Page 20 of The Spirit of the Wolf

“Humph!” He pinned her with a scowl. “You were on the trail with the scout, LaCroix. Surely you⁠—”

“Do you remember me telling you that I had a maid with me? Yellow Swan was her name, and she performed all those duties for me. I’m afraid I had my attention on other matters, affairs, if you will, that are very important to me. So I didn’t pay heed to what she was doing, nor am I certain I would have learned completely from it even if I had.”

“Humph!” was again all Grey Coyote uttered. But his scan of her was filled with curiosity.

“However, if you would be so kind as to take me to St. Louis,” Marietta was quick to point out, “I would try to help you.” Anxious now to please, she sought his gaze.

“Hmmm…” He eyed her carefully. “Say the name of the village again.”

“What? St. Louis?”

“Hau. It is a white man’s village?”

“It is.”

“Perhaps…”

“Oh, sir, if you would take me there⁠—”

His glance at her was sullen. “I might…if I do not find what I seek at once, and if it is in a direct line to the place where I must travel. And if⁠—”

“Oh, sir, I would be⁠—”

“And if you can prove yourself to be of use to me on the trail.”

“On the trail? Oh, I see. Yes, yes, I would do all I can. Truly I would. And what I don’t know, I could learn. I have been told that I acquire skills quickly.”

Grey Coyote raised an eyebrow. He gazed at her oddly, and despite the heavy downpour and its inevitable result, he seemed to peer at her in a way that pierced deeper than mere flesh.

Had he found her wanting? Did he realize that her promises stemmed from hope rather than ability? Flustered, Marietta said, “Honestly, I promise you that I am a quick study.” She gulped, and, holding her breath, she waited for his next words.

But she tarried in vain. Aside from the thunder, which continued to rumble overhead, and the occasional crash of lightning in the distance, there was no reply.

The fresh, crisp air that follows in the wake of a storm rang in the sunset. They had left three of their horses hobbled at the foot of a butte and had begun the climb to the top of a flat-topped jutting mound. Though they had chosen to traverse up the most gently sloped side of this small mesa, it was still a steep incline.

The butte was certainly an interesting sight, thought Marietta, for it seemed to pop up out of the prairie as if by accident. All the rest of the land around it was flat. Beautiful, mysterious land, yes. But flat.

The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving its signature on the plains by bathing the land in the glow of a multicolored rainbow and a dusky, crimson sky. The rainbow sat south of them, Grey Coyote having pointed it out to her earlier.

At present, Marietta sat atop their little steed while Grey Coyote led the pony up the slope. This was a rather difficult concern for her. It wasn’t as though she were exerting herself in any way, but rather, what was hard about it was trying not to notice Grey Coyote. He had removed his cloak and shirt, having long ago draped both of them around her. That this left him standing before her in no more than leggings, breechcloth and moccasins shouldn’t have taken her attention. Yet it did.

His style of dress was savage, wild. She tried to tell herself this was so, as if only by downgrading him could she find relief. But in the end, it didn’t matter what she did or what she thought. He was a magnificent sight.

Every muscle of his back seemed to be proportionately placed, all centering down to narrow hips. His leggings and breechcloth were tied around his waist, though both fell down indecently low on him. She tried to avoid looking there, for it tended to lead her gaze downward toward his tight buttocks.

He had a tall, slender build, perhaps six feet in height, and his long hair fell in dark strands across his back. In one hand, he carried a lance, and around his shoulder and falling down low over his backside was his sheath, full of arrows, as well as his bow.

His thighs and calves were firmly encased in buckskin. The snug leather emphasized every lean muscle as well, and, as he climbed the butte, she watched the strain of his muscles. On his feet were moccasins, which made little sound over the ground, even as he stepped from rock to rock. Only the pounding of the pony’s hooves interrupted an otherwise balmy, silent journey.

This man believed he was her husband. The idea seemed suddenly erotic. Oddly she wondered if she truly wished this man to think of her in a platonic way.

Hastily, she pulled herself up on this particular line of thought. It was unproductive, for regardless of what happened here, she was merely passing through this country.

Yet, it did no harm to look, did it?

How she wished Princess Sierra were here right now. If she were, Marietta would confide in her, share her thoughts, perhaps discuss the ways of men. But the princess wasn’t here. Indeed, Marietta would have to decide on these matters on her own.

And decide she did.