Stroke of Midnight (17 page)

What she'd said was too deep. She was a beautiful combination of black and Indian, and her people had had a problem with some foreign white guy that obviously blew into town. That had to be the deal. He could relate. His folks were the same way about differences. Sad, though, that they'd put this poor girl on a bus for something as minor as that—but where he'd come from, infractions were often dealt with more severely. At least they didn't burn a cross on her lawn. But it broke his heart to see her still struggling with cutting ties to home.

"Yeah, well, my folks weren't big on interracial relationships, either," he said, studying the stars. "They didn't want me to even play certain music, so I can dig it. Closed minds, hey… whatcha gonna do? So you left. Cool. Just did it myself, and I'm never going back. So, here we are, Bonnie and Clyde, or the Odd Couple." He chuckled and shook his head. "Who cares if they don't get over it? We'll ride it out together. Cool?"

In that moment, Jake Rider became even dearer to her. She watched him looking up at the stars, his mind open, but not comprehending, his voice gentle, his spirit so fair. She didn't care if he wasn't hearing what she was saying. It didn't matter that it might take years before he truly understood. All she had to do was get to her grandmother's healing medicine to purge her system and she might not be lost to the destiny she was supposed to have. She was to be one of the guardians, too… whenever the Neteru came.

She looked at this handsome man, who had stood up to pure evil on her behalf, and a knowing washed through her. He'd never flinched, never wavered, just drew his weapon on instinct like a warrior, and used his body to shield hers. He didn't even know her name when he'd done it. A dead man lay at his feet, but he'd had kept his goal singular—protect an innocent… her.

The old men used to talk about this in quiet tones. Their wise murmurs had also spoken of soul mates among the newest Neteru inner circle. All she had to do was wait, but she'd been so deceived when she had been so close. They had told her she'd know by the depth of a man's eyes, but had also told her not to look into every pair of eyes she'd encounter.

Their messages were cryptic, and she'd been impatient to taste a slice of life denied her. It wasn't fair, and the Great Spirit could not forsake her… she'd prayed so hard and so vigilantly, and the moment she saw the right pair of eyes, she'd understood—a flicker of familiarity in a pair of unlikely but kind hazel eyes that weren't dark, seductive, or intense… they were eyes that didn't change into horrible glowing orbs. Jack Rider's mouth would issue a caress, and never bear fangs. If only she'd waited… but how did one stare at something like she had and not be seduced?

She almost wept as she listened to life all around her. Music of the night, the cicadas, the crickets, the owls, a mournful coyote's wail. She could already hear things she shouldn't have been able to hear with normal human senses, regardless of her gift. She could tell things about this wild, but honorable man that should have been blocked to her mind. It had only been one bite. It took three to completely turn a human. She hadn't even been bitten by the master of the line, but by a lower-level lieutenant. Shame filled her. Just one fateful, unfair bite, during an encounter that should never have happened. Even her sensuality was starting to change… a touch on her throat had scorched her. She'd wanted Jake Rider to make love to her so badly, she'd almost cried out. And that made no sense. She needed time; he needed time—they didn't even know each other, and her system had to be purged.

Tara wrapped her arms around herself. "My mother came to me in a dream and she gave me an address—said to go to my grandmother, and meet up with the Creeks that had been through this before in New Orleans. There's a small group of them tucked away in the Navajo nation in New Mexico." She reached into her bra with two fingers and produced a small slip of paper.

He looked at her as she offered it to him, accepting it with caution.

"If something happens to me," she said quietly, "or if something happens to you… go to this man. He has a young son, José Ciponte. His mother never married his father, because she was afraid, too… she feared her son's destiny and had hoped she could keep him from it by staying away from his father, who would teach him. But she finally sent the boy there to learn and he saw the things that we did. They have different last names, but his father is a renowned Creek guide; his mother is Latina. You're going to Arizona, past New Mexico, right?"

