The Man from Forever (15 page)

The same quizzical expression that had touched his features at the sight of her panties returned. “I have seen this garment.” He indicated her bra. “But I do not understand. Why are white women afraid of their breasts?”

“Afraid? No, it's not that. It's—it's the way things are done now.”

He chuckled, then pulled a strap off her shoulder. A warm breeze skittered over her newly exposed flesh, but that wasn't why she trembled. Although she knew he was frustrated with the workings of her bra, several minutes passed before she showed him how to release it. It shouldn't matter; they'd gone too far to stop now. But once she was naked, nothing would remain of the woman she'd been only a few minutes ago. The lines between them would be erased, all barriers gone.

Was she ready to expose her body and heart to him? To herself?

He ran his hands down her unbelievably sensitive back. If she hadn't been so eager for him, she might have found his fingers too rough, but she was beyond such concerns, needed his touch too much. His flesh felt warmer than it had before. It might be the sun; it might be his reaction to her. If that was it, she was happy, and if earlier he managed to keep some of himself locked off from her, she didn't want to think about that.

Didn't want to know.

“You are a bird. Your bones are so small.”

“No,” she protested from the void that was her mind. “I'm not—”

“I do not want to hurt you.”

Now that she understood his concern, she wanted to put his mind at ease, but how could she when he'd taken hold of her—all of her? He seemed to be everywhere at once, his hands roaming her body as if he couldn't get his fill of her. Somehow they'd sunk to their knees, not on hard earth, but on a mat of fallen leaves and thick grass. Their knees and thighs touched. She fastened her arms around his neck and kissed him frantically, deeply, unable to do anything except respond to hands running over her belly and hips. A whimper came to life deep in her throat. She followed its upward trail, cared not at all when it escaped her.

He pulled her hands off him and pushed her away from
him, staring at her with an intensity that rocked her. “You cry?”

“No. Not cry. I…”
I want you so much.
Although he continued to look at her, his eyes filled with passion and concern, she couldn't make herself say the words that would expose her deepest emotions. “It's all right,” she said when, finally, she realized he was determined to outwait her silence. “I'm all right.”

“You are afraid of me.”

“No.” She started to shake her head, but the gesture made her dizzy.
I'll never be afraid of you,
she nearly said, but because that might not be the truth, she stopped herself in time. “Loka, please, can't we just—all I want is—please, make love to me.”

“Make love?”

“Sex!” she blurted out in desperation. “I want to have sex with you.”

She was terrified he'd want a further explanation when it was all she could do to keep herself from flying apart. In an attempt to keep him silent, she lunged toward him and covered her mouth with his. His grunt of surprise nearly stripped her of her courage, but she hung on with a will she thought she'd lost, and gradually, too gradually, she sensed question and doubt seep out of him.

It was impossible. Surely she didn't have the strength to mold this warrior to her will, but maybe—yes—he had to want this thing they were doing as much as she did.

Sex, lovemaking—what did the words matter? There was only need and hunger exploding inside her, her hands restless again, his hands bold and indiscriminate on her body. Falling onto her back beneath him, looking through glazed eyes at his muscled form covering hers, arching herself toward him, telling him she was ready for him.

Perched over her, his body hard and shaking, he held himself suspended until she thought she would scream. “Wha—”

“Sloa.”

“What?”

“You are
Sloa.
Wildcat.”

“No. No.”

“Wildcat.”

Maybe she was. “I can't help what I am, Loka.”
Loka. How beautiful his name sounded as it echoed inside her.

“Kiuka,”
he whispered. She felt his manhood graze the inside of her thigh, arched toward him even more. “You are
Kiuka.
”

It didn't matter. Nothing did except that he'd found her center, that she was moist and hot. Flying into countless pieces. Accepting him. Drawing him deep inside her. Feeling him push himself even farther, filling her, taking her—taking her away from herself.

 

It had happened too fast.

Careful not to let too many thoughts in at once, Tory opened her eyes just enough to assure herself that Loka hadn't left her. He lay on his side, his slickened body quiet and magnificent. She wanted it to be like that forever, but even in the halfway world she clung to, she knew that wasn't possible. For these precious moments he was her lover, even if he didn't understand everything that went with the word.

Lover.

Lover.

