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The clatter of hooves hammered in John’s ears as the world tilted sideways, then darkened like the coming of night. John closed his eyes and fought against the wave of nausea that crested over him.
Maybe this was a good day for him to die, he thought. And what better place to find his way to the hereafter than on this sacred ground that had once been part of the Apacheria. The People called this panoramic valley the Canyon of the Sun. Reverent chants were sung to the great spirits who communicated with them on this hallowed ground. In days gone by, sacrifices were laid at the base of the triple stone spires called the Altar of the Gods. The towering pillars of sandstone that rose like gigantic sentinels from the canyon floor were the Earth Mother’s eternal monuments to the omnipotent Apache gods.
With great effort, John opened his eyes once more to stare at the conical stone peaks that rose majestically toward the sun. This valley, three-quarters of a mile wide and more than a mile long, was the most spectacular and awe-inspiring place he’d ever seen in all his treks across the territory. If he had to breathe his last breath here, he figured he could do a lot worse.
Vaguely, John sensed a presence in the near distance and wondered which spirits—white man’s or Apache’s—had been sent to witness his death.
He didn’t know which deity would preside over his personal judgment day. Didn’t really matter, he reckoned. Evil spirits would attend him, because of his betrayal to the tribe that had raised and trained him. Indian or white, evil spirits were probably pretty much the same, he figured. He existed in a realm a few miles this side of hell. He supposed he was destined to spend eternity doing penance for being a white man by birth and an Apache at heart.
John closed his eyes for what he expected to be the final time. To his dying day—and he was positively certain this was it—he wasn’t sure if he was considered white or Apache. He didn’t know which god to pray to, so he didn’t pray at all. He just lay there, struggling to breathe, and wondering how many breaths he had left.
Since John had heard every excuse under the sun, heard the wild claims of innocence from the worst sinners the world had to offer, he decided he’d just keep his mouth shut and not ask for forgiveness or mercy. He was simply going to lie here and die with what little dignity he had left.
Tara Flannigan scrambled down the rock-strewn slopes of the canyon with more speed than caution. Twice she tripped, skidded and skinned both knees. She ignored the discomfort and scurried toward the man who lay sprawled beside the stream, wondering if she’d arrived too late to revive him.
Tara had been drawn to this remote area of the valley by unidentified voices, and she’d hunkered down by a cedar tree to prevent being spotted. Although the white man and Indian had been speaking a foreign tongue, she’d witnessed the tragic results of their confrontation. One man lay dead—or dying—and the other man had picked his way up the narrow trail and thundered off into the gathering darkness.
Grimacing from the pain in her knees, Tara squatted down beside the wounded man. She pressed her hand against his throat and felt a weak pulse. Alive, but not for long, she predicted. Her mediocre lifesaving skills were about to be tested to their very limits.
Hurriedly, she ripped open the man’s shirt, then blinked in surprise when she saw the strange bone-and-metal breastplate that covered his chest. She’d never seen such unusual body armor. It was an odd combination that resembled an Indian war shield and medieval chain mail.
On closer inspection, Tara realized the bullet had ricocheted off a fragment of metal, shattered the bleached bone ornament and become embedded in the man’s rib. Quickly, she ripped off the hem of his dark shirt and pressed it against the seeping wound.
Her gaze dropped to the pulsing wound on his thigh, and she tore the hem from her own tattered shirt to control the bleeding. When she tied the fabric tightly around his leg, the man’s eyes fluttered open momentarily.
Tara’s breath clogged in her throat when eyes so blue that they appeared silver stared up at her. In addition to those spellbinding eyes, with their fan of lashes, the man had a crop of raven hair, a swarthy physique and an incredibly handsome face.
This was, unquestionably, the most attractive man she’d ever encountered. His effect on her was startling. When their gazes met, time screeched to a halt and she got lost in the intensity of his unusual blue eyes.
She was still staring at him in trancelike fascination when he whispered, “An angel. Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I only wish I were a miracle-working angel, mister,” she murmured.
When he slipped back into unconsciousness, Tara gave herself a mental shake and concentrated on the grim task at hand. “Angel indeed,” she muttered. “From the look of your wounds, you could use an angel right now.”
Tara glanced this way and that, trying to figure out how to transport this injured man to the farmhouse, when he likely outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds. She guessed him to be about six feet three inches—maybe four—of solid muscle. There was no conceivable way for her to drag or lift him. Though she hated to leave him, Tara had no choice but to return to the ranch for help.
She took off like a shot to retrieve the horse she’d tethered in the distance. She rode hell-for-leather through the valley, knowing every second counted. She prayed for all she was worth that the wounded man with hypnotic silver-blue eyes would still be alive and breathing when she returned.
John lifted heavy-lidded eyes to see that lovely face, surrounded by a mass of curly, reddish blond-hair, hovering over him a second time. Now, as before, the light shimmered around her golden head like a glorious halo. When she shifted, the angle of light intensified the color of her hair. It seemed as if the curlicue strands caught fire and burned with amber flames.
