Spirit of the Wolf Read online

  And the moment he’d slipped his arms around her, he knew.

  Knew that if he could settle down, it would be with this petite yet powerful woman.

  Life was mean, and so he’d lived it that way. Tenderness, compassion…a lot of romantic nonsense, in his opinion. He’d guarded his heart, built a sturdy wall to protect himself. If he couldn’t accept love, why bother to give it? Like a puppy to the root, she burrowed under that wall. He laughed softly, shaking his head ruefully.

  Yes, life had been mean, but being in this place changed his mind. Changed his belief that all church-goers were phonies, that friendships were phonier still. Changed his notion that he could walk through life untouched by love. Oh, he’d built a wall around his heart, all right, but clearly he hadn’t built it nearly tall enough or strong enough.

  But then, he hadn’t counted on meeting Bess….

  When she laughed, her whole body got involved. And when something saddened someone near her, it was apparent to anyone with eyes that she felt the pain, too, all the way down to her tiny-booted feet.

  That day in the parlor, when she’d looked into his face, he realized she saw him as the man he’d always wanted to be. No need for a fancy suit or a Boston education. No need for lies and pretense or pretty words, not with his darlin’ Bess. He’d only needed to be himself, and she seemed content.

  She could read his moods by something as insignificant as a quirk of an eyebrow or the slant of his smile. Chance strongly suspected she could read his mind, too, for on more than one occasion she’d spoken aloud the very thoughts pinging in his head.

  On that day, when she’d caught him staring at her family’s portrait, she seemed to sense how alone he felt in this miserable world. Seemed to know how much he needed to feel that he belonged. Chance marveled at that, because until she’d dispensed her love, like warm, soothing salve, he hadn’t even known he needed it! And without regard for appearance or propriety or her own desires, she gave what he needed. There, in her tender, feminine embrace, he felt at once sheltered and exposed, strong and weak, manly and boy-like. And more alive than he’d ever felt in his life.

  Ah, but she was some kind of woman, that li’l gal whose head barely reached his shoulders. He’d never had regrets about leaving places or people before, and he’d never be able to say that again.

  He’d asked himself time and again since that day why he’d whispered those words. But when a thought echoed in a man’s head thousand times, wasn’t it natural to say it out loud, at least once? He’d spent all of his adult life avoiding the phrase, yet that day, it had rolled off his tongue so easily and so naturally, all he could do was hope they’d spilled out quietly enough that she hadn’t heard them.

  “What did you say?” she’d asked.

  He couldn’t very well repeat it. Wouldn’t have been fair to either of them. Chance would rather die than cause her a moment’s pain, so he’d tried to conjure a similar-sounding phrase that might satisfy her, and tried not to acknowledge that no matter what he did or didn’t say, he’d was about to experience a world of hurt.

  If she hadn’t branded him with that loving, longing look as she traced his lips with her fingertips, creating a soft ‘W’, Chance might have summoned the strength to pull it off. Unbeknownst to her, Bess summoned a happy boyhood memory. “Look, Pa, a ‘W’, see?” And if his pa had been there, he’d seen that Bess had branded his Chance, as surely as the cowhands branded the Atwood livestock. Her intimate yet innocent gesture was the final hammer stroke to the already crumbling wall he’d built around his heart.

  He’d watched her with the field hands, doling out instructions and admonitions and compliments with equal care. Had seen her minister to Matt on his sickbed—and to Mark, who’d stood fearfully nearby—with a maternal compassion he’d once believed reserved only for God’s angels. He’d heard her soothe Micah’s worries, though it should have been the father comforting the daughter in times of stress. The strength of her love was as much a part of Foggy Bottom as the strong board fences that embraced its beautiful acres.

  He’d never let anyone see him cry, not since he’d buried his parents. Not even the threat of death by hanging had pushed him that far. But gazing into her eyes and seeing the purity of her love looking back at him woke emotions long asleep. And once awakened, those feelings boiled up and bubbled over like too hot stew. He’d never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted her and her pure, unconditional love.

