A Wolf in the Desert by Bj James Page B

princess. All the early bird gets is the worm.”
    â€œGood,” she quipped as she moved to the bushy structure. “Even a worm would be better company than you.”
    â€œYou didn’t think so a few minutes ago.” He aimed his jeer at her back. “That wasn’t what you thought at all.”
    Her step developed a hitch, she slowed and faced him. “A few minutes ago I was crazy. Given the things that have happened, I’m entitled to a crazy misstep.”
    â€œNow you’ve made it,” he suggested in his laconic fashion.
    â€œA doozy.” She curtsied, an insolent princess in front of the king. “With your permission, or not, I think I’ll retire. My friend the worm will be waiting in the morning.”
    Crossing the camp, she was a lady, regal in faded jeans and scuffed boots. When she reached the lean-to he called after her, “What really happened here tonight, O’Hara?”
    She didn’t turn. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”
    â€œGood.” The word was a low, guttural bark. “I’m glad you realize it was nothing, and that nothing can come of nothing.”
    â€œThank you for that profound analysis.”
    â€œAnytime.” Then, because he was weary of this, of himself and of their battles, he commanded, “Go to bed. The sooner you do, the sooner tomorrow will come. Then there will be one less day before I can be rid of you.”
    Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he stalked into the desert, for once careless of his step. Small stones rolled beneath his feet, scrub clawed at his clothes. His escape into the dark was viciously clumsy and haphazard, and unlike him. His response to Patience was as vicious, but calculated to be so. To drive her away.
    Because he cared.
    He cared too much, and he knew he shouldn’t.
    Patience lay in the cloistering shelter, her eyes wide and unseeing as she listened to his thrashing passage. She hurt deep inside with a restless sort of ache, and didn’t know why. She lay for hours, listening even after his steps faded away, too tense to rest, too bewildered to sleep.
    Sounds of night in the canyon had grown familiar in the two weeks that seemed an eternity. Most familiar was Indian’s hushed and tired sigh as he slipped into the lean-to to lie at her back.
    She didn’t speak or touch him. But as she sensed his presence, drawing comfort from the warm strength hidden in the long, lean body, the knotted ache in her slowly unwound. Her eyelids grew heavy, quivering nerve endings quieted. She slept then, and was not aware that she slept. With Indian at her side, even the nightly revelry of the camp didn’t disturb her.
    Indian lay beside her, a prisoner of his thoughts, every sense alert as he prepared for the inevitable, regretting what he must do.
    Hoke was suspicious, Snake wanted the woman and would do anything to have her. They would be watching, along with the others, waiting for a mistake, a wrong word, a wrong move. They would begin the surveillance by coming tonight to satisfy a sick curiosity. How he acted and Patience reacted could mollify distrust or prove a point.
    As he’d walked the desert clearing his head he knew, suddenly and with conviction, what would come to pass and what survival would require of him. Deliberately delaying his return to the lean-to, giving her time to sleep or be near sleep, he’d loitered where no sane man would loiter and devised his plan.
    He didn’t expect he would have to wait long after his return to the quarters they shared. So he lay by her, aware on an unconscious level that she sank deeper into sleep, but with his immediate attention focused on the brush nearest the lean-to. The first sound that sent alarm ranting through him could have been a mouse, a night bird, a reptile. The second was the unmistakably stealthy footstep of a man. Not so close yet, but close enough to begin.
    â€œForgive me, O’Hara,”