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Call Of The White Wolf
Carol Finch


A Gunshot Wound Sent John Wolf Straight To Paradise.Paradise Valley, that is, where an Irish hellcat with the face of an angel had rescued five orphans…and offered him a life that was more than just duty and danger. But would the truth of his past make their future together impossible?More legend than lawman, more man than most, John Wolf was a U.S. Marshal who named himself Apache in his soul. And Tara Flannigan knew from the moment she rescued him that he'd bring trouble–and temptation–to her little patch of heaven on earth!









“You didn’t have to kiss me at the blasted table!” he erupted


“What good would it do to kiss you in private?” she asked reasonably. “That would defeat the whole purpose of letting the boys know my interest lies elsewhere.”

“With that piddly peck on the mouth?” he said, then smirked.

“What was wrong with my kiss?” she demanded, offended.

He swooped down and hoisted her to her feet. Then he bent her over backward and gave her a kiss that was half frustration, half hungry need, half revenge…well, whatever. He couldn’t calculate fractions when his brain shut down the instant he tasted her deeply, felt her supple body pressed intimately against his masculine contours. His heart slammed against his tender ribs when she responded rather than shoving him away—which is what she should’ve done if the damn woman had a lick of sense!




Praise for Carol Finch’s previous titles


Cheyenne Moon

“Excellent! Cheyenne Moon will captivate readers with its exhilarating pace and remarkable characters. Another keeper!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Once Upon A Midnight Moon

“Definitely a great book to curl up with. Unplug the phone, disconnect the doorbell and enjoy!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Promise Me Moonlight

“…should be promise me banter, love, steamy romance and a great read! Buy 2 and lend one to a friend!”

—Heartland Critiques

#591 MY LADY’S TRUST

Julia Justiss

#593 DRAGON’S DOWER

Catherine Archer

#594 GOLD RUSH BRIDE

Debra Lee Brown




Call of the White Wolf

Carol Finch





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CAROL FINCH


Call of the White Wolf #592

Other works include:

Harlequin Duets

Fit To Be Tied #36

A Regular Joe #45

Mr. Predictable #62

Silhouette Special Edition

Not Just Another Cowboy #1242

Soul Mates #1320


This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our children—Christie, Jill, Kurt, Jeff and Jon—with much love. And to our grandchildren—Blake, Kennedy and Brooklynn. Hugs and kisses!




Contents


Chapter One (#ua70c38ff-ca01-5c80-bbec-482f576f3ac8)

Chapter Two (#ua8c5ee6d-7966-574c-8e23-191451dd26fb)

Chapter Three (#u01b06550-2539-55bb-95f5-aef2438b5f18)

Chapter Four (#ub3c13b61-7b4e-571c-9ec0-3f2010ceafe6)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Arizona Territory, 1878

John Wolfe had been dreading this day for two years. No matter how many ways he turned it around in his mind, feelings of guilt and betrayal twisted in his gut like a shot of bad whiskey. He tried to ignore those tormenting emotions while he lay sprawled on a slab of rock, slithering forward like a snake so he could peer over the ledge. But the moment he saw his adopted Apache brother kneeling below him, sipping water from the trickling spring, another wave of guilt and betrayal buffeted him.

When a man was forced to turn against one of his own it made him feel like the worst kind of traitor.

Silently, John unholstered his Colt, then took Raven’s measure down the sight. Dead or alive, John’s commander had told him. Made no nevermind to Jacob Shore. But it mattered to John Wolfe. It mattered a helluva lot. When a man had a foot planted in each of two contrasting civilizations, walking that fine line and trying to pretend indifference was pure hell.

John had taught himself not to feel, not to react and not to care that he was as white as he was Apache. Yet seeing Raven in the valley below was like tearing open a wound that had never really healed, no matter how much he tried to pretend it had.

Well, he was here to do a job, distasteful though it was, and he’d better get at it.

“Don’t move,” John commanded in the Apache dialect.

Raven froze, his cupped hand halfway to his mouth. Water trickled between his fingertips and ran down his bronzed arm. The Apache raised his eyes and squinted into the bright light of sunset to locate John on the outcropping of stone above him.

John knew the exact instant Raven recognized him. Tension sizzled in the evening breeze like lightning. Slowly, Raven rose from his crouch, his body taut, his expression rife with loathing.

“So the white-eyes sent you for me, did they, Brother?” Raven spat derisively. “Ah, but who else could they have sent? Who else knows the Apache’s mind and the Apache’s way better than an Apache turncoat?”

Raven’s words were like an embedded knife twisting in John’s spine. Willfully, he ignored Raven’s mutinous glower and hateful words. He kept the Colt trained on Raven’s heart, wondering if this renegade still had one left after all the crimes he’d committed these past two years.

With an economy of movement that was ingrained and practiced, John contorted his body until he was sitting upright, his booted feet dangling over the ledge. His pistol never wavered from its target on Raven’s heaving chest.

“I’m taking you back to the reservation at San Carlos, Raven,” John told him grimly. “I can drag you by your heels or with your hands in chains. But if you ask me, it is not a good day for you to die.”

“I was dying a torturous death at that pigsty of a reservation,” Raven growled in reply. “But you knew that feeling yourself, didn’t you, Brother? You cut off your braids, stole civilian clothes from the army commissary and sneaked away from the reservation to turn white again. You turned your back on The People, on the clan that took you into its fold to feed you, clothe you and train you to become a mighty Apache warrior.”

Raven’s eyes raked John up and down, with visible distaste. “The brother I knew as White Wolf, adopted son of Chief Gray Eagle and, my adopted brother, has joined the ranks of my hated enemies, just so he can enjoy his own freedom. White Wolf is nothing but a traitor!”

Raven’s harsh words stung like a swarm of wasps, for they were the very words that constantly buzzed in John’s conscience—every waking hour of every livelong day. But John had concealed his identity and sneaked off the reservation—at Chief Gray Eagle’s command. He’d been assigned the duty of battling the whites from within their own society, of becoming a buffer to protect the Apache nation.

It hadn’t been an easy path for John to follow, but Raven would never understand that, refused to listen to any explanation. In Raven’s eyes, White Wolf had sold his soul to the white devils in order to reclaim his freedom.

When Raven’s gaze discreetly darted to the rifle lying at his feet, John cocked the trigger on his pistol. The imminent threat of death hung in the silent dusk. Raven’s pinto mare pricked its ears and lifted its head from the stream, sensing the gravity of the moment.

Raven shifted his gaze from the rifle to John. “Your aim is as true as ever, is it not, White Wolf?”

John inclined his head slightly. “Better.”

“I do not doubt it. The legends you have inspired since you turned white have not been exaggerated, I suppose.”

“No.” It wasn’t a boast; it was the simple truth. But there wasn’t a white man alive who knew the truth about John Wolfe’s background. No one knew how or where he’d honed his impressive skills as a tracker, gunfighter, territorial marshal and oftentimes bounty hunter. The criminals he brought to justice claimed he was some sort of avenging phantom who could disappear into thin air—then reappear. His Apache training contributed to his uncanny ability, constantly tested and perfected as he dealt with the worst vermin preying on society.

Chasing down white criminals and sending them to hell where they belonged didn’t weigh as heavily on John’s conscience as tracking his Apache brother. Raven had foolishly joined up with two army deserters who’d stolen reservation supplies and sold them to settlers and miners in the territory. A worthless white cutthroat and a blood-thirsty Mexican who were wanted for murder and robbery rode with the gang. In order to achieve his freedom, Raven had aligned himself with those ruthless outlaws, all of whom had high prices on their scalps.

John wondered if Raven perceived his own abandonment of the Apache on the reservation as detestable as John’s. Probably not. To Raven’s way of thinking, no crime was quite as unforgivable as an Apache who purposely turned white.

The instant Raven glanced speculatively at his horse—obviously trying to decide if he could use the animal as a shield before a fatal shot was fired—John tossed a pebble off the cliff. The distraction served him well. When Raven reflexively shifted left, John launched himself off the stone ledge, dropped a quick ten feet and landed in a crouch. His Colt was still aimed directly at Raven’s heart.

Raven smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about his expression. “You do not miss a trick, do you, John Wolfe? I remember the day my father taught us that deceptive technique of diverting attention. Do you remember? Or have you purposefully forgotten that you owe everything you are to the Apache who raised you?”

Not one minute of one day went by that John Wolfe didn’t remember who and what he was—a contradiction, a man in torment who walked a path that must surely entail the white man’s concept of a living hell.

“I prefer to take you back alive, Raven,” he murmured as he rose from his haunches. “Gray Eagle also prefers to have his son returned to him in one piece.”

John couldn’t interpret the expression that momentarily settled on Raven’s bronzed features. It vanished as quickly as it came. “Then I have no choice but to return to that hellish place, do I, John Wolfe?”

John told himself not to let his guard down when Raven seemingly accepted his fate. But this, after all, was the adopted brother who had shared his life for almost two decades. They’d grown up in the same wickiup and struggled side by side to become accomplished warriors. They’d survived famine, sickness, war and captivity.

The only difference was that John had been born white and Raven was full-blood Apache. Until this pivotal moment, the differences between them hadn’t mattered to John.

Now it was all that mattered.

“I will go willingly to the reservation if you will use your authority and influence with the white-eyes to reduce my punishment,” Raven offered. “The army deserters and thieves forced me to scout for them. They swore they would kill me if I didn’t join their gang. My craving for freedom was too great, my hatred for reservation life too strong, so I agreed to help them.”

John wasn’t sure if he believed Raven. The circumstances surrounding his escape from the reservation were unclear in the report John had received from his commander at headquarters in Prescott. In his line of work John had heard every excuse imaginable from cornered criminals. He’d learned long ago that a man would lie through his teeth to save his skin.

But this was not just any man. This was Raven.

“You know I’ll do everything I can,” John promised solemnly.

“No chains or cuffs. The soldiers kept me in chains when we were herded to San Carlos.” His lips curled in disdain. “I bear the scars and the memories of their cruel treatment. Do you remember? I was the example to our people.” His voice transformed into a growl. “No chains, John Wolfe. I would prefer to die here and now rather than to be chained up like a dog!”

Hands held high, Raven approached his paint pony, then bounded onto the saddle blanket with the grace and ease of a warrior who had executed the maneuver hundreds of times.

John realized a split second too late that he’d allowed his sentiment for Raven to override his hard and fast rules about dealing with crafty criminals. He saw the glint of steel reflecting sunlight when Raven’s concealed pistol suddenly came into view. Without hesitation the Apache fired straight at John’s chest, then at his left leg. The double impact sent John staggering backward, to collapse in the grass. He didn’t return fire because Gray Eagle’s request to bring Raven back alive still echoed in his mind.

Raven walked his pinto toward his downed enemy. Gloating triumph glittered in his onyx eyes. While John lay there gasping for breath, battling the burning sensations that spread through his thigh and chest, Raven’s goading laughter billowed in the aftermath of violence.

“May you die a slow death for betraying the Apache,” he jeered as he watched the bloody stains spread across John’s shirt. “It seems your white heritage has failed you, John Wolfe, for no white man can outsmart a true Apache.”

Raven walked his pinto over the top of his onetime blood brother. “My father has only one son now,” he sneered down at him. “May you burn in your white man’s hell for your treachery!”

The clatter of hooves hammered in John’s ears as the world tilted sideways, then darkened like the coming of night. John closed his eyes and fought against the wave of nausea that crested over him.

Maybe this was a good day for him to die, he thought. And what better place to find his way to the hereafter than on this sacred ground that had once been part of the Apacheria. The People called this panoramic valley the Canyon of the Sun. Reverent chants were sung to the great spirits who communicated with them on this hallowed ground. In days gone by, sacrifices were laid at the base of the triple stone spires called the Altar of the Gods. The towering pillars of sandstone that rose like gigantic sentinels from the canyon floor were the Earth Mother’s eternal monuments to the omnipotent Apache gods.

With great effort, John opened his eyes once more to stare at the conical stone peaks that rose majestically toward the sun. This valley, three-quarters of a mile wide and more than a mile long, was the most spectacular and awe-inspiring place he’d ever seen in all his treks across the territory. If he had to breathe his last breath here, he figured he could do a lot worse.

