Beloved Wolf (2 page)

“No,” Joe told him, his voice so low River had to lean close to hear him. “A parent is never ready to see his child lying in a hospital bed.” He lifted his head and took a deep breath. “But let's do it.”

River pushed open the door, let Joe precede him into the room, then followed after him. He didn't want to see Sophie this way, injured, helpless. That was
not how he had seen her when he'd first come to live at the ranch and she'd chased after him until he'd let down his guard and let her into his life. His Sophie, four years his junior, which had been such a huge gap when they were younger. The angry young man and the awkward, braces-on-her-teeth, skinned-knees, pigtailed, hero-worshiping kid.

She'd driven him crazy, made him angry. Gotten under his skin. Wormed her way into his bruised, battered and wary heart.

And then she'd grown up.

Oh, God, she'd grown up.

She'd talked him into escorting her to her high school senior prom. They'd danced, they'd talked about how she would leave the following morning to do an internship at Joe's radio station in Dallas, before she began college in the fall.

She'd kissed him. He'd kissed her back. Again and again and again. He'd held her, trying not to say the words that screamed inside his head: “Don't go, don't go. Stay with me, Sophie. Love me, Sophie.”

The foster son of Joe Colton owed the man better than that. The half-breed son of a drunk owed Sophie more than that. So he'd pushed her away, out of his arms, out of his life. Coldly, almost brutally telling her to go away, to grow up.

For the past nearly ten years they saw each other only at Colton family gatherings—which were only slightly less populated than some small countries. They acknowledged each other, but they'd never been alone together since that night.

They weren't alone now. Joe was standing on the
other side of the bed, tears streaming down his face as he held his daughter's limp hand.

“She's going to be fine, Joe,” River assured him, wincing at the sight of Sophie's bruised and battered face, the bandages he could see peeking out above the slack neckline of the hospital gown. She looked as if she'd been dragged behind a runaway horse, her tender white skin scraped raw in spots, swollen and in livid shades of purple in others.

The largest bandage covered the left side of her face. There were more than one hundred stitches beneath that bandage. Her knee would heal. He'd make sure of that, even if he had to carry her on his back until the ligaments and tendons grew strong again. The scrapes and bruises, the scratches, would heal.

But her face? Sophie had never been vain, but she was young, only twenty-seven, and beautiful. How would she react to a scar on her face? A scar that reminded her, each and every time she looked in the mirror, of the terror she must have felt in that alley?

The mugger hadn't just hurt her physically. River feared that he might also have destroyed her confidence, badly scarred her in ways not so readily apparent. Robbed her of her freedom, her ability to walk down a street without fear.

River ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, rubbed at the back of his neck. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears that threatened to spill down over his lean, deeply tanned cheeks.

On the bed, Sophie stirred slightly, moaned, seemed to be trying to open her eyes.

“I…um…I'll get the nurse,” River said quietly as
Sophie's eyes fluttered open for a second, then closed once more. “But I'll give you and Sophie a couple minutes alone together before I do.”

He turned on his heels and left the room, his worn cowboy boots barely making any noise against the tile floor. The door closed behind him and he stopped in the hallway, one denim-clad shoulder leaning against the wall, his right fist dug deep in his jean pocket as he used his left to rhythmically beat the cowboy hat against his thigh.

River James looked like exactly who he was. A cowboy. A cowboy whose mother had been a full-blooded Native American, and whose father had been a white man. He had the thick black hair of his mother, the vivid green eyes of his father, and the disposition of a man most wouldn't lightly try to cross. Tall, whipcord lean, well muscled, hardened by years in the saddle as well as his unhappy life until the day Joe and Meredith Colton had taken him in, wised him up and given him a reason to believe he was somebody.

Until then, he'd been like a lone wolf. And once Sophie had gone out of his life, he'd reverted to that lone-wolf state. Complete unto himself. He didn't need Sophie, he didn't need anyone. At least that was what he'd been telling himself.

He'd been lying to himself.

It had been a long time since the thirty-one-year-old River James had felt helpless, defeated. It had not, however, been quite so long since he'd been angry. His temper had been his biggest problem when he'd come to Joe Colton's house as a teenager, and even
if that anger had turned into something closer to pride, it was never far from the surface—not where Sophie Colton was concerned.

