John gnashed his teeth, wondering if it was possible for one man to change the collective attitude of a white population that didn’t understand the Apache’s way of life or spiritual beliefs. Hell, for white society it was like trying to measure the familiar with a foreign yardstick. Furthermore, too many soldiers, settlers and miners adhered to the appalling philosophy that the only good Indian was a dead one.
No, John had entirely too many irons in the fire to become sidetracked by a beautiful woman who would, without question, be heaven to touch, to possess.
Although he had never known a woman he called only a friend, Tara could be no more than that. He couldn’t allow male desire to dominate his thoughts and actions. He’d be gone from Paradise Valley as soon as he was able, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, look back.
When he’d turned white again, his purpose had been twofold—to return Raven to the reservation and to use his legal authority to deal with whites that preyed viciously on each other and on the captive Apache. It didn’t matter what John wanted, desired or needed personally. He was here to serve a higher purpose. These tantalizing fantasies about Tara that chased around in his mind were nothing but a futile distraction.
At that sensible thought, John slumped on the pallet. Next time Tara touched him he wouldn’t allow himself to react as a man responded to a beautiful woman. That feat shouldn’t be too hard to accomplish, he mused grimly. After all, she would come at him bearing a heated blade to sear his jagged flesh. That should be enough to discourage improper thoughts.
The creak of the door prompted him to glance up. Sure enough, the bewitching angel carried a knife that glowed red-hot. She held a lantern in her left hand, and the expression on her face testified to her apprehension and her compassion. John tried to assure himself that cauterizing a wound wasn’t as painful as the initial gunshot, but he knew better.
This was gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.
“I’m sorry,” Tara said, apologizing in advance.
John reached out with his good arm to retrieve the leather strap draped over her arm. “Just do it, angel face,” he ordered.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, especially since we both know this is going to hurt like the very devil.”
“Okay, Irish. Just do your worst.” John stared straight into her thick-lashed cedar-green eyes. “If I curse you, don’t take it personally, since you’ll be burning the living hell out of me. Deal?”
“Deal.” Tara nodded bleakly, and then braced herself on her knees while John bit down on the leather strap.
“Do the leg first,” he said around the strap. “With any luck, I’ll pass out before you sear my ribs. I hope you sent the children outside so they won’t have to hear a grown man scream bloody murder.”
“I sent them to one of the springs to pick wild grapes,” she said, her attention focused intently on the angry flesh on his leg. “Ready? On three—”
Tara didn’t wait until the count of three. She wanted to get this grisly task completed before John tensed up. Even then, he nearly came off the pallet when she touched the heated blade to his thigh. All the while she told herself that if she could prevent gangrene and spare his leg, and his life, it was worth his suffering—and hers.
Watching beads of perspiration trickling from his brow, seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, noting the complete lack of color in his chiseled features was killing Tara, bit by excruciating bit. John let out a pained howl that nearly blasted holes in her eardrums. His hand clamped around her wrist like a vise grip when she reflexively eased the blade away from his wound.
“Not long enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know it. I know it. Again, Irish.” His hand guided hers downward, completing the unpleasant process.
Tears floated in Tara’s eyes as she watched him deal with agonizing pain. This, she realized, was no ordinary man. In the face of adversity, he was extraordinary. Had their roles been reversed, Tara was pretty sure she would’ve been screeching hysterically and fighting him with every ounce of strength she possessed. He, however, held her hand steady to thoroughly sear the wound.
“Damn, here I was hoping I’d pass out,” John panted as he drew her hand and the blade toward his rib cage.
His intense gaze locked on hers again. He stared unblinking at her, while what must’ve been excruciating pain blazed through him. Unintentionally, he nearly crushed the bones in her wrist in his effort to force her to finish the gruesome task. When she would’ve pulled away again, he ensured that she remained steady and relentless. Tara was crying by the time he allowed her to withdraw the knife, and she practically collapsed beside him when the gruesome deed was done.
“You’re one hell of a woman, Irish,” he said, between gasps of breath.
“You did most of the work and endured all the pain,” she reminded him as she wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow, his upper lip. “Were I you, I’d have fainted dead away minutes ago.”
She was so close to him and he was so overcome with pain that he wasn’t thinking clearly. That was his only explanation for what he did next. He up and kissed her right on the mouth, just like he’d told himself he was not going to do—ever. He was pretty sure he got lost in the sweet taste and compelling scent of her, because the next thing John knew the world turned as black as the inside of a cave and swallowed him up.
Dazed, her lips tingling, her body shimmering with unfamiliar sensation, Tara gaped at her patient, who’d collapsed unconscious on the pallet. In the first place, she couldn’t believe he’d kissed her. Secondly, she couldn’t believe she’d kissed him back. But she supposed if any man ever deserved to steal a kiss—and get away with it—it was John Wolfe. Considering what he’d endured, he probably hadn’t realized what he was doing. Either that or he’d sought comfort in a moment of maddening pain.
Like a crawdad, Tara scuttled backward, then covered John’s limp body with the sheet, which had shifted sideways during the ordeal by fire. While she cleaned and bandaged the wounds, she decided she’d treat the unexpected kiss as if it had never happened. Chances were that he wouldn’t remember it, anyway.
It didn’t mean anything. She could not let it mean anything, she told herself firmly. Still, the feel of his lips devouring hers with something akin to desperation left sizzling aftershocks rippling through her body.
Tara willfully shook off the tantalizing sensations and climbed to her feet. She tiptoed over to retrieve her sewing kit so she could mend her torn dress. Now was as good a time as any to repair the damage. And she’d do so as soon as her hands stopped shaking and she could breathe without John’s masculine scent clogging her senses completely.
Chapter Three
During the days that followed, John’s energy returned gradually. He received periodic visits from the brood of children. They came alone. They came in pairs. They came in a group. But Tara never once approached him without a chaperone of one or two children following at her heels. He reckoned the impulsive kiss he’d planted on her dewy, soft lips was responsible for her standoffish manner.
Not that he blamed her. He’d been more than a little surprised by it himself, especially after he’d sworn up one side and down the other that there could be nothing more than friendship between them. He supposed the agonizing pain of the ordeal had triggered the impulse, making natural instinct difficult to control.
He should apologize, but the truth was that he wasn’t sorry he’d kissed her. She was the one taste of purity and sweetness in his violent and isolated world. He wouldn’t let it happen again, of course. His Irish angel of mercy was now, and forever more, off-limits.
“You want some bread and wild grape jelly, Zohn Whoof?” young Flora asked as she sank down cross-legged beside him on the pallet.
John smiled at the cute little tyke who had already