A Wolf in the Desert (8 page)

“If he is what he seems then we don't have a problem, do we?” Hoke leaned back against the boulder, rubbing his thumb absently over the face of his watch. “We have time, all the time we need. Watch him. For now it should be enough.”

Grumbling at the turn of events, and over their spoiled game, one by one Snake and Hogan and Custer followed Hoke's lead, tossing their cards into the fire. One by one they sauntered away, leaving their covert leader to his speculations.

Cognizant of the sudden resurgence of suspicion, but unaware of how serious the doubt had grown, Indian covered the distance between the camps in long, muffled strides. His soundless approach offered no warning. Patience's first inkling of his presence was the clasp of his hand at her wrist, stopping the motion of the brush.

She whirled to face him, catching her hair in a low, swaying limb of the juniper that clustered at her back. “Indian! You startled me. I thought...”

“That I was one of the others?” He knelt by her, taking the brush from her shaking fingers. “I could have been. Because of this.”

“Because of a hairbrush?” Color that had flown from her face began to return pretty degree by pretty degree. “I don't understand.”

Indian sighed and rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger, wishing he could rub away the weight of his worries. “I know you don't. God help us both, I know. Just don't brush your hair by the fire anymore. Better yet, don't brush it at all.”

Patience's temper flared unreasonably, burning hotter in the aftermath of shock. “You abduct me, destroy Beauty, keep me prisoner in this godforsaken land, insist that I wear this—” she clutched the thong he'd worn in his hair, crumpling turquoise and feathers in her fist “—branding me as your property. I've slept on the ground, freezing by night, sweltering by day. I haven't had a real bath in days, and now you say I can't even brush the tangles from my hair?”

“You have them catalogued, don't you?” Indian observed. “All my sins.”

“I've only just begun.”

“No, O'Hara, you're all through.” Rising, he took her with him.

“Ouch!” Patience pulled free of him as her head was jerked back by the juniper. “Are you in such a hurry to scalp me that you're going to do it without a knife? The right way would be less painful.”

Indian didn't answer. His hand rested lightly at the knife once more in its scabbard in his moccasin. As she twisted and turned, trying to see, trying to untangle herself and only making matters worse, he drew the knife, lifting it over her head.

Patience screamed and dodged again as the knife descended. ”Don't you dare!”

The knife cut cleanly through the limb, sending the fragrance of fresh evergreen wafting over Patience. The clean scent she forever associated with Indian. Her sudden release from the talons of the limb sent her stumbling into him. As his arms closed around her she fought, by instinct rather than thought, clawing and scratching at every inch of bare skin she could reach.

“Ouch, yourself, wildcat.” Indian held her away from him, his arms long enough to turn her fight to futile pantomime. “Be still. I only cut you free.”

Patience stopped at the top of her swing. Color that had drained from her face again, was slow to return as she lowered her arm. “The knife, you were angry.” She was babbling and didn't know how to stop. “I thought you were trying to scalp me.”

“Scalp you?” He smiled grimly down at her. “Believe me, I was tempted.”

“But you didn't.”

He chuckled for real at the understatement of the obvious. “Maybe next time.”

“You and who else?” Patience chose bravado to mask her turmoil.

“Only Indian, my dear girl.”

“I'm not your dear, and I'm certainly not your girl,” she flung back at him.

Indian drew a weary breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the vest. Angry welts left by her nails were vivid on his coppery skin. “I'm aware of that.”

“Good.” Crossing her arms over her breasts she continued to glare up at him. “At least we got that straight.”

“Very straight.” On the heels of the clipped response, he reached for her. “Come here.”

“No.” Patience skidded back a step, but not far enough.

He pulled her closer, forcing her down with him to the ground, fitting himself snugly at her back, his knees bent at her sides.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as she tried to turn.

Folding his hands around the back of her head, he turned her firmly to the front. “Be still, unless you want this twig to become so entangled in your hair we have to cut it free. If that's the case, I can make quick work of it. Then your only decision will be whether you want to start a trend of being half scalped and half not, or wear a crew cut.”

