The Coyote's Cry (5 page)

“In other words, you're doing everything you can and nothing is working,” Bram said dully.

Jenna's eyes misted and she could only nod. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered huskily. She wasn't looking at Bram, so she didn't see him walk away. But she heard his footsteps, and when she turned around, he was gone.

A few minutes later she returned to Gloria's room, and there was Bram, telling corny jokes to his grandmother and chuckling over them himself.

All Jenna could think was that maybe laughter was the only medicine they hadn't yet tried, and maybe it would
work. She mentally patted Bram on the back for his willingness to do anything to save Gloria from herself.

 

Jenna deliberately slept lightly, keeping attuned to her patient's slightest movement or sound. Even in a semi-slumber, though, she dreamed, and she had a nightmare around midnight that was so frightening that she jumped out of bed. Grabbing her robe, and taking a quick peek at Gloria to make sure she was asleep, Jenna left the bedroom and went to the kitchen.

Still shaken by the nightmare, she switched on lights and made a cup of cocoa, using a mix and the microwave. She was about to sit at the table to drink the cocoa when Bram walked in.

He stopped cold. The kitchen light had been on and he'd thought nothing of it, but seeing Jenna at the table was a shock he had trouble concealing. His mind grew fuzzy for a moment; he should turn around and get out of there while he could, he realized vaguely. But then he recovered some dignity. This was his house, after all, and Jenna was the intruder in this room, not him. He managed to say, albeit a bit thickly, “I can't sleep, either.” He began preparing a cup of cocoa for himself.

Jenna watched his every movement with a heated sensation in the pit of her stomach. He had been so diligent about avoiding being alone with her that this unplanned midnight meeting felt like a tryst. Probably not to him, she told herself, but then he wasn't burdened with bittersweet longings the way she was.

She drank in the sight of him. He had pulled on his jeans, but that was the only clothing on his marvelously masculine body. His chest was smooth and hairless, his shoulders wide and muscular. He hadn't buttoned the waistband of his jeans, merely zipped the fly, and he was barefoot. His thick black hair, normally so neatly brushed,
was tousled and looked so sexy to Jenna that she could barely swallow small sips of her cocoa.

With his cup in the microwave, Bram clenched his jaw and looked at Jenna. He could hardly pretend she wasn't there, after all. “I know why I'm having trouble sleeping, but she's my grandmother. Does every patient in your care cause you insomnia?”

My God, is he actually going to talk to me?
Jenna was so surprised she nearly choked on a swallow of cocoa. She managed to answer him, though. “I was sleeping. A nightmare woke me.”

The microwave went off and Bram took his cup to the table and sat across from her. Bram Colton joining her for midnight cocoa surprised Jenna so much that she wasn't sure how to deal with it.

“Tell me about your nightmare,” Bram said after taking a cautious swallow of his hot drink. That was an innocent enough topic, he thought, even though he knew that he should have taken his cocoa back to his bedroom rather than risk even a few minutes in Jenna's company.

Jenna tried not to stare at this half-naked man whom she'd so often fantasized about having in her bed. But he was seated only a few feet away—all that darkly tanned skin, and that handsome face.

She dropped her eyes to her cup. “It's not worth talking about.”

“But it scared you awake.”

“Well, yes. That's what nightmares usually do. Don't you have nightmares?”

“Everyone does.” Bram raised his cup to his lips and took in the truly glorious sight of Jenna Elliot sitting across from him at his very own table, with her golden hair loose and disarrayed around her beautiful face. Her robe was blue and he could see the neckline of a white gown beneath that. But it was very easy to envision her lush body
under the gown.
That's the real reason you stayed in here instead of running back to your room the second you saw her—just to soak up the sight of her. Admit it!

“Were monsters chasing you?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage.

“Monsters?” Jenna couldn't help smiling, and decided that he really must be curious about her nightmare, which was curious in itself. So why not tell him about it? At least they were talking, which just might qualify as a small miracle. “I guess there could have been monsters, but I don't recall seeing any. I was in a strange place—a rural setting—and I was walking down a dirt road. There were a few trees and I was wearing a red dress. Now, that's odd,” she interjected thoughtfully. “I hardly ever wear red, and I don't even own a red dress.” She paused for a swallow of cocoa.

“Anyhow, I could see a hill ahead of me and I began walking up it. It became steeper and steeper until I was clutching at the ground with my hands to keep from falling.” She looked at Bram. “That's it.”

“What scared you about that?”

“The fear of falling, I guess.”

“Sounds to me like you might be afraid of reaching the pinnacle of something you've been trying to attain.”