He'd been angry with her for pestering him. He'd been angry with her for growing up, for making him aware of her as more than his “sister.” He'd been angry with her when he'd kissed her, when she'd tasted so good and he'd wanted her so much.

He'd been angry when she'd done the right thing and gone away, angry when she'd stayed away. Angry when she'd brought that idiot Chet Wallace to the ranch and announced that she was actually going to marry that grinning, three-piece suit—her engagement telling River that she didn't want someone like him, but wanted someone who was his complete opposite.

Now he was angry with her for lying in that hospital bed, looking so damn fragile, so damn beautiful, and for making him wake up, yet again, to the fact that he loved her.

Had always loved her. Would always love her.

J
oe Colton leaned over his daughter's bed and squeezed her hand. “Sophie? Sophie, honey? It's Dad.”

Sophie stirred slightly on the bed, winced, then opened her eyes. “Daddy?” she asked, her voice weak.

Joe nodded, unable to speak. She hadn't called him Daddy in years. Now he was “Dad,” sometimes, when she was being silly, “Senator.” But she was still his baby girl, and as she looked up at him, as her bruised bottom lip began to tremble, he would have cut out his own heart if it could take away just a little of her pain.

“Oh, Daddy, it—it was horrible,” Sophie told him, squeezing her eyes shut. “But I fought him, Daddy,
I fought him. Couldn't…Michael…couldn't let anything hurt you and Mommy again.”

“Hush, baby,” Joe said, carefully stroking Sophie's hair. “Just rest, baby. All we want you to do is rest.”

Mary came into the room, and Joe stepped back from the bed to join River as the nurse took Sophie's vital signs, checked her IV.

“She's sleeping again?” River asked the senator.

“I think so,” Joe said, nodding. “Look, River, it's been a long night, and I know you have to get back to the ranch. That new stallion's coming in today, right? So you just go, and I'll get a hotel room and stay until Sophie can come back to the ranch with us. Okay?”

A muscle ticked in River's cheek. He wasn't being dismissed. He knew that. Joe just wanted to be alone with his daughter. “What about Meredith? Do you think she'll want me to fly her here, to see Sophie, be with you?”

Joe Colton pressed his fingers against his eyes and shook his head. “I'll phone her later. Right now I just want to stay here.”

River nodded and patted Joe's back. “I'll call around, make a reservation for you, and then head back to the ranch. You'll phone later? Keep me—keep us informed?”

Joe didn't answer him. Mary brushed past them, leaving the room, and Joe headed toward the bed once more, dragging a utilitarian metal chair with him, then sat down beside Sophie, obviously dug in for the duration.

River left them alone and headed back down the hallway, toward the elevators. He was family, yes, and had been since his teenage years. He wasn't being dismissed, pushed away. But blood was blood, and Joe and Sophie were blood. River understood that, respected that.

The elevator doors opened as he approached, and Chet Wallace stepped out, looking as fresh and unwrinkled as if he'd just come out of the shower. His hair was combed, his face had been freshly shaved, his tie was snug against his throat. He could have been on his way to a morning meeting.

“Wallace,” River bit out, taking hold of the man's elbow as Chet walked past him without so much as a nod. “Where've you been? Consulting with your tailor?”

“I beg your pardon,” Chet answered, trying to shake off River's hand, without success. “Do I know—Oh, wait. You're one of the employees at Hacienda del Alegria, aren't you? Sophie's parents' ranch? I think I remember you now. Are the senator and his wife here already? I went back to my condo, caught some sleep, showered and changed.”

“How nice for you,” River said, finally letting go of Chet's elbow. “The senator is with Sophie now,” he continued, motioning for Wallace to follow him into a small alcove set aside as a visitors' waiting room. “Let's talk.”

“I'd rather speak with the senator,” Chet said, but River's slitted-eye glare seemed to make him reconsider, and he followed River into the alcove. “Now, look—”

“No, Wallace,
you
look,” River shot back, knowing he was going to have to perform a minor miracle if he expected to keep his temper in check. The man had gone home? Grabbed a few winks and taken a shower? No-good son of a bitch. “My name is James. River James, one of Joe and Meredith's foster children, not that you need to know any of that. What
I
need to know is why you let Sophie walk home alone last night. Or do the police have that wrong?”

