Desert Angel (26 page)

She was everything feminine, everything desirable. She had an inner core of strength that was pure steel, and he found himself praying that she would call on that strength to survive this ordeal.

He had no fear for Jamie. Granted, he wanted his son back, but as long as he was with March, the baby could not be safer. She would fight the devil himself to protect his child … her child.

Hands tightening into fists, he savored the moment when he could use them on Fred Ham- ner. Hank had regained consciousness long enough to name his assailant, and to plead with Jim to find March before it was too late.

This time the younger man would not have a few bruises that kept him in bed for a couple of weeks. Jim smiled, a smile completely devoid of humor. This time Fred Hamner’s rest would be permanent.

Lost in his thoughts of revenge, Jim was startled when Breed mounted his horse and moved slowly out from under the trees. Following his foreman, Jim tried to see whatever it was that was guiding the man. There were so many hoofprints, that one pretty well blended into another, making a trail impossible for Jim to see.

But Breed saw it. His pale blue eyes, trained by master trackers, knew where to look and what to look for. He stopped and motioned for Jim to join him.

“You’ve found it?”

“For now.” Breed looked forward into the desert. “I started looking in the wrong direction,” he admitted with no sign of embarrassment for his mistake. “I was wrong to think that he’d head on up the mountain. I hope he was prepared for the desert, because there is nothing between here and Tucson but miles of sand and a few hundred cactus.”

“Damn,” Jim swore under his breath. March and the baby couldn’t survive for long under the blazing sun. And it had already been several hours since the abduction.

Without wasting time or exchanging further words, the two men began following the trail. Jim was relieved when they were able to pick up their pace; there was nothing to interfere with the trail left by the galloping horse.

Within a very short time, both men realized that the trail was heading toward the line shack. Breed was still cautious enough to watch for the track in case it unexpectedly veered off, but Jim’s attention was captured by dark specks circling in the horizon.

He knew they had found their quarry, but the buzzards could only mean one thing. No longer able to hold back, Jim spurred his horse into a gallop.

As the shack came into sight, they saw that several of the massive birds were on the ground in front of it, while still more circled overhead. Their strident squawking ceased abruptly, followed by the sound of wings flapping furiously as they made their escape from the approaching humans.

“The smell of man has kept them outside.” Breed slowed his horse and studied the deserted cabin. He was too well trained in warfare to approach a structure without being concerned for ambush.

Jim, more concerned with finding March and Jamie than with his own safety, was not nearly as cautious. He drew his .45 from its holster, but made no attempt to slow the horse until he was at the door.

The lowering sun shined brightly into the shack and onto the body in the doorway. Sighing with relief that it was a man rather than a slender-framed woman, Jim dismounted.

The bloated body already decomposing in the heat, Jim used his foot to turn it face up. He wasn’t surprised to discover that it was Fred, but had to swallow back his bitter disappointment that someone else had had the pleasure of killing the man.

A quick search of the tiny room proved empty of March and Jamie. Where were they, he wondered, as a new fear crept up his spine. If she had ventured into the desert, she could be dead by now. Without water she would die of thirst. Without a gun to protect herself, she could be bitten by a snake and might die an agonizingly slow death from the poison.

Facing his own agonizing pain, Jim left the shack, slamming the door closed. As far as he was concerned, the buzzards could have Fred’s body. But he knew Fred’s father would want to bury his only son.

Breed had seen the single body in the shack, and hadn’t bothered to dismount. He didn’t waste valuable time examining a dead man. The sun was lowering rapidly, and with it came the darkness that made tracking impossible.

Again, Jim found himself waiting for his foreman to pick up the trail. The soft whinnying of a horse drew his attention to the corral. The animal’s saddle had been removed, and the horse came willingly when Jim approached the fence.

Why hadn’t March taken the horse? Why had she left the cabin on foot?

Reaching for the reins, Jim led the animal from the corral and mounted his own horse.

Breed was too far away to make conversation easy, but Jim didn’t join him until Breed signaled that it was all right.

“What did you find?”

“She isn’t alone.” Breed’s eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. “I’d say your visitor from yesterday found her.”

“The Indian?” Jim asked, perplexed.

“The trail circles back on itself several times. It’s an old trick, used to slow down the tracker so that there is more time to escape. Not too many white men know how to do that.”

“So where does it lead?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll follow it for as long as necessary.”

“I don’t want to waste the time,” Jim snarled as frustration built.

“If we pick up a false trail, we may lose even more time.” He looked toward the sun to judge how long it would be before it set. “We still have a couple of hours. We might pick up the trail before then.”

“If we don’t?”

“Then we’ll find it tomorrow.”

“Damn!” Jim thought of the renegade who had taken a liking to March. If he had found her, then he wouldn’t be overly willing to give her back.

Breed moved away from his boss, and began the time-consuming task of following a trail that was deliberately misleading. His respect for his adversary grew as the trail repeatedly returned to its original starting place, while giving no clue to its final destination.

A feeling of helplessness fed Jim’s frustration as he faithfully followed along behind Breed. There was nothing he could do except stay out of the way, until the foreman found the real trail.

The old wolf found the female and moved to her side. Her thick, luxurious fur gleamed with a golden cast in the bright morning light. Her eyes, the color of gathering storm clouds, sparkled with an intelligence and wisdom far past her years.

