Call Of The White Wolf

“What good would it do to kiss you in private?” she asked reasonably. “That would defeat the whole purpose of letting the boys know my interest lies elsewhere.”

“With that piddly peck on the mouth?” he said, then smirked.

“What was wrong with my kiss?” she demanded, offended.

He swooped down and hoisted her to her feet. Then he bent her over backward and gave her a kiss that was half frustration, half hungry need, half revenge…well, whatever. He couldn’t calculate fractions when his brain shut down the instant he tasted her deeply, felt her supple body pressed intimately against his masculine contours. His heart slammed against his tender ribs when she responded rather than shoving him away—which is what she should’ve done if the damn woman had a lick of sense!

Praise for Carol Finch’s previous titles

Cheyenne Moon

“Excellent! Cheyenne Moon will captivate readers with its exhilarating pace and remarkable characters. Another keeper!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Once Upon A Midnight Moon

“Definitely a great book to curl up with. Unplug the phone, disconnect the doorbell and enjoy!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Promise Me Moonlight

“…should be promise me banter, love, steamy romance and a great read! Buy 2 and lend one to a friend!”

—Heartland Critiques

#591 MY LADY’S TRUST

Julia Justiss

#593 DRAGON’S DOWER

Catherine Archer

#594 GOLD RUSH BRIDE

Debra Lee Brown

Call of the White Wolf

Carol Finch

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CAROL FINCH

Call of the White Wolf #592

Other works include:

Harlequin Duets

Fit To Be Tied #36

A Regular Joe #45

Mr. Predictable #62

Silhouette Special Edition

Not Just Another Cowboy #1242

Soul Mates #1320

This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our children—Christie, Jill, Kurt, Jeff and Jon—with much love. And to our grandchildren—Blake, Kennedy and Brooklynn. Hugs and kisses!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Arizona Territory, 1878

John Wolfe had been dreading this day for two years. No matter how many ways he turned it around in his mind, feelings of guilt and betrayal twisted in his gut like a shot of bad whiskey. He tried to ignore those tormenting emotions while he lay sprawled on a slab of rock, slithering forward like a snake so he could peer over the ledge. But the moment he saw his adopted Apache brother kneeling below him, sipping water from the trickling spring, another wave of guilt and betrayal buffeted him.

When a man was forced to turn against one of his own it made him feel like the worst kind of traitor.

Silently, John unholstered his Colt, then took Raven’s measure down the sight. Dead or alive, John’s commander had told him. Made no nevermind to Jacob Shore. But it mattered to John Wolfe. It mattered a helluva lot. When a man had a foot planted in each of two contrasting civilizations, walking that fine line and trying to pretend indifference was pure hell.

John had taught himself not to feel, not to react and not to care that he was as white as he was Apache. Yet seeing Raven in the valley below was like tearing open a wound that had never really healed, no matter how much he tried to pretend it had.

Well, he was here to do a job, distasteful though it was, and he’d better get at it.

“Don’t move,” John commanded in the Apache dialect.

Raven froze, his cupped hand halfway to his mouth. Water trickled between his fingertips and ran down his bronzed arm. The Apache raised his eyes and squinted into the bright light of sunset to locate John on the outcropping of stone above him.

John knew the exact instant Raven recognized him. Tension sizzled in the evening breeze like lightning. Slowly, Raven rose from his crouch, his body taut, his expression rife with loathing.

“So the white-eyes sent you for me, did they, Brother?” Raven spat derisively. “Ah, but who else could they have sent? Who else knows the Apache’s mind and the Apache’s way better than an Apache turncoat?”

Raven’s words were like an embedded knife twisting in John’s spine. Willfully, he ignored Raven’s mutinous glower and hateful words. He kept the Colt trained on Raven’s heart, wondering if this renegade still had one left after all the crimes he’d committed these past two years.

With an economy of movement that was ingrained and practiced, John contorted his body until he was sitting upright, his booted feet dangling over the ledge. His pistol never wavered from its target on Raven’s heaving chest.

“I’m taking you back to the reservation at San Carlos, Raven,” John told him grimly. “I can drag you by your heels or with your hands in chains. But if you ask me, it is not a good day for you to die.”

“I was dying a torturous death at that pigsty of a reservation,” Raven growled in reply. “But you knew that feeling yourself, didn’t you, Brother? You cut off your braids, stole civilian clothes from the army commissary and sneaked away from the reservation to turn white again. You turned your back on The People, on the clan that took you into its fold to feed you, clothe you and train you to become a mighty Apache warrior.”

Raven’s eyes raked John up and down, with visible distaste. “The brother I knew as White Wolf, adopted son of Chief Gray Eagle and, my adopted brother, has joined the ranks of my hated enemies, just so he can enjoy his own freedom. White Wolf is nothing but a traitor!”