  The grief that came from admitting he couldn’t have either hit him like a tidal wave, so hard and fast that Chance hadn’t had time to mask it. So he’d gathered her close, closer—to hide his tears from her?—and rested his chin amid her mass of soft chestnut curls. “I’d better get back to work,” he’d said, his voice gruff and hard from biting back a sob. And he’d stiffly away, without a backward glance or a by-your-leave.

  He hadn’t seen her since, but soon learned that Bess Beckley was not a woman who would be avoided.

  On the third morning after their kiss in the parlor, she sent Mark to the bunkhouse to deliver a large, overstuffed envelope to Chance. “You’re to sort through it all,” the boy explained, “and deliver the payments next time you go into town.”

  No surprise there. Chance had often been ‘Pony Express’ to Foggy Bottom creditors since taking over as foreman. Imagine his surprise when, tucked among the invoices, he found a neatly-folded sheet of ivory stationery. Holding the reins with one hand, he slid it from his pocket and read her note again:

  “Dear Chance,” he read, “I realize you’ve been terribly busy, what with preparing for the harvest and all, but I couldn’t leave for Philadelphia without saying goodbye. I hope you’ll take proper care of yourself while I’m gone (so far this week, you’ve missed two dinners and two breakfasts), because I’d hate to come home and find you’ve keeled over from exhaustion. (I’ll have enough work to catch up on without having to nurse you back to health!) I know if you could fit it into your schedule, you’d wish me a safe trip. And that you’d wish me good luck, too, in making a smart deal on Pa’s behalf. So I thank you in advance for your thoughtfulness and well wishes, and wish you a productive harvest in return. I’m sure you know that you’re always in my thoughts and prayers. (And I intend to think and pray even harder now that I know you’re undernourished!) Believe it or not, I’m going to miss you a lot while I’m gone, Chance Walker! And it was signed, Just Plain Bess.

  He chuckled at her typically humorous yet inoffensive way of making the men in her life toe the line. It felt good to be one of “the men in her life,” even if only for a short while longer.

  The steady thump-thump of Mamie’s hooves meeting the ground kept time with his heartbeats as he repocketed the note. By the position of the sun, he guessed it to be nearly eight in the morning. She’d been gone almost a week already, and had no doubt arrived in Texas by now.

  Regret tugged at his heart. He wished he’d sent her off with a proper goodbye, for if he had, he’d have that kiss to recollect, too, as he drifted off to sleep each night.

  He looked at the vastness of the Foggy Bottom horizon, with its gently rolling hills and pasturelands. Once, it had been a place of raw and natural beauty. Now, tamed by the powerful hand and determined will of man, Nature’s acquiescence was evident.

  And without Bess, the land seemed even more forlorn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chance’s image hovered in her mind. Oh, how she missed him! She’d done a lot of thinking since leaving the train station in Baltimore, mostly about the look in Chance’s crystal blue eyes that day in her parlor. Even if he hadn’t whispered the words aloud, she’d have known that he loved her. She’d been around enough men—grown and those who wished they were—to understand that they found matters of the heart near-impossible to discuss, and even harder to admit. Unintentional though it had been, it had been a mistake to ask him to repeat the words.

  Bess sighed with regret, even while wondering what else could she have done! The
man she loved more than anyone in the world had just admitted that he loved her, too. Wasn’t it only natural to want to hear them again, if for no other reason than to ensure he’d meant them?

  “Things usually happen for the best,” her mother used to say. Perhaps it had been for the best that Chance hadn’t restated his proclamation. And maybe it had been best that she hadn’t had a chance to return the words. Because, in truth, she wasn’t absolutely certain he’d said ‘I love you’…though it had certainly sounded like those were the words he’d spoken….

  Yes, it had been best that she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t had a chance to confess her feelings before leaving for Philadelphia. Because wouldn’t she feel like the little fool if she professed her undying affection, only to have him exclaim he’d only been clearing his throat!

