by Carol Finch
“Well, you’re exceptionally good at it.” He patted her on the back.
“How do you do it?” she asked between seesaw breaths.
“Do what?”
She tipped back her head to stare curiously at him. “How do you face down outlaws on a regular basis? Do you have nerves of steel? I’m still shaking like a leaf.”
Indeed, she was. John rubbed his hands down her arms in a soothing gesture. “I made peace with dying years ago,” he confided. “I was trained to do battle, to outwit the enemy. Sometimes things don’t work out the way you plan and all hell breaks loose. Then you just respond instinctively and hope you can dodge oncoming bullets that have your name on them. And Irish?”
“What?” Tara tensed when she noticed the somber look in his eyes, the sober expression on his handsome features.
“What happened to that sadistic Texas rancher who buried his wife, or whatever the woman was to him, in the backyard?”
Tara jerked back. She sensed John knew the answer before he’d asked. She presumed that something about the way she’d gone a little crazy when facing down the intruders who intended to abuse her had come through to him loud and clear.
“I better get back to the cabin and check on the other children,” she murmured evasively. “They’ll want to know exactly what happened.”
“I’m not here to judge, Irish,” he said to her departing back. “What happened?”
Tara stopped in her tracks, pivoted, then offered him the truth she’d never told another soul. “I was forced to kill him. I was so bruised and beaten that I couldn’t give him a proper burial, not that he deserved one, because he certainly didn’t….” Her voice shattered and tears clouded her eyes. It took a moment before she composed herself. “What happened with those outlaws was nothing compared to my ordeal with Mortimer Lindsey.”
“I’m damn glad to hear he’s dead and gone. That saves me the trouble of looking up that crazy son of a bitch and killing him myself.”
Tara swiped at the tears, noting John was standing rigidly, hands clenched at his sides. She realized he meant what he said about not passing judgment on her, about avenging the torment she’d endured at that perverted rancher’s cruel hands. Oddly enough, Tara felt better having bared her soul to John.
There was nothing more to hide, except this growing affection for him that she was helpless to control. John Wolfe easily could become the man she loved for all times. She admired him, respected him, marveled at his skills and abilities. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d come to depend on him, to lean on him for comfort and support.
Inhaling a bracing breath, she turned around and headed for the cabin. She had curious children awaiting her return.
John’s breath whooshed out like a deflating balloon as he watched Tara walk away. He didn’t like the fact that she’d been involved in a near brush with the kind of violent life he led. He regretted that she’d been reminded of the horrors she’d endured at the hands of Mortimer Lindsey, that maniac rancher who’d obviously derived wicked enjoyment from overpowering and tormenting women. John was damn glad to hear that bastard was already frying in hell.
John didn’t have the slightest doubt that Tara had acted in self-defense, but he’d check to see if she was wanted for murder in Texas. He’d ensure her name was cleared. He wondered if the name Tara Flannigan was as fictitious as John Wolfe was. He wondered if she, like him, had felt the need to assume a new identity. He recalled her fit of hysterical laughter after he’d announced there was no John Wolfe. He wondered if it had struck her funny because there was no Tara Flannigan, either. That’d certainly explain her peculiar reaction.
Limping noticeably, John walked off to gather herbs for his poultice. Well, one good thing had come from this harrowing incident, he consoled himself. That dreaded discussion on sex would have to be postponed again until another day. He was pretty sure that rounding up outlaws was going to be a snap compared to fielding questions from a brood of curious children.
Chapter Six
John bit back a grin when Samuel and Derek, who’d left the canyon as boys, seemed to think they’d returned as men. As instructed, they’d delivered the prisoners to jail and had given their message to Tom Glasco, the town marshal. It turned out there was a reward for the capture of the gang, who had robbed a trading post up north. The marshal had patted the boys on the back for a job well done, handed them two hundred dollars and sent them home, telling them to keep the spare horses as their own because the prisoners weren’t going to be needing them for a good long while.
“What do you plan to do with the money?” John asked while the family sat around the supper table.
“Well, I suppose it really isn’t ours to keep,” Samuel said. “After all, you and Tara captured the thieves. We just transported the gang to town.”
“In that case, I want my share of the reward deposited in the family treasury,” John announced.
“Same goes for me,” Tara stated, smiling at the children. “But it seems to me that everyone had a hand in the excitement.”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” Flora said sullenly.
“Me neither,” Calvin added.
“Yes, you did,” Tara insisted. “Calvin, Flora and Maureen held the fort. If those men had gotten past John and me, then attacked Samuel and Derek, it would’ve been up to you three to defend our home. If the worst had happened I’d rest easier knowing that a small part of me would remain with you because we are a family.”
The theory sounded so logical to the younger children that they nodded in agreement—until Maureen had time to give the matter more thought.
“But that would never have happened, because John was on our side. Nobody would ever get past him.”
John was uncomfortable with his invincible-hero status and the gaze of slavish devotion Maureen directed at him. “That’s not quite true, Maureen. The man who shot me is still on the loose,” he pointed out.
