A Wolf in the Desert

by BJ James

  Thousands, Patience thought, but she wouldn’t ask. Questions elicited terse one-word answers. He’d volunteered much more. By biding her time, perhaps he would volunteer again. “I have one,” she heard herself saying. “How did you do this, the camp? When?”

  “Part was done before you came, the rest while you were at the pool. It was simply a matter of bringing the saddlebags from our site outside the canyon.”

  “The clothing?”

  “The leather will be protection in high country.”

  “You just happened to be passing a shop today on another of the Wolves’ mysterious rides, saw them, and bought them?”

  “I went looking for them, because I knew you would need them.”

  A frisson of pleasure drifted through her at this oblique admission of concern. “Why the soap? And why this?” She stroked a gleaming sleeve. “Why do I need another blouse?”

  “The soap reminded me of the fragrance you wore the night I first saw you. The blouse is token replacement for the blouses I wouldn’t let you bring when we left your car. Call it a small salve for my conscience.” He set his cup aside, his gaze across the fire reflecting only its undulating dance, he conceded the truth. “I chose the blouse because nothing matches your eyes as perfectly.”

  Patience shied away from the tenderness she heard in him. Denying the ache it kindled deep inside her, she began to gather up tin plates and utensils. “I’ll scrub these in the stream and pack them back in the saddlebags.”

  She left him then without daring a backward glance. At the stream, with the light of a full moon to guide her, she crossed a cluster of stones. At a small sandbar, she knelt to scrub the juices of roasted quail from tin plates. She moved by habit, distracted by her thoughts of Indian. When her task was finished and she turned to go, distraction made her careless. Her bare foot skidded over a slippery rock, sending her tumbling in a froth of water and a clatter of tin.

  Before the echo of her short-lived cry faded, Indian was racing through the trees, leaping over rocks, and splashing through shallow water to reach her. She was trying to rise, when the pressure of his hold at her shoulders stopped her.

  “Lie still,” he commanded, and his voice was harsh with worry.

  A little dazed by her fall, Patience blinked and struggled to take stock. Her neck hurt from the jolt of her fall, but her head was still on. The fingers of her right hand were half-numb and tingling from banging her elbow. She wondered hazily why that very sensitive nerve was called the funny bone, when there was nothing funny about it. Neck and elbow aside, she decided she would be fine were it not for her toe.

  As pain from her fall diminished in other parts of her body, it coalesced and centered in her right great toe. But she couldn’t worry about herself now. “The dishes! I lost the dishes in the stream.”

  As she struggled to rise, his grip at her shoulder tightened. “I said, be still.”

  “The dishes! They’ll be washed away.”

  “Dammit, O’Hara, I don’t give a damn if they end up in China. So, be still,” he snarled.

  Patience blinked and focused on him. He was so close she could see the muscles in his cheek protesting the clench of his teeth. “You said damn,” she murmured. “You only say that when you’re angry. Twice must mean you’re very angry with me.”

  “I am very angry, but not with you,” he retorted as he buried his fingers in her hair searching for the telltale swelling of head injury. Finding none, he asked, “Does you neck hurt? Your back?” With each negative shake of her head his worry eased only a bit. “Can you sit up?”

  “Of course I can sit up,” she insisted. “And I would if you’d stop hovering like a mother hen.” Proving her point, she pushed against his hold and levered herself upright.

  “Not so fast,” he cautioned, and continued his deliberate inspection. With a finger at her chin, he turned her face cautiously, first right then left. Nothing. He sighed in relief. “At least you won’t have a black eye tomorrow.”

  “I told you I’m all right.” She tried to ignore the sudden rush of her pulse, sought to cloak the shiver of delight his touch ignited in indignation. “I would be just fine and dandy if it weren’t for my...” She caught her breath as his hands moved expertly over her ribs, the heel of his hand brushing against the fullness of the undercurve of her breasts. She lost her train of thought and began again. “I would be wonderful if...”