He only nodded, stunned, because he'd never told her where he was going. Just like he'd never told her his name or about his ability to always smell things better than the average person.

"We should stay together, as long as possible. Those things in the tavern always try to separate the herd, get one off by themselves—unless they come in numbers, like they did there. Maybe we'll get to my grandmother in time." Her expression was sad as she glanced away. "You're a sharpshooter, too?"

He couldn't speak. How in God's name did she know that he'd spent nearly every afternoon of his life popping bottles at distances to the point where it was a local gambling diversion? He could hit a bottle at a hundred yards, dead drunk. "Yeah," he said slowly, his eyes searching hers for understanding.

"Pack your bullets with the earth I gave you… please do it for me. Humor me, even if you don't believe me, and don't go out alone, even for a pack of cigarettes, without it."

From a very remote place in his mind, everything she was saying, even the way the moon lit the side of her face, sounded and seemed too frighteningly familiar. He tucked the small slip of paper into his jeans pocket, knowing somehow that his adventure had only begun.

"Nothing's gonna happen to you—or me," he said, trying to convince himself. "What happened back there… was… there's a logical explanation." He pushed himself up and stood and began pacing, but was careful to stay within the hallowed-earth ring.

"My crew probably got restless. One of them probably rushed the bartender for a free bottle or his register, or he got jumpy and pulled a gun. The old dude may have had some hired help in the back, or something… yeah. And, uh, it got nuts—crazy. A couple of the guys riding with us did what was sensible, got out of Dodge." He stopped walking and looked at her for confirmation that never came.

"Tara, listen, honey, that's what makes sense. See, bikers get a bad rap. People always think we're just animals. And if the authorities came, we had illegal stuff on us, drugs, unregistered weapons—because the road is dangerous, we carry a lot of money, see. They would have pinned robberies across the state on us just to close the books so they'd have less paperwork. I mean, I've been temporarily locked up before for bar fights that I wasn't even involved in. But I had a Harley, so I went in overnight with the whole kit and caboodle. And, okay, Crazy Pete was crazy. Probably got his throat cut in the brawl. I'm sure the bartender had a knife or something, or one of his boys did."

Rider could feel his pulse quicken as he whipped himself up and raked his mind for a rational thought. He gestured wildly with his hands as he spoke, hoping that would invoke logic. "And it made sense for the bus driver to put you off the bus, because maybe he was just prejudiced—you were the only different one on there—and he probably thought 'cause you were being nice to me, and everything, that he didn't want you with him… uh, yeah, because you'd tell the truth about what you saw, or didn't see, which would muddy up his open-and-shut version." He added, rubbing his jaw, "So the SOB was just gonna leave you with us."

He stopped walking, scratched his head, and started pacing again. "No, more likely, he was taking you to the winning side, the bartender. Sorry bastard probably didn't want to be detained for questioning or have to come back for a trial, with a busload of witnesses, so he did the punk thing and started his engine so he could roll. I pulled the gun because I didn't want you hurt by either side, and I was fixing the bus while it all happened, anyway. Before tonight, we never met each other, and I was just helping a damsel in distress. The eyes—cats. A rundown joint like that would have cats everywhere to chase away mice or rats… I didn't hear dogs bark, so that's what probably ran by the window fast. Cats move faster than dogs. Right?"

He stopped pacing, nearly winded, and stared at her. "I'm not putting you down, or your belief system down, or talking bad about your momma, your people, or whatever. I'm just trying to keep us as far away from the bodies that dropped as possible. We can't go telling this stuff that sounds like dementia to a sentencing judge, if we get caught up in a dragnet. If they try to pin a crime on us—believe me, an insanity rap ain't no day at the beach, and doesn't always work, anyway. So, if the police ask,
that's
the story."

"Okay," she said just above a whisper, standing and going to him. She looked into his eyes and touched his cheek. She could feel his hard pulse through her skin and almost kissed him. "If you say so,
that's
the story."

