” he questioned in turn.

  She wasn’t quite sure she understood what made this unusual man tick. He wasn’t like her other male acquaintances. He was asking her to give him a weapon to use against her. In return, he was handing her a weapon. Why? she kept asking herself.

  John studied the wary expression that claimed her enchanting features. He could tell she wasn’t sure what to make of him and his unexpected offer. But he’d be damned—literally—if he told her the truth about himself without some leverage, and he had to know if he could trust her to hold in confidence what he was about to tell her. Considering what this amazing woman had done for him, he wanted to trust her, to confide something that only Gray Eagle knew.

  Why he was willing to stick out his neck John wasn’t sure. Maybe it was an instinctive response to the feelings Tara evoked in him. Maybe, with this life of isolation he’d been leading, he sought some kind of connection. Maybe he simply felt indebted because she’d saved his life. Maybe…John refused to delve deeper into the whys and wherefores. He’d looked a little too deeply already when it came to the feelings and sensations Tara aroused in him.

  “Very well, John Wolfe, you have a bargain,” she agreed. “A sword for a sword, so to speak. But I want you to remember that you wouldn’t be alive today if not for me.”

  He grinned, amused by her insistence that he shouldn’t forget he owed her his life.

  “But I must have your word of honor that if you do decide to turn against me, after I answer your question, that you’ll become responsible for these children,” she insisted.

  That was an odd thing for her to say, he thought. It suggested some deep dark secret that would make it impossible for her to care for the children if the truth came out.

  John stared her straight in the eye and said, “I know this canyon is sacred Apache ground because I am Apache. Or at least I was an Apache until five years ago, when the uprisings were contained and the tribe was herded onto the reservation. Fact is, there is no John Wolfe.”

  She gaped at him for a full minute. When her questioning gaze continued to focus directly on him, he nodded in confirmation. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. That wasn’t the reaction John had anticipated. Her riotous laughter drew the attention of the children, who were tending to various chores. The boys appeared from the shadows of the root cellar, which was in actuality a small cavern tucked beneath an overhanging rock ledge. The girls emerged from the house to stare at Tara in complete bewilderment.

  Tara tossed back her head, sending the haphazard braid of red-gold hair cascading down her back. She cackled uproariously, then slapped her knee and cackled some more. To John’s disbelief, she curled into a ball and rolled off the bench onto the planked porch. Still giggling and gasping for breath, she clamped her hands around her ribs and guffawed. John and the children stared at her as if she’d gone insane.

  “Oh, that…is…funny,” she said between howls of laughter.

  Despite his baffled confusion, John broke into a grin while Tara rolled around on the porch, giggling and struggling to draw breath.

  “Is she okay?” Samuel asked as he jogged toward the house.

  “My gosh, what’s happening to her?” Derek said in alarm.

  It was obvious to John that Tara had never allowed the children to see her reduced to fits of laughter. But why his confidential announcement had caused this reaction, he had no idea. He suspected Tara usually took her responsibility for the children quite earnestly and always displayed a facade of control—whether she felt in constant control or not.

  Face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks, Tara looked up at him and erupted in another fit of giggles. Each time she peered at him the hysterical fit began all over again.

  “She’ll be fine,” he assured the concerned children. “Go tend to your chores. Maureen, perhaps you could bring Irish a cup of water. I think she’ll be needing one when she recovers from her fit of giggles.”

  Reluctantly, the children turned away, but not without casting several worried glances over their shoulders. Tara was down to muffled snickers by the time Maureen returned with the water.

  When Tara took the cup and sipped, John waved Maureen back into the house. He looked down at the woman who was curled up at his feet. “I
assume your grave secret is that you have a tendency toward madness.” He was giving her a way out. He wondered if she’d take it. When she shook her head, he was confident he could trust her with his secrets.

  After Tara regained a semblance of composure and slumped beside him on the bench, she glanced at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I suspect your week has been as long and stressful as mine, Irish. If I could reduce myself to busting a gut laughing, without splitting a stitch, I’d like to try it. That looked like fun.”

  “It was, actually. Discovering that you don’t exist stuck me as hilarious. You’re entirely too real to be a figment of anyone’s imagination.”

