To Tame a Wolf. Susan Krinard
“That’s French, ain’t it?”
Tally welcomed the rough sound of his voice even when it drowned the lark’s melodious song. “It is a common enough language in Louisiana.”
“I hear it’s useful for swearing.”
She laughed in spite of herself. He cast her an unreadable look. She wondered if her voice had gone too high and quickly stifled her incongruous amusement.
“Teach me,” he said.
“What?”
“We got another ten miles’ ride to Castillo Creek,” he said. “I figure that ought to be good for a few cuss words.”
“I can’t imagine that a man like you needs that kind of instruction.”
“And what kind of instruction do I need, boy?” He snickered at her silence and flicked the ends of his reins across his muscular thighs. “You know, when we met in Tombstone, I thought maybe you had more experience than your looks suggested. But Ready Mary…like most whores, she has an eye for easy prey. You’ve never been with a woman, have you?”
He didn’t know. Tally swallowed a sigh of relief. “What business is that of yours?”
He shrugged. “Let me give you a bit of advice, hombre. Stay out of saloons and whorehouses. When you find your brother, stick to that little rancho of yours and never trust anyone who offers you a free ride.”
“Is that a warning drawn from personal experience?”
An ominous hush fell about him, like a calm before the storm. “Everything costs. You don’t get nothin’ without paying for it.”
“What makes you dislike women so much, Mr. Kavanagh?”
“I only ever met one female who could be trusted as far as a man can spit, and…” His voice softened almost to a whisper. “She’s more angel than woman.”
“What is her name?”
“Esperanza.”
Tally’s throat tightened at the awe and tenderness in his words. “Is she the one you love?”
He jerked back on the reins, and his stallion snorted in protest. Kavanagh muttered an apology to the horse and glared at Tally. “I don’t talk about her.”
“You just did.”
“Ya basta.”
“As you wish.” She rode a little ahead and felt his stare burn into her back like a red-hot brand. She could hardly believe that a man like Kavanagh could love anyone. But there had been no mistaking the look in his eyes and the sound of his voice. She wondered what kind of paragon could win such devotion…and how an angel could love him in return.
Tally knew there were no angels on earth, male or female. In her two years of marriage to Nathan Meeker, she had met ambitious society ladies who aspired to perfection. They had all fallen prey to their very human weaknesses. No one understood such weaknesses better than Chantal Bernard.
She wondered how long it would take Kavanagh to realize that his angel had feet of clay instead of wings.
They rode on to the wide mouth of Castillo Canyon, where Castillo Creek had carved a wedge out of the hillside and opened up a lovely side valley dotted with oaks. Cattle lifted their heads to note the intruders and returned to their placid grazing. Grama grass gave way to sedges and rushes in the wet meadow near the creek bed and spring. Kavanagh made for the ciénaga, and the two horses picked up their feet in anticipation of sweet fresh water.
The welcome shade of sycamore, ash, walnut and cottonwood spilled over Tally’s shoulders like a balm. Brightly colored birds flitted from tree to tree. Dragonflies skimmed across pools in the rocky bed.
Kavanagh dismounted, filled the canteens with the water bubbling up from the spring and briefly closed his eyes as if he felt the healing spirit of the place as much as Tally did. “Two mules stopped here in the past few days,” he said.
“Then we can’t be too far behind André,” Tally said, joining Sim beside the spring. “The Brysons’ cabin should be a little farther up the canyon.”
Sim tossed Tally her canteen and drank from his own. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “We’ll camp here tonight.”
“We still have hours of daylight left.”
“Better to get a fresh start in the morning. It’s rough country up there, on horseback or afoot.”
Tally gazed up at the wooded peaks of the mountains. They were much more imposing at the northern end of the range than near Cold Creek. “If you’re worried about me, there is no need. I can keep up.”
“Maybe.” Kavanagh wet his neckerchief and scrubbed the sweat from his face. “You gonna take your bath now, or wait to see if these Brysons have a washtub?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Kavanagh. I’ll be sure to stay downwind of you.”
Without any warning, he dipped his hand in the pool, scooped water in his palm and sent it flying at Tally. She fell back on her rump with a cry of surprise, runnels of cool liquid sliding down the back of her collar and making mud of the dust on her face.
“There’s a start,” he said.
She recovered in an instant, ready to return fire. But he moved quick as a fox, jumping up from the bank and putting the pale trunk of a sycamore between him and her watery missiles.
Tally was too astonished to continue. Kavanagh was playing. It simply wasn’t possible. He was laughing at her the way a boy would, treating her like a companion. A friend. And that didn’t fit in any way with the Kavanagh she had begun to know.
As abruptly as he’d begun, Kavanagh ended the game. He stepped out from behind the sycamore, caught Diablo and swung into the saddle just as if the strange interlude had never happened. Tally knew that if she made anything of it, he would stare her down with that icy gaze and act as if she were the crazy one.
They left the magical sanctuary and rode on deeper into the canyon. The grassland oaks were dropping their leaves as they did every spring, conserving life for the hot days ahead. Mesquite trees on the hillsides hung heavy with yellow catkins. Turkey vultures circled lazily in a bright blue sky, portending death.
Tally shivered. André was not dead. She broke Muérdago into a trot and led the way between steeper slopes clothed with pines at their tops. The meadow narrowed, and soon Tally caught sight of a fence through the trees.
The Bryson cabin was small, built of logs hewn from the forest instead of the adobe often seen on the plain or nearer the border. A corral held a few calves, while a shedlike barn stood ready for weary horses. Chickens scratched beside a lopsided coop.
The first sign of human life was a slender girl of fifteen or sixteen hanging laundry to dry on a line. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw the approaching riders, smoothed her calico skirt and raced inside the cabin. A few moments later a much older woman, stout and plain, came out the front door. The girl followed her.
Tally dismounted and led Muérdago the rest of the way, touching the brim of her hat in greeting. “Good afternoon,” she said. “You would be Mrs. Bryson?”
“That I am.” The woman shaded her eyes and looked toward Kavanagh. “Welcome. This is my daughter, Beth. Mr. Bryson is up in the canyon, but if you boys would care to take some refreshment…”
“Thank you, ma’am. That’s most kind.” Tally heard the faint brush of Sim’s steps behind her and stood a little straighter. “My name is Bernard—Tal Bernard. This is Mr. Kavanagh. We’ve come from Tombstone, looking for my brother André. Have you by any chance seen a light-haired young man with two mules passing this way?”
“My goodness,” the woman said, gathering her apron between her hands. “We do see a few miners and lumbermen, though