Bride of the Wolf (13 page)

With a cry of fury, Rachel struggled to rise. Louis laughed again and turned to go.

He never got to the door. It crashed open, and a man walked in…a man tall and broad-shouldered, his face hidden in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. The stranger touched his belt, and Rachel caught a flash of metal.

“This man botherin’ you, ma’am?” the stranger asked in Holden’s voice.

The hot breath of violence blew like a gale through the room. Rachel tried to raise her hands, tried to speak, but before she could find the words the stranger was gone and a huge, black animal crouched in his place. The wolf looked once at her with hungry yellow-green eyes and then leaped right for Louis’s throat.

Most animals can smell something rotten. Maybe the son of a bitch was just too big a temptation
. Holden’s words pounded in Rachel’s ears as she helplessly watched the beast reduce Louis’s neck to a gory lacework of torn flesh and dripping blood. He staggered like a bad actor on a makeshift stage and fell, his last breath bubbling from the hole in his throat. Rachel closed her eyes, and when she opened them again the stranger with Holden’s voice had returned.

He stood over Louis, exhaling menace and malevolence like bitter sleet. His face remained in shadow. His eyes glittered green and cold.

“You don’t have to worry no more, ma’am,” he said. He began to remove his waistcoat, and she could not
misunderstand what he intended. Part of her wanted to lie back on the bed, let this man take her without protest.

But the other part could still see Louis lying broken on the floor. Rachel backed away, reaching for a garment that was no longer there. A mirror rose out of a darkened corner, and she caught a glimpse of herself, a woman she didn’t recognize, voluptuous and beautiful.

“No,” she whispered, banishing the wanton. But the stranger wasn’t listening. He had removed his shirt, and now he began to work on the buttons of his trousers. She could not look away.

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

He laughed and tilted up his hat to reveal Holden’s hard, cruel face. “Sure you can. You’re a whore, ain’t you?”

And without another word he drew his gun from the holster at his hip and aimed it right at Rachel’s heart.

Choking with horror, she sat up, throwing the sheets aside. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the bedroom window. She touched her chest and then her stomach, feeling for the life inside her.

But her womb was empty. As empty as it had been the night she had lost her child.

She scrubbed at her face and looked into the crate that lay on the floor beside the bed. The baby slept undisturbed among his blankets, his tiny body completely relaxed in the way of the very young. Rachel knew by the light coming through the window that she’d slept through the night and well over half the day; Lucia must have tended him without making a sound.

Now she was left with nothing to do but remember the dream and wonder what had put such terrible images into her mind.

Yes, she had asked about the gun and at first imagined him one of those gunmen she had read about in some penny dreadful. They had spoken of wolves. But Holden knew nothing of her shame, however he might taunt and tease and try to provoke her.

Or desire her.

She shivered and reached for her shawl. The Holden in the dream had been cruel and murderous. The real man was capable of small cruelties and mockery and cutting remarks, and he was certainly capable of defending himself and Joey.

But she had seen him gentle, too…oh, so gentle. His affection for Joey had been undeniable, little as he would care to admit it. He’d let down his guard with the boy. She hadn’t expected him to do so again, not in her presence.

In the stable, he had done much more than that. He had allowed her into his world, permitted her to help, to watch him work with his hands and heart. A heart big enough to care for a creature that should have been no more than a useful tool to a man like him.

A man like him
. A man she seemed no closer to understanding now than when they had first met. A man whose gunshot wound had inexplicably healed overnight. A man she so desperately wanted to touch far more intimately than when she had bound his shoulder.

A man who, against all sense and reason, wanted a woman like her.

She stood before the washstand mirror and began to unbraid her hair. What had possessed her to confide in
him?
Why had she admitted her weaknesses, the very kind he must hold most in contempt? Why had she given him anything that might let him guess, even a
little, how desperate she was…or how deeply she had felt about his loyalty to a boy not his kin?

What are you running from, Rachel?

