Page 13 of The Spirit of the Wolf

“And a trace of laudanum,” said LaCroix.

“Laudanum? But…”

Her words were becoming slurred. Her head spun, her eyes rolled back, and she was aware of her body collapsing back against the bed. “Why…did…you?”

The last thing she remembered was the image of Jacques LaCroix leaning over her, saying, “Perhaps it was a bit more than a trace, mademoiselle.”

And then he laughed.

Chapter

Four

Black, rain-engorged clouds raced overhead as Grey Coyote set out from the village. Though it was early morning, the day was almost as dusky as night. Thunder rolled above him, water poured down from the heavens as though it meant to flood the land, and lightning forked through an ever-darkening sky.

Iho, this was no mere downpour. The Thunderer, god of the clouds and lightning, followed him. But this occurrence, though perhaps unusual for another, did not startle Grey Coyote. Indeed, for him it was always the same. Since he had been ten winters old, the Thunderer had been his constant bedfellow.

Never a friend, the Thunderer taunted him, laughed at him, antagonized him. In an effort to end his clan’s curse, many were the deeds that Grey Coyote had accomplished which would have been hailed as successful were Grey Coyote a simpler man. But never had any of his accomplishments broken the spell. Each time he failed, the Thunderer jeered at him, mocked and ridiculed him.

No, the rain and thunderstorms followed him, blocked out his sun, left him always in the dark. However, these were such usual occurrences for Grey Coyote that on this day he paid neither god nor weather heed. In truth, the murkiness of the day matched his mood.

Grey Coyote was annoyed. Very annoyed. Not with the woman, who was draped in front and against him unconscious. Rather, he was aggravated with himself.

Was the task set before him impossible? Was there no ending this spell?

Grey Coyote had only six or seven moons left in which to undo the curse that plagued his people. Already he was twenty-nine years of age, and by the very conditions of the enchantment itself, if he could not resolve the riddle by his thirtieth birthday, the opportunity to do so would pass. If he missed this chance now, he would never again have another. Indeed, if he failed, he would be relegated to live his life forever humiliated.

Not that his life at present was a joy. In his youth, Grey Coyote had been no stranger to sunshine-filled days, laughter and friendship. But as soon as he had come of age, his existence on this earth had been nothing if not a series of failed attempts and deep losses.

His was a lonely life, made more so because he would not inflict his travails upon anyone else. But then, Grey Coyote was also a scout, and scouts worked best alone, were even trained to take heart in their own company.

However, there were times…

In an effort to end this unproductive line of thought, Grey Coyote took a deep breath and inhaled the invigorating scent of wet skin and wet hair…feminine skin and hair. Like amber curls of sunshine, the woman’s tresses fell back over his shoulder as, unconscious, the white woman leaned back against him. The touch of those locks across him was as sweet as a caress, and despite himself, Grey Coyote was not of a mood to end it by setting her away from him.

Glancing down at the woman’s oval face, he speculated that perhaps she was prettier close up than from a distance. Her lips were full—the color of a pale rose—her skin was unblemished and satiny, and her cheeks were alive with the hue of a crimson sunset.

He wondered if it had really been necessary to force the white man’s liquor and drugs on her. Had she loved LaCroix so much? Or had she merely balked at the idea of her loyalties being transferred to another?

Whatever the case, LaCroix’s actions had disturbed Grey Coyote. It was one matter to take possessions away from a man, another to cart away an unwilling wife.

But what was done was done, he reasoned philosophically. Since it was too late to change it—not that he could—both he and the woman would have to abide by what was to be.

Yet, already it was as he had feared. Though only traveling for the better part of the morning, he was finding the woman more than a little distracting. Of course it didn’t help that the feel of her skin was soft beneath his fingers, or that she smelled enticing, or that she was so scantily dressed.

Here was another matter for fruitful thought. He couldn’t help observing again how odd was the white woman’s form of apparel. In one of his bags he carried her clothes, and there were many of them. Not only a dress, but some stiff article that felt as though it were made of the most rigid rawhide. Plus, there was a lacy pair of clothing that looked much like the white man’s pants. There were also mounds of other frilly articles, slips, delicate things that Grey Coyote could barely understand.

Where did the woman wear them all?

At present, perhaps because she had been taken while still abed, she wore only a thin, white slip of a garment, one which, beneath the heavy rain, accentuated her figure’s every curve and valley. Grey Coyote could only wonder how LaCroix had expected her to keep warm.

Certainly, the style in which she was attired didn’t help still his need, not when her buttocks bore in against him. Indeed, the feel of her before him was becoming pure torture, and to add to matters, the movement of the horse beneath him was luring Grey Coyote toward a physical pleasure that he did not dare indulge.

Maybe it would have been easier for him if he had been with a woman sometime in these past few months. But he had not.

Therein lay the problem. Physically Grey Coyote needed a woman, but emotionally he required peace. Though what peace he would find until he solved his riddle and freed his people was seriously in question.

One piece of knowledge, however, was certain. Every moment in these next several moons was precious. He could little afford to do anything but endeavor to end the curse. Courting a woman had no place in his life.