Vaguely, John sensed a presence in the near distance and wondered which spirits—white man’s or Apache’s—had been sent to witness his death.

He didn’t know which deity would preside over his personal judgment day. Didn’t really matter, he reckoned. Evil spirits would attend him, because of his betrayal to the tribe that had raised and trained him. Indian or white, evil spirits were probably pretty much the same, he figured. He existed in a realm a few miles this side of hell. He supposed he was destined to spend eternity doing penance for being a white man by birth and an Apache at heart.

John closed his eyes for what he expected to be the final time. To his dying day—and he was positively certain this was it—he wasn’t sure if he was considered white or Apache. He didn’t know which god to pray to, so he didn’t pray at all. He just lay there, struggling to breathe, and wondering how many breaths he had left.

Since John had heard every excuse under the sun, heard the wild claims of innocence from the worst sinners the world had to offer, he decided he’d just keep his mouth shut and not ask for forgiveness or mercy. He was simply going to lie here and die with what little dignity he had left.

Tara Flannigan scrambled down the rock-strewn slopes of the canyon with more speed than caution. Twice she tripped, skidded and skinned both knees. She ignored the discomfort and scurried toward the man who lay sprawled beside the stream, wondering if she’d arrived too late to revive him.

Tara had been drawn to this remote area of the valley by unidentified voices, and she’d hunkered down by a cedar tree to prevent being spotted. Although the white man and Indian had been speaking a foreign tongue, she’d witnessed the tragic results of their confrontation. One man lay dead—or dying—and the other man had picked his way up the narrow trail and thundered off into the gathering darkness.

Grimacing from the pain in her knees, Tara squatted down beside the wounded man. She pressed her hand against his throat and felt a weak pulse. Alive, but not for long, she predicted. Her mediocre lifesaving skills were about to be tested to their very limits.

Hurriedly, she ripped open the man’s shirt, then blinked in surprise when she saw the strange bone-and-metal breastplate that covered his chest. She’d never seen such unusual body armor. It was an odd combination that resembled an Indian war shield and medieval chain mail.

On closer inspection, Tara realized the bullet had ricocheted off a fragment of metal, shattered the bleached bone ornament and become embedded in the man’s rib. Quickly, she ripped off the hem of his dark shirt and pressed it against the seeping wound.

Her gaze dropped to the pulsing wound on his thigh, and she tore the hem from her own tattered shirt to control the bleeding. When she tied the fabric tightly around his leg, the man’s eyes fluttered open momentarily.

Tara’s breath clogged in her throat when eyes so blue that they appeared silver stared up at her. In addition to those spellbinding eyes, with their fan of lashes, the man had a crop of raven hair, a swarthy physique and an incredibly handsome face.

This was, unquestionably, the most attractive man she’d ever encountered. His effect on her was startling. When their gazes met, time screeched to a halt and she got lost in the intensity of his unusual blue eyes.

She was still staring at him in trancelike fascination when he whispered, “An angel. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I only wish I were a miracle-working angel, mister,” she murmured.

When he slipped back into unconsciousness, Tara gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on the grim task at hand. “Angel indeed,” she muttered. “From the look of your wounds, you could use an angel right now.”

Tara glanced this way and that, trying to figure out how to transport this injured man to the farmhouse, when he likely outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. She guessed him to be about six feet three inches—maybe four—of solid muscle. There was no conceivable way for her to drag or lift him. Though she hated to leave him, Tara had no choice but to return to the ranch for help.

She took off like a shot to retrieve the horse she’d tethered in the distance. She rode hell-for-leather through the valley, knowing every second counted. She prayed for all she was worth that the wounded man with hypnotic silver-blue eyes would still be alive and breathing when she returned.

John lifted heavy-lidded eyes to see that lovely face, surrounded by a mass of curly, reddish blond-hair, hovering over him a second time. Now, as before, the light shimmered around her golden head like a glorious halo. When she shifted, the angle of light intensified the color of her hair. It seemed as if the curlicue strands caught fire and burned with amber flames.

Long ago, in a nearly forgotten lifetime, John remembered his white mother telling him that angels were the essence of all that was pure and sweet in heaven. Who would’ve thought heaven was where he’d end up when he had so much blood on his hands and a trainload of guilt weighing down his conscience? With his white man’s soul and his Apache heart, he’d sort of figured he’d be trapped in some eternal way station—or delivered straight to hell because he’d turned out to be a traitor to both civilizations.

While John was contemplating the hereafter, five more heads appeared above him. He studied the three male and two female faces—varying in age, but all younger than his angel of mercy.

“He’s awake.” This from the smallest female cherub with dark, hollow eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair.

“Reckon we must’ve saved him, after all.”

John shifted his attention to the adolescent male face to his right, then frowned dubiously when he realized what the kid had said. He was alive? He thought about that for a moment, then decided the aches and pains that were becoming more intense with each passing moment probably indicated that he did indeed live and breathe—but just barely.

His chest hurt like a son of a bitch. His leg throbbed like hell. Breathing was definitely an effort because pain was shooting through his ribs like an assault of poison darts.

“Medicine pouch,” he wheezed, amazed that it took so much effort to speak.

A befuddled frown settled on his angel of mercy’s enchanting features. “Medicine pouch?” she repeated in such a soft, wispy voice that John sighed at the soothing sound.

“On my belt,” he managed to croak, in a voice that reminded him of a bullfrog.

The six faces hovering over him disappeared momentarily. Murmurs and whispers came from the right and left of him, but John couldn’t muster enough energy to turn his head. He stared at the wooden rafters above him and waited.

“Is this what you’re talking about, mister?”

The angel’s face came into view again. She held the beaded leather pouch in one dainty hand.

“Buttons,” he whispered. Gawd, the pain seemed to be spreading rapidly. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt—and badly.

“Buttons?” she parroted. “In here?”

“Yeah. Three of them.” He hissed in pain when he tried to reach for the pouch. His left arm was killing him.

This woman with cedar green eyes, pert nose and creamy complexion, who had apparently saved his wretched life, rummaged through his pouch, then held the button-shaped objects in front of his eyes. “Do you mean these?”

“Put them in my mouth,” he requested.

She complied. He chewed, swallowed, then choked. “W-ater.”

Scrabbling noises indicated someone had scurried off to fetch a cup of water. Moments later, John felt the tin cup pressed against his lips, and he sipped eagerly. His strength abandoned him abruptly and the pain returned in full force, leaving a barrage of cold chills in its wake. He swore the drink of water was freezing like ice in his bloodless veins.

He waited impatiently for the peyote buttons that the Apache used to override pain to take effect. John definitely needed something to ease the indescribable ache spreading throughout his body.

He wondered where this brood of children who hovered around him had come from, wondered where the hell he was. All he knew was that he was alive—whether that was a blessing or not. It didn’t feel like much of one. Considering the pain and misery he was enduring he figured dying would’ve been a whole helluva lot easier.

When the peyote took welcomed effect, John sank back into the darkness that had become his ever-present companion.

Hours later—days maybe, he wasn’t sure—he heard that quiet, soothing voice calling to him from a long winding tunnel. He felt warm liquid sliding down his throat. He was vaguely aware of gentle hands moving lightly over his chest and thigh, soothing him, consoling him.

It’d been years since he remembered feeling a compassionate touch gliding over his flesh. He was instinctively drawn to the comforting presence. He wanted to open his eyes to see if that angelic face surrounded by red-gold hair was lingering above him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw from that well of beauty, purity and sweetness that seemed so foreign, yet so compelling. But he simply couldn’t find the strength to move. He felt as if lead weights were strapped to each arm and leg, holding him in place. And so he just lay there, helpless and exhausted, wondering if he’d ever find the energy to lever himself into an upright position again.

“Do you think he’ll ever wake up for more than a few minutes, huh?”

Tara Flannigan glanced down into Flora’s small, delicate face. Because Flora was so frail and thin, her eyes looked enormous in contrast to her milky white features. The five-year-old appeared malnourished, though Tara took great pains in preparing meals to put meat on the child’s bones and give her that healthy glow the other children had achieved these past two years.

“Tara?” Flora prompted when Tara lingered too long in thought.

“I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon,” she said as she applied fresh bandages to his mending wounds.

“But it’s been four days,” Flora pointed out.

“I know, sweetheart, but he suffered very serious injuries and it takes time to mend.”

Despite the Good Samaritan tendencies that had compelled her to rescue this man from death’s doorstep, Tara was hounded by mixed feelings. When she searched his pockets, hoping to learn his identity, she’d discovered this man called John Wolfe was a territorial marshal. She’d found several bench warrants stashed in his saddlebag on the piebald stallion that he’d apparently left tethered near the canyon rim before his confrontation with the Apache.

This man was the long arm of the law in Arizona Territory. Although Tara wasn’t sure how long the arm of justice stretched—and she hoped it wasn’t all the way to Texas!—there was a possibility that John Wolfe could make trouble for her and the children when he recovered.

Tara had made too many personal sacrifices, taken several daring risks to reunite the children and to locate this spectacular valley that was as close to paradise as she could get. With a bit of Irish luck and a great deal of willful determination, she had made a home in this secluded canyon. The day she and the children had ridden into the valley to set up housekeeping she swore it would take an act of God to make her move away. For her and the children, this valley was their long-awaited promised land.

Their exodus cross-country hadn’t been an easy one. Tara inwardly winced, remembering the horrifying incident that forced her to hurriedly gather up these children, stow away with them on a westbound train and follow the rails as far as they went. Then, they’d set out on foot to find shelter and food, and avoid notice.

God forgive her for the things she’d been forced to do in order to make a home for the five children in this remote place.

“Tara, the broth is warm. Do you want me to bring in a cup?” Maureen asked.

Tara secured the makeshift bandages on John’s chest, then glanced over her shoulder at Maureen, who waited expectantly at the bedroom door. “Yes, please, dear. It’s time to spoon-feed John Wolfe again.”

The thirteen-year-old turned on her heels, causing her strawberry-blond hair to sway across her shoulder blades. Tara smiled fondly as Maureen disappeared around the corner. These days, the young girl was eager to help, and brimming with vitality. Three square meals a day had improved Maureen’s beanpole figure. Tara dearly wished she could say the same for the fragile-looking five-year-old who was hovering beside her.

Maureen entered the bedroom with an energetic spring in her walk and didn’t spill even a drop of the steaming broth. “The boys said they’re having a devil of a time with that piebald stallion that belongs to John Wolfe,” she reported as she handed the cup to Tara. “The horse didn’t mind being put in a stall beside our two mares, but he wouldn’t let anybody but little Calvin handle him.”

“That piebald is a lot of horse for a seven-year-old to handle,” Tara murmured worriedly. “I don’t want Cal to get hurt.”

Maureen bubbled with quiet laughter. “Hurt? Not likely. It was the funniest thing I ever did see. That stallion was careful where he stepped when Cal took the reins. But when Derek and Samuel tried to brush him down he would have none of it. The boys got into a shouting match, blaming each other for making the stallion difficult to handle.”

Tara rolled her eyes in dismay as she eased the spoonful of broth between John’s unresponsive lips, then massaged his throat to ensure he swallowed the needed nourishment. Both Derek and Samuel undoubtedly had their pride smarting right about now, she mused.

Those two teenage boys were a handful on a good day. They were always squabbling and scuffling and getting defensive when she asked them to assume various chores. Their tempers flared at irregular intervals, and often without provocation. Tara wasn’t sure what had gotten into them lately. They tried her patience more times than she cared to count.

“Oops, Zohn Whoof is dribbling,” Flora said as she leaned forward to blot his bristled chin with a napkin. “He’s pretty, don’t you think, Tara?”

Tara smiled at the frail little elf whose distorted pronunciation of John’s name never failed to amuse her. “Men prefer to be referred to as handsome, not pretty,” she corrected the five-year-old.

“He is terribly handsome, isn’t he?” Maureen observed as she perched lightly on the opposite side of the bed.

“Yes, he is, in a rugged sort of way,” Tara reluctantly admitted.