“Exactly,” Tara said, focusing her unblinking gaze on the three youngest children. “There’s always the possibility that you’ll be called upon to show courage. Sometimes that means locating a safe hiding place until I can find you.”
“That sounds like a coward’s way out,” Calvin muttered. “I don’t want to be a coward.”
Tara took his hand in hers, giving it a fond squeeze. “If you’re the witness who identifies a criminal, then you can do your part to ensure he’s put behind bars. John’s been teaching you survival skills to make sure you remain safe. I have his assurance that all of you are quick studies.”
The brood of children shifted their attention to John. “Best students I ever had,” he confirmed, then found himself repaid a thousand times over. Their proud, radiant smiles could’ve led him through a blizzard.
“Which brings me back to the point I was about to make,” Tara continued. “Considering how the capture and transportation of the outlaws was pretty much a family effort, I think we should take some of the money and make a trip into town tomorrow. Everyone gets to make a special purchase, something you’ve always wanted and never could afford.”
When excited chatter erupted around the table Tara flung up her hand, requesting silence. “You can decide what you want while you finish your chores. I’ll do the dishes so you can start immediately.”
The passel of children broke and ran for the door. John was left at his end of the table and Tara was still sitting at hers. Not once had she met his gaze directly after offering her grim account of her ordeal with Mortimer Lindsey. John wasn’t concerned on that count. Something else was bothering him after the confrontation with the outlaws at the spring.
“Irish, this is only the beginning of unwanted intrusion,” he told her. “Although the Apache and Navajo are confined to reservations, there’s another imminent threat. People are migrating to this area, especially since rumors of new copper and silver strikes are flying. Outlaws prey on travelers and prospectors. This valley offers protection from inclement weather, and several
good water sources. You really need to find a place to live in town.”
Her chin shot up at a stubborn angle. Her spine became ramrod straight. “This is our home. I told you how important it is for these children not to be uprooted again. They love this secluded valley as much as I do. Flora gets plenty of exercise and fresh air. Calvin’s gimpy leg gets stronger with each passing day. His limp isn’t half as noticeable as it used to be.”
“There’ll be other intruders, Irish. Samuel and Derek don’t know how to handle a pistol or rifle effectively yet. I don’t know how capable you are. I haven’t actually seen you at target practice, just heard you ranting about how you were eager to blow off a few heads for the sport and spite of it.”
“I can usually shoot what I aim at,” she assured him. “If you’re concerned, then you can teach the boys to shoot properly before you leave.”
“It would still be safer for you in town,” he contended.
“And you’d be healthier if you found a nice, safe occupation that didn’t involve outlaws using you for target practice,” she sassed him.
“Damn it, I have the future of an entire Apache nation resting on my shoulders, not to mention a load of guilt weighing down my conscience. I took this position in law enforcement so I’d have the legal authority and opportunity to change public opinion and protect the Indians. I have to ensure they aren’t swindled out of more land and resources. Furthermore, I’m pretty certain the outlaws I was chasing when I was shot are the ones that disguise themselves as Indians when they hold up stages, freight offices and ranches. Jacob Shore, my supervisor, believes they’re a band of renegade Apaches on the loose, but that’s not true.”
“Only one renegade Apache,” she mused aloud. “The one who shot you.”
He nodded curtly. “And that particular Apache happens to be Gray Eagle’s true son.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize how difficult the encounter was for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m between the devil and the deep. Raven is so desperate for freedom that he hooked up with ruthless cutthroats. Gray Eagle wants me to sneak him back to the reservation before he gets arrested—or worse.”
Tara, apparently, had been struck by a delayed reaction. Her luminous eyes widened and she gaped at him. “It was your adopted brother who shot you? I know for a fact that you had ample opportunity and just cause to shoot him. But you wouldn’t fire at him, would you? He obviously doesn’t abide by your code of honor.”
John reflexively defended Raven, since he’d been doing it most of his life. “Raven was left on that hellish reservation while I walked away to freedom. I turned white to save myself. It’s understandable that he’s bitter and resentful. I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t have felt the same, done the same thing, if I’d been in his place.”
Tara slapped both hands on the table and hoisted herself to her feet. “If you can say that, then you don’t know yourself as well as you think you do, John Wolfe. Something tells me you’re making excuses for your adopted brother and he isn’t half the man you are.”
“You don’t know Raven,” he said, and scowled. “You don’t understand what captivity can do to a man who’s born to roam without restriction and boundaries.”
“Fine, you go round up Raven and sneak him back to San Carlos. In the meantime I’ll be here defending my canyon,” she said as she scooped up the plates and silverware.
“Your canyon?” John bolted to his feet, ignoring the pain in his thigh, focusing instead on the pain in the ass that went by the name of Tara Flannigan. “Pardon me, Irish, but this place was Apache sacred ground before you jumped this claim and set up housekeeping.”
The comment must’ve taken the wind from her sails because her gaze plunged to her booted feet. John should’ve shut his trap, but deeply embedded frustration had taken hold of his tongue. “You have no idea what it’s like to have your food supply slaughtered, your land invaded, your clan massacred for the sake of white man’s greed for material possessions. You don’t know how it feels to have the truth twisted so that your people constantly look like villains. There’s plenty of publicity about violence committed by Indians, but no one’s interested in hearing the other side of the story. No one bothers to mention what provoked the acts of retaliation or the injury, thievery and manipulation against them.
