Call of the White Wolf

by Carol Finch

  “John?” Tara whispered as she trailed her index finger over the muscled curve of his shoulder and the contours of his back.

  “Mmm.” It was the best he could do at the moment, for speaking demanded an astonishing amount of effort.

  “I was wondering…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What, Irish?” he managed to murmur—just barely.

  “If we only have this one night together, would you mind terribly if we did that again?”

  He wanted to laugh—or scream; he wasn’t sure which. He was still drifting on a sea of pleasure and contentment, and he wasn’t certain he had the strength to move, much less repeat such an incredible performance.

  She must’ve taken his silence for rejection, because she went very still, her self-confidence wavering. There wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d allow her to think she hadn’t satisfied him in every way imaginable, but he needed a moment to recover from the most heart-shattering, mind-boggling, devastating interlude of passion he’d ever experienced in his life.

  “Men, er, need a little time to recover,” he told her awkwardly.

  “They do? How much time?”

  Her hand glided lightly up and down his rib cage. When her adventurous caress circled around to the small of his back, then swept over his buttocks, desire, like a phoenix rising from its ashes, burgeoned inside him. Amazing! Her tender touch worked magic on his spent body.

  John levered onto his elbows to stare into her pixielike face. She must’ve felt him grow hard inside her because a purely feminine look of triumph blossomed there. Grinning devilishly, he ground his hips into hers. Her eyes shot open wide, then she broke into an elfish grin that turned his overworked heart wrong side out.

  “Know something, Irish?” he growled huskily.

  “What’s that, Marshal?”

  “I don’t think a team of wild horses could drag me away and prevent me from having you again.”

  “Having me?” she repeated, arching a golden brow.

  Uh-oh, he thought. Careless phrasing on his part. Before he could formulate an apology, her hand shifted to graze and stroke his thigh.

  “I was thinking of having you this time. You were going to teach me to please you, remember? We haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

  John wasn’t sure he could survive having those deft little fingers roaming all over him. Plus, it’d be impossible for a man to offer instruction when he wasn’t even breathing. He knew Tara could take his breath away, because he’d narrowly escaped a couple of heart seizures while having her.

  She eased sideways, forcing him to settle beside her. When she curled beside him, her tangled mane of flaming gold hair teased his shoulder, his cheek. She reached over to draw figure eights on his chest with her fingertips, then skimmed her lips over his hair-roughened flesh.

  “Does that arouse you?” she asked.

  Her hand skimmed across the sensitive flesh of his belly. Muscles leaped, then contracted. Desire coiled tightly inside him. “Definitely.” Was that his voice? He sounded like a bleating lamb.

  “And this?” Her fingertips skied over his hip, then traced the muscular column of his thigh. She avoided touching that place where he was most a man, but she ventured close enough to double his heartbeat, alter his breath and arouse him by tormentingly tender degrees.

  “Irish, I—” His voice dried up when her hand curled around his rigid flesh. Erotic sensations rippled through him and a groan rattled in his chest.

  He’d never allowed a woman such intimate liberties, and he was eternally thankful for that. Together he and Tara had explored unfamiliar, uncharted dimensions of passion. It was as if he’d known instinctively when the right moment was upon him, when the right woman, capable of touching every emotion he possessed, had arrived in his life. They were making unforgettable, unrivaled memories together…and if she didn’t stop what she was doing to him, John wasn’t sure if he could restrain the maelstrom of sensations that engulfed him and left him shaking with desperation.

  “Irish, no!” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  “One mustn’t stifle a student who is willing and eager to learn,” she murmured.

  Over and over again she tested his willpower, stroked him, fondled him and came dangerously close to driving him over the brink into mindless oblivion.

  “No more…” he groaned as he roped his arm around her waist, rolled sideways and imprisoned her beneath him. “I swear, Irish,” he wheezed. “You’re going to pay dearly for driving me absolutely crazy with pleasure.”

