Heart of the Wolf Read online

  The sky was darkening, and Sarah glanced at her watch. An hour had passed since she’d gotten herself trapped. Both her legs were now numb from the knees down. Had she broken her ankles? Oh, God, it couldn’t be! The mortgage payment on the mine was due in two weeks, as was the weighty bill from the nursing home where her mother lived. No, she had to be able to work every day, mining from sunrise until sunset. If she didn’t, she’d lose everything. Biting down on her full lower lip, Sarah wiped the sweat from her dusty brow and continued to hammer at the boulder.

  After another hour of nonstop pounding, her fingers and lower arms ached with fatigue. She was damp with sweat, and her loose chambray shirt was clinging to her body. Her jeans were filthy with the white, dusty soil.

  Sarah eyed her trapped feet beneath the gnarled brown fir roots. No one would miss her. Her isolated cabin was five miles up the road. She couldn’t count on her mother. Although Sarah visited her at the nursing home in town nearly every evening, her mother frequently didn’t know the time of day, what month it was, or when she had last seen Sarah; time had become meaningless to her since the stroke.

  Flopping back on the earth, Sarah closed her eyes, sucking in huge drafts of air, exhausted. Who would miss her? Maybe Jean Riva, owner of the small nursing home. But occasionally Sarah missed a visit to her mother in order to facet sapphires for a customer. Pepper Sinclair, a woman smoke jumper with the forest service, was stationed in town. But she rarely saw Pepper—only for an occasional meal. Opening her eyes, Sarah stared up at the turbulent gunmetal-gray sky that boiled above her. Flaring her nostrils, she drank in a huge breath of air, testing it. Yes, she could smell rain in the air. If it rained, her trap would turn into a quagmire. And even though it was nearly September, a thunderstorm could lower the temperature to barely above freezing for hours after the storm had spent itself.

  Sarah knew better than to hope it wouldn’t rain. She’d lived in Montana all her life, prospecting with her father and helping him mine the sapphire. Groaning, she sat back up. A thought struck her. She took the hammer and started chopping at the thick, long roots, instead of the rock. Why hadn’t she thought of this hours before?

  “Sarah, you’re strung out. You’re not thinking straight.” The task seemed impossible; the abundant roots directly beneath the fir were the ones that held her captive. And she’d have to hack through the tap root, the main root that the tree sent straight down to find water, in order to free herself. But that wasn’t all. Eyeing the massive trunk of the fir, Sarah realized that the roots actually suspended the main bulk of the trunk off her legs. If she succeeded in removing the roots, the tree would smash down, breaking both her legs.

  Thunder rumbled, and Sarah shivered in response. Looking around, Sarah stretched out again, got a hold of her rifle and began to use the barrel to pull larger rocks toward her. Perhaps she could build a protective wall of rocks next to where her ankles were trapped to take the weight of the tree once she hammered through the tap root.

  Without warning, the rain poured from the torn belly of the sky. Sarah winced as the hard, cold drops struck her sweaty body. The soil would turn slick and sucking if she didn’t hurry to get the rocks in place. Her breath coming in uneven gulps, she quickly built her safety net. The hammer’s wet handle was slippery in her clenched hand. Gripping it firmly, Sarah tried to ignore the downpour. Rain struck her head, rolling down her face and beneath the collar of her shirt.

  The wind increased, bending the tops of the hundreds of firs that surrounded Sarah. Biting, wintry cold clawed at her, and she began to shiver in earnest beneath the sheets of rain. Her muscles trembling with the strain, Sarah worked on. Her hair fell in flat wet strands across her face, blinding her. With the back of her muddy hand, she shoved the strands away from her eyes enough to see what she was doing.

  Half an hour later, the storm ceased, as suddenly as it had started, leaving Sarah stranded in a pool of muddy water. She cut a channel away from her through the mud with the butt of her rifle, allowing most of the water to drain away. Then her teeth chattering, she wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees. Cold. She was so cold.

  The wind died down, the forest around her becoming quiet and serene once more. Sarah rubbed her arms, longing for warm, dry clothes. Mud squished around her when she moved. At least half the roots had been destroyed, but she had a good three or four hours of work ahead of her.