  He’d turned his attention to her legs. Competent hands skimmed from her thighs to the long bones of her shins, to her ankles. He was so completely absorbed in his inspection, she was sure he hadn’t heard her babbling, and was grateful he hadn’t. It was enough that she’d fallen like a clumsy tenderfoot, but babbling like a smitten teenager added insult to injury.

  Her gratitude was not to be long lived, as he crouched at her feet, lifting his head to look up at her. The moon showered silver light over him, carving his face in handsome shadowed plains and setting his hair aflame with blue-black luster. His gaze was steady, unfathomable in the dark. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “You would be fine and dandy, and wonderful if it weren’t for...” He lifted a brow and waited for Patience to fill in the blank.

  “My foot,” she prattled, because he was holding her foot, because every sensation she’d ever known or expected to know was suddenly seated there.

  “Here?” He brushed a finger over the arch of her instep, and an incredible shock of desire rocketed through her.

  “No.” She tried to deny what he made her feel. Then again, as futilely, “No.”

  “Then here?” He turned his attention to the other foot, cradling the instep in his palm. His thumb massaged the highest point of the arch that always seemed slightly sore and sensitive.

  Patience shuddered as pleasure laced with a twinge of pain poured through her like wildfire. Biting her lip, she fought to hold back a groan.

  Indian looked up sharply. “Does this hurt?”

  “Yes. No!” In a thrashing move that tossed her hair from her face, she wondered what was happening to her. In a rush, she blurted, “It’s my toe.”

  “This toe?”

  “Yes.”

  He was instant concern, searching for swelling or a bloodied nail. “Did you stub it on a stone? Or sprain it in your fall?”

  A blush flooded her cheeks and burned her throat. She was thankful he couldn’t see it. “Actually,” she admitted, her voice little above a whisper, “I dropped a plate on it.”

  Indian’s soothing hands grew still. “You did what?”

  “You heard me.” She tried to pull her foot from his grasp, but he wouldn’t allow it. His grin was wicked, the mischief in it prodding her to admit what she hadn’t intended to admit again. “All right! I dropped a plate on my stupid toe. There—” she waved a hand, dismissing her humiliation “—are you satisfied?”

  His laughter was like a nighthawk on the wing, rising swiftly and strongly, then disappearing abruptly. The remnants still lingered in his voice as he whispered, “You’re one of a kind, my love.”

  It was just a phrase. She told herself that it meant no more than terms like “old friend,” “good buddy,” or even “dear heart.” It was just a phrase, a cliché. Her mind understood, but her heart did not. And when he bent to kiss her instep, that most sensitive part of her foot, she knew she was lost.

  “Indian?”

  “Shh.” He came to her, caressing the plane of her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I know.”

  He searched her face, seeking assurance for what he already knew. When she lifted her head, her full lips inviting, he groaned and took her in his arms. His kiss was swift and hard, for the night was short, and his hunger too great, too impatient. Gathering her close he lifted her from the rocks and turned toward shore.

  “I’m soaked,” Patience protested. “I’ll get you wet.”

  “I’ve been wet before.” His burden light in his arms, he crossed to the trees and the flicker of their camp fire through their leaves became a b
eacon.

  “Wet leather can’t be very comfortable.” She was babbling like an idiot.

  “In another minute, you won’t be wearing leather, wet or dry.” He set her on her feet by the fire. Without touching her, he looked fiercely down at her. “I intend to make love to you, O’Hara. If it isn’t what you want, tell me now, before it’s too late.”

  She wanted to refute desire, and the madness of it but she couldn’t. In this place of ancient truths, she couldn’t deny her own. “You already know, don’t you?” Her voice was level, suddenly serene in accepting. “You’ve known for a long time.”

  “I want to hear you say it. I need to hear you say you want me.”

  Patience wished it were so uncomplicated that it was simply a matter of wanting, of lust. She wished she hadn’t fallen in love so improbably with a nameless man, a stranger. But she did love him, and there was nothing that could change it. No way she could deny him.

  Even trembling in dread for the payment of pain this night would surely levy, she couldn’t deny him. “Love me, Indian.” She stroked his cheek, letting her fingertips trail over his lips. “Make love to me, with me, here where we have no past, and after tomorrow, no future. Love me.”