Only when she tried to say it for the third time did she force herself to face the truth. They'd had sex, quick and hot and urgent. There'd been nothing gentle or loving about their joining, although neither of them had hurt or been hurt. While caught in the moment's onslaught, she hadn't wanted anything else. Or maybe the truth was there hadn't been enough of her left over to care about anything except the volcano consuming her.

He'd satisfied her, spent his own need.

And it had happened too fast.

Shutting her eyes, she tried to turn her mind to what he looked like, the rawhide muscles, midnight eyes and sun-
loving hair. She wanted to see where he lived. If she asked him, would he take her there? She knew nothing about how he obtained the food that kept him alive. Would he let her accompany him while he hunted? If she asked him, would he show her how to gather the plants that had sustained his people?

She ran with that thought, imagined herself dressed in the softest of doeskin while she picked berries to dry for winter use. He would have been off hunting, and as the day ended, he'd step into their home and take her into his arms and—

“Loka,” she heard herself say. She opened her eyes and looked over at him, started to shake all over again. “Loka.”

For several seconds, he stared at her, his expression unreadable. “You regret what we did.”

“Not regret. Never that. But…”

“Say it, Tory. I cannot see what is in your heart.”

“What we did was because we were so hungry for each other. I—I'm not ashamed. I take full responsibility for the way I acted.”
How? You nearly lost your mind.
“And you've been alone so long.”

“Yes.”

Yes. Such a simple word to explain what he'd had to endure.

“It could be different,” she said, forcing herself not to drop her gaze. “Sweet and gentle.”

“And you want that?”

“Yes. Don't you?”

L
oka rolled away from her and stood, oblivious to the fact that he was naked. She tried to hold on to what she'd just asked him, but the sight of him nearly turned her into a liar. She'd told him she wanted sweet and gentle lovemaking, but if he turned toward her with hunger and urgency in his eyes, his body hard and healthy and ready, she would respond. Simply respond.

“When we were at Spirit Mountain, it seemed that the night would never end,” he said. “I wanted to return to you, to bury myself in you. But I was afraid of the man in me. And I did not know whether I could trust you.”

“Afraid of yourself?” she whispered. She didn't want to know what he meant by not being able to trust her, or whether that had changed.

“Of my need. It was a winter storm inside me.”

She hadn't known that. How could she when he'd slept apart from her? “Is that why you were so quiet?”

He nodded. “That, and Owl's message.”

She almost asked him what he was talking about before
she remembered his superstition that an owl's call foretold death or danger. Who was she to belittle anything he believed in? After all, his existence was proof that some extraordinary force was at work. “Just because an owl hoots doesn't mean there's danger out there.”

He remained silent. Her mind whirled with what she might say to put his concerns to rest, to remind him that owls were nothing more than night creatures. She wanted to tell him he was a miracle, the only living link with his people's heritage, but if she did, she might say the rest—that he couldn't keep his wisdom locked within him. The wrong words and he would turn from her as he'd done before, and she couldn't stand the thought of not seeing him again.

Not making love to him again.

Ignoring her own state of undress, she stood on less-than-steady legs and walked over to him. They were alone in the solitude of his world. Funny, she'd given it no thought earlier. She took his hand and brought it to her breast. He gave her a quizzical look but didn't draw away. She spread his fingers over the sensitive mound, showing him with gestures and smiles and silence that she was placing herself in his hands and in return wanted him only to be gentle with her.

“Think of me as a flower,” she whispered. “A fragile flower.”

“A flower does not feel.”

“No,” she admitted. “And I do. Believe me, I do.”

Their exploration became hands and lips again, touch and retreat, tease and urgency, whispered encouragement, quiet reminders, a slow building of emotion and sensitivity. And always the awe of being with him, believing in him. Maybe loving him.

Fighting her own urgent body, she trailed her fingers lightly over his arms and ribs, surrendered to his embrace and then pulled back. Not once did she stop touching him; he did the same, smiling as he learned what pleased her. Not as hungry as the first time, she drew out the foreplay, ex
plored and retreated, challenged before backing off until she felt in control again.

When she stopped being the teacher and simply began sharing, she couldn't say. It might have been when his tongue invaded her mouth for the first time. Maybe it was when he turned her around so her back was against him and he ran his hands firmly, possessively from the base of her throat to the apex of her legs.

