Code of the Wolf (3 page)

Slowly she turned around again and deliberately examined him with the cool detachment Changying had displayed. It was only a body. A magnificent example, but only a body nonetheless. It had no power to frighten or attract her.

Slumping back against the partition, she closed her eyes. She didn't realize how exhausted she was until she woke suddenly from a standing doze. Instantly she
looked down. The man was staring back at her with cool gray eyes.

“Ma'am,” he croaked. “Would you mind telling me…where am I?”

T
HE WOMAN DIDN
'T answer at first, and that was just as well. Jacob was far from ready to get up, and talking at all was difficult. He was naked under the blanket someone had thrown over him, his gun and knives were gone, and he had no idea where he was.

But his wounds hurt less, his mouth had a little moisture in it, and he was finally able to get a good look at his savior. What he saw surprised him.

At first glance she didn't look like the kind of woman who could face down a band of outlaws and outshoot them with exquisite precision. She was petite and fine-boned, with almost delicate features and dark blond hair pulled severely away from her face.

And she was pretty. By no means a great beauty, but then, a woman who carried a gun on her hip wasn't likely to be overly concerned with her appearance. Her face was tanned and unpainted, her figure completely concealed by baggy boy's trousers and a shirt, with only a telltale dip at the waist where her belt held her clothing closer to her body. He was willing to bet she wasn't wearing a corset, either. Most men would have judged her appearance beyond the pale of anything proper for a female.

Once Jacob might have done the same. He wondered
about her male kinfolk; few men worth their salt would let a wife or daughter or sister dress that way, or ride into the desert with only a couple of other females as an escort. It was a man's place to protect his women, and there was no excuse for such a lapse. No excuse at all.

Yet for all her small size, nothing in the lady's appearance or in her steady glare suggested weakness or dependence on anyone.

He remembered her name. Serenity. The woman who was anything but serene.

Without a word, she retrieved a pitcher standing on a stool against the wall to his left and sloshed water into a glass. Jacob remembered someone giving him water before, but he didn't think it had been this woman. The hands had been gentle, the face—what he had been able to see of it in his delirium—entirely different.

Stiffly the woman bent over him, as if she hoped to put the glass to his lips without coming anywhere near him. After a moment she knelt, still keeping her distance, and put the glass down just long enough to push the sack of grain that served as his pillow higher under his shoulders.

“Drink,” she said, and set the rim of the glass to his lips. The water tasted like ambrosia as it coated his mouth and trickled down his throat. The moment he had had enough, the woman put the glass down, stood and resumed her place against the wall.

Jacob half closed his eyes. It was difficult to keep them open, but he had to know more about this
woman and why she, though so obviously hostile, had helped him.

“Ma'am,” he tried again, “I'd be obliged if you would tell me where I am.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at some point behind his head as if she could burn a hole in the wall with her stare. “You're at Avalon,” she said.

Avalon. He'd heard her speak the word before, but it also echoed in other memories. Somewhere, sometime long past, when he'd been only a boy, he'd heard the name. It meant nothing to him now.

“A ranch?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Her voice was no longer distorted by distance or his delirium, but it still didn't match the delicacy of her face. It should have been soft and soothing, not harsh, as it was when she spoke to him. It should have been like Ruth's.

But Ruth would never have put on a man's clothes or carried a gun. The thought would never have entered her mind.

Whatever was in
this
woman's mind, she wasn't going to offer him any more information without real encouragement. He braced himself on his elbows and tried to sit up. She flinched, controlling the involuntary movement so quickly that he doubted an ordinary man would have noticed.

“I'm…obliged, ma'am,” he said. “For what you did out there.”

Her jaw tightened, and she finally met his gaze. “It's
strange,” she said, “how quickly you've come from nearly dying to acting as if you weren't hurt at all.”

No pleasantries with this lady. Not that he was inclined to them himself. But there was considerable suspicion in her words, as if she believed he'd feigned his condition.