CHAPTER 3

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A shiver ran through her as the adrenaline surging in his blood wafted toward her. The night was calling her beyond the protective ring, and a sudden hunger began to grip her. As long as she never took an innocent before the cleansing rituals were done… as long as she never polluted her system with human blood from a kill… before the teeth came, she had a chance. She walked away from him and sat down, rubbing her arms.

"I've got a blanket in my saddlebags," he said, not asking her if she wanted it.

She only nodded and closed her eyes tight. He had to stop being so kind. She could feel her gums thicken as he walked away, her will a shred of dental tissue from not being her own. She had to remember that she was still human, and hadn't died yet. That was the last phase.

"You hungry?" he asked, coming back to put a blanket around her shoulders. He set his guitar down inside the ring, but stood near her waiting for a response.

She clung to the rough fabric and wrapped it around her all the way up to her neck. She shook her head no. The question had made her shudder. He had to get away from her. She used her chin to motion toward his guitar. "Why don't you play? It's going to be a long night."

She relaxed when he slowly withdrew from her side. She could smell the blood and sweat on him.

"Like I said, I just mess around." He sat down and opened the case, glancing at her. "It's an acoustic. Don't always have a place to plug in an electric axe. But, one day, when I find myself somewhere permanent, I'm getting a Fender. The real McCoy."

"The one you have is beautiful," she said quietly, truly meaning it as she watched the fire bounce off the highly polished wood. "Where'd you get it?"

He paused and rubbed the body of the instrument. "Don't laugh. I got it from my mom." He looked at her, expecting her to laugh. But her eyes held understanding.

"Why would that make me laugh? Mothers will give you their life blood."

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or that something he couldn't describe that glittered in her eyes, but she made him feel safe to tell her what he hadn't told another soul. "I told her I wanted it for Christmas when I was fifteen. I saw it in a window in town. I wanted this guitar more than anything. And she stole money from my dad—well, it wasn't really stealing, she just shorted the supermarket allowance, you know, ten dollars here, twenty dollars there, for a whole year so she could buy me this." He started tuning it as he talked, the memory hard to verbalize. "She got beat up that morning, and my dad threatened to break it. She stood the whipping, told me to run with it, and never look back. Took me six more years to heed her advice."

"I'm sorry," Tara murmured. "There are all kinds of demons… your mother sounds like a good woman."

"Don't be sorry," Rider said, chasing the memory with a swig of liquor and letting the pain fade. "But you're right. There are all kinds of demons, so maybe what your people believe isn't all that far-fetched." He played a little riff. "Yeah, Mom is a good woman. I'm going to send her some money to get away from my father."

He was glad that Tara didn't say another word while he picked up and down the bridge and tightened his wires, deciding. What would he play for her? He closed his eyes and listened to the night. He better understood the sad country songs he'd always shunned. But she wasn't country western… had something extra. Spanish guitar, a little funk, some blues, something Native American spiritual, something sensual, something honest, something that cut across all his known boundaries… she was something he'd never played before. He just let his hands work and follow her rhythm while they composed Tara on the fly.

Without a doubt, he'd wanted a woman before. But something about this one was different. Half of his mind wanted to pursue what that something different could be, the other half of it was rapidly losing perspective as the music hit his bloodstream and became her.

The way she watched him intently was something he could feel without opening his eyes. The heat from her stare entered his pores. He glanced up and saw her gaze rake down his throat so hotly that he almost closed his eyes, this time in pleasure.

Her expression was innocence and hunger. She licked her bottom lip. It made his mouth water and sent the burn racing across his skin, awakening erogenous zones he didn't even know he had.

He told himself it had to be the liquor talking, or the adrenaline still humming in his veins. But the look she gave him made him want to touch her so badly that the hairs were standing up on his arms. He could feel his nipples harden. They stung every time he took a breath and brushed the rough inside fabric of his vest. He was glad he had his axe on his lap. She didn't need to see the erection he was sporting. He didn't want to offend, scare, or disrespect her. He continued to play and his fingers almost stumbled when her gaze slid down his chest and settled on his hands.

