Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (3 page)

“I can walk just fine, thank you,” she protested. He glanced down at her.

“Your wound needs to be bound. You have lost much blood, woman.”

His purposeful gait cut a path through the underbrush, the tall growth brushing against his buckskin as he navigated to a nearby clearing. When they entered the clearing where a sorrel horse stood patiently ground tied, he let Maggie’s legs drop down but still he held his arms around her waist and kept her close. Her chin was even with his collarbone, and her cheek brushed against his chest when he refused to release her.  The scent of sweat mixed with evergreen and smoke bonded to him, his skin slick with the heady combination. With a sickly feeling in her bones, Maggie glanced around the clearing. A panic began to rise as she looked at her surroundings and realized they were familiar.

They were standing at the entrance to her barn. Only it was not there.

She was aware it was damn impossible, but she knew the farm better than anyone did.  They were standing on it—on her property.  Two tall ancient Cyprus trees marked the spot behind the barn, overlooking a steep drop off that tumbled down to the river below. There was a winding gravel trail to navigate the slope, which still appeared to be there. She could hear the roar of the waterfall beyond the clearing.

The trees were shorter than they had been earlier in the day, the trunks a smaller diameter and their branches not yet as full.  A split rail fence had guarded the drop off to the river below, but it was not anywhere to be seen now.  Her fingers curled into fists and she barely felt it when her nails dug crescent shaped daggers into her palms.

“You said you found the Bloodstone. When did you find it?”

She knew it made no sense, but the truth was the only thing she could cling to with any certainty in the midst of rising panic.

“I found it today. This morning, the fifth of October.”

At this confession, he placed his fingers on her chin and twisted her head gently upwards to meet his stare, his head cocked to the side. His brows furrowed and his eyes searched her own in a question he could not seem to put to words. She did not understand what she was doing there, or who this man was. She was willing to wager he was just as confused as she was.

“It is now the month your people call September, woman” he replied.

“But it can’t be September,” she insisted. “That doesn’t make any sense! I was just here today, and I cut my hand— I think I passed out.”

He touched her cheek gently with his thumb, shaking his head.

“This is the place I buried the Bloodstones one year ago. The ground is not disturbed. No one knows this place but me.”

“What…what year did you bury them?” she whispered, the words rushing out before she could stop the ridiculous question.

“The year your people call 1621.”

She felt relieved that his arms still held her as her knees buckled and the blessed darkness swallowed her one more time.

C
hapter 3

S
omething tickled her
cheek, rhythmic in its motion.  Her eyes were not open, but she could feel the sensation of swaying with the gait of the horse. She squeezed her eyelids shut, knowing she was not yet prepared to accept what she might see.  If it was the woods from her strange dream, she feared she would start screaming.  She could remain in denial if she refused to look around. 

A sharp scent of evergreen stung her senses, and as she curled her head downward she tasted the salty sweat of his skin from where her mouth had rested against him.  She opened her hand and settled her palm flat against his chest.  A gentle thud pounded beneath her fingers, nearly as musical as the gait of the horse they rode.  He must have noticed she was awake, because as she stirred his warm hand slid up to cover hers where it rested over his heart. Calloused but strong, his touch immediately comforted her, so Maggie let her hand remain under his.

Curiosity took over, and she opened her eyes. She sat sideways on the horse, held firm by the stranger’s arms. There was a jagged tear in her jeans and a flap of fabric exposed her leg where it rubbed against the horse’s coarse mane.  Positioned securely in the embrace of the stranger, her legs lay against his buckskin-covered thigh, which he used to nudge the barrel of the horse. Her cheeks brightened in a flush when she realized she had been sleeping against his chest.  She had never been in such an intimate position with a man, much less a native wearing little more than thin leather breeches.

“You said a word earlier. It sounded like you cursed at me. Kept-cha or something?”

“I said
Keptchat.
It means foolish person.” His arms flexed, and he lowered his lips closer to her ear.  A tendril of his loose brown hair glanced across her skin and the subtle motion sent a shiver through her. “Only a foolish woman would walk up to a bear.”

She pulled her hand away and closed it into a fist, but she saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile and she relaxed. She could not help but smile back at his amusement.  Now that his hand was free, he returned it to the leather reins, the gesture enclosing her deeper in his embrace as the horse continued to pace.

“You speak English.” More of a statement than a question, she felt his head nod in agreement.

