Wolf Dreamer

by Madeline Baker

  WOLF DREAMER

  Madeline Baker

  * * *

  For Luke,

  Because he always comes running to meet me;

  His arms open wide to welcome me;

  A smile on his face.

  Wolf Dreamer Copyright © Madeline Baker 2003, 2017

  Published by Butterfly Kisses Press

  Cover design by Cynthia Lucas

  Prologue

  She stood on the edge of a high mountain meadow, hiding behind a tree, captivated by the sight of a tall copper-skinned man dancing in the cool silver glow of a full moon, his waist-length hair his only covering. He chanted softly as he danced, his voice low, the words foreign to her ears, his steps graceful, elegant, intricate. She had watched him dance before. Always the same steps, always the same chant. He danced for what seemed like hours, untiring, his voice lifted toward heaven in what she was certain was a prayer.

  She watched until her eyelids grew heavy and she sank down to the ground.

  It was then that the mist came, rising from the earth, enveloping the dancer in a sparkling golden-brown haze.

  It was then, between one breath and the next, that the miracle occurred. Copper-hued skin became thick black fur, his body changed, transformed, until the man was gone and in his place stood a huge wolf with golden-brown eyes. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air and then he turned, ever so slowly, toward her hiding place.

  Startled, frightened beyond words, she leaped to her feet and began to run, her heart pounding, her pulse racing.

  He was behind her. She knew it without looking, knew if she dared glance over her shoulder, she would see the wolf chasing her, gaining on her. She ran and ran. Ran until her sides ached, until her legs were weak and she couldn’t run any more. With a sob, she fell face down in the tall grass, her heart roaring like thunder in her ears as she felt the wolf’s hot breath blow across her cheek like the hot breath of a desert wind. She tried to tell herself there was nothing to fear, that wolves did not attack humans, but she knew, deep in her heart, that his teeth would soon rend her flesh.

  She opened her mouth to scream… .

  And that was when she always woke up.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  He watched her as he did every day, drawn to her, to this place, without knowing why. Crouched behind a screen of tangled vines and wild blackberry bushes, he watched the white woman make her way down to the river. Her name was Rebecca Hathaway and she came here each day just before dusk. Sometimes she swam in the slow current, sometimes she just sat on the grassy bank and gazed into the clear water, her expression pensive, often sad.

  He had watched her off and on since she had come here five summers ago as a new bride. He had seen her eyes light with joy as she watched a brown-and-white calf struggle to take its first step, heard her laughter as she danced in the rain, listened to her sing, her voice soft and sweet, as she worked in the vegetable garden that grew behind the house.

  He had watched her belly grow round with child, had listened to her tears when she stood over her husband’s grave. He did not know why the man had died and though it grieved him to see her in tears, he was pleased that she no longer shared her bed or her body with another.

  This evening she had again come down to the river to bathe. A low growl rose in his throat as she stripped off her dress and petticoat and stepped into the water.

  It pleased him to watch her.

  It pained him to watch her.

  The setting sun caressed her skin, making it glow like pale gold. Her eyes were the bright green of new grass in the springtime. Her hair, which was the color of the rich dark red earth of his homeland, caught the fading light, emphasizing the red highlights, turning the long silky strands to burnished copper.

  She reached for the chunk of homemade hard yellow soap and began to wash. The soap smelled of flowers. The lather slid down her arms, down the valley between her breasts. Watching her, he was sorely tempted to join her there in the river, to feel her skin against his own, to lick the drops of water sliding down her slender neck and rounded belly …

  He lifted his head and sniffed the wind, then slowly eased back into the shadows, his nostrils filling with the stink of unwashed bodies.

  Strangers were coming.

  Rebecca’s first warning that she was no longer alone was the jangle of horse harness, a sound she would forever associate with the day her husband had been killed, and with the army deserters who had killed him. Fear rose up within her, hot and swift and overpowering.

  Scrambling out of the water, she grabbed her clothes and ran for the house, her heart pounding with fear. Fear for her own life. Fear for the life of her unborn child.

  She screamed as three men on horseback rode into view, blocking her path.

  Breathless, she stared up at them, covering her nudity as best she could with her crumpled dress and petticoat.

  One of the men crossed his arms on the pommel of his saddle and leaned forward. He leered down at her, exposing a mouthful of crooked yellow teeth.

  The second man nudged his horse up beside her and dragged a hand through her wet hair. He was young, even younger than she was, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes. She thought he might help her, until he smiled. It was a cold, cruel smile.

  The third man laughed as he dismounted. It was a sound filled with menace, not humor. “Told you, I did, that this would be our lucky day.”

  Rebecca shook her head and backed away. “No. Don’t.” She placed her arm over her swollen belly in an age-old gesture of protection. “Please.”

  “I like a woman what says please,” the third man said. He winked at his companions, then reached out to grab her arm.