Raven’s harsh words stung like a swarm of wasps, for they were the very words that constantly buzzed in John’s conscience—every waking hour of every livelong day. But John had concealed his identity and sneaked off the reservation—at Chief Gray Eagle’s command. He’d been assigned the duty of battling the whites from within their own society, of becoming a buffer to protect the Apache nation.

It hadn’t been an easy path for John to follow, but Raven would never understand that, refused to listen to any explanation. In Raven’s eyes, White Wolf had sold his soul to the white devils in order to reclaim his freedom.

When Raven’s gaze discreetly darted to the rifle lying at his feet, John cocked the trigger on his pistol. The imminent threat of death hung in the silent dusk. Raven’s pinto mare pricked its ears and lifted its head from the stream, sensing the gravity of the moment.

Raven shifted his gaze from the rifle to John. “Your aim is as true as ever, is it not, White Wolf?”

John inclined his head slightly. “Better.”

“I do not doubt it. The legends you have inspired since you turned white have not been exaggerated, I suppose.”

“No.” It wasn’t a boast; it was the simple truth. But there wasn’t a white man alive who knew the truth about John Wolfe’s background. No one knew how or where he’d honed his impressive skills as a tracker, gunfighter, territorial marshal and oftentimes bounty hunter. The criminals he brought to justice claimed he was some sort of avenging phantom who could disappear into thin air—then reappear. His Apache training contributed to his uncanny ability, constantly tested and perfected as he dealt with the worst vermin preying on society.

Chasing down white criminals and sending them to hell where they belonged didn’t weigh as heavily on John’s conscience as tracking his Apache brother. Raven had foolishly joined up with two army deserters who’d stolen reservation supplies and sold them to settlers and miners in the territory. A worthless white cutthroat and a blood-thirsty Mexican who were wanted for murder and robbery rode with the gang. In order to achieve his freedom, Raven had aligned himself with those ruthless outlaws, all of whom had high prices on their scalps.

John wondered if Raven perceived his own abandonment of the Apache on the reservation as detestable as John’s. Probably not. To Raven’s way of thinking, no crime was quite as unforgivable as an Apache who purposely turned white.

The instant Raven glanced speculatively at his horse—obviously trying to decide if he could use the animal as a shield before a fatal shot was fired—John tossed a pebble off the cliff. The distraction served him well. When Raven reflexively shifted left, John launched himself off the stone ledge, dropped a quick ten feet and landed in a crouch. His Colt was still aimed directly at Raven’s heart.

Raven smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about his expression. “You do not miss a trick, do you, John Wolfe? I remember the day my father taught us that deceptive technique of diverting attention. Do you remember? Or have you purposefully forgotten that you owe everything you are to the Apache who raised you?”

Not one minute of one day went by that John Wolfe didn’t remember who and what he was—a contradiction, a man in torment who walked a path that must surely entail the white man’s concept of a living hell.

“I prefer to take you back alive, Raven,” he murmured as he rose from his haunches. “Gray Eagle also prefers to have his son returned to him in one piece.”

John couldn’t interpret the expression that momentarily settled on Raven’s bronzed features. It vanished as quickly as it came. “Then I have no choice but to return to that hellish place, do I, John Wolfe?”

John told himself not to let his guard down when Raven seemingly accepted his fate. But this, after all, was the adopted brother who had shared his life for almost two decades. They’d grown up in the same wickiup and struggled side by side to become accomplished warriors. They’d survived famine, sickness, war and captivity.

The only difference was that John had been born white and Raven was full-blood Apache. Until this pivotal moment, the differences between them hadn’t mattered to John.

Now it was all that mattered.

“I will go willingly to the reservation if you will use your authority and influence with the white-eyes to reduce my punishment,” Raven offered. “The army deserters and thieves forced me to scout for them. They swore they would kill me if I didn’t join their gang. My craving for freedom was too great, my hatred for reservation life too strong, so I agreed to help them.”

John wasn’t sure if he believed Raven. The circumstances surrounding his escape from the reservation were unclear in the report John had received from his commander at headquarters in Prescott. In his line of work John had heard every excuse imaginable from cornered criminals. He’d learned long ago that a man would lie through his teeth to save his skin.

But this was not just any man. This was Raven.

“You know I’ll do everything I can,” John promised solemnly.

“No chains or cuffs. The soldiers kept me in chains when we were herded to San Carlos.” His lips curled in disdain. “I bear the scars and the memories of their cruel treatment. Do you remember? I was the example to our people.” His voice transformed into a growl. “No chains, John Wolfe. I would prefer to die here and now rather than to be chained up like a dog!”

