Native Wolf

by Glynnis Campbell

  "Is something wrong?"

  Still on his belly, Chase twisted his head to look behind him. Claire stood in the bright glade, her face washed clean, her hair still damp from the creek, and her rabbit fur boots clutched in one hand. Her sheer white garment shifted in the subtle breeze, alternately clinging to her body, then blowing out to reveal her curves in the strong sunlight. He was so astonished by the change in her, so aroused by her beauty in spite of his own sobering dip in the icy creek, that he almost forgot his discomfiture at being caught in this humiliating situation.

  It was humiliating. He was half-Konkow, after all, and the son of a great hunter. But so far, all he had to show for an hour of fishing was a sun-baked back and a fiber line snarled in the bracken.

  "I took a dip, too, downstream," she admitted with a sheepish shrug.

  He nearly choked as an image of her frolicking in the creek without a stitch of clothing on flitted through his mind.

  Concerned furrowed her brow. "Did you hurt your hand?" She set down her slippers and stepped forward, giving him a glimpse of the rounded contours of her breasts as the cotton flattened against her. His breath stuck in his throat, and suddenly he couldn’t recall what she’d just asked him.

  "On the rock," she clarified.

  "The rock," he blankly echoed. Then he scowled, as annoyed by the apparent disappearance of his wits as he was at being caught in a childish display of temper. He shook his head. "No."

  Hell, he hadn’t been able to think straight since morning. The memory of Claire's passionate kiss wouldn't fade from his mind.

  Now that she stood before him in the light of day, as dazzling and glorious as an angel, he felt his body again begin to betray him. His heart quickened, and his whedze, hidden beneath him at the moment, hardened uncomfortably.

  He needed to move. Hoping to conceal the evidence of her effect upon him, he sulkily pushed himself up off the boulder and turned carefully to sit facing diagonally to her, draping his elbow over his raised knees.

  Her gaze dipped to his bare torso at once. She gulped, running a self-conscious hand through her hair.

  The corner of his mouth drifted upward. At least he wasn’t alone in his discomfort. It amused him, this curious fascination she had with his bare chest. White men always wore shirts. Perhaps his was the first chest she’d ever seen. He didn’t know why, but the idea pleased him.

  She licked quickly at her lower lip, pleasing him more. "Have you caught a fish yet?"

  His pleasure dimmed a bit at her question. "Nope." He lowered his gaze, picking a piece of lichen from the rock and tossing it into the creek. "Fishing isn’t easy, you know. It requires time and patience."

  She wiped her hands on her skirts and ventured timidly toward him. "Are you sure there are fish here?"

  "Yep." He resisted adding that it had been years since he'd fished in this manner and that a whole creek full of trout did not ensure he’d catch one.

  Claire peered past him, searching the clear water for herself, and Chase watched her at his leisure. He’d spoken the truth when he’d told her she was beautiful, even if he was more accustomed to the looks of Hupa women with their straight black hair and shining black eyes, skin the color of summer deerhide and bellies round with health. There was something about Claire—her glistening white-gold tresses, her liquid green eyes, the sweet mouth he remembered all too vividly, the captivating combination of outer frailty and inner strength she possessed—that bewitched him and lent her a loveliness all her own.

  "Is that your fishing line?" she asked.

  He followed her gaze. Just below the swirling water, the fiber line waved with the current, taunting him. "It was."

  She scrutinized it more closely. "Mind if I try?"

  He raised a brow. "You? What does a white woman know about fishing?"

  She shrugged. "I’ve been a time or two."

  He grinned, sweeping his arm toward the creek in welcome. He’d seen the way the white men fished, with a coarse line and a steel hook. Claire possessed neither. He wondered what she would do. He rested his chin on the heel of his hand, content to watch.

  He didn’t believe his fishing line could be salvaged, but somehow, after a couple of tries, using a long stick with a twin fork at the end, Claire managed to pull it free of the reeds. It had surprisingly few tangles after all, though the bait had disappeared. Within moments, she had the wet line stretched out along the bank, inspecting the bone sliver to make certain it was secure.

