Stroke of Midnight (16 page)

"I know you didn't," she said softly. "You didn't leave me because you're a guardian." Her voice was so gentle that it felt like a caress.

He chuckled, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "No, darlin', you've got that wrong. I need a guardian, but I'm not one."

She laughed as they approached his motorcycle. "Don't you know you're part of a Legend?"

He laughed harder and found his stash of Jack Daniel's in his bike's side compartment, then gave her a sheepish look. "So my reputation got all the way out here?"

She shook her head. "Pick where you want to bed down for the night so I can ring you."

His jaw went slack. "Go figure. It's always the innocent-looking ones…"

"Find a spot where we can sit and make a fire," she said like a schoolteacher. But her smile was wide and warm.

"I knew that," he said, hoisting up his jeans to walk ahead of her. "I was just joking."

He watched her long process of walking in a wide ring around where they'd hole up while he built a fire. He didn't mind her prayers, or that she said two sets—one in her own native language and then the only psalm he'd learned from funerals, the twenty-third. He watched her carefully sit and wrap the remainder of the dirt in one of his bandanas. It was like watching a grown woman make mud pies, which messed with both sides of his already embattled brain. Then she crooked a finger at him with a gentle smile, crossed her legs in front of her like a yogi, and patted the ground for him to sit before her.

He gladly submitted. He was beginning to enjoy her strange company. "Now what, O learned one?" He was relieved that she laughed, because the sarcastic comment wasn't designed to offend.

She held a bit of earth in her delicate palm and gazed at him. "I need to put a little of this against your throat, all right? And then you can do me."

He didn't care that it seemed like superstitious mumbo-jumbo. Her hands could have been holding cow chips and he wouldn't have argued. He sat down cross-legged, remembering how soft her hands were. "Yeah, okay," he said without resistance, then waited for her touch, trying not to seem too anxious for it, yet wondering why that, of all things, would be on his mind—given everything that had just happened.

Cool earth and a soft caress warmed the sides of his neck. Dirt crumbled and fell to his shoulders and rained on his thighs and knees. Her seeking gaze captured his, and for the first time in his life he thought he could actually drown in a woman's eyes. The feeling was disorienting, if not totally disturbing, while also exhilarating. He could feel such caring enter him, yet he didn't even know who she really was. And as her empty palms slid away from his neck, it left an ache so profound that he'd almost taken her wrists to bring her hands back to where they'd been.

She had to steady her breathing and contain herself. The moment her hands slid against his throat it felt like a current had run through them. She could feel his pulse in her palms, could actually hear it thudding in her ears. And his eyes simply drank her in. This was such a good soul. Had he any idea what seeing him transform into an unlikely warrior had done to her? She tried not to let her hands tremble against his warm skin. He'd allowed her near his jugular, had offered her his throat with no resistance and with pure trust. Didn't he know how dangerous she was? But the fact that she could touch hallowed earth meant she still had a chance. Tonight she was still human, and alive, and had hope… and all because of him, she hadn't died the way the curse had predicted.

Rider studied the woman before him. Never had a simple touch ignited him like this. Nor had a pair of eyes ever held him for ransom.

"Now, you do me," she murmured, then signed the words with her graceful hands while speaking them softly: "man with a good heart."

His hands trembled as he reverently gathered a clump of dirt in them. This was the kind of woman a man would marry, for sure. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, exposing her throat. For a moment, he couldn't move. Her thick, black lashes dusted her cheeks. The rich, deep color of her skin was warmed to a glow by the firelight. And for a second, his mind took a turn to envision that same expression on her face under different circumstances. What would she be like with her face flushed by passion, eyes closed, neck arched, breathing his name… An offering that he knew he'd never be able to refuse now, if she made it. But that was foolish, wishful thinking. Yet she was so trusting, seemed so good down deep in her gentle heart… Didn't she know he was a dangerous man out in the wilderness with a gun? But she sat there with only trust in her expression. Didn't she know what that was doing to him?