The man was sinfully handsome, extremely muscular and practically tan all over….She jerked upright when that traitorous thought darted through her head, bringing with it a visual image that heightened the color in her cheeks. In truth, she’d seen more of John Wolfe’s virile, sinewy body while she was preparing him for her primitive brand of surgery than a young woman rightfully ought to see.

Between the anxiety of wondering if she was capable of performing the tasks of a physician, and seeing John in his entire splendor and glory, Tara had been a nervous wreck. Her hands had refused to stop shaking while she stitched his jagged flesh together, and her attention kept drifting to the broad expanse of his chest, washboard belly and horseman’s thighs.

No question about it, John Wolfe was more man than Tara had encountered in her twenty years of existence.

“Be careful, Tara!” Flora yelped. “You’re dribbling hot soup all over Zohn Whoof.”

Tara felt another wave of heat rising in her cheeks and she struggled to regain her composure. Stifling her arousing thoughts, she concentrated on feeding John the last spoonful of chicken broth, then waited for young Flora to dab up the dribbles on his stubbled chin.

“We’ll let John rest while we finish our evening chores,” she announced.

Flora stared unblinkingly at their patient. “Can I wait inside with Zohn Whoof? Just in case he wakes up? I don’t want him to be alone.”

Tara brushed her hand through the child’s shiny dark hair and smiled. She knew Flora had awakened feeling lost and alone, and had become frightened dozens of times before Tara rescued her. But these days, Flora bedded down with Maureen, who made certain she never felt abandoned.

“I don’t think John will wake up for a good while yet. You need your daily dose of exercise and fresh air.” When Flora pulled a face and looked as if she was about to object, Tara held up her hand to forestall the child. “But you can come check on John every half hour, just in case he wakes up.”

Flora hopped off the bed to follow in Maureen’s wake. Tara watched the girls go, wondering if the five-year-old had developed a severe case of hero worship for John. The girl continually reached out to touch his arm, to trace his lips, nose and cheeks while he was unaware. Maureen, too, spent a considerable amount of time staring pensively at John Wolfe. It seemed this man attracted female attention, no matter what the female’s age.

Tara glanced back to monitor the methodic rise and fall of his masculine chest. She supposed she would be every bit as infatuated by John Wolfe, if not for this nagging apprehension that he could cause her and the children serious trouble. If he discovered the whys and wherefores of how they’d come to be reunited…

Tara tamped down the uneasy thoughts. No, if John Wolfe tried to separate her from the children again, it would be over her dead body! Besides, he owed her a huge favor, didn’t he? She had saved his life. Surely that counted for something with this territorial marshal.

It better, she thought determinedly. If not, she would remind this lawman on a daily basis that he was alive because she’d dug lead out of him, stitched him back together and generously taken him into her home so he could recover.




Chapter Two


“Blast it, Tara, you promised two weeks ago that we could ride into Rambler Springs with you this time,” Samuel complained as he watched Tara retrieve her knapsack.

“You did promise,” Derek was quick to add.

“That was before John Wolfe landed on our doorstep,” she reminded the teenage boys, who had been giving her grief since she’d announced her early morning departure. “I’m leaving you two in charge.”

“But who is going to protect you in that rowdy mining town?” Samuel demanded. “You said yourself that you ran into trouble last time you were there. We should be there to protect you.”

“The incident was nothing I couldn’t handle,” she reassured them.

For certain, she’d dealt with much worse back in Texas. Raucous cow towns and mining communities were pretty much the same, in her opinion. Men could be such unpredictable, predatory scoundrels when they had several shots of whiskey under their belts. But Tara had spent enough time in the streets during her childhood, living a hand-to-mouth existence, to learn a few effective counters to amorous assaults. She wasn’t a shrinking violet by any means, and she certainly wasn’t helpless. She could take care of herself, thank you very much.

“You’re treating us like kids,” Derek groused. “We’re almost men.”

Tara slung her knapsack over her shoulder, then adjusted the sleeve of the one and only dress she had to her name. She took a moment to appraise the gangly boys, who seemed to be in some all-fired rush to become men. Tara preferred they remain children, but she vowed Derek and Samuel would become honorable, law-abiding grown-ups who were nothing like the rowdy miners and cowboys that showed little respect for women. Unfortunately, the boys were straining at the bit, demanding to be viewed as adults, and they were giving her fits—daily!

“I realize you are nearly men,” she replied belatedly. “And being the responsible men you are, I’m sure you realize the irrigation channels running through our garden need reinforcement after last week’s rain. The weeds around the vegetables need to be hoed and the livestock must be fed.”

The boys—young men, pardon her mistake—groaned in dismay.

“All we do is work around here,” Samuel grumbled sourly.

Tara was running short on time so she played her trump card, as she was forced to do from time to time. “Would you prefer to be back in Texas? Or back in Boston? Hmm?”

The boys—young men—clamped their mouths shut and shifted uneasily from one oversize foot to the other.

“You know we don’t have the slightest hankering for those hellholes we’ve been in,” Derek muttered.

“Don’t say hell. You aren’t old enough,” she chastised.

“We’re nearly men,” Samuel reminded her—again.

“Right. What could I have been thinking? But please refrain from using obscenities in front of the other children.”

“Anyway,” Derek continued, undaunted, “we need a change of scenery. We want to protect you from those drunken bullies in that mining camp. I could accompany you and Samuel could stay here—”

“Oh no, I won’t!” Samuel objected strenuously. “I’m older and—”

“Both of you are going to stay here and that’s that,” Tara said in no uncertain terms, then surged toward the front door. “And positively, absolutely no fighting while I’m gone. Do you hear me? I don’t have time to tend to another round of black eyes and bloody noses when I return, either.”

Serenaded by adolescent grumbling, Tara hiked off to retrieve the roan mare from the barn. She wished she could take the children into town more often, but she preferred they didn’t know she cleaned house for two older couples, one of whom owned the general store and the other a restaurant. Plus Tara cleaned the church for the parson during her weekly jaunts to Rambler Springs. The extra money provided her with funds to support the five children in her charge.

Although their vegetables, chickens, milk cow and small flock of sheep kept the family fed, she needed money for clothes and provisions. Heaven knew those two boys—young men!—were growing by leaps and bounds. Keeping them in properly fitting boots put a sizable dent in the family budget.

Hurriedly, Tara gathered up fresh eggs from the hen-house to sell in town, then mounted her horse. She’d spend the day there, working fast and furiously to dust and sweep two homes and the church, and would return exhausted, as usual. She needed Derek and Samuel to hold the fort during her absence; hopefully, they’d honor her request not to engage in another fistfight.

What had come over those two young men? Lately, they left her questioning her ability to handle them. And to think they’d been such adorable children when she’d first met them!

John felt as if he’d awakened from the dead. Every body part objected when he shifted sideways on the bed. Groaning, he pried open one eye, to see a small waif hovering over him. He wondered what had become of the flame-haired, green-eyed guardian angel that had been drifting in and out of his fitful dreams. Although angel face was nowhere to be seen, several vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.

“You’re awake at last!” the dark-eyed child exclaimed happily. “Hallo, Zohn Whoof. My name is Flora.”

“Hallo to you, miss” he wheezed, amused by her mispronunciation of his name.

The waif giggled and her enormous brown eyes sparkled with pleasure. She edged closer to the bed to pat his uninjured shoulder. “Feeling better?” she asked.

He nodded slightly. “Where am I?”

“In Paradise Valley. I’m Maureen. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John Wolfe,” the older girl said very politely.

John surveyed the adolescent girl standing to his left. With her sky-blue eyes, wavy strawberry-blond hair and sunny smile, she was destined to knock a passel of men off their feet in years to come, John decided.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Maureen,” he greeted her cordially.

The girl beamed in delight, opened her rosebud mouth to reply, then got nudged out of the way by a small boy with coal black hair, a gap-toothed smile and a scar on his chin. “I’m Calvin and I’m seven years old,” he introduced himself.

“A pleasure to meet you, Calvin,” John replied.

From the shadows, a tall, gangly adolescent boy with dark brown hair and gray eyes emerged. The boy drew himself up proudly, and John expected the kid to beat his chest like a warrior exploding into a war whoop. “I’m Samuel. I’m fifteen and I am in charge here—”

“No, you aren’t. We’re both in charge. Tara said so.”

John glanced toward the foot of the bed to appraise the offended boy, whose sandy-blond hair hung over one blue eye.

“I’m Derek. I’m fourteen and I’m half in charge.” He glared at Samuel, then returned his attention to John. “If you need anything, I’m the man you want to see.”

John swallowed a smile. He supposed at one time in his life he had struggled from adolescence to adulthood, but it had been so long ago he didn’t recall it. He felt a century old in the presence of these children. The nagging pain in his ribs and thigh drove home the point that the hellish experiences of his profession weren’t making him any younger. In fact, he’d come perilously close to dying in his thirtieth year, thanks to the desperation and treachery of his brother, Raven.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Derek,” John said. “I do need something, as a matter of fact, but I prefer not to have these pretty young ladies in attendance.”

The boys realized his discomfort immediately and shooed the girls from the room. Moaning in misery, John levered onto one wobbly elbow—and received one helluva head rush. The brightly decorated room, which boasted mason jars filled with wildflower bouquets, and curtains made of feed sacks and ribbons, spun furiously, making him nauseous.

“Here, we’ll help you,” Samuel offered, grabbing John’s good arm.

“I’ll get the chamber pot,” Derek volunteered.

“Uh, you can take it from here, can’t you?” Samuel asked, his face coloring with embarrassment, as Derek placed the pot near the side of the bed. “Me and Derek and Calvin will be right outside the door if you need us.”

Five minutes later, the boys returned to ease John back into bed. Sitting up for only a few minutes had been exhausting. John was anxious to settle in for another much-needed nap, but Maureen and Flora arrived with a loaf of bread and some broth.

“Tara said you should eat if you woke up,” Flora informed him.

By the process of elimination, John figured Tara had to be the absentee angel of mercy. “Where is Tara?” he asked.

“She rode into Rambler Springs to fetch supplies and sell the extra eggs,” Samuel reported, then scowled. “She wouldn’t let us go along to protect her from those rascally miners, though. Made us stay here to take care of y—”

John smiled when Samuel’s cheeks turned the color of the sandstone spires in Paradise Valley. “I’m most grateful you stayed behind. Does Tara usually have a problem with the miners?” John wouldn’t be surprised to hear it, considering her bewitching face and that cap of curly, reddish blond hair. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the rest of her, but from the neck up, his angel of mercy was the stuff masculine dreams were made of. He should know, since he’d had his fair share of them during his recuperation.

“Sometimes Tara has trouble with the miners,” Derek reported. “But she won’t let me and Samuel be her bodyguards. She says she can take care of herself.”

“Tara can take care of herself,” Maureen interjected. “I saw her do it a couple of times back in—”

When Maureen shut her mouth so quickly that she nearly clipped off her tongue, John noticed the other children were staring at her in horror. Instinct and training told him that they had been instructed not to spill their life stories. He couldn’t help but wonder why.

“Is Tara your mother? Or…older sister?” John asked.

“No, she’s—ouch!” Little Flora yelped when Samuel trounced on her foot.

Yep, something was definitely going on here that angel face didn’t want John to know about. Which brought him around to posing the question he had intended to ask earlier. “How did you know my name?”

“That’s easy,” Flora gushed. “Tara found your horse and searched through your saddlebags. She said you were a marshal and that we should watch what we said around you.”

The other children groaned in dismay. There was definitely something going on here that a territorial marshal wasn’t supposed to find out about. But how bad could their secret be, considering that they were amusing, well-behaved children? John couldn’t imagine.

When he opened his mouth to fire another question about Tara, Maureen crammed a slice of bread in his mouth. Flora handed him a spoon so he could chase the bread with broth. John’s taste buds started to riot. Damn, he couldn’t remember eating such tasty food. By the time he slurped the last drop of the delicious broth and ate half a loaf of bread he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes from slamming shut.

“Tara said you needed plenty of rest,” Samuel said, hustling the children from the room. “Just give a holler if you need anything else.”

