Raising Kane

by Long, Heather

  Quanto…really exists. Wonder invaded her.

  Her reaction didn’t escape the man, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he wrapped her arm steadily. It wasn’t too tight, but the pressure actually seemed to help. “You know my name.”

  One nod. “My father told me stories about you.” Her throat threatened to close and she ruthlessly suppressed the weakness, too close to her goal to give into it.

  The frowning man jerked once, but Quanto didn’t react to that as he tied off the end of the bandage and leaned back into his chair. “Who is your father?”

  Pain gripped her heart, but again, she pushed it away. Her father deserved her strength, her determination, and her intelligence—not wails and rending of hair. Careful to use her uninjured arm, she reached up to tug the braided rope tie from around her neck and tugged out the flat metal pendant. Pulling it over her head, she felt almost naked in taking it off and suddenly very aware of her disheveled appearance, torn shirt, filthy pants. They’d taken her boots at some point, but the dirt seemed to be in every pore.

  She’d not had the opportunity to wash up since she’d left San Antonio and that seemed ages before. The relentless push west driving her beyond reason. Fingers trembling, she held the necklace out to him. The stern, dark man strode across the room and looked down as Quanto accepted it.

  “Edward.” It was the first time she’d heard the man speak since waking up. She barely remembered the ride, consciousness having come and gone—though for the barest few moments, after she’d shot the cat attacking her and her horse and collapsed, too soul weary and hurt to move—she’d felt safe. So utterly safe in a way she’d never experienced, but the why of that remained elusive.

  Not trusting her voice she nodded slowly.

  Quanto held the pendant up to the other man and he took it. The fire cast harsh shadows on his face, but she understood solemn grief when she witnessed it.

  “He wouldn’t have sent you here alone.” The dark man looked at her.

  No, Judge Edward Lang would never have condoned the long, lonely journey through treacherous territory with no assurance that she’d survive to see the end of it. “He was killed a few weeks ago in Kansas.” Choking grief threatened to rise up again and she denied it—again. Another jerk from the man across the room and she frowned at him. He was too young to have known her father, so she made herself look back at the Indian, the one she’d journeyed so far to see.

  “I am deeply sorry for your loss.” And he was, no artifice marred the platitude. “Edward was a good man.”

  “A good friend.” The dark man closed his fist around the pendant and Evelyn bit her lip. She wanted it back, it belonged to her, but she suppressed the demand. It was just a bit of metal, designed to lead her to these men—to the men who could train her. Surrendering it to their custody was not too high a price to pay for what she needed. “But you did not come all this way to notify us of his passing.”

  “No.” She wouldn’t lie. These two men had cared about her father, their reactions offered succor to the aching need in her soul.

  “So why are you here?” Though the dark man asked the question, Evelyn looked at Quanto. His eyes spoke of wisdom and endless understanding—and he already knew. She read the knowledge there as plainly as if he’d spoken the words aloud.

  “I need you to train me, as you did my father. I can do what he could.” She moistened dry, cracked lips and sucked in a steadying breath. She’d only ever spoken her next words to one other person in her life, and he urged her to bury the knowledge, to keep it secret. “I can cast and I can conjure.”

  Quanto sighed, but the dark man didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

  Already committed to her course, she continued. “I need you to train me, to help me bring my ability to its fullest. My father never wanted me to use it, he taught me to suppress it. The disciplined mind…”

  “…doesn’t slip. The disciplined mind can overcome even the most innate of desires.” The dark man’s mouth curved into a hint of a smile and it gave him a rakish appearance. “Edward fully believed in the capability of mind over matter.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed around the rock in her throat. “I cast for the first time when I was a baby and conjured for the first time when I was five. My father, he taught me to not do it. To squash the urge and to keep it there.”

  “And because your father has died, now you want to learn?” Quanto’s quiet regard suggested he took her measure and she could only pray he did not find her wanting.

  “They murdered him.” Rage thickened the words and she trembled. “They murdered him in broad daylight in the street because he would not give them what they wanted. I want you to teach me because they need to pay for what they did and I don’t have enough control or understanding of how to do it without risking hurting too many others.”

  The rush of words blew open the valve and she clasped her hands together, but the quivering was in her bones and she couldn’t stop shaking.

  “I know who they are, but my word will not be enough. I understand the law, better than most. One witness, one grief stricken woman, will not be able to bring down the son of a wealthy landowner, particularly when he…he…” She coughed, and blinked hard. She would not cry, dammit. She would not break down, not yet. The bitter violence of the grief assaulting her withdrew and drained away, she shuddered at the respite and found the strength to press on. “Particularly when he was killed in Kansas and the perpetrators were from Tennessee and in pursuit of a runaway slave. The property laws in many of those states are clear, they treat those who help slaves with the same attitude as they would a horse thief.”

  “Edward Lang did not believe in a life for a life.” Absolute conviction marked the dark man’s statement. Yes, he had indeed known her father because Edward Lang’s stance on revenge and vengeance had been equally resolute.

  “No,” she addressed her answer to both men. She had to convince them both. She thought it would just be Quanto, but the dark man’s refusal to leave the conversation and his knowledge told her it had to be both of them or neither. “He believed in justice, but he will not have justice if I do not deliver it for him. No one else will care. He was a judge with few friends because he believed in the law and did not allow emotion to sway him. He believed in the rightness of truth and in the indisputable fact. Ethan Harlow and his men murdered my father. Fact. They did so with malice of forethought. Fact. They will return to their homes, because no one else has a reason to stand against them. Fact.”

  “You need our help,” Quanto smiled gently. “Fact.”

