Wolf Shadow (27 page)

“I can try.”

“Wait here.”

Walking back to the house, Chance took up Smoke’s reins and
walked to the barn. Inside, he unsaddled the mare, gave her a quick rubdown,
and put the horse in its stall. Removing the hackamore, he carried it to the
corral and handed it to Teressa.

“Be careful.”

She nodded.

“You’re not afraid, are you? If you are, you don’t have to
do it.”

“I am not afraid.” Ducking through the rails, she walked
slowly toward the stallion.

The stallion snorted but didn’t back away.

Chance watched the horse carefully. He didn’t know the
stallion’s history. They’d caught the horse off the range just before Chance
went looking for Teressa. Chance didn’t think the horse had been born wild. He
had the look of a horse with some good bloodlines. Good conformation. Wide,
intelligent eyes. But he wouldn’t let any of the men get near him. Chance was
pretty sure the stallion had been abused by a previous owner.

Teressa was at the stallion’s head now. She was speaking to
it quietly. Chance could hear the sound of her voice, though he couldn’t make
out the words.

A moment later, she slid the hackamore over the horse’s head
and fastened it in place. Taking up the reins, she led the horse around the
corral. It followed her, docile as a puppy.

Chance grunted softly. “Do you think you can ride him?”

She nodded, her eyes sparkling.

“Do you want a saddle?”

“No.”

It had been a silly question. She’d been riding bareback for
years.

His fingers curled around the fence rail as she grabbed hold
of the stallion’s mane and vaulted onto its back. The horse shook its head but
didn’t buck.

Teressa stroked the stallion’s neck, speaking softly all the
while. Lifting the reins, she touched her heels to the horse’s flanks and,
after a moment, it moved out, smooth as you please.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Chance muttered. “That bronc has
thrown every man on the place, including me.”

Teressa smiled at him as she passed by, her eyes alight with
pleasure.

They made a pretty sight, Chance thought. Mighty pretty
indeed.

“Teressa Maria Bryant, what are you doing?”

Chance glanced up at the house to see Rosalia standing on
the porch, one hand pressed to her heart.

Flying down the stairs, Rosalia ran toward the corral. “Get
down from there this instant!”

Rosalia’s words brought the desired effect. Spooked by the
woman’s shout, the stallion reared. With a squeal of surprise, Teressa slid
over the stallion’s rump and landed on her backside in the dirt.

Rosalia screamed. And screamed again.

Chance grabbed her by the arm. “Mrs. Bryant, shut up!”

She stared at him, stunned into silence at the tone of his
voice.

Chance looked over his shoulder. “Teressa, are you all
right?”

“Yes.” Gaining her feet, she walked slowly toward the
stallion. “Come,” she said, extending her hand. “Come to me.”

The stallion eyed her warily for a moment, then reached out
to nuzzle her hand. Smiling, Teressa caught the reins.

Rosalia glared at Chance. “How dare you speak to me like
that!”

“Lady, you could have gotten her killed. Is that what you
want?”

“Of course not!” She twisted free of his grasp. “Teressa,
come out of there this instant. Well-bred young ladies do not ride astride.”

Teressa looked at her mother a moment, and then started
laughing.

Rosalia gaped at her.

Chance grinned.

Teressa laughed until there were tears in her eyes, tears of
merriment that abruptly turned to tears of sorrow as she remembered riding
across the plains with Dawn Song on the way to a new campsite. They had always
dressed in their best because it was a time when the young men liked to show
off for the maidens. The unmarried warriors dressed in their best, too. Mounted
on their finest horses, they rode up and down the line, showing off their
riding skills, flirting with the maidens.

“Tessa?” Rosalia took a tentative step forward, but fear of
the horse kept her from entering the corral.

“Go back to the house,” Chance said. “I’ll take of this.”

“I will not! I am her mother. She needs me.”

“Just go up to the house and wait. I’ll bring her along in a
minute.”

With a look of disapproval, Rosalia turned on her heel and
walked away.

Muttering an oath, Chance ducked into the corral. The
stallion snorted at his approach.

