Call Of The White Wolf. Carol Finch
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“Okay, Irish. Just do your worst.” John stared straight into her thick-lashed cedar-green eyes. “If I curse you, don’t take it personally, since you’ll be burning the living hell out of me. Deal?”
“Deal.” Tara nodded bleakly, and then braced herself on her knees while John bit down on the leather strap.
“Do the leg first,” he said around the strap. “With any luck, I’ll pass out before you sear my ribs. I hope you sent the children outside so they won’t have to hear a grown man scream bloody murder.”
“I sent them to one of the springs to pick wild grapes,” she said, her attention focused intently on the angry flesh on his leg. “Ready? On three—”
Tara didn’t wait until the count of three. She wanted to get this grisly task completed before John tensed up. Even then, he nearly came off the pallet when she touched the heated blade to his thigh. All the while she told herself that if she could prevent gangrene and spare his leg, and his life, it was worth his suffering—and hers.
Watching beads of perspiration trickling from his brow, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, noting the complete lack of color in his chiseled features was killing Tara, bit by excruciating bit. John let out a pained howl that nearly blasted holes in her eardrums. His hand clamped around her wrist like a vise grip when she reflexively eased the blade away from his wound.
“Not long enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know it. I know it. Again, Irish.” His hand guided hers downward, completing the unpleasant process.
Tears floated in Tara’s eyes as she watched him deal with agonizing pain. This, she realized, was no ordinary man. In the face of adversity, he was extraordinary. Had their roles been reversed, Tara was pretty sure she would’ve been screeching hysterically and fighting him with every ounce of strength she possessed. He, however, held her hand steady to thoroughly sear the wound.
“Damn, here I was hoping I’d pass out,” John panted as he drew her hand and the blade toward his rib cage.
His intense gaze locked on hers again. He stared unblinking at her, while what must’ve been excruciating pain blazed through him. Unintentionally, he nearly crushed the bones in her wrist in his effort to force her to finish the gruesome task. When she would’ve pulled away again, he ensured that she remained steady and relentless. Tara was crying by the time he allowed her to withdraw the knife, and she practically collapsed beside him when the gruesome deed was done.
“You’re one hell of a woman, Irish,” he said, between gasps of breath.
“You did most of the work and endured all the pain,” she reminded him as she wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow, his upper lip. “Were I you, I’d have fainted dead away minutes ago.”
She was so close to him and he was so overcome with pain that he wasn’t thinking clearly. That was his only explanation for what he did next. He up and kissed her right on the mouth, just like he’d told himself he was not going to do—ever. He was pretty sure he got lost in the sweet taste and compelling scent of her, because the next thing John knew the world turned as black as the inside of a cave and swallowed him up.
Dazed, her lips tingling, her body shimmering with unfamiliar sensation, Tara gaped at her patient, who’d collapsed unconscious on the pallet. In the first place, she couldn’t believe he’d kissed her. Secondly, she couldn’t believe she’d kissed him back. But she supposed if any man ever deserved to steal a kiss—and get away with it—it was John Wolfe. Considering what he’d endured, he probably hadn’t realized what he was doing. Either that or he’d sought comfort in a moment of maddening pain.
Like a crawdad, Tara scuttled backward, then covered John’s limp body with the sheet, which had shifted sideways during the ordeal by fire. While she cleaned and bandaged the wounds, she decided she’d treat the unexpected kiss as if it had never happened. Chances were that he wouldn’t remember it, anyway.
It didn’t mean anything. She could not let it mean anything, she told herself firmly. Still, the feel of his lips devouring hers with something akin to desperation left sizzling aftershocks rippling through her body.
Tara willfully shook off the tantalizing sensations and climbed to her feet. She tiptoed over to retrieve her sewing kit so she could mend her torn dress. Now was as good a time as any to repair the damage. And she’d do so as soon as her hands stopped shaking and she could breathe without John’s masculine scent clogging her senses completely.
Chapter Three
During the days that followed, John’s energy returned gradually. He received periodic visits from the brood of children. They came alone. They came in pairs. They came in a group. But Tara never once approached him without a chaperone of one or two children following at her heels. He reckoned the impulsive kiss he’d planted on her dewy, soft lips was responsible for her standoffish manner.
Not that he blamed her. He’d been more than a little surprised by it himself, especially after he’d sworn up one side and down the other that there could be nothing more than friendship between them. He supposed the agonizing pain of the ordeal had triggered the impulse, making natural instinct difficult to control.
He should apologize, but the truth was that he wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her. She was the one taste of purity and sweetness in his violent and isolated world. He wouldn’t let it happen again, of course. His Irish angel of mercy was now, and forever more, off-limits.
“You want some bread and wild grape jelly, Zohn Whoof?” young Flora asked as she sank down cross-legged beside him on the pallet.
John smiled at the cute little tyke who had already wedged her way into his heart. He couldn’t help himself. The kid was warm and giving and altogether adorable, especially when she invented her own unique way of pronouncing his name.
“Bread and jelly sounds mighty good, half-pint.”
Flora slathered jelly on a slice of bread, then handed it to him. “I help Tara make the jelly. We have jars and jars of it stored in the root cellar.”
John sighed contentedly at the first bite. Someone around here really could cook, and he presumed it was Tara. Of course, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t much that she couldn’t do well. He’d watched her come and go from dawn until dusk without a single complaint. She always had a smile and kind word for the children. Her organizational skills, he’d noted, were a marvel, and she made time for each child’s individual needs.
This unique family fascinated him, even though the life they led was utterly foreign to him. It’d been years since John had felt family ties, felt as if he belonged anywhere. Not that he belonged here, of course. But this family didn’t treat him as an outsider, the way most folks did when he ventured into one town, then another. Usually, people didn’t engage him in conversation or venture too close. He figured most folks considered a man who was part lawman, gunfighter and bounty hunter unworthy of respect because he dealt with evil, violence and death on a regular basis.
John had pried bits and pieces of information from the younger children to appease his curiosity about Tara, though he told himself repeatedly that his fascination with her was ill-advised and impractical. He’d discovered that Tara was a passable markswoman who could put wild game on the table to feed her brood. That she harvested and processed vegetables from the garden, and had somehow managed