The Spirit of the Wolf
by Karen Kay
Publication Date: July 22, 2014
Synopsis:
The end of a curse hides behind a riddle—and the final clue in the heart of a woman.
The Lost Clan, Book 2
Grey Coyote stands on the knife edge of desperation. An ancient curse dooms his people to a half-life in the mists, neither living nor dead—unless he can solve a deceptively simple riddle. As time runs short, he’s sure the answer lies in beating a white trapper in a game of chance.
Among the trapper’s possessions, though, is a prize he never expected. A golden-haired woman as beautiful, delicate and stubborn as a prairie rose.
One moment Marietta Welsford is wondering how long it will take her hired guide to finish his game so she can hurry home to Rosemead, the English estate to which she hopes to lay claim. The next, she is abandoned with a man whose magnetism tugs at her body and soul, and makes her heart out-thunder the storm.
With so little time to lift the enchantment, Grey Coyote at first views Marietta as a trickster-sent distraction. But as sure as the star that guides him, it soon becomes clear she is the clue that could ultimately free his people…and capture his heart.
Excerpt from
Spirit of the Wolf
It was with a shock she realized she had no recollection of
what had happened or where she was. How had she come to be leaning against
another human being? Slowly, she drew in her breath, and without daring to move
her head—which had fallen back on a muscular shoulder—she opened her eyes and
peeked downward.
Sure enough, she was sitting astride a horse, and there was
an arm around her middle…a buckskin-clad arm. Curiously, she studied the
brown-tanned hand of her captor, noting the long fingers…fingers that held her
tightly within their grasp.
This was not the hand of Jacques LaCroix.
Where was she?
Gradually, gently, so as not to alert the one who held her,
she turned her head to the side, glancing upward at her captor’s face.
She gasped aloud.
“Careful,” said a male voice in English, his words colored
with an unusual accent. He gazed down at her. “You might frighten the horses.”
Horses?
Again, she chanced a glance upward. This time she sat
upright and screamed.
It was an Indian holding her, one who was painted for war,
or at least he might have been once upon a time. The paint was almost gone now,
rivulets of it running down his face.
The man sighed before he said, on a note that held little
patience, “If you must wail like a child now that you are awake, I will have to
place a cloth around your mouth. I fear that if you scream again, you will
scare the horses.”
Scare the horses? What about her?
Where was she? Who was this man? Where was LaCroix? Yellow
Swan? What had happened?
She couldn’t remember anything, except an early morning,
Jacques LaCroix offering her coffee, and…
“He…he…” As the previous events fell quickly into place, she
stumbled on her words, fearing to speak. After a moment, she could no longer
hold her tongue. “You…you drugged me.”
“I have done no such thing,” said the man, whose arm still
remained around her, as though to steady her.
“No, but you managed to bribe my guide to do it for you,
didn’t you?”
“Hiya.
You are upset. That is to be expected, but do not accuse me of things that I
have not done.”
It was odd. The man’s voice, sounding quietly bored, seemed
to reach out to her. And although it calmed her, Marietta was beyond such tactics. “If not
that, then why am I here?” She scooted forward as well as she could, trying to
put distance between her hips and this man’s. But the pony was small.
“Before he put you to sleep, did your husband not tell you
all that was to happen?”
“Husband?”
“Hau, husband.”
When she shot another glance behind her to better see her
enemy, her eyes met those the exact color of the blackest night. Her stomach
dropped.
This was not simply an
Indian. This was the man from the Minnetaree village, the same one who
had been gambling with Jacques LaCroix, the man she had dared to think might be
handsome.
And he had stolen her.
Glaring at him, she murmured, “I remember you.”
She witnessed his brief nod before he gave her a considering
glance. “I am surprised.”
“Surprised?” She waited in vain for an explanation.
After several moments he said, “Perhaps your husband did not
make his meaning understood.”
“I was what?”
The man behind her drew in yet another long breath, as
though he were weary of the whole affair. In a voice he might have used to
address a five-year-old, he said slowly, “Your husband told me that he…informed
you of this before he gave you too much corn liquor.”
“Before he…?” She gulped. “Pardon me, Mister… Ah, I don’t
know your name.”
The Indian didn’t answer the indirect question.
The man still didn’t reply, and Marietta attempted again to scoot forward.
At length, the man sat up, appearing like he were about to
say something of importance, but he hesitated, while Marietta held her breath. “A warrior does not
speak his own name.”
“Oh.” Marietta
shot a glance over her shoulder. “Then what am I to call you?”
He shrugged but didn’t enlighten her.
She thought she saw him smile, but the gesture was so
swiftly gone, she was not certain of it.
Another silence ensued. However, after a moment or two, she
squared back her shoulders and began, “Well, Mr. Rainmaker, as I was saying,
this may come as a shock to you, but I am not married. I have no husband.”
Again, she chanced a quick glance behind her, but perhaps
her look was too swift. She could discern no reaction from the man at all. When
he spoke, all he said was, “I am talking about the man who brought you to the
Minnetaree village, the scout, LaCroix.”
“Scout LaCroix? Oh, you must mean Jacques LaCroix, of
course. He is not my husband.”
“Yet you travel with him.”
“Yes.” Her ire rose. “Good Lord, is it a crime for a woman
to travel with a man in this country? I did hire a maid to accompany me. I employed Jacques LaCroix to take me to a
particular village. He is not my husband.”
“But he is.”
“No, he is not.”
The man paused. “You do not understand. In this country,
when a woman travels, she goes alone, with her husband, or with other women. To
be with a man who is not her husband…alone… Her reputation will be marred.”
“Yes, well, perhaps it is a good thing then that my birth
does not originate from this country, and that I don’t care about my
reputation.”
The man didn’t utter a word, but by his silence, Marietta felt that he
must certainly disapprove. It compelled her to say, “Mr. Rainmaker…”
“Grey Coyote,” he finally supplied. “My name is Grey
Coyote.”
“Very good. Thank you.” She nodded, her demeanor sweet and
one that might have spoken well for her had they been discussing a harmless
subject over a cup of tea and a tray of biscuits. “Now, Mr. Coyote, understand,
I was not alone. Yellow Swan, my maid, accompanied me. Also, where I come from,
a woman may travel anywhere she pleases, and she may even hire a guide to take
her to places, particularly if she does not know the lay of the land. And this
is what I did. I engaged Jacques LaCroix, paid him money—gold—to bring me to St. Louis …a town farther
south of here. That is all there is to it. Jacques LaCroix is no more my
husband than you are.” She paused for emphasis. “And yet I am traveling with
you.”
The rain began to fall a little harder, drowning out
whatever the man might say. Despite this, she thought she heard Grey Coyote
state, “I am your husband.”
“What was that?” she said, addressing the man behind her.
Patiently, as though women were a breed apart from men, Grey
Coyote repeated slowly, “I am your husband.”
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