Jenna felt a wave of heat wash through her.
He
was the pinnacle, if there was any accuracy in his interpretation.

“When did you become an interpreter of dreams?” she asked pertly.

He grinned, surprising Jenna and melting her bones at the same time. Lord, he was handsome when he wasn't scowling! “Learned it at my great-granddaddy's knee,” he said.

“George WhiteBear taught you how to read dreams?”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No, but Willow's talked about him. His age is incredible.”

“Ninety-seven is pretty incredible, all right. He says he will live to be a hundred and five. I can't doubt it.”

“Does he still live alone and take care of himself?”

“He does.” Bram frowned suddenly. “I expected Gran to have a long and healthy life, too. That stroke was a shock.”

“For the whole family, apparently.” Jenna couldn't believe it. They were actually having a normal conversation.

“I've got to drive out to George's place and tell him about Gran,” Bram said, sounding as though he were talking more to himself than to Jenna.

“He doesn't know?”

“I didn't want to alarm him without cause. After what you told me earlier tonight, I think I'd better go out there very soon. I'm sure he'll want to see Gran.”

Jenna's heart sank. “And what I said to you tonight is the reason you're not able to sleep. Do you understand that I only said what was necessary?”

“I don't understand a damn thing. She was always a live wire. What causes a stroke, anyhow? Why was she struck down like that?”

“Would you like me to explain the medical causes of strokes?”

“No.” Bram turned his head, reminding Jenna of Gloria both from the action and from their physical similarities. “Hearing a bunch of medical terms I probably wouldn't comprehend isn't going to make me accept Gran's affliction. She doesn't deserve what she's going through, Jenna.”

“I know she doesn't,” Jenna said quietly, although a part of her rejoiced that her name had rolled off his tongue as though he said it all the time. She lifted her eyes and met his, and for the first time ever she thought she saw
something personal gleaming in their black depths. Her pulse rate quickened, and when he suddenly looked away again her breath stopped as though trapped in her throat.

To alleviate the sensation she got up and brought her cup to the sink. She heard Bram getting up, too, and then felt him behind her.

“Just forming a line to rinse my cup,” he said.

But he was standing a lot closer to her than he had to, and again Jenna couldn't breathe normally. “I—I'll only…be a minute,” she stammered. “Give me your cup. I can take care of it and you can go back to, uh, bed.”

He reached around her and put his cup in the sink in front of her, and she felt his long muscular body against her back.

“Jenna,” he whispered, and placed his hands on the counter on each side of her. Her mind could hardly digest what was happening. He had never, ever touched her, not once, and now his entire body was pressed against hers and his arms were virtually enclosing her within a very sensual circle.

She didn't think, just reacted. Dropping her cup in the sink, she swung around, at the same moment raising her arms to his neck. She leaned into him and his arms tightened around her. She turned her face up and silently begged for his kiss, and he didn't disappoint her. His lips touched hers gingerly, then, in the next heartbeat, almost roughly. It was her fantasy come true, or at least the beginning of it.

She opened her mouth under his and kissed him back with all the desire she'd kept bottled up for so long. She knew she would do anything he wanted; all he had to do to get everything he could possibly want from a woman was to keep on holding her and kissing her.

She moved against him, an involuntary action caused by total surrender to Bram's will. She felt his hands moving
on her back, up and down, and finally stopping on her bottom. The groan she heard deep in his throat as he cupped her buttocks excited her further, and she brought her hands down from his neck to explore his chest. More than his chest was hard, though, and that was the most exciting thing of all. He wanted her. He couldn't hide his desire or pretend it didn't exist, not when the proof of his feelings pressed into her abdomen. She was so thrilled and elated that she mumbled between kisses, “Wait…wait. Let me get out of some of these clothes.”

He inched away from her and watched her shed the robe and let it drop to the floor around her feet. His black eyes devoured the sight of her in a rather sheer white nightgown with tiny straps, standing in front of him with all that long, golden hair draped over her shoulders.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said raggedly.

“Oh, Bram, do you have any idea how beautiful
you
are?” she whispered. And then fear gripped her, for something in what she'd said caused him to begin withdrawing before her very eyes.

He touched her cheek gently. “We can't do this.”

She had no shame, not now, not when they'd been so close to something meaningful. “Why not?” she whispered.

“I think you know why not.”

Jenna cleared her throat. She couldn't let this happen. Bram had crossed the line tonight and she couldn't stand the thought of him retreating behind it again.

“Because of my dad's attitude?” she said in a stronger voice. “Bram, you must ignore him. Prove you're the bigger and better man by overlooking his ignorance.”

