Birthright

by Nora Roberts

  up a large display board and pinned various photographs, sketches and maps to it.

  Even with a cursory glance she could see his thought process, his organization of data. When it came to the work, at least, she knew his mind as well as her own.

  But it was the drawing on his worktable, one he’d anchored with an empty beer bottle and a chunk of quartz, that grabbed her attention.

  He’d taken their grid, their site survey, their map and had created the settlement with paper and colored pencils.

  There was no road now, no old farmhouse across it. The field was wider, the trees ranging along the creek, spreading shadows and shade.

  Around the projected borders of the cemetery he’d drawn a low wall of rock. There were huts, grouped together to the west. More rocks and stone tools collected in the knapping area. Beyond, the field was green with what might have been early summer grain.

  But it was the people who made the sketch live. Men, women, children going about their daily lives. A small hunting party walking into the trees, an old man sitting outside a hut, and a young girl who offered him a shallow bowl. A woman with a baby nursing at her breast, the men in the knapping area making tools and weapons.

  There was a group of children sitting on the ground playing a game with pebbles and sticks. One, a young boy who looked to be about eight, had his head thrown back and was laughing up at the sky.

  There was a sense of order and community. Of tribe, Callie noticed. And most of all, of the humanity Jake was able to see in a broken spear point or a shattered clay pot.

  “It’s not bad.”

  When he said nothing, just reached in the bag for another cookie, she gave in. “Okay, it’s terrific. It’s the kind of thing that reminds us why we do it, and will help Leo make points when he shows this along with the gathered data to the money people.”

  “What does it say to you?”

  “We lived. We grew and hunted our food. We bore our young and tended the old. We buried our dead, and we didn’t forget them. Don’t forget us.”

  He trailed a finger down her arm. “That’s why you’re better at lecturing than I am.”

  “I wish I could draw like this.”

  “You’re not too bad.”

  “No, but compared to you, I suck.” She glanced up. “I hate that.”

  When he touched her hair, she shifted away, then opened the screen on the sliding doors and stepped out on his deck.

  The trees were silvered from the moon, and she could hear the gurgle of the creek, the chorus of cicadas. The air was warm and soft and still.

  She heard him step out behind her and laid her hands on the rail. “Do you ever . . . When you stand on a site, especially if you’ve focused in so it’s like you’re alone there. You know?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you ever feel the people we’re digging down to? Do you ever hear them?”

  “Of course.”

  She laughed, shook back her hair. “Of course. I always feel so privileged when I do, then after, when it passes, I just feel dopey. Hating the dopey stage, I’ve never said anything about it.”

  “You always had a hard time being foolish.”

  “There’s a lot to live up to. My parents, my teachers, the field. No matter how much lip service is paid, if you’re a woman in this, you’re always going to be outnumbered. A woman acts foolish in the field, starts talking about hearing the whispers of the dead, guys are going to dismiss her.”

  “I don’t think so.” He touched her hair again. “One thing I never did was dismiss you.”

  “No, but you wanted me in the sack.”

  “I did.” He brushed his lips over the back of her neck. “Do. But I was nearly as aroused by your mind. I always respected your work, Cal. Everyone does.”

  Still, it warmed her to hear it when he’d never said it to her before. “Maybe, but why take the chance? It’s better to be smart and practical and dependable.”

  “Safer.”

  “Whatever. You were the only foolish thing I ever did. Look how that worked out.”

  “It’s not finished working out yet.” He ran his hands down her arms in one long, possessive stroke. Pressed his face into her hair.

  She heard his breath draw in. Draw her in.

  Her body poised for more, for the flash and grab. Struggled to resist it. It would be a mistake, she knew it would be yet another mistake.

  “I love your hair, especially when you let it fall all over the place like this. I love the way it feels in my hands, the way it smells when I bury my face in it.”

  “We’re not going to have a repeat of the other night.” Her hands white-knuckled on the deck rail. “I initiated that, and I take responsibility for it. But it’s not going to happen again.”

  “No, it’s not.” He scooped her hair to the side and rubbed his lips at the nape of her neck, nibbled his way to her ear. “This time it’s going to be different.”

  A hot tongue of lust licked along her skin until she dug her fingers into wood to keep them from reaching back and grabbing him. Her knees were going shaky, and the long, liquid pull in her belly nearly made her moan. “Whatever the approach, Tab B still fits into Slot A.”

