A Wolf in the Desert by Bj James

she said, “Maybe you’re right.”
    Indian paused as he was, his hands filled with brush and his eyes with doubt. “I am?”
    â€œOf course you are.” With a helpless gesture completely foreign to her nature, she said, “I was foolish to suggest my vacation in the west could qualify me as anything more than a tourist. I shouldn’t presume that it did.”
    â€œFoolish, huh?”
    â€œExactly.” Patience was uncomfortable under the laserlike scrutiny of his searching gaze, but felt no qualms at lying by omission. After all, what concern was it of his if her vacations in the west had actually been many, and not really vacations in the truest sense of the word?
    He needn’t know of her Gypsy father’s penchant for wandering the world exposing his children to varying life-styles. Nor that one of those ventures included two years her father managed a ranch in Arizona, with his family serving as cowhands. Those years, with another spent on an archaeological study in the petrified forest, might not qualify Patience as an expert, but she was anything but a novice.
    â€œYou think it’s best I rest in the shade?”
    â€œYes, Patience.” There was amusement in his voice, her change in temperament didn’t fool him. He didn’t for a moment believe she’d suddenly become the acquiescent female resigned to her fate. Only time would reveal what her resourceful mind had concocted. In the meantime it would be up to him to ensure that she didn’t make her circumstance worse. In spirit of her game and because he admired her determination, he added innocently, “I’m glad you’ve come to terms with what has to be.”
    â€œThis isn’t exactly a case of ‘if you can’t lick them, join them,’” she warned, certain that sudden and total capitulation would only fuel his evident doubt.
    â€œI never thought it was.”
    â€œI’m not embracing Chief Joseph’s philosophy.”
    â€œThat, either,” he agreed.
    â€œIt’s just a matter of being practical.”
    With a mockingly gallant bow, Indian murmured, “Of course.”
    For some reason that small bit of gallantry and its mockery infuriated her. An angry retort burned on her tongue, but she bit it back. She was talking too much, saying more than was needed. For the security of her plan, she’d best do as she’d agreed. “I assume you have plans for the brush you’ve gathered, so I’ll just sit in the shade, while you do whatever it is you plan to do with it.”
    â€œThat’s a good idea, Patience. You sit in the shade, and I’ll do...whatever.”
    For the next hour Patience lounged beneath the branches of a sycamore, occupying herself with straightening her sleep rumpled clothes and brushing her hair. All the while, her attention was riveted on Indian.
    He’d shed the vest he wore without the complement of shirt or tee. His bare shoulders were broad, with ironlike sinews and muscles rippling beneath skin the color of pale cinnamon as he worked with limbs and shrubs. Faded jeans cinched with leather thongs rode low on his hips. She noted again that instead of the boots de rigueur for most bikers, he wore moccasins laced to the knee.
    Shoulder-length hair that gleamed like polished onyx was drawn severely from his face, accentuating the utter and complete masculinity of his classic features. His face was a study in concentration, sparing only an occasional flashing glance at her as he worked. Every move was with purpose and sure, in a task he’d performed many times.
    The camp was stirring with the first signs of life when he backed away to survey what he’d done. Turning to her, magnificent with sunlight gleaming over his sweat-burnished torso, he bowed with the same mocking gallantry. “Night quarters.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a rakish smile. “Yours and mine.”
    Speechless for