Chet looked at River for a few moments, then shot his cuffs. He was a tall man, as tall as River, but that was where their similarities ended. Chet was sleek, pretty boy handsome, the kind of guy who wore designer sweats as he worked out at his designer gym. Shooting his cuffs, wordlessly pointing out that he was a successful man wearing a six-hundred-dollar suit, was an action meant to intimidate River.

Yeah, sure. River didn't think so. He just stood there, glaring at Chet Wallace, a tic working in his cheek, his hands itching to take the stylishly dressed man apart, piece by designer-label piece.

Chet broke eye contact first, his artificially tanned cheeks flushing slightly as he actually stepped back a pace, as if it had finally hit him that River James was a wild animal searching for prey, and that he was reacting pretty much like a deer caught out in the open.

In self-defense, Chet went on the attack. “Now look—James, is it? I already spoke with the police. Yes, Sophie and I had dinner together last night, and then she decided to walk home. Four blocks, James, that's all. As a matter of fact, I was just leaving the
restaurant myself when I saw all the police cars and the ambulance. I went to check and found Sophie. I'm the one who identified her.”

“Well, bully for you. Why did she decide to walk home, Wallace?” River asked, putting his cowboy hat on, then looping his thumbs through his belt. “You two have a little spat? That is what you'd call it, right? A little spat?”

Chet's hand went to his Windsor knot, and he lifted his chin as he nervously shifted the tie from side to side. “We had a slight disagreement, yes,” he conceded. “Not that it's any concern of yours.”

“I don't care if you had the mother of all knockdown drag-outs, Wallace,” River told him tightly. “That's none of my business. What I do care about is that you let her walk home alone.”

Chet held up one hand. “Oh, wait a minute, fella. You're trying to say this is
my
fault? How does any of this become
my
fault? It was Sophie who went running off, you know. It was Sophie who— What? What's your problem?”

River had bent his head, rubbed his temples with the fingers of his right hand and laughed. He'd thought, really believed, he could get through this without losing his cool. But this Wallace was too thick for words, and River wasn't going to waste any more of his words on the jackass. He almost wanted to thank him for being so dense.

“My problem, Wallace?” River repeated, dropping his hand and looking at Sophie's fiancé. And then, before he could remember that he was, for the most
part, a highly civilized individual, he planted his right fist square in Chet Wallace's face.

Chet went down on his backside, holding a hand to his bloody nose.

“Problem? I don't have a problem,” River said, settling his worn cowboy hat lower over his flashing green eyes. “Not anymore.”

Then he turned on his heels and headed for the elevator. He was not a happy man, definitely. But he was feeling somewhat better. Definitely.

 

For the next week, Joe Colton was never far from his daughter's bedside. His many businesses didn't suffer, because he'd been slowly withdrawing from those businesses, from his family, withdrawing from life itself. He'd allowed life to defeat him, again. Had it taken almost losing his daughter to wake him up, shake him up, force him to look at his life, possibly begin taking steps to fix it?

And when had it all begun to go so wrong?

Michael.
Joe sighed, his heart aching as he remembered Sophie's words that first day, her garbled thoughts that, to anyone else, would have seemed as if she were talking crazy because of her concussion.

But Joe knew differently. He knew what his daughter had meant, and was devastated that, as she struggled with her attacker, her thoughts had been of Michael. Of Meredith and himself. Of the family, and of how the Colton family couldn't take another tragedy. Couldn't lose another child.

In a way, Michael had saved Sophie, and that was
how Joe was going to look at the thing. It was the only way possible to look at it.

Still, he had to look further than that, and he knew it. As he sat in the chair beside Sophie's hospital bed, holding her hand, watching her sleep, he had to acknowledge that Sophie had been slowly slipping away from him these past years. All his children had been slipping away, visiting the ranch less and less, avoiding the family that was no longer a family.

At least not the family it had been, the family he and Meredith had brought into the world, added to with adopted and foster children after Michael's death, family they'd formed into a solid, unbreakable, unshakable unit.

So when had it all begun to change? With Michael's death? Should he at least start there?

Probably.

Joe and Meredith had been raising five children. Rand, the oldest. The twins, Drake and Michael. Sophie and the baby, Amber. Life was good, better than good. Joe Colton was a rich, self-made man, with oil and gas interests, major investments in the communications industry. Meredith had even convinced him that it was time he gave something back, so that he'd run for the United States Senate and been elected to represent California.