  His chuckle was warm against her throat. “It’s all the getting there, Cal. Did you ever think the sex was always the easy part for us? We just fell into it, into each other. Fast, hard, hot. But you know what we never did?”

  She stared straight ahead, fighting to keep the moan trapped. She told herself to turn and push him away. To walk away. But then he wouldn’t be touching her like this. She wouldn’t feel like this.

  God, she’d missed feeling like this.

  “I don’t think we skipped anything.”

  “Yeah, we did.” His arms came around her waist. She waited for his hands to stroke up to her breasts. She wouldn’t have stopped him. She ached for that first rough grip of possession, that one instant of shock before she knew she would take, and be taken.

  Instead he only drew her back against him, nuzzling. “We never romanced each other.”

  Her pulse kicked in a dozen places in her body even as she felt herself starting to melt back against him. “We’re not romantic people.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He brushed his cheek over her hair. He wanted to wallow in the scent, in the texture. Wanted, more than he’d ever imagined, to feel her yield. “Where I was wrong. I never seduced you.”

  “You never had to. We didn’t play games.”

  “All we did was play.” He brushed his lips over her shoulder, back along the curve of her neck. And felt her tremble. “Why don’t we get serious?”

  “We’ll just mess each other up again.” Her voice went thick, surprising them both. “I can’t go through that again.”

  “Callie—”

  Her hand closed tight over his, squeezed. “There’s someone out there,” she whispered.

  She felt his body stiffen. He kept his lips close to her ear, as if still nibbling. “Where?”

  “Two o’clock, about five yards back, in the cover of the trees. I thought it was just another shadow, but it’s not. Someone’s watching us.”

  He didn’t question her. He knew she had eyes like a cat. Still holding her, he tilted his head so he could scan the dark, gauge the ground. “I want you to get pissed off, push away from me and go inside. I’ll come after you.”

  “I said we’re not doing this. Not now, not ever.” She shoved back, twisted away. Though her voice was pitched toward anger, her eyes stayed steady and calm on his. “Go find one of the eager grad students who like to worship you. God knows, there are plenty of them.”

  She turned on her heel and strode back into the house.

  “You’re not throwing that in my face again.” He stormed in behind her, slammed the glass door shut. He gave her a light shove to keep her moving, and snagged a pair of jeans on the way.

  “Make sure all the doors are locked,” he ordered, and slapped off the lights in
his office. “Then go upstairs. Stay there.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Just do it!” He dragged on the jeans in the dark, grabbed shoes. “I’m going out the back. Lock the door behind me, then check the rest of them.”

  She saw him close his hand over the Louisville Slugger he’d propped against the wall.

  “For God’s sake, Jake, what do you think you’re going to do?”

  “Listen to me. Somebody killed Dolan just a few miles from here. What I’m not doing is taking any chances. Lock the goddamn doors, Callie.” He kept moving, as agile as she in the dark. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the cops.”

  He eased open the back door, scanned the dark. “Lock it,” he repeated, then slipped out.

  She thought about it for about five seconds, then streaked through the house, bolted into the bathroom to grab her own version of a weapon. A can of insect repellent.

  She was out the front door barely a minute after Jake was out the back.

  She kept low, peering into the dark, measuring the shadows as she strained to hear any whisper of movement over the cicadas. It wasn’t until she was off the lawn and into the trees that she cursed herself for not stopping to get shoes as Jake had done.

  But despite the rocky terrain, she wasn’t going back for them.

  It slowed her progress, but she had a good bead on where she’d seen that figure standing in the trees. From the direction Jake had taken, they’d come up on whoever was watching the house on either side. Flank him, she thought, biting back a hiss as another rock jabbed the bare arch of her foot.

  One of those jerks—Austin or Jimmy again—she figured, pausing to listen, listen hard. Or someone like them. The type that spray-painted insults on a car. Probably waiting until the house was dark and quiet so they could sneak up and screw with another of the cars, or pitch a rock through a window.

  She heard an owl hoot, a pair of mournful notes. In the distance a dog was barking in incessant yips. The creek gurgled to her right, and the tireless cicadas sang as though life depended on it.

  And something else, something larger, crept in the shadows.

  She eased back from a sliver of moonlight, thumbed off the cap on the can.

  She started to shift when she heard a sudden storm of movement to the left, back toward the house. Even as she braced to spring forward and give chase, a gunshot exploded.

  Everything stilled in its echo—the barking, the humming of insects, the mournful owl. In those seconds of stillness, her own heart stopped.