  Suddenly a sound registered, growing louder. A car? At first, Sarah thought she was hallucinating because of shock and hypothermia. She rarely saw anyone on this back road bordering forest-service land. Tilting her head, she listened. Yes! She could definitely hear the faint growl of a truck making its way up the now-muddy dirt road leading to her cabin. Impossible!

  Grabbing her rifle, she waited impatiently for the truck to draw nearer. A sudden paroxysm of fear grabbed her heart. What if it was one of Summers’s henchmen come to check up on her? Once they’d dressed as forest rangers to fool her. The ruse had worked. Sarah had been caught without her 30.06 rifle nearby, and they had wrecked her mining camp. She’d managed to knock one of her assailants unconscious with her hammer, though, and the other had run, caught off guard by a “helpless” woman fighting back. Although she’d pressed charges, neither man had served time in the county jail. Sheriff Noonan was on Summers’s side, and he’d refused to take her charges seriously.

  Her heart pounded in triple time as the truck drew close, and Sarah gripped the rifle tighter. She had to take the chance! So few people knew about this back road. Closing her eyes, trying to control her shivering, Sarah fired the rifle once, twice, three times. She heard the truck stop and the engine cut off. Sarah opened her eyes and could barely make out an olive-green vehicle through the trees and brush below. Who was it? She bit down hard on her lower lip. She was growing desperate. No matter who it was, she’d hold the gun on them and force them to help her get her legs free.

  Wolf Harding was sure he’d heard the rifle shots. So had his half-red-wolf, half-malamute companion, Skeet. The dog barked once, his tail wagging furiously as he stuck his head out the window of the truck. Ahead and to the right, pulled off the road, Wolf saw a battered white pickup—probably ten years old. The rusty vehicle was covered with a multitude of dents and scratches. Putting his truck in park, Wolf got out, his well-worn cowboy boots sinking into the mud. He took the rifle off the gun rack on the back seat and placed a round in the chamber.

  Wolf concentrated, focusing on the sixth sense that had saved his life many times before. His gaze ranged across the fir-covered hill, and he breathed in the damp, fragrant air. Suddenly he spotted movement, halfway up the steep slope. Skeet whined.

  Walking around the pickup, Wolf opened the door and released the dog.

  “Stay,” he ordered, quietly.

  Skeet was shivering with anticipation, his eyes and ears riveted to the hill. Probably a hunter shooting out of season, Wolf thought. Well, the unsuspecting poacher was going to get a surprise today. Taking out his notepad, he wrote down the license number of the white pickup, then tucked the pad back into his olive-green gabardine jacket.

  “Come.”

  Skeet leaped and whined, but remained at Wolf’s side as he quietly worked his way in zigzag pattern up the steep slope. A ground squirrel spotted Skeet, shrieked, and jumped back into the safety of his hole. A blue jay above sounded his warning cry, the call absorbed quickly by the surrounding forest. Wolf’s breath came in white wisps in the chilly aftermath of the thunderstorm. A far cry from the jungles of South America, he thought suddenly. The unbidden memory evoked a powerful chill that worked its way up his back and into his shoulders, where an old bullet wound twinged in response. Some things were hard to forget.

  Shaking off that all-too-recent memory, Wolf forced himself to concentrate. Hunters frequently shot deer out of season around here, he had been warned by his superior. And more than one forest ranger had been shot at because he’d been caught in the same area, as a warning to mind his own business. W
olf’s predecessor in the job had taken a bullet in the leg doing the very same thing: stalking poachers in the national forest. Up here in Montana, Wolf thought, these people think they’re a law unto themselves. And he was used to teamwork, not working alone. But a lot of things were changing rapidly and drastically in his life. Two months ago, he’d been released from his unhappy three-week hospital stay. Now, with eight weeks of forest ranger training under his belt, he was traipsing through the woods of Montana. Well, he’d wanted to get away….