She couldn't breathe. This man was stopping time with his beautiful music. She could feel the creative energy in his bloodstream, linking to hers and washing through her veins, creating an ache to lie with him. The beat of his pulse was maddening, driving another hunger within her to the surface. No, not him and not tonight. Never. This man with a good heart didn't deserve that. But soon she would have to leave him to feed.

The heat of her gaze settled like a molten ache in his groin. Yet he couldn't move toward her or away from her. He watched her lids lower to half-mast and his cock twitched. That's when he stopped playing, shut his eyes, and swallowed hard.

He carefully set aside his guitar and pushed himself up and walked toward her. He knelt before her and slid his fingers into her hair. He didn't care that they could both use a shower. He didn't care where she came from or where she was going. He didn't care what she believed in, or what color her beautiful skin was. All he wanted was her mouth, and whatever else she'd allow him.

"We can't," she whispered, as he leaned in to kiss her. "We have no protection against this."

Her hand found the center of his chest, but she wasn't pushing him away, just making him pause. There was no fear in her eyes, just a warning that he knew to be true.

"You're too decent a man to get trapped in a life like that," she said gently, shaking her head.

It was the truth; not that he felt he was a good man, but the part about being trapped. He'd never wanted to be the kind of man who had kids somewhere, a bounty for child support on his head, and guilt on his conscience. But at this very moment, all those issues seemed remote. She didn't understand that his sense of self-preservation and pride had been stripped, leaving him naked and aching before her. All rational thought had left him. The very fact that she cared about his future only caused him to want her more. But he also cared deeply about her future and he forced himself to pull away.

He dropped his hand away from her hair and sat back on the ground with a thud, looking at his boots. No woman had ever cared about his future. None of the others had ever given a rat's ass about anyone beyond themselves. And as his gaze found hers again, all he could think of was all the things a woman like her deserved. He wanted her to genuinely like him, respect him, not think he was just what people had said—some sort of lawless animal who lived only for the next thrill.

Then she got up and came to him, touched his face and traced his mouth with the pad of her thumb. Rider grabbed her wrist and kissed the center of her palm.

"I'll pull out. I promise." He looked at her, not breaking eye contact as he spoke, hoping that she'd work with their circumstances. The fact that she hesitated gave him a flicker of hope that there might be a chance, which only made his heart beat faster. "I
swear
to God."

She smiled and drew back her hand. "That's just the thing… I might not let you."

"I'll take my chances," he said after a moment and held his breath for her response. Oh, God, he'd never begged a woman like this in his life.

"I can't let you do that, man with a good heart. The result would kill you. Trust me, that much I know."

With that she stood and walked to the other side of the dying fire. She might as well have cut him and left him bleeding by the side of the road. He wasn't about to force her, had never done anything like that in his life. But he watched her intently, for a sign, any signal that she might change her mind. Please let her change her mind. Because, right now, if she wanted to trap him, she could. He'd go willingly down whatever path she wanted him to go.

She looked up at him like she'd just heard the thought. Unless his mind was playing tricks on him, he was sure he'd seen her shudder. He could sense her deep conflict. If she were feeling half of what was running through him, then she'd err on the side of reckless abandon and just go for it. He was ready to throw caution to the wind. Truth was, he'd jettisoned it about an hour ago.

Oh, Rider… you don't understand
. Temptation tugged at her, nearly seducing her. To throw caution to the wind would be so irresponsible. But as he sat there, hope flickering in his eyes, his inhalations becoming shallow sips, she almost gave in to his offer. It took everything in her not to open the blanket for him to join her. She'd never been with a man before, not like this, when nature was simply taking its course. And with him under the stars, and his song still vibrating within her… She sucked in a deep breath, ashamed at the shudder of arousal that claimed her. Worry filled her as she watched it ripple through him, too. It was in his eyes, something that went beyond intense arousal. A knowing resonated in her core. If the man got up and came to her, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions.

