Spirit of the Wolf Read online

  Chance thought he knew how those winged creatures felt, coasting way up there in the clear blue sky, where the wind caressed the treetops and held billowy white clouds aloft. The big birds could glide from lofty nests and survey the landscape below, or slip silently by, or slow their flight should something catch their eye. And when their mighty wings grew tired, they could rest on a bouncing birch bough. Remain in flight, or pause in some protected perch: the choice was theirs, for this was their home, and here, they were free.

  Until coming to Foggy Bottom, Chance hadn’t allowed himself to taste freedom. Glorious as it was, he’d spent his entire adult life in the shadow of it, knowing full well that he’d never bask in the warmth of that hard-earned, elusive thing.

  Until this place, Chance hadn’t recognized how much he wanted to belong, to call one place his. And until Bess, he hadn’t admitted, even to himself, how much he yearned to be enveloped by the unconditional love of a woman, this woman.

  He glanced over at her, sitting there, thick dark hair blown back from her pretty little face, long lashes curling up from her high cheekbones as she surveyed the vast valley beyond.

  In recent years, the thought had crossed his mind a time or two that letting the marshals catch up with him might just be a blessing. Why had he been running all this time, after all? In truth, lately, the longer he ran, the less he feared the end.

  But since Bess….

  How still, how hushed she sat! he acknowledged, smiling to himself. Ordinarily, she’d be chattering like a chipmunk. Chance knew what her silence meant. It meant that she’d sensed his need for quiet, just as she’d sensed his need to pretend she hadn’t seen his tears or heard his sobs. And he loved her all the more for that. “Have you opened all your birthday presents?”

  She blinked a time or two before facing him, then sent him a smile he could define only as serene. “All but yours….”

  He looked into her teasing, smiling face. “How do you know I even got you a present?”

  The grin faded into a slow, small smile of certainty. “I just do.” Just as quickly as it had disappeared, the mischief in her eyes reappeared. “I only hope you didn’t spend all your pay on me. Before you know it, it’ll be Christmas….”

  If he’d earned himself a fortune in his years on the run, it wouldn’t be enough, because what he wanted to give her couldn’t be bought with money. Chance wanted to give her his true name: Walker Atwood. The worst of his torment behind him now, Chance grinned. “Folks are going to wonder where you are,” he repeated.

  Bess lifted her chin and raised both brows. “Let them wonder,” she said again in her matter-of-fact way.

  This time, it was he who squeezed her hand. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to bring you gifts, to make a fine party for you.”

  She’d lowered her head to hide her thoughts from him, he realized. But she hadn’t done it quickly enough. For in that instant before she focused those incredible eyes on some unknown spot between her tiny boots, Chance had read her lovely face, and saw that she’d already had the same thought, had probably considered it even before she made her ascent to join him on the big boulder. Without releasing her hand, he stood. “Let’s head on back,” he drawled, “before Micah rounds up a posse to hunt us down.”

  Bess sat for a moment, looking up at him through those lush, black lashes. She’d never said she loved him straight out, but he’d long suspected it.

  She didn’t iron the other hired hands’ shirts, or darn their socks, or polish their boots. She’d never invited any of them to join her on the porch after supper to sip tea and enjoy the breeze.

  He’d never heard her ask any of Micah’s other employees what their favorite color was, and if their answers had been ‘red’, he’d never seen them sporting bulky red sweaters she’d knitted to warm them when bitter winds blew through the valley.

  Never had she studied the others as they ate, to determine a food preference, then whipped that favorite dish into a tasty lunch the very next day, wrapped in a line-dried napkin.

  No, she hadn’t told him how she felt. Instead, she’d shown him. And now, what she felt shone from her eyes like twin beams of radiant light.

  And he loved her for that, too.

  “C’mon,” he said, tugging her arm ‘til she stood beside him, “or they’ll cut into the cake without you.”

