Native Wolf Read Online Free Page B

think about was the woman who’d cared for her since she was a little motherless girl, who’d taught her the names of the animals, who’d held her when she was sad and lonely, who’d told her stories and sang her songs, and whose voice was now silent. Forever.
    This time, when Claire tripped on the edge of a rock, she landed hard on her knees. She expected to be dragged through the weeds, and frankly she didn’t care if he hauled her that way for ten miles. Now that the egg of her sorrow had been cracked, she realized that nothing could hurt her as much as the loss of the woman she’d called Mother.
    The moment she struck the dirt, however, her captor halted, turning to see what delayed her.
    Overcome with woe, she sank forward over her knees and buried her head. She didn’t care if he watched her. He was nobody. She didn’t have to keep a brave face for him like she did for her father. Her breath came in loud, wheezing gasps, filtered by the smothering cloth. Her throat ached with an agony of grief, and the sobs that racked her body felt as if they tore her soul asunder. Overwhelmed by heartache, she didn't notice at first that the Indian had dismounted and now loomed over her.
    His fingers suddenly grazed the top of her head, startling her, and she almost choked on her tears as she glanced up at him. Though his face swam in her watery vision, he seemed shaken.
    Of course he was shaken. Men never understood women’s weeping. But she didn’t care. She stared up at the frowning savage, openly defiant, tears streaming down her cheeks, silently daring him to ridicule her.
    His scowl deepened, and he jutted out his chin. His mouth worked as if he were trying to decide whether to swallow or spit. Then, with a whispered expletive, he released her. Winding one arm around her waist, he hauled her to her feet and nodded sharply as if to tell her there would be no more falling down.
    She wiped her wet cheek on her shoulder, staring coldly at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. He wrapped his end of the rope one more time around his hand, turned away, and remounted. His back expanded and released once with a deep breath before he clucked to the horse, urging it forward one step.
    Claire stood her ground, refusing to move. Her grief was turning rapidly to anger. What kind of a brute abducted a woman by night, forced her barefoot across rock-riddled hills, and ignored her tears of distress? In her dime novels, even the most dastardly villain possessed at least a shred of common decency.
    Damn his coal-black eyes! If he wanted her to move from this spot, he’d just have to drag her.
    When he turned to peer at her, the corners of his mouth were drawn down. He tugged once more on the rope.
    Raising her chin, she took a step backward.
    His eyes widened. He tugged again, pulling her forward a step.
    Incensed, she marshaled her strength and hauled back on the rope as hard as she could.
    To her satisfaction, she managed to alter his look of annoyance to one of surprise, though for all her efforts, he didn’t budge more than a few inches.
    His amazement was short-lived. He simply let go of the rope, and she sank with a plop onto her bottom. Before she could scramble upright, he slipped from Thunder, stalking toward her, muttering under his breath all the way.
    Leaning forward, he upended her, slinging her over one ox-like shoulder. The air whooshed out of her, and she closed her eyes against the dizzying sensation of her precarious perch. Then he tossed her sidesaddle across the horse and swiftly mounted up behind her.
    Flinging a possessive arm around her waist, he nudged Thunder forward, mumbling what sounded suspiciously like "damn fool Indian,” and rode stonily into the deepening night.
    At first she sat upright, stiff, unwilling to even think about letting her body come into contact with his. But as they rode on, mile after mile, her strength flagged. The sleep that had evaded her for days finally caught up with her, lulling