A Wolf in the Desert

by BJ James

  With a casual shrug of bare, suntanned shoulders, she sought to mask her disquiet with flippant banter. “Are you suggesting this isn’t what every good guest wears to the party given by the man who’s held her captive for nearly a month?” Then, returning stare for stare, with the luxurious scent of perfumed soap blending with the rich fragrances of coffee and food, and with a bed made for her comfort lying at her feet, she mused, “A man too kind and too sensitive to be what he would have her believe.”

  Indian didn’t bother with pretending, or not pretending; he simply ignored her taunt, as he did her banter. A gaze so intense she could feel it touched her face, her lips, her body, lingered at the cleft of her breasts and the curve of her hips. She should have been a comic figure, with her hat perched ridiculously over soaked hair, and boots stopping just short of the edge of the towel. But if he found her comical, his laughter was well hidden in the grim lines of his face and the stillness in his eyes.

  As twilight gathered over the rim of the mesa, and firelight flickered at her feet, with her perceptions heightened by his compelling virility, she was mesmerized by the look of him. Dressed in the soft, clinging leather of a tunic she hadn’t seen before, he was hard and lean, every ounce of superfluous flesh honed from him, leaving only bone, muscle, and sinew. His trousers, like the tunic, were of a lighter fawn-colored leather, the moccasins laced to his knees were shades darker. With feathers and beads falling from the thong in his sleek, black hair, and drifting over a broad shoulder, he was a man stepped from the pages of history.

  A man unlike any she’d ever known.

  A primitive man, with primitive needs, who knew what he wanted and took it. And in this exquisite revelation of the savage need that burned in him, she knew that what he wanted and needed, and meant to have, was Patience O’Hara.

  Her throat was suddenly taut and aching, her heart thundered, pulsing in every part of her. The air was too thin, her body clamored for more as her breasts rose in a ragged breath. Her face paled beneath the blush left by the sun. She was afraid, and not afraid. She wanted to run, she wanted to stay.

  Then he was moving toward her in his long, sure steps, and all she wanted was Indian.

  As he paused only a step away from her, flames from the camp fire leant their brilliance to the dying sun, illuminating the harsh angles of his face. Drops of water like beads of jet glittered in his hair and the clean, unadorned scent of him surrounded her. Without intending it, she lifted a hand to the throbbing pulse at his temple.

  The canteen tumbled to the ground, his hand intercepted hers, closing around her wrist in an iron grip. Tendons ached and veins were obstructed from the force of it. Tomorrow there would be the beginnings of bruises, today there was bewilderment and pain, for herself, for him.

  “You shouldn’t look at me like that.” His voice was grating, with a subtle edge of tenderness. “Not if you want to leave the canyon as you came to it.”

  Patience wanted to deny what he stirred in her, what he made her feel. “You’re a handsome and distinctive man, surely you’re accustomed to women looking at you.”

  “How I look or don’t look has nothing to do with how you look at me. Deny as much as you will, but you know the truth as well as I. I’ve tried not to see it, but it’s there in your eyes in unguarded moments. Even when you struggle against it, it’s there. God help me!” His fingers threatened the very bones of her wrist. “I’ve tried not to see it. Just as you’ve tried not to see it in me.”

  He spun away from her, releasing her so abruptly she reeled with the impact of her freedom. He made no effort to reach for her to steady her. He dared not. “Do you know what it does to me?” Each word was harsh, an accusation. In profile, his face was a chiseled mask, his eyes were closed to shut the sight of her from him. “Can you imagine the guilt, when I see the softness, after all I’ve done to you?”

  “After all you’ve done?” She didn’t stop to think how incongruous it was that she wanted to comfort him. He was her captor, the renegade who took her up on his steed of steel and rode with her into the desert. He was her gentle keeper, who offered days and nights like this to ease the hardships he brought down on her. He was nearly twice her size, and more than twice as strong, and she wanted to take him in her arms and protect him from his guilt. “Recount your sins, Indian. Then tell me, what have you done?”