  Satisfied, she set about searching for bait amongst the grass growing by the stream. Using the forked stick, she prodded the soil in several places, digging at the damp ground.

  She found an earthworm, but the way she held it between her thumb and one finger, as far away from herself as possible, it didn’t seem like something she wanted to do. Grimacing in disgust as it squirmed around her finger, she plucked up the fishing line with her other hand. Chase winced along with her as she pierced one end of the worm’s body with a bone sliver. Clamping her lips and working with shuddering haste, she wrapped the worm twice around the bone and attached it in the same fashion to the other end of the sliver.

  Blowing out a relieved breath—the worst was over—she picked up the line and started toward him. "May I?"

  Fascinated with her determination, he hopped up at once, surrendering his place on the rock. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched her stretch out along the rock on her belly. Her gown slipped up, revealing the tender hollow at the back of her knee, and Chase fought a sudden overwhelming urge to touch her there. Then she tugged the fabric down with her free hand, and he forced his eyes and his thoughts to the fishing line dropping into the water.

  As she silently fished and the sun moved across the top of the sky, he observed her with growing satisfaction. It seemed she was no better at the task than he. Perhaps she had more patience, but patience couldn’t force a reluctant fish to sacrifice itself for a man’s supper.

  When he tired of watching her dangle the line, he let his gaze roam lazily over her backside. The cotton clung to her, outlining the sleek length of her legs and the gentle curve of her buttocks. Her petticoat revealed ankles that appeared too delicate for walking, and the sight of her bare toes, twitching contentedly in the sunlight, coaxed a smile from him.

  A curious peace settled over his bones. The warm spring sunlight made him drowsy. The quiet lapping and gurgling of the creek played like a sleeping song in his ears. Soon he found himself leaning back against the trunk of an old sycamore, then sinking onto his haunches to slouch against it, then lowering his head till it rested upon his chest, and finally letting his eyes drift shut.

  Her scream sent him bolting to his feet, his heart pounding like a mallet on an anvil.

  "I got him!" She squatted like a child on the rock. A fat trout flipped on the line she suspended over the water. There was a huge grin on her face.

  The most he could manage while his stomach was still lodged somewhere in his throat from that scream was a weak smile and a nod. He started forward on shaky legs. He would have to disengage the fish for her before she accidentally dropped it back into the water. But just as he got to her, she managed to work the bone free. As if she’d done it a hundred times before, she tossed the flopping trout onto a soft patch of grass.

  He furrowed his brow. How had she managed to land a fish? She was supposed to be a spoiled white woman who ate food out of tins. Fishing was part of his people’s heritage. Brief envy clouded his sunny mood.

  But once he beheld the utter joy on Claire’s face, the happy sparkle of her eyes, he couldn’t help but celebrate with her. He couldn’t help but feel a part of her triumph.

  "You have fished before," he chided, softening his words with a smile.

  "I have," she admitted, grinning coyly. "Your grandmother took me fishing many times along the creek that runs through Paradise."

  Claire looked so pretty when she smiled. He twinkled his eyes in return. "She taught you well."

 
"She taught me a lot." Her smile grew wistful as she straightened out the fishing line. "How to make manzanita cider, how to find yellow jacket nests, how to summon deer." She demonstrated, clicking two fingernails together. "She tried to teach me to make baskets, but I’m afraid my fingers are all thumbs when it comes to weaving."

  He chuckled at her curious comment, and she stopped what she was doing to stare at him.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Your laugh," she marveled. "It sounds so much like..." Then she gave her head a shake. "It’s very nice."

  Claire forced her attention back to the fishing line. His laugh was nice. She hadn’t noticed before, but his cheerful chuckles sounded remarkably similar to his grandmother’s. Of course, it made sense. They were from the same family after all. Claire had just never expected to hear that sound again.

  She wanted to hear more of it. And that wasn't all she wanted more of. Chase might have told her it wasn't the right time or place for kissing, but there would be a right time and place...very soon, if she had her way.