  “There really is no John Wolfe,” he repeated. “I was born white, captured by the Apache at the age of ten and rigorously trained to become one of the elite group of warriors who were sent on the most dangerous missions. I lived with my clan, accompanied them on raids against invading hordes of Spaniards, Mexicans and whites, and then I was confined to the reservation. The fact is I’ll always be more Apache than white.”

  “Captured?” The laughter in her eyes died.

  “Rescued would probably be more accurate. My father was a drunken prospector. An Apache hunting party overtook us while he was beating me, as he had a habit of doing on a regular basis. My ability to speak English made me useful to the Apache, who were dealing with whites more often than they preferred. I was taught the Apache dialect, as well as Spanish. In turn, I was instructed to teach Chief Gray Eagle and his family to speak English. Being the only white captive in our clan, I was often called upon to translate during conferences with the army. Because of the color of my eyes, Chief Gray Eagle always kept me conveniently obscured from the soldiers because he considered me too valuable an asset to release.”

  “What is your Indian name?” she asked.

  “White Wolf.”

  “And your white name?”

  He hadn’t spoken his given name in twenty years. It felt unfamiliar as it tumbled off his tongue. “Daniel Braxton.”

  Why he had gotten sidetracked with particulars of his life that he hadn’t divulged to anyone else, he couldn’t say. What was there about this woman that drew his confidence? he wondered. He truly was treating her like a friend—the first he’d had in years.

  “That explains why an Apache warrior has silver-blue eyes rather than dark ones,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s also why townsfolk praise your legendary skills and instincts. According to gossip around Rambler Springs, you’re part bloodhound. Your success rate in tracking and apprehending criminals is incredible, bordering on supernatural.”

  “It’s the result of years of meticulous Apache training,” he explained. “It’s a culture of introspect, reflection and a life closely attuned to nature. Whites get too caught up in the acquisition of property and wealth to fully understand who they are and how they fit into the world around them.

  “I cannot begin to explain the torment of knowing my white ancestors are responsible for the atrocities committed against the Apache, and vice versa. It’s like straddling a picket fence, uncertain which culture is my true enemy. But I do know that if the truth is revealed, I’ll be jailed and sentenced by the white courts because I was involved in retaliations against whites who committed unspeakable atrocities against the Apache.”

  Her expression turned compassionate. To his surprise, she reached out to touch his hand, which had involuntarily curled into a fist—an outward manifestation of his inner turmoil.

  “I’m sorry, John. I promise that your secret is safe with me. I’m most thankful that I was able to save such a unique man.”

  An unfamiliar lump formed in his throat. She accepted his explanation, accepted him, without making judgments. He didn’t elaborate on the particulars of his life story, didn’t want to disturb this unexpected sense of peace and contentment that stole over him. He’d never experienced anything quite like the sensations thrumming through him. He simply sat there, surrounded by the towering sandstone walls of the canyon, absorbing the tranquility of the moment and enjoying the breath of wind stirring through the trees.

  Suddenly he realized just how badly he needed this hiatus in the place Tara called Paradise Valley. Being here with her and the children, in this spectacular location, was like lingering at an oasis after a grueling walk in the desert sun.

  “Now that you’ve revealed your truths, I’m obliged to reveal mine,” Tara murmured as she withdrew her hand. “It’s ironic that you’re the one man who poses the greatest threat to my existence, and yet we’re exchanging confidences.”

  She swallowed uneasily, because she’d never confided this tale to another living soul. Certainly, the children in her care knew fragments of the story, but they didn’t know the whole truth.

  “My parents immigrated to Boston,” she began quietly. “I lost them in a flu epidemic and I nearly died myself. I had no other family to take me in and I was forced to live a hand-to-mouth existence in the streets and alleys with several other children who found themselves in the same predicament. We begged for food and picked pockets to survive…until one night when three policemen swarmed in and gathered up the strays. The older, more experienced street urchins managed to vanish in the network of alleys, but I was frail and sickly, like little Flora, at the time. I was taken to an orphanage, given a cot, a ration of food and hand-me-down clothes that were so thin from numerous washings that it was like being naked during the cold winter months.”