  “Enough,” he growled tersely. “And today, more than I intended. Almost.” He faced her then, in control again, with the curve of his lips a little too tense, the tendons in his throat too taut from the toll of rigid discipline. He bent to take the brown packet from her bedroll. “If we want to keep it ‘almost,’ for both our sakes, I suggest you change into this.”

  Mutely, not trusting herself to speak, she took the packet from him and started toward the curtaining shelter of the trees.

  “Wait.” Indian caught her arm briefly. “Stay here by the fire. I have some things yet to do.” His lips tilted in a bleak caricature of a smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll be changed long before I’m through.”

  “I won’t worry.”

  Something altered in his face, only a fleeting look, but one painfully vulnerable. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his fingers curled into his palms as he fought a familiar battle. “Maybe you should,” he warned in a troubled voice. “Maybe we both should.”

  Patience only nodded, and folded the package to her breast.

  As quickly as it had come, he shook off his somber mood. “This isn’t the way I meant for our time in the canyon to go. When I come back, we’ll pretend this exchange never happened. We’ll have the kind of evening I wanted for you.”

  He didn’t wait for Patience to respond. Turning on his heel, he moved swiftly past the fire and disappeared into the thick brush that fringed the forested area of the plateau.

  Long after he’d gone, Patience stood as he’d left her, listening to the silence. As twilight drifted into the canyon like falling snow, collecting in dusky increments that would bring the night, she wondered where he went, what duty he’d invented.

  “Where are you, Indian? Where have you gone to ground?” Her words echoed off canyon walls. A lonely sound where once an ancient people had laughed and played and, as she and Indian, simply survived.

  “Indian,” she mused, and listened to his name whispering through the canyon. Indian, always Indian. Was he to ever be the center of her thoughts?

  “No!” The declaration burst from her in rebellion at her weakness. The denial came back to her, defiance dwindling from it at every repetition until it, too, was a tentative whisper. A shiver swept over her as she wondered if the silly little echo could be an omen.

  Turning in place, she looked up at an ever-changing sky, at walls carved by water and aeons, with capricious winds adding their unique design. There was a timelessness here, the wisdom of patience, the serenity of acceptance, as the canyon waited for a people that would not return. Within the walled fortress, a world apart from the narrow confines of convention, the only boundary for hopes and dreams was the golden horizon. And in that limitless freedom, she suspected, lay the quintessence of tranquillity.

  There was comfort in the canyon night. A soft sleepiness that swept away inhibitions and enticed one to contemplation and reverie. Wisdom, serenity, tranquillity, freedom to dream, these were the gifts of the canyon. If there was an answer for the madness that had descended on her, and ease for the yearning deep inside her, Patience sensed she would find it here.

  Fire crackled, sparks spiraled into the dirt at her feet breaking the spell. Realizing it was past time to dress, she extinguished a coal with the toe of her boot and turned her attention to the package and its bow of twine.

  When she folded the paper back, she discovered trousers made of pale, supple leather, fashioned like jeans, but with side seams laced with ribbons of brown leather. There was a vest and a jacket of the same leather, with the same lacings. Practical wear intended, she surmised, for the rugged county that lay in the path t
hey seemed to be taking. But there was nothing practical about the blouse that gleamed like emeralds in the firelight.

  Threading it over the back of her hand, she reveled in the silky luxury of it. She liked her jeans and sturdy shirts; her work as a veterinarian demanded sturdy attire. But there were times when nothing was a better boost for morale than silk. It was her one indulgence, and explained her penchant for the wispy bits of lace worn under her practical clothing. An indulgence that had nothing to do with wishing to be sexy or seductive, it was simply for herself.

  Tossing aside her hat and boots, and then the towel, she slid into the trousers and found them a perfect fit. In all her adventures with her family, she’d worn leather coats and leather vests, and once, a leather shirt, but never leather trousers, and she marveled at their comfort. These skimmed her hips and clung closely to her thighs, yet when she moved she found no restriction. She began to understand a little why leathers were an essential part of a biker’s clothing.