  Skeet growled, the hackles on his red-and-gray coat rising. Wolf froze, his eyes moving to where Skeet was looking. Up ahead he could see a huge mound of recently dug earth. Frowning, he signaled Skeet to remain at his side. He wasn’t going to lose his dog to some trigger-happy poacher. His heart started a slow pounding, and he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his system, the familiar friend that heightened his senses and reflexes—perhaps to save his life, as it had before. Wolf didn’t want a shoot-out with a poacher his first day on the job.

  Sarah gasped as a giant of a man walked into her camp. She hadn’t even heard his approach. Out of instinct, she swung her rifle into firing position.

  “Hold it!” she ordered. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” He’d crouched into a combat stance.

  Frightened and confused, Sarah tried to control her chattering teeth. “Who are you?” she croaked, and she saw his intent gaze soften. Her heart pounded beneath his cursory inspection. The hard line of his mouth relaxed slightly.

  “Ranger Harding, U.S. Forest Service,” Wolf answered the shivering woman. “You can put the gun down.” He set his own beside a tree to show his peaceful intent. She seemed to be trapped beneath a tree, Wolf saw. She certainly posed no threat to him. She was covered with mud, and exhaustion was evident in her strained features. Still, she stood out like a yellow buttercup, he thought, her blond hair contrasting brightly with the lush green of the surrounding trees.

  “Ranger?” Sarah said challengingly. “You’d better prove it, mister, or I’ll blow your head off before you come a step closer.”

  Wolf was nonplussed by her angry response. She appeared to be serious. He looked down at his olive-green gabardine uniform. “I’ve got a badge underneath this,” he offered, slowly moving his hand to open his jacket and show it to her.

  “Don’t move!” Sarah stiffened, and the gun’s barrel wavered. Black dots swam in front of her eyes. Did that mean she was going to faint? She couldn’t—not yet!

  Wolf scowled. “How am I going to prove to you who I am, then?” How could something so tiny and bedraggled be so completely distrusting? But very real fear showed in her huge blue eyes, forcing Wolf to respect her anxiety, whatever its cause.

  “You could have a gun under that jacket,” Sarah hissed.

  One corner of Wolf’s mouth quirked into a bare semblance of a smile. “Lady, where I come from we hide our guns in a lot of places, under the jacket’s a little too obvious.”

  Sarah stared at him hard. Maybe it was the faint curve at one corner of his mouth that made her want to believe him. She eyed the dog beside him—just as huge and intimidating as his master. How could she trust this man? Sarah had learned the hard way that she couldn’t afford to trust anyone—even the people she loved most had abandoned her in one way or another. No, she could depend only on herself. She had no choice.

  “Move slowly, mister. Show me your badge—real slowly. I’m a crack shot.”

  Wolf suspected that she was in a lot of pain—and possibly in shock. She was extremely pale. Wolf’s protective nature reacted strongly. On the team in South America, he’d been the leader and paramedic, and now his caring instincts were aroused, in spite of this unnecessary game she was playing with him. “I’ll bet you are,” he said, slowly pulling the jacket aside to reveal the silver badge above his left breast pocket.

  “Your credentials,” the woman bit out. “A badge means nothing. I could go to Anaconda and buy one at a surplus store if I wanted.”

  Hollow showed beneath her delicate cheekbones, and Wolf could see darkness stalking her eyes. He was certain now that she was in shock, and going deeper by the minute. How long had she been trapped here? And what the hell had she been doing digging into tree roots? He bit back the questions and, lowering his voice, spoke as he would to calm a wounded comrade in battle. “Look, you’re in no shape to be playing this silly game. From the looks of things, you’re hurt.”

  Sarah struggled to ignore the soothing tone of his voice. She blinked her eyes several times and tried to shake off the faintness now rimming her vision. “I’ve got the gun. You’re the one in trouble, mister. Now get your ID out and toss it over here. And don’t try to pull any funny stuff.”

  Wolf almost wanted to laugh as he reached into his back pocket. She was so small to have such a large backbone. Carefully he tossed his ID case toward her.

  “How long you been trapped?”

