Midnight (20 page)
When did I start thinking of him as mine?
She put that mental confusion aside to focus on the service. Stepping forward, she used her oil to trace a
V
on each man’s brow. From her fingertips wafted the sweet scents of sage and lavender—plants that, with care, tolerated the climate here.
V
on each man’s brow. From her fingertips wafted the sweet scents of sage and lavender—plants that, with care, tolerated the climate here.
Then Rosa stepped back, her demeanor grave.
“Christian Welsh, you come before me as a wanderer. I have the power to grant you solace and shelter, as long as we both shall live. Valle de Bravo takes all those with willing hearts and hands, committed to the protection of our town and to my service. Do you so swear?”
“I do,” he said somberly.
For the first time it occurred to her that she had written the vows to sound in some ways like marriage. Perhaps she had even done so subconsciously. Each man who made his pledge would feel bound to her in a personal way. But never sexually—not on her part, anyway. Chris’s hazel eyes were dark and knowing, as if he took her words for their deepest meaning, as if she had promised him something in turn.
A home. That’s all.
The other men renewed their vows as well. She traced their tattoos with the scented oil to remind them where their loyalty ought to lie. With each soft, silent touch, she wanted them to think about how poorly internal conflict served when there were so many foes to fight outside the valley. But she didn’t know if Falco cared about that. He was steaming by the time she finished, his face flushed and contorted. He hated to be made a fool, and Chris had outmaneuvered him.
“I accept you as mine,” she said to Chris.
It was the accepted verbiage. She had spoken those words to every man willing to fight for her town. They bore her ink on their skin. But this time she knew a shiver of pleasure, quite outside any prior experience. By the flicker across Chris’s expression, he sensed it too. His lips parted and she remembered—without wanting to—the sweetness of his kiss.
“So sworn, you are entitled to bear arms for Valle de Bravo. I offer you a gift in return for your loyalty.”
Chris cocked his head, still kneeling but not at all humbled. The truth showed in the way he met her gaze. Directly. Challenging her despite his supplicated posture. At Rosa’s gesture, he took to his feet, as did the other men.
“This blade, forged in our fires, symbolizes the strength and commitment of your bond to your new home. Use it only to defend the valley and to drive away our enemies.” Rosa handed Chris a beautiful dagger, keen edged and graceful—some of Ex’s best work.
The guns she presented with less ceremony. They hadn’t been forged in town, obviously, but they too served a purpose. Chris now carried Valle arms. He belonged.
But that wasn’t all. He wore the uncertain look of a child on Christmas morning, one whom poverty had taught to expect nothing. He knotted his fingers, as if uncertain what to do with his hands. Maybe the service was touching him more than he’d imagined it would. Rosa liked to think that. Beyond a calculated move, maybe, just maybe, it meant something to him too. That gave her hope he wasn’t as broken as she’d first thought—that maybe he had more inside him than salt and bitterness.
“One final gift,” she said. “In turn we pledge to care for you, Christian Welsh. Nourish your body and soul. As a token of that promise, I offer you the bread of life.” She handed him a basket full of brown buckwheat bread, half a wedge of goat cheese, and agave wine. With her eyes she told him there was more too, something she had never given another bravo.
Rosa didn’t know if he understood her silent message, but his voice was husky when he said, “Thank you.”
The rest of the bravos were too interested in the new women to care much about Falco’s injured pride at the moment, so after the ritual ended, they went to pester Ingrid and Viv, who more than held her own. The shotgun she held was not for show. If Rosa symbolized both maiden and whore, then Viv was a younger representation of the crone. The men instinctively respected her. Falco growled as he stalked off, with no excuse to linger. He was not required to bear witness to the marks.
“It’s almost done,” she told Chris, when everyone else had gone.
“What now?”
“The tattoo.” She led the way toward Ex’s workshop, careful to keep the hem of her white robe out of the dust.
“Can I pick where I want it?”
She nodded. “I don’t dictate where. It’s your body.”
His expression gained layers of intensity. “But if it
was
yours, where would you put it?”
was
yours, where would you put it?”
The question had other meanings, and the heat in his gaze sent answering shocks through her. “Your back.”
“Why?”
There was no one around, no one but him, to hear this unprecedented admission. “Because it’s beautiful. I’d like to see my mark on it.”
Just imagining that made her a little flushed. He had beautiful skin, tanned and smooth, his muscles lean. They pulled when he moved in a graceful display of predatory strength. She’d never wanted that in a man because, in her experience, strong men victimized those physically weaker. Now she wondered if it was possible—whether a man could use his power to protect a woman rather than subjugate her.
No thinking like that. You didn’t build Valle with a man’s backing, and you don’t need him now.
Yet the hunger didn’t diminish, a hunger no food could quench.
He held her look for two beats, his expression inscrutable, before pushing through the doorway. The forge was quiet, cooler than usual because the dawn raid had occupied Ex all day. He’d sterilized his equipment in accordance with her prior request. He greeted them with a nod. Quiet on the best of days, with a bullet just excavated from his shoulder he was hardly in the mood for chat.
“Where?” he asked, lofting a needle.
Chris glanced at her, his lovely mouth curved into a delicious smile. He pulled the black ceremonial shirt over his head and turned away from Rosa. Her mouth went dry.
“On my back.”
TWENTY
Chris forced his clenched muscles to unfurl. The first pinch of metal biting into his skin was like being doused in scalding water, but soon he sank into the steady pain. He breathed through his nose, journeying away from the discomfort.
Funny, he hadn’t even asked what the design was, but probably the abstract pattern worn by the other bravos. Since it was Rosa’s mark, he didn’t bother with any other concern.