  There were no words as he swept her to him. No promises, no lies as his mouth raked over hers. But there was truth in desire and passion. Silent Indian, was silent still, as he undressed her. Slipping buttons from wet silk was no chore for his sure fingers. Only his hands caressing her naked breasts expressed his pleasure. Only his tongue curling around a sun-burnished nipple, drawing it to an exquisite bud with his suckling, told of his delight.

  Even when she writhed against him and pulled his head closer to her breast wanting more, demanding more, he was silent. When he backed a step away, and she reeled from the loss, he gathered her hands in his, lifting them to his lips. Patience hadn’t known that her palms could be so responsive, nor that black eyes watching fiercely what each kiss and each stroke of his tongue did to her, could be so arousing. Her need was exquisite now, consuming. When she thought she could stand no more, that nothing could ever match the pleasure spiraling through her, he moved away again and, with an expert shrug, his tunic, and then his trousers, were falling in the dirt.

  When he knelt to pull the last of her wet clothing from her, his lips were warm and soft as they traveled the path of each new revelation. When the leather was kicked away, when there was nothing but the light of the fire to clothe them, he stood, drinking in the sight of her.

  With a hand at her hip, he pulled her against him. Molding her to him, he caressed her with the mere touch of his body. Tamping back his desires, he soothed her with his touch and began all over again the delicious, delightful passages of seduction.

  There were inches of glowing skin he hadn’t tasted, curves and hollows he hadn’t caressed, and kisses he hadn’t stolen. He had a lifetime of discoveries to make in a single night, but he wouldn’t hurry.

  With a sweep of his hands he measured the delicate narrow of her waist, his fingers rippled over ridges of her ribs, and curled at the edges of her breasts. Her skin was honey brown with tints of rose. Coloring rare with hair so richly auburn, yet its perfect complement. And with the added blush of the sun, so much like his own in paler hues. As he bent to suckle at a breast that bore no marks of shielding clothing, he wondered if it were a gift of the spirits that the woman he had chosen, the woman he would have, could tolerate the harshest force of his land.

  The woman he had chosen. The woman he would have. The words rang like a litany in his mind. With her sigh whispering in his ear, he blazed a trail from her breast to her throat, tallying the erratic cadence of her heart with his lips pressed to the fragrant hollow. Her hair cascaded over him, a gossamer web, seducing him, drawing him to explore the face it framed. Her features were refined and delicate, but with a subtle strength. Good bones, with angular cheeks and contouring hollows, promised lasting beauty. Her eyes were vivid and dreamy, and he could lose himself in them. But it was her mouth that enchanted him. Her mouth he must have.

  His kisses were lazy and teasing, his tongue rough velvet as she opened to him. Desire smoldered, and flared, building with each kiss. She was sultry wine to be sipped, and joy to be savored. Slowly his kisses deepened, the touch of his roving hands became more sensual, more demanding. Passions soared and gentleness fled. But gentleness was no longer what Patience needed, nor Indian wanted.

  The time for gentleness had long passed when he pulled her down with him to her bed of blanket-covered leaves. Lying over her, his mouth continued its yearning assault, roaming feverishly over her, tasting, learning. Giving indescribable pleasure. Taking it.

  As her breath came in long, gasping shudders, and her mouth was ravenous for his, Indian pulled away to feast his eyes on the beautiful wanton he had created. She was his woman, if only for the night.

  When she reached for him, he kissed her harder, deeper. Brushing the unruly tumble of bangs again from her eyes, he stared into smoldering green pools, and with a voice husky with passion that would wait no longer, he spoke at last.

  His caress found her breast, and the strong, rhythm pounding beneath it. “Brave heart,” he murmured. “Dear heart.”

  Then they were one flesh, one need, one desire as her breasts cushioned him and her thighs parted to receive him. When her body arched to accept his more completely, he met her fierce demands, seeking to ease the sweet torment that spiraled higher and higher, sweeter and sweeter. With a driving rhythm he plunged harder and deeper within her, taking her with him to the edge of a trembling precipice. When the building storm broke at last, and release washed over them, seething, rising, ebbing, rising again, a savage cry of triumph tore from his throat.

