Warrior (2 page)

Eden saw the subtle shifting of his body, the electric tension of a cougar set to spring.

“No!” Eden called, her voice tight with fear for him. “Damn it – no! There are five of them and you’re not even armed!”

Having reached the same conclusion, Jones rushed forward, dosing the distance between himself and Nevada.

Nevada moved.

His hands flashed out, grabbing Jones, then he pivoted, throwing him against the bar so hard that bottles danced and skidded. As Nevada finished the pivot, he smoothly converted his momentum into a different kind of force, lashing out with hands and feet in an intricate sequence. Two of Jones’s buddies went to their knees and then onto their faces. One staggered backward and fell. The remaining cowboy grabbed one of his dazed friends, yanked him to his feet and headed for the exit.

Even though Eden was accustomed to seeing big cats take their prey, the speed, coordination and precision of Nevada’s attack shocked her. He was so quick that individual motions blurred. Only the results were clearly visible. Three men down, two men running away.

Nevada’s pale glance flicked over the remaining inhabitants of the bar, dismissed them as a source of danger, and came back to focus on Jones. With a silent, gliding stride, Nevada started forward to teach the cowboy the kind of lesson a man would be lucky to survive. But at the moment Nevada didn’t really care about Jones’s future. Better men had died and the world had kept on turning.

Just as Nevada reached for Jones, two slender, determined hands locked around one of Nevada’s wrists. He could easily have shaken off the hands, but the combination of softness and strength was quintessentially feminine, disarming him. Eden smelled of sunshine and her breath was a rush of warmth flowing over him.

“Don’t,” Eden said softly, holding on to Nevada’s hard arm, seeing his eyes for the first time. A cougar’s eyes, pale green, bottomless, hell unleashed and waiting to spring. She brought his unresisting hand to her face. Her lips brushed his palm. “Please. He’s not worth what it would cost you.”

Eden felt the tiny shudder that ripped through Nevada’s strength, sensed the gradual uncoiling of steel muscles, and breathed her thanks into his hard palm. Slowly her fingers slid from his arm until she no longer touched him.

Restrained by nothing more tangible than his acceptance of Eden’s plea, Nevada reached once more for Jones. He lifted the heavy cowboy to his feet in a single motion. Stunned, Jones sagged between Nevada’s hands.

“That’s your free one,” Nevada said calmly. “Understand?”

Jones tried to speak, couldn’t, and nodded. Nevada opened his hands, releasing the cowboy. Jones staggered, caught himself on a bystander, then pushed free and reeled toward the front door. He didn’t even pause to look at the two groaning men who had followed him into the fight.

“Take them with you,” Nevada said.

His voice was still soft, but it carried clearly through the stunned silence of the room. Struggling, limping, able to use only one arm, Jones got the two other men upright and out the door.

Nevada turned to the bartender. “Total her bill.”

“Sure thing, Nevada,” the man said hastily. “Right away.”

His hurried footsteps were the only sound in the bar. Nevada turned and looked at each man in the room as the tense silence stretched. Smoothly he stepped behind Eden, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“Gentlemen,” Nevada said softly, his tone transforming the word into an insult, “I want you to meet Eden Summers. In the future you will treat her the same as you would Carla, Diana, Mariah or any other Rocking M woman.”

Nevada said no more. He didn’t have to.

“Go get your supplies,” Nevada said, squeezing Eden’s shoulders reassuringly before he released her.

While Eden paid her bill, Nevada shrugged into his shearling jacket, leaned casually against the bar and waited for the groceries to be bagged.

Slowly the other men in the bar turned away and began talking in subdued voices. Most of the conversations centered around the fight. Or rather, around Nevada. Tennessee Blackthorn’s lethal fighting skills were well-known. Nevada’s had often been speculated upon, but no one had been curious enough to rattle his cage and find out for sure.

Until tonight. West Fork had just discovered that the aloof, silent cowhand called Nevada was every bit as skilled at fighting as he was at tracking cougars – and he was known as the best cat-tracker in five states. When Eden was ready, Nevada helped her carry the supplies. Outside a raw March wind combed the streets, sending shivers of motion over puddles that had just begun to freeze in the early evening chill. Where there was no snow, the landscape had taken on a vague hint of green, promise of the hot summer to come. For now, it was promise only. The earth itself was still locked within winter’s cold.