  Until then, she'd have to pursue him the same way she caught fish—with patience and determination.

  "Would you like to try again?" she asked, offering the line to him. She knew how competitive men could be. Frank hated it when she bested him in anything—fishing, riding, chess. She imagined it pricked Chase’s pride that she’d caught the first trout.

  But he shook his head. "The loyawh gave himself to you. It must be your day to fish."

  It was difficult to hide her enthusiasm. In the long weeks since Yoema had fallen ill, Claire had spent very little time outdoors. She’d stayed by the old woman’s bedside, leaving only to gather the herbs, roots, and bark Yoema requested to make her medicines. Claire hadn’t watched a sparrow hatch or bathed in a creek or fished since last year.

  She examined the line. The earthworm was gone. She’d have to dig up another. It was the one part of fishing that repulsed her.

  As she turned to find a digging stick, Chase came up beside her, a wriggling worm between his fingers. Before she could say how-do-you-do, he reached for the fishing line and swiftly skewered the worm onto the bone sliver.

  One side of his mouth quirked up. "You don’t like this part of fishing."

  “No.” She flashed him a grateful grin. "Thank you."

  "I suppose I'll have to clean the fish for you as well," he grumbled in mock disgust.

  "Would you?" She playfully batted her eyelashes.

  He grunted, but amusement crinkled his eyes. With a sigh, he returned to his spot beneath the sycamore to watch her.

  She settled back down onto her stomach atop the boulder, this time tossing the line into the deepest part of the creek. There was a grandfather trout there, she sensed, an ancient fish that had spent many seasons growing to a grand size, a wise fish that lived far beneath the waves, thus far eluding all attempts at capture. But Chase had said it himself—it was her day to fish. Today she’d catch that old grandfather trout.

  After a while, with the sun dazzling the water and the creek gurgling a lullaby, insects hovering lazily by the muddy banks and birds twittering in the brush, Claire almost drifted off as the line floated in the current. Her eyes half closed, she scarcely noticed the first tiny tug on the fiber. The second tug widened her eyes. The third slipped the line through her fingers, and she closed her fist with a gasp.

  Whatever had locked onto the line was strong, bigger than anything she’d ever caught. It yanked against her grip.

  "Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed, holding on with both hands now. Peering into the water, where the line jerked along the surface, she saw a flash of silver curve past. "Oh, my goodness!"

  Because both hands were occupied, she couldn't get up from her belly to her knees to get a better angle on the line.

  Chase came up behind her and let out a toneless whistle. "That's a big fish."

  "It’s a huge fish."

  "Have you got it?"

  "I don’t know."

  "Hold on."

  "I am."

  "It’s a very big fish."

  "I know." She tried to reel the fiber in, but it was impossible to get any leverage with her elbows jammed into the boulder.

  "Do you need...do you want help?"

  "No!" Her heart might be beating against her ribs like a galloping colt, but she had her pride. She wound the line around her hand—once, twice. The fiber seemed so fine, so frail. Then the fish wriggled violently beneath the waves. "No!"

  "Are you sure?" He crouched beside her now, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him rub an anxious hand over his jaw.

  "I’m posi-" The trout wrestled with the line again, and in desperation, Claire began to haul in the fiber, hand over hand.

  "Careful!"

  "I know, I know." She could see the trout’s shimmering body now, battling down and then rising up through the current. The fish was enormous, easily as long as her hand and forearm combined, and powerful. If she had this much trouble controlling it in the water...

  "Slowly." His fists were clenched now, as if he held the line himself.

  The closer to the surface the fish came, the more violent its struggles.

  Chase's voice was tense. "Do you need—"

  "I’ve got him, I’ve got him!" she insisted, though her forearms strained at the fish’s wild thrashing.

  And then, almost as if the wise old trout had planned it all along, at her next strong tug, the fish popped up through the water, high into the air, wrenched its body sideways, and broke the fiber line.

  "No!" she cried.

  Chase bounded from the rock before she finished the word. With a wild, crazed leap, he caught the airborne trout between his hands, hugged it to his chest, and dropped into the creek, fish and all, with a huge splash.

