Carol Finch - Call Of The White Wolf

“What good would it do to kiss you in private?” she asked reasonably. “That would defeat the whole purpose of letting the boys know my interest lies elsewhere.”

“With that piddly peck on the mouth?” he said, then smirked.

“What was wrong with my kiss?” she demanded, offended.

He swooped down and hoisted her to her feet. Then he bent her over backward and gave her a kiss that was half frustration, half hungry need, half revenge…well, whatever. He couldn’t calculate fractions when his brain shut down the instant he tasted her deeply, felt her supple body pressed intimately against his masculine contours. His heart slammed against his tender ribs when she responded rather than shoving him away—which is what she should’ve done if the damn woman had a lick of sense!

Cheyenne Moon

“Excellent! Cheyenne Moon will captivate readers with its exhilarating pace and remarkable characters. Another keeper!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Once Upon A Midnight Moon

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—Romantic Times Magazine

Promise Me Moonlight

“…should be promise me banter, love, steamy romance and a great read! Buy 2 and lend one to a friend!”

—Heartland Critiques

#591 MY LADY’S TRUST

Julia Justiss

#593 DRAGON’S DOWER

Catherine Archer

#594 GOLD RUSH BRIDE

Debra Lee Brown

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Call of the White Wolf #592

Other works include:

Harlequin Duets

Fit To Be Tied #36

A Regular Joe #45

Mr. Predictable #62

Silhouette Special Edition

Not Just Another Cowboy #1242

Soul Mates #1320

This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our children—Christie, Jill, Kurt, Jeff and Jon—with much love. And to our grandchildren—Blake, Kennedy and Brooklynn. Hugs and kisses!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Arizona Territory, 1878

John Wolfe had been dreading this day for two years. No matter how many ways he turned it around in his mind, feelings of guilt and betrayal twisted in his gut like a shot of bad whiskey. He tried to ignore those tormenting emotions while he lay sprawled on a slab of rock, slithering forward like a snake so he could peer over the ledge. But the moment he saw his adopted Apache brother kneeling below him, sipping water from the trickling spring, another wave of guilt and betrayal buffeted him.

When a man was forced to turn against one of his own it made him feel like the worst kind of traitor.

Silently, John unholstered his Colt, then took Raven’s measure down the sight. Dead or alive, John’s commander had told him. Made no nevermind to Jacob Shore. But it mattered to John Wolfe. It mattered a helluva lot. When a man had a foot planted in each of two contrasting civilizations, walking that fine line and trying to pretend indifference was pure hell.

John had taught himself not to feel, not to react and not to care that he was as white as he was Apache. Yet seeing Raven in the valley below was like tearing open a wound that had never really healed, no matter how much he tried to pretend it had.

Well, he was here to do a job, distasteful though it was, and he’d better get at it.

“Don’t move,” John commanded in the Apache dialect.

Raven froze, his cupped hand halfway to his mouth. Water trickled between his fingertips and ran down his bronzed arm. The Apache raised his eyes and squinted into the bright light of sunset to locate John on the outcropping of stone above him.

John knew the exact instant Raven recognized him. Tension sizzled in the evening breeze like lightning. Slowly, Raven rose from his crouch, his body taut, his expression rife with loathing.

“So the white-eyes sent you for me, did they, Brother?” Raven spat derisively. “Ah, but who else could they have sent? Who else knows the Apache’s mind and the Apache’s way better than an Apache turncoat?”

Raven’s words were like an embedded knife twisting in John’s spine. Willfully, he ignored Raven’s mutinous glower and hateful words. He kept the Colt trained on Raven’s heart, wondering if this renegade still had one left after all the crimes he’d committed these past two years.

With an economy of movement that was ingrained and practiced, John contorted his body until he was sitting upright, his booted feet dangling over the ledge. His pistol never wavered from its target on Raven’s heaving chest.

“I’m taking you back to the reservation at San Carlos, Raven,” John told him grimly. “I can drag you by your heels or with your hands in chains. But if you ask me, it is not a good day for you to die.”

“I was dying a torturous death at that pigsty of a reservation,” Raven growled in reply. “But you knew that feeling yourself, didn’t you, Brother? You cut off your braids, stole civilian clothes from the army commissary and sneaked away from the reservation to turn white again. You turned your back on The People, on the clan that took you into its fold to feed you, clothe you and train you to become a mighty Apache warrior.”

Raven’s eyes raked John up and down, with visible distaste. “The brother I knew as White Wolf, adopted son of Chief Gray Eagle and, my adopted brother, has joined the ranks of my hated enemies, just so he can enjoy his own freedom. White Wolf is nothing but a traitor!”

Raven’s harsh words stung like a swarm of wasps, for they were the very words that constantly buzzed in John’s conscience—every waking hour of every livelong day. But John had concealed his identity and sneaked off the reservation—at Chief Gray Eagle’s command. He’d been assigned the duty of battling the whites from within their own society, of becoming a buffer to protect the Apache nation.

It hadn’t been an easy path for John to follow, but Raven would never understand that, refused to listen to any explanation. In Raven’s eyes, White Wolf had sold his soul to the white devils in order to reclaim his freedom.

When Raven’s gaze discreetly darted to the rifle lying at his feet, John cocked the trigger on his pistol. The imminent threat of death hung in the silent dusk. Raven’s pinto mare pricked its ears and lifted its head from the stream, sensing the gravity of the moment.

Raven shifted his gaze from the rifle to John. “Your aim is as true as ever, is it not, White Wolf?”

John inclined his head slightly. “Better.”