Hands held high, Raven approached his paint pony, then bounded onto the saddle blanket with the grace and ease of a warrior who had executed the maneuver hundreds of times.

John realized a split second too late that he’d allowed his sentiment for Raven to override his hard and fast rules about dealing with crafty criminals. He saw the glint of steel reflecting sunlight when Raven’s concealed pistol suddenly came into view. Without hesitation the Apache fired straight at John’s chest, then at his left leg. The double impact sent John staggering backward, to collapse in the grass. He didn’t return fire because Gray Eagle’s request to bring Raven back alive still echoed in his mind.

Raven walked his pinto toward his downed enemy. Gloating triumph glittered in his onyx eyes. While John lay there gasping for breath, battling the burning sensations that spread through his thigh and chest, Raven’s goading laughter billowed in the aftermath of violence.

“May you die a slow death for betraying the Apache,” he jeered as he watched the bloody stains spread across John’s shirt. “It seems your white heritage has failed you, John Wolfe, for no white man can outsmart a true Apache.”

Raven walked his pinto over the top of his onetime blood brother. “My father has only one son now,” he sneered down at him. “May you burn in your white man’s hell for your treachery!”

The clatter of hooves hammered in John’s ears as the world tilted sideways, then darkened like the coming of night. John closed his eyes and fought against the wave of nausea that crested over him.

Maybe this was a good day for him to die, he thought. And what better place to find his way to the hereafter than on this sacred ground that had once been part of the Apacheria. The People called this panoramic valley the Canyon of the Sun. Reverent chants were sung to the great spirits who communicated with them on this hallowed ground. In days gone by, sacrifices were laid at the base of the triple stone spires called the Altar of the Gods. The towering pillars of sandstone that rose like gigantic sentinels from the canyon floor were the Earth Mother’s eternal monuments to the omnipotent Apache gods.

With great effort, John opened his eyes once more to stare at the conical stone peaks that rose majestically toward the sun. This valley, three-quarters of a mile wide and more than a mile long, was the most spectacular and awe-inspiring place he’d ever seen in all his treks across the territory. If he had to breathe his last breath here, he figured he could do a lot worse.

Vaguely, John sensed a presence in the near distance and wondered which spirits—white man’s or Apache’s—had been sent to witness his death.

He didn’t know which deity would preside over his personal judgment day. Didn’t really matter, he reckoned. Evil spirits would attend him, because of his betrayal to the tribe that had raised and trained him. Indian or white, evil spirits were probably pretty much the same, he figured. He existed in a realm a few miles this side of hell. He supposed he was destined to spend eternity doing penance for being a white man by birth and an Apache at heart.

John closed his eyes for what he expected to be the final time. To his dying day—and he was positively certain this was it—he wasn’t sure if he was considered white or Apache. He didn’t know which god to pray to, so he didn’t pray at all. He just lay there, struggling to breathe, and wondering how many breaths he had left.

Since John had heard every excuse under the sun, heard the wild claims of innocence from the worst sinners the world had to offer, he decided he’d just keep his mouth shut and not ask for forgiveness or mercy. He was simply going to lie here and die with what little dignity he had left.

Tara Flannigan scrambled down the rock-strewn slopes of the canyon with more speed than caution. Twice she tripped, skidded and skinned both knees. She ignored the discomfort and scurried toward the man who lay sprawled beside the stream, wondering if she’d arrived too late to revive him.

Tara had been drawn to this remote area of the valley by unidentified voices, and she’d hunkered down by a cedar tree to prevent being spotted. Although the white man and Indian had been speaking a foreign tongue, she’d witnessed the tragic results of their confrontation. One man lay dead—or dying—and the other man had picked his way up the narrow trail and thundered off into the gathering darkness.

Grimacing from the pain in her knees, Tara squatted down beside the wounded man. She pressed her hand against his throat and felt a weak pulse. Alive, but not for long, she predicted. Her mediocre lifesaving skills were about to be tested to their very limits.

Hurriedly, she ripped open the man’s shirt, then blinked in surprise when she saw the strange bone-and-metal breastplate that covered his chest. She’d never seen such unusual body armor. It was an odd combination that resembled an Indian war shield and medieval chain mail.

On closer inspection, Tara realized the bullet had ricocheted off a fragment of metal, shattered the bleached bone ornament and become embedded in the man’s rib. Quickly, she ripped off the hem of his dark shirt and pressed it against the seeping wound.

Her gaze dropped to the pulsing wound on his thigh, and she tore the hem from her own tattered shirt to control the bleeding. When she tied the fabric tightly around his leg, the man’s eyes fluttered open momentarily.

Tara’s breath clogged in her throat when eyes so blue that they appeared silver stared up at her. In addition to those spellbinding eyes, with their fan of lashes, the man had a crop of raven hair, a swarthy physique and an incredibly handsome face.

