Tara wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing her patient fresh from his bath at the mineral springs where the boys had taken him. When she returned from doing chores in the barn, he was sitting on the wooden bench on the front porch. She missed a step when her gaze landed on his face, now devoid of the week’s growth of dark beard. To say that John was ruggedly handsome, with his bronzed skin, athletic physique, electrifying eyes and sensuous lips, had to be the understatement of the decade. The entire package of lean, powerful masculinity was enough to increase her heart rate and leave her feminine body aquiver.
Lord, listen to her, Tara scolded herself. She sounded as bad as Flora and Maureen, who sang John’s praises the whole livelong day. Of course, Tara had asked around Rambler Springs to see if anyone had heard of Marshal Wolfe. What she’d discovered was impressive and unnerving at once. This man who braved death on a daily basis was the stuff legends were made of, according to Wilma and Henry Prague, who ran the general store, as well as Corrine and Thomas Denton, who owned the restaurant. It was true that Wilma Prague was long-winded and tended to get caught up in the tales she liked to spin, but the hearsay she’d conveyed had kept Tara on the edge of her seat. John Wolfe’s feats of capturing the worst criminals in the territory were nothing short of phenomenal.
“Good morning, Irish,” John greeted her, breaking into her thoughts.
“Morning,” Tara murmured as she sank down on the bench beside him. “How are you feeling after your bath?”
“Revived and not the least bit anxious to spend another day indoors.”
“Not accustomed to it, I suppose, considering your line of work.”
He inclined his shiny raven head. “Exactly, which is why we’ll be switching sleeping quarters this evening,” he asserted.
That sounded like an order, and Tara had never been much good at taking them. “Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe, but I’m the one in charge of your rehabilitation. I’ll decide where you’ll sleep, especially when this happens to be my house you’re convalescing in.”
He merely chuckled at her flare of temper. “I’ve watched you and listened to you handle this passel of children with patience and gentle requests for nearly a week, Irish. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve been shot. You’re supposed to be nice to me.”
“I have been for a week,” she countered. “So don’t push your luck.”
“How is it that I’ve ended up at the sharp end of your tongue? Is it me in particular or men in general?” He waited a beat, then asked, “Or is it because of that kiss?”
Tara glanced over to meet his penetrating stare, noticed that quirk of a smile that did funny things to her insides. She steeled herself against her innate attraction to him. “Perhaps a bit of all three,” she admitted honestly.
He stared across the grass, then his gaze lifted to the rock-capped summits of the canyon, admiring the panoramic view. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Irish. There’ll be no incidents like the one you recently had with the miners. As for that kiss…well, consider it a needed compensation for the pain I was suffering. It won’t happen again.”
Tara couldn’t honestly say if she was disappointed or relieved. What was she thinking? Of course she was relieved, even if she felt as if she’d suffered another form of rejection. But allowing herself to become as attached to John as the children were already was dangerous business.
“Good, I’m glad we have that settled and out of the way,” she said, flashing him a smile. “As for the sleeping arrangements, you’re staying in my room and I don’t wish to hear another word about it.”
He smiled a mysterious smile, then shrugged. “Have it your way, Irish. I suspect you usually do.”
Tara snapped her head around and frowned at him.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” she challenged.
“Only that you’re accustomed to controlling the children, though I admit you rule with such a gentle hand and winsome smile that they don’t realize they’re being bossed around.”
“I suppose you’re accustomed to probing and prying and sticking your nose in various places because of your line of work.” Tara snapped her mouth shut, amazed that she was addressing John in such a sarcastic tone. Blast it, this man didn’t fit into the nice, neat world she’d created for the children and herself in Paradise Valley, and she was having trouble dealing with him. Why was that?
He shrugged a broad shoulder, seemingly unoffended by her sassy rejoinder. “I suppose you’re right, Irish. I do spend considerable time grilling witnesses before I track criminals. I’m inquisitive by nature and by habit….So, how’d you come to acquire this abandoned homestead here in what the Apache call the Canyon of the Sun?”
Tara blinked in surprise. “How do you know that?”
“About the abandoned ranch, you mean? The boys told me. They don’t seem to be quite as cautious about divulging information as you are. No doubt you instructed them to watch what they said around me. Now why is that?”
Tara opened her mouth to ask how he knew she’d instructed the children not to reveal more than necessary about their past, then figured she could already guess the answer. Flora had difficulty refraining from telling everything she knew, just to hear herself talk. So did young Calvin. He’d jabber all day if you let him.
Tara decided that telling the truth—or as much of the truth as she could—wouldn’t do any harm in this instance. “I acquired the deed to this abandoned farm after the children and I happened onto it, while searching for a shelter during a storm. When I inquired about the ranch in Rambler Springs, I learned the previous owners had left during the Indian uprising six years ago. Since the Apache were confined to San Carlos, it seemed safe enough to set up housekeeping here.” She peered questioningly at him. “How did you know this is sacred ground to the Apache?”
He was silent for a long moment while he scanned the panoramic valley with its towering cap rock, wild tumble of boulders, canopies of cedars, cottonwoods and pines, and its refreshing springs. Then he shifted slightly, and his solemn gaze probed hers with an intensity she’d come to expect from him. John didn’t simply look at her; he examined, studied and looked into her, as if he were reading her private thoughts.
“If I tell you the truth about that, will you explain how you came to acquire this unique family of yours, Irish?”
She knew he saw her flinch, for his astute gaze never seemed to miss a thing. She was beginning to think the phenomenal feats, the unerring instincts and tracking skills that Wilma Prague raved about weren’t an exaggeration. There was an extraordinary aura about this man—especially now that he was recovering from his injuries. He was sharply attuned to everything that transpired around him. He had a sixth sense she envied.
“Irish?” he prompted, holding her captive with nothing more than the intensity of his silvery stare. “What I’m offering here is something you can hold over my head, in exchange for something I can hold over yours. That will keep the battleground even, wouldn’t you agree?”
“We are going to do battle?” she asked, smiling impishly.
“I don’t know. Are we?” he questioned in turn.
She wasn’t quite sure she understood what made this unusual man tick. He wasn’t like her other male acquaintances. He was asking her to give him a weapon to use against her. In return, he was handing her a weapon. Why? she kept asking herself.
John studied the wary expression that claimed her enchanting features. He could tell she wasn’t sure what to make of him and his unexpected offer. But he’d be damned—literally—if he told her the truth about himself without some leverage, and he had to know if he could trust her