Long ago, in a nearly forgotten lifetime, John remembered his white mother telling him that angels were the essence of all that was pure and sweet in heaven. Who would’ve thought heaven was where he’d end up when he had so much blood on his hands and a trainload of guilt weighing down his conscience? With his white man’s soul and his Apache heart, he’d sort of figured he’d be trapped in some eternal way station—or delivered straight to hell because he’d turned out to be a traitor to both civilizations.
While John was contemplating the hereafter, five more heads appeared above him. He studied the three male and two female faces—varying in age, but all younger than his angel of mercy.
“He’s awake.” This from the smallest female cherub with dark, hollow eyes and a waterfall of chestnut hair.
“Reckon we must’ve saved him, after all.”
John shifted his attention to the adolescent male face to his right, then frowned dubiously when he realized what the kid had said. He was alive? He thought about that for a moment, then decided the aches and pains that were becoming more intense with each passing moment probably indicated that he did indeed live and breathe—but just barely.
His chest hurt like a son of a bitch. His leg throbbed like hell. Breathing was definitely an effort because pain was shooting through his ribs like an assault of poison darts.
“Medicine pouch,” he wheezed, amazed that it took so much effort to speak.
A befuddled frown settled on his angel of mercy’s enchanting features. “Medicine pouch?” she repeated in such a soft, wispy voice that John sighed at the soothing sound.
“On my belt,” he managed to croak, in a voice that reminded him of a bullfrog.
The six faces hovering over him disappeared momentarily. Murmurs and whispers came from the right and left of him, but John couldn’t muster enough energy to turn his head. He stared at the wooden rafters above him and waited.
“Is this what you’re talking about, mister?”
The angel’s face came into view again. She held the beaded leather pouch in one dainty hand.
“Buttons,” he whispered. Gawd, the pain seemed to be spreading rapidly. There wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t hurt—and badly.
“Buttons?” she parroted. “In here?”
“Yeah. Three of them.” He hissed in pain when he tried to reach for the pouch. His left arm was killing him.
This woman with cedar green eyes, pert nose and creamy complexion, who had apparently saved his wretched life, rummaged through his pouch, then held the button-shaped objects in front of his eyes. “Do you mean these?”
“Put them in my mouth,” he requested.
She complied. He chewed, swallowed, then choked. “W-ater.”
Scrabbling noises indicated someone had scurried off to fetch a cup of water. Moments later, John felt the tin cup pressed against his lips, and he sipped eagerly. His strength abandoned him abruptly and the pain returned in full force, leaving a barrage of cold chills in its wake. He swore the drink of water was freezing like ice in his bloodless veins.
He waited impatiently for the peyote buttons that the Apache used to override pain to take effect. John definitely needed something to ease the indescribable ache spreading throughout his body.
He wondered where this brood of children who hovered around him had come from, wondered where the hell he was. All he knew was that he was alive—whether that was a blessing or not. It didn’t feel like much of one. Considering the pain and misery he was enduring he figured dying would’ve been a whole helluva lot easier.
When the peyote took welcomed effect, John sank back into the darkness that had become his ever-present companion.
Hours later—days maybe, he wasn’t sure—he heard that quiet, soothing voice calling to him from a long winding tunnel. He felt warm liquid sliding down his throat. He was vaguely aware of gentle hands moving lightly over his chest and thigh, soothing him, consoling him.
It’d been years since he remembered feeling a compassionate touch gliding over his flesh. He was instinctively drawn to the comforting presence. He wanted to open his eyes to see if that angelic face surrounded by red-gold hair was lingering above him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw from that well of beauty, purity and sweetness that seemed so foreign, yet so compelling. But he simply couldn’t find the strength to move. He felt as if lead weights were strapped to each arm and leg, holding him in place. And so he just lay there, helpless and exhausted, wondering if he’d ever find the energy to lever himself into an upright position again.
“Do you think he’ll ever wake up for more than a few minutes, huh?”
Tara Flannigan glanced down into Flora’s small, delicate face. Because Flora was so frail and thin, her eyes looked enormous in contrast to her milky white features. The five-year-old appeared malnourished, though Tara took great pains in preparing meals to put meat on the child’s bones and give her that healthy glow the other children had achieved these past two years.
“Tara?” Flora prompted when Tara lingered too long in thought.
“I’m hoping he’ll wake up soon,” she said as she applied fresh bandages to his mending wounds.
“But it’s been four days,” Flora pointed out.
“I know, sweetheart, but he suffered very serious injuries and it takes time to mend.”
Despite the Good Samaritan tendencies that had compelled her to rescue this man from death’s doorstep, Tara was hounded by mixed feelings. When she searched his pockets, hoping to learn his identity, she’d discovered this man called John Wolfe was a territorial marshal. She’d found several bench warrants stashed in his saddlebag on the piebald stallion that he’d apparently left tethered near the canyon rim before his confrontation with the Apache.
This man was the long arm of the law in Arizona Territory. Although Tara wasn’t sure how long the arm of justice stretched—and she hoped it wasn’t all the way to Texas!—there was a possibility that John Wolfe could make trouble for her and the children when he recovered.