“Indians were once inclined to be hospitable to whites, but that was blotted out by white treachery. Stories of the white man’s ingratitude and conniving have been passed down through generations of Indian children. Tribes were reduced to using their own brand of deceit against whites and relying on cunning against overpowering weapons. It’s the whites who provoked Indians to retaliate. Whites are now regarded as our natural enemy because of the bloody history between us.”
John sucked in a quick breath and kept ranting. “Can you even begin to imagine how it feels to be surrounded by soldiers and herded like cattle into a camp sitting on barren land that no one else wants? How’d you like to be told the godforsaken reservation is where you’ll live out the rest of your life? Do you know what it’s like to be surrounded by armed guards that have orders to shoot to kill if they think you have the slightest inclination of sneaking away?
“Do you have any idea how many Apache have been shot for sport, only to discover that the soldiers involved in the killings lied to their superiors and were believed, even when Apache witnesses supplied entirely different versions of the incidents?”
Tara’s gaze locked and clashed with his. “No, but is it anything remotely like being left alone in the world, dropped at an orphanage where you’re treated like an extra mouth to feed, another body to clothe? Is it like being herded onto a train, without being told the purpose or destination, then being passed over at one whistle stop after another, until you’re delivered into the clutches of a demented man who tries to chain you to his bed and—”
Her voice broke. John stood there helplessly watching Tara battle her living nightmare. Color suffused her face and tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks. She clutched the dirty dishes to prevent herself from dropping them and having them shatter in pieces—like her unsettled emotions.
“I’m sorry, Irish,” he murmured apologetically.
“I’m sorry, too, for all that’s unfair and unjust in this world. But it doesn’t change my determination to stay in this valley until the children are raised. I can’t risk living in a town where too many people ask too many questions about how we came to be a family.
“We are not your responsibility, John,” she reminded him tersely. “You have enough on your plate without fretting about us. Now please go outside and do your ceremonial dance, or whatever it is that you Apache warriors do at dusk. I have a kitchen to clean and I’d like to do it alone!”
John stalked outside, pulled up short on the porch, then dragged in a deep, steadying breath. Why, he wondered, was he the only one who caught the sharp edge of that Irish termagant’s tongue? The children thought she stood in line for sainthood, what with all her patience, understanding and reassuring smiles. Clearly, there was more than one side to that woman’s personality. Having seen her in action this afternoon, having argued and debated with her on several occasions, John realized he’d met his match when it came to headstrong, willful and stubborn.
Correction, he thought as he stalked off the porch to intercept the two children who were walking sheep. Tara held the world title for stubborn. John had only thought he knew the meaning of the word before he met and clashed with Tara Flannigan!
Tara’s conscience had been giving her fits after her heated argument with John. She supposed that having her emotions run the gamut during the course of the day had contributed to her testy temper and lousy mood.
Now she lay on her pallet in the barn loft, staring through the window that provided a breeze and a view of twinkling stars, wondering if maybe she should apologize for coming down on John like a ton of rocks. Until today she hadn’t realized what torment he’d suffered when
he’d confronted his blood brother. Considering John’s complicated background, she understood that he’d been forced to take an assignment to track down the one person he never wanted to capture.
Pushing upright, Tara raked her fingers through her wild tangle of hair and stared pensively at the ladder. She couldn’t fall asleep knowing John was irritated with her—and with good reason. She couldn’t leave for town in the morning knowing there were things she needed to say to him in private.
Resolved to offer a sincere apology and form a truce, she descended the ladder. She walked barefoot from the barn and circled to the bedroom window so she wouldn’t disturb the sleeping children. She inched open the window, then eased a hip over the sill—and suddenly found herself yanked sideways so fast her head spun like a carousel. She flinched when she felt a steel blade pressed threateningly against her throat.
“It’s only me,” she peeped.
“Damnation, Irish,” John growled as he set her on her feet. “Next time you decide to sneak in a window after dark, announce yourself first.”
She should’ve known a man with John Wolfe’s uncanny instincts slept with one eye open and both ears alert to approaching trouble.
“Why the hell are you here?” he asked as he tossed the dagger aside.
Moonlight filtered through the window, spotlighting the skimpy loincloth he wore for sleeping. Quickly, Tara jerked her gaze back to his face. “I came to apologize,” she murmured, trying very hard not to become distracted by the arousing sight of his bare chest and muscular thighs. It wasn’t as easy as she hoped. Masculinity radiated from him, heightening her awareness. That she did not need!
“You’re forgiven. What are you apologizing for?”
He retreated into the shadows. She silently thanked him for that. She couldn’t keep her wits about her when she was ogling his magnificent body.
“It hasn’t been a particularly good day,” she said for starters. “The incident at the springs sort of stirred up memories I prefer not to revisit. Then, when we argued, I got a little snippy and defensive.”