  “How did he know?” she wondered out loud, as she slipped into the blouse. How could he understand the leather would feel all the better with a cushion of silk beneath it? Wryly, as she tucked the shirt in the trousers and buckled the belt she found last of all, she wondered what woman had taught him the secret joys of silk.

  She was still struggling with the belt when Indian halted under a low growing limb of a young aspen. He hadn’t intended his return to be an intrusion, and he meant to turn back, but he hesitated, mesmerized by the enchantingly incongruous picture of Patience, barefoot, in leather and silk, with hair streaming over her shoulders like a dark blaze.

  Nothing in his life had been so erotic as watching her. Scanty clothing could never have been as beguiling, no deliberate seduction as entrancing nor as complete as her innocent pleasure.

  He was no stranger to desire, it had been his constant companion, held carefully in check, for all the weeks he’d kept her. In one nearly disastrous moment lust had virtually shattered the little honor he had left. It had taken every bit of decency and control he could muster to back away from her. And the battle was not yet ended. Desire would not be still. It stirred in him now, licking at imposed constraint, threatening the resolve he brought with him from exile.

  Certain escape was the better part of wisdom, he was backing away again, fleeing from an overwhelming force, when her lilting voice reached out to him.

  “Indian.”

  He paused, leaves of the tree catching in his hair, tangling in it unnoticed. He didn’t speak.

  “Don’t go.” She extended a hand in a palms-up gesture, a mix of apology and entreaty. “Please. I have no right to drive you from your camp.”

  “Our camp,” he corrected, drawing a long, slow breath, feasting his eyes on her. “I said I wouldn’t intrude.”

  “You aren’t, I’ve finished dressing.”

  “Your boots.”

  “Bare feet aren’t exactly indecent, Indian.” She laughed, and the sound drifted to him like a lazy melody.

  Indecent was far from the word he would choose, but he didn’t suggest an alternative. “You look grand, bare feet and all.”

  “Thank you. For the compliment and for these.” She skimmed her hands down silk sleeves to leather-clad hips. “I’ve never had clothing like this.” Her gaze returned to his. “I won’t ask where you got it.”

  “Good.” His voice was caustic with his conflict. “Then I won’t have to lie.”

  “Would you lie to me, Indian?”

  “About some things, yes.”

  “But not all things.”

  “But not all things,” he admitted.

  Patience sighed and raked a hand through her drying hair. “And I suppose it’s up to me to know the difference.”

  “O’Hara?”

  She stopped him with a shake of her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Not here.” When she looked at him again over the fire, her expression was pleasant but unreadable. “No more questions.”

  “None?”

  “Maybe a trivial one or two.”

  “Such as?”

  Patience laughed again, breaking the tension. “Typical Indian, never a word more than necessary.”

  Indian inclined his head at her rebuke.

  “For heaven’s sake! Don’t just keep standing there. If one of us doesn’t see to our dinner soon, it’s going to be a cinder.” She looked down at the spit a little perplexed. “Whatever it is.”

  He laughed then, and even to his ears it was strained. “It’s quail. Several of them, actually. After weeks of canned and dried provisions, I think you’ll like them.”

  “At this point, I’ll like anything. Swimming makes me ravenous.” She sank down by the fire. Sitting with her legs folded, she glanced up at him, inviting him to join her. “From the look of you, you were swimming before.”

  “I left more than a little of the desert in a pool further down the canyon,” he conceded as he sat across from her.

  “You clean up pretty good.” She grinned to herself at the flagrant understatement.

  “Thank you,” he replied gruffly, reaching for the spit. “I think.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Indian set his plate aside and regarded her with honest amusement. “You truly were ravenous.”

  Patience sipped gingerly of coffee left to brew too long. Taking a page from his book, she said simply, “Swimming.”