She shook out her hair, feeling the soft strands whisper around her neck. No one but she had touched it in a half-dozen years. She slipped her nightgown off over her head.

The mirror didn’t reflect everything. Even when she stood well back, she could only see her upper body. But it was not the figure and form she had seen in the dream, all lush curves and stunning beauty. She cataloged her many faults, from the too-firm arms made strong with labor to the hollow under her ribs. Her face was equally unprepossessing. She had always known that it wasn’t pretty, even if the other children at the orphanage hadn’t told her again and again. Her brows were too thick and straight, her nose a little crooked, her mouth painfully ordinary.

Only her eyes sometimes seemed a little more attractive, unusually dark and fringed with thick lashes.

She passed her hand over them, blocking them from her sight, and poured water from the jug into the basin. Slowly she bathed herself, moistening the sponge and brushing it over her skin. A real bath was a nearly unbearable temptation. But she would be compelled to venture into the shed next to the bunkhouse in order to avail herself of it, and that frightened her nearly as much as the horses.

Not because someone might accost her, but because such a sensual pleasure might crumble her already fragile resolve and let her believe she could be desired for nothing more than herself. Let her forget the terrible consequences of playing with fire…

As if he had felt her despair, the baby began to cry. Rachel quickly finished her ablutions, hooked her corset, pulled on her drawers and petticoats and knelt beside him. He quieted almost as soon as she gathered him into her arms. She stroked his thick, black hair and smiled into his eyes.

He had changed so much in the eight short days she had been with him. He had not only completely recovered from his initial illness, he’d become astonishingly robust, challenging both her and Lucia to keep him content.

She hadn’t forgotten how Holden had suggested she give up the baby to Lucia, and she still didn’t understand why he had done so. Why had he been so angry when she had made the dutiful suggestion that they attempt to find the boy’s parents? Why did it seem that he—

An astonishing idea formed in her mind. She turned it this way and that, shook her head, and laughed. How could Holden Renshaw possibly have a son?

But was it really so impossible? A man like him must have had many women, and it took so little effort to make a child. He would surely feel no compunction about lying to
her
about such a thing.

But what had happened to the mother?

Unable to bear the speculation, Rachel rocked the baby until he’d fallen asleep again. Lucia arrived a short while later. Rachel put on the oldest of her three dresses and visited Joey in the second bedroom. He was much better, and so restless that she wondered if she would have to summon Holden to keep the boy in bed.

In the end, simply warning Joey of her intention to call on Holden was sufficient to convince him to lie still a little while longer. On the way out of the house, she
met Maurice, who was holding a large, lumpy package under his arm.

“Monsieur Renshaw wished you to have this,
madame
,” he said with a little bow. He set the package down on the table and stepped back, obviously waiting for her to open it.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Rachel fetched a knife from the kitchen and sliced through the twine that bound the package. The paper fell away to reveal an infant-size cradle, painted with delicate pink and blue flowers.

She gave a little cry of pleasure and stroked her finger over the polished wood. The cradle rocked gently.

“Mr. Renshaw brought this?” she asked, her elation giving way to uncertainty.

“
Oui, madame
. He purchased it in Javelina.”

He did it for the child
, Rachel thought. “Please thank him for me, Maurice.”

The Frenchman regarded her with a suspiciously satisfied look on his round face. “He will wish to hear this from you.”

“Is he near the house?”

“He is just preparing to ride out.”

“So late?”

“He has business away from the ranch.” With a brief salute, Maurice lumbered out the door.

Rachel lifted the cradle in her arms. She never could have afforded such a treasure, even if she hadn’t lost Timothy.

Sniffing away foolish tears, she took the cradle into the bedroom and filled it with blankets. The baby took to it right away, grinning broadly and laughing in apparent glee. It was all of a piece with his unusual strength, and increase in size and awareness of his surroundings.

Lucia was already preparing to feed him, so Rachel resolved to find Holden before she lost her nerve. He wasn’t in the yard, so she stopped by the stable. Lily appeared not to have suffered any lasting effects from her harrowing experience the night before. The colt was much steadier on his legs, and, like all babies, he was voraciously hungry.