Men came and went at first. Brick and Rio arrived to speak with Rosa in hushed voices about preparations for Manuel’s dawn funeral. The rest just came to check whether Chris was the kind to squirm. He might have been once, back when the idea of getting a tattoo would have made him cringe. This was different—important. He remembered tales of Maori warriors, so fiercely decorated. If they could endure pain for the sake of appearance, imagine the agony they could withstand to protect what they valued.
But soon the visitors stopped coming. It was just Ex, Rosa, Chris, and the steady stab of the needle.
Ex took a break to fetch more ink. He cocked an eyebrow and asked Rosa, “You’re staying?”
Chris broke open a wide grin. Just two words to reveal that she wasn’t in the habit of observing the whole process. Two words to prove that the chemistry between them was extraordinary.
“Yeah, I’m staying. I want to make sure he goes through with it.”
After mouthing
liar
at her, Chris eased back into his meditation. The sting continued between his shoulder blades, but he was beyond thinking of it as pain. This was too damn entertaining.
liar
at her, Chris eased back into his meditation. The sting continued between his shoulder blades, but he was beyond thinking of it as pain. This was too damn entertaining.
For the next hour, maybe more, Rosa stayed rooted to a place along the wall of the forge—all the time watching. She barely moved except to occasionally shift her weight from foot to foot. Her stitched wound must be aching, but still she stayed. Chris wondered if she could feel the intimacy of what was happening. Ex was just a human tool, the means to do Rosa’s bidding. Every stab of the needle into Chris’s skin was her command, her claim over him.
He should have been scared shitless.
Instead a strange sort of peace infused his blood and his muscles, just as it had during the initiation ceremony. Years ago—hell, even a few weeks ago—he would have found the whole farce laughable. But it had meant a great deal, far more than he’d expected.
“All set,” Ex said in that efficient way of his. He wiped Chris’s skin with a cloth, then applied an ointment of some kind. It cooled after the continuous burn of the needle.
“Thanks.”
Ex only nodded. “Rosa can bandage it when your skin’s dry. I’m gonna lie down.”
Only then did Chris notice the drawn, slightly ashen pallor to the man’s face. He’d been shot that morning too. All Chris could do was thank him again and shake his hand. Then he and Rosa were alone.
“How does it look?” he asked in the silence.
Rosa pushed away from the wall. “I’ll get you a mirror.”
She returned a few moments later with two polished pieces of steel. Not exactly mirrors, but functional. Only, Chris wasn’t exactly interested in the tattoo. His brain and his body were still firmly in her keeping. So when Rosa offered the steel, he didn’t peek. Not yet. He only held her gaze.
“How does it look?” he asked again.
She licked her lower lip. Appearing apprehensive in a way that didn’t become her, she appraised the forge. But they were still alone. “Nice,” she said at last. “It looks . . . right.”
“Good.”
“You know, you don’t look like you’d be arrogant, but you are.”
“You make me want to be. Among other things.”
She tipped her head. “Such as?”
“Strong. Worthy.” Feeling too exposed by the sudden flush of honesty, Chris stood from the bench and stretched. “But I also want someone to share that wine with, so maybe I should stop wishing.”
He took one of the makeshift mirrors. Rosa circled around behind him, her movements stiff. If they managed to keep from tearing each other a few new holes, he would need to check her bandages before retiring for the night. She must be hurting—physically and mentally—after such a turbulent day, but not even her expression complained.
She stood behind him with the other mirror, angling it until he could see the mark he’d carry for the rest of his life.
Chris inhaled sharply. Yes, it was the mark of Valle de Bravo. But on his own body, so personal, he was struck by its unexpected vitality and beauty. The symmetrical black symbol stretched between his shoulder blades. Organic. Wholly primitive. Wide and narrow, the base was flat like a horizon. But at the top it licked up toward his shoulders and nape—black flames, maybe, or shadowy waves of heat off the desert. He’d never imagined something so primal engraved on his skin. The scar where Rosa had tended his Burning Night wound would fade relative to the tattoo’s permanence.
A memory tugged at him until he frowned.
“You don’t like it?” Rosa asked. He was too intrigued by the design to tease about the hint of disappointment in her voice.
“No, that’s not it. I recognize it. And not just from on the other men.”
“Oh?”
He pushed a hand against his forehead and fought to remember. Someplace intimate. Someplace cool. He’d seen that design—
“The rugs in your house,” he said.
Rosa dropped her piece of steel. She snatched it up again and turned away, but not before Chris caught a glimpse of her startled expression.
He wasn’t letting
that
go.
that
go.
As nonchalantly as he could manage, he met her against the far wall where she’d retreated. “Tell me,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“You have a habit of thinking the worst of me. I don’t like it.”
“Bite me.”
“Best invitation I’ve had in years.”
She pushed away from him.
“Oh, c’mon, Rosa. All I asked was what the goddamn symbol meant.” He cocked his hands on his hips. “Jesus, it gets
old
.”
old
.”
“Fine.” With more dignity than a princess, she stared him down. “I saw those shadows on the desert floor when I first came to
el valle
. It was dawn. The sun had only just started to push back the night. And I . . . I wasn’t scared. For the first time, maybe ever. I wasn’t scared.” She shrugged. “I knew I’d come home.”
el valle
. It was dawn. The sun had only just started to push back the night. And I . . . I wasn’t scared. For the first time, maybe ever. I wasn’t scared.” She shrugged. “I knew I’d come home.”
Chris swallowed thickly. He couldn’t breathe. A deep, instinctual part of him knew what choking out those words had cost her. Likely she’d never admitted anything close to it. He didn’t know whether to congratulate her or apologize for dragging it out of her.
Instead he crossed the close, dark forge and took her hands. She flinched, but she didn’t pull away.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you and you know it.”
“That’s all the admission I needed to hear.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the echo of the needle’s burn. “Viv and Rio are preparing Manuel’s body?”
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