Carol Finch - Call Of The White Wolf

Flora hopped off the bed to follow in Maureen’s wake. Tara watched the girls go, wondering if the five-year-old had developed a severe case of hero worship for John. The girl continually reached out to touch his arm, to trace his lips, nose and cheeks while he was unaware. Maureen, too, spent a considerable amount of time staring pensively at John Wolfe. It seemed this man attracted female attention, no matter what the female’s age.

Tara glanced back to monitor the methodic rise and fall of his masculine chest. She supposed she would be every bit as infatuated by John Wolfe, if not for this nagging apprehension that he could cause her and the children serious trouble. If he discovered the whys and wherefores of how they’d come to be reunited…

Tara tamped down the uneasy thoughts. No, if John Wolfe tried to separate her from the children again, it would be over her dead body! Besides, he owed her a huge favor, didn’t he? She had saved his life. Surely that counted for something with this territorial marshal.

It better, she thought determinedly. If not, she would remind this lawman on a daily basis that he was alive because she’d dug lead out of him, stitched him back together and generously taken him into her home so he could recover.

“Blast it, Tara, you promised two weeks ago that we could ride into Rambler Springs with you this time,” Samuel complained as he watched Tara retrieve her knapsack.

“You did promise,” Derek was quick to add.

“That was before John Wolfe landed on our doorstep,” she reminded the teenage boys, who had been giving her grief since she’d announced her early morning departure. “I’m leaving you two in charge.”

“But who is going to protect you in that rowdy mining town?” Samuel demanded. “You said yourself that you ran into trouble last time you were there. We should be there to protect you.”

“The incident was nothing I couldn’t handle,” she reassured them.

For certain, she’d dealt with much worse back in Texas. Raucous cow towns and mining communities were pretty much the same, in her opinion. Men could be such unpredictable, predatory scoundrels when they had several shots of whiskey under their belts. But Tara had spent enough time in the streets during her childhood, living a hand-to-mouth existence, to learn a few effective counters to amorous assaults. She wasn’t a shrinking violet by any means, and she certainly wasn’t helpless. She could take care of herself, thank you very much.

“You’re treating us like kids,” Derek groused. “We’re almost men.”

Tara slung her knapsack over her shoulder, then adjusted the sleeve of the one and only dress she had to her name. She took a moment to appraise the gangly boys, who seemed to be in some all-fired rush to become men. Tara preferred they remain children, but she vowed Derek and Samuel would become honorable, law-abiding grown-ups who were nothing like the rowdy miners and cowboys that showed little respect for women. Unfortunately, the boys were straining at the bit, demanding to be viewed as adults, and they were giving her fits—daily!

“I realize you are nearly men,” she replied belatedly. “And being the responsible men you are, I’m sure you realize the irrigation channels running through our garden need reinforcement after last week’s rain. The weeds around the vegetables need to be hoed and the livestock must be fed.”

The boys—young men, pardon her mistake—groaned in dismay.

“All we do is work around here,” Samuel grumbled sourly.

Tara was running short on time so she played her trump card, as she was forced to do from time to time. “Would you prefer to be back in Texas? Or back in Boston? Hmm?”

The boys—young men—clamped their mouths shut and shifted uneasily from one oversize foot to the other.

“You know we don’t have the slightest hankering for those hellholes we’ve been in,” Derek muttered.

“Don’t say hell. You aren’t old enough,” she chastised.

“We’re nearly men,” Samuel reminded her—again.

“Right. What could I have been thinking? But please refrain from using obscenities in front of the other children.”

“Anyway,” Derek continued, undaunted, “we need a change of scenery. We want to protect you from those drunken bullies in that mining camp. I could accompany you and Samuel could stay here—”

“Oh no, I won’t!” Samuel objected strenuously. “I’m older and—”

“Both of you are going to stay here and that’s that,” Tara said in no uncertain terms, then surged toward the front door. “And positively, absolutely no fighting while I’m gone. Do you hear me? I don’t have time to tend to another round of black eyes and bloody noses when I return, either.”

Serenaded by adolescent grumbling, Tara hiked off to retrieve the roan mare from the barn. She wished she could take the children into town more often, but she preferred they didn’t know she cleaned house for two older couples, one of whom owned the general store and the other a restaurant. Plus Tara cleaned the church for the parson during her weekly jaunts to Rambler Springs. The extra money provided her with funds to support the five children in her charge.

Although their vegetables, chickens, milk cow and small flock of sheep kept the family fed, she needed money for clothes and provisions. Heaven knew those two boys—young men!—were growing by leaps and bounds. Keeping them in properly fitting boots put a sizable dent in the family budget.

Hurriedly, Tara gathered up fresh eggs from the hen-house to sell in town, then mounted her horse. She’d spend the day there, working fast and furiously to dust and sweep two homes and the church, and would return exhausted, as usual. She needed Derek and Samuel to hold the fort during her absence; hopefully, they’d honor her request not to engage in another fistfight.

What had come over those two young men? Lately, they left her questioning her ability to handle them. And to think they’d been such adorable children when she’d first met them!

John felt as if he’d awakened from the dead. Every body part objected when he shifted sideways on the bed. Groaning, he pried open one eye, to see a small waif hovering over him. He wondered what had become of the flame-haired, green-eyed guardian angel that had been drifting in and out of his fitful dreams. Although angel face was nowhere to be seen, several vaguely familiar faces appeared above him.

“You’re awake at last!” the dark-eyed child exclaimed happily. “Hallo, Zohn Whoof. My name is Flora.”

“Hallo to you, miss” he wheezed, amused by her mispronunciation of his name.

The waif giggled and her enormous brown eyes sparkled with pleasure. She edged closer to the bed to pat his uninjured shoulder. “Feeling better?” she asked.

He nodded slightly. “Where am I?”

“In Paradise Valley. I’m Maureen. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John Wolfe,” the older girl said very politely.

John surveyed the adolescent girl standing to his left. With her sky-blue eyes, wavy strawberry-blond hair and sunny smile, she was destined to knock a passel of men off their feet in years to come, John decided.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Maureen,” he greeted her cordially.

The girl beamed in delight, opened her rosebud mouth to reply, then got nudged out of the way by a small boy with coal black hair, a gap-toothed smile and a scar on his chin. “I’m Calvin and I’m seven years old,” he introduced himself.

“A pleasure to meet you, Calvin,” John replied.

From the shadows, a tall, gangly adolescent boy with dark brown hair and gray eyes emerged. The boy drew himself up proudly, and John expected the kid to beat his chest like a warrior exploding into a war whoop. “I’m Samuel. I’m fifteen and I am in charge here—”