“Yes. My uncle wanted me to learn the tongue. He fears the settlers do not always speak truth, so we should know their words. Many from my village have learned English.”

She considered his reasoning, which sounded sensible. For an Indian.  In 1621.

“I – I don’t know your name. And I don’t belong here – I need to get home.”

“No.” He spoke the word soft but certain. He straightened and lodged her closer against his chest, his skill at riding while managing a wayward passenger quite apparent.

“No? What do you
mean
, no? I can’t stay here – just take me back where you found me, I’ll find my way home.”

“My name is
Winkeohkwet. The English call me Winn.” He lowered his voice with the next words. “You will not find your way home. It is not there anymore.”

“Stop the horse, let me down. That’s – that’s impossible!”

The horse did not plod along too rapidly, so she guessed she could jump down without injury.  She shoved her hands against his bare chest and squirmed to evade him, but the gesture only served to grind her bottom further into his lap.  Her cheeks flushed further as she realized he continued to hold her tight, the evidence that his body was responsive to her struggle pressed up against her backside through his thin breechcloth.

“Let me down!”

“No. Your wounds need to be treated. You lost much blood.”

“I can go to a
hospital
for that! Let. Me. Down!”

“I know not what hos-
tel is, woman, but you will stop your fight!” he growled.

His powerful thighs clenched and he sat abruptly back, causing the horse to drop its haunches and slide to a stop. Maggie twisted around and tried to pry his arm away from her waist, but the bastard was too strong and determined. How dare he refuse to release her! She wanted to wipe the grin off his smug face. She made another attempt to jump off his lap, but he anticipated the motion and held her securely, deflecting her close-fisted blows when she struck him.
Who the hell did he think he was? She’d damn well leave if she wanted to!

Frustration washed through her, trembling over her body like a rapid. She wanted to fight, to make him let her go, and then…then she would just go home. It sounded like a simple plan, but stark reality confirmed she was terribly lost. His hand reached for her face as a tear slid down her cheek, and his thumb brushed it gently away. She panicked with the knowledge that her current predicament was not a dream, and that the raven-haired man who held her was very, very real.

“Stop fighting, woman,” he said, the words even but ground out in a hoarse whisper.

“Stop calling me
woman
, my name is Maggie,” she whispered, her eyes imprisoned by his softened gaze. Frustration remained in the pit of her stomach, tinged with fear of her impossible situation. The impatient glare on Winn’s face faded and he cocked his head slightly to the side as he studied her. His eyes darted a glance at her flushed cheeks, then traveled downward to her lips. She knew her cheek was chafed and smeared with dirt-laced tears, and she suddenly wished he were not so damn close. When his fingers brushed the remnants of soil away, her mouth parted in shock at the sliver of tingling sensation his touch created, and he met the gesture by tracing his thumb along her jaw.

Her conscience berated her for allowing the stranger to manhandle her in such a way, but she did not move.  The urge to remain won.  His fingers pressed against the back of her neck, his hands large enough to cup her face and tilt it toward him so that their eyes met.  She had an abrupt awareness of his closeness and tasted
the salt of her own tears on her lips. The strength of his blue eyes captured her gaze, holding her prisoner more securely than his arms ever could.

“Stop it then,
Maggie
,” he whispered.

“I want to go home…just let me go.”

His eyes softened as he shook his head. “You cannot return to your place. I am…sorry.”

The smothering panic that gripped her eased, his touch like embers against her skin despite the chill of the evening breeze. His fingers moved in her hair, only a bit, the gentle motion an anchor which helped her see she could slow down her hammering heart and let her fear subside.

Flung through time by someone unknown force, saved from imminent death by a fearless stranger—none of it could be rational, and submitting to such an implausible scenario caused her to question her own sanity. Why didn’t she fight more? She ignored the need to reclaim her scattered senses and replaced it with a stolen moment of comfort, safe for the moment in the arms of the stranger.

They both heard the steps of horses coming their way. His face remained close to hers and she could see he was tense as well, and she was ashamed to admit a measure of satisfaction in knowing he was just as affected by the exchange as she was.  Irrational and senseless, she chastised herself for clinging to the man, but she let him hold her all the same.

“What meaning is Maggie? A strange name,” he asked, her name drawn out as he tested it on his tongue. She still trembled, and her voice reflected as much.

