Nightfall (7 page)

He wondered if Sam would believe Selene was a vampire. If he
did, Quinn knew he might just do the same, without question. That was how much
faith he had in Sam’s judgment.

He still remembered the day Sam had first shown up in his
life. One of the hands, out riding fence line, had radioed in to Quinn’s dad
that there was an intruder who’d set up camp on the edge of the north pasture
by a tiny stream. Quinn’s father had gone out there with couple of hands to
send him on his way. Curiously, when he returned, he’d merely said the man
meant no harm and suggested the owner allow him to camp there a couple weeks.
He’d also told Quinn and his brothers not to bother him.

Which meant Quinn went out there to get a look. The man was
anywhere from sixty to a hundred and sixty, white hair flowing past his
shoulders, creased skin leathered by the sun. Piercing blue eyes looked Quinn
up and down when he rode up as if
he
was the stranger.

Then the stranger rose gracefully and held out his hand.

“I’m Sam,” he said in a voice that, hand to God, sounded as
if it rolled out of the deep earth where centuries of his ancestors might be
buried.

Quinn’s grandfather had told him stories of men like Sam Red
Elk. Not shamans, but Native American philosophers. His grandfather had died
when Quinn was very young, no more than seven or eight, but he’d made an
indelible impression on him, a stark contrast to his own father. Maybe for that
reason and some inexplicable others, he’d sneaked out and camped overnight with
Sam more than once. On that handful of nights, Sam had taught Quinn what peace
and serenity was. He’d helped Quinn let go of his angers from his many clashes
with his father and helped him find the quiet he’d needed to center himself,
decide what he wanted to do with his life.

Ironically—given how much he’d always thought he hated this
life—what he’d realized he’d wanted was to own his own ranch.

But it wasn’t necessarily those memories of Sam that were
dogging Quinn’s mind today. It was the glimpse of a different world where
outlandish things were possible, and the stories Sam had told him that
supported that idea. Stories so unbelievable Quinn had to believe they were
true. No one could make up such fanciful things.

A land so big and open as this, with so many empty spaces,
made a man consider things other people scoffed at. But he’d had a real live
piece of it up close and personal. After Quinn had bought the Last Chance
Ranch, Sam had come back into his life, camped out on the edge of the property
for nearly a year. He’d said he was monitoring some kind of magical fault line,
one of the things that had made him recommend the place for Quinn.
It has
good energy,
haitsi
. You’ll be happy here.

Quinn hadn’t known how to process that, at least not until
he’d seen firsthand what Sam had meant about “monitoring”. He could say it was
tricks played by the dusk hours, but he still vividly remembered the night he’d
stayed with the shaman on the spring solstice. Sam had laid a hand on him while
his eyes were closed and Quinn had felt the energy of the earth beneath them.
That fault line was a living, breathing snake the size of a river, coiling and
moving, carrying them. It filled Quinn up, held him under, held him still in
every part of him and told him the world was way damn more than he’d ever know,
even if he lived a thousand years.

Sam had opened his eyes at one point, and Quinn had looked
deep into the center of the earth. Maybe the man had spoken, maybe he hadn’t,
but he’d heard the words as if they were writing themselves across his soul.

You will find your heart in the otherworld, Quinn. The
world men deny because they fear its strength. They fear losing control of what
they know. Be brave, Quinn, and find your heart.

If Selene was a vampire, that would qualify as the
otherworld, wouldn’t it?

He wanted to scoff at himself, but he remembered those
energies uncoiling beneath his feet, in Sam’s eyes, inside of Quinn himself.
Damn, he sure could use some advice from Sam. He lived in Nevada now. Quinn
missed him, but he knew the man was as close as a phone call or a day trip in
his plane. The line with Sam had always felt sure and strong.

Lifting a hand, Quinn touched the bite mark on his neck. He
could easily dismiss it as a love bite. Other women had marked him that way
before. But this one appeared more detailed and precise. That had been no nip,
but a full, locking penetration that set a tingle to his balls just thinking
about it. Had she actually drunk his blood? When her silky skin had pressed
against his and her sensuous lips caressed his neck, he’d felt lightheaded.
Last night he’d chalked it up to the incredible intensity of the orgasm, but
was it more than that?