She began moaning when he did that, couldn't stop. Head thrown back, she gulped in needed air. That only increased his access to her. She tried to stop him, but his power over her and her helplessness—her wanting—was so great that after a few seconds, her hands dropped uselessly by her side. No longer caring, she listened to herself whimper, knew nothing except his strong fingers invading her most private parts.

He guided her so that she faced him once more, careful to keep his hands on her so she wouldn't collapse. He was smiling; despite the red film curtaining her vision, she could see the beautiful and knowing gesture.

“A flower?” he asked. He forced her to stand in front of him, arms still limp, while he ducked his head and flicked his tongue over her taut nipples. “I think not. A flower is easily crushed. You only blossom more.”

He was right, right as only a man who knows what pleases a woman can be.

As had happened the first time, she suddenly found herself no longer standing. This time she wasn't on her knees but already on her back, reaching for him, reaching and whimpering again. He knelt with one leg on either side of her hips, growling deep in his throat when she ground the heels of her hands against his chest. She tried to open herself for him, but he held her trapped under him. Fear flickered but died when she saw the passion she felt etched on his features. He wanted this—this lovemaking—as much as she did. The evidence of that was clear. But he'd learned, or maybe he'd already known, that ecstasy long anticipated becomes all the richer.

When he slid to one side of her and slowly, gently, firmly,
slipped his hands between her legs, asked permission, she fastened her hands in his hair and pulled him down to her for one last passionate kiss before—

Before lovemaking.

 

“Gew'ks.”

Tory struggled to pull herself out of the dark cave she'd fallen into, but it wasn't until Loka repeated himself that she managed to focus. He was sitting up, one hand clutching a rock, his attention fixed on a tall, thin pine tree some fifty feet away. At the top perched an owl large enough that it made the spindly branch sag.

“
Gew'ks?
Owl? Loka, he's just—”

The owl stretched its neck; its long, mournful hoot stopped her in midsentence. Instantly, what Loka had said about an owl warning of death came back to her. She stared at Loka, trying to think of something to say that would make him see nothing more than a bird, but he'd been conditioned by a lifetime of legends and spiritual belief.

Besides, what if he was right?

“Loka.” She scrambled to her feet but stopped before reaching him. Even while he tied his loincloth back into place, his eyes never left the owl who again shattered the quiet with his haunting call.

“Gew'ks.”

“He belongs here, Loka. He's hunting. That's all just hunting.”

“Your heart is not Maklaks. You do not know.”

No, she didn't.
“Tell me, please. Why…”

“
Gew'ks
speaks. I listen.”

“What about me?” She hated the fear, the loneliness in her voice, but couldn't kill it. “Won't you listen to me?”

“
Gew'ks
is born of Kumookumts. Kumookumts created all Maklaks.”

And she wasn't Maklaks. “They're gone, Loka. You said so yourself. Please turn your back on the past. Walk—walk into the present.”

“I do not know what is my present, Tory. I search and ask and pray. I know restlessness that threatens to tear me apart. I want—I want to belong somewhere. But—”

“You belong with me!”

“Do I? And is it enough? Tory, the past claims me. It is all I know. I do not want to leave it behind. I do not want my heritage to become dust. Who except for me will keep it whole?”

Without looking at her, he strode off into the wilderness.

 

Was she ever going to sleep again?

Despite the exhaustion etched deep inside her, Tory sat up and slipped out of bed. Not bothering to look for shoes, she walked over to the nearest window and took in her surroundings. Morning was little more than a faint cast in the night-dark sky, but she remembered what dawn had looked like from the top of Spirit Mountain—when she stood beside Loka and he told her about the untold generations of Modocs who'd believed that the world began and ended with what they could see from up there.

They'd been right, she acknowledged. At least back then, what existed beyond where the Modocs ranged hadn't mattered. Loka had a growing grasp of today's world, but he'd never seen a city, and no matter what he'd read or heard, he would have only a rudimentary understanding of what one was like. His world had ended before the invention of the telephone. How could he comprehend computers and fax machines?

She tried to tell herself it didn't matter because he still lived on the land that had nourished him and his people, but the attempt at self-delusion didn't last long. He might carry an ancient knife and put his faith in messages brought to him by wild animals and birds, but The Smiles Of God was no longer his domain, and he knew it. It had been invaded by those he considered his enemies, and unless he spent the rest of his life isolating himself from them—which in his heart he didn't want to do—eventually they would learn of his
existence, and he would have to learn how to coexist with them.

