Once A Wolf (28 page)

the feelings of others became too strong and confusing in her head. But she was not safe. Not

even here.

Now she knew why the people who paid Tio to speak with her were so eager to believe the

good things she told them, even when she could only guess what they wished to hear. She had

wished to believe that running away from the village would be enough.

She had chosen to come to this cañon with Rowena and Tomás. They were strong; they would

rescue her from the dangers of a world she did not understand.

But the lady could not protect her completely. If her strength was great, her feelings were just

as irresistible. Felícita heard them, no matter how hard she tried not to. When the lady thought

of Tomás, they became almost frightening—as frightening as those of Sim Kavanagh.

Yet there had been times, like this morning in the casa, when she wished so very much to help

the lady in her distress. She had… needed to help, but she didn't know how.

If only she were not so stupid. If only she were not so very much afraid-—afraid that if she

reached too deeply into another's soul, she would lose the little bit she had of herself, however

worthless it seemed.

Shivering, she put on her wet skirt and started up the trail toward the village. She was torn as

the lady was torn. She wanted to leave the valley, but she wanted to stay; she was desperate to

escape the tumultuous feelings shouting in her mind, and yet she could not bear to be alone.

If she could find a way out of the cañon, she could take the lady with her. Wouldn't that solve

both their problems? Rowena would be free of Don Tomás and all the unbearable things he

made her feel. And Felícita would have peace.

Peace, and quiet in her mind at last—

"Why in such a hurry, pretty señorita?"

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She froze. Sim Kavanagh blocked the path like a great black raven. All at once the vast heavy

cloud of his violent need rolled out to swallow her, and she reached for something, anything, to

hold onto.

He grabbed her wrist. "What's wrong with you?"

Wrong, wrong, wrong. She opened her mouth to gasp for air. Moments ago she'd nearly been

lost in the yearnings of Tomás and Rowena, but at least they had thought only of each other.

The danger came from being too near the scalding white heat of their passion, like a moth

drawn to its death in a candle flame.

With Sim Kavanagh she stood on the crumbling edge of the very pit of hell. He hated Rowena,

but his need was all for her. His furious wanting battered at her like a fist on a wall, as if she

could give him what he must have to live. But she had nothing to give.

Let me go, she screamed. The cry stopped in her throat.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice laced with disgust. "Sit." He pulled her off the

path and forced her down on the trunk of a fallen pine. She shrank in on herself, arms wrapped

tight about her chest, while he plucked a rolled cigarette from his chaleco and lit it.

"Now we can have our talk," he said. He flicked ashes onto the end of the tree trunk inches

from her hand. "I wouldn't go running to the English bitch, if I were you. Not if you want her

safe."

She closed her eyes. No, Rowena couldn't help her now.

"They say you're a witch," he said leaning close. "Witch. Bruja, comprende?"

His feelings made his meaning clear. Bruja was what the villagers had called her after Tio died.

They would have laughed to know how little power she had.

"I hear those villagers were mighty scared of you," he said. "Can you cast spells? Make someone

go away? Scare them off?" He knelt so that his hard, bitter face was level with hers. "Don't lie

to me, paloma."

Make someone go away. Felícita knew who he meant. He wanted Rowena to go away. He

wanted her to help.

It was so close to what she'd been thinking, that she and Rowena could both leave the cañon

and find another place to be safe. But Sim Kavanagh didn't want the lady to be safe.

She shook her head emphatically. He stared at her with narrowed eyes, and she was afraid he

didn't believe her.

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"No witch," he muttered. "But there's something about you…" His heavy brows wrinkled in

something like bewilderment. "What is it? What are you?"

Compelled to meet his gaze, Felícita had no way to answer. Again his wanting overwhelmed her

thoughts. Wanting… and fear. Fear just like hers or Rowena's or anyone else's. Fear of losing

what he had.

Out of the void of her own terror, a tiny seed of understanding struggled toward the distant

light.

He turned his head and spat, crushing the seed before it could begin to grow. "To hell with

that," he said. "You'll be of use to me one way or another." He paused to listen to the silence of

the wood, as if he thought someone might be eavesdropping. "You do want to save your lady

friend, don't you?"

She tried to croak out a sound, any sound. He laughed. "Of course you do. Because if you don't

do what I tell you, I'll hurt her. Either she leaves this canyon the way I plan, or she's dead."

Nauseated by his hatred, Felícita pressed her palm to her forehead where all the sickness

gathered. He meant what he said. He was not afraid of killing.

"You won't have to do much," he said. "You may think you're betraying her, but you'll be saving

her life." He seized her wrist again. "It's a good thing you can't speak. I wouldn't want you to tell

anyone about our conversation."

This time she found the courage to resist his hold, but he wasn't ready to let her go. He drew

her so close that his lips were almost upon hers.

"I'll be gone for a few days, paloma. When I come back, I'll be looking for you." And then he

kissed her—not the way Tomás kissed Rowena, but hard and angry, as if he hated both her and

himself.

And he did. He did.

She hardly noticed the tears that filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her hands moved of

their own accord to touch his back. To hold him, as he wanted so much to be held.

He pushed her away roughly. "You're just like the rest of them," he said, scrubbing at his

mouth. "But you won't betray me. Adios, señorita."

He strode away. Felícita's legs began to shake. She sat down on the log before she could fall.

The tears dried on her cheeks and swollen lips.