When the children filed out, John settled himself carefully in bed, then noticed the pallet near the south wall. He suspected his angel of mercy had camped out on the floor while he lounged in her bed. Well, enough of that. He wasn’t going to inconvenience angel face more than he already had. Hell, he was accustomed to sleeping on the ground—had done it for years.

Clutching the side of the bed, John dragged himself sideways until his feet were planted on the floor. He bit back a yelp when he eased down on his tender leg and strained the wound on his ribs. Huffing and puffing for breath, he dragged himself toward the pallet.

If he hadn’t felt so damn guilty about betraying Raven he’d curse that bitter Apache for shooting him to pieces. But Raven had been cornered and threatened with hated captivity. It was understandable that he’d react violently. John wondered if he would’ve reacted the same way, had he been in his adopted brother’s moccasins.

But damn it to hell, Raven would make things a hundred times worse for himself if he continued to scout for those cutthroats who were plundering the territory. However, John refused to believe Raven had stooped to killing the settlers and miners left in the outlaws’ wake of destruction.

Raven had only been desperate for a taste of freedom, John assured himself. He himself knew the feeling well. He remembered the sense of relief he’d experienced five years ago when Gray Eagle insisted that he cut his long hair, disguise himself in white man’s clothes and sneak away from the reservation. But John’s freedom had come at a steep price and carried a wagonload of tormenting guilt, awkward adjustments and excessive frustration.

He decided not to rehash his recent past. He was in serious pain and thoroughly exhausted. He definitely needed another nap. Everything else would have to wait until he felt better—if that day ever came.

Tara brought the roan mare to a halt beside the barn, then dismounted. She tugged at the torn waistband of her gown to conceal the damage. She refused to let Samuel and Derek know she’d encountered two drunken miners who tried to drag her into an alley.

Men! Honestly, there were times when Tara wondered why God had populated the planet with those heathens. No way was she going to allow Samuel, Derek and Calvin to grow up to behave so disrespectfully. Today’s incident stirred horrifying memories of that awful night in Texas when—

Tara refused to think about that again—ever. No one would find out what had happened, she reassured herself. She was safe with her secret—unless Marshal Wolfe started digging into her past. But he wouldn’t dare hold that incident against her, because she’d explain her situation with the children. Somehow she’d make him understand and forgive her for what she’d done.

Before Tara could fully regain her composure and stash away her unsettling thoughts, Samuel and Derek bounded off the front porch and dashed toward her.

“I’ll tend your horse,” Samuel volunteered.

“I’ll carry your knapsack,” Derek insisted.

Tara shook her head, helpless to understand why the boys—young men—were falling all over themselves to assist her. When Derek snatched up her knapsack, she settled her left elbow over the rip in her gown. “Thank you, boys…er, gentlemen.”

“You’re welcome,” they said in unison.

“John Wolfe finally woke up this afternoon,” Derek reported.

“Did he?” That was encouraging. Tara made a mental note to carefully inspect and cauterize his wounds if they hadn’t healed properly by now. She didn’t want to risk gangrene setting in. Her injured patient didn’t need any setbacks, especially one as dangerous as gangrene.

When she surged through the door, Maureen was at the stove stirring the stew Tara had prepared at dawn. The aroma tantalized her taste buds, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch and was ravenous. Nodding a greeting, she headed for the bedroom to change clothes.

Quietly, she inched open the door, then did a double take when she noticed the empty bed. To her shock and dismay, John was sprawled half on, half off her pallet in the corner. What in heaven’s name did he think he was doing? He was seriously injured and he needed the comfort of her bed.

Muttering silently at the sleeping invalid, Tara tiptoed across the room to shed her torn gown and don her usual attire of men’s breeches and shirt. She turned her back on John to pull on her shirt, then nearly came out of her skin—and there was a lot of it showing, blast it!—when his husky voice rumbled behind her.

“So you must be Tara.”

Tara clutched the shirt to her bare breasts and struggled to pull her sagging breeches over her hips. Her face flushed a dozen shades of red as she shoved one arm, then the other, into her shirtsleeves. “I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said self-consciously.

“You were halfway undressed before I could tell you.”

Tara glanced over her shoulder to see his lips quirk in an amused smile. Those captivating silver-blue eyes drifted from the top of her head to her feet, missing nothing in between. He deserved a good slapping for waiting until she was undressed to inform her that he was awake. But Tara figured he’d suffered enough pain for one week. She’d overlook the incident—this time.

“You must be feeling better if you managed to crawl onto the pallet. But I warn you, if you split a stitch I’ll be none too happy about it.”

“You’re Irish. The accent is unmistakable.”

She spun around as she fastened the bottom button on her shirt. “And you’re injured. You shouldn’t have crawled off the bed,” she chided as she marched over to inspect his wounds.

The moment Tara laid her hands on him she could feel her cheeks flood with color. Touching this muscular hulk of a man while he was unconscious was one thing. Tending him when he was staring up at her with those incredible silver-blue eyes was something else again.

“I noticed your dress was torn at the waist,” he murmured. “Trouble in Rambler Springs?”

Tara glanced away quickly. “Yes, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it to the children.”

He cocked his head sideways and regarded her for a long moment. “About the children.”

Tara tensed immediately, ordered herself to relax, and then graced him with a cheery smile. “Yes, what about them? I hope they didn’t disturb your sleep. They’ve been anxious for you to wake up.”

“You wanna tell me what’s going on around here?”

No, she most certainly did not! Tara flashed him another bright smile. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Marshal. Now brace yourself, because I need to cleanse these wounds.”

John recognized a diversion tactic when he heard one, but he let it slide because he swore Tara had peeled off his jagged flesh when she exposed his tender wound. It was all he could do to prevent himself from howling in pain.

“Your face has gone white,” Tara observed. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.” A frown beetled her brow while she inspected his ribs. “I’m going to have to cauterize this wound. The other one, too, I suspect. I bought some whiskey in town to numb your pain.”

“Is that why you ran into trouble?” he guessed correctly.

Tara nodded. Her glorious hair shimmered in the light. John had to make a conscious effort not to reach up and run his fingers through that silky mass that constantly captured his fascinated attention.

Tara rose gracefully to her feet. “I’ll fetch the whiskey from my knapsack.”

“I’d rather have a leather strap to bite down on,” he told her.

Her brows jackknifed. “Do you realize how much this is going to hurt?”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve had a wound seared. Probably won’t be the last.”

“No, I imagine not, considering your dangerous line of work. I noticed a scar on your right leg that looks like a healed knife wound. There’s a bullet hole in your shoulder, too. You’re definitely no stranger to pain and discomfort,” she murmured as she pivoted on her heels and headed for the kitchen.

When Tara walked out, John smothered a groan and felt his gaze helplessly drawn to the hypnotic sway of feminine hips. Hell! Wasn’t it enough that he’d accidentally seen his angel of mercy stripping down to her threadbare pantaloons, and found himself staring at her bare back, wishing she’d turn toward him? Damn, she was a vision—with all that creamy skin arranged more perfectly on her feminine body than any he’d ever beheld! And in his condition, he didn’t need to become aroused—but he was, damn it. He’d never be able to think of his angel of mercy without remembering the accidental unveiling of her shapely body.

John muttered an obscenity when his own unruly body stirred restlessly. This situation was entirely new to him. He’d never seen a woman naked without having her in his bed. But Tara, this beguiling angel with secrets in her eyes, was off-limits. She wasn’t going to join the ranks of the women who entered and exited his life without him giving them a second thought.

First off, he owed Tara his life. In the Apache culture, that signified that his spirit became hers. Therefore, he wasn’t in a position to follow up on the arousing sensations Tara ignited in him. He’d do what he could to help her with this brood of children, as soon as he was back on his feet, but he was going to keep his hands off her.

Besides, he wasn’t going to be here very long, John reminded himself. A flaming affair with Tara was out of the question. He couldn’t stay any longer than necessary because he had to track down that ruthless gang that was wreaking havoc in the territory. He’d also promised Chief Gray Eagle that he’d do all within his power to ease the Apache’s plight and ensure the tribe was treated humanely.

John gnashed his teeth, wondering if it was possible for one man to change the collective attitude of a white population that didn’t understand the Apache’s way of life or spiritual beliefs. Hell, for white society it was like trying to measure the familiar with a foreign yardstick. Furthermore, too many soldiers, settlers and miners adhered to the appalling philosophy that the only good Indian was a dead one.

No, John had entirely too many irons in the fire to become sidetracked by a beautiful woman who would, without question, be heaven to touch, to possess.

Although he had never known a woman he called only a friend, Tara could be no more than that. He couldn’t allow male desire to dominate his thoughts and actions. He’d be gone from Paradise Valley as soon as he was able, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, look back.

When he’d turned white again, his purpose had been twofold—to return Raven to the reservation and to use his legal authority to deal with whites that preyed viciously on each other and on the captive Apache. It didn’t matter what John wanted, desired or needed personally. He was here to serve a higher purpose. These tantalizing fantasies about Tara that chased around in his mind were nothing but a futile distraction.

At that sensible thought, John slumped on the pallet. Next time Tara touched him he wouldn’t allow himself to react as a man responded to a beautiful woman. That feat shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish, he mused grimly. After all, she would come at him bearing a heated blade to sear his jagged flesh. That should be enough to discourage improper thoughts.

The creak of the door prompted him to glance up. Sure enough, the bewitching angel carried a knife that glowed red-hot. She held a lantern in her left hand, and the expression on her face testified to her apprehension and her compassion. John tried to assure himself that cauterizing a wound wasn’t as painful as the initial gunshot, but he knew better.

This was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.

“I’m sorry,” Tara said, apologizing in advance.

John reached out with his good arm to retrieve the leather strap draped over her arm. “Just do it, angel face,” he ordered.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, especially since we both know this is going to hurt like the very devil.”

“Okay, Irish. Just do your worst.” John stared straight into her thick-lashed cedar-green eyes. “If I curse you, don’t take it personally, since you’ll be burning the living hell out of me. Deal?”

“Deal.” Tara nodded bleakly, and then braced herself on her knees while John bit down on the leather strap.

“Do the leg first,” he said around the strap. “With any luck, I’ll pass out before you sear my ribs. I hope you sent the children outside so they won’t have to hear a grown man scream bloody murder.”

“I sent them to one of the springs to pick wild grapes,” she said, her attention focused intently on the angry flesh on his leg. “Ready? On three—”

Tara didn’t wait until the count of three. She wanted to get this grisly task completed before John tensed up. Even then, he nearly came off the pallet when she touched the heated blade to his thigh. All the while she told herself that if she could prevent gangrene and spare his leg, and his life, it was worth his suffering—and hers.

Watching beads of perspiration trickling from his brow, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, noting the complete lack of color in his chiseled features was killing Tara, bit by excruciating bit. John let out a pained howl that nearly blasted holes in her eardrums. His hand clamped around her wrist like a vise grip when she reflexively eased the blade away from his wound.

“Not long enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know it. I know it. Again, Irish.” His hand guided hers downward, completing the unpleasant process.

Tears floated in Tara’s eyes as she watched him deal with agonizing pain. This, she realized, was no ordinary man. In the face of adversity, he was extraordinary. Had their roles been reversed, Tara was pretty sure she would’ve been screeching hysterically and fighting him with every ounce of strength she possessed. He, however, held her hand steady to thoroughly sear the wound.

“Damn, here I was hoping I’d pass out,” John panted as he drew her hand and the blade toward his rib cage.

His intense gaze locked on hers again. He stared unblinking at her, while what must’ve been excruciating pain blazed through him. Unintentionally, he nearly crushed the bones in her wrist in his effort to force her to finish the gruesome task. When she would’ve pulled away again, he ensured that she remained steady and relentless. Tara was crying by the time he allowed her to withdraw the knife, and she practically collapsed beside him when the gruesome deed was done.

“You’re one hell of a woman, Irish,” he said, between gasps of breath.

“You did most of the work and endured all the pain,” she reminded him as she wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow, his upper lip. “Were I you, I’d have fainted dead away minutes ago.”