  Tara darted a glance at John. He was staring intently at her again. She swore she’d never met another living soul who listened with such concentrated absorption. He didn’t even blink an eye when she admitted to stealing to survive.

  “Occasionally families visited the orphanage to take children into their homes, but I was always overlooked. I guess they considered me too old to be trainable, too frail to put in a hard day’s work.”

  “Which is why, I suspect, little Flora and Calvin are in your care. You see yourself in them, don’t you?” he asked.

  Tara nodded. “Flora was just an infant when her mother, the daughter of a wealthy family, brought her to the orphanage. The woman was unmarried and feared wrath and disinheritance.

  “Calvin was left alone when his parents were killed in the carriage accident that mangled his leg and scarred his chin. Maureen couldn’t speak a word for the first two years she lived in the orphanage. The caretakers thought she was a deaf-mute, because she made no contact with anyone. Thankfully, she’s emerged from her shell. But to this day she refuses to speak of whatever tragedy landed her at the orphanage.

  “As for Samuel and Derek, they know nothing of their heritage, nor do I. They simply arrived in the dark of night as young children. They were already there when I was taken into the orphanage. You wouldn’t know by looking at them now, but they were sickly, weak and shamefully unsure of themselves.”

  Tara took a sip of water, then continued. “When the time came, we were scrubbed and dressed in an exceptionally better set of hand-me-downs than what we usually wore. We were hustled aboard a westbound train without being informed of our destination or purpose. We stopped in nameless towns in Missouri and were herded into local churches. Like livestock on the auction block, we were presented for adoption. Many of the younger children were carted off to foster homes.”

  “But not frail-looking Flora or crippled Calvin,” John surmised.

  “No, the six of us were rejected for one reason or another, so we returned to the train and ventured into Texas. When the train pulled into a dusty cow town there, we were the only ones left. A man who owned a fleabag hotel notorious for housing rowdy drifters took in Flora and Maureen. Although they were young—especially Flora—they were put to work cleaning and sweeping. The boys ended up working for a cantankerous farmer who practiced your father’s technique of controlling and disciplining children.”

  “And you, Irish?” he questioned. “How old were you at the time?”

/>   Leave it to this man to poke and pry into places she planned to skip over with only the briefest of explanation. “I wasn’t quite eighteen,” she told him reluctantly.

  “Marrying age,” he murmured shrewdly.

  “Something like that,” she replied, unable to meet his perceptive gaze. “I was taken in by a rancher who claimed he needed a foster child capable of caring for his ailing wife.”

  John hadn’t liked the sound of this story from the beginning. It was growing more distasteful by the minute. The fact that Tara’s expression had closed up, that she was suddenly holding herself upright on the bench, keeping a stranglehold on the cup of water and staring sightlessly at the canyon walls, alerted him that the rancher had had unseemly designs on her. An unfamiliar sense of rage swept through John, momentarily overriding the nagging pain in his rib and thigh.

  “There was no ailing wife, was there?” he said through clenched teeth.

  She didn’t answer for a moment, didn’t glance his direction. Finally she said, “There was a gravesite on the far side of the garden.” She shivered slightly, cleared her throat, then continued. “There were also metal cuffs dangling from the headboard and footboard of his bed.”

  John felt as if someone had gut-punched him. Damn it to hell, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what came next. In fact, he refused to hear and he didn’t want to imagine what Tara had endured, so he leaped ahead to spare her the telling.

  “So I assume you regathered the children from their various residences and decided to make a new life together.”

  She breathed a relieved sigh and smiled ruefully. “Yes, the children are now my family, and I promised to make a home for them. We hopped a cattle train and followed the rails west as far as they went. For three months we wandered like nomads, feeding off the land, living for short periods of time at missions and in abandoned shacks along the way—wherever we found shelter. We gathered stray livestock that we encountered along our route through New Mexico Territory and we took temporary employment where we could, but we never stayed in one place long enough to become acquainted with anyone. We traveled into towns in separate groups so as not to arouse suspicion or raise questions we didn’t want to answer.”