Native Wolf Page 13

  She hung her head, staring at the path. "You know, honestly, Mr. Wolf, I’d be perfectly happy with—"

  He stopped so suddenly that she plowed into the back of him. Of course, his great bulk didn’t budge a bit, so she bore the brunt of the impact, earning herself a face full of cotton shirt. His hand immediately reached behind to steady her.

  “Tsisnah,” he said under his breath.

  She pressed her cheek against his back, listening carefully, but heard nothing. “Tsisnah?” she whispered.

  "A bee."

  She screwed up her forehead, still mashed against his damp shirt, content enough there for the moment, particularly if there was a bee on the loose. She wondered why he was so interested in a bee. Perhaps it was sacred to his tribe.

  "And where there are bees..." he murmured.

  Her brows shot up. Of course. "There is honey." She licked her lips, already imagining the sweet-tasting syrup. "Can you find the hive?"

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, his gaze pinned to the insect flitting from bloom to bloom in the clearing ahead. It seemed an impossible task, tracking such a madcap creature on its impetuous flight, but Chase was determined.

  The bee hovered at first, gliding leisurely from the vivid orange poppies to the deep violet lupins, and they crept along after, watching its legs grow furry with pollen. Then it streaked abruptly away, flying low over the grass. With an oath, Chase tugged her forward till they were jogging after the bee, hand in hand, like children.

  The bee made several abrupt changes in direction, once even diving toward them. Before long Claire was dodging and giggling and zigzagging through the meadow on Chase’s lead until she was giddy and breathless. The bee finally lit on a cluster of white sweetpeas, and she stopped a moment to catch her breath, bending forward at the waist.

  When she cocked her head to peer up at Chase, she nearly knocked herself off balance. Her normally brooding companion was gone. In his place was a beguiling stranger. A bright grin split his swarthy face, and his black eyes sparkled like jewels. Sunlight danced off his tousled hair and glistened in the sweat at his throat, where a carefree laugh was born.

  It rolled out rich and deep, like a church hymn that, before long, demanded she join in. Their laughter intertwined. Then it cascaded. Then it grew to silly proportions over nothing at all, and Claire began to think she’d never laughed so thoroughly in her life.

  When at last she managed to regain control, Chase’s gaze had fallen to her hand, where his fingers still clasped her wrist. His smile faded naturally, but he didn’t release her, and she grew aware of the warmth of his touch where his strong hand enclosed hers. Her heart already raced with the exertion of running and laughter, but when his thumb absently traced an arc over the inside of her wrist, it seemed to stroke the pulse there to a faster pace.

  Their eyes caught and held, as if some secret passed between them. Claire’s mouth parted in wonder, though she had no words for the feeling his gaze inspired.

  At that moment, the bee buzzed past, severing that mysterious connection like scissors snipping string. They both blinked. Then Chase tore off again after the bee, dragging Claire with him. They ran until Claire could run no more.

  "I...can’t...have to...stop!" she gasped, clutching her side and grinning despite the sharp ache there.

  She thought he would be disappointed, but as they came to a halt, he nodded toward the trees. "There."

  Perhaps a dozen bees swarmed around the dark bole of a sugar pine. It had to be their hive.

  "You found it!" she wheezed, doubling in half.

  "You wait here," he told her. "I’ll get the honey."

  Claire was more than happy with that arrangement, though she missed his hand as soon as he let go. She leaned against a big boulder to watch him.

  Using the same techniques Yoema had taught her, he plucked a dead pine branch from the ground and lit the dry needles with a match, blowing out the flame until it smoldered.

  He approached the hive cautiously, all the time murmuring something—probably a prayer that he wouldn’t be stung. He propped the smoking branch beside the hive, and the bees, mellowed by the smoke, took little notice of him as he drew his knife and slowly, carefully cut loose a small section of the comb.

  In a matter of minutes, Chase was heading back toward her, his face triumphant, the golden treasure in hand.

  She applauded as he neared. "Bravo!"