“Easy, fella, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Chance said. Taking
the reins from Teressa’s hand, he unfastened the hackamore and slid it over the
horse’s head. Freed of the restraint, the stallion bolted across the corral.

“Come on, Teressa.” Taking her by the hand, he led her out
of the corral. “What is it, honey?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. Tears continued to pour down her cheeks.

With a sigh, Chance drew her into his arms. “Was it
something your mother said?”

“Y…yes…n…no.”

“You can tell me.”

“I was just…what she said…about well-bred young ladies riding…it
reminded me of Dawn Song…and…and my mother.” She sniffed. “My other mother. I
miss them so.”

“Go on and cry, honey,” he said, stroking her hair. “You
deserve it.”

And cry she did, until she had no tears left, until she
stood quiet in the circle of his arms, content to be there.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his
shirtfront.

“No charge.”

She looked up at him and frowned. Her eyes were red and
swollen, but it was her lips that tempted his gaze. Ripe and pink and slightly
parted.

Chance cleared his throat. “You can cry on my shoulder any
time, sweetheart, that’s all I meant.”

“Oh.”

He blew out a breath. Dammit, if she kept looking at him
like that, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Fortunately, Rosalia
Bryant was waiting for them up at the house, and he didn’t think she was likely
to wait much longer before she came bursting through the door to see what was
taking him so long.

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand, “your mother’s
waiting.”

* * * * *

Chance stared at the embers in the hearth. He’d been lying
there on the sofa for hours trying to get some sleep, but it was impossible.
His hearing seemed to have grown more acute since Teressa moved in. He was
aware of her every footstep, had been able to close his eyes and follow her
progress through the rooms upstairs, had felt his body harden as he imagined
her sitting in his bathtub covered with lather and, later, getting ready for
bed.

Damn!

More than once, he’d started for the stairs. In spite of his
earlier vow to pursue her, some innate sense of honor he hadn’t known he
possessed kept him from going to her room.

He bolted upright and glanced over his shoulder at the sound
of a light tread on the stairs.

“Please.” He whispered the word like a prayer, wondering, as
he did so, what he was asking. Let it be her? Don’t let it be her?

She padded toward him, her bare feet peeking out from
beneath a long white cotton nightgown. Her hair, thick and rich and looking
black in the dim light, trailed down her back and fell over her shoulders. He
had an overwhelming need to bury his hands in the wealth of her hair, to bury
his face in it, to hold her close and never let her go.

“I did not mean to wake you,” she said, ever so softly.

“You didn’t.”

“I…” She licked her lips, her gaze sliding away from his.

“Did you want something? A drink?”

“I do want something.” She took a deep breath, and said it
all in a rush. “I wanted to be with you. Everything here is so strange. The
food. The clothes. I miss being with the People. I miss hearing their language.
They don’t feel so far away when I’m with you…”

“Come here, sweetheart.”

He lifted the blanket and she slid in beside him. He knew
what she was feeling. He had felt it himself.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She nodded, but didn’t meet his gaze.

Embarrassed, he wondered, or afraid he might see his own
longing mirrored in her eyes.

The silence between them grew taut. He was aware of her
every move, could feel the warmth of her thigh against his own, smell the warm
womanly scent of her with every breath he took. Lord, but he wanted her.

He tried to think of something to say, some words of
reassurance, but he couldn’t think, not with her sitting so close, couldn’t
think of anything but the need burning through him.

“Chance.”

“What is it, honey?”

“Nothing. I…I never said your
wasichu
name before.”

“I like the way you say it.”

“Will you take me back home?”

“Teressa…”

“Please.”

She was looking at him now, her eyes silently pleading with
him. Lord, how could he refuse her when she looked at him like that?

“They’ll just come after you again,” he said. “They know
where to look now.”

“We could go live with the Cheyenne until they stop
looking.”

“Running away never solved anything,” he said. And drawing
her into his arms, he stopped running away from what he wanted and kissed her.

Her lips were warm and sweetly yielding. She moaned softly
and then she was sitting sideways on his lap, her arms locked around his neck
as she kissed him back, kissed him so there could be no mistaking that she
wanted his kisses as badly as he wanted hers.

