Spirit of the Wolf

by Vonna Harper

  Thinking she might reappear and be on it if he touched it, he started toward the bed. Something sharp jabbed his right instep. What had happened to the boots?

  Knowing there weren’t any answers, he looked up. A dark, four-legged form blocked the cave entrance.

  “Damn it, not that.”

  A long muzzle opened to reveal countless teeth. He wasn’t sure but thought the wolf—yeah, that’s what it was—had been normal size at first. Now it was massive. Not as large as a horse but nearly twice as big as a mortal wolf. Growling, it started toward him.

  Terrified and fascinated, he held his ground.

  “Welcome,” the wolf said.

  Cat woke with a headache that two cups of coffee did nothing to alleviate. She had two students coming this afternoon, teenage girls looking to improve their roping skills so hopefully they could earn more ribbons at the periodically held local rodeos. She was looking forward to their enthusiasm and willingness to learn. As they’d told her, their parents didn’t have the patience or knowledge. Cat suspected some of the problem was the girls didn’t give their parents enough credit, but as long as they listened to her, which they did, she didn’t care.

  She hadn’t heard from Matt. The local morning news had led with the wolf attack, proof that he’d spread the necessary news. She’d heard from several neighbors eager to rehash what little the reporter had said. Maybe she should have mentioned that she’d seen the dead calf, but that would lead to questions she wasn’t up to answering.

  When she’d first gone outside, it had been cool enough that she’d regretted not wearing a jacket, but giving the horses their morning hay had warmed her. Instead of saddling her newest acquisition, a two-year-old quarter horse gelding with a tendency to shy every time he saw a lasso, she sat on a hay bale and stared at the rocky outcroppings to the north, which were on what had once been Paiute land.

  Other than the occasional hiker, the rimrocks held little appeal, and her one attempt to take a horse there had taught her it wasn’t worth the risk. After the failed horseback ride when she’d discovered that the terrain was even steeper than it had looked from a distance, she’d argued with herself for months. She had no reason to go there. Her boots were hardly made for climbing, and she had more than enough to keep herself busy. Only lizards, spiders, and maybe snakes made their homes there.

  But the former Paiute turf continued to call to her. Why had ancient Native Americans lived there? She could understand scouts staying there so they could keep an eye on strangers, but not building homes. However, the little she’d learned from the local historical society led her to believe the tribe had spent extended periods of time there.

  One spring day last year, she’d gotten up, driven to the end of the road, and, armed with water, granola bars, binoculars, and her cell phone, she’d started up a narrow deer path. She’d climbed and explored for hours. Despite scratches, bug bites, and aching limbs, she’d followed curiosity or instinct or something from one intriguing spot to another. The whole time she was up there, she imagined she was a Paiute woman on a spirit quest. Modern life no longer had a hold on her. She’d become someone ancient and tied to the land, a primitive and trusting human being who believed everything the shaman said about mystical forces such as the sun and moon gods. They ruled Native American life by rewarding righteous behavior and punishing those who didn’t follow The Way.

  She’d never told anyone what she’d found that day.

  Shaken by memories of the eerie time she’d spent in the cave, she scrambled to her feet. Enough with getting hung up with what she didn’t understand and hadn’t shared with anyone. Action time had arrived.

  Still fighting the hold the cave exerted over her whenever she thought about it, she headed toward the horse pasture. She’d lifted her hand to shield her eyes and was looking for the quarter horse gelding when she heard an approaching vehicle.

  Ramming her hands into her back jeans’ pockets, she waited. Told herself it wasn’t Matt and even if it was, she didn’t want to see him.

  Today Matt had on a Western shirt with pearl snaps that hugged his torso before disappearing into old, faded jeans. In deference to the heat—or maybe because he wanted to test her resolve—the shirt was open at the throat down to the fourth button. Dark, curling chest hair challenged her not to touch it. He’d rolled up the sleeves to just above his elbows. Damn those hard-as-hell forearms.

  He held up a flash drive. “You wanted to see the pictures I took.”

  Something about his tone said she’d regret this, but what was she going to do, chicken out when she already knew what she was going to see?

  “You could have e-mailed them to me,” she said.

  “No, I couldn’t. Do you have time?”

  She’d make time. She just hoped she could keep her emotional equilibrium about her. Matt had parked his pickup next to hers in such as way that she’d have to do a lot of maneuvering in order to move her rig. Deliberate?

  “I see you called Fish and Wildlife,” she said over her shoulder as she led the way to her house.

  “And the police. Also some of my neighbors.”

  “I know.” She laughed. “The rumor mill’s on overload today. Did any of the authorities say you shouldn’t have touched anything, give them a chance to look at the carcass?”

  “Sheriff Wilton started to but stopped when I e-mailed him the pictures.”

  Which he hadn’t done when it came to her. Feeling a tension she didn’t want to acknowledge, she opened the front door and stepped inside. In some ways, her place and Matt’s were clones. Both had been built in the 1950s with sitting porches, small living rooms, and kitchens at the rear. Her house’s former owners had done a pretty good job of keeping up the house; the outbuildings and pastures hadn’t much concerned them. In contrast, Santo and Addie had spread their attention equally throughout the property and had built a wing consisting of a bedroom, bath, and office for Matt. She envied him his modern sleeping/work quarters.