  “So you said. You like swimming?”

  She set down her cup and tossed her hair from her shoulder before she rested an elbow on her folded knees. “I didn’t, once. For nearly a year I avoided water at all costs. Then I realized what a hindrance it was to my family since so much of our lives are centered around water. We lived by the Chesapeake, and very nearly on it. There were always water sports and fishing. My fear put a terrible restriction on all our lives. Twelve months later, on the anniversary of the day I nearly drowned, I found the courage to return to the same place, and I swam. That day I discovered water could be pleasure again, that it needn’t be the bogeyman hiding in my nightmares.”

  “As simply as that, you came to terms with it?”

  “I was too young to understand then, but I know now I should have gone sooner, to spare my family so much concern. Concern they haven’t conquered yet. Twenty years later, they still hover, seeing to it that I’m not too quiet, or as introspective and uninvolved as I was that year.”

  “When this occurred, you say you were too young to understand. How young is too young?”

  “It was my birthday, I was seven.”

  “What happened?”

  Patience stared into the fire, remembering, reliving a helpless, claustrophobic horror. But the story she told was short, terse sentences, with no maudlin self-pity. “There was a celebration, with the usual games and contests. The small sailboat I was sailing capsized. We always wore the usual protective paraphernalia, but I was tangled in the lines of the sail and couldn’t surface. My brother Kieran and I were racing. He was an impossible distance ahead, or it should have been impossible.” The grimness that had crept over her features dissipated. “But for Kieran nothing is accepted as impossible. He came for me. Kieran came.” A hint of a smile touched her lips, as if she couldn’t say his name too often. “He cut me free.”

  Indian knew then he would like to know this man whose boyhood refusal of the impossible saved this woman who graced his eyes with beauty and his heart with bittersweet longing. “Kieran.” There was abiding respect in the name. “Brother number...”

  Patience couldn’t remember discussing her family with him, and wondered if his question was simply an assumption there were other brothers. “Kieran is brother number two. Devlin is first, after Kieran there’s Tynan, and then Valentina, my sister.”

  “And last, Patience.” Who at eight braved the deep water of the Chesapeake and conquered a year of fear. He wondered again what manner of woman he had claimed for his own here in the desert.

  “My mother regrets the name.
Because I’m different from the rest of the family, she’s convinced she hexed me with it. A boring, placid name decreeing a boring, placid Patience.”

  “I think not. Different, perhaps, but anything but placid.” No man in his right mind would find her boring. But he couldn’t let himself dwell on how he felt. Returning to a safer subject he asked, “What part of the bay does your family come from?”

  “Virginia, not far from Williamsburg.”

  “You grew up there, the five of you?”

  “There and other places.” Before he could follow with another question she clapped her hands together. “No fair! We agreed only trivial questions.”

  “You agreed, dear heart, not I.” The endearment came naturally and seemed right for her teasing mood.

  “Dear heart.” She smiled at him across the fire. “What a lovely expression.”

  “It was my mother’s name for me.” He answered the question in her eyes, the question she’d agreed she wouldn’t ask. “Only my father was Indian, an Apache of the Chiricahua. My mother, Sibella, is French. I lived with them in France until I was seven. An age of change for both of us, it seems. My father was gifted in languages—he served as an attaché at the embassy. When he was killed in a terrorist ambush meant for a visiting Middle East potentate, I came to live with my grandfather on the reservations in Arizona.”

  “Reservations?” The instant she uttered the word, Patience was sorry. She could hardly believe Indian had opened up to her. She didn’t want some foolish interruption to stop him.

  “My grandfather was shaman to his people, the Apache equivalent for medicine man or priest,” he defined for her. “He was Chiricahua, but unique in that he was accepted and revered by all the bands. I lived with him for a time on several reservations.” He took his coffee cup from the ground beside him. “That’s it, my life in a nutshell.” Tossing the last of the black brew into the fire, he watched it rise again as steam. “Any more questions?”