This was, unquestionably, the most attractive man she’d ever encountered. His effect on her was startling. When their gazes met, time screeched to a halt and she got lost in the intensity of his unusual blue eyes.

She was still staring at him in trancelike fascination when he whispered, “An angel. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I only wish I were a miracle-working angel, mister,” she murmured.

When he slipped back into unconsciousness, Tara gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on the grim task at hand. “Angel indeed,” she muttered. “From the look of your wounds, you could use an angel right now.”

Tara glanced this way and that, trying to figure out how to transport this injured man to the farmhouse, when he likely outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. She guessed him to be about six feet three inches—maybe four—of solid muscle. There was no conceivable way for her to drag or lift him. Though she hated to leave him, Tara had no choice but to return to the ranch for help.

She took off like a shot to retrieve the horse she’d tethered in the distance. She rode hell-for-leather through the valley, knowing every second counted. She prayed for all she was worth that the wounded man with hypnotic silver-blue eyes would still be alive and breathing when she returned.

John lifted heavy-lidded eyes to see that lovely face, surrounded by a mass of curly, reddish blond-hair, hovering over him a second time. Now, as before, the light shimmered around her golden head like a glorious halo. When she shifted, the angle of light intensified the color of her hair. It seemed as if the curlicue strands caught fire and burned with amber flames.

Long ago, in a nearly forgotten lifetime, John remembered his white mother telling him that angels were the essence of all that was pure and sweet in heaven. Who would’ve thought heaven was where he’d end up when he had so much blood on his hands and a trainload of guilt weighing down his conscience? With his white man’s soul and his Apache heart, he’d sort of figured he’d be trapped in some eternal way station—or delivered straight to hell because he’d turned out to be a traitor to both civilizations.

While John was contemplating the hereafter, five more heads appeared above him. He studied the three male and two female faces—varying in age, but all younger than his angel of mercy.

“He’s awake.” This from the smallest female cherub with dark, hollow eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair.

“Reckon we must’ve saved him, after all.”

John shifted his attention to the adolescent male face to his right, then frowned dubiously when he realized what the kid had said. He was alive? He thought about that for a moment, then decided the aches and pains that were becoming more intense with each passing moment probably indicated that he did indeed live and breathe—but just barely.

His chest hurt like a son of a bitch. His leg throbbed like hell. Breathing was definitely an effort because pain was shooting through his ribs like an assault of poison darts.

“Medicine pouch,” he wheezed, amazed that it took so much effort to speak.

A befuddled frown settled on his angel of mercy’s enchanting features. “Medicine pouch?” she repeated in such a soft, wispy voice that John sighed at the soothing sound.

“On my belt,” he managed to croak, in a voice that reminded him of a bullfrog.

The six faces hovering over him disappeared momentarily. Murmurs and whispers came from the right and left of him, but John couldn’t muster enough energy to turn his head. He stared at the wooden rafters above him and waited.

“Is this what you’re talking about, mister?”

The angel’s face came into view again. She held the beaded leather pouch in one dainty hand.

“Buttons,” he whispered. Gawd, the pain seemed to be spreading rapidly. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt—and badly.

“Buttons?” she parroted. “In here?”

“Yeah. Three of them.” He hissed in pain when he tried to reach for the pouch. His left arm was killing him.

This woman with cedar green eyes, pert nose and creamy complexion, who had apparently saved his wretched life, rummaged through his pouch, then held the button-shaped objects in front of his eyes. “Do you mean these?”

“Put them in my mouth,” he requested.

She complied. He chewed, swallowed, then choked. “W-ater.”

Scrabbling noises indicated someone had scurried off to fetch a cup of water. Moments later, John felt the tin cup pressed against his lips, and he sipped eagerly. His strength abandoned him abruptly and the pain returned in full force, leaving a barrage of cold chills in its wake. He swore the drink of water was freezing like ice in his bloodless veins.

He waited impatiently for the peyote buttons that the Apache used to override pain to take effect. John definitely needed something to ease the indescribable ache spreading throughout his body.

He wondered where this brood of children who hovered around him had come from, wondered where the hell he was. All he knew was that he was alive—whether that was a blessing or not. It didn’t feel like much of one. Considering the pain and misery he was enduring he figured dying would’ve been a whole helluva lot easier.

When the peyote took welcomed effect, John sank back into the darkness that had become his ever-present companion.

Hours later—days maybe, he wasn’t sure—he heard that quiet, soothing voice calling to him from a long winding tunnel. He felt warm liquid sliding down his throat. He was vaguely aware of gentle hands moving lightly over his chest and thigh, soothing him, consoling him.