In the distance an isolated group of mountains rose against the darkening sky. Clouds gathered and slowly seethed around the peaks. Other clouds stretched in a wind-smoothed front across the icy arch of the sky. Eden glanced overhead, saw the weather front that was supposed to bring snow, and debated whether or not to take on the rough road between West Fork and the government cabin that would be her home until June.

“You’ll be safe enough at the motel,” Nevada said, following Eden’s glance at the weather front. “No one will bother you now.”

The subtle rasp in Nevada’s deep voice intrigued Eden. But then, everything about him intrigued her, and had from the first instant she had seen him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “If I had known what West Fork was like, I would have bought my supplies in Cortez.”

Nevada shrugged. “Most of the time West Fork is real quiet. You just came on the one Saturday a year when the local half-wits get together and howl. Two hours earlier and no one would have been drunk enough to run off at the mouth. Two hours later and they would have been too drunk to care who came through the door.”

“I doubt that you ever get that drunk,” Eden said matter-of-factly. She braced a sack of supplies on her hip as she unlocked the truck’s door. “You’re too disciplined.”

Nevada gave Eden a sharp look, but before he could ask her how she had known that about him, he saw a huge, dark shadow moving inside the cab of the weather-beaten truck.

“Good God – is that a wolf?” Nevada demanded.

Eden smiled. “You’re mostly right. The rest is husky.” The truck’s door grated as it opened. “Hello, Baby. You ready to stretch your legs a bit?”

A black tail waved and sounds of greeting that were a cross between a growl and a muffled yip came from the wolf’s thickly furred throat. The instant Nevada moved toward the truck, the sounds became a definite growl and the tail ceased waving.

“It’s all right, Baby. Nevada is a friend.”

The growls ended. Yellow eyes looked at Nevada for a comprehensive instant. Then, accepting the stranger, Baby leaped to the ground.

“Baby?” Nevada asked dryly. “He’s got to go at least a hundred and twenty pounds.”

“One hundred and thirty-three. But he started small. I found him in a hunter’s trap when he was half-grown. The leg healed almost as good as new, but not quite. In the wild, the difference would have slowly killed him.”

“So you kept him.”

Eden made a murmurous sound of agreement as she leaned into the passenger side of the truck to deposit supplies.

“Do you make a habit of collecting and taming wild animals?”

“No.” Eden stacked two sacks where a passenger’s feet would have gone. “I’m a wildlife biologist, not a zookeeper. If I find wild animals that are hurt, I heal them and turn them loose again. If I kept them, there’s nothing I could give them that would compensate for the loss of their freedom.”

Silently Nevada handed over the sacks he was carrying. As he did, Eden noticed that he had cut his left hand in the fight. She dumped the sacks in the truck and took Nevada’s hand between her own.

“You’re hurt!”

Nevada looked down into Eden’s eyes. In the fading light of day her eyes were almost green, almost gold, almost amber, almost blue gray, a shimmer of colors watching him, as though every season, every time, lived behind her eyes. Her hands on his skin had the healing warmth of summer, the softness of spring sunshine. He wanted nothing more than to bend down and take her mouth, her body, sinking into her until he couldn’t remember what it was like to be cold.

But that would only make the inevitable return of ice all the more painful.

“I’m fine,” he said, removing his hand. Eden took Nevada’s hand again. The renewed touch of her skin sent hunger searching through every bit of his big body, making his muscles clench with need.

“Nevada,” she said, remembering what the bartender had called him. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

Nevada nodded curtly, trying to ignore the exquisite heat of Eden’s breath as she examined his hand again.

“You’re bleeding, Nevada. Come with me to the motel room. I’ll clean the cut and—”

“No.”

His rough refusal surprised her. She looked up into eyes as cold and bleak as a winter moon.

“It’s the least I can do to thank you for being a gentleman,” Eden said softly.

“Take me to your motel room?” Nevada asked, his tone sardonic.

“You know that isn’t what I meant.”

“Yes. But I mean it.” Nevada freed his left hand, hesitated, then let out his breath with a whispered curse. His fingertip skimmed the curve of Eden’s lower lip with aching slowness. “Stay away from me, Eden. I’m a warrior, not a knight in shining armor, and I want you more than all the men in that bar put together.”