Hope was a new thing to Felícita. She'd had no need for it when her whole life was bounded by

the walls of her uncle's casa, touched but briefly by the strangers who came to consult the

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adevinadora of Los Milagros. She didn't care about those strangers. She didn't even care about

herself. Future and past were the same, unchanging.

Until Tio died, and then there was no time to discover hope before the village men came to

beat her from the village. Only when the wolf and the lady saved her had she understood what

it was to hope for something better.

Sim Kavanagh had stolen that dream. He would carry her away into his darkness, and there was

nothing she could do to stop him.

There was no one to rescue her now.

Cole had never met Sim Kavanagh, but he knew everything he needed to know. Kavanagh was a

rustler and a train robber, with a reputation as a ruthless killer of few loyalties and no scruples.

He was the kind of man Cole understood and wasn't fool enough to trust. He was also Tomás

Randall's companero. Under any other circumstances, Cole would have killed him at first sight.

These were not ordinary circumstances.

He paused in the doorway of the Las Vegas Exchange Hotel's saloon, scanning the faces above

the gaming tables and along the bar. Being a wanted man, Kavanagh wasn't likely to sit in plain

view of the law—or of the San Miguel, Colfax, and Mora County ranchers who'd suffered his

plundering.

I can get your woman, the crudely scrawled note read. I know where she is. Meet me at the

Exchange tomorrow at noon. The note had come to him yesterday, at the hands of a grubby

child, while he was pursuing family business in Las Vegas; the messenger had disappeared

before he could question him. One glance at the signature made Cole forget his business.

He hadn't been able to trace the note to its origin, nor learn how Sim Kavanagh knew he was in

town. It was only another in a string of infuriating failures. Today marked the seventeenth day

since Randall had kidnapped Rowena, and no further progress had been made in recovering her

or locating Randall's lair. Weylin, defying Cole's authority, had set off to track Randall on his

own and hadn't returned. The supposedly relentless men Cole hired wandered in circles like

stupid sheep without a shepherd. He hadn't even considered bringing in the law.

The note was the first sign that something was about to break. If it was a trick, Kavanagh would

die one way or another. If it wasn't, it was worth the small risk to himself.

Especially if Kavanagh betrayed El Lobo.

"Mr. MacLean?" A skinny bartender sidled up to him nervously, bobbing his head. "I was told to

take you to the back room. Please come with me?"

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Cole nodded. If Kavanagh thought he was safe in the back room, he was a fool. He'd have to

know that Cole's men were watching every exit, and that he'd damned well better have

something good if he wanted to get out of the Exchange alive.

He must want something from Cole very, very badly.

The back room, usually reserved for business or private meetings, was empty save for the man

sitting alone at the large table. Clouds of smoke obscured his face and his scent, but Cole knew

immediately that he wasn't afraid.

"Kavanagh," he said.

"MacLean." The smoke cleared. Kavanagh looked every inch the outlaw he was, the way

tenderfoot easterners liked to portray men of his kind: dressed all in black, even to his hat;

steel-eyed and of dangerous mien; scarred and seamed in a thousand battles with sun, wind,

and a host of enemies.

In another man it would have been affectation or bluff. Not in this one. Most of Kavanagh's

enemies were undoubtedly dead.

Cole smiled. "I hope you aren't going to waste my time," he said.

Kavanagh deliberately leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. "Not unless you want

Randall to keep the woman."

"Is she well?"

The outlaw's narrow lips curled in contempt. "Now that's heartwarming, seeing how you're so

worried about her."

Cole brushed back his coat and hooked his thumb into the waistband of his trousers.

Kavanagh's chair crashed to the floor. His revolver was pointed at Cole's chest.

"I'm unarmed," Cole said, leaving his hand where it was.

"Like hell. I know what you are."

"Then you know if you shoot you may wound me, but I'll kill you. If my men don't get to you

first."

They stared at each other. Moving slowly, Kavanagh laid his gun on the table. For a man like the

outlaw, letting go of his weapon would be like losing an arm.

"I'm glad we understand each other." Cole pulled up a chair and sat at the table. "Though I

wonder what could possibly be worth the risk you're taking to come here, or why you think I

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should deal with you at all before I see you hanged." He gestured to the bartender. "Bring

glasses and a bottle of whiskey, then leave us alone." The bartender scurried out the door.

"I wonder," Kavanagh said, "why you need men to back you up, being what you are. Or is it

because you're a cripple?"

Cole reacted instinctively, focusing his rage on the outlaw in the same way he used his will on

sharp eastern businessmen to bilk them of their money. Kavanagh didn't so much as flinch

when he should have been gibbering on his knees for mercy.

"Tomás told me that your kind could do things to men's minds," he said casually. "He doesn't go

in for that much, himself. Doesn't seem to be working on me."

It was true. The man's mind was opaque and completely resistant to any influence. Cole felt a

moment of panic. Men always did what he said. Always. He reached for the gun on the table.

"You kill me, and you never get your bitch back," Kavanagh said. "I'm the only one who can

deliver her to you."

"My men—"

"Your men are useless. None of 'em saw me when I rode into town. How're they going to find

Randall?" He scratched the underside of his arm. "You won't find him, and he don't plan on

letting her go, no matter what ransom you pay. And you won't pay a plugged nickel."

His words drove the rage from Cole's mind and left it cold and clear. Randall, too, must know he

wouldn't pay so much as a fraction of the demanded ransom. The desperado's purpose had