  One way or the other, Bess decided that during her hours on the road, she’d pray for the Lord’s guidance. And when she returned to Foggy Bottom, she’d seek him out…whether he wanted to be found or not. One look into those wonderful eyes, and God would help her know. She’d know without a doubt if this was the man He’d chosen for her.

  Meanwhile, she’d enjoy the lovely memories of that sweet kiss in the parlor, and hope for the best.

  ***

  He’d been at it since dawn. But no matter how physically demanding, the chores hadn’t been enough to blot Bess from his brain. Hard work and singing, he discovered, lessened the chance that her pretty face would hover in his mind.

  “’Oh, don’t you remember,’” he crooned, “’a long time ago, there were three little children, their names I don’t know….’” The eerie tale had been put to music by his grizzled grandpa and, according to the gap-toothed old man, true to the very last word. As a young boy, the song had terrified Chance. Even now, fully a man, its story haunted him, because for two children to be stolen from its folks was about the scariest thing he could imagine. But for them both to end up dead? Terrifying!

  Ironic, Chance thought, that just like those innocent babes in the wood, no one knew what had become of him, either.

  “’…they cried and they cried, how bitter they cried. The moon went down and the stars gave no light….’” He could almost picture them, huddling in a teary embrace beneath the black, oppressive canopy of the forest.

  “’…and when they were dead, the robins so red, took strawberry leaves and over them spread….’” But how had they died? Had they suffered at the hands of a madman. Had exposure to the elements sucked the life from their frail bodies? Or had despondency caused them to simply lay down their heads and hand their innocent souls over to their Maker to spare themselves another bleak, frightening night, parentless in the dark woods?

  “’…and sang a sweet song, all the day long. Poor babes in the woods, now you’ve heard my song.’” He’d always hated the abrupt ending, and once, asked his grandpa to think up a more satisfying conclusion. “Can’t do that, boy,” Grandpa insisted, “’cause that’s the way it happened. And squinting in the smoke produced by his corncob pipe, he’d added, “Life ain’t no fairy tale. Sometimes, you don’t get a happy ending.”

  Chance hadn’t understood the wisdom of those words until he’d been on the road nearly two years. Rational and practical by nature, he couldn’t help but agree that a story like that should be told as it had happened.

  “Now there’s a lullaby if ever I heard one.”

  The deep voice startled Chance so badly that his right hand automatically went for the carved wooden handle of his pistol. Life on the road had made him jumpy and watchful, but it had also taught him that patience almost always paid off. This wasn’t the first time his caution had saved a man’s life. “Land sake, Micah,” he said, “you likely shaved another ten years off the tail-end of my life, sneakin’ up on me that way.”

  “Another ten years? You’ve had ten years wasted already at your age?”

  If the older man seemed noticed that Chance’s revolver was cocked and ready, it didn’t show on his face. “You’re going to work yourself into an early grave,” Micah said matter-of-factly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a man push himself harder. Never seen a more fidgety man, either.” He leaned both forearms on the top rung of the wagon wall. “What’re you running from, son?”

  Chance released the gun’s hammer and faced the father of the woman he loved. “There’s a lot to be done around here, Micah. Seems there aren’t enough hours in the day.”

  Now he rested a hand on Chance’s shoulder. “Son, you’re the best foreman I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a few, so I know what I’m talking about. But there’s something about you, something….” Frowning, he took a deep breath and shook his head. “There’s something dark inside you.”

  Chance opened his mouth to object, but Micah’s raised hand silenced him.

  What if, Chance wondered, Micah had come face to face with a wanted poster hung by the U.S. Marshalls? What if—

  “Whatever it is, it’s history, far as I’m concerned. You’ve earned every dollar I’ve paid you, and then some. I like you, boy.” Laughing softly, he added, “Why, if I weren’t so young myself, I’d say you’re like a son to me!” He gave Chance a hearty clap on the back. Then, in a more serious tone, added, “You befriended my boys when they needed a man to guide them, and taught them more’n I could have, in my sorry state of mind. There’s not enough money in all the world to repay you for that.”

