Renee Simons Special Edition (50 page)

If,
she thought as she sank into his waiting arms. More like
when.

She rested against him as they cleared the last step and stood on the chamber floor. She took up the lantern and swept the light from the petroglyphs around to the other side of the chamber where the two sarcophagi stood.

“Welcome to the place of Francisco Moreno de Valencia’s last repose and the wonderland he left for us to find.”

* * *

Hours later, they sat on a ledge overlooking the small lake. Callie had led Luc on an exploration that had reawakened both the fear and the wonder she’d felt during her first time underground. His hand holding hers proved a comfort during the fearful moments. His astonishment over what they viewed made what she’d begun to think of as her gift to him all the more special.

“We should go down before it gets dark,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. Neither moved. “It’s hard to leave.”

“I never expected to confront my family history in quite this way.” He glanced over at her. “You’ve single-handedly solved a three-hundred year old mystery. three-hundred years plus.”

She gave a small laugh. “Not single-handedly. We have to give Charlie a bit of credit.”

Luc grimaced. “Not where he can hear it.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I would trade all you found to have kept you from the horror of being trapped down there.”

“Now that you know, what will you do about it?”

“What would you do?”

“I would want to protect this place, but find a way to share it with others.”

“Those two seem mutually exclusive.”

“Not if you register it as a historic site. Then you might qualify for funds that would allow you to preserve and protect it for generations to come. And your family could choose not to make this place accessible to the public if it wanted to and still qualify for tax credits. I have some information back at The Mansion. We could go over it and then make some phone calls. There’s a terrific archaeologist over at the State Historic Preservation Department in
Santa Fe
. I’ve found her to be knowledgeable and helpful.”

“What made you hook up with her?”

“I’d hoped to get The Mansion on the historical register.”

“But?”

Callie shrugged. “If I understand it correctly, if we have to move the house, if we
can
move it, it won’t qualify for any kind of grant. And I would have had to get approval before we started work on it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Time. You see, my grandmother’s legacy included a trust fund as well as the house. But I have to live in it for three years to inherit the money. Applying for historical status can take anywhere from a few months to a year or more. I didn’t have that much time, especially with the mining operation looming over my head. I needed to move in and start the renovation as soon as possible. So it’s too late for recognition of The Mansion, but not for this site. I’m certain of that.”

He smiled his slow, lazy smile. “You are.”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“You have.”

She nodded. “If I can’t stay in the house, I’ll have to move on. This place will be my parting gift to you.”

“You’re not leaving without me. And since I’m not going anywhere, we’ll have to come up with a different plan.”

He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a gold chain. Dangling from it was a gold ring, in the center of which were set a ruby and a sapphire. He removed the ring, warm from his body, and slipped it on her pinky.

“This has been handed down from the time of those two down there. Family history says it was the first gift Francisco gave Constanza. My father calls it ‘fire and ice’.” He took her hand in his. “It reminds me of you.”

Callie stared down at her hand. “You’ve been carrying this with you?”

“Since we left to see Dr. Gerrold. I was waiting for the right moment.” He gathered her into his arms. “I do believe this is it.”

“So you’re not proposing out of pity?” She watched his expression. “You are proposing?”

“I am and not out of pity,
querida
. Out of love.”

She stared down at the ring. “Lovely.”

“The ring?”

When she looked up at him tears of happiness glimmered in her eyes. “Everything.”

“Is that better than `nice’?”

“Infinitely.”

He placed a soft kiss on her palm. “I like `infinitely’. It sounds like forever.”

“I hope so.”

He helped her to her feet. “Good. Let’s go home and begin the future.”

~The End~

EYE OF THE STORM

Chapter 1

The man sitting on the corral fence had killed her fiancé. He belonged in prison. And two months from now, she would send him there.

Reigning in her fury, she walked toward former Marine Major Michael Stormwalker, who was watching a mare and her filly nuzzle beneath a brilliant
South Dakota
sun. Pretty as it might have been, the scene left her cold.

Stormwalker also seemed at odds with the idyllic setting. Every aspect of his posture radiated the edgy power of a man alert to any sign of threat. Beneath a black leather vest, his broad shoulders hunched as if waiting to spring into action. Long, powerful legs tapered to ragged boot heels resting lightly on the bottom rail. Smoke from his cigarette streamed past a rugged profile nearly hidden by the satiny black hair falling across his cheek. Massive and brooding, he personified danger. He was exactly what she expected of a stone-cold killer.

Until he faced her. His startling sea-green eyes warmed with appreciation and the ghost of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. Expecting curiosity, even a hostility echoing her own, she found his undisguised interest both disconcerting and infuriating; his admiration an unwelcome intrusion. Her hands curled into fists and she shoved them into the pockets of her linen jacket. She would not allow herself the luxury of anger when all her energies must be directed at bringing this man to justice.