She was so close to him and he was so overcome with pain that he wasn’t thinking clearly. That was his only explanation for what he did next. He up and kissed her right on the mouth, just like he’d told himself he was not going to do—ever. He was pretty sure he got lost in the sweet taste and compelling scent of her, because the next thing John knew the world turned as black as the inside of a cave and swallowed him up.

Dazed, her lips tingling, her body shimmering with unfamiliar sensation, Tara gaped at her patient, who’d collapsed unconscious on the pallet. In the first place, she couldn’t believe he’d kissed her. Secondly, she couldn’t believe she’d kissed him back. But she supposed if any man ever deserved to steal a kiss—and get away with it—it was John Wolfe. Considering what he’d endured, he probably hadn’t realized what he was doing. Either that or he’d sought comfort in a moment of maddening pain.

Like a crawdad, Tara scuttled backward, then covered John’s limp body with the sheet, which had shifted sideways during the ordeal by fire. While she cleaned and bandaged the wounds, she decided she’d treat the unexpected kiss as if it had never happened. Chances were that he wouldn’t remember it, anyway.

It didn’t mean anything. She could not let it mean anything, she told herself firmly. Still, the feel of his lips devouring hers with something akin to desperation left sizzling aftershocks rippling through her body.

Tara willfully shook off the tantalizing sensations and climbed to her feet. She tiptoed over to retrieve her sewing kit so she could mend her torn dress. Now was as good a time as any to repair the damage. And she’d do so as soon as her hands stopped shaking and she could breathe without John’s masculine scent clogging her senses completely.




Chapter Three


During the days that followed, John’s energy returned gradually. He received periodic visits from the brood of children. They came alone. They came in pairs. They came in a group. But Tara never once approached him without a chaperone of one or two children following at her heels. He reckoned the impulsive kiss he’d planted on her dewy, soft lips was responsible for her standoffish manner.

Not that he blamed her. He’d been more than a little surprised by it himself, especially after he’d sworn up one side and down the other that there could be nothing more than friendship between them. He supposed the agonizing pain of the ordeal had triggered the impulse, making natural instinct difficult to control.

He should apologize, but the truth was that he wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her. She was the one taste of purity and sweetness in his violent and isolated world. He wouldn’t let it happen again, of course. His Irish angel of mercy was now, and forever more, off-limits.

“You want some bread and wild grape jelly, Zohn Whoof?” young Flora asked as she sank down cross-legged beside him on the pallet.

John smiled at the cute little tyke who had already wedged her way into his heart. He couldn’t help himself. The kid was warm and giving and altogether adorable, especially when she invented her own unique way of pronouncing his name.

“Bread and jelly sounds mighty good, half-pint.”

Flora slathered jelly on a slice of bread, then handed it to him. “I help Tara make the jelly. We have jars and jars of it stored in the root cellar.”

John sighed contentedly at the first bite. Someone around here really could cook, and he presumed it was Tara. Of course, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t much that she couldn’t do well. He’d watched her come and go from dawn until dusk without a single complaint. She always had a smile and kind word for the children. Her organizational skills, he’d noted, were a marvel, and she made time for each child’s individual needs.

This unique family fascinated him, even though the life they led was utterly foreign to him. It’d been years since John had felt family ties, felt as if he belonged anywhere. Not that he belonged here, of course. But this family didn’t treat him as an outsider, the way most folks did when he ventured into one town, then another. Usually, people didn’t engage him in conversation or venture too close. He figured most folks considered a man who was part lawman, gunfighter and bounty hunter unworthy of respect because he dealt with evil, violence and death on a regular basis.

John had pried bits and pieces of information from the younger children to appease his curiosity about Tara, though he told himself repeatedly that his fascination with her was ill-advised and impractical. He’d discovered that Tara was a passable markswoman who could put wild game on the table to feed her brood. That she harvested and processed vegetables from the garden, and had somehow managed to acquire the livestock that grazed in the canyon. He was incredibly curious to know how these acquisitions were made on her limited budget.

There were, however, two other things about Tara that he didn’t know and was dying to find out—where had she acquired her unique family and where had she been sleeping since John crawled onto the pallet so she could sleep on her bed. She wasn’t using the bed, he’d discovered. He figured he’d ferret the information from the loquacious five-year-old who was feeding him bread and jelly. If there was one thing he’d learned about Flora it was that she loved to talk, and most of the thoughts bouncing around in her head made their way to her tongue.

“Do you have another bedroom in the cabin where you and the other children sleep?” he asked nonchalantly.

Flora sampled a piece of bread, then nodded. “Maureen and I sleep in the other bedroom and the boys sleep in the loft above us.”

“Tara has been sleeping with you, too?”

She shook her dark head. “Nope, she moved into the barn loft.”

The barn loft? John cursed under his breath. That woman was making all sorts of sacrifices for him and the children. He was the one who should be sleeping in the straw. He’d slept in the great out-of-doors for years and was accustomed to it. On rare occasions, while on his forays to track down criminals, he rented a hotel room.

“Tell Tara that I’ll be trading places with her,” John requested.

“Can’t do that,” Flora replied as she wiped her mouth, smearing jelly on her chin. “Tara says she wants you somewhere that’s clean and dry so you can mend properly. She also says the boys are gonna take you to the spring to bathe tomorrow. She says the mineral spring we found near one of the rock ledges will be good for you.”

“Hmm, Tara sure has lots to say, doesn’t she?”

“Certainly does,” Flora agreed. “But most of all, and she says this is very, very, very important, we’re a family and we’ll be together forever. She says no one will break our family apart ’cause we belong to each other.”

John wondered why that was the first commandment in the gospel according to Tara. Who wanted to break up this unusual family? And why did Tara instill that sense of unity and belonging in these children? It sounded a mite overprotective to him, but what the hell did he know? He hadn’t been a part of a clan for over five years.

“Where did you meet Tara, half-pint?” he asked.

Suspicion filled those wide, soulful eyes. “Tara says we’re not supposed to say anything to anybody about where we came from or how we got here. It’s a secret.”

Interesting, he mused. Maybe Tara had something to hide. If she thought he’d sit in judgment she was mistaken, because John Wolfe wasn’t who folks thought he was, either. After all, he’d slipped away from the reservation under cover of darkness, without permission.

According to the Indian roll call conducted the morning after Chief Gray Eagle bade him to escape and return to white society, White Wolf didn’t exist and his name wasn’t to be uttered again. In the Apache culture, the name of a deceased person was rarely mentioned. As far as the tribe was concerned, White Wolf was dead and gone.

Maybe he needed to have a private talk with Tara and assure her that whatever concerns his presence provoked were unnecessary…unless there were criminal charges involved and she felt threatened by his profession as a law officer. Damn, this could get ugly, thought John. Maybe he didn’t want to unlock those guarded secrets he saw flashes of in Tara’s eyes, after all.

“I have to leave now.” Flora popped to her feet. “Tara says I have to walk the lambs around the canyon to make ’em stronger.”

John suspected these compulsory walks were designed to build little Flora’s own stamina. The child was entirely too frail and thin.

“Calvin has to go with me,” Flora added as she scooped up the jar of jelly and leftover bread, “just in case I have trouble managing the sheep.”

Calvin, the seven-year-old with the noticeable limp, he mused. No doubt Tara ensured Calvin was getting his daily requirement of therapeutical exercise, too.

To John’s complete surprise, Flora abruptly reversed direction, dropped to her knees in front of him, then flung her bony arms around his neck to hug him tightly. “I love you, Zohn Whoof,” she whispered in his ear. “Maybe when you feel better you can walk the lambs with Calvin and me.”

John battled to draw breath after Flora scurried off. He couldn’t afford to become attached to these endearing children, damn it. Gray Eagle had given him a lifetime assignment of protecting the Apache from the whites. Plus Raven was running loose, aligning himself with a merciless outlaw gang, giving the Apache a bad name—as if the whites’ publicity hadn’t given the tribe a bad reputation already.

John had witnessed firsthand the atrocities committed against Indians. They’d been slaughtered like buffalo—women, children, elders and warriors alike. They’d been poisoned with strychnine, herded onto reservations and forced to sign treaties that gave white men their valuable and productive lands. In fact, Gray Eagle had been ordered, under penalty of death, to sign over several strips of land where silver and copper deposits had been discovered so the prospectors could mine the ores without sharing with the Indians.

John had done his damnedest to prevent the whites from stealing the Apache blind, but to no avail. He’d reclaimed his white heritage hoping to make a difference—and he’d failed, time and time again. It was enough to make a grown man weep, especially when he cursed himself countless times for being born white and growing up Apache. Half the time John didn’t know who the hell he was or where he rightfully belonged. And now this sweet little child, with her hollow eyes, pasty skin and delicate bones, was gushing with affection for him and looking up to him as if he were her beloved father. The kid was killing him, while he was trying to maintain an emotional distance from her and the rest of this extraordinary family.

John sighed heavily. This child and her entire family were definitely getting to him, hour by hour, day by day. He couldn’t afford to become attached, because it would make leaving this valley more difficult. He’d locked away all sentimental emotions the day the Apache captured him as a child and started training him to be one of them. If he allowed all these conflicts that roiled inside him to surface he wouldn’t know how to deal with them. He wasn’t sure he could face a single one without his thoughts getting all tangled up with the other feelings he’d buried in order to survive all the trials he’d faced in his life.

Besides, this family really didn’t have a place in his world, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He went about his grisly business of tracking down and apprehending vicious criminals that were overrunning the territory. No feelings allowed, John told himself sensibly, and he’d better not forget it. Life was a test of survival—that was the gospel according to John Wolfe.

Tara wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing her patient fresh from his bath at the mineral springs where the boys had taken him. When she returned from doing chores in the barn, he was sitting on the wooden bench on the front porch. She missed a step when her gaze landed on his face, now devoid of the week’s growth of dark beard. To say that John was ruggedly handsome, with his bronzed skin, athletic physique, electrifying eyes and sensuous lips, had to be the understatement of the decade. The entire package of lean, powerful masculinity was enough to increase her heart rate and leave her feminine body aquiver.

Lord, listen to her, Tara scolded herself. She sounded as bad as Flora and Maureen, who sang John’s praises the whole livelong day. Of course, Tara had asked around Rambler Springs to see if anyone had heard of Marshal Wolfe. What she’d discovered was impressive and unnerving at once. This man who braved death on a daily basis was the stuff legends were made of, according to Wilma and Henry Prague, who ran the general store, as well as Corrine and Thomas Denton, who owned the restaurant. It was true that Wilma Prague was long-winded and tended to get caught up in the tales she liked to spin, but the hearsay she’d conveyed had kept Tara on the edge of her seat. John Wolfe’s feats of capturing the worst criminals in the territory were nothing short of phenomenal.

“Good morning, Irish,” John greeted her, breaking into her thoughts.

“Morning,” Tara murmured as she sank down on the bench beside him. “How are you feeling after your bath?”

“Revived and not the least bit anxious to spend another day indoors.”

“Not accustomed to it, I suppose, considering your line of work.”

He inclined his shiny raven head. “Exactly, which is why we’ll be switching sleeping quarters this evening,” he asserted.

That sounded like an order, and Tara had never been much good at taking them. “Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe, but I’m the one in charge of your rehabilitation. I’ll decide where you’ll sleep, especially when this happens to be my house you’re convalescing in.”

He merely chuckled at her flare of temper. “I’ve watched you and listened to you handle this passel of children with patience and gentle requests for nearly a week, Irish. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been shot. You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“I have been for a week,” she countered. “So don’t push your luck.”

“How is it that I’ve ended up at the sharp end of your tongue? Is it me in particular or men in general?” He waited a beat, then asked, “Or is it because of that kiss?”

Tara glanced over to meet his penetrating stare, noticed that quirk of a smile that did funny things to her insides. She steeled herself against her innate attraction to him. “Perhaps a bit of all three,” she admitted honestly.

He stared across the grass, then his gaze lifted to the rock-capped summits of the canyon, admiring the panoramic view. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Irish. There’ll be no incidents like the one you recently had with the miners. As for that kiss…well, consider it a needed compensation for the pain I was suffering. It won’t happen again.”