“How does anyone in Black Arrow overlook Carl Elliot?” Bram took a backward step, and Jenna quickly moved forward, wrapped her arms around his waist and
laid her cheek on his chest. “Don't do this, Jenna,” he said huskily. “I was afraid of this happening the second I saw you getting out of the ambulance. I want you to stay and care for Gran…you
are
the best nurse in town…but you and I can never be anything but speaking acquaintances.” He grasped her arms and moved away from her. After one more yearning look at her beautiful face, he spun on his heel and walked out.

Jenna was devastated. He'd broken her heart, this time for real, for he'd given her just enough of himself to also give her a glimpse of paradise. Then he'd yanked it all away and told her it would never happen again. With tears burning her eyes, she pulled on her robe and dragged herself back to her lonely twin bed in Gloria's room.

Jenna thought she would cry her eyes red, but instead she stared at the ceiling and accepted the painful knowledge that she'd responded to Bram with the same fervor with which a starving person devoured food. She felt like a fool, a woman with no will of her own. She would never forgive herself for behaving like a tart, nor would she forgive Bram for treating her as one. He'd kissed and touched her intimately, and she would feel his hands on her body for the rest of her life. Damn him! She turned to her side and the tears finally came, and she wept quietly into her pillow until she finally fell asleep.

Bram never did go back to sleep. An immutable fact nearly drove him crazy: he could have made love to Jenna, his beautiful golden girl, in his own kitchen, and he'd turned her down. Dear God, he could have brought her to his bed and made love with her. The many places in his house where they could have made love haunted him, until he finally gave up on sleep and threw back the covers.

He was dressed and on his way to his great-grandfather's place before dawn broke.

T
raffic was light and Bram's thoughts naturally turned to Jenna while he drove. He despised himself for making that pass. He'd gone way past the line he'd drawn between himself and Jenna, and he knew he was going to pay a heavy penalty for acting without thinking, because nothing about that kiss had been ordinary. In fact, he was positive that what had occurred in his kitchen was one of those life-altering events that befell a person every so often. In its own way, that embrace was as destructive to his peace of mind as his grandmother's stroke. He actually gritted his teeth from mental anguish.

Out of self-preservation, his thoughts segued from Jenna to the Colton Ranch, and the contentment living there gave him. It had been home since his birth, and occasionally he thought of talking to his siblings about buying everyone out so it belonged only to him. And yet no one ever interfered with his use of the place, or gave him unwanted
and unneeded advice simply because he or she owned as much of the land as he did.

He remembered growing up happy in a loud and boisterous household, with parents who laughed a lot and openly adored their five children. He thought of his brothers and sister, each one of them, and suffered again the agony of learning that their parents had been killed in a plane crash. It had been a terrible time, and he'd had to downplay his own shock and grief to comfort the others.

All in all, though, his life had gone relatively smoothly. He'd learned to live with grief and an ache for a woman he couldn't have, but it was funny that he had rarely thought of his Indian blood until falling for Jenna. There were so many mixed marriages and relationships between Native Americans and whites that most of the population in and around Black Arrow paid scant attention to ancestry. There were a few pure whites, like Carl Elliot—or so they claimed—and there were also a few pure Comanches, like his great-grandfather.

But George WhiteBear was the only pure-blooded Indian in the family. And he was one of the handful of Comanches who proudly clung to the old ways, to teachings handed down from generation to generation. It was George who had educated his offspring and
their
offspring in Comanche history. Bram remembered most of what he'd been taught.

The Comanche, like the Arapaho, Blackfeet, Cheyenne and Sioux, were considered Plains Indians. In the old days sign language permitted different tribes to communicate, and George had even shown his progeny some of the signs. George also boasted about the Comanches' amazing horseback-riding abilities and their ferocity in battle. Then there was the subject of counting coup—the act of touching a live enemy and getting away from him—which brought
great honor to the brave warrior who managed that feat. That had always fascinated young Bram.

But then George would speak in a quieter voice, a sad monotone, about the Comanche people being forced onto the reservation in Oklahoma in 1867. “The government developed what might be called a conscience in the early 1900s and gave each Comanche still living—not many by then—160 acres of land. Many did not like farming, and sold or leased their land to whites. My father kept his and it is still my home,” the old man declared.