We can do it, Loka. Together. If you'd just trust me, share your wisdom and spiritual richness with the rest of the world…

In an attempt to ward off the headache building behind her temples, she dug through her meager supply of groceries. She came up with some fruit and a bagel and washed breakfast down with cool, sweet water. She'd brought enough food with her to last a couple of days; most of that was gone, which meant she would have to drive into the nearest town to restock.

She walked into what passed for a bathroom and splashed water on her face. Only then did she look into the small mirror and face the decision she'd made.

She couldn't leave.

Couldn't because Loka had crawled under her skin and she couldn't walk away from him and go on living.

He doesn't want you. He left you yesterday, remember.

He left because an owl warned him of danger.

Danger from you?

“Enough!” she blurted, shaken by the realization that she'd spoken aloud. But although she turned from the mirror so she wouldn't have to stare at her hollowed-out eyes, she couldn't hide from her thoughts.

She'd made love to Loka. Maybe fallen in love with him. The last thing she'd ever do was endanger his existence.

But was it possible that she had by coming here?

No, damn it, no!

Maybe.

Groaning, she pressed her hand against her forehead. What she needed was her very own Eagle. If she had a spirit, she could call on it for the answers to questions that threatened to drive her crazy.

Well, she didn't have one. The only alternative was to get out of this blasted cabin so maybe her thoughts would stop ricocheting off the walls. Heartened by the thought that she
had a plan of action, she dressed and walked outside. She'd covered most of the distance separating the cabin from park headquarters before she admitted that she'd spent the time looking for some sign of Loka.

He wasn't here; if he'd been, she would have known. Her body, so sensitive to him, would have told her.

Maybe he was still sleeping, alone, dreamless. Maybe he was awake and thinking about what he perceived to be Owl's warning.

And maybe—

She stopped in midstride as an unwanted thought hit her. Loka had been adamantly opposed to Fenton's plans to exploit Fern Cave. She'd tried to tell him that opposition by any number of environmental groups would put an end to that insanity, but had he believed her? Was it possible that he'd decided to stop Fenton in the only way he knew?

Stomach knotted, she was forced to ask herself if Loka might risk his life protecting what his people had held sacred.

Of course he would.

Hurrying now, she tried to come up with a plan. First, she'd call Dr. Grossnickle and tell him she didn't know when, if ever, she'd be rejoining him. He deserved as much of the truth as she could give him, which, in order to protect Loka, wouldn't be much. She could tell Dr. Grossnickle that she'd discovered a risk to an historically sensitive site and didn't dare leave until she could be sure that it was safe. He'd argue that what he was trying to accomplish was more important, but she'd hold firm. If he told her she no longer had a job—

What did a job matter? Owl had cried of death yesterday.

 

“You're still here?”

Tory winced, then admitted that she'd known her chance of getting in and out of park headquarters without Fenton spotting her had been slim. At least she'd managed to make her phone call. Turning her thoughts from Dr. Grossnickle's terse command that she either wind things up here or he'd
be forced to look for a replacement, she faced Fenton, who looked inordinately proud of himself this morning.

“Actually,” Fenton said as he joined her, “I'm glad I caught you. You're the first to know this. The senator's coming here next week.”

“He's what?”

“I caught him in a weak moment. Actually, I made my uncle an offer he couldn't refuse. He's getting a lot of flak about not getting out enough. I told him he could fly here and take a tour, with photographers around to record his concern for an historic landmark, of course. Once the public show's over, he can get in a little bird hunting.”

Thinking of the vast wetlands that had been preserved to protect the large number of birds that made their home in this part of the country, she couldn't believe the senator would want to be seen hunting. However, when Fenton explained that he'd arranged to get his uncle onto on private land far from prying eyes, she understood. “You bribed him.”

“You might say that. Hey, as long as he comes out as being concerned for the lava beds' future, what do people around here care? They'll see him, hear him and think there's going to be money following in his wake—money I've laid the groundwork for.”

She didn't want to hear any more, but if she didn't pretend to be fascinated by Fenton's latest plans, she wouldn't know how all this might impact Loka.

Loka, who would perceive a self-important politician and the press as a threat to his sacred land—to the only thing he had left in life.

“Next week, you say?” She made herself ask. “How did you manage to pull it together so fast?”