Tara couldn’t honestly say if she was disappointed or relieved. What was she thinking? Of course she was relieved, even if she felt as if she’d suffered another form of rejection. But allowing herself to become as attached to John as the children were already was dangerous business.

“Good, I’m glad we have that settled and out of the way,” she said, flashing him a smile. “As for the sleeping arrangements, you’re staying in my room and I don’t wish to hear another word about it.”

He smiled a mysterious smile, then shrugged. “Have it your way, Irish. I suspect you usually do.”

Tara snapped her head around and frowned at him.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” she challenged.

“Only that you’re accustomed to controlling the children, though I admit you rule with such a gentle hand and winsome smile that they don’t realize they’re being bossed around.”

“I suppose you’re accustomed to probing and prying and sticking your nose in various places because of your line of work.” Tara snapped her mouth shut, amazed that she was addressing John in such a sarcastic tone. Blast it, this man didn’t fit into the nice, neat world she’d created for the children and herself in Paradise Valley, and she was having trouble dealing with him. Why was that?

He shrugged a broad shoulder, seemingly unoffended by her sassy rejoinder. “I suppose you’re right, Irish. I do spend considerable time grilling witnesses before I track criminals. I’m inquisitive by nature and by habit….So, how’d you come to acquire this abandoned homestead here in what the Apache call the Canyon of the Sun?”

Tara blinked in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“About the abandoned ranch, you mean? The boys told me. They don’t seem to be quite as cautious about divulging information as you are. No doubt you instructed them to watch what they said around me. Now why is that?”

Tara opened her mouth to ask how he knew she’d instructed the children not to reveal more than necessary about their past, then figured she could already guess the answer. Flora had difficulty refraining from telling everything she knew, just to hear herself talk. So did young Calvin. He’d jabber all day if you let him.

Tara decided that telling the truth—or as much of the truth as she could—wouldn’t do any harm in this instance. “I acquired the deed to this abandoned farm after the children and I happened onto it, while searching for a shelter during a storm. When I inquired about the ranch in Rambler Springs, I learned the previous owners had left during the Indian uprising six years ago. Since the Apache were confined to San Carlos, it seemed safe enough to set up housekeeping here.” She peered questioningly at him. “How did you know this is sacred ground to the Apache?”

He was silent for a long moment while he scanned the panoramic valley with its towering cap rock, wild tumble of boulders, canopies of cedars, cottonwoods and pines, and its refreshing springs. Then he shifted slightly, and his solemn gaze probed hers with an intensity she’d come to expect from him. John didn’t simply look at her; he examined, studied and looked into her, as if he were reading her private thoughts.

“If I tell you the truth about that, will you explain how you came to acquire this unique family of yours, Irish?”

She knew he saw her flinch, for his astute gaze never seemed to miss a thing. She was beginning to think the phenomenal feats, the unerring instincts and tracking skills that Wilma Prague raved about weren’t an exaggeration. There was an extraordinary aura about this man—especially now that he was recovering from his injuries. He was sharply attuned to everything that transpired around him. He had a sixth sense she envied.

“Irish?” he prompted, holding her captive with nothing more than the intensity of his silvery stare. “What I’m offering here is something you can hold over my head, in exchange for something I can hold over yours. That will keep the battleground even, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We are going to do battle?” she asked, smiling impishly.

“I don’t know. Are we?” he questioned in turn.

She wasn’t quite sure she understood what made this unusual man tick. He wasn’t like her other male acquaintances. He was asking her to give him a weapon to use against her. In return, he was handing her a weapon. Why? she kept asking herself.

John studied the wary expression that claimed her enchanting features. He could tell she wasn’t sure what to make of him and his unexpected offer. But he’d be damned—literally—if he told her the truth about himself without some leverage, and he had to know if he could trust her to hold in confidence what he was about to tell her. Considering what this amazing woman had done for him, he wanted to trust her, to confide something that only Gray Eagle knew.

Why he was willing to stick out his neck John wasn’t sure. Maybe it was an instinctive response to the feelings Tara evoked in him. Maybe, with this life of isolation he’d been leading, he sought some kind of connection. Maybe he simply felt indebted because she’d saved his life. Maybe…John refused to delve deeper into the whys and wherefores. He’d looked a little too deeply already when it came to the feelings and sensations Tara aroused in him.

“Very well, John Wolfe, you have a bargain,” she agreed. “A sword for a sword, so to speak. But I want you to remember that you wouldn’t be alive today if not for me.”

He grinned, amused by her insistence that he shouldn’t forget he owed her his life.

“But I must have your word of honor that if you do decide to turn against me, after I answer your question, that you’ll become responsible for these children,” she insisted.

That was an odd thing for her to say, he thought. It suggested some deep dark secret that would make it impossible for her to care for the children if the truth came out.

John stared her straight in the eye and said, “I know this canyon is sacred Apache ground because I am Apache. Or at least I was an Apache until five years ago, when the uprisings were contained and the tribe was herded onto the reservation. Fact is, there is no John Wolfe.”

She gaped at him for a full minute. When her questioning gaze continued to focus directly on him, he nodded in confirmation. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. That wasn’t the reaction John had anticipated. Her riotous laughter drew the attention of the children, who were tending to various chores. The boys appeared from the shadows of the root cellar, which was in actuality a small cavern tucked beneath an overhanging rock ledge. The girls emerged from the house to stare at Tara in complete bewilderment.

Tara tossed back her head, sending the haphazard braid of red-gold hair cascading down her back. She cackled uproariously, then slapped her knee and cackled some more. To John’s disbelief, she curled into a ball and rolled off the bench onto the planked porch. Still giggling and gasping for breath, she clamped her hands around her ribs and guffawed. John and the children stared at her as if she’d gone insane.

“Oh, that…is…funny,” she said between howls of laughter.

Despite his baffled confusion, John broke into a grin while Tara rolled around on the porch, giggling and struggling to draw breath.

“Is she okay?” Samuel asked as he jogged toward the house.

“My gosh, what’s happening to her?” Derek said in alarm.

It was obvious to John that Tara had never allowed the children to see her reduced to fits of laughter. But why his confidential announcement had caused this reaction, he had no idea. He suspected Tara usually took her responsibility for the children quite earnestly and always displayed a facade of control—whether she felt in constant control or not.

Face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks, Tara looked up at him and erupted in another fit of giggles. Each time she peered at him the hysterical fit began all over again.

“She’ll be fine,” he assured the concerned children. “Go tend to your chores. Maureen, perhaps you could bring Irish a cup of water. I think she’ll be needing one when she recovers from her fit of giggles.”

Reluctantly, the children turned away, but not without casting several worried glances over their shoulders. Tara was down to muffled snickers by the time Maureen returned with the water.

When Tara took the cup and sipped, John waved Maureen back into the house. He looked down at the woman who was curled up at his feet. “I assume your grave secret is that you have a tendency toward madness.” He was giving her a way out. He wondered if she’d take it. When she shook her head, he was confident he could trust her with his secrets.

After Tara regained a semblance of composure and slumped beside him on the bench, she glanced at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I suspect your week has been as long and stressful as mine, Irish. If I could reduce myself to busting a gut laughing, without splitting a stitch, I’d like to try it. That looked like fun.”

“It was, actually. Discovering that you don’t exist stuck me as hilarious. You’re entirely too real to be a figment of anyone’s imagination.”

“There really is no John Wolfe,” he repeated. “I was born white, captured by the Apache at the age of ten and rigorously trained to become one of the elite group of warriors who were sent on the most dangerous missions. I lived with my clan, accompanied them on raids against invading hordes of Spaniards, Mexicans and whites, and then I was confined to the reservation. The fact is I’ll always be more Apache than white.”

“Captured?” The laughter in her eyes died.

“Rescued would probably be more accurate. My father was a drunken prospector. An Apache hunting party overtook us while he was beating me, as he had a habit of doing on a regular basis. My ability to speak English made me useful to the Apache, who were dealing with whites more often than they preferred. I was taught the Apache dialect, as well as Spanish. In turn, I was instructed to teach Chief Gray Eagle and his family to speak English. Being the only white captive in our clan, I was often called upon to translate during conferences with the army. Because of the color of my eyes, Chief Gray Eagle always kept me conveniently obscured from the soldiers because he considered me too valuable an asset to release.”

“What is your Indian name?” she asked.

“White Wolf.”

“And your white name?”

He hadn’t spoken his given name in twenty years. It felt unfamiliar as it tumbled off his tongue. “Daniel Braxton.”

Why he had gotten sidetracked with particulars of his life that he hadn’t divulged to anyone else, he couldn’t say. What was there about this woman that drew his confidence? he wondered. He truly was treating her like a friend—the first he’d had in years.

“That explains why an Apache warrior has silver-blue eyes rather than dark ones,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s also why townsfolk praise your legendary skills and instincts. According to gossip around Rambler Springs, you’re part bloodhound. Your success rate in tracking and apprehending criminals is incredible, bordering on supernatural.”

“It’s the result of years of meticulous Apache training,” he explained. “It’s a culture of introspect, reflection and a life closely attuned to nature. Whites get too caught up in the acquisition of property and wealth to fully understand who they are and how they fit into the world around them.

“I cannot begin to explain the torment of knowing my white ancestors are responsible for the atrocities committed against the Apache, and vice versa. It’s like straddling a picket fence, uncertain which culture is my true enemy. But I do know that if the truth is revealed, I’ll be jailed and sentenced by the white courts because I was involved in retaliations against whites who committed unspeakable atrocities against the Apache.”

Her expression turned compassionate. To his surprise, she reached out to touch his hand, which had involuntarily curled into a fist—an outward manifestation of his inner turmoil.

“I’m sorry, John. I promise that your secret is safe with me. I’m most thankful that I was able to save such a unique man.”

An unfamiliar lump formed in his throat. She accepted his explanation, accepted him, without making judgments. He didn’t elaborate on the particulars of his life story, didn’t want to disturb this unexpected sense of peace and contentment that stole over him. He’d never experienced anything quite like the sensations thrumming through him. He simply sat there, surrounded by the towering sandstone walls of the canyon, absorbing the tranquility of the moment and enjoying the breath of wind stirring through the trees.

Suddenly he realized just how badly he needed this hiatus in the place Tara called Paradise Valley. Being here with her and the children, in this spectacular location, was like lingering at an oasis after a grueling walk in the desert sun.

“Now that you’ve revealed your truths, I’m obliged to reveal mine,” Tara murmured as she withdrew her hand. “It’s ironic that you’re the one man who poses the greatest threat to my existence, and yet we’re exchanging confidences.”

She swallowed uneasily, because she’d never confided this tale to another living soul. Certainly, the children in her care knew fragments of the story, but they didn’t know the whole truth.

“My parents immigrated to Boston,” she began quietly. “I lost them in a flu epidemic and I nearly died myself. I had no other family to take me in and I was forced to live a hand-to-mouth existence in the streets and alleys with several other children who found themselves in the same predicament. We begged for food and picked pockets to survive…until one night when three policemen swarmed in and gathered up the strays. The older, more experienced street urchins managed to vanish in the network of alleys, but I was frail and sickly, like little Flora, at the time. I was taken to an orphanage, given a cot, a ration of food and hand-me-down clothes that were so thin from numerous washings that it was like being naked during the cold winter months.”

Tara darted a glance at John. He was staring intently at her again. She swore she’d never met another living soul who listened with such concentrated absorption. He didn’t even blink an eye when she admitted to stealing to survive.

“Occasionally families visited the orphanage to take children into their homes, but I was always overlooked. I guess they considered me too old to be trainable, too frail to put in a hard day’s work.”

“Which is why, I suspect, little Flora and Calvin are in your care. You see yourself in them, don’t you?” he asked.

Tara nodded. “Flora was just an infant when her mother, the daughter of a wealthy family, brought her to the orphanage. The woman was unmarried and feared wrath and disinheritance.

“Calvin was left alone when his parents were killed in the carriage accident that mangled his leg and scarred his chin. Maureen couldn’t speak a word for the first two years she lived in the orphanage. The caretakers thought she was a deaf-mute, because she made no contact with anyone. Thankfully, she’s emerged from her shell. But to this day she refuses to speak of whatever tragedy landed her at the orphanage.