He released her, pulling the knife from the scabbard in which it had only just been sheathed. Holding it in front of her, he turned it slowly, letting her absorb the impact of what he'd said. “There's another way. You can behave. If you do, I think I can work it free.”

He turned the knife again. “Which will it be?”

Patience started to speak, but words of surrender clogged her throat. She drew a long, hard breath, cleared her throat, and licked lips as parched as the desert at midday. Her voice was barely a breath itself. “I'll be still.”

“What was that?” He leaned close, his cheek brushing her hair, his lips nearly touching her ear. “Did you say something?”

“You heard me.” She raised her voice a decibel.

“Did I?”

“Dammit, Indian!”

“Tut, tut.” His breath was warm on her neck. ”You're getting angry again.”

“I'm not angry.”

“If you're not, I'd like to see the fireworks when you are.”

“Shut up,” Patience snapped. “Just shut up and cut it.”

Indian leaned away from her, stroking her hair with one hand, stealthily sheathing the knife with the other. Clasping a strand that gleamed like burnished rubies, he let it drift through his fingers. “What a shame.” His hand tightened again, tugging lightly. If the edge of the other hand pressing down on the stunning mass were really a knife, the lock he held would have been shorn at the scalp.

“Wait.” She caught his wrist in her healing hands. ”Don't.”

“Don't what?” he asked with a wicked innocence.

“Don't cut my hair. I'll be still.” The words didn't come any easier from repetition.

Indian laughed and released her. “I thought you might.”

“Put your knife away.” If she clenched her teeth any harder they would break.

“My knife is in its scabbard.”

“It has been all along.” Patience finished for him. “You never intended to cut my hair.”

“I'm an Indian, not a criminal. Cutting hair like yours would certainly be a crime.”

“Yet I shouldn't brush it? That makes no sense.”

“It would if you understood the men you're dealing with.”

“If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be dealing with them.”

“No,” he agreed with deceptive mildness, “by now you wouldn't be dealing with anyone, anywhere. If you don't count Saint Peter at the pearly gates.”

Biting down on her tongue she stopped its runaway harangue. Indian was right. He'd saved her life and more, but her abominable Irish pride would only admit it in the most private part of herself. “Oh, forget it. Just take the blasted tree from my hair.”

“Please?”

Patience hesitated.

Indian waited.

She knew he would wait forever with the implacable tenacity of his kind. “Irish pride, be damned,” she muttered. “Take the tree from my hair. Please.”

“My pleasure.” There was laughter in his deep tone.

She was tempted to make a pointedly caustic comment about fools laughing in the face of disaster, but his hands were in her hair lifting it from her neck. His fingers carefully puzzled through the intricacies of the snarl. He was gentle as he always was when there was peace between them. He worked without rancor, meticulously, long after she would have ripped the twig away, and with it any tangled hair.

She felt herself relaxing, forgetting. She heard only the sound of his breath as it whispered over the nape of her neck. There was darkness around them, sometimes she felt there was always darkness when they were at peace. The fire burned brighter and the night grew darker. Flames leapt and curled in a beguiling dance. The sky above the rim was clear. Stars, scattered over it like crystals over midnight velvet, seemed close enough to catch, to pull from the sky.

No clouds blotted the perfect panorama, yet in her pensiveness she heard the methodic and muted rush of thunder. A steady, rhythmic throb. Too steady? Too rhythmic? Too close? Not thunder at all?

Finding she was free, discovering he hadn't moved away though he no longer touched her, she bowed her head, turning until her cheek brushed his chest. The buckskin was as supple and cool as satin, his flesh hot and firm. There was no thunder. The beat of his heart filled her mind and body, singing through her blood.

She could touch him. All she needed was to turn her head only a fraction to press her lips to his chest. She felt herself drifting and wanting. Wanting his arms around her. Wanting his lips against hers. Wanting things she'd never dreamed. Wanting him.