  Careful not to look in the direction of the bedroom where she and Matt had sometimes torn at each other on her double bed, she went to the desk and filing cabinets she’d set up in a second bedroom. Her laptop was open on the desk.

  “Good-sized screen,” Matt said, and sat in the office chair.

  As he plugged the flash drive into the USB port, she contemplated planting her butt on the table next to the laptop; however, not only would it be hard to see the monitor from that angle, but also she wasn’t ready to commit to getting that close to him.

  For the first time since their relationship began, he hadn’t touched or tried to touch her. In fact, he barely seemed aware of her, as if watching things load was the only thing on his mind. His fingers looked too big for their task, but she knew what they were capable of. The things he could make her feel.

  Opting for standing behind him and slightly to the side, she looked over his shoulder as the first picture appeared. Even without the sounds and smells that had been part of yesterday, the close-up of the calf’s sightless eyes saddened her. It might help if she placed her hands on Matt’s shoulders, but chances were then she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on what was obviously important to him.

  And to her, too, she amended as the slideshow continued. The seventeen-inch screen allowed for too much detail. Yesterday she’d looked down at what a wolf pack had done to a living creature. Today reality was being played out in close-up.

  “The sheriff said he was satisfied with what I sent him. I haven’t heard back from Fish and Wildlife. They might want more.”

  “They’re not going to get the carcass, are they?” The calf shots were over and had been replaced by telling paw prints visible despite the surrounding weeds. “I mean, Beale buried the calf, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Matt still wasn’t looking at her, and his hands were beneath the table where she couldn’t see them.

  “Then there’s not much point in them going there.” She pointed at the screen. “Besi
des, I’d think that what’s important is learning where the pack is now, not where it was.”

  Matt gave no indication he agreed or disagreed. When he leaned forward a little, she noted the tight tendons at the sides of his neck. Not giving herself time to question what she was doing, she started massaging them. A sigh rolled out of him only to end abruptly as if he regretted letting her know how he reacted.

  Touching him to comfort instead of excite was a new experience. Instead of pressing the heels of her hands against the base of his neck as she would have done in the past, she lightly ran her fingertips into his hair. She tried to keep her touch firm enough that she didn’t risk tickling him.

  “Not a good idea, Cat,” he muttered.

  Instead of heeding him, she leaned into him so the back of his head touched her middle. “I can’t help myself.”

  “The hell you can’t. You know exactly what you do to me.”

  She slid her hands around his neck and touched her thumbs to his windpipe. She’d never try to cut off his ability to breathe. Quite the opposite—feeling him swallow let her tell herself they were sharing something.

  Can we take another run at it? she wanted to say. Put part of yesterday behind us and go back to what’s been good between us. Maybe see if we can reach deeper, touch deeper.

  His long, strong shudder reminded her of a horse about to buck. Confused and a little hurt, she settled her arms by her sides. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “So am I.” He rubbed his forehead, didn’t look back at her. “Here’s where I started placing my hand beside the prints for size comparison.”

  Hating the effort needed to do anything, she blinked and concentrated. After a half-dozen shots, she concluded that wolves of different sizes had been responsible. Matt’s hand was longer than any of the prints. She wasn’t sure about the width, but what struck her was how easily she could distinguish the rear pad from the toes. The claw marks seemed small until she reminded herself that a wolf’s deadliest weapon was its fangs.

  “That’s remarkable,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t think that, but seeing proof of the animal that’s the object of so much controversy in this country thrills me.”

  “Hmm.”

  Touching the mouse, Matt stopped the slideshow.

  “That’s it?” she asked as she again locked onto his unmistakable tension. “I thought you took some out near that sagebrush just before you turned around. Maybe they didn’t turn out.”

  “They did.”

  With his tone warning her to wait, she wrapped her hands around her elbows.

  “Those wolves were walking,” he said. “When they run, their tracks become larger because the foot spreads, elongating the toes and widening the pads.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The chair protesting, he swung around so he now looked up at her. Despite the difference in their height because she was standing, she felt his greater size. His hands gripped the armrest, turning his knuckles white.

  “I did a lot of online research last night. When I wasn’t dreaming.”

  Don’t ask me about the dream, his eyes said, so she didn’t. As long as he kept that to himself, she wouldn’t mention waking drenched in sweat with her hands between her legs and her taut nipples aching.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said lamely. “No matter what they did to your livestock, wolves are fascinating creatures.”

  “Are they?”

  She wasn’t going to get in an argument with him. Neither was she going to give in to the impulse to try to smooth away the new deep lines between his eyes. Maybe he knew what she was thinking and had decided to push her limits, because he closed his hands around her hips and drew her toward him with hands that trembled.

  “What?” Letting go of her elbows, she impulsively gripped his shoulders. Bone and muscle capable of riding a Brahma bull spoke to her and nearly allowed her to dismiss his mood. Then his gaze met hers and she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  “What?” she repeated.