He slid one hand up the back of her neck into her hair while
his other hand moved restlessly over her back. She pressed herself against him,
her breasts warm and soft against his bare chest. He was glad he’d decided to
sleep in his jeans, though at the moment, they were feeling mighty snug.

They were both breathing hard when the kiss ended. She drew
back a little, her hands cupping his cheeks, her gaze moving over his face.

“You do care for me, don’t you?” she asked.

“More than you know.”

“Do you love me?”

“Since the first time I saw you.”

Warmth flooded her being only to be washed away by
confusion. “I do not understand. Why have you been so…so…”

“Distant?”

“Yes.”

He took her hands in his and kissed one, and then the other.
“It’s a long story.”

“Will you not tell me?”

“It’s an ugly story, Teressa.”

“Is it about the man who whipped you?”

“Yeah.”

“I would like to know.”

He took a deep breath. Only Kills-Like-a-Hawk and a few
others knew how his mother had died, and of his long search to avenge her
death.

Putting his arm around Teressa’s shoulder, he drew her
closer. He stared into the hearth, watching the last embers wink out.

“It happened the summer I was sixteen,” he began. “My mother
wanted to visit her cousin, who lived with the Cheyenne. My father was away, so
she asked me to go with her. We had made camp for the night when four men rode
up.”

Teressa listened with growing horror as he told her what had
happened. His words painted an image so sharp, so vivid, she saw it as if it
was happening all over again. She saw how valiantly he fought the
wasichu
as they tied him up, felt his rage and helplessness when they took turns
violating his mother.

He went on, relating how he had worked his way free and
managed to kill one of the men, how the other three had tied him to a tree,
then taken turns whipping him until he was unconscious.

Tears burned her eyes as he told her how his mother had
crawled toward him on her hands and knees, concerned for his welfare even
though she was slowly bleeding to death.

She wept as she saw him cradling his mother in his arms,
shared his grief when he knew she was dead.

His voice turned cold and flat as he told how he had hunted
down the remaining three men who had killed his mother, how he had made sure
they knew who he was and why he was there. He had killed two of them and now
only one remained.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “So very sorry.”

“So were they, when I caught up with them.” He shook his
head, as if clearing the memory from his mind. “You’d better go on back to
bed.”

“Chance…”

He shook his head. “Maybe when this is over…”

She wanted to argue with him. She wanted to beg him to give
up the search for the last man, to go back to the People with her, or let her
stay there, on the ranch, with him.

But she said nothing. He had made a warrior’s vow and she
knew he would not rest until it had been fulfilled. Leaning forward, she kissed
his cheek, then slid off his lap and left the room.

Chance listened to her footsteps, each one growing fainter
as she climbed the stairs.

Why had he told her? Why had he sent her away? She had left
the room and it was as if she had taken his heart and soul with her, leaving
behind nothing but an empty husk fueled by an insatiable need for vengeance.

He ran his hands through his hair. He had to find the last
man. He had sworn a blood oath to avenge his mother’s death and he would not,
could not, rest as long as Jack Finch still lived.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Teressa woke early after a sleepless night. Rising, she
dressed quickly and left the house. Standing on the edge of the porch, she
watched the activity near the barn as the ranch hands saddled their horses. She
saw Cookie hauling water from the well. One of the men was forking hay to the
calves in the pen. A dozen chickens scratched in the dirt, digging up worms and
grubs for the countless baby chicks that followed them. Several cats prowled
near the chickens. A rooster strutted back and forth on the top rail of one of
the corrals. A faint breeze stirred the weathervane on top of the barn.

It was going to be another beautiful day, she mused. Or
would be, if it wasn’t wash day. She didn’t mind cooking, though she preferred
baking. She didn’t mind dusting and waxing the furniture, or shaking out the
rugs, or making the beds, or washing and drying the dishes. But she hated doing
the laundry. There were wash tubs to fill, clothes to scrub, to rinse, to hang
on the line out back. It was a job that took all day and left her back and
shoulders aching when it was over. And after wash day, came ironing day, which
was almost as bad.