  When she smiled impishly, his heart stuttered and stalled. She moved provocatively beneath him. “I wanted you to want me as much as I want you.”

  “I’ve wanted you too much since I first laid eyes on you. That’s been my problem, woman. Now, knowing what I’ve denied myself, I can’t seem to get enough of you to compensate for these weeks of maddening need.”

  He lifted her to him, opened her to his gentle invasion, then filled her with his masculine essence and felt himself become her helpless possession. Her body caressed him intimately, welcomed him, and he lost himself in her for another splendorous moment out of time. They became one living, breathing entity—all of what she was and the best of what he could be when he was with her.

  Consumed by the fiery heat of passion, they burned alive in one another’s arms. He clung to her as she clung to him, shaken to the very core by the shattering force of their combined needs. He heard her cry out his name, felt her spasms of pleasure caressing him deeply. Suddenly, he was catapulting into a world of incredible ecstasy with Tara in his arms. He held her to him as shuddering release hammered at him, again and again.

  This time, John couldn’t navigate his way back from dreamlike contentment to consciousness. He drifted off to sleep with Tara tucked possessively in his embrace. In one night he’d compensated for all those years he’d slept lightly, constantly on guard against approaching danger. He was tired of the incessant watchfulness, of the continual alertness, tired of facing constant battle, suffering the effects of excessive heat and bitter-cold temperatures.

  Here was the quiet, serene life that had eluded him. Now that he’d discovered tranquility in its purest, sweetest form, he slept like a child in the cradle of Tara’s body, oblivious to the sounds of the horses shifting in their stalls in the barn below. For once, he knew the meaning of absolute peace, and he floated contentedly on his very own cloud in paradise.

  Tara awoke to the warble of birds and streams of sunlight slanting through the loft window. When she shifted slightly, she felt an unfamiliar twinge between her legs. Without opening her eyes, she smiled, recalling the reason for her discomfort. Well, it hadn’t been discomfort at the time, she recollected. It had been the wildest, sweetest kind of pleasure she’d ever known. She couldn’t believe her total abandon when John had touched her so familiarly, or her brazen eagerness to know him just as intimately. The thought of what he’d done to her, what she’d done to him, what they’d done together, made her face flame with heat.

  “You must be awake, or lost in vivid dreams, for your cheeks to be such a fascinating shade of pink, Irish.”

  At the sound of his husky voice, Tara snapped her eyes open to see John’s handsome face hovering above hers. A grin quirked his lips as he raised a thick brow, then let his gaze roam boldly over her naked body. She felt positively decadent for allowing him to look his fill. Though she blushed profusely, she made no attempt to cover herself. After all, what would be the point of modesty when he’d had those skillful hands and sensuous lips all over her and she’d savored every delirious moment of it?

  “Morning,” she murmured as she reached up to trace his tanned features. “Morning!” Tara bolted upright when she realized she was still lying naked in the hayloft with John. The children would be up and about very soon—if they weren’t already. If she didn’t hightail it to the cabin and crawl through her bedroom window, she’d be discovered!

  John chuckled as she frantically cast
about to locate her gown and slippers. “Looking for this, Irish?” He held the gown on his crooked finger.

  Tara blushed again. “Give me that, you scoundrel. I have to return to the cabin before the children see me!”

  “Oh hell!” John’s teasing smile evaporated in a heartbeat. Hurriedly he tossed her the gown, then groped to find her slippers. “I still haven’t had that chat with the kids about the birds and bees. If—”

  “Zohn Whoof? Are you up there?” Flora shouted from below.

  “Are you ready to build the fence?” Derek called out.

  Tara’s wild-eyed gaze flew to John, who stared at her in horror. His expression would’ve been comical, if not for the threat of being discovered by the passel of children milling around at the bottom of the ladder.

  “Have you seen Tara?” Maureen hollered.

  “Can we come up?” Calvin asked.