But the stories Bram had always liked best were about the traditional vision quest that was so important to most of the Plains Indians, as their religion centered on spiritual power. Everyone had to find his personal guardian spirit, and would go off alone with a little food and water to search for it. George WhiteBear had stayed alone in the wilderness for eight days and nights, and then he'd heard coyotes communicating with each other all around him. One had entered the circle of light from his campfire and looked directly at him with eyes glowing amber from the fire, and it was at that moment that George had known that the coyote was his guardian spirit. To this day, George listened to the cries and calls of coyotes and knew what they were saying to him.

Sometimes, when life became more drudging than satisfying, Bram would cynically wonder if he should undress down to a breechcloth, find some wilderness and look for
his
personal guardian spirit. But he was more white than Comanche, if not by blood then by lifestyle, and he wondered if he would have a successful vision quest. After all, he'd been raised almost as white as Carl Elliot had raised Jenna, with a few notable exceptions, of course, mostly brought about by Great-grandfather George WhiteBear.

The sun was just beginning to bathe the landscape in a peachy-orange light when Bram reached the turnoff from
the highway that led to George's acreage. It was a dirt road with a row of power poles along the side, accommodating George and Annie McCrary. Annie had become widowed only two short years after she and her husband, Ralph, bought their land. Annie and George weren't bosom buddies, by any means, although Annie acted as if she wished she were. She kept an eye on her neighbor and dropped by George's place about once a week with something from her garden—fresh or canned—as an excuse to check on him.

Annie's place was farther down the dusty washboard of a road than George's, and Bram didn't anticipate seeing her today. He felt sure George would want a ride to town to see his daughter, which meant an immediate return trip to Black Arrow.

Reaching the small wood house that was almost as old as his granddad, Bram braked to a stop, turned off the ignition and instantly felt the silence prickle the fine hairs on the back of his neck. George's old pickup was parked in its usual place, rusting away since the day George had quit driving—at the stern advice of the police—after causing another fender bender. Everything about his great-grandfather's place looked normal, but instinct told Bram it wasn't.

For one thing, George had three mongrel dogs that normally rushed any visitor, barking up a storm. The noise they made was their only contribution to guarding the place, for they usually wriggled with pleasure when anyone came, and they had never chased off anything bigger than a gopher.

There was no sign of the trio today. That unnerved Bram. Frowning darkly, he got out of his SUV and walked to the front door. He turned the knob and wasn't at all surprised to find the door not locked, as he couldn't re
member a time when any door or window of this house
had
been locked. “Granddad?” he called. “George?”

There wasn't a sound. Bram's uneasiness grew, and he hurriedly walked through the house, checking each room. George's possessions were simple and few, and he liked things neat and tidy. His bed was made and Bram could not detect anything out of place. And yet he knew, he
sensed,
that something was
very
out of place. What it was wasn't visible; nothing jumped out at Bram. But he didn't believe for a second that the old man had merely taken his three pets for an early-morning stroll. For one thing, George's daily walks these days were pretty much conducted close to the house, close enough that he or the dogs would have heard Bram arrive.

With his heart in his throat and suddenly beating anxiously, Bram went back outside and walked around the house, shouting every few moments, “Granddad? George?”

Nothing but the rustling of cottonwood leaves and the clucking of hens from George's fenced chicken coop could be heard. Bram made a run for the coop, opened the wire gate and entered the enclosure. He checked the nests of George's five chickens and found that each contained eggs. George had been gone for days! Bram's concern intensified tenfold.

He left the chickens to themselves, then stood halfway between house and coop and pondered the situation. Sometimes George rode to town with Annie, but not at such an early hour and never with the dogs. Still, it wasn't an impossibility.

Hurrying back to his SUV, Bram climbed in, started the engine and drove from George's yard with his tires kicking up gravel and dirt. He was alarmed and couldn't pretend otherwise. George was always home, unless some of the family drove out and hauled him to one house or another
for a holiday dinner or get-together. No one in the Colton family was doing any celebrating these days. They were all too concerned about Gran's health to plan any festivities, and besides, Bram had put out the word that he would be the one to come out here and tell George WhiteBear about his daughter's stroke.

Bram turned left instead of right on the dirt road and in minutes was at Annie McCrary's little ranch. She heard his arrival and came out of the barn to greet him.

“Morning, Bram. You're out early,” she called. She was a pudgy little woman with a warm, friendly face. She wore dresses to town, but on her ranch she favored bib overalls, and that was what she was wearing this morning.

“Morning, Annie. I've been to Granddad's place and he's not there. Have you seen him recently?”

Annie thought for a moment. “Four, five days ago, I believe it was. I brought over some onions and radishes from my garden, and also a quart of my canned peaches. He loves my peaches.”

“And he seemed all right?”

“He seemed just fine. Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee? I made a pot not too long ago. It should still be good.”