Bawdy laughter sheared through her reverie. The inescapable call of reality that his gentle touch might ease, but wouldn't change. Pulling away, she sat stiffly, questioning the sanity of her response to him.

“Patience,” he began, and there was question in the low rumble.

“No,” she refused violently, “I don't want to hear.” She felt the quick rise of his chest, the heat of him burned through her shirt.

“Of course.” He eased away, his hands lifted in resignation. “You're right. Some things are better left unsaid.”

“When you finish, we can forget this happened.”

“It's finished.”

“Thank you.” The words rang false even to her ears.

“Por nada.”
He slipped away from her and stood to pace the edge of their camp. His back was toward her as he faced the inky canyon wall.

“For nothing,” Patience interpreted, using the Spanish taught her by one of her many tutors. For nothing, he claimed, but when she was honest she knew it should be for everything.

Climbing to her feet, she was surprised that she wanted to smooth over their differences, to regain the rare but erratic camaraderie they shared. “I'm sorry this was such a bother. I'll be more careful of the trees next time.”

“There won't be a next time.” He turned on her and his face was controlled and grim. “You'll brush your hair in the lean-to, and if that isn't good enough for you, Princess O'Hara, you won't brush it at all. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.” She bristled and any desire for truce ended. “Since you were kind enough to build this castle away from the castle, I think I'll make use of it. Early to bed, early to rise, you know.”

“Be careful, princess. All the early bird gets is the worm.”

“Good,” she quipped as she moved to the bushy structure. “Even a worm would be better company than you.”

“You didn't think so a few minutes ago.” He aimed his jeer at her back. “That wasn't what you thought at all.”

Her step developed a hitch, she slowed and faced him. “A few minutes ago I was crazy. Given the things that have happened, I'm entitled to a crazy misstep.”

“Now you've made it,” he suggested in his laconic fashion.

“A doozy.” She curtsied, an insolent princess in front of the king. “With your permission, or not, I think I'll retire. My friend the worm will be waiting in the morning.”

Crossing the camp, she was a lady, regal in faded jeans and scuffed boots. When she reached the lean-to he called after her, “What really happened here tonight, O'Hara?”

She didn't turn. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”

“Good.” The word was a low, guttural bark. “I'm glad you realize it was nothing, and that nothing can come of nothing.”

“Thank you for that profound analysis.”

“Anytime.” Then, because he was weary of this, of himself and of their battles, he commanded, “Go to bed. The sooner you do, the sooner tomorrow will come. Then there will be one less day before I can be rid of you.”

Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he stalked into the desert, for once careless of his step. Small stones rolled beneath his feet, scrub clawed at his clothes. His escape into the dark was viciously clumsy and haphazard, and unlike him. His response to Patience was as vicious, but calculated to be so. To drive her away.

Because he cared.

He cared too much, and he knew he shouldn't.

Patience lay in the cloistering shelter, her eyes wide and unseeing as she listened to his thrashing passage. She hurt deep inside with a restless sort of ache, and didn't know why. She lay for hours, listening even after his steps faded away, too tense to rest, too bewildered to sleep.

Sounds of night in the canyon had grown familiar in the two weeks that seemed an eternity. Most familiar was Indian's hushed and tired sigh as he slipped into the lean-to to lie at her back.

She didn't speak or touch him. But as she sensed his presence, drawing comfort from the warm strength hidden in the long, lean body, the knotted ache in her slowly unwound. Her eyelids grew heavy, quivering nerve endings quieted. She slept then, and was not aware that she slept. With Indian at her side, even the nightly revelry of the camp didn't disturb her.

Indian lay beside her, a prisoner of his thoughts, every sense alert as he prepared for the inevitable, regretting what he must do.

Hoke was suspicious, Snake wanted the woman and would do anything to have her. They would be watching, along with the others, waiting for a mistake, a wrong word, a wrong move. They would begin the surveillance by coming tonight to satisfy a sick curiosity. How he acted and Patience reacted could mollify distrust or prove a point.