  Chance wished he hadn’t removed his Stetson, because in the shade of its wide brim, he might have hidden the flush that warmed his cheeks. “I’m right fond of Matt and Mark, Micah,” he admitted, donning the hat back. “There’s no need for this kind of talk.”

  Micah shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, son. Somebody’s done you a powerful wrong, and I’m sorry about that, truly I am. But it’s eating at you like a cancer.” He dropped another slap on Chance’s back. “Let it go, boy, before it kills you!”

  No one had ever dared tell him what to do…and gotten away with it. But then, no one had ever told him what to do in friendship. Chance didn’t know what to make of it, let alone how to respond to it. Clumsily, he moved the hammer from his right hand to his left and back again. “We’re burnin’ daylight,” he said. “I’d best get back to work.”

  Micah sighed. “All right, then. But if there’s anything I can do, just say the word. If it’s money that’ll dig you out of the trouble you’re in, I’ve got plenty of it.” Then, adjusting the top button of his white, collarless shirt, he coughed. “But if it’s just a friendly ear, well, you were a friend when I needed one.”

  Staring at the toes of his dusty boots, Chance remembered the day, not long after he’d arrived at Foggy Bottom, when he’d gone into the barn for a shovel. He stumbled across Micah, huddled in a back stall, bawling like a baby, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his side. The older man’s obvious grief stunned him, and oddly, shamed him, too. Because to survive the life he’d been forced to live these past ten years, Chance had had to teach himself to live simply, and with few rules: “Hide your money in your boots.” “Travel by the river roads, and only after dark.” “Keep your canteen full. Always pack plenty of bullets.”

  Micah’s unrelenting sobs made him wish for a rule that went something like “Never ask a man what’s wrong.” Because when Chance asked what was wrong, Micah poured out his heart. Later, when the man blamed his temporary insanity on a sizeable consumption of whiskey, Chance pretended to believe it. But both men knew that missing his Mary—not alcohol—had inspired the gut-wrenching, rib-wracking sobs that echoed between empty stalls. Chance pretended to believe Micah’s rendition of the story because he understood exactly how the man felt.

  “—and I don’t soon forget a kindness.”

  Micah’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Look here now,” Chance began, “it was nothing. Anybody would have done—“

  One look at the determined expression on Micah’s wizened face told Chance he could talk ‘til sundown and not change the man’s
thinking, and since he’d never been a wasteful sort, particularly where words were concerned, he clamped his jaw shut. Besides, it had been said a time or two that he had a stubborn streak of his own. It surfaced now as Chance gripped the hammer tight and struck the nail he’d been pounding into the wagon’s sideboard when Micah interrupted his song. But when he raised the hammer in preparation for yet another blow, Micah grabbed the tool mid-swing.

  “Don’t be a fool, Chance…look at me when I talk to you!”

  Like an obedient child, he did as he was told.

  “You’re young and healthy, so I guess it’s natural for you to think you have all the time in the world. But let me tell you a thing or two about time,” Micah said, wagging an arthritic finger under his nose. “It’s precious.” His voice grew soft as he gazed at some unknown spot, far off in the distance. “She was a good woman, my Mary. Gave me three young’uns, made us a fine home. Getting out of bed each morning was pure pleasure, because I knew she’d be there, smiling that sweet smile of hers, telling me to hustle my ornery butt down into the kitchen before my eggs and ham got cold.”

  Shaking his head wearily, Micah pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord, but I miss her,” he admitted, voice gruff with a held-back sob. “Hold fast to what’s important, because you never know when your time will be up.” He turned to go. “I’ll tell you this: If I’d-a known I would lose her so soon, I’d-a done a lot of things differently.”

  Chance watched him move slowly toward the house. When Mary lived, Micah probably walked straight and tall. Now, it seemed to be a great effort, and he shuffled along as though he bore the weight of a thousand lifetimes upon his once-powerful shoulders. He wondered if he’d adopt that stance once he put Freeland, Maryland far behind him….