  “The pictures—there’s two more.”

  Going by his tone, she sensed she wouldn’t want to study them, but if Matt could take them, she could study.

  “That’s why you came here, isn’t it? You wanted to watch my reaction to the last ones.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  6

  Instead of prodding Matt to continue, Cat worked her fingers under his shirt. Life and energy and something she couldn’t define met her. Then his hands went to her buttocks, and he pulled her close and nothing else mattered.

  Dragging her attention off his features, she studied the growing bulge between his legs. As if triggered by it, her breasts pressed against her bra—the one that replaced the one he’d destroyed.

  Although he remained sitting, she didn’t trust him. Didn’t know this man with his leathered body and darkening—yes, darkening—eyes.

  She wasn’t going to tell him he was scaring her. A woman who’d weathered high-country winters could stand on her own. However, storms and vulnerable horses weren’t the same as strange wild vibrations from a masculine body.

  Somewhere deep inside was the truth of him, the reason for the recent changes in his personality, an explanation for the dusky shadows seeming to surround him.

  Maybe there was only one way to get to the core.

  The teenage girls she’d agreed to work with wouldn’t be here for several hours, which meant it was just her and Matt until his world interrupted them.

  Hot friction along her thighs drew her attention there. He was rubbing her legs—hadn’t he done the same yesterday? She must have slid even closer because her legs now rested between his with her knees pressing against the chair seat.

  Saying nothing, certainly not asking permission, he unsnapped her jeans. Answering his silence with her own, she dug her nails into his shoulders. Next came her zipper, followed by tugging her jeans over her hips. When she lifted her head from her study of what he was doing, she found herself looking into eyes devoid of emotion.

  Of humanness.

  Take the risk. Wrap yourself around what he offers. And maybe in the doing, understand.

  Exhaustion closed in on her until she lacked the strength to continue holding on to him. Leaving her hands to drape uselessly over his shoulders, she again watched what he was doing. Stray dogs were a fact of ranch life. Some were frightened, others aggressive. She’d been able to approach several, while others ignored her crooning voice and offered food. Matt might get mad if she told him she was comparing him to one of those creatures, but right now he seemed more like them than a man.

  All except for his cock.

  And muscles.

  And the hands gliding over her newly naked flesh.

  “This is what brought you here?” She couldn’t get her voice above a whisper.

  “No.” Despite his closed mouth, she could tell he was clenching his teeth. “I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen.”

  “Not working so well, is it?”

  “You could stop me.”

  “Don’t throw responsibility in my lap,” she snapped. The instant the words were out, she forgave him. Maybe she shouldn’t, but with his hands touching what needed to be touched, did she have a choice?

  Looking down, she noted the contrast between his tanned hands and her pale belly. After that first night with him, she’d debated shaving her pubic hair—something she’d never done before—but it seemed like too much work. Besides, how much more exposed did she dare allow herself to become?

  “Is this to distract me?” she managed. “A way to put off letting me see those last two pictures?”

  “Let? Make is more like it.” When he gave his head a weary shake, she wished she could tell him this wasn’t necessary. She didn’t need to see the shots; there was no need for him to put himself through some emotional wringer she didn’t understand.

  Curiosity and more kept her silent.

  He sighed. “You’re right. I can’t put off
the inevitable. Your safety . . . Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  Safety? “Show me,” she ordered.

  Looking trapped, he swiveled away from her and rested his hand on the mouse. She hooked her thumb over her waistband but didn’t pull it up. As she’d done earlier, she looked over his shoulder.

  If it wasn’t for the layer of dust over the rocks, Matt might have missed the second-to-last paw print. At first there didn’t seem to be anything unusual about it, but as he’d done with earlier shots, Matt had placed his hand next to what a wolf had left behind.

  She couldn’t keep her mouth closed, couldn’t think how to do anything except breathe. Even that took effort.

  “Ready for the last one?”

  His voice had a disembodied quality to it, as if he’d distanced himself from this moment.

  “No. Yes.”

  Color and definition blinked out and were replaced by another paw scene. This time the wolf—wolf?—had stepped on dried grass and flattened it. Matt’s hand, slightly blurred as if he’d been shaking when the picture was taken, was to the track’s left.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she managed. No longer simply holding on to her jeans, she gripped them so tight her fingers protested.

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  Comprehend or not, she couldn’t deny that the last two shots highlighted a wolf print at least twice as large as the earlier ones. Claw marks bit deeper into the ground, and pads left distinct impressions as proof of greater weight. Disbelief and denial warred inside her, but this was no joke, no illusion.

  “Now do you understand why I needed to share this in person?”

  “What . . . what did the sheriff say?”

  “I didn’t send them to him.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Neither have they gone to Fish and Wildlife.”

  She’d been too shocked to pay attention to his tone. Now she was calming down a bit, either that or resigning herself to the unbelievable. There was no emotion in his voice, nothing to indicate his underpinnings had been rocked the way hers had.