He brought the earth close to her neck, trying not to spill too much on her already dirty dress. He could feel the heat from her skin as his hands neared it. She was breathing in shallow sips of air, her petite breasts rising and falling ever so slightly, and it twisted his mind when he touched her and she shuddered.

That's when it really became difficult for him to catch his breath. Lavender and her light scent fused with earth and burning fire and open grassland. She was so damned soft… he had to fight to keep from leaning in to kiss her, or allowing his palms to run down her shoulders. But she wasn't that way, wasn't that type of woman. And for some very strange reason, he didn't want to offend or push her away.

Bits of dirt fell down her dress, and he followed it with his eyes. Blue calico had just become his favorite color. Flashy blondes a thing of the past. He had to stop touching her, and he did so abruptly. She slowly brought her head up, opened her eyes, and smiled. The look in her eyes drew him.

"Nobody ever told me I had a good heart before. Probably 'cause I don't," he said quietly. "And I've definitely never been called anybody's guardian." He forced a self-conscious chuckle and he rubbed his hands down his jeans.

"You're too hard on yourself."

"Madame Seer, you have got to stop messing with my head tonight. I've already had it blown, thank you very much."

"You really don't know the legend, do you?"

"No, but why do I have the funny feeling you're about to tell me?" He had to stop looking into her eyes and at that perfect smile of hers. He reached for his bottle and took out his cigarettes. "I know this ain't your thing, but I have to confess to being pretty messed up right now. So if you're gonna tell ghost stories around the campfire, after what we've just seen, indulge me."

She didn't agree, but didn't give him grief. He could deal with that. He leaned back on his elbows, took a healthy swig, set the bottle down hard, and brought a cigarette to his lips and struck a match. "All right. Shoot," he said, dragging as hard on the butt as he'd wanted to kiss her.

"What's your name?"

He stared at her for a second, and then laughed. "Oh, yeah. Jack Rider."

"Jack?" She frowned. "No. That's not right. It's really Jake… Jacob. A biblical name."

He sat up slowly, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other.
Nooobody
knew that.

"You're scaring me again, lady. Honest to God."

She began drawing in the dirt with a twig. "There's a being coming that my people call the Great Huntress. She comes from a part of the Great Spirit's soul and is made of love and hope and faith. She's also known as the Neteru, they say. And from all walks of life, she'll draw people with special talents. Great warriors." She looked up. "A tracker is among them, a man with a good heart, named Jake."

"Aw, that's a buncha malarkey," he said, forcing himself to feel relieved. "A tracker. That's me, huh?"

"Yes. That's why you have the Nose."

He laughed and took a hard drag on his cigarette, making the end of it glow, then chased the exhale with a swig of Jack Daniel's. "I do have a huge schnoz, and snore like a buzz saw. All right. Say, for the sake of argument, that I go with this mystical legend. Then what?"

"They'll be seven around her, a sacred number. They'll come from all walks of life. Musicians… because music is a universal language that breaks barriers. It's also an art, but sound, like thunder, is something that comes from the sky, Heaven. Music can be felt, words are important, the sound takes harbor in the heart. You play guitar, right? You'll need it."

He relaxed and leaned back on his elbows, flicking his half-smoked butt into the fire. If she could understand that about music, then maybe she wasn't all that crazy, just a little touched. He could deal with that. He'd been around crazy people all his life—had been raised by them.

"Yeah, I play," he admitted. "Just mess around, from time to time. Won't ever make a living at it, most likely, but as they say, music soothes the savage beast."

She stared at him for a moment, suddenly understanding why musicians would be a part of the prophecy… to soothe the savage beast. She tried her best not to allow her gaze to rake over his lanky form, but lost the battle. He was a guardian. He had saved her from sure living death. And he was lying prone before her, relaxed, his warm voice coating her like a protective blanket and stirring something inside her that had never fully blossomed naturally on its own.

"You have a gift," she said. "Whatever people told you about it being less than that, ignore them. Follow your dream."