  He held the comb aloft and beckoned her near with a grin. She tipped her head back and opened her mouth, and he squeezed the comb above her, drizzling the rich ambrosia onto her tongue.

  After a few swallows, she licked her lips and pulled him down beside her to take over lapping up the stream of honey.

  He cocked back his head, diverting the sweet syrup into his own mouth. The sight of his snowy teeth against his golden skin and his tongue slipping out to lick a drop of honey from his lip did something to her, making her feel as if the butterflies she'd seen in the meadow were fluttering in her stomach.

  Maybe it was the glorious sunshine and the shared laughter. Or maybe it was just the seductive sweetness on her tongue. But she suddenly had the reckless urge to taste the honey from his lips.

  Before she could reconsider, she opened her mouth beside his, intercepting the sticky stream, and then turned her head to kiss him. To her amazement, he didn't resist. The honey dripped between their joined mouths and glazed their tongues as they waged a sensual war over the precious nectar. Claire had never tasted anything so heavenly, and she licked up every precious drop.

  Chase discarded the empty comb and tangled his hand in her hair, drawing her close to deepen the kiss. His mouth was delicious, sweeter than any honey. She felt like she could drink his kisses all day and never be satisfied.

  Chase might have been able to pretend that first kiss—the one where Claire had called him by that dime novel hero's name—hadn't happened. But this was completely different.

  Kissing Claire in the sunlight—with the hum of bees in the distance and the scent of wildflowers on the air, with the taste of honey on her lips and her sigh of contentment filling his mouth—was amazing.

  Her lips were soft and sweet, and the heat of her quickening breath moved him to drink more deeply.

  He loved how she fit perfectly into the circle of his arms, how she trusted his protection and didn’t fear his strength, how she so willingly let him enjoy her essence. As wrong as it was, as dangerous as it was, he liked her body against him. And he wanted the feeling to last forever.

  Soon he felt the stirrings of desire, not only in his head and in his heart, but between his legs. He hardened against her and began craving more than just kisses.

  And so, as much as it pained him, he knew he had to stop. This wasn't right. Kissing her could only lead to caressing her, and caressing her...

  Hell.

  With a grimace of regret, he withdrew.

  But the stubborn minx wouldn't let him go. She followed him, grabbing the front of his shirt and leaning forward to capture his lips once more.

  He kissed her lightly, once, twice, and then pulled away, squeezing his eyes closed with the effort.

  "Kiss me again," she purred. She lifted her chin to look up at him, and he peered down at her through his lashes. Her eyes were full of wonder, mischief, and something else, something that stunned him and made him want to throw caution aside, to hold her and kiss her again, long and hard.

  Adoration. She looked at him with adoration.

  No one had ever looked at him like that before. His sisters looked at him with fondness. A few of the young women of his village looked at him with hunger. But what he saw in this white woman’s eyes was beyond tenderness, beyond lust, and completely without fear. She adored him.

  "Kiss me again," she breathed.

  He shook his head.

  "Please?"

  "No good can come of it," he choked out.

  "I don't care."

 
"You belong to another."

  She swallowed hard, as if considering his words, then whispered, "No one will know."

  He might have resisted the urge if her gaze hadn’t fallen upon his mouth just then, if she hadn’t parted her soft pink lips in yearning. But once she did, he was helpless to refuse. He cupped her face, inclined his head, and covered her mouth with his own.

  Her eager compliance flooded his veins with liquid fire as he slanted his mouth across hers. His chest heaved, and his heart hammered against his ribs. Flame surged in his loins, melting his inhibitions and hardening him like tempered steel. He fought to keep from crushing her with the growing power of his need.

  Then she made a soft moan, an almost imperceptible sound that nonetheless startled him.

  He must have hurt her.

  The breath caught in his chest. Curse his clumsy strength, he’d hurt her.

  He should have known better. He was a damned blacksmith, after all, too rough for a proper lady.

  Ashamed by his lack of restraint and his unintentional brutality, he ended the kiss and let her go.