She lingered there longer than she had intended, reminding herself that there was no shame in sincere thanks for a kindness, even one intended for another. She readjusted her bonnet and strode toward the door, determined to pretend that last night’s confessions—and today’s dream—had never occurred.

Charlie Wood was walking into the stable just as she was leaving and told her that Holden was in the corral behind the building. She found Holden busy with the girth strap of his big brown horse. She hesitated a few yards away, staring into the shadows that obscured his face beneath the wide-brimmed hat. The dream returned in all its passion and fury. She could see the ripple of muscle as he removed his shirt, his hand reaching for the gun….

She was an instant away from turning back for the house when he straightened and saw her. A series of emotions flickered over his face: pleasure, uncertainty, annoyance, anger, though surely she had imagined those first two. Within a few seconds his expression had become a perfect blank.

He wants to forget about last night, too.

“You woke up late,” he said gruffly.

“Yes. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.”

Holden shrugged. “Reckon you had the right to sleep in.”

It was a kind of approval, however grudging, and she
didn’t know how to answer. “Is he the colt’s father?” she asked, indicating his horse.

Her question clearly startled him. He laughed, husky and low, with barely a hint of mockery.

“Hardly,” he said. “Apache’s a gelding.”

Rachel felt her face grow hot from more than the relentless sun. “He’s a very fine horse.”

Holden slapped the animal’s glossy rump. “That he is.”

Rachel waited for him to speak again. He didn’t. She clasped her hands at her waist and swallowed.

“I wished to thank you for the cradle,” she said.

Apache’s bridle jingled as Holden adjusted a strap. “He needed it, didn’t he?”

So much for a graceful acceptance. How could she have expected otherwise? “We can’t continue to call him ‘he,’” she said. “If we are to keep him, he must have a name.”

He rested his hands on the scarred saddle and gazed out at the horizon. For a moment she was terrified that he had changed his mind and was prepared to look for the parents after all.

“Reckon you’re right,” he said without looking at her. “You have a suggestion?”

How was it that he could keep surprising her every time she believed she had begun to understand him?

“Don’t you have ideas of your own?”

“Why should I?”

If he were the boy’s father, surely he would show a little more interest in such an important matter. “You found him,” she said with a hint of challenge. “It seems only fair that you should have a say in naming him.”

Holden shrugged. “You’ve made yourself his mother, haven’t you?”

There was no mistaking the angry note in his voice, and she could make no sense of his response. “I am the only mother he has, and since he has no father—”

Apache jerked his head up, shying from some imagined danger, and Rachel stopped. Holden spent the next minute quieting him. “Don’t you want your own kids?” he asked softly.

Invisible claws raked down her spine. “That has nothing to do with this child,” she said. “I feel certain that Jedediah will be glad to have such a sturdy boy as his son. Wouldn’t you?”

Beyond her suggestions that they might look for the child’s real parents, she and Holden had never openly discussed the baby’s future. Holden had been adamant about keeping the baby at Dog Creek, but under what circumstances was never clear.

Whatever the truth of the baby’s origins, Holden was clearly not prepared to give her the satisfaction of a straightforward answer. “What if Jed turns the boy off?” he asked.

“I would take him away with me,” she said in a rush.

He frowned and pushed his hat up. “You’d leave Jed for the kid?”

She was weary of his relentless inquisition and too hurt to speak sensibly. “Perhaps the child means little to
you
, Mr. Renshaw, but I would do anything for him. I can never have children of my own.”

Holden’s face darkened with some strong emotion. “You’re barren?”

The word was cruel, but she couldn’t deny its accuracy, or her utter stupidity in letting the admission escape her lips. She had told no one of the doctor’s prediction after her miscarriage, not even Jedediah. There
were so many children in need of adoption, children just like the girl
she
had been. She had convinced herself that he would understand.