  With a strangled cry, Rebecca twisted out of his grasp. Throwing her dress and petticoat in his face, she turned and began to run back toward the river. And even as she ran, she knew she would never get away. She heard one of the men shout, heard the sound of running feet behind her as all three men gave chase.

  Please, oh please, oh please …

  The cry echoed silently in her mind as she raced toward the river. A large flat rock jutted out over the deepest part of the water. If she could just make it to the rock … it would all be over. She would hurl herself into the river. Better to drown than be at the mercy of these barbarians.

  I’m sorry, so sorry … Unspoken words, meant for her unborn child.

  She wasn’t going to make it. She could feel the earth vibrate beneath her bare feet as the three men drew closer. Almost, she could feel their breath on her back …

  She screamed as another man burst out of the cover of the trees. They had her surrounded!

  Images planted themselves in her mind—lean copper-hued flesh, long black hair, piercing golden brown eyes.

  In movements that were almost too fast for the eye to follow, he nocked an arrow to his bow and let it fly. Once, twice, and two of the men chasing her were dead. The last man managed to fire his rifle before her rescuer let a third arrow fly. With a sharp cry of pain, the man fell backward to lie motionless in the dirt. For a moment, she stared at the bodies, astonished, as always, at how quickly lives could be snuffed out.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned around to thank the man who had come to her rescue, but he was gone, leaving nothing behind but a faint trail of blood. Had he been wounded? Was he dead, too?

  Conc
ern for his welfare overcame her fear of what she might find and she followed the blood droplets until they disappeared.

  It was only when she turned for home that she remembered that she was naked. Retracing her footsteps, she picked up her dress. She shook out the dirt before slipping it over her head, then stepped into her petticoat, smoothed her skirts, and took a deep breath. She would have to dispose of the bodies. But how? And where?

  Walking up the path to the house, she was surprised to see the horses of the three men gathered in the yard. They had run away when the fighting started; now they were back, standing close together, ears twitching as they watched her.

  Speaking softly, she walked toward them. Her own horse had died not long ago. Taking up the reins of the three horses, she led them into the small corral behind the house. The pen was in need of repair, but it was the only one she had. One of the horses, a pretty little bay with a star on its forehead, nuzzled her arm as she removed the saddle. She stood there a moment, scratching the bay’s ears. It calmed her somehow, and for a few minutes it kept her from thinking of what had almost happened.

  Leading the bay out of the corral, she closed the gate. Going to the bam, she found a shovel and a pair of heavy work gloves. She would bury the bodies in the woods where the dirt was soft, where she could cover the graves with pine needles and deadfall.

  The bay shied at the scent of blood and death, but Rebecca finally coaxed the mare to drag the bodies into the woods, one by one.

  It was dark by the time she managed to dig a grave large enough for all three of the men. She covered the shallow hole with pine needles and branches and rocks, then stood back, her hands resting on her belly. She knew she should offer a prayer for their souls, but she simply couldn’t do it. Rot in hell, she thought. I’ve buried you, and that’s enough.

  Later, lying in her lonely bed, her back and shoulders aching, she wondered what had happened to the mysterious man who had saved her life.

  He crawled toward the river on his hands and knees. His body burned with fever; the bullet lodged in his side throbbed with every movement, every breath. He had tried to remove it with his knife, but to no avail. It was lodged under a rib and he hadn’t been able to pry it out.

  He sighed as he slid into the water. It felt like winter rain against his heated skin. He drank deeply, hoping to cool the fire raging within him, clawed at the shore as his empty belly rebelled and he began to vomit up the cold water.

  He felt a faint vibration in the earth beneath his hands, looked up to see the woman walking toward him. He crawled out of the river, head hanging as he tried to gather his strength to rise, to run, but his legs refused to hold him and he pitched forward, a wave of dizziness sucking him down, down, into darkness …

  Rebecca stared at the man sprawled face down on the riverbank. The early-morning sunlight glistened on his broad back and shoulders and long, long legs. His hair gleamed wetly, a mane of thick black that fell almost to his waist.

  Curious, she took a step forward, and then another. Who was he? What was he doing here? And where were his clothes?

  He groaned softly as she rolled him over. Ribbons of bright crimson oozed from a ragged hole in his side.

  She recognized him instantly. It was the man from her nightmares. The man who had come to her aid the day before.

  His eyelids fluttered open, and she found herself staring into a pair of golden brown eyes clouded with pain.

  “Can you stand up?” she asked. “I can’t lift you.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his gaze unfocused, and then he nodded.

  Rebecca slid her arm under his shoulders and after several false starts, managed to get him to his feet. He swayed unsteadily and then, step by slow step, they walked toward the house. He towered over her. Heat radiated from his skin. She managed to get him inside the door before he collapsed.

  Rebecca stared down at him, watching as blood pooled beneath him, staining the raw plank floor.