  John hitched his thumb toward the small mound of straw in the corner, indicating that Tara, still stark naked, should grab her gown and hide. He snatched up his breeches, thrust out his leg, then scowled when he ended up putting the garment on backward and had to begin again.

  “Give me a minute,” John requested. “I’m not fully dressed.”

  Tara, clutching the gown to her bare breasts, darted toward the corner. She barely had time to hide before she heard feet clomping on the ladder. The children hadn’t waited a full minute before they invaded the loft.

  John was still buttoning his shirt when the troop of children assembled in front of him. He didn’t dare glance toward the mound of hay, for fear he’d draw the children’s attention to Tara’s hiding place. Damn, that was close!

  “You’re up early,” he said lamely.

  “We went to bed early,” Samuel reminded him. “We wanted you to know we’re ready to work on the new fence, soon as we feed the livestock.”

  Good, maybe they’d go away and let him sneak Tara from the loft. “Sounds fine. I’ll meet you in the cabin for breakfast.”

  “We ate already,” Flora informed him. “But we can’t find Tara.”

  Although the children looked concerned, John shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe she walked down to one of the springs for a morning bath.”

  The children accepted his explanation and then closed ranks around him. John sat down to pull on his boots, baffled by the serious expressions on all five faces.

  “We want to talk about the bees,” Flora said as she plunked down on his lap. “You said you’d tell us, Zohn Whoof, but you haven’t yet.”

  John felt heat rising in his cheeks. He gave Flora a fond hug, then set her on her feet. “I remember.”

  No way was he going to get into that while Tara was cowering in the corner! The longer the children remained in the loft, the more likely she would be discovered. And damn it, he’d hoped that by postponing that embarrassing discussion the children would forget about it. Fat chance of that. These little scamps had minds like steel traps.

  “We’ll have that talk while we’re working on the fence,” he promised.

  “You’re sure?” Calvin demanded, intent on pinning him down.

  “Yeah, uh, for sure,” he said, dreading the most awkward conversation of his life.

  Outlaws he could handle unafraid, because he’d spent most of his life training for the necessary skills of battle. But this! John vowed he’d get his thoughts together while gathering supplies and tools. This discussion was going to require plenty of forethought and tact.

  Satisfied that they wouldn’t be put off again, the children wheeled around and descended the ladder to tend to their chores. When they were out of sight, Tara rose from her hiding place, smiling wickedly.

  “Well, shoot, and here I was, ready to hear your detailed lecture on lovemaking, Professor Wolfe.”

  John glared storm clouds at her sunny smile. “This isn’t the least bit funny, damn it.”

  She patted his arm. “There, there, Professor, I’m sure you’ll find the right words. I only wish I could be there for your speech. But then, I’m having a quiet bath at the springs, aren’t I?”

  John playfully swatted her backside as she sauntered past him. “You’re no help, woman, and you should be thanking me for saving you from embarrassment.”

  Tara pivoted, a bewitching smile on her face, then flung her arms around his neck. “Consider yourself properly thanked.”

  When she commenced kissing him, John momentarily forgot everything but the tantalizing scent of her, the addictive taste of her and the arousing feel of her body molded familiarly against his. He’d thought—sincerely hoped, actually—that after the splendorous night of passion they’d shared he would be content.

  Apparently not. At the first touch of her lips, his body reacted instantaneously, intensely. He wondered if he’d ever get enough of this woman—and seriously doubted it because he felt as if he’d suddenly acquired an obsession that could only be appeased by constantly making love to her. That was a dangerous distraction he could ill afford when he left this canyon, John reminded himself. Furthermore, with five children underfoot, there was always the potential risk of an interrupted tryst.

  This morning’s sudden intrusion was evidence of that.

  Tara withdrew, looking as disoriented by their kiss as he felt. She glanced this way and that, and then peered up at him with those luminous eyes that always made him go weak in the knees.

  “How am I going to get out of here without being seen?”