  Chapter 14

  Claire’s mouth was still hanging open when Chase surfaced with the slippery fish flapping against his body and his swarthy face split by a magnificent grin.

  "Got him!" he crowed.

  Victorious laughter spilled out of her like champagne. Chase tossed his head, sending droplets of water scattering from his drenched locks. The sight of his snowy teeth and the dimple in one cheek made her pulse leap like a frisky lamb.

  Then the trout wriggled in a last desperate attempt at freedom, and Chase almost lost him.

  "Throw it on the bank!" she cried, giggling. "Hurry!"

  He heaved the fish through the air, and it landed beside its now silent brother in the grass, where it flopped in exhaustion, surrendering the battle.

  Chase ran both hands through his wet curls and laughed again, that laugh so like his grandmother’s. "I think the Great Spirit amuses himself at my expense."

  Breathless with delight, Claire stacked her fists and rested her chin atop them. "I think you deserve to eat that entire fish yourself."

  "No," he countered. "Grandfather Trout came to you."

  "But you sacrificed far more for him. Your comfort..." She bit back a smile. "Your dignity..."

  He swatted playfully across the water, splashing her. She squealed and scampered back from the creek’s edge.

  He emerged from the stream then, and all the cockiness went out of Claire’s grin. Something about the way his wet trousers clung to him, the slow drip of water from his fingertips, and his sensual, lazy stride chased all reason from her mind.

  He stood before her, brushing the water from his thighs for several moments before she realized she was staring at him.

  "I look like a half-drowned wildcat," he said.

  "No," she protested, her voice ragged, her heart pounding. "You look..." She swallowed. He looked breathtakingly handsome.

  He peered up at her through a wayward lock of hair. "Like a completely drowned wildcat?" he guessed.

  "No."

  She watched as he stomped the water from his leather boots, then knelt to loosen his bootlaces.

  "My sisters say I look like my spirit animal, kilnadil, an ugly old wolf."

  She knit
ted her brows. Surely nobody said that.

  "Sullen," he grunted, tugging off his boot. "And savage."

  She caught her lip between her teeth. Two days ago, she might have agreed, but not now. "No. I was going to say you look..." Her pulse rushed, just as it did when she was about to do something scandalous, like cracking open a new dime novel or cursing out loud. "Lovely."

  She didn’t know why she’d blurted that out. It was brazen and careless, and completely inappropriate. He’d stiffened and now sat staring at the toe of his boot. What a ninny she was, spilling her innermost thoughts that way. Lovely? Men didn’t want to be lovely. Handsome perhaps, or dashing, but not lovely. Daniel Boone and Kit Carson weren't lovely. She lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

  He resumed untying the second boot. "I think maybe you wouldn't say so if I'd dropped your fish," he teased.

  She glanced up. The shadow of a grin lurked at the corner of his mouth, inviting her to smile as well. "You may be right," she admitted.

  He snorted. The boot came off with a sucking sound, followed shortly by wet gray socks he tossed over the branches of a bush. He flexed his bare toes in the sunlight. Lord, even the man’s feet were lovely.

  She tore her gaze away and tried to think up some inane tidbit of conversation, lest he discover the unruly direction of her thoughts.

  "How many sisters do you have?" she managed.

  He unfastened his waterlogged deerskin pouch, then strewed its contents, tools mostly, out to dry in a sunny patch of earth. "Six."

  "Six?" She leaned back against the trunk of a golden oak. "I always wanted a sister," she confessed.

  "They’re bothersome." Despite his words, there was a fond smile on his face as he hung the pouch on the lowest fork of the oak.

  "You look after them, of course," she chided.

  He shrugged. "Someone has to keep them out of trouble." He drew his knife, setting it on the great boulder before he stretched out on his back to dry in the sun. The menacing glint of steel seemed to underscore his words.

  She dug into the leaf mulch with one toe. "I have no brother to look out for me. I suppose that’s why I’m always in such trouble."