Once A Wolf (20 page)

They scattered with happy shrieks. Only Enrique hung back, gazing at Tomás with naked

worship in his eyes.

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Tomás ruffled the boy's hair, pushed him toward the others with a companionable slap, and

turned to Rowena. "You must wish to see your house. Nestor will have the morning meal

prepared."

She realized that she was very hungry, and the prospect of a real chair and a table set with

breakfast was tantalizing. She gazed with troubled eyes after the children. They are not your

concern, she told herself. How can they be, when you're a prisoner yourself?

Yet Esperanza had become her concern, unleashing within her instincts she'd scarcely known

she possessed.

Instincts are dangerous. It is discipline and prudence that must guide you.

Resolutely she turned to follow Tomás across the square, Esperanza at her side. Tomás paused

to confer with the older man she presumed to be Nestor. She was reflecting upon the

disadvantages of not speaking Spanish when Esperanza pulled her to a stop, her fingers

wrapped around Rowena's in a death grip.

Rowena felt the reason before she saw it. Sim Kavanagh stood in the shadow of one of the

houses, simply staring at her. Or at Esperanza. At this distance it was difficult to tell. His gaze

alone was enough to raise the small, loose hairs on the back of Rowena's neck. She dropped the

flowers in her free hand.

Enemy, instinct cried. And for once it was in perfect agreement with common sense.

Nine

Violence. That was all Felícita could feel, trapped under the hot, fierce stare of the man called

Sim.

She was intimate with the sensation of hatred not her own. It had surrounded her like foul air in

Los Milagros after her uncle's death. She might almost have forgotten such torment, if not the

confusing emotions constantly swirling between Tomás and Rowena.

But she hadn't been prepared for Sim Kavanagh. The hatred of the villagers came from fear,

and fear she understood. Whenever Sim Kavanagh was near, something far more terrible

invaded her awareness. He was not like Tomás, or any of the others who rode with him. Men of

violence had sometimes come to Los Milagros, but her uncle had always kept them away from

the casa. They were never real to her… until now.

Tio was not here to protect her from Sim. She hadn't even known his name until the journey to

this place was nearly over, but she had learned very quickly to avoid him, just as she would stay

away from a scorpion or deadly serpiente.

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It did no good. For reasons she did not understand, he watched her. Again and again, she

sensed his stare following her—when she rode, when she ate, when she slept. He wanted

something from her, something she knew she could not give. His mind was a great darkness of

rage and engulfing need. If not for Rowena, she would have been lost in the bottomless chasm

of that darkness.

Once he had tried to touch her, and the lady had stopped him. That was the first time Felícita

knew that his menacing emotions were not only for her. He hated Rowena.

Now, in a place that should have been a sanctuary, Sim Kavanagh's hatred struck like the blows

of a hundred switches. He pulled and pulled at Felícita, but Rowena was the one he wished to

hurt.

Unable to cry out a warning, Felícita whimpered and clutched Rowena's hand.

Rowena pressed her fingers. "Don't be afraid," she said. "I won't let him hurt you."

Felícita shook her head in despair. Rowena must know that Sim was not her friend, but she did

not feel what Felícita felt.

The lady was in danger.

That certainty awakened in Felícita an unfamiliar impulse. She wished… she wished to protect

her friend. She, who had lived her life in her uncle's shadow, hardly allowed to stir beyond her

own doorstep, wished to protect a great lady who kept el lobo for a friend.

Loca. She was weak and ignorant, unable to take care of herself, let alone another. There were

too many new voices in her head, too much hidden pain. If she could not stop them from filling

her up, she would break like a clay pot used too many times.

Sim Kavanagh sauntered toward them, his black hat shading his eyes. "Buenos dias, pretty

señorita," he said, ignoring Rowena. Felícita shrank from the hunger in his gaze.

"I told you to stay away from this girl," Rowena said.

He drew the makings of a cigarette from his waistcoat and rolled the tobacco in its paper. He lit

it with a cerilla and inhaled deeply. "Maybe I've taken a fancy to her."

The lady seemed to glow with tension and anger. "Not if you value your life."

"Is that a threat?" Sim blew a cloud of smoke into Rowena's face. "Maybe you forgot our

conversation."

A bolt of sheer power shot through the lady and singed Felícita's hand like a lightning strike.

Felícita had never felt such awesome energy before—except in the wolf who had rescued her.

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Rowena was more than angry. Her pale golden-brown eyes narrowed to slits, and her lips drew

back from her teeth. Her face… her face…

She was on the verge of becoming something a hundred times more dangerous than Sim

Kavanagh.

"I have not forgotten," she said, her voice low and hoarse. "Make your quarrel with me, but do

not touch her."

He hurled the cigarette to the ground. "Funny how Tomás is never here when you need him."

"I do not need him to deal with you."

"That's good, because you'd better not go running to him for protection—not if you want this

little girl safe and sound."

Rowena flung up her arm, fist clenched. She didn't even touch Sim, but he jerked back as if he'd

been punched by a man twice his size.

Felícita swayed, battered by the weight of emotion: Rowena's rage at Sim and horror at that

rage; his answering hatred and shock. His face had grown as white as the lady's.

"You're like Tomás," he said harshly. "You're what he is."

Rowena's silent denial washed over Felícita, no, no, no, like the tolling of a bell in her head. She

opened her mouth to scream what Rowena would not: No, no, no…

"Rowena?"