Tara had made too many personal sacrifices, taken several daring risks to reunite the children and to locate this spectacular valley that was as close to paradise as she could get. With a bit of Irish luck and a great deal of willful determination, she had made a home in this secluded canyon. The day she and the children had ridden into the valley to set up housekeeping she swore it would take an act of God to make her move away. For her and the children, this valley was their long-awaited promised land.
Their exodus cross-country hadn’t been an easy one. Tara inwardly winced, remembering the horrifying incident that forced her to hurriedly gather up these children, stow away with them on a westbound train and follow the rails as far as they went. Then, they’d set out on foot to find shelter and food, and avoid notice.
God forgive her for the things she’d been forced to do in order to make a home for the five children in this remote place.
“Tara, the broth is warm. Do you want me to bring in a cup?” Maureen asked.
Tara secured the makeshift bandages on John’s chest, then glanced over her shoulder at Maureen, who waited expectantly at the bedroom door. “Yes, please, dear. It’s time to spoon-feed John Wolfe again.”
The thirteen-year-old turned on her heels, causing her strawberry-blond hair to sway across her shoulder blades. Tara smiled fondly as Maureen disappeared around the corner. These days, the young girl was eager to help, and brimming with vitality. Three square meals a day had improved Maureen’s beanpole figure. Tara dearly wished she could say the same for the fragile-looking five-year-old who was hovering beside her.
Maureen entered the bedroom with an energetic spring in her walk and didn’t spill even a drop of the steaming broth. “The boys said they’re having a devil of a time with that piebald stallion that belongs to John Wolfe,” she reported as she handed the cup to Tara. “The horse didn’t mind being put in a stall beside our two mares, but he wouldn’t let anybody but little Calvin handle him.”
“That piebald is a lot of horse for a seven-year-old to handle,” Tara murmured worriedly. “I don’t want Cal to get hurt.”
Maureen bubbled with quiet laughter. “Hurt? Not likely. It was the funniest thing I ever did see. That stallion was careful where he stepped when Cal took the reins. But when Derek and Samuel tried to brush him down he would have none of it. The boys got into a shouting match, blaming each other for making the stallion difficult to handle.”
Tara rolled her eyes in dismay as she eased the spoonful of broth between John’s unresponsive lips, then massaged his throat to ensure he swallowed the needed nourishment. Both Derek and Samuel undoubtedly had their pride smarting right about now, she mused.
Those two teenage boys were a handful on a good day. They were always squabbling and scuffling and getting defensive when she asked them to assume various chores. Their tempers flared at irregular intervals, and often without provocation. Tara wasn’t sure what had gotten into them lately. They tried her patience more times than she cared to count.
“Oops, Zohn Whoof is dribbling,” Flora said as she leaned forward to blot his bristled chin with a napkin. “He’s pretty, don’t you think, Tara?”
Tara smiled at the frail little elf whose distorted pronunciation of John’s name never failed to amuse her. “Men prefer to be referred to as handsome, not pretty,” she corrected the five-year-old.
“He is terribly handsome, isn’t he?” Maureen observed as she perched lightly on the opposite side of the bed.
“Yes, he is, in a rugged sort of way,” Tara reluctantly admitted.
The man was sinfully handsome, extremely muscular and practically tan all over….She jerked upright when that traitorous thought darted through her head, bringing with it a visual image that heightened the color in her cheeks. In truth, she’d seen more of John Wolfe’s virile, sinewy body while she was preparing him for her primitive brand of surgery than a young woman rightfully ought to see.
Between the anxiety of wondering if she was capable of performing the tasks of a physician, and seeing John in his entire splendor and glory, Tara had been a nervous wreck. Her hands had refused to stop shaking while she stitched his jagged flesh together, and her attention kept drifting to the broad expanse of his chest, washboard belly and horseman’s thighs.
No question about it, John Wolfe was more man than Tara had encountered in her twenty years of existence.
“Be careful, Tara!” Flora yelped. “You’re dribbling hot soup all over Zohn Whoof.”
Tara felt another wave of heat rising in her cheeks and she struggled to regain her composure. Stifling her arousing thoughts, she concentrated on feeding John the last spoonful of chicken broth, then waited for young Flora to dab up the dribbles on his stubbled chin.
“We’ll let John rest while we finish our evening chores,” she announced.
Flora stared unblinkingly at their patient. “Can I wait inside with Zohn Whoof? Just in case he wakes up? I don’t want him to be alone.”
Tara brushed her hand through the child’s shiny dark hair and smiled. She knew Flora had awakened feeling lost and alone, and had become frightened dozens of times before Tara rescued her. But these days, Flora bedded down with Maureen, who made certain she never felt abandoned.
“I don’t think John will wake up for a good while yet. You need your daily dose of exercise and fresh air.” When Flora pulled a face and looked as if she was about to object, Tara held up her hand to forestall the child. “But you can come check on John every half hour, just in case he wakes up.”
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.
Chapter Two
“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—”