Maybe she was just one of those Goth freaks who liked to
pretend she was a vampire. There were towns in Texas where whole groups of
people dressed in black and red and made themselves up to look like denizens of
another world. Even brewed bloodlike concoctions they drank, saying it
empowered them. Quinn thought they were crazy, but to each his own. Selene
seemed as far from those people as it was possible to be, but she’d given no
clue as to where she came from.

Whatever she was, she’d mesmerized him last night, leading
him in an exquisite erotic dance.

When had he ever seen himself as a submissive? Yeah, he knew
what the word submissive meant. You didn’t get to be his age with his
experience and not know a whole lot about the different sides of sex. Or the
fantasies that just being near her seemed to evoke. He could still feel the
press of the leather belt confining his wrists.

Okay, the sex with Selene, both real and imagined, was
beyond amazing, but regardless of last night’s play and his early morning
dream, he was still a guy. He needed to establish more balance between them if
they were to continue on with this—whatever it was. There was no question that
they’d be moving forward. The lust and hunger boiling between them wasn’t going
to disappear.

He should take the reins a whole lot more. Right? Last night
he’d been willing to let her lead the dance because, truth be told, he wanted
her with a hunger he wasn’t sure would ever be appeased. But tonight would be
different. The roles would be reversed. He would be in charge and the lovely
Selene would do his bidding. Count on it.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, interrupting his
conversational duel with himself. “Hey, Quinn.”

As Dave Ojeda spurred his horse in Quinn’s direction, Quinn
pulled up on Midnight’s reins and waited for the hand to join him. “What’s up?
Looks like we’re in good shape here.” The herd was moving slowly but compactly.
They hadn’t had to chase dogies or look for lost calves.

“We are, but Johnny and I wondered if you want us to head
them a little farther north. The next pasture is still showing signs of a lot
of new growth. We might want to give it a little more time to fully mature.”

Quinn lifted his Stetson, wiped his forehead with his
forearm and resettled his hat on his head. “I guess. If you guys don’t mind the
extra time. It means making sure we get them through two gates.”

Dave chuckled. “They’re just moseying along in this heat. I
don’t think they’ll give us any trouble.”

“Okay then. Thanks for noticing. I’ll go on ahead and open
the gate and ride sentry.”

As Dave nodded, Quinn turned Midnight in that direction.
Then Dave hollered after him again.

“While you’re going that way, can you give that cow that’s
decided to wander a nudge back with her friends?”

“Sure. No problem.”

Quinn urged Midnight forward with the pressure of his knees
to where the stray cow was ambling from the herd. When it refused to respond to
Midnight’s insistent movements, Quinn uncoiled the single-tail whip hooked at
the side of the saddle and cracked it in the air. The cow gave him a
what
the hell
look but turned and moved back to the others. He flicked the whip
once more for good measure.

Looping the whip onto his saddle again, he recalled Selene’s
words from the night before.
“Do you own a whip?”

Exactly what the hell did she think she was going to do with
it? He wasn’t into pain. Was he?

This was ridiculous. He never let himself get distracted
while he was working. The ranch was serious business to him. He’d known this
woman less than twenty-four hours, spent only a brief time with her in bed, yet
his body burned for her and his mind kept drifting back to her. On sex. With
her. Hunger simmered constantly beneath the surface like liquid on a slow
flame.

Enough. He needed to get his mind back on work. Right now.

Giving himself a mental shake, he coaxed Midnight into a
canter, heading toward the other side of the meadow where the gate to the next
pasture was located. It was turning out to be a good day weather-wise, the sun
coming up, a touch of breeze, the kind of day he liked. In the distance he
could see the rise of the low mountains that gave the Hill Country its name,
dotted with thick stands of mountain cedar.

The temperature had climbed to the high seventies, about
average for late spring in south-central Texas. Before too long though, they’d
be crowding triple digits. Texas wasn’t known for long spring seasons. Summer
could be a bitch, like living in an oven, so he tried to schedule chores with
the herd accordingly.

Then Midnight hit a pothole and stumbled.

