A Wolf in the Desert (13 page)

“You noticed.”

“I had a clue or two.” She hoped he would say more, tell her more. Instead he leapt agilely onto a ledge and turned to assist her.

“We have a short climb ahead, but I think you'll find it well worth the effort.” Over his shoulder he advised, “Some of the rock is unstable, step where I step, test your position before you shift your weight.”

Following the succinct instruction, they climbed single file and in silence. Patience concentrated on the broad, strong back, the lithe sure step as Indian moved again as if he were born of such country, as if he were part of it. Her concentration was so complete, she gave the changing terrain only cursory attention. Quite without her realizing it, they were on level ground, and the still hush of the canyon was broken by the whispering rush of falling water.

Indian stopped short and turned, folding her into his arms as she bumped into him. “O'Hara?”

She wondered how he could stop and turn without her knowledge when she watched him so intently. In the security of his embrace, she understood how taxing the precarious climb had been, how footsore she was, and how tired. “Time to rest before going on?”

“Time to rest.” His indulgent chuckle was a rumble deep in his throat. “But we aren't going on.” Keeping one arm around her, he swung away, offering a magnificent panorama with a sweep of the other. “Look. See what wonderful secrets my country keeps.”

My country.
His words were possessive, proud, and the secrets he shared were truly wonderful. Patience was without voice. She simply accepted the pleasure of his embrace as part of the enchantment of what could only be paradise. They stood at the edge of the topmost ledge of another mesa. She'd begun to feel as if she were wrapped in a marvelously intricate Chinese puzzle.

“A mesa within a canyon, within a mesa, within a canyon.” She was transfixed by the land in front of her.

“It boggles the mind what time and water and a bit of wind can create.” Indian stroked her hair and looked with her at streams that tumbled down a steep slope, twisting, mingling, only to rush apart, finally cascading over mantles of rock to join again. The pool at the base of the falls was a perfect mirror, giving back twofold the richness of clusters of trees and shrubs, and walls of red rock rising tall against the backdrop of a sky as blue as Callie's eyes.

“I haven't seen so much water in days, weeks, a month.”

“For this day, it's yours, Patience. Every drop of it.”

She almost moaned aloud, thinking of a long soak and the luxury of scrubbing her hair with no thought to conserving limited supplies of water. Indian had never once insisted she be sparing, but innate caution dictated she must. But the pool, a perfect circle carved by the falls, seemed like a tiny, shimmering sea. “A bath. A real bath.”

“I would have wagered that would be your first thought.” He tugged at her braid and smiled. “I'll make myself scarce for a while. I set some snares earlier, if we're lucky, our dinner is there.”

“Dinner?” Patience was surprised at his casual assumption they would be in the canyon that long. “You intend to stay for dinner?”

“I intended to stay the night, unless you object.”

“Won't it cause trouble if we aren't in camp by nightfall?”

“Not so long as we're where we're expected to be by morning. I sleep apart like this more often than not. They're accustomed to it.”

“What if they come looking for you because I'm with you?”

“Let them.”

“But...”

“Shh.” He stopped her with the slant of a finger over her lips. “They couldn't find the canyon if they searched for the next ten years. I'm going now to cover our tracks and hide the entrance. You have all the time and water you could wish for. So make the most of it, it may be some time before the odds are so favorable again.” With a little bow he backed away. “I leave you to do the things a woman misses most in the desert.” Another smile flashed over his face. “Enjoy.”

He didn't ask her if she could swim. It didn't occur to him that he should. It was unthinkable that a woman as confident and able could not. It wasn't worry on that score that had him stopping and turning back before he dropped off the side of the ledge. “One more thing. I made camp just beyond the clump of ponderosas past the pool.” The ponderosa shouldn't be appearing, not yet, but the canyon within a canyon had a climate all its own. Plants not normally endemic to the locale thrived in comfortable profusion in this enchanted place. “There's a packet of fresh clothing lying by the pit for the camp fire.”

Before she could ask him what clothing, from where, he disappeared over the rim. When she was alone, totally alone, with not even a bird in the sky, or buzzing insect for company, she regarded the pool with delicious longing. Then, shedding first her hat, and next her boots, she began to discard the remainder of her clothing one sweat-soaked garment at a time. As she tossed away a lacy scrap of bra and the wisp that was her panties, she tugged the Indian's thong from her braid and worked her fiery hair free of the confining weave. With no worry that her keeper hadn't gone to the floor of the canyon as he said, she stole a moment to bask in the sun. And no matter that its rays were strong and unrelenting, the feel of it was marvelous, penetrating deep into her bones, sending warmth to do battle with a coldness that never seemed to leave her.