As if reading her thoughts, he let his gaze turn cool and detached. "You're Zan McLaren."

"Alexandra McLaren," she said. Her steady voice pleased her.

"Sorry. Your brother always calls you that."

"My brother can."  

The smile returned. Some women might have considered it a sexy smile. She, of course, did not.

"You have your brother’s concise way with words,” he said. “Do you also share his objectivity?"

"Is that a family trait?"

"If it isn't, I can't trust you'll do the right thing."

"And that is. . . ?"

"To get at the truth even if you don't like what you find."

"What if you don't like what I find?" she asked.

"An informant tipped your brother that I’d been set up by a mole buried deep in his beloved Federal Security Agency. That new information allowed him to negotiate my release. I may be outside a cell, but unless I can restore my career and reputation I might as well be back there."

He braced his shoulders. The movement told her that being "back there" had no place in his plans.

We’ll see, she thought. "Who restores Dar's life?" she asked.

"I wasn't responsible for his death. Not even the Navy Tribunal could make that charge stick." His eyes narrowed. "Look, you'd have to be a saint to help someone you believe committed treason and killed the man you loved. So if you can't, I'll understand. I'll find another way."

"As far as I'm concerned, you're guilty on both counts." She took a slow breath to calm her pounding heartbeat. "But I'll search until I find the truth. Is that objective enough?"

He seemed to be evaluating her response. And well he should, she thought. Only a fool would accept her at face value. He was no fool.

"Why did you come here if you think I'm guilty?"

Someone had to pay for Dar
s death. She straightened to her full height and met him eye to eye. "I want to be the one who sends you back."

One eyebrow raised. "You're honest."

"I try." 

"You don't mind being on the reservation?" he asked.

"I think this so-called new information is a crock and I intend to prove it. Where I do my work is irrelevant." She matched his penetrating gaze, steeling herself against the wicked gleam in his blue-green eyes.
What matters to me is your spending the next 25 years behind bars.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned and started up the street toward the newspaper building. She'd managed to get through their first meeting with her composure still intact. Almost.

"Where're you off to?" he called out.

He strode toward her. When his long legs brought him to her side, she did nothing to hide her annoyance. He raised one hand palm out.

"I'm not checking up on you," he said. "I thought if we were headed in the same direction we could walk together. That's all." He repeated the gesture of a moment before. "That's all."

His proximity left her too conscious of his powerful build, too aware of his quiet but potent masculinity. She gave herself a mental shake. His smiles and magnetism would never change the fact that the man had deprived her of the love of her life.

"I'm going to see the newspaper editor," she said.

"Same here."

She shrugged and they walked north beneath a sun-drenched summer sky. The air floated light and dry without any hint of humidity to give it weight. Their steps raised small puffs of dust that settled on the tips of her boots, dulling their spit and polish shine.

Several people passed, greeting Stormwalker warmly and nodding politely in her direction. When a man in his forties stopped to talk, pleasure softened the major's features. They spoke in Lakota, freeing Zan to look at the houses lining Thunder Valley Reservation's main street.

Some were well-kept, the grounds surrounding them tidy. Others showed signs of the poverty and apathy of their occupants. Paint had peeled, brick facing lay strewn on the ground; broken windows had been mended with cardboard or plastic sheeting. Like bizarre and rusting sculptures, remnants of worn-out machinery and vehicles dotted the landscape.

Zan felt something smack softly against her toe and looked down at a battered soccer ball. A boy watched her. Somewhere off to her right a screen door slammed. A horse whinnied in response, setting a dog to bark. She kicked the ball back to the youngster. He scooped it up and cradled it under one arm, his face expressionless except for the laughter dancing in his dark eyes. A familiar yearning tugged at her. She and Dar had wanted a big family.

"Sometimes I think about having one of my own," Stormwalker said.

"A soccer ball?"

"A kid."

"I did, too . . . before. . . ." Before you killed the dream, she thought.

Anger and sadness washed over her in unbearable waves. She had to distance herself from the man who had caused them, or be overwhelmed. She turned, but had taken only a step or two when she felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm. Though momentary, his touch lingered on her skin with the warmth of a soft desert breeze. Why hadn't the bitterness churning in her gut protected her against its effect?

"I'm sorry for what you've lost."

His voice seemed to echo her pain. She stared at him without responding.

"I know you don't want to believe this," he said, "but I'm innocent. I didn't compromise either the Agency's or the nation's security. I didn't trade secrets for money. And I did not kill Dar O'Neill. By the time you're finished here you'll know the truth. I guarantee it."

The sincerity that burned behind his eyes and vibrated in his voice might have given her pause if she didn't know better.

With a calm she didn't quite feel, she countered, "I'm just as positive that when my two months are up, you'll be on your way back to prison."