  What remained of Claire’s thoughts whirled in a tumultuous storm of emotions—desire, fear, joy, panic—making her dizzy.

  The moan escaped her before she knew it was uttered. If she’d known what it would do—that it would cause him to abandon the kiss—she would have bit it back till her lips bled.

  When he abruptly let her go, she staggered backward as if from a punch. Hurt and bewilderment left her mute. Why had he stopped? Why was he pushing her away? Did he find her somehow distasteful?

  "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  "You? No." He scowled at the ground. "I'm sorry. It's my fault," he murmured. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

  "Hurt me?" She blinked in surprise. "But you didn't."

  "I'm always hurting people."

  "You didn't hurt me, not at—"

  "I'm just a big oaf," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  "No, you're not."

  He obviously wasn't listening, because he hung his head and sighed. "Anyway, I'm sorry I ever—"

  "Sorry?"

  "Sorry I pushed myself on you like that. It was crazy and rude and...and unforgivable. And I promise I'll never—"

  There was only one way to convince him. Shaking her head, she seized the front of his shirt, and tugged him forcefully forward. She pressed her lips to his—hard—to make sure there was no mistaking her intentions.

  Persuading him didn't take long. Kissing might have been new for Claire, but she was learning fast.

  What she didn't anticipate was the fever that rose in her as she continued to kiss him with eager abandon. Her blood grew hot, and a keen yearning that started deep within her seemed to take over her limbs, giving them permission to do things she'd never dared before. She ran her palms across his broad shoulders, up his corded neck, and along his strong jaw and threaded her fingers through his thick hair.

  She crushed her breasts against him, hoping to soothe the strange tingling there. She pressed her body against his thigh, trying to ease the ache between her legs. She knew it wasn't proper. Only saloon girls did such things. But she couldn't seem to stop herself.

  Her breath came faster and faster. Her fingers grasped at him more desperately with each passing moment. She moaned against his lips, and this time, instead of letting him pull away, she clung to him, dipping her tongue inside his mouth with more ravenous hunger than before.

  He caught the back of her head, returning her forays with deep but gentle thrusts of his tongue that made her head buzz with pleasure and threatened to rob her of her senses.

  But what made her gasp in wonder was when he clasped her buttock and drew her close, pressing the rock-hard bulge in his trousers against her belly. For an instant, she froze in shock. In the next moment, a surge of overwhelming desire rose in her, weakening her knees and making her want to surrender herself completely to him.

  Then he growled out an oath and pulled away again.

  Chase tried to ignore the bewildered dismay in Claire's eyes.

  What in the hell was the matter with him? He’d promised her he wouldn’t kiss her again. So much was wrong with what he’d just done, he didn’t know where to begin.

  Claire belonged to someone else. No good could come from leading her into temptation—or from tormenting himself with what he couldn't have. Why had he let her entice him into kissing her again? His brain must be going soft.

  Unfortunately, that was all that was going soft. Elsewhere he was as hard as granite.

  There were two things he could do about that. The first and most desirable option was unthinkable, though that didn't keep him from giving it a hell of a lot of thought.

  "What is it?" Claire whispered. "Did I do something wrong?"

  Yes, she'd done something wrong. She'd played with fire. She'd poked a grizzly. She'd set herself smack in the path of a runaway stage.

  But then he made the mistake of glancing down at her wide green eyes and her sad little mouth, and he didn't have the heart to let her believe that.

  He sighed. "Nope," he told her. "You didn't do anything wrong."

  He was the one who'd done something wrong. Their embrace had shaken him, body and soul. It was as if their spirits had intertwined at the joining of their lips, as if the ores of their two divergent metals had become one under the molten heat of their tongues.

  In fact, he’d done so much wrong that it would take more than his ten fingers to count the reasons.

  First, she was a white woman.

  Second, she belonged to another man.

  Third, she was the woman he’d stolen for revenge.

  Fourth, it would anger his grandmother’s chindin.

  Fifth...

  "Don't you like kissing?"