"I'm ready to abandon caution," he finally said, more than hoping she had, too. It was more like a silent prayer, because if a beautiful brown baby came out of this, then he'd build a house and put her and his baby behind a white picket fence. The road wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He'd get over it. But one thing was for sure: he wasn't about to get over her anytime soon.

"When daylight comes, you'll feel differently."

He stared at her as he felt her retreat behind a very sensible wall. Trying to salvage some of his dignity, he just nodded and let it rest. "You're right. This probably just got intense because of what we've been through together. Warrior bonding." He made himself laugh.

But he thought,
Oh, God, let her change her mind
.

She laughed, nodded, and rubbed her arms under the blanket.
Oh, Lord, I want him
. The burn was so hot, she wanted to cry instead of laugh. Her body craved his touch.

He had to look away. Couldn't even watch the gentle slide of her hands up and down her arms.

"In the morning," he said, clearing his throat, "we'll walk back to the church. I'll see if they'll give us a lift to a gas station, then we'll refuel and head out. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"Okay," she said softly, "you, too."

Yeah, right. He got up and found the bottle of Jack Daniel's, opened it and took a swig, trying not to let her see his hands tremble.

He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep. He had slept like a dead man, but now had awakened with a start. He glanced around the circle, and jumped up in a panic. Tara was gone.

"Tara!" he hollered, his voice echoing back to him in the early predawn hours. If she'd left him… But that was crazy. What right did he have to feel this way? "Tara, honey, you there?" he called out again with less confidence. Then he saw her coming through the bushes not far away.

"Where did you go?" he demanded, rushing over to her. "You scared the crap out of me."

"I had to… relieve myself," she said with a smile. She sighed as she stared up at him. He was so sweet. But she was glad he didn't know the real reason she'd gone out into the woods alone.

"Yeah, okay, but you should have woken me up. There's things out there that—"

"I was fine," she said, kissing his chin. She wanted so badly to kiss him. She glanced down to fight the temptation. She clasped her hands together to keep from reaching up to trace the vein in his throat.

Rider gave her a quick hug, then let her go. "It'll be dawn, soon. Let's go get that gas."

"All right," she said, as he put his arm over her shoulders.

Dawn sounded so different from the night, especially in the springtime. It smelled different, too. Small birds began chirping, dragonflies buzzed. The frogs went quiet; a whippoorwill sent a lonely cry through the air. Dew brought the scents of the flowers and grass alive. Households slowly came alive in farm country at that hour. A bloodhound barked in the distance. His footsteps sounded heavy beside Tara's soft pad of sandals. He glanced at her and worry stole his peace. Her pallor was nearly gray now, her breathing labored. It was as though the cresting sunlight were sucking everything out of her. He hastened his steps, remembering how much she'd just been through.

As they approached the churchyard gate, he also remembered where he was—in a part of the world that had not changed since the Civil War.

"Sweetheart, stay right here, and let me go try to get us a ride," he said.

She nodded and leaned against the short fence, taking in small sips, breathing like she had asthma. Suddenly a stray dog rounded the corner, stopped when it sighted her, raised its hackles and snarled.

Before Rider could leap between her and the dog, Tara narrowed her gaze and hissed at the dog.

The large dog stopped advancing, turned tail and ran, barking hysterically.

Heart pounding, Rider pulled her in close to him.

"We need to get out of here. Can you make it for a short run?"

She shook her head no, as she clung to him for support.

He was about to sweep her up into his arms when he heard a deep baritone voice bellow, "Duke! Duke! Whatcha got, boy?"

Shit, his worst nightmares were coming true. He'd never outrun a hound and a man with a shotgun with her in his arms. He'd have to stand his ground and simply hope that this church didn't belong to a local Grand Dragon.