Her stare was so intense that he could barely hold it. He found himself swallowing hard. His mouth suddenly went dry. For a moment he couldn't respond. No one had ever looked at him with such utter confidence. No one had ever seen something in him beyond his dirty, grease-monkey hands that could fix an engine, or beyond his roughrider biker façade. And no one had ever told him to follow his dreams, not having heard him play a lick on his axe.

"Your guitar will get you in. It will also be your weapon."

Her voice caressed him and made his pulse race.

When he nodded, agreeing without understanding, she stopped breathing. Hope dangled by a thread. If he could understand, could read between the lines without thinking she was insane… and if he'd just kiss her, just once, before she couldn't even do that without risking his life… That's all she wanted—to experience the full range of human emotion, the depths of love, before it was too late. What had happened, before, was preternatural. It was a trick, an evil seduction. This was as right as sunlight, and had also been forecasted. And as she felt herself warm under his tender gaze, there were a hundred things she wished she could have done differently… anything to have waited for this unlikely knight on a black and silver charger.

"Jake, things are going to hunt you all your life. You have to learn so much."

Just when he thought he was talking to a rational person, he remembered that he was having a discussion with a chick who was certifiable. "You get put out for smoking too much peyote, hon? Since when—"

"You're supposed to fight vampires with the Great Huntress's warriors." Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. He was going to die if he didn't hear her.

He sat up. He didn't want to talk about this madness anymore. There was no such thing as the undead and this conversation was blowing the groove.

"How'd you wind up on a bus with a bunch of religious fanatics?"

"I got in trouble."

He sighed. Just his luck to be out in the wilderness, on the run, with a beautiful but crazy pregnant chick. Poof. There went hope. "So, you're going to your grandma's to have the baby?"

Her eyes got wide, then burned with outright indignation. "I'm not pregnant!"

He shrugged. "Hey, where I come from, when a woman says—"

"That's not what happened." She gathered her arms around herself. "Never mind. I should have known better. You took one look at me and assumed."

"Hey, don't get all touchy. I didn't think… I mean—hey, just tell me what happened?"

She shook her head and looked down. He'd never understand. She didn't understand it all herself, and hadn't truly believed until it was too late.

Now, he'd done it. He glanced at the bottle with disgust and screwed the cap back on tight. "Let's start again from the top, since we're sorta partners in some kind of crime—or crimes, plural, who the hell knows at this point? But I'm no choirboy, and I'm not throwing stones from my glass house. I've done enough crap to get put out by my folks, too. So, don't take whatever I said wrong. Cool? I'm not judging."

She nodded, but still denied him access to her gorgeous eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said again after a while, preferring the way she was before he'd offended her. "Listen, my pop was… nuts. Beat my mom. I was going nowhere fast. Loved rebuilding engines and working on anything that moved, but music is my first love. I've seen a lot of dysfunctional crap in my time. People dying in their own bodies, going to work in a hellhole they called a job. If you want to call that the undead, I'll go with you on that… and as for bloodsuckers, I've seen my dad work for vampires all my life. That's why I had to make a break for it."

He peered at her sidelong when she didn't respond, hoping to get the conversation back on a relaxed track. God, she was beautiful. His tone became more urgent as he tried his best to draw her out again. "So, if you did something to get away from a crazy situation, then what can I say? That's why I was on the road, myself."

"I did the unthinkable," she murmured.

Her eyes were on the horizon when she'd spoken. If she would just look at him to know he wasn't kidding around…

"What could somebody as sweet as you do that would cause unforgivable harm?" He truly meant what he'd said, and for his honesty her returned gaze rewarded him.

"I went off with someone I shouldn't have. He was tall, and handsome and mysterious and came into town from New Orleans… I'd never—" She glanced at him and then looked away, swallowing hard. "I couldn't resist him and it wound up killing my mother. She said that what I had become would shame all those from our Cherokee heritage who'd walked the Trail of Tears. My father, God rest his soul in peace, had been a good man. He was a Baptist, and in the military, and would tell my mom that black folks didn't deal with this mess. He would never have understood this, even though he and my mother were both guardians. It was only one time, but it was enough."