Cry for the Wolf, Chapter 2. by Richard Walker

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The low cut of her blouse, her tightly laced, cunningly embroidered bodice which displayed her admirable cleavage to such great advantage, and her close proximity did absolutely nothing to help his composure. He could smell her, musky and earthy with a hint of lavender and rosemary. She gave him clear and ardent ‘come-hither' looks, batting her lashes at him, tracing her carmine-stained lips with the tip of her tongue then pouting at him. She was ever so careful never to actually touch him, which was worse than the alternative in its own way, but when she came a little too close, it was with a twitch of the hand or arm with which he responded in her direction, a spasm of anger, even a sneer of disgust, on his face. She was young enough to be his daughter, and he looked to be not much over 30 years old himself.
The drover did his best to ignore her and succeeded more than he failed. His rejection of her challenged her knowledge and confidence in her own desirableness. She quietly vowed to break down his resistance and make him admit that he wanted her earnestly. In the same breath she also vowed she would never grant him her favors. She sensed the danger in him, but couldn't resist teasing and dancing in the flames of his anger.
He despised her wantonness but could not deny her physical appeal. Unable to deny his attraction to her simply fired his fury, though, at himself for his temper and animal weakness, but moreso at her for her stubborn refusal to let him alone. If she ever did manage to break down his resistance to her there was no doubt it would be violent, even brutal. Indeed, the girl might not survive it. He was a man of exceptional passions.
Another of the group stalked the road alongside the lead horse of the wagon team, an oaken walking staff in hand. Broad-shouldered but lean and wiry, he was dressed in naught but a belted leather tunic, dark earth tone woolen stockings, and shoes soft from many miles of long, hard walking, a bright gypsy-print kerchief tied about his neck. He had the look of one just growing into his body, perhaps in his early 20's. With eyes of china blue rimmed with gray he squinted through the thick mane of shoulder-length chocolate brown hair that blew freely about his face in the fitful breezes. His face reflected a somewhat vacant, slightly troubled temperament.
Occasionally he would glance back at the white-streaked drover and the girl who sat beside him, forever teasing, causing his expression to sharpen into one of irritation.
The timbrel following close behind was full-laden with supplies and covered by a well-oiled leather tarp, but crowning it all was a stout wooden cage where a pair of large timber wolves whined and paced, a male and a female. Their coats were dull and matted. They were by no means well. The bitch was old, her eyes milky with cataracts. The male was younger, but not by a whole lot, and his eyes were glassy. They were spindly for want of meat, unsure on their feet, and their tongues, hanging out of their mouths as they panted in the early evening cool, were coated.