  Patience answered, giving strength for strength and passion for passion, calling the only name she knew. “Indian.”

  As flames from their campfire cast dancing shadows over canyon walls, and spirits of a lost and ancient people looked down, he took from Patience the gift of love and gave back the power of life and death.

  “My name is Matthew,” he murmured into the wild tangle of her hair as he pulled her down to his quiet embrace. “Matthew Winter Sky.”

  Eight

  As evening came early to the canyon, morning came late. Fading darkness lingered in folds of deep purple and washes of delicate gray, when Patience stirred, stretching languorously, waking in delicious increments. Drowsy, lashes heavy on her cheeks, she breathed the perfumes of night-blooming flowers and wood smoke drifting on the wing of a ground-sweeping breeze. With them blended the spicy bouquet of grasses that made her bed. And on her skin, and in her hair, the clean, unadorned scent of Matthew.

  Snuggling into the yielding gathering of blanketed grass, she reflected lazily on the joys of love and loving. On drifting into sleep, warm, replete, with her lover’s brawny arms around her, his ardent fingers tangled in her hair. And waking to rekindled passion.

  In languid grace she turned, her lashes fluttering, anticipating the first sight of him, her mouth curving, yearning for his kiss. With the delicious agony of desire rising in her, she reached out to him, his name a sigh on her lips. “Matthew.”

  Her seeking hands found only emptiness. No lover slept by her side, no strong arms held her, no wonderfully knowing hands wound in her hair. For an insane moment, Patience thought she’d been drawn into the enchantment of the canyon, creating in her mind a dreamy night of love. A dream lover.

  Adamantly, she rejected the notion. No dream of love could be as perfect, no dream lover as magnificent. Her body wouldn’t bear delightful memories in the ache of every muscle.

  Matthew was no dream.

  Matthew!

  Patience bolted upright, the blanket taken from his bed falling from her shoulders. Clasping it to her breasts, she turned in place slowly, surveying the camp. It seemed much as it had before. The fire burned above a heap of ashes, the dented coffeepot steamed on heated rocks. Fresh green sticks cut for another spit lay on t
he ground. But where was he?

  “Matthew,” she called his name. The only answer given back was the echo.

  Folding the blanket around her, she left her bed to wander toward the stream in search of him. Pausing at the edge of the forest she listened as the rising winds of dawn played a game of tag, tugging at the leaves of the aspen, setting them into a gossipy chatter. Over the eastern rim of the canyon the black curtain of night had given way to a purple haze. Her time in the canyon was almost ended, and with it her time with Matthew.

  Suddenly she was frantic. Every moment was precious, too precious to be apart from him. Spinning, turning, the cloaked canyon becoming a bewildering kaleidoscope, she wondered where to go. Then she was running, certain he would be at the stream.

  Bursting through the trees, her hair streaming wildly at her back, the blanket flapping crazily at her ankle, she halted abruptly. He knelt on the flat plane of a boulder half buried in the sand, lacing a moccasin at his knee.

  “Matthew.” His name was only a whisper on a drawn breath. Verse and chorus of the lilting song that repeated itself over and over in her heart, in her mind, in every memory.

  His task done, he stood with his gaze fixed on the ever-changing sky, a man as one with the solitude of a primordial land. Then, sensing that he was no longer alone, he turned. With a smile and a wave he hailed her from the edge of the stream. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” The greeting was a croak emitted from an arid throat. Her heart was pounding, her knees trembled. She didn’t trust herself to say more as she waited, transfixed, as a much different Matthew loped across the rock-strewn clearing.

  His hair was loose and wet, he wore only breechclout and moccasins. Obviously he’d greeted the dawn with a bath and a swim. As he approached her, his magnificently formed body agleam with clinging droplets of water, she was assailed again by myriad memories, exquisite sensations that could never be dreams. There had been men in her life, good friends and lasting friendships, but never lovers. Watching him now with desire unfolding like petals of a dew-drenched flower welcoming the morning, she wondered if there would be any who could follow him.