A Wolf in the Desert by Bj James Page A

Indian was right. He’d saved her life and more, but her abominable Irish pride would only admit it in the most private part of herself. “Oh, forget it. Just take the blasted tree from my hair.”
    â€œPlease?”
    Patience hesitated.
    Indian waited.
    She knew he would wait forever with the implacable tenacity of his kind. “Irish pride, be damned,” she muttered. “Take the tree from my hair. Please.”
    â€œMy pleasure.” There was laughter in his deep tone.
    She was tempted to make a pointedly caustic comment about fools laughing in the face of disaster, but his hands were in her hair lifting it from her neck. His fingers carefully puzzled through the intricacies of the snarl. He was gentle as he always was when there was peace between them. He worked without rancor, meticulously, long after she would have ripped the twig away, and with it any tangled hair.
    She felt herself relaxing, forgetting. She heard only the sound of his breath as it whispered over the nape of her neck. There was darkness around them, sometimes she felt there was always darkness when they were at peace. The fire burned brighter and the night grew darker. Flames leapt and curled in a beguiling dance. The sky above the rim was clear. Stars, scattered over it like crystals over midnight velvet, seemed close enough to catch, to pull from the sky.
    No clouds blotted the perfect panorama, yet in her pensiveness she heard the methodic and muted rush of thunder. A steady, rhythmic throb. Too steady? Too rhythmic? Too close? Not thunder at all?
    Finding she was free, discovering he hadn’t moved away though he no longer touched her, she bowed her head, turning until her cheek brushed his chest. The buckskin was as supple and cool as satin, his flesh hot and firm. There was no thunder. The beat of his heart filled her mind and body, singing through her blood.
    She could touch him. All she needed was to turn her head only a fraction to press her lips to his chest. She felt herself drifting and wanting. Wanting his arms around her. Wanting his lips against hers. Wanting things she’d never dreamed. Wanting him.
    Bawdy laughter sheared through her reverie. The inescapable call of reality that his gentle touch might ease, but wouldn’t change. Pulling away, she sat stiffly, questioning the sanity of her response to him.
    â€œPatience,” he began, and there was question in the low rumble.
    â€œNo,” she refused violently, “I don’t want to hear.” She felt the quick rise of his chest, the heat of him burned through her shirt.
    â€œOf course.” He eased away, his hands lifted in resignation. “You’re right. Some things are better left unsaid.”
    â€œWhen you finish, we can forget this happened.”
    â€œIt’s finished.”
    â€œThank you.” The words rang false even to her ears.
    â€œPor nada.” He slipped away from her and stood to pace the edge of their camp. His back was toward her as he faced the inky canyon wall.
    â€œFor nothing,” Patience interpreted, using the Spanish taught her by one of her many tutors. For nothing, he claimed, but when she was honest she knew it should be for everything.
    Climbing to her feet, she was surprised that she wanted to smooth over their differences, to regain the rare but erratic camaraderie they shared. “I’m sorry this was such a bother. I’ll be more careful of the trees next time.”
    â€œThere won’t be a next time.” He turned on her and his face was controlled and grim. “You’ll brush your hair in the lean-to, and if that isn’t good enough for you, Princess O’Hara, you won’t brush it at all. Is that clear?”
    â€œPerfectly.” She bristled and any desire for truce ended. “Since you were kind enough to build this castle away from the castle, I think I’ll make use of it. Early to bed, early to rise, you know.”
    â€œBe careful,