  “I’ll ask the questions!” Her hand shaking badly, Sarah fumbled for the case, then laid it in the mud to flip it open. Her gaze flicked between the ID and the man: Wolf Harding, U.S. Forest Ranger, Philipsburg. Wolf. The name fit him well. His features were sharp and accentuated, and there was an alertness to his eyes that she’d never seen in another man. But Philipsburg? Sarah tried for a tone of self-confident disgust. “You’re a liar, mister. I’ve lived in Philipsburg all my life, and I haven’t heard of you.” Her hands tightened around the rifle.

  “This is my first day on the job,” he offered easily.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I just rented a house over on Broadway.”

  Sarah wavered. His hair was black as a raven’s ebony wing, and cut military-short. And his eyes…She took in a chattering breath. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Because you don’t have a choice. But why should you distrust me?”

  The rifle was getting heavy, and her arms were beginning to feel like ten-ton weights. Sarah knew she was getting dizzy from lack of food or water over the past six hours. “Do you know Gerald Summers?”

  “No. Should I?”

  Sarah probed his gaze, trying to ferret out whether he was telling her the truth. His mouth was now fully relaxed, she noted, the lower lip full and flat. “Summers is a murdering bastard. He hires people to kill for him,” she said, her voice quavering. She was so chilled that she was having muscle spasms, and she nearly dropped the rifle. The ranger didn’t move. His dog had lain down at his side.

  Wolf shrugged. “Look, you’re in trouble. You’re trapped. I don’t know this guy Summers.”

  “How long you been in Philipsburg?”

  “A week.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “South America,” Wolf ground out, suddenly losing patience. It was a place he wanted to forget. Forever. Just saying the words brought back too many raw, unhealed memories.

  Sarah blinked. Harding wasn’t a Hispanic, but his skin was brown enough that he could have passed for one. If he weren’t so hard-looking, some part of her paranoid brain might have believed him. Instead, to her surprise, it was her heart that shouted strongly for her to trust him.

  Licking her lower lip, she whispered, “I—I was mining this morning for sapphires when the tree fell over on me.”

  “Sapphires?” Wolf shrugged. “Look, you can tell me how it happened later. Let me get you out of there first.”

  The rifle wavered badly in Sarah’s hands. She took in a ragged sigh. “You could kill me. I’m so tired, and my legs are numb. I can’t get myself free,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Yet he hadn’t moved a muscle. His gaze suddenly warmed with a penetrating care—directed at her?

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Wolf told her soothingly. What was she talking about? Who would want to kill her? “Put the rifle down,” he urged, “and I’ll come over and help you.”

  “I’ll put it down, but not out of my reach, Harding.” So much of her wanted to give in, to rest…. S
arah ached to believe what she thought she saw in the man’s eyes. Was he really a ranger, or was this just another one of Summers’s men playing a trick on her? She had no choice. She had to let him help her. Reluctantly she put the rifle down in the mud beside her.

  It was so natural, Wolf thought as he quickly shrugged out of his gabardine jacket and came forward to where she lay shivering in the mud. Now he was a paramedic again. It was something that came easily to him, the one positive thing left out of the living hell he’d endured in the jungle. Bending down, he brought the jacket around her small, tense shoulders and felt her wince.

  “Easy, honey, I’m not going to hurt you. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be fine,” he murmured as he pulled the fabric snugly around her. His long, callused fingers barely grazed her collarbone as he secured the jacket.

  The woman jerked back, her eyes wide, her hand darting out for the rifle.

  Instantly Wolf’s hand clamped over hers. “Take it easy!” he rasped. Her blue eyes were filled with terror. He’d seen both those reactions too often in South America. Gently he loosened his fingers over her muddy ones. “I’m your friend, not your enemy. You’ve got to believe me if we’re going to get you out of here and to a hospital.”

  Forcing back tears at the suddenly soft expression on his unforgiving features, she pulled her hand from beneath his. “I—I thought you were going to hit me,” she muttered.

  What the hell had happened to her? Wolf sat crouched for a long minute, digesting her trembling admission and watching her terror parallel her defiance of him. Trying to ease the tension between them, he rasped, “I would never hurt you,” and watched with relief as some of the fear on her face subsided. “What’s your name?” He eased himself up out of his crouching position. He’d have to treat her like a wild animal, moving very slowly so as not to frighten her again.