Tomás. His voice was stronger than the unbearable denials. They died away, leaving an aching

quiet. Felícita blinked up at his face.

"I thought you were coming with me," he said. "Sim?"

Kavanagh and Rowena stood almost side by side, pretending that nothing had happened. Sim

looked straight into Tomás's eyes. "I was just welcoming the ladies."

The lie was a howling tempest at the center of his words. Rowena gathered Felícita into her

arms, trembling so slightly that no one else could see. "Esperanza requires peace and quiet,"

she said.

"And you'll wish to rest and refresh yourself," Tomás said. "I'm sure that Sim can save his

welcome for a better time."

Without another word Sim spun on his heel and strode toward the fields that stretched behind

the pueblacito. Tomás watched him go, the hint of a frown tugging at his dark brows. "My lady,

Nestor is here to show you to your casa."

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The old man Felícita had met last night came forward to greet Rowena. She let Nestor lead

them away, meek as a lamb, but underneath she seethed with anguish and shame.

Felícita did not know how to help her. All she could see, when she looked inside, was the tragic,

beautiful face of a ghost-white wolf.

The wooden door to the adobe house closed with a rattling thump and Rowena leaned against

it, concentrating on taking long, steady breaths. Esperanza sank into a huddle beside the wall,

her arms wrapped around her knees. Rowena was inclined to join her.

She was grateful that Tomás had not insisted on remaining. She'd come far too close to

disgracing herself in front of Kavanagh, Esperanza… and Tomás worst of all. There'd been a

moment, confronting Kavanagh, when she'd faced the wild, appalling urge to strip off her

clothes and Change.

It had never happened before. She had been compelled to Change, at Greyburn, but not since

adolescence had she felt remotely tempted. Nor had she suffered such mindless anger.

Sim's threat to Esperanza, not herself, had triggered it. "Tomás is never around when you need

him," Kavanagh had said with belligerent mockery.

But he'd also threatened to hurt Esperanza if she told Tomás. That chance she wasn't willing to

take… not yet.

She turned from the door and drew Esperanza to her feet. "Come. Shall we take a tour of our

new—" Prison? It wouldn't help Esperanza to speak so bitterly. "—our new home?" she

finished.

The house was very similar to the one in which she'd spent the night at Rito Pequeño, though it

consisted of only two rooms. The main chamber was sparsely furnished with a crudely made

table, four wooden chairs, shelves, and a cupboard. A hive-shaped fireplace was built into a far

corner. The windows were small and deep and set with shutters instead of glass. A woven rug

provided the single covering for the earthen floor.

An open doorway led to the other room, which was fitted with a narrow bed, a carved chest

bearing a bowl and pitcher for washing, and a second cupboard that she guessed must serve as

an armoire. A clay jug of flowers rested on the windowsill.

The place was clean enough, in spite of the primitive furnishings. But it lacked warmth or

personality. Who had lived here? The house hadn't been built for Rowena's use alone.

She availed herself of the water to wash her face and hands. Esperanza copied her.

"Shall we see about breakfast?" she asked the girl. Esperanza nodded, the fear already fading

from her eyes. As promised, a meal awaited them on the table in the main room. Rowena was

long past balking at tortillas and frijoles; she'd even begun to enjoy the unique flavors and

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textures of the local cuisine. To her surprise, someone had provided more strawberries, fresh

bread, butter, and real tea, served on chipped china.

Who else but Tomás?

Let him play the generous host. She wasn't fool enough to reject a good meal. In England, it was

not the custom for ladies to do more than sample their food. The wilderness demanded quite a

different attitude; one could not predict the regularity or size of the next meal. Rowena

intended to keep herself strong and ready, and set a good example for Esperanza.

The girl, to her satisfaction, ate with real appetite, though she was obviously not familiar with

butter or tea. She watched Rowena carefully for cues. Rowena showed her with gestures how

to spread butter on neatly sliced bread, and pour out tea.

While they ate, Rowena directed her thoughts to the most pressing problem in her immediate

future: Tomás Alejandro Randall.

Last night already seemed like a dream. The cave, and Tomás's kiss, had temporarily stolen her

discernment as well as her self-control. Now that she was safely within man-made walls,

however crude, she could think properly again. As she sipped her tea, the pattern became clear.

Until last night, she'd managed to treat his sensual badinage and too-intimate behavior as

attempts to demoralize and intimidate her, establish his dominance as any beast might do.

Even the erotic mental images had seemed like some sort of disagreeable game, just another

part of his revenge on Cole that extended to her.

The kiss had forced her to reconsider that theory. It hadn't been given in jest, nor used as yet

another weapon to confuse and subdue her. Tomás had meant it quite sincerely—as sincerely

as a man like him ever could.

All in all he'd behaved much better than she could have anticipated. He'd never truly hurt her,

and had gone out of his way, on occasion, to make her comfortable. There was no earthly

reason that he should spend so much effort to beguile a mere hostage… unless he meant not

only to hold her for ransom, but to seduce her as well.

Had he planned seduction from the beginning, when he'd first stolen her from Weylin in

Colorado? His conduct had been overly familiar from the start. The more she resisted his

provoking insinuations, the more determined he became to—how had he said it? To treat her

"like a clever, spirited, passionate woman."

He believed she was passionate. He believed she could be won.

And she had been won, in the cave, for a few stunning moments. How hard had she fought

him? The memory filled her less with mortification than with wonder. She touched her parted

lips. They throbbed with a phantom ache, as if they yearned for something lost.

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