  With a sigh, she went into her small kitchen, wondering if she wouldn’t have been better off to leave him where he was. For all she knew, he could be one of the men who had killed her husband. She shook the thought aside. Had he been one of those men, he would not have aided her yesterday.

  She gathered the items she needed, tied an apron around her waist, filled a bowl with water. Moments later, she knelt at his side. Taking a deep breath, she washed the area around the wound, then picked up a slender-bladed knife and began to probe the area.

  At her touch, the man growled low in his throat and began to thrash about.

  “Don’t.” She placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been hurt. I’m trying to help you.”

  His eyes opened at the sound of her voice.

  “It will be all right,” she said soothingly. “Don’t move. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  He continued to thrash about, reminding her of a wild animal trying to bite the hand that wanted only to help.

  Removing the sash from her robe, she drew his hands up over his head, bound his wrists together with the sash and secured them to the leg of the heavy wooden table her husband had made.

  The man stared at her, his eyes narrowed with anger and pain, as she straddled his legs and bent her head to her task.

  Sweat beaded his forehead and chest and his breathing became shallow and rapid, but he didn’t make a sound as she cut the misshapen slug out of his side.

  She blotted the blood with a clean rag, applied a coat of pungent salve to stop the bleeding. She placed a square of cotton cloth over the wound, then bound it in place with a length of soft cloth and tied off the ends. When that was done, she wiped his body with a cool cloth, gave him a cup of warm willowbark tea to help him sleep, then covered him with a thick wool blanket.

  Rising to her feet, she stared down at him, knowing, somehow, that he was going to be a lot of trouble.

  Chapter 2

  He woke slowly, aware of the hard floor beneath him, of the warmth of the scratchy wool blanket that covered his nakedness, of a presence in the room. Heat emanated from the hearth a short distance away; the air was filled with the scent of freshly baked bread.

  He opened his eyes.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Her voice was soft with a slightly husky quality that he found appealing. He searched his mind for the right wasichu word, frustrated when it eluded him. He

  licked his lips, then glanced at the water jar on the table.

  Her gaze followed his. “You want something to drink?”

  He nodded, and she smiled as she poured him a cup of water. Kneeling, she slid her arm

  under his head, lifting him a little as she held the cup to his lips. “Slowly,” she admonished. It was cool and sweet, and he drank it all. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, letting sleep claim him once again.

  When next he woke, it was dark. Sometime during the night, the woman had freed his hands. A single candle lit the room. The woman stood near the hearth, her back to him as she stirred something in a large black kettle.

  His stomach growled loudly and she glanced over her shoulder. Seeing that he was awake, she filled a bowl, then knelt on the floor beside him and offered him a spoonful of the savory broth.

  It pricked his pride that he was too weak to sit up and feed himself.

  She accomplished the task quickly and efficiently. When he had eaten his fill, she examined his wound, nodding as she ran her fingers over his skin.

  “It’s healing,” she remarked. She placed her hand on his brow. “I think your fever has gone down a little.” She regarded him for a long moment. “Do you think you can stand up? I’m sure you would be more comfortable in bed.”

  He nodded, and she helped him to his feet, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the blanket slid over his hips to pool at his feet when he stood up.

  Her room was small, furnished with only a bed and a chest of drawers covered by a lacy cloth. An earthenware vase held a bouquet of dried flowers.

 
She pulled back the covers and helped him lie down on the straw-filled mattress, then drew the covers up over him. “Can I get you anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Rest,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning, I’m sure.”

  The bed was far softer than anything he was accustomed to. The pillow and blankets surrounded him with her scent. He slept and woke and slept again, his dreams hazy and confused.

  The sound of the woman’s footsteps woke him later that night. She placed her hand on his brow, nodded, and moved toward the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

  He watched her leave the room, realizing, too late, that he needed to relieve himself. He tried to ignore it for a moment, then tossed back the rough woolen blankets. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, groaning as the movement renewed the ache in his side.

  He closed his eyes as a wave of nausea swept through him. When it passed, he stood up. Swaying unsteadily, he took a step toward the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  He paused in midstride at the sound of her voice.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she exclaimed, stepping into the room.

  He licked dry lips, searching his mind for the wasichu words. “Me … I … need to …” “You need to what?” She moved up beside him, her gaze searching his. He pointed outside. “Need to …”

  “Oh.”

  He watched a tide of red sweep up her neck and into her face, amused by the fact that, while she did not seem to be affected or offended by his nudity, his need to perform an act of nature made her blush.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  Taking the blanket from the bed, she draped it over his shoulders, then slipped an arm around his waist and helped him outside. A short distance from the back of the house, she left him alone, one hand propped against a tree for balance.

  He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she walked away. Her hair, unbound, fell to her waist in shimmering chestnut waves. In spite of her pregnancy, she was thin. Too thin. When he regained his strength, he would fill her larder with venison.