Lone Wolf's Woman. Carol Finch
in place.
“What the hell…?” Lone Wolf snatched back his right hand when he unexpectedly made contact with the feminine breasts that were concealed beneath the oversize jacket.
He was still gaping at his captive in disbelief when the owner of those full breasts walloped him upside the head with both hands at once.
“Get off me!” she shrieked in outrage.
Lone Wolf sank back on his haunches—still sitting astride the woman who had left both his jaws stinging.
“Get off me now!” she yelled while her arms swept upward again to slap him silly.
He caught her wrists in a vise grip. “I’ll get off when you calm down,” he snapped gruffly.
Teeth clenched, she reared up her head. “I’ll calm down after you get off me!”
Lone Wolf was sorry to say that he became momentarily distracted when her oversize hat tumbled sideways and a riot of frothy red-gold curls cascaded around her shoulders. The shiny tendrils caught flame in the campfire light and her livid green eyes fixated murderously on him.
Breathtaking did not accurately describe the woman’s facial features. Her spiky lashes, pert nose, full lips and elegant cheekbones were an intriguing study of light and shadows. Lone Wolf simply gaped at her for what seemed like several minutes, wondering how he could have mistaken this lovely female for the drunken brat that had invited a gunfight an hour earlier. But now that he could see her for who and what she was, it was difficult not to respond to the sight and feel of her lush body so close to his.
It took considerable willpower to rein in his wandering thoughts and pay attention to business. He told himself that while this female was disguised in a man’s hat, jacket and breeches, he should have been able to tell the difference, even in the darkness. But he supposed that since she rode as expertly as a man she had thrown him off track, especially since he had been expecting someone else to show up.
Lone Wolf shifted sideways to sit down cross-legged beside his unexpected guest, then he squinted disapprovingly at the fetching female. “Next time you decide to come charging into my camp like a bat out of hell, don’t. In my business, I make it a policy to act first and ask questions later—if I get around to it.” He glared at her. “Now what the devil are you doing out here alone? Any woman with a brain in her head should know better than to do what you just did. I guess we know what that makes you, don’t we?”
“Thank you so much for the insult,” Julia Preston snapped as she levered herself into a sitting position to dust off her jacket. “I never would have thought that your type would turn out to be so preachy.”
She bit her lip, annoyed with herself for sniping at the hard-edged man when she desperately needed his help. But she had been swinging wildly on an emotional pendulum for almost two hours. She was worried sick about her injured brother and she was frantic to return to the ranch to check on him. First, however, she had to persuade this tough-as-nails bounty hunter to come with her.
Snarling at Lone Wolf was not going to gain his cooperation.
Having the wind knocked clean out of her, and having a man’s hands planted on her chest had done nothing for her deteriorating disposition and her temper. It was difficult to be diplomatic and charming when her world had been turned upside down—again—and she felt the overwhelming need to lash out to vent her grief, anger and frustration.
None of her problems were Vince Lone Wolf’s fault. She knew that, but she was in such turmoil that she was about to explode. He, unfortunately, was in the direct line of fire.
“I need your help, and damn it, I will have it!” she all but shouted at him. “I need you to come home with me.”
He cocked his head and stared curiously at her. Julia dragged in a restorative breath and tried to get herself under control. It was impossible.
“I need—” Her voice broke. The memory of her brother being blown out of the saddle, and dropping to the ground like a rock, descended on her like a tormenting nightmare.
Every ounce of inner strength and adrenaline that had sustained her while she raced off to summon the doctor, and then locate Lone Wolf—as Adam had demanded in a pained whisper—gushed out like a deflated balloon. Her emotions had been running so high and swift that she burst into humiliating tears. She dropped her head in her hands and let the pent-up frustration bleed out of her.
“I—I’m s-sorry,” she blubbered helplessly.
She heard rather than saw the bounty hunter rise to his feet and walk away. Hard-hearted bastard, she thought. He probably didn’t care if she cried herself dry, as long as she didn’t do it in front of him.
Julia was taken by complete surprise when she felt Lone Wolf’s lean fingers curl around her hands to pry them away from her face. He surprised her a second time when he pressed a tin cup to her lips.
“Here. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”
Maybe he had a heart, after all, she allowed as she clamped her shaking hands around the cup, then took a gulp.
She realized too late that she had ingested a huge swallow of whiskey, not water. Fire burned her throat and she gasped to draw breath. While she sputtered and wheezed he whacked her between the shoulder blades until she could inhale air.
“Take another sip,” he insisted.
Julia frowned dubiously at the contents of the cup, then took a cautious drink. She was amazed to discover the liquor, once it finished burning the lining of her throat, had a calming effect. She took another swallow, then another.
When she glanced up to thank Lone Wolf for his unexpected kindness, the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. She found herself staring into his bronzed face, noting the braid of midnight hair—adorned with blue beads—that dangled beside his high cheekbones. A half-moon scar left a noticeable indentation on the curve of his stubbled jaw. Hazel eyes, encircled with flecks of gold, stared intently at her.
Her appraising gaze dropped to his sensuous lips, then drifted to the beaded necklace that was decorated with some sort of Indian talisman. She noticed that his shoulders seemed as broad as a buffalo’s and his black shirt stretched tightly across his muscled chest.
He crouched down in front of her, his buckskin breeches clinging to his powerful thighs, his scuffed black boots indicating hard use. Julia found herself thinking this legendary shootist dressed to portray exactly what he was—the product of two opposing civilizations. His garments were a combination of Indian and white cultures and he didn’t seem to favor one style over the other.
Whatever he found the most comfortable and practical, she suspected.
Although Julia had heard tales of Lone Wolf’s impressive feats against the worst criminals in western society, she had never seen him until now. Her first impression was that he was a tough, competent warrior, and an intimidating force to be reckoned with.
He probably saw her as a weepy lunatic of a female. At the moment his opinion wasn’t too far off the mark.
“You about done bawling so we can talk?” he asked.
Another wave of mortification crested over her. It was beyond embarrassing to fall apart in the presence of a man known for his fearlessness and impressive survivor skills. There were those in polite society who would condemn this man because of his mixed heritage, his dangerous reputation and his socially unaccepted profession. But Julia Preston would have given her soul if she could borrow his unflinching nerve and practiced skills for just one night.
Nothing would have made her feel better than to repay her ruthless neighbor for what he had done to her brother and for what he constantly tried to do to undermine their ranch.
The clatter of hooves on the bridge brought Julia’s head up. She heard Lone Wolf mutter, “Well, hell. More company. Just what I don’t need right now.”
He sprang to his feet and darted off to scoop up the