Abruptly Nevada turned and walked away, leaving Eden standing motionless in the icy twilight, watching him with a mixture of shock and deeply sensual speculation in her eyes.

<< 2 >>

The big Appaloosa threw up its head and snorted.

“Take it easy, you knothead,” Nevada said soothingly. Then, without turning around, he added, “Morning, Ten. Hear anything from Mariah and Cash?”

Tennessee Blackthorn was accustomed to his brother’s uncanny ability to tell when he was being approached from behind, and by whom. Even so, Ten had hoped that after almost two years on the Rocking M, Nevada would lose some of the habits of a guerrilla warrior. But he hadn’t. He had the same fighting edge to his reflexes and senses that he had had in the mountains of Afghanistan, where he had taught warriors with flintlocks how to defeat soldiers with tanks. Nevada had the same intense discipline and concerted lack of emotion that he had learned in Afghanistan. Even the Rocking M’s cowhands had given up betting on when – or under what circumstances – Nevada Blackthorn would truly smile.

“Cash called late yesterday,” Ten said. “Mariah’s doctor said she was fine. Apparently she missed the flu that was going around here.”

“Good.”

“Speaking of being sick, are you sure you should be on your feet? That was a fair fever you were running yesterday.”

“I’m glad Mariah isn’t sick,” Nevada said, settling the saddle gently over the skittish Appaloosa. “She and Cash should have fine, strapping children. I’m looking forward to hearing another healthy baby around here hollering for mama to bring his next meal. Carla’s new baby is really something.” Nevada cinched up the saddle girth with a swift, smooth motion, moving so quickly that the horse had no time to object. “Like your Carolina. That’s one fine set of lungs the little lady has. She and Logan make a real pair.”

Ten smiled dryly and accepted that Nevada wasn’t going to talk about flu, rest, and a cold ride into the mountains. “Glad you like having babies around. Mariah will give us two more little screamers sometime in May or June.”

Nevada looked over his shoulder. “Twins?”

“Yeah. Cash was so excited he could hardly talk. He and Mariah had been hoping, but they hadn’t said anything until they were sure everything was fine.”

“Tell her to be extra careful. Twins tend to be born small, and small babies have a harder time.”

“Tell her yourself. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“I won’t.” Nevada gestured with his head toward MacKenzie Ridge. “I’m going to spend a few days tracking cats. Supposed to be fresh snow by afternoon up toward Wildfire Canyon. It may be the last tracking snow of the winter.”

And maybe, just maybe, when I’m chasing cats rather than fighting fever dreams, I’ll be able to see something other than extraordinary hazel eyes and a warm mouth that trembles at the lightest touch of a man’s finger.

The back door of the ranch house slammed as someone left the dining room. The Appaloosa shied wildly. Nevada cursed in the silence of his mind and brought his attention back to the horse.

“I can see why Luke gelded that one,” Ten muttered. “Target has more brains in his spotted butt than between his ears.”

Nevada shrugged. “As long as you pay attention, he’s the best winter horse on the Rocking M.” With the unconscious ease of a man performing a familiar task, Nevada gathered the roping rein, stepped into the stirrup and mounted in a single easy motion. “Especially in fresh snow. Target’s big enough not to get bogged down in the drifts.”

“Wouldn’t life be simpler if you just shot the cougars with a tranquilizer dart, put a radio collar on them and tracked them from the air?”

“Simpler? Maybe. A hell of a lot more expensive for sure. And a hell of a lot less fun for the cats – and me.”

Ten laughed softly. “That’s what Luke said. I didn’t argue.” Ten started to turn away, then remembered something else. “You know that old cabin just beyond Wildfire Canyon?”

“The one at the end of that abandoned logging road?”

Ten nodded. “A guy from the government called yesterday to tell us that some cougar specialist will be using the cabin as a base camp for the next month or two, depending on the cats. So if you find signs of someone moving around in the high country, don’t worry. Luke and I agreed to give free access to Rocking M land as long as we got a copy of whatever report is filed about the cougars.”

At the word cabin, Nevada went very still. A conversation that was three days old echoed in his mind. There’s no other store between here and the government cabin.