  Good question. He wished he had a sensible answer to go with it. Unfortunately, it was going to take a moment for his rioting body to calm down so he could think straight. He glanced thoughtfully toward the loft window, then focused on the ladder.

  “I’ll help the children with their chores to hurry them along, then we’ll hike off to the new pasture,” he told her. “You can keep a lookout at the loft window. When we’re gone, you can hotfoot it to the house. But I would advise you to show up to help in a half hour so the children don’t get concerned or suspicious.”

  “Brilliant plan, Professor.” She flounced down on the pallet, grinned elfishly, then struck a seductive pose that did not escape his notice.

  John forced himself to walk away without looking back, because seeing her lying there evoked vivid memories of the passion they’d shared—

  He missed a step on the ladder and nearly tumbled from the loft. Damn, he needed to pull himself together—in a hurry.

  When John strode off, he had the unshakable feeling that spending future nights on his pallet would be sheer hell, because he’d envision Tara lying beside him. He was doomed to getting no sleep whatsoever. Not that he’d gotten much anyway, he reminded himself. Before, he’d lain awake, wondering what he was missing.

  Now he knew. Oh, how he knew!

  Chapter Eleven

  John wasted no time in spouting orders and instructions for fence building. He set the older boys to work on digging postholes, and then helped the girls roll out barbed wire. All the while, John marveled at the children’s work ethic. Tara had taught them responsibility, and not even the younger children hesitated to do whatever they could to help.

  This was indeed a family, even if they weren’t blood related. But then, John reminded himself, children were adaptable. He’d been a little older than Calvin when he’d entered the Apache camp. Once there, he’d been given the purification ritual of a bath. His white man’s clothes had been burned, and then he was dressed as one of the tribe.

  True, he’d been ridiculed by the other children, Raven included, but he’d worked hard, learned the Indian way and been accepted. His height, his muscular build and athleticism were praised and put to use. His ability to speak, read and write English made him an asset when dealing with whites. John had come to consider himself Apache, to think like an Apache, to speak the Apache dialect like a native.

  And then the old ways changed. The decreasing population of Apache and increasing number of white invaders forced the tribe to subject themselves to the demands of t
he conquering hordes.

  John had escaped to become white again, while Geronimo, Raven and others like them resisted and continued to battle the odds, just to enjoy a small sense of freedom and to express their resentment. It tormented John no end that he couldn’t do more to ease the plight of the people who’d raised and trained him. Every time he remembered the manipulative treachery whites used to cheat and steal from the Indians, he was incensed.

  “Zohn Whoof, when are we gonna hear about those bees?” Flora asked as she worked diligently at his side.

  John sighed audibly. The embarrassing moment was upon him. He could only hope the speech he’d rehearsed earlier would appease the children’s curiosity and limit their questions, but he held little hope of that. These children lived to ask questions. Especially little Flora, whose method of conversation was incessant questions.

  Apparently he’d lingered too long in thought because Flora nearly burst as she exclaimed, “Maureen said babies come from kissing. Samuel says they come from sleeping in the same bed for a long time. Which is it?”

  John inwardly groaned when five pair of inquisitive eyes targeted him. Hell! This had to be worse than facing a firing squad. “Neither one is true,” he answered, rolling out the wire with fiendish haste. “Kissing and hugging and sleeping in the same bed are grown-up ways of expressing affection for each other with something besides words.” He glanced swiftly at Flora. “I gave you a hug this morning in the loft, half-pint. That hug was my way of saying I like you, without coming out and saying it.”

  So far so good, even if Flora’s blunt question had shot his rehearsed lecture all to hell. He was stumbling through the explanation now and managing to dodge embarrassing pitfalls. For how long he didn’t know. He prayed none of the kids would ask him to get too specific. Otherwise, he was headed for disaster.

  “Kissing is pretty much the same thing,” he continued, then gestured for Samuel to drop the bois d’arc post into the hole.