Bram nodded. “Thanks, I'd love some coffee.”

They went into Annie's house, and Bram sat at the kitchen table while Annie poured two cups of coffee.

“I can see the worry on your face,” she said, joining him at the table. “George probably just went somewhere with one of your brothers or cousins.”

“The dogs are gone, too, and the nests in the coop have at least three days' eggs in them.”

Annie frowned. “Well, that's odd. I would have gone over and gathered the eggs if he had told me he was going to be gone. And where on earth would he go that he could take the dogs with him?”

“That's the answer I'm searching for, Annie. Did he say anything…? Let me rephrase that. What did the two of you talk about when you brought him the peaches?”

“Well, let me see.” After a moment Annie's eyes lit up. “We talked about coyotes.”

Bram's stomach sank. George didn't make small talk about his spiritual guardian. Annie wouldn't know it, she couldn't possible have known it, but George had been imparting seriously important information.

“Annie, try to remember exactly what he said about coyotes.”

“Goodness, Bram, you sound just like a cop grilling a suspect,” Annie teased.

Bram took a breath. “Sorry, Annie. Would you mind telling me as much as you can remember about that conversation?”

“Of course I wouldn't mind. I was only teasing you. Now, let me see. I gave him the little cardboard box with the things I'd brought over, and he said ‘Thank you, Annie,' as he always does and then asked if I'd like to sit a spell. He offered a glass of lemonade and I accepted, and when he brought it outside, we sat on the bench under that big tree in his front yard to drink it. I asked him how he was feeling, which now that I think about it, was unusual. But he didn't look a hundred percent that day. Not that he looked ill—don't let me worry you on that point. But he looked like something was bothering him. And that was when he started talking about coyotes. I was rather surprised, I remember, because I hadn't seen or even heard a coyote in quite a while. Actually, I do believe he said the same thing, so I really don't know why the subject even came up.”

“Are you sure he said he hadn't seen or heard a coyote's cry in quite a while?” Bram persisted.

“Very sure.”

Bram slumped back against his chair. “There's the problem.”

Annie laughed. “Surely you're not saying he
wants
coyotes skulking about his place.”

“Annie, he's very dedicated to Comanche traditions, and when he was a mere boy he left the family home and went in search of his personal guardian spirit. All young Comanches went on vision quests—it was a rite of passage and necessary to their spiritual growth. Granddad connected with a courageous young coyote, and he claims to this day to understand their language. Their cries.”

“Goodness,” Annie murmured. “Bram, is that your belief, too?”

“Not for myself, Annie, but I can't doubt it for Granddad. He's predicted or explained too many events based on his guardian spirit's messages for me to doubt his beliefs. The last time we discussed it, his personal guardian had most recently taken the form of a big male coyote with a silver-tipped, dark gray coat. If that big fellow isn't around anymore, or if the whole pack moved on, then Granddad is without his spiritual guardian and feeling lost.”

With a grim expression on his face, Bram got to his feet. “He took his dogs and went looking for his guardian spirit.”

Annie rose, looking aghast. “He's wandering around looking for a coyote? Bram, that's crazy. A man his age?”

“No, Annie, it's not crazy, not to a Comanche. But you're right about one thing. At his age he shouldn't be wandering around alone. Damn, so many questions! Which direction did he go? How far did he get in four, five days? Does he have enough food and water with him?

“He did this before, about ten, twelve years ago. I was worried sick about him then, and he was only in his eighties. Now he's almost a hundred. Annie, thanks for the
coffee and information. I've got to be on my way. I've got to do something.”

Bram hurried out, with Annie following and trying to keep up with his long stride. “What will you do, Bram?”

“I don't know, but I can't just do nothing.” Bram climbed into his SUV. “Bye, Annie.”

He drove away with his mind racing a hundred miles per hour. He turned into George's driveway again, hopped out of his vehicle and ran to the house. This time he searched for scraps of paper, something, anything, that George might have written a note on saying in which direction he and his dogs were going in search of that silver-coated coyote.

There was nothing.

But Bram didn't give up, he couldn't, and he went back outside and slowly circled the house with his eyes on the ground. Close to the house, the grass was too trampled for him to find any clues. But as his circles became larger and larger, he finally found footprints and paw prints heading southeast. The direction made sense to Bram, for about ten miles southeast there was a forest of cottonwoods, sycamores and elms along a creek. That would provide the old man with shelter and water, although Bram hoped he had taken water with him and wouldn't drink from the creek. It wasn't certain the water was polluted, but he felt that people his great-granddaddy's age shouldn't take chances like that.