But why would such a thought even occur to her? That she didn't trust him was clear, and she was smart not to, but she had no call to think he'd had any reason to pretend.

Unless she'd sensed something different about him. Some regular folk did. Jacob had made a mistake in letting her see just how fast a werewolf could recover from serious injuries once he had the resources to do it.

Still, he figured it wouldn't do much good to assure her that he wasn't a threat, sick or not. He sure as hell wasn't ready to get up and dance a jig anytime soon.

“The water and shelter helped, ma'am,” he said honestly. “But if it's all the same to you…” He glanced at the pitcher on the stool. There was no chance that he would beg for another glass of water, but at least the words were coming easier now. “I'd like to stay here a little while longer.”

Her hand hovered near the grip of her gun. “Who were those men?” she asked.

Her question told him that she'd had precious little idea of what had been going on when she and the other women had rescued him. “They were…part of Leroy Blake's gang. I was taking Leroy to Las Cruces when his partners—”

He stopped, wondering why he should admit how stupid and careless he'd been to let the likes of Leroy's men get the drop on him.

His throat was too raw for laughter. It caught in his chest like a cough. Hell, she'd already seen him at his weakest. Maybe it was contempt he saw in her face. It would be more than justified.

The idea stung in a way that bothered him considerably. He couldn't remember the last time he'd given a damn about another man's opinion. Or any woman's since Ruth had died.

“They set up an ambush,” he said.

There was as little feeling in her face as there was in his words. “You weren't with them?”

So that explained it. She thought he might be one of them. It wasn't as if outlaws didn't turn on their own kind plenty often.

“No, ma'am,” he said. “Like I said, I was taking Leroy to Las Cruces. Five of his men were waiting for us two miles south of San Augustin Pass.”

“There were only five men with you. There was another one?”

“Yes, ma'am, but he won't be bothering anyone again.”

He could see the questions in her eyes, but he had concerns of his own that had to come first. “How many did you get?” he asked before she could speak again.

She touched the grip of her gun. It was a good one—a Colt single-action Peacemaker, well used but obviously well cared for, as well. “They got away,” she
said, every word grudging. “I hit at least two of them, though, including the man who was trying to kill you.”

“Did
you
intend to kill
him?
”

“No,” she said shortly.

Jacob believed her. He could see the idea bothered her, which was something of a relief. She wasn't quite as hardened as she obviously wanted him to think.

He lay back down again, suddenly winded. “You're a good shot, ma'am.”

If she appreciated the compliment—the kind he very seldom gave to anyone—she didn't show any sign of it. “Will they come looking for you?” she asked.

Smart of her to consider that possibility. It was the same one that had been on his mind since he'd woken up.

“I don't think they have the stomach for it,” he said. “Especially since Leroy's wounded, and you said you got one of the others. But—” He sucked in a breath as a wave of nausea reminded him that he wasn't as strong as either he or the lady had believed. “I don't plan to be here long, but I'll be happy to tell your menfolk whatever they need to know.”

She gave him a look of bitter amusement. “It would be best if you told
me,
” she said.

Even the dim light from the lantern was beginning to hurt his eyes. He closed them and sighed.

“You're a fine hand with a rifle, ma'am, and maybe with that gun, too. You're braver than most men I've met. But your menfolk won't want you risking your life again, and as long as there's a chance—”

“So you would like to speak to the ranch boss?”

“Yes, ma'am. That would do fine.”

“In that case, you
are
speaking to her.”

It took about five seconds for him to realize what she'd said. He opened his eyes and stared at her. She was as dead serious as anyone he'd ever seen.

“Are you saying…you run this outfit, ma'am?”

“Yes.”

Now he understood that bitterness. She must think this was quite a joke on him. But it didn't make one lick of sense.

The only possibility he could see was that she was a widow and had no other close male kin to take over the ranch when her husband died. Or maybe she was the only child of a father who'd died and left her with no choice but to manage on her own.

Either way, she couldn't have been at it for long. The odds would be too stacked against her in this country, where any female boss, even if she proved strong enough to keep her hands and manage the finances and other business, would have to contend with constant challenges from men and nature no woman should have to face.