  It came back in a panicked leap, filling her throat, exploding out of her as she shouted for Jake. She ran, sprinting over rocks and roots. Her fear and focus were so complete she didn’t hear the movement behind her until it was too late.

  As she started to whirl around, to defend, to attack, the force of a blow sent her flying headlong into the trunk of a tree.

  She felt the shocking flash of pain, tasted blood, then tumbled into the dark.

  More terrified by hearing Callie scream his name than by the gunshot, Jake reversed directions. He raced toward the sound of Callie’s voice, ducking low-hanging branches, slapping at the spiny briars that clogged the woods.

  When he saw her, crumpled in a sprinkle of moonlight, his legs all but dissolved.

  He dropped to his knees, and his hands were shaking as he reached down to check the pulse in her throat.

  “Callie. Oh God.” He hauled her into his lap, brushing at her hair. There was blood on her face, seeping from a nasty scratch over her forehead. But her pulse was strong, and his searching hands found no other injury.

  “Okay, baby. You’re okay.” He rocked her, holding tight until he could battle back that instant and primal terror. “Come on, wake up now. Damnit. I ought to knock you out myself.”

  He pressed his lips to hers and, steadier, picked her up. As he carried her through the woods toward the house, his foot kicked the can of insect repellent.

  All he could do was grit his teeth and keep going.

  She began to stir as he reached the steps. He glanced down, saw her eyelids beginning to flutter.

  “You may want to stay out cold, Dunbrook, until I calm down.”

  She heard his voice, but the words were nothing but mush in her brain. She moved her head, then let out a moan as pain radiated from her crown to her toes.

  “Hurts,” she mumbled.

  “Yeah, I bet it does.” He had to shift her, to open the door. Since his temper was starting to claw through the concern, he didn’t feel any sympathy when she moaned again at the jarring.

  “What happened?”

  “My deduction is you ran into a tree with your head. No doubt the tree got the worst of it.”

  “Oh, ouch.” She lifted a hand, touched the focal point of pain gingerly, then saw the mists closing in again when her fingers came back red and wet.

  “Don’t you pass out again. Don’t you do it.” He carried her back to the kitchen, set her down on the counter. “Sit where I put you, breathe slow. I’m going to get something to deal with that granite skull of yours.”

  She let her head rest back against a cabinet as he yanked open another, one they’d earmarked for first-aid supplies.

  “I didn’t run into a tree.” She kept her eyes closed, tried to ignore the vicious throbbing in her head. “Someone came up behind me, shoved me into it, right after I—”

  She broke off, jerked straight. “The gunshot. Oh my God, Jake. Are you shot? Are you—”

  “No.” He grabbed her hands before she could leap down from the counter. “Hold still. Do I look shot to you?”

  “I heard a shot.”

  “Yeah, me too. And I saw what I cleverly deduce was a bullet hit a tree about five feet to my left.” He ran water onto a cloth. “Hold still now.”

  “Someone shot at you.”

  “I don’t think so.” It was a nasty scrape, he thought as he began to clean it, more gently than she deserved. “I think they shot at the tree, unless they were blind as a bat and had piss-poor aim. He wasn’t more than ten feet ahead of me when he fired.”

  She dug her fingers into his arm. “Someone shot at you.”

  “Close enough. I told you to lock the doors and stay inside.”

  “You’re not the boss. Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m not hurt. But I can promise, you’re going to be when I put this antiseptic on that scrape. Ready?”

  She took a couple of cleansing breaths. Nodded. The sting took her breath away. “Oh, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Almost done. Keep swearing.”

  She did, viciously, until he blew on it to ease the burn. “Okay, worst is over. Now look at me. How’s your vision?” he asked her.

  “It’s okay. I want some pain meds.”

  “Not yet, you don’t. You were out cold. Let’s go through the routine. Dizziness?”

  “No.”

  “Nausea?”

  “Only when I remember how I let that jerk get the jump on me. I’m okay. I just have the grandmother of all headaches.” She reached out. “Your face is scratched up some.”

  “Briars.”

  “Could use some of that nice antiseptic.”

  “I don’t think so.” But he put it back in the cupboard so she didn’t get any ideas. “It couldn’t have been just one guy. You were down and out a good fifty feet from where I was when he plugged the tree.”

  “And he came up behind me,” she agreed. “I heard the shot, and I took off.”

  “You screamed.”

  “I did not. I called out in understandable concern when I