“As for Samuel and Derek, they know nothing of their heritage, nor do I. They simply arrived in the dark of night as young children. They were already there when I was taken into the orphanage. You wouldn’t know by looking at them now, but they were sickly, weak and shamefully unsure of themselves.”

Tara took a sip of water, then continued. “When the time came, we were scrubbed and dressed in an exceptionally better set of hand-me-downs than what we usually wore. We were hustled aboard a westbound train without being informed of our destination or purpose. We stopped in nameless towns in Missouri and were herded into local churches. Like livestock on the auction block, we were presented for adoption. Many of the younger children were carted off to foster homes.”

“But not frail-looking Flora or crippled Calvin,” John surmised.

“No, the six of us were rejected for one reason or another, so we returned to the train and ventured into Texas. When the train pulled into a dusty cow town there, we were the only ones left. A man who owned a fleabag hotel notorious for housing rowdy drifters took in Flora and Maureen. Although they were young—especially Flora—they were put to work cleaning and sweeping. The boys ended up working for a cantankerous farmer who practiced your father’s technique of controlling and disciplining children.”

“And you, Irish?” he questioned. “How old were you at the time?”

Leave it to this man to poke and pry into places she planned to skip over with only the briefest of explanation. “I wasn’t quite eighteen,” she told him reluctantly.

“Marrying age,” he murmured shrewdly.

“Something like that,” she replied, unable to meet his perceptive gaze. “I was taken in by a rancher who claimed he needed a foster child capable of caring for his ailing wife.”

John hadn’t liked the sound of this story from the beginning. It was growing more distasteful by the minute. The fact that Tara’s expression had closed up, that she was suddenly holding herself upright on the bench, keeping a stranglehold on the cup of water and staring sightlessly at the canyon walls, alerted him that the rancher had had unseemly designs on her. An unfamiliar sense of rage swept through John, momentarily overriding the nagging pain in his rib and thigh.

“There was no ailing wife, was there?” he said through clenched teeth.

She didn’t answer for a moment, didn’t glance his direction. Finally she said, “There was a gravesite on the far side of the garden.” She shivered slightly, cleared her throat, then continued. “There were also metal cuffs dangling from the headboard and footboard of his bed.”

John felt as if someone had gut-punched him. Damn it to hell, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what came next. In fact, he refused to hear and he didn’t want to imagine what Tara had endured, so he leaped ahead to spare her the telling.

“So I assume you regathered the children from their various residences and decided to make a new life together.”

She breathed a relieved sigh and smiled ruefully. “Yes, the children are now my family, and I promised to make a home for them. We hopped a cattle train and followed the rails west as far as they went. For three months we wandered like nomads, feeding off the land, living for short periods of time at missions and in abandoned shacks along the way—wherever we found shelter. We gathered stray livestock that we encountered along our route through New Mexico Territory and we took temporary employment where we could, but we never stayed in one place long enough to become acquainted with anyone. We traveled into towns in separate groups so as not to arouse suspicion or raise questions we didn’t want to answer.”

It occurred to John that Tara might’ve done something in the past that made her fearful he’d cause trouble for her. In spite of that, she’d taken him into the fold and nursed him back to health. That said a great deal about her character—and she had considerably more character than most folks.

“When we happened onto this canyon, with its rundown buildings, I knew this was where we belonged. I knew that with hard work and determination I could make a real home for the children. This is the place of permanence, stability and security none of us ever had.”

When she turned toward him, John could feel the intensity and determination radiating from her. “This family of cast-off children, who have been rejected more times than I care to count, will have a full understanding of belonging. They’ll feel a strong sense of welcome and acceptance. They’ll be confident that when they set off to find their places in this world, I’ll be here to welcome them back with open arms.”

When she stood up and strode off to attend her limitless chores, his gaze followed her until she disappeared into the root cellar. Tara didn’t hang around long enough for John to caution her about setting her sights on this canyon as a permanent home. This part of the territory, though it had escaped violence in recent years, was becoming a hotbed of criminal activity because of the silver and copper mines discovered in the area. Gangs of ruthless outlaws preyed on prospectors and anyone else who provided easy pickings. Tara and the children wouldn’t stand a chance against men like the outlaws Raven had fallen in with.

Although John knew it wouldn’t be easy, he had to convince Tara to move into town where there was more protection. That was one conversation he wasn’t looking forward to, especially now that he knew she’d put down roots and had no intention of leaving. No doubt he and Tara were destined to butt heads about that.




Chapter Four


Tara inhaled several cathartic breaths and stared at the rows of canned fruits and vegetables stored in the root cellar. Skirting so close to the unnerving incident with the cruel, demented Texas rancher unearthed emotions she preferred to forget. The retelling of the story had taken its toll. Flashbacks of the night when she’d fought for her life left her shaken.

When it came right down to it, she couldn’t bring herself to reveal her deepest, darkest secret to John. Amazingly, he hadn’t pried for details. He’d handed her a weapon that would expose him, if she chose to reveal his true identity, but he hadn’t demanded the same kind of weapon to use against her. Why not? she wondered.

Tara snatched up a jar of jelly and a can of corn, then asked herself how in the world she and John had gotten so personal so quickly. They’d been verbally sparring, then wham! They were confiding in each other like lifelong friends. In a way, she felt guilty that she hadn’t told him the very worst of her experiences in Texas, especially when he’d held nothing back. He’d taken mercy on her, and she couldn’t puzzle out why. This legendary lawman, who had undoubtedly seen more violence in a month than she wanted to witness in a lifetime, had given her an easy way out. She could’ve hugged the stuffing out of him for that.

Her respect for John multiplied, which was a shame, because Tara had the unmistakable feeling she already liked the man more than she should. They’d be no more than confidants and friends. Permitting this liaison to progress any further was an invitation to heartache. Tara had had enough of that in her lifetime. She’d suffered enough feelings of disappointment, inadequacy and rejection without inviting more of the same.

After giving herself that silent lecture, she lurched around and headed to the house to prepare lunch. To her amazement she found the children inside with John, who’d propped himself up on his improvised crutch, fashioned by Samuel from a tree limb. John was mixing up hooligan stew—which none of the children had heard of. A little of this and that, he said as he added ingredients he found in the cabinet. Tara stood aside and watched him take command of this troop of children, giving soft-spoken orders that had the youngsters hopping to do his bidding.

And later, while he sat at the head of the table, passing around food with his good arm, he began spinning yarns of an Apache legend that held the children captivated. It was the Indian version of creation, and it held Tara spellbound as well. Tara wondered why John was passing down the legends, then decided that he didn’t feel comfortable speaking of his Apache upbringing while he wandered among white society beyond the boundaries of Paradise Valley. Here he could be all he was, without fear of exposure to the outside world. In addition, she suspected he didn’t want these children to grow up with prejudices against the Indian cultures. He was, she decided, attempting to change one youthful mind at a time.

Tara had to admit that Apache philosophy was very sound, practical and down to earth. She sensed there was something else, something very subtle, going on here, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.

After the meal John announced that he was taking the children on an excursion around the canyon to acquaint them with some of the herbs that served medicinal and nutritional purposes. Tara protested that the exertion of hiking might cause a setback in his condition, but he shrugged away her concerns for his welfare. While the children were cleaning up after the meal, John gestured for her to follow him into the bedroom. Curiously, she watched him limp inside, then close the door behind them.

“What are you up to, O great warrior, White Wolf?” she asked without preamble.

He smiled indulgently. “Something you said earlier got me to thinking.”

“I hope that isn’t a bad thing—you thinking, that is,” she teased.

He cocked a thick brow. “You’re in an odd mood, Irish.”

“What can I say? I’m an odd person.” And for the life of her she didn’t know what to make of the comments flying from her mouth. Maybe it was the fact that she was unaccustomed to relating to someone other than the children. With John, she felt herself assuming an entirely different role. She wondered if her attitude and response to him was some sort of strange defense mechanism. After all, the better she got to know this man the more she liked him. And that might not be such a good thing, because his presence here was temporary and her growing fascination with him might become much too permanent.

“The point here is that you mentioned sending the children out in the world to find their place and make lives for themselves. It occurred to me that I could repay your kindness by teaching them the knowledge I’ve gained from my Apache training. There are resources of food, medicine and means of protection in the wilds that I can show them. It also occurs to me that I can share the responsibility for these children while I’m here and give you some time to yourself.”

Tara gaped at him. “Time to myself? What an utterly foreign concept. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with myself without children underfoot.”

“You can start by taking a nap,” he suggested. “On your own bed, not in the hayloft. Then try something as decadent as lounging in a chair and daydreaming.”

Her gaze narrowed suspiciously on him. “And what is the purpose of this?”

“Getting to know yourself,” he replied. “It’s part of the Apache philosophy I mentioned to the children. From what you told me, and what I’ve witnessed, you simply live to serve and care for these children.”

She stiffened defensively. “I told you why. I want them to overcome their feelings of rejection. I want them to feel wanted, needed and loved.”

“You’ve accomplished that,” he stated. “So it behooves you to regenerate your own energy. Take a nap.”

“I quit taking orders two years ago,” she told him. “I didn’t like it then, and I don’t care much for it now.”

“Really? It hardly even shows.” He chuckled, despite her annoyed frown.

“All right, Mr. Marshal, you baby-sit and I’ll lounge around. But don’t get to thinking that while you’re here recuperating you always get to be the boss.”

He opened his mouth to reply and must’ve thought better of it because he clamped those full, sensual lips together and stared thoughtfully at her. When he hobbled out of the room, Tara sank down on the foot of her bed, wondering what she was going to do with herself for an hour or two. She was in the habit of rising at dawn and working nonstop until she collapsed in exhaustion at night. She’d never pampered herself a single day in her life and wouldn’t know how to start!

“Don’t plan supper,” he added as he poked his head back inside the room. “I’ll teach the kids to hunt. We’ll return with the meal in hand and prepare it ourselves. The rest of the day belongs to you, Irish. Enjoy it.”

“The whole rest of the day?” she echoed bewilderedly.

“I’m giving you a long-needed break from your routine,” he insisted.

With that, he closed the door. Tara flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Take a nap? In the middle of the day…? That was the last thought to flit through her mind before she drifted off to sleep.

Although his leg ached fiercely, and it felt as if someone was trying to pry apart his ribs with a crowbar, John hobbled back through the canyon while the children bounded around him. Their survival excursion had been a success. John had pointed out a variety of plants and explained how each herb served as a remedy or as food, and how to tell which plants were which. Paradise Valley was a veritable greenhouse of roots, seeds and bark that the Apache used to treat maladies and to season food.

John had also directed the children’s attention to a mesquite tree and informed them that it was referred to as the Apache survival tree because it served so many useful purposes. From it a man could acquire food and medicine. The tree limbs could be burned in winter without drawing unwanted attention because the wood gave off very little smoke. Since the fragrant mesquite flowers attracted bees, the tree was also a reliable source of honey. The pods and beans could be used for flavoring, for eating or fermented for drinks. The leaves, he’d told the youngsters, were used for making tea and poultices. The gum of the tree could be applied to wounds and sores or even boiled to make candy.

All the while that John was pointing out ways to survive off the land, the children were amazingly attentive and treated him as if he were a part of their family circle. He never thought he’d experience that feeling again after he’d sneaked away from the reservation. But here, living in this space out of time, he felt as if he truly belonged somewhere. It was a most gratifying feeling—

Whoa, don’t get sentimentally attached, John cautioned himself as he stared at the cabin in the distance. He had a mission to conduct, as soon as he was able. Any emotion these children stirred in him must be restrained.

John didn’t lead the kind of life that invited tender feelings. Just look what had happened when he let emotion cloud his judgment during his disastrous confrontation with Raven. John knew damned well and good that a cornered Apache—even a blood brother—was the most dangerous of enemies. Feelings had gotten in John’s way and he’d nearly paid for the mistake with his life. He had to erect an emotional barrier between himself and these adorable kids or he’d be reduced to a useless mass of sentimental mush.