But she'd done a pretty damned good job of driving off Leroy's gang, and what he could see of the barn didn't suggest she was struggling to survive. It was well built and clean, the horses he'd seen were of good quality, and the woman herself hardly looked like someone living on the edge of ruin.

The fact was that he didn't know a damned thing about this place or this woman who claimed to run it, let alone if she was telling the truth.

“I've been remiss in introducing myself, ma'am,” he said, instinctively reaching up to touch the brim of his missing hat. “My name is Jacob Constantine.”

He wasn't particularly surprised when she failed to provide her name in return. “And why were you taking this man Leroy to Las Cruces, Mr. Constantine?” she asked.

Not everyone who heard his profession admired him for it. In fact, he would have to say most didn't have a very high opinion of bounty hunters. But his only alternative was to lie, and he made it a habit to tell the truth. That was part of the Code he lived by. The Code that kept him sane.

“Leroy Blake is wanted in one state and three territories for murder, robbery and other crimes,” he said. “I was taking him in for the bounty.”

Her expression didn't change. “He sounds like a very bad man,” she said. “Why didn't you get the rest of his gang when you captured him?”

“They weren't with him, ma'am.”

“Even if they had been, you couldn't have taken all of them, could you?”

He might have been able to, given the right circumstances, but he couldn't tell her why. “The chance didn't present itself,” he said.

“And it never occurred to you that they might realize you had their boss and come after you?”

Her scorn was obvious, and Jacob felt his temper begin to rise. That was the worst stupidity of all. He had no call to be mad at her, and he'd learned a long time ago to control his passions. Especially where women
were concerned. That was part of the Code, too. Rare were the times he'd ever been discourteous to a female, no matter what her stripe.

Even more rarely would he let himself get into a position where he had to apologize, explain himself, or become beholden to any man, woman or child.

“Ma'am,” he said, “I regret that you had to get tangled up in this. By tomorrow—”

His words were lost in a ruckus as the barn door burst open and a brown-haired girl ran in, closely followed by an older female with thick red hair and the Chinese woman who had tended him before. The girl dashed right up to Serenity and stopped, her skirt slapping around her legs.

“Oh!” she said, staring down at Jacob with wide brown eyes. “You're awake!”

The redhead came to stand behind the girl while the Chinese woman set down the still-steaming teakettle she had been carrying, retrieved the pitcher and filled the glass with fresh water. He noticed for the first time that she was wearing soft trousers and a long tunic, the typical dress he'd seen in places where the Chinese were more common.

Jacob quickly examined the other two. The girl was probably no more than seventeen—pretty, coltish and clearly high-spirited. The redhead had a look about her Jacob had seen plenty of times before, in dance halls and saloons and less savory places where women sold their bodies for money and board.

But she didn't seem beaten down by the work like most of them. There was a sparkle in her green eyes
and a gentleness in the hand she laid on the girl's shoulder, and she hadn't yet lost the beauty that would have drawn men to her bed.

“Drink this,” the Chinese woman urged, offering him the glass.

He drank slowly, nodded his thanks and tried to sit up again.

The woman shook her head.

“You must lie still,” she said in her accented English.

“He looks so much better, Changying!” the young girl said. Her gaze sought Jacob's. “Who are you? What were you doing out there with those men? Did you see—”

“Frances,” Serenity said in a firm, quiet voice that silenced the girl instantly. The way she spoke now had nothing in common with the way she'd talked to Jacob. It was all the difference between dealing with a friend and an enemy.

“I'm Jacob Constantine,” he repeated. “As I said to Miss…” He glanced up at Serenity. “I never caught your name, ma'am.”

“Serenity Campbell,” the redhead said, stepping around the girl. She wore a simple modest skirt and bodice more suitable for a hardworking farm wife than a dance-hall girl, and there was an open friendliness in her manner that gave the lie to the weary lines around her eyes and mouth.