A Wolf in the Desert by Bj James Page B

who’s good and who ain’t. She needs a real man.”
    Indian didn’t turn his black gaze from Snake, didn’t glance toward the separate fire. He didn’t need to look to know that Patience would be sitting alone and apart, with dusk falling around her. Her hair would be loose, stopping just short of her waist, drifting over her in a fiery veil as she brushed it. In the soft light, when there was languor in the shadows and a land ruled by the sun made ready for night, she found respite from the shocking turn of fortune in this hypnotic, healing, and uncannily feminine pastime.
    The lines smoothed from her face, the taut, watchful posture of her body eased. Stroke after stroke the brush slipped through her hair, taming it, turning it to silk as she lost herself in thoughts he couldn’t fathom.
    Absorbed, transported to a place deep within herself, she performed the elegant ritual, innocent of eyes that lusted. She moved with an unconscious grace, unaware that the very natural qualities were foreign to others. Heedless that this intimately personal act only fueled the lust of men who would strip from her every shred of the grace and elegance and innocence, destroying what they wanted most to possess.
    Caught up in her own diversion, with bright strands flowing under the rhythmic stroke of the brush, catching the light of the sky, the light of the fire, she became a tantalizing vision. An enchanting sorceress with secrets hidden in unfathomable depths. A beautiful woman, ever mysterious, ever alluring.
    In days past, when the people of his great-great-grandfather Cochise rose this land on steeds of flesh and blood, she would have been revered for her quiet dignity, respected for her enduring strength. Coveted for the blaze of her hair.
    She would be called Blaze by the Apache.
    â€œSharing has been our custom, always,” Hoke whispered, and to Indian’s ears it was the scratch of evil at heaven’s door.
    â€œIt isn’t my custom,” he said flatly. In the eerie silence that followed, his gaze touched lightly on each man, lingering only a fraction longer on Snake. His point was made.
    â€œI don’t share.” His stare challenged the undeclared leader, while in the quiet rang the unspoken warning, Not with any man.
    â€œThat ain’t fair,” Hogan protested as if fairness were ever his concern.
    Hoke cut him off with a gesture. Folding his cards, he regarded the Indian. “A one-woman man.” His laugh was too much for a throat that could only issue a series of clicks and gulps. “That explains your immunity to the much plied charms of our ladies. And answers Snake’s question of your virility.”
    Indian didn’t bother to dignify the speculations of men who understood only wantonness and brutality. To whom gentleness was weakness, and men who did not think as they were suspect.
    Hoke’s garbled laughter ceased as swiftly as it began. His attention was riveted on Indian. The others might vanish from his side and from the earth, and in his concentration he wouldn’t notice.
    This was between the two of them. Himself and the Indian. His voice was weaker, punished by the effort of laughter. “You know she can never leave us.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo one can. Not you, not her. No one.”
    â€œI know. I knew months ago when I joined you.”
    â€œNever is a long time.”
    Indian shrugged, but his grip tightened over the hilt of the knife half hidden in his lap.
    â€œWhen you tire of her, will you hand her over to the others?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAh.” Hoke leaned back, a low boulder supporting his shoulders. “So it’s like that? Your woman or no man’s.”
    â€œSo long as she’s in camp, she’s only mine.”
    â€œThen when you’re through with her you intend to put her on the block to be sold?”
    In a fluid move, Indian rose from his cross-legged position. In buckskin