Eager as she was to feel the water wash over her, she delayed, savoring the delight of her anticipation. When she could stand to wait no more, and took those steps that would bring her to the edge of the pool, she was surprised to find a thick towel folded and waiting on a flat stone at the water's edge. On it was a small flask of shampoo, and a bar of fine, milled French soap.

A gift from Indian, a man far too thoughtful and kind to play the role of a villainous biker.

“Role?” Patience hesitated at the water's edge. “Where did that idea come from?” Had it been in the back of her mind all along? Did it explain her obsession with knowing who and what he was?

“
Is
this a masquerade, Indian?” It would resolve so many unanswered questions if it were.

Wading at last into the warm, bright water of the pool that had once been sustenance of the ancients, she knew she must have her answer.

“Before we leave the canyon, he
will
tell me his name and why he pretends.” The promise lingered in the hush of the canyon and she slipped beneath the surface of the pool, swimming with strong, competent strokes. Surfacing with an explosive, invigorated surge, she flung back her hair with purpose the soothing water couldn't diminish.

“Yes!” she promised. “Before we leave the canyon.”

S
he swam, basked in the kinder late-afternoon sun, and swam again. Water as delightful as liquid silk caressed her skin, sunlight refurbished her strength. Like a desert sprite, she whiled away the time. Minutes grew into an hour, then two, then slipped away, and she never knew.

Patience was in a world apart, where there were no Blue Doggies, no Snakes, no Evas. A world where there was only she, the sun, the water, and somewhere near, Indian.

The rapidly changing cant of the sun dappled the mirrored surface of the pool with deepening green-gold shades of aspen. Grass and shrub rustled not quite soundlessly with the secret retreat of creatures ceding prior claims. Dauntless hummingbirds came to drink, hovering indignantly, fussily chittering their displeasure with her. Laughing at their antics, she felt a twinge of guilt, yet not enough to leave the pool. It was the scent of food, borne on a drift of wood smoke that pulled her at last from the water.

Smoke rose in a thin, transparent column from the direction Indian had pointed out as their campsite. Glancing at the angle of the sun, reckoning with surprise the passage of time, she knew he'd attended the tasks he'd set for himself. Once he had erased their trail, obscured the entrance to the canyon, and taken the catch from his snares, by a path other than the one that led past the pool, he'd returned to camp.

And thereby lay an unexpected dilemma. Her own clothing was soaked, scrubbed with the fragrant soap and draped over a juniper to dry. The packet of clothing Indian had provided still lay in its place by the camp fire. Unless she chose to cover herself with jeans and shirt still dripping puddles in the dust and squish her way to the fire and food, she had her hat, her boots, and a towel.

Undecided, she stood at the water's edge, her hair streaming down her back, the towel wrapped sarong fashion around the tops of her breasts. Looking from jeans and shirt, dark and weighted with water, to lingerie so delicate it drifted in a breeze she couldn't detect on her damp skin, she made her choice.

Moments later, ravenously hungry, dressed in panties, boots, a hat and a towel, she crossed the grassy expanse that led to the copse of trees and Indian's camp. With what dignity she could muster, she forced herself to walk nonchalantly to the circle of the fire. Something like small chickens roasted over a spit. There was coffee in the dented tin pot Indian used regularly, and a can of peaches lying on the ground. Patience's bedroll was spread over a gathering of grasses, and on it lay a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

“All the comforts of home,” she muttered. “But where is our host?”

“Right behind you, Pocahontas.”

Patience spun around as Indian stepped from shadows gathering beneath the trees. “Goodness! You startled me.”

“Sorry.” The canteen he'd refilled in the nearby stream was forgotten as he let his gaze roam over her from hat to boots, and back again to the towel lapped securely at her breasts. “I have to admit, you startled me, too.”

“Oh?” Patience didn't pretend to misunderstand. Her state of undress was unintentionally provocative, but provocative nevertheless. And at the moment she profoundly wished she hadn't left her bra behind. At the time, the thought of the lacy straps revealed above the towel seemed...what? More improper than naked breasts? She wasn't quite sure what she thought. When desire flamed in his eyes, she wasn't quite sure of anything.

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

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

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

A man unlike any she'd ever known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won't worry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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