Raising her head, she glanced curiously at him. Had she met him earlier, she might have shown an interest in becoming his mate. He was a strong, vibrant male, emitting that mysterious something that attracted the attention of any female. He carried his age as a mantle of knowledge and wisdom.

Yes, he was one whom she would have chosen, if she hadn’t already given her trust to the other one, the one with whom she would spend the many years of her life.

Excited by her scent, he sniffed appreciatively, ignoring warning snarls. He was, after all, the male; she the female. It would take time, but she would learn.

He tried to mount her, but she daintily stepped away. Once more he assumed the position and tried again to mount. This time she turned, a swirling fury of golden fur and silver eyes.

Not ready to concede defeat, he forced her to change her direction to his own. Nipping at her heels and the scruff of her neck, the old one guided her for several miles.

At a water hole, she stopped and dropped to the ground. Night was coming on, it was the best time to hunt, but she made no effort to rise. He knew he couldn’t leave her to hunt on his own, or she would be gone when he returned. Given no other choice, he lay beside her.

But he found that his rest wasn’t as contented as it should be. His belly rumbled with hunger, and his ears hurt from her sorrowful cry. He hoped that she would soon accept him and become the mate he so badly needed.

It became the pattern of the next few days. Each morning he would try to mount her, only to be fiercely rejected. She only moved when he forced her, never hunted for food, and cried long into the night.

Her fur soon lost the vibrant glow of good health. Her tail curled between her legs, and her ears lay flat against her head. She was going with him, but she was allowing herself to wither away.

Finally he accepted that he could keep her, but could never have her as the mate he desired. He would have to let her go or watch her slowly die.

He couldn’t just walk away. He had to assure himself that she was safe. The morning light barely broke the darkness from the sky, when he began retracing the path they had already taken.

She followed slowly behind him, her look wary, as if she expected some trick. As the day drew on, she began to realize that he was returning her to her home. Yipping with a joy so absolute it hurt his heart, the old one watched as she hurried on ahead.

Traveling all that day and night, it was early the next morning when they were back at their meeting place. Feeling older than his years, he watched as she sniffed the ground, renewing her own scent in place of the faded odors.

He knew the moment she discovered a different scent than her own. Watching her, he saw her stiffen momentarily and then raise her head. With a howl more beautiful than any he had ever heard in his many years, she jumped into a run.

Curious, and not quite ready to relinquish his hold, he followed her. Within a short time his curiosity was satisfied, in a way he wished, he could deny.

On a hill waited a young male, not much older than her, his black fur gleaming with youth and health. At his feet were several pups, gamboling about in the morning dew, their fat little bodies a combination of her golden fur and his ebony pelt.

The old one turned away from the happiness that was nearly more than he could endure. A soft, sweet call drifted down to him, and in spite of himself he stopped and turned around.

She took several steps in his direction, puppies rolling playfully at her feet. Once more she howled softly, while at her side her mate stood proudly.

The old one turned back toward his own territory, his steps self-confident; his pride was restored. It was done, but her final cry had told him that he would have been her choice, if he had found her sooner.

The cry of the wolf still echoing in his ears, Light knew that further sleep was impossible. He rose, checked on his horse, and then lowered himself to the ground beside March, and watched her sleep. She was curled protectively around the baby, her arm a barrier against harm. Her golden hair was spread over her shoulder, and into the sand at her back.

He struggled against the vision that had haunted his sleep. He would have to take her back. There was no choice. The old one had sent him to protect her from the white man who had meant to harm her, but he hadn’t intended for Light to take her as his own.

He knew that she would never adapt to the lifestyle of his people. Her spirit would forever mourn the mate she had been forced to leave. She would become a bitter, cruel woman; far from the gentle, giving woman she was now.

He had nothing to give her, not a home or family or even a people. He was running from the white man’s law, his actions branding him as a renegade in the white man’s eyes. Life on the run was not what he wanted for himself and this woman.

Briefly, Light let himself think of a time when life had been good, when food was plentiful and his people were content. It would never be again as it once was, and he would forever mourn the loss.

As he would forever sorrow for what might have been with this woman, if things had been different.

Taking the knife from its sheath on his thigh, Light separated a clump of her hair and easily sheared it off. Wrapping the golden strands around his hand, he waited for her to wake.

March shifted, the hard ground penetrating through layers of sleep, until she was forced to open her eyes. Light sat cross-legged beside her, his dark eyes unfathomable. She focused on the knife in one of his hands and the strand of her hair in the other. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her.

“Take me home, Light.” Her voice was husky with sleep, her eyes deep pools of silver.

Without acknowledging that he had heard her, Light rose gracefully to his feet, returning the knife to its resting place on his hip. Watching him walk away, March sighed and sat up. Jamie squirmed and stretched and rolled to his back. Grabbing his feet, he looked up at March and smiled a toothless grin of pleasure at finding her so close.

Muttering meaningless nonsense to him, she changed him with his last clean towel. She had washed his dirty ones last night in the shallow creek, but hated the thought of putting them on him. The water was so low that there was no way she could get all of the sand out of them, and she knew that it would soon irritate his sensitive skin.

Light did not reappear until after she had nursed Jamie and had taken care of her own morning necessities. Hunger gnawed at her backbone, needlessly reminding her of her limited food the day before, and bringing back memories of a time when hunger had been a way of life.