  Love still sparkled in her eyes when she grinned. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Chance knew he shouldn’t have pulled her into that tight embrace. Knew he shouldn’t press his mouth against her waiting, parted lips. He’d known he ought to keep his calloused fingers out of those satiny waves. But the swell of emotion that rose inside of him at the lovelight in her eyes gave him no choice.

  All right. So he’d weakened on that score. But Chance was determined to exhibit strength elsewhere.

  He mustn’t tell her that the love she felt for him flashed in her eyes like lightning. Mustn’t let her know how good it felt to have someone as warm and wonderful as she in love with him. Mustn’t ever allow her to discover that he’d never held another woman as tenderly, nor kissed another woman as passionately. He mustn’t speak aloud the trite, poetic thoughts that roiled in his head: You taste like honey and smell like lilacs.

  Chance didn’t believe words existed to describe the way her soft murmurs set his pulse to pounding, for they were like music to his ears.

  Bess could never know that loved her more than life itself, more, even, than his precious freedom.

  Because to be with her night and day as husband and wife, he’d gladly forsake his precarious hold on freedom. If a prison sentence awaited him instead of the hangman’s noose, he’d wait out the marshals. And if she’d have him, he’d endure the time, knowing when it ended, he’d spend his remaining days in her arms.

  But no. He loved her too much to subject her to that kind of pain. Chance would shelter her from gloom that had shadowed him since leaving Lubbock. He loved her, true enough, and leaving her would be harder than anything he’d done to date. Harder, even, than burying his parents, for they hadn’t left him by choice, as he’d be leaving Bess.

  Another eagle screeched overhead, reminding Chance of the creature’s freedom to come or go or stay as it chose. Suddenly, he no longer felt quite so envious of that great, wild bird.

  He kissed her, and then clutched her to him in a desperate attempt to blot out thoughts of being caught, of leaving Foggy Bottom, of losing his precious Bess. He felt her heart thumping against his chest, felt her fingers comb through his hair. He took her face in his hands and looked deep into those innocent, soulful doe eyes. Inhaling deeply, Chance looked up into the pale blue sky and shook his head. He’d never felt more loved or wanted than when he was with Bess. Had never felt more important or cherished than when in her arms. Was it wrong to want her on every human level? Not wrong, perhaps, but not right, either….

  And so Chance took a careful, if not reluctant, step back, reminding himself he’d soon leave Foggy Bottom soon. Too soon. “When you cut that cake,” he said, tenderly tidying her mussed hair, “make mine an end slice.”

  Was it his imagination, or had he put extra emphasis on the word ‘end’?

  Chapter Ten

  The next days passed in a flurry of activity.

  The men Micah had hired at the start of the season were busy every hour of every day, readying the farm for the harvest. He’d promised Bess that next year, if she cut savvy deals in Baltimore this year, she could travel west on his behalf to choose and purchase the stud bulls that would sire a whole new line of dairy cows at Foggy Bottom. That he trusted her enough to let her go alone to the meeting with the Texas rancher made Bess happier than she’d been in years. Happy, and proud, too.

  It was important to outfit herself like a woman who understood a thing or two about negotiating:

  Her practical, low-heeled shoes went well with what Micah teasingly referred to as her “Do Business” dress. Richly trimmed in deep green cotton, the folds of
its sea-green skirt shimmered in light and shadow. The three buttons that graced each wide cuff were covered in the same dark green fabric, as were the two that held the glimmering golden throat clasp on its collar. When her mother had worn the dress, she looked to Bess like a goddess. No such aura came to mind when she donned it herself, however.

  Her mother had been one of those rare beauties who needed no rouge on her high cheekbones or lips. Her luxurious, waist-length brown hair shone with lustrous red and gold strands, and her skin, so pale it was almost translucent, reminded Bess of the fragile china that her mother reserved for special dinners.

  She’d never recognized the similarities in her face and her mother’s. Nor did she see the likeness between her own delicate frame and Mary’s. She had no way of knowing that every time he looked at Bess, Micah was reminded of his beloved wife, or that the striking resemblance was a daily reminder of a painful fact: Mary was gone to him, forever. Bess could not have known that this fact caused him to hold his daughter at arm’s length, avoiding her when he could, avoiding her dancing brown eyes when he couldn’t.