Life was so good. So very good.

And then Michael and his twin had taken their bikes out for a ride, and Michael had been run down by a reckless driver. Dead, at the age of eleven, and while his father was away in Washington, instead of
being home where he belonged. Home, keeping his children safe.

Joe pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his forehead. His body was hot, his muscles tired, his brain stuffed with memory toppling over memory, few of those memories good.

Joe had resigned from the Senate, come home and made a jackass out of himself. He didn't see Meredith's grief. He didn't see Drake's special loss, the loss all his children had suffered. All he saw was his own pain, his own guilt. And when Meredith finally suggested they have another baby—not to replace Michael, surely, but because having another child to love might help them all heal—another bomb had dropped into Joe's shattered life.

He was sterile. How could that be? But it was true. He'd caught the mumps from a child at the nearby Hopechest Ranch, a home for orphaned children he and Meredith often visited, and now he was sterile. He could not give Meredith another child.

Was that when Meredith had begun to turn away from him?

No, that wasn't it, and Joe knew it. Meredith had stuck with him day and night, even when he was being a selfish, self-pitying jackass.

And it had been Meredith who had finally convinced him that there were many, many children who needed loving homes, many children they could help, who could help them, for Joe and Meredith still had so much love to give.

Joe smiled slightly as he remembered how Meredith had jumped in with both feet, taking on the most
troubled children at the Hopechest Ranch, opening their house and her loving arms to Chance, to Tripp, to Rebecca, to Wyatt. To Blake, to River, and to Emily. To Joe Junior, the infant who had been literally left on their doorstep.

Emily. Joe's thoughts, which had begun to ease, now plunged him back into despair. Because the life he and Meredith had lost when Michael died, the one they'd rebuilt together—not a better life, surely, but a different one, a fulfilling one—had shattered again nine years ago, not six months after Joe Junior had come into their lives, on the day Meredith had driven the then eleven-year-old Emily into town for a visit with her natural grandmother.

Yes. That had been the day the light had forever gone out of Joe's life, out of the Colton family.

It was a small accident with the car, although there were never any small accidents. Each took its own toll. This particular one had taken Meredith from him, his beloved Meredith. Not in death, but in a head injury that had changed her in some way.

Emily had said her “good mommy” had been replaced by an “evil mommy.” That was, of course, too simplistic, although even the doctors who had treated Meredith were at a loss as to why her personality had undergone such a dramatic change after the accident.

Change? No, that was too mundane a word to explain what had happened to Meredith. His sweet, loving wife, the concerned mother, had been taken from them, to be replaced by a woman who cared only for Joe Junior, a woman who ignored her other children,
a woman who positively despised and shunned Emily. A woman who had turned hard, and selfish, and grasping. A woman who had dared to present him with her pregnancy a year after the accident and insist he was the father.

They'd separated then, for long months, but Joe had finally relented, let her come home, even claimed the child, Teddy, as his own.

But nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.

“Dad?”

Joe leaned closer to Sophie, who was looking up at him with Meredith's beautiful brown eyes. “Yes, baby?” Now that she was recovering, she didn't call him Daddy anymore. But she was still his baby.

“Did Mom call you back yet? Is she coming?”

Joe felt a stab straight to his heart. “No, baby, your mom couldn't be here. She's at home, taking care of Joe Junior and Teddy.”

“Oh,” Sophie said, disappointment dimming her eyes. “But she is coming soon, isn't she? It's been a week, Dad.”

“Shhh, baby, don't talk too much,” Joe said, stroking Sophie's hair. “You need to rest now. You rest and get strong, and soon we'll be able to go to the ranch and see everybody. All right?”

“She's not coming, is she?” Sophie looked up at her father, willing him to answer. “Is she, Dad?”

“You know how she doesn't like to leave Teddy—”

Sophie held up a hand, wordlessly begging her father not to make excuses for her mother. “Teddy's
eight years old, Dad. Surely she could leave him for two or three days to visit me. There are plenty of people on the ranch who would take care of him. Oh, never mind. Why should I think things would be any different now than they have been for almost the last decade? You know, Dad, there are times when I feel this overwhelming urge to call my mother and ask for her help, because something's terribly wrong with my mother.”