  His voice was half chuckle, half choke. "Oh, I like kissing all right." He liked kissing more than he liked...air.

  "Then what is it?" She lowered her eyes. Her whisper was colored with pain. "Am I somehow...repulsive to you?"

  A dull blow, like the halfhearted kick of a lazy horse, knocked him in the chest, filling him with remorse. Did she honestly think that? How could she think that?

  Claire Parker was as lovely as a spring lily. And desire had made her even more lovely. Her hair was tousled where he’d swept it between his fingers, and her trembling lips were rosy from kissing. When she lifted her gaze, her eyes shone dark with hurt and unspent passion. His heart longed to reach for her, and within his trousers, his whedze longed for something even more forbidden. Hell, he wanted her in his arms, in his mouth, in his soul again.

  "No," he croaked. "You’re beautiful." He clenched his fists, fully aware he should say nothing more, and just as fully aware he was going to anyway. "I shouldn’t kiss you...Claire..." She glanced up, clearly startled that he called her by name. "...because it makes me want to do more."

  She looked at him then with so much relief, pleasure, and yearning that he had to yank his gaze away before he did something he’d regret.

  He studied his boots. "This just isn't the right time or place," he said, though he knew that was a lie. There wasn't ever going to be a right time or place. He'd make sure of that.

  As far as now, it was useless to prolong the pain. He needed to seek that second form of relief before he thought any more about the one he craved. So taking hold of Claire's hand, he tugged her forward.

  "Let's go find the creek," he said. "I could use a bath."

  "A bath?" She blinked. "But it’s spring. The water’s awfully cold."

  "Yep."

  Chapter 13

  The cold water did the trick.

  Chase, freshly bathed and dressed in his trousers, lay on his belly across a flat rock overhanging the stream. He concentrated hard on the shimmering water below, careful not to let his shadow fall across the loyawh, trout, gliding in lazy loops beneath the surface. The fish circled the fine milkweed fiber Chase dangled in the creek, then danced close, brushing it with its fin
, even nibbling at one of the worms on the slivers of bone tied along the line. But though Chase had dabbled the bait there for what seemed like time enough to grow a full beard, the trout wasn't interested.

  He hadn’t fished this way since he was a boy. In Hupa, they built an ehs, a dam, across the river to trap salmon, or they caught trout with a net. But his father had also shown him the Konkow way of fishing, which was useful in smaller creeks and when traveling. At least, it was supposed to be useful. At this rate, Chase was sure that, years from now, someone would find his bleached bones still lying atop this rock and that damned fish still circling around and around the line.

  Of one thing he was certain. He didn’t have his father’s patience. Sakote was renowned in Hupa for his hunting, which required an enormous amount of patience. But Chase didn’t like waiting for things to happen. He liked to make them happen. Maybe that was why he’d become a blacksmith. There was satisfaction in taking a shapeless lump of hard iron and, using nothing but fire and the strength of his own arm, hammering it, bending it, forging it into something useful.

  If only he could forge something to eat. His stomach growled, reminding him of how little he liked this fugitive diet of roots and bulbs and ferns. They'd had that bit of honey earlier, and he'dfound a cache of shelf fungus growing on a pine to serve as their noon meal. But Claire had been reluctant to eat the ugly, spongy stuff, and even he found it less than appetizing.

  He wiggled the line, careful not to jar loose the stone anchoring the line to the creek bed. The trout sidled near, nudging the second bone sliver. Chase held his breath, praying silently to all the gods he knew. The fish hovered in the current, and Chase gently shimmied the line again.

  Come, he thought fervently, come, Brother Loyawh, give yourself to me. The trout swam to the other side of the line, investigating the bait from another angle. Yes, yes, Chase thought, take it. But this time, when he jiggled the line, the anchoring rock popped up, startling the fish, and the trout wriggled away with a swish of its tail fin.

  “Xongqot!” Chase banged his fist on the rock and watched the current carry his fishing line into an underwater nest of tangled reeds.