  So when Chance occasionally referred to her as J.P., for Just Plain Bess, it had been all too easy to believe he saw her as plain, too. Not until he began to show genuine interest in her, not as someone who could help him carve a wedge of Foggy Bottom for himself, but as a woman, did she begin to see herself as more than ‘just plain.’

  She remembered the first time she’d come face to face with the fact that she did, indeed, look very much like her beautiful mother.

  She’d been in the dining room polishing the silver when she heard a noise in the parlor. Leaving her cleaning supplies behind, Bess tiptoed across the foyer’s Persian rug to peek through the velvet curtains on either side of the wide doorway.

  Chance had stood before the fireplace, one big hand gripping the mantle on either side of the gilded frame that housed a tintype of her family. He’d seemed entranced by the images, captured forever by the photographer. Sensing her presence, he turned. For a fleeting moment, Bess saw naked vulnerability in his blue eyes. But in a blink, the warm, sweet look was gone, and in its place, Chance’s usual, guarded expression.

  “Didn’t hear you come in,” he’d said, pocketing both hands.

  Crossing to where he stood, she’d felt oddly like an intruder in her own home. “Would you like me to introduce you to everyone?”

  “Maybe some other time,” he’d said, glancing at the clock. “It’s time to—“

  “Surely you can spare a moment.” One by one, she identified grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins, saving the family portrait for last. “The twins favor Mama, don’t you think?”

  Nodding, he’d whispered, “I reckon, but you could be her twin.” He touched a curl that had escaped her cleaning bonnet. “Your hair is thicker, and those doe-eyes of yours are bigger.” His thumb skimmed her lashes. “You’re living, breathing proof there’s a God in the heavens.”

  He’d gone on to say, “Met a man in Kansas City once. Said he’d been all the way across the ocean, where he’d spent a year in sunny Italy. Told me about all these beautiful statues, carved by Michelangelo, and described paintings by a man name of Lorenzo Ghiberti.”

  Though she’d been impressed to learn that Chance, rough and tumble cowboy, knew so much about foreign art, Bess hadn’t understood the connection between fine art and him, seeing her as proof there was a God…

  …until he showed her.

  “No painter or sculptor could create a work of art as magnificent as Bess Beckley,” he’d said, drawing her close. “It took God to do that.”

  And then he’d kissed her.

  Bess had felt his heart, beating hard against her chest. Suddenly, without warning or reason, Chance ended the beautiful moment and looked at the ceiling and, eyes closed, drew a deep, shuddering breath. Three syllables toward the scones flanking the mantle, syllables that sounded an awful lot like ‘I love you.’ “What? What did you say?”

  One corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily, as if he were trying to take back the words…and whatever emotion had inspired them. Ever so gently, he traced her lower lip with a calloused fingertip, then rested his chin atop her head and said, “I’d better get back to work.”

  And just like that, he left her to admit that without him, she felt cold and empty, and very much alone.

  Bess’s heart fluttered, remembering the kiss she’d so often dreamt of and thought about as she went about her chores. And disappointing as it was, no opportunity to repeat the magical moment had presented itself since. Chance busied himself with overseeing the harvest, and she had plenty to keep her busy, preparing for her meeting with the Texas cattle rancher.

  Excitement bubbled inside her in anticipation of this, her first real business trip. After lunch, Bess hummed contentedly as she straightened the rows of canned goods she’d stored on the pantry shelves. Soon, the humming escalated to underher-breath singing as she stacked neatly-folded line-dried sheets and pillowslips in the linen cupboard. By the time she stood out back beating rugs, Bess’s song could be heard clear across the yard.

  “Amazing Grace,” she sang, “how sweet thou art….”

  Of all the melodies she could have chosen, he wondered why Bess sang that particular hymn. It was his uncle’s favorite, sung morning and night…and as he beat Chance for boyhood infractions, and before and after every lecture…. By the time Chance turned fifteen, he’d come to hate the song with a vengeance.