His fault. It was a fucking greenhorn mistake. With ranch
work, there was no such thing as not paying attention, even when things seemed
to be going smooth. Men who didn’t pay attention ended up going ass over
teakettle over their horse’s head or worse, permanently injuring a horse Quinn
considered worth three of himself.

“Fuck, whoa, boy. Christ.”

It all happened in a blink, worst-case scenarios flashing
through his head, and then Midnight shied back, righting himself. Experienced
as he was, Quinn was nearly unhorsed by the sudden jolt, but then they were
right as rain, just like that. Midnight dropped to a trot but kept heading
toward the gate, obviously more focused on the job than Quinn was. As he said,
the horse was worth three of him.

Then he saw what had made Midnight shy back on course. A
butterfly of all things. It fluttered up past the left side of Midnight’s head,
the horse giving it a snort and head shake.

Quinn was used to seeing the beautiful little creatures.
Texas had more species of butterflies and a larger population of them than any
other state. Every year millions of Monarch butterflies migrated through the
Hill Country, heading south for the winter and back to their habitat for the
spring and summer. Midnight saw them all the time too, but this one had
apparently almost flown up his nose when he hit that pothole.

Quinn was familiar with the variety of designs on their
wings, but this one had a different blend of colors than he’d ever seen before.
The larger part of the wingspan was a smoky blue, almost the exact color of
Selene’s eyes. The border at the bottom was a shimmery pale gold, like her
hair.

Okay, he was going loopy if he was comparing a woman’s eyes
and hair to a butterfly. Still, as he halted Midnight, giving them both a
moment to recoup from the near miss, he kept an eye on the creature. The butterfly
made a graceful turn, riding an air current to land on his hand, which rested
on the pommel of the saddle, reins wrapped over his knuckles. The insect
perched there, its delicate wings rippling. Then it took off, brushing his hat
brim before heading off on its daily business.

Almost like it was sending him a message.
Okay, cowboy,
get your mind back on your business. I can’t hang around all day to save your
ass.

His lips twisted. He’d given the butterfly Selene’s
imperious, sultry voice, which proved he had his head caught up in his dick.
Definitely not on the job at hand. Nudging Midnight into a canter back toward
the gate, he told himself to get down to business. Running a ranch was hard
work; immersing himself in that would get him back on track better than
anything else.

* * * * *

He actually did pretty well in that regard until the day
started winding down. At that point, every time he touched the whip coiled on
his saddle or felt the belting of his chaps press across his pelvis, he thought
of Selene, demanding he bring the chaps and whip with him. Usually he dreaded
going to After Hours. Today, when the cattle were finally settled and he could
ride back to the ranch with the hands, he was chafing at the bit to be at the
saloon.

Quite frankly, that pissed him off. During the afternoon he
had caught the men sending peculiar glances his way and he knew his distraction
was obvious to them. He was too old to be led around by his dick, and he sure
as hell couldn’t afford for his men to see him that way. He needed to shower,
change, get his shit together. The main reason he needed to go to After Hours
tonight was not to get laid or let some pint-sized girl boss him around. He
needed to make sure last night wasn’t some kind of fluke, and that she really did
know what she was doing with the bar. Everything else was secondary. Ridiculous
as it might be, it felt like his goals for the ranch, the saloon, his whole
life plan, were all teetering in the balance.

Maybe he shouldn’t take the whip, make it clear he wasn’t
going to do everything she said. Or maybe he would take it, just to turn the
tables. He imagined wrapping the fall around her luscious backside, holding it
tight to keep her pressed against his cock. He wouldn’t use it on her. God no.
But he idly considered putting her over his knee, giving her a spanking,
watching her thrash.

That was kind of fun to imagine. He’d gone that route before
with women. But as he chose a clean shirt from his closet, his movements
slowed, and he only got as far in his mind as closing his hand around her
delicate wrist and pulling her forward between his knees. Then she took over
the fantasy the same way she seemed to take over his reality. Sliding her hands
free to frame his face, she’d bend down and brush his lips with hers,
whispering the command to keep his hands on his knees, off her until she said
okay, while things built inside him like a cyclone threatening to tear out his
foundation.