“Maggie. It doesn’t mean anything, I think.”

“You belong here now,” he said. His hands left her face, but traced a path down her back with a startling familiarity. “My brothers are near. They will ride with us back to the village.”  He gathered the reins together and the horse snorted, hooves prancing in response.

“
Ntënuyëm
!”

Winn uttered the greeting as a shriek and the two newcomers answered immediately in kind. His horse began to stomp, lifting its hooves in place in anticipation as the two riders approached.

They dressed similar to him, in buckskin leggings and beaded adornments, bare chested as well. If he had not told her they were his kin, she would not have guessed as much. One man, shorter than Winn but with slightly more breadth to his shoulders and waist, stood silent behind a round creased face. His brown eyes held a careful tolerance as he deferred to his companion. The second man compared to Winn in stature, but when his hostile black eyes fell sharp on Maggie, the fear that Winn had chased away returned. His dark copper skin gleamed with sweat, its shade quite different from Winn’s lighter brown. The two men wasted little time in survey of her before they spoke to Winn.

They spoke in short, tight responses, the cadence of their exchange abrupt. She had no idea what they were saying or what language they spoke, but she was pretty sure the two newcomers were angry. The shorter man said little since the other seemed to dominate the conversation.  The second man shot a glare at Maggie, then at Winn, and erupted into a furious stream of shouting.  Winn listened without interruption, but then something the other man uttered caused him to snatch Maggie’s bloody hand and hold it up for them to see.

“
Sawwehone Shacquohocan!”

Although his body was tense behind her, the words he spoke were calm. Not knowing what they were saying infuriated her, especially since she seemed the target of the other man’s anger.  At the sight of her hand, the two men fell silent. The silence stretched as they stared.

“What is going on?” she asked, half turned around in Winn’s lap. She snatched her wrist away, a motion that brought laughter from the shorter man.  The other remained silent, his lips pursed in a thin line.

“Your woman has a loud mouth,
nimahtes
. Maybe you should tame her first, then come back home,” the short man laughed. His dark eyes brightened and he crossed his arms over his chest as he chuckled.  The second brother did not smile.

Winn’s horse stomped the ground and tossed his head.

“She has a wound that must be cleaned. I will tame her after it is healed.”

They spoke in English this time, but Maggie did not like the conversation any better in her own language. What happened to the man who comforted her so sweetly, as if he wanted to chase her fear away? Why was he laughing with his brothers about
taming
her? Scarlet warmth rose from her neck to her cheeks at the implication.

She decided enough was enough. Winn’s hold lessened a fraction as he spoke with the men.  Maggie took advantage of the distraction and jumped down off the horse, taking off in a sprint out of the clearing back into the woods.  The wound on her shoulder screamed in protest at the effort, and a fresh surge of blood saturated her torn parka. How could she be so stupid, trusting a stranger? Maybe she was trapped in another time, but she did not have to act like an imbecile, and she was certainly not going to be
tamed
by any man!

It took him mere seconds to catch her.

His fist caught her around the waist, knocking her off balance and sending them both sprawling into a heap on the forest ground.  Maggie kicked and tried to scratch him, but his hands were quick and he proceeded to shove her fists above her head into the dirt. She cried out at the searing pain in her shoulder and tried to catch a breath through aching ribs. His strapping legs entrapped her kicking limbs, and his hips pinned her pelvis to the ground. He panted shallow with the effort of containing her struggle, and seeing his frustration felt like a measure of triumph. He glared at her, wordless, as she tried to scramble away, and she felt the cold earth against her bare back as her thin tee shirt rode up under her open parka. The shirt bunched up around her breasts, exposing her pink lace bra against his chest. She twisted her hips in an attempt to squirm away, but his free hand pushed her back down. His gaze flickered as he glanced downward and his eyes widened when they surveyed her breasts caught against his skin. The hand holding her hip traveled slowly upward and his fingers brushed the side of her lacy bra.

“Oh, no you don’t!” she exploded. She slammed her head up against his, and his blue eyes flared as a scowl creased his face with a low uttered curse.

“Enough!” he shouted.

Blood dripped from his mouth as he thrust his hand into her hair and slammed it back to the ground. She cried out in pain and surprise at the reaction and frustrated tears formed across her lashes. She understood immediately that her plan to get away was a foolish one. The man who chased her tears away was gone, replaced by an enraged warrior bent on submission.