  Always before, hearing it conjured painful memories, raised doubts and awakened suspicions that he’d kept carefully hidden under layers of pretended sternness. Christians, he’d come to believe, were all the same, good when decent folks were in plain sight, but mean and evil when no one but family could see.

  His aunt Polly had endured nearly as many whippings as Chance over the years. Several times, in trying to rescue her from yet another lash of Josh’s thick, leather strap, it was Chance’s skin that later stung with ugly, red welts. “In the name of the Lord God,” Josh would thunder, “you will obey me!” After each beating, once his wife and nephew quit sniffling, he’d insist that they join him in praising the Lord by singing his favorite hymn, Amazing Grace.

  But this time, the melody didn’t summon angry, bitter feelings. Bess’s sweet, angelic voice trilled with meaning and intent, and for the first time in his life, Chance understood the words.

  “Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come. ‘Twas grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.” Suddenly, she saw him standing there, and lurched with fright. “Goodness gracious. You nearly scared me out of my boots!”

  “Sorry,” he said, walking closer and taking the rug beater from her. “I was just enjoying your song. Please don’t stop.”

  She grabbed the tool and gave the rug another good wallop. “I’ll sing, on one condition.”

  He tipped back his hat and both crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to name her terms.

  “You have to join me.”

  Chance laughed. “Me?” He pointed at a nearby tree, where several chickadees perched on a low branch. “What’d they ever do to you?”

  Bess’s merry giggle was punctuated with a wink and a bright smile. “I’ve heard you sing. You have a beautiful voice.”

  Chance shrugged. He supposed his voice was pleasant enough, but he’d always thought of it more as a way to soothe restless cows on moonlit nights.

  Bess sat on the rough-hewn bench alongside the flagstone walk and patted the empty space beside her. When he joined her, their backs to the white-picketed kitchen porch, she took his hand. “Oh, Lord my God,” she began softly, “when I in awesome wonder, consider all the worlds thy hands have made….”

  With a gentle poke of her elbow to his ribs, she nudged him. “Come on now, sing with me.”

  “Can’t,” he said. “Don’t know that one. But it’s beautiful. Don’t stop.”

  Her brown eyes bored deep into his blu
e ones, as if in search of the truth. Then she closed her eyes and began again: “Oh Lord my God….”

  Chance stared at her lovely profile, reveling in the feel of her soft, warm fingers nestled in his calloused palm. The moments sped by, and disappointment rang loud in his heart when she sang the last line: “How great thou art, how great thou art.”

  She sighed. “I’ve always loved that one….”

  “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  Bess giggled again. “Can’t seem to get any work done when you’re around. You’re a very distracting presence, Chance Walker.”

  He stiffened. I’m not Chance Walker, he ranted mentally. My name is Atwood. Walker Atwood! He was proud of the name his parents had chosen for him, but regrettably, hadn’t been able to use it, not once in many years.

  He saw the startled, almost frightened expression on her pretty face and realized he must have been grimacing something fierce. He smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  “Aren’t we friends, Chance?”

  Such a simple question, yet Chance didn’t know how to answer. Yes, she’d been a friend to him, one of the best he’d ever known. Why, she’d wrangled more from him than he’d ever shared with anyone. She knew he’d lost both parents in a prairie fire at the age of twelve, that he’d spent the next seven years with his aunt and uncle, and somehow managed to get him to talk about the horrible abuse he’d suffered at Josh’s hands. It had been Bess who’d convinced him that surely goodness and mercy lived somewhere in the man’s heart, and her point-blank question, fired in exactly the same way as she’d fired every other, made him remember the precise moment in time when Josh changed into the cruel man whose testimony caused Chance to run for his life:

  He’d been ten years old on the Sunday his parents, Uncle Josh and Aunt Polly had been invited to a neighbor’s for dinner. Just as Josh picked up his fork to dig into the delights prepared by their hostess, Abe Martin held up his hands and said, “Before we eat, we must thank God for our bounty.”