Loaded down with wild potatoes, grapes and the rabbits that he and the children had snared without using noisy weapons that attracted unwanted visitors, John halted near the cabin to show the boys how to build a small mesquite campfire to roast the meat, while the girls trooped inside to steam the wild vegetables.

With his leg throbbing in rhythm with his pulse, his ribs burning fiercely, John decided he’d overdone it—and then some. He crawled onto his pallet to catch some shuteye before the children served up supper.

Feeling amazingly relaxed and refreshed, Tara returned from a leisurely bath at one of the secluded springs on the west end of the canyon. The trickling waterfall that cascaded over a stairway of rocks was like her private corner of heaven. That, coupled with an hour’s nap, made her feel like a new woman.

As John had suggested, she’d gone searching for herself, never realizing she was lost because she’d never devoted any time whatsoever to herself. She still might’ve been sprawled in the shallow stone pool if a tarantula in search of a drink hadn’t crawled over her arm.

Tara pulled up short when she spied the boys gathered around a small campfire in front of the cabin. Ah yes, she’d almost forgotten that White Wolf’s warriors-in-training were in charge of supper. From the tantalizing aromas drifting toward her, this meal was going to be worth the wait. Her stomach growled in eager anticipation.

“Feeling better?” Samuel asked when he noticed her. She smiled and nodded.”

“Good. After your hyena seizure we were worried about you.”

“Yes, well, John said something that struck me funny,” she hedged. “I wouldn’t actually call that a seizure.”

“Sure you’re okay?” Derek questioned, studying her astutely.

“Peachy perfect,” she enthused. “Where are the girls?”

“Cooking the vegetables we gathered in the wilds,” Calvin replied. “This is gonna be a humdinger meal.”

“No doubt.” Tara noticed the sense of confidence and accomplishment the boys exuded after their afternoon with John. His attempt to teach self-reliance was obviously a smashing success. Even young Calvin, who was usually self-conscious about his limp, was practically strutting around the campfire like one of the roosters. Of course, she didn’t think Samuel and Derek needed more spring in their cocky strides. The boys—young men; how could she keep forgetting?—had been exhibiting all the signs of rebellious adolescence for the past six months.

Samuel squinted skyward. “According to the location of the sun, it must be about five o’clock,” he announced with all the authority of an expert astronomer. “Supper should be ready in an hour.”

“It’s more like five-thirty, I’d say,” Derek argued.

“As if you’d know, squirt,” Samuel said, then snorted.

Suddenly, a scuffle erupted, though Tara couldn’t say exactly how it happened or why. One minute the boys were chitchatting, and then wham! Fists were flying. One fist caught Derek in the nose. He yelped in pain and outrage, then launched himself forward to tackle Samuel so he could pop him in the eye.

“Stop it!” Tara shouted.

They didn’t cease and desist, but rolled in the grass, growling and snarling like panthers in the heat of battle. One clenched fist flew, then another. Muttered curses erupted.

“That’s enough!” The booming male voice came from the front porch.

Tara lurched around to see John propped on his improvised crutch, glaring pitchforks at the boys. His raven hair was standing on end.

The scuffle ended immediately. Samuel and Derek bounded up like jackrabbits to wipe their bloody wounds.

“Get cleaned up on the double,” John ordered brusquely. “Calvin can tend the cooking while you’re gone.”

There was no back talk, Tara noticed, just perfectly executed about-faces and forward marches to the water barrel that sat beside the barn.

“I just don’t understand those two these days,” Tara said with a baffled shake of her head.

“Don’t you?” John asked as she stepped up beside him on the porch.

“No, I don’t. We can be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly a battle breaks out over little or nothing.”

“Intelligent woman that you are, Irish, I’d think you’d be able to figure those two boys out.”

She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Well, I can’t. I suppose you have the answer, O great and wonderful Apache wizard.”

“They’re smitten, infatuated,” he told her.

“Smitten?” she repeated stupidly.

“With you. It’s all part of male posturing and masculine rivalry that causes them to try to impress you and gain your notice and attention.”

Tara stared at John as if he were speaking a foreign language she couldn’t translate. He chuckled at her bewildered expression.

“The Apaches are wise enough to establish rituals, rules and regulations to follow during this difficult phase of adolescence. The whites, of course, just leave it all to hapless chance. You don’t see a respectable warrior walking around with a bloody lip or black eye. Energy and fighting is saved for battling enemies. If a warrior is interested in an Indian maiden, he simply appears beside her wickiup in the dark of night and stakes his horse by the door. If the girl favors the warrior’s attention she leads his prize horse to water. Of course, a maiden wouldn’t think to tend the horse the first day. That’d make her seem a mite too anxious or desperate. But then, leaving the animal standing for four days is regarded as playing extremely hard to get, and a warrior might wish to rethink the prospect of courtship.”

“And what if the young maiden isn’t interested in courtship?” Tara asked, a smile twitching her lips.

“If not, the poor horse stands there, neglected, for four days, at which time the jilted suitor knows his affections aren’t returned and he’d best hobble his prize horse on somebody else’s doorstep. If you see another horse tied in front of your sweetheart’s wickiup, then you wait your turn. Simple as that.”

Tara’s amused laughter danced on the evening breeze.

“Uh-oh, you aren’t gonna have another one of those hyena seizures, are you?” Calvin questioned worriedly.

Samuel and Derek, their recent battle forgotten, came running to check on Tara. Flora and Maureen appeared at the front door.

“I’m fine,” Tara hastily assured the children. Her gaze shifted to John, who was doing his best to conceal his grin. “I simply find John amusing. No harm in that, is there?”

“No, but if it turns out you’re not so fine, I’ll give you herbs to cure you,” Flora announced. “Zohn Whoof taught us how to gather all we need to make good medicine bundles that can cure whatever bothers anybody.”

“How is dinner coming along?” John asked the girls, without taking his eyes off Tara.

“Thirty minutes,” Maureen predicted. “C’mon, Flora, we don’t want our part of the meal to burn on the stove.”

When the children resumed their tasks, Tara forced herself to glance away from John. Staring too long into those silvery pools surrounded by long thick lashes gave her strange, tingling sensations. If she wasn’t careful she might get lost in those hypnotic eyes. They were entirely too magnetic, too entrancing, too overpowering.

“So…what do you suggest I do to alleviate this situation that has developed with Samuel and Derek?” Tara asked.

“Pretend to show interest elsewhere,” he replied.

His husky voice drew her gaze. Mistake. Big mistake. He was watching her in that unique, soul-searching way that sent all sorts of warm ripples undulating through her body. Mercy, she was exceptionally aware of John Wolfe. Tara wondered if the Apache had a medicinal herb to cure infatuation. If so, she needed it—desperately.

“You could use me,” he murmured. “After all, I owe you a favor.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tara tweeted, then was startled by the strangled sound of her voice.

“Why not?”

“If you don’t know the answer to that then your instincts and your Apache training have failed you.”

Tara wheeled around to seek shelter in the house. Behind her she heard a bark of laughter, not unlike the hysterical fit she’d pitched that morning. Also behind her she heard Cal say, “Oh no, now John has turned into a hyena!”

John knew he was being ignored by Tara at supper, which turned out to be an exceptional feast. The rabbit meat was tender and juicy. The vegetables, seasoned with mesquite seeds, had a marvelous flavor. While the children chatted on—and on—about their survival excursion, Tara stared at her plate and ate her meal in silence.

All right, so John knew that crack he’d made about using him to discourage the boys’ amorous interests was way out of line—and too dangerous for his own good. And certainly, he’d told himself several times not to become attached to Tara. But hell, he was, damn it! She didn’t seem to have a clue about how attractive she was, especially in those trim-fitting breeches and shirts that accentuated every alluring curve and swell. She seemed to think that because she was a woman, with all the necessary body parts, a man would regard her as nothing more than a possession to be used for his lusty purposes. She didn’t seem to realize that it was her personality and character, as well as her ravishing good looks, that attracted male interest.

Why get into this? John asked himself as he chewed on the medley of wild vegetables. He was going to be the perfect gentleman while he shared the same space with Tara. He’d be gone soon and he didn’t want to hurt her in any way. She’d be hurt if he did something really stupid like…oh, say, forge a physical liaison.

If he felt the urge to satisfy an itch, then he could get himself into Rambler Springs to find a woman who made her living appeasing men. He’d made a pact to keep his hands off Tara, no matter how tempting she was. Furthermore, she’d find her own way to resolve the male rivalry going on between Samuel and Derek, without breaking their tender young hearts.

And so, being ignored as he was by Tara, he was thunderstruck when she pushed away from the table, came to her feet, strode to the head of the table where he was sitting and planted a kiss on his lips—right in front of five startled children, God and every deity known to the Apache nation. True, it wasn’t much of a kiss, as kisses went, yet the feel of her soft lips melting upon his sent his male body into a slow burn—and left him burning long after she withdrew. John struggled to draw a breath that wasn’t thick with her fresh, clean, alluring scent.

“Good night, John dear. I have some sewing to do before I go to bed.” She glanced surreptitiously at Samuel and Derek, whose eyes were bulging and whose jaws were scraping the table. “Somebody around here ripped their shirts during the Battle of Paradise Valley, and I’m the one who has to stitch the fabric back together.”

No one uttered a word. No one moved until Tara exited the room to retrieve her sewing kit, then reversed direction to breeze out the front door. Just as John predicted, all goggle-eyed gazes zeroed in on him.

“How come you kissed Tara when I’m the one who loves you and told you so, huh?” Flora demanded that very second.

“She kissed me,” John corrected.

“I never saw Tara kiss anybody on the mouth before,” Calvin said.

Samuel and Derek slouched down, as if their breath had been knocked clean out of them. Maureen slumped in her chair, staring at him as if he’d just broken her heart in about a million pieces. John had the uneasy feeling he had a silent admirer. Well damn, he was as oblivious as Tara, who hadn’t realized Samuel and Derek were infatuated with her.

And Tara, damn her ornery hide, had dropped a live grenade in his lap, then walked off, leaving him to answer awkward questions. He ought to storm outside and shake the living daylights out of her for that.

John sat there, wondering how to extricate himself from this situation, then decided changing the subject was the best strategy he could come up with. “While you children are clearing the table, I’m going to brew a poultice to pack on my wounds.”

“Are you sure you aren’t going to go outside to kiss Tara again?” Flora asked suspiciously. “Maureen says that’s how people make babies.”

“Flora! Shut your flapping jaws!” Maureen shrieked, humiliated.

Calvin blinked. “We’re gonna have more babies around here?”

Damn, could this situation get any worse? John wondered. Strangling Tara for her mischief was becoming more appealing by the second.

“Babies don’t come from kissing,” Samuel told Maureen, whose face had turned the color of cooked beets. “Damn, don’t you know anything?”

John’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He stared nonplussed at Samuel, then tried to speak, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Tara said not to curse in front of the children,” Derek scolded. “And what do you know about making babies, anyway?”

Flora glanced up at John. “Where do babies come—?”

John flung up both hands to forestall the barrage of questions he didn’t want to answer. “Enough! We’ll discuss this later.” In about a hundred years, if he had his way about it!

“You mean tomorrow while we’re on another survival excursion?”

Leave it to little Flora to pin him down, he thought in dismay. “Yeah, sure. That’d be good.”

Samuel and Derek perked up immediately. John wanted to swear, but there’d been enough of that already. Apparently, Maureen had recovered from her humiliation, for she was staring curiously at him, as if she had a million questions to ask on the subject of the birds and bees. Hell!

John got up, limped out the door and went looking for Tara. He found her perched on a quilt, taking advantage of the last rays of sunset. Her nimble fingers flew over the rips in Samuel and Derek’s grass-stained shirts.

“You, Irish, have a devilish sense of humor,” John muttered.

She glanced up, grinning elfishly. “Oh, are you referring to that kiss I bestowed on you at the table?”

“Hell, yes, damn it,” he snapped. “Next thing I knew Flora was spouting off that she’s the one who loves me, and then she wanted to know if kissing is what makes babies.”

He could see Tara battling back a giggle. He wished he was in possession of a chain—one size smaller than the swanlike column of her neck.




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