  She nodded once. Her heart beat against her ribs, a caged animal desperate for escape—for the knowledge that they would give her the tools to see her vengeance through. “I will do anything you ask. I know it will not be easy. From time to time, Daddy—” She closed her eyes, the pain a bloody wound blossoming in her gut. “Daddy told me how hard it had been for him. He said you were tough, but fair. He admired you so very, very much. Please—?” She opened her eyes and met Quanto’s gaze. “Please say you’ll help me.”

  Shh, you’re all right. I can help you. The whispered words drifted across her mind, but they hadn’t been Quanto’s or the dark man next to him. Neither had moved or spoken since she’d made her plea heard. No, they hadn’t said those words.

  Across the room, the silent man with the deep frown stared at her and she knew he’d said it when he’d found her. But when their gazes locked, he lowered his lashes and cut off the contact. Had he changed his mind? Why didn’t he say anything now? Had she imagined his whispered promise?

  No, she’d heard him and the truth in those words. She’d believed him, then. The strangest sensation shifted inside of her, but before she could examine it too closely, Quanto rose to his feet.

  “Wyatt and I will discuss this, Miss Lang. You need to rest.”

  “No, I need to learn…” She tried to stand, but her legs wobbled and she dropped back to sit before she fell. “I will do anything you te
ll me, please.”

  “I am telling you, you need to rest. Kid can show you where you can bathe” Kindness softened the rebuke in the old man’s voice and she understood the warning. They had no one who could help her out of her clothes or back into them without compromising her virtue. It was a very gallant thing to mention, but since he’d brought up a bath, her skin crawled. She hadn’t had one since the stop at the way station, too long before to bear thinking of.

  “Do you have clothes I can borrow?” Hers were half in tatters or filthy beyond recognition, which was why she’d purchased the clothes she wore currently.

  “She’s a little shorter than Scar,” Wyatt still held her father’s pendant, his thumb tracing the hard metal edge as he spoke. “But we have some of her things still in the bath house. In the cupboard, behind the main door.” The last he said over his shoulder to the frowning man—Kid.

  What the hell kind of a name was Kid? He certainly didn’t look like a child. Shrugging aside the thought, she braced her good hand on the chair and pushed to her feet. Her legs protested, but she wanted that bath and she would walk to it.

  “Go, bathe, and then when you come back, we’ll find you a room and you can sleep.” Quanto steepled his fingers together—drawing her attention to the scars fusing the skin along one of his hands, but they didn’t seem to hamper his movement. “When you’ve rested, we’ll talk again.”

  She wanted to protest, to argue until he committed to training her. But she also understood negotiations. The bath, the rest—they delayed the decision and gave him time to think. Negotiation was often as much about what one could press for and what one was willing to accept.

  In this, she chose to accept and give him the time. She would be better armored to fight again after she rested. “Thank you.” Limping on sore legs, she was proud of the lack of sway in her as she crossed the room.

  Kid swept a look over her and then back to the other two, but instead of arguing, he stripped off his coat and swung it around her shoulders. The warmth of it seeped in and made her aware of the chill. He was careful to not actually touch her, but a muscle flexed in his jaw and his hands clenched.

  The contradiction between his gentle manner and rigid disapproval struck her as odd, but she followed him out the door, trusting these strangers as she had no other since she began her long journey. Like her father, and like her—they were Fevered.

  Kid, Hell

  They had to have been insane to appoint him to keep watch over her at the bathing house. It took everything Kid had not to yell at Quanto or Wyatt. Though neither man admonished him for his reckless race down the mountain or for nearly assaulting the woman, Evelyn, with his gift, he knew he’d nearly made a fatal error.

  The thought haunted him throughout the ride back up the mountain. She woke as they neared the cabin and Kid had never been so relieved. He let Wyatt take her in to Quanto while he tended to the horses, even the brutish Goliath was preferable to the disapproval he’d been sure he would receive. Her grief over her father, such a tangible, visceral emotion, he hadn’t been able to hold back as it slammed into him from across the room. She couldn’t breathe and she was so desperate to keep talking and not give into it.

  He’d helped, but only a little and viciously choked back the urge to take the rest when relief creased her face. Walking across the snow packed yard toward the barn, he matched his pace to her far slower one, keenly aware of every wobble in her step.

  “Thank you,” her quiet murmur poured like liquid gold through the quiet, almost scalding to his senses.

  “You’re welcome.” The words came out rougher than he intended. “I’m sorry about your father.” Losing Jed—that would be a blow and one he wasn’t prepared to even entertain. He didn’t have to imagine the pain of her loss; he felt it keenly.

  “Thank you. How much further?” Fatigue strained her voice and he motioned to the structure in front of them. “The bathhouse is there, right next to the barn.”

  Keeping one eye on her footing, he moved ahead of her to get the door open. She paused inside and her surprise at the layout seemed to infuse the air. It was a lighter, almost effervescent feeling surging above the darker morass spiraling inside of her. “Oh my.”

  “Lower pool is for bathing. Sit on the edge and swing your legs over rather than climb up.” She probably didn’t need the advice, but once he started Kid didn’t seem able to shut his mouth. The thought of her getting hurt again made him sick. “Once you’ve bathed, you can move up to the pool above it to soak. Each one is hotter, so be careful you don’t burn.”

  When it came time to close the door and let her bathe, he hesitated.

  She turned to look at him, nibbling at her lower lip. “No other women are here?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine…” But it wasn’t, because uncertainty filled her eyes and worry clung to her. Fear—no, not fear, concern. Exhaustion bore down on her and she didn’t trust that she wouldn’t have problems. His head ached at the flurry of feelings and he tried to shove that door closed, but it seemed wedged open partially, letting in a constant leak from her.

  “I can stay,” he offered and tacked on. “Back turned, I’ll stare at the door. Then you won’t be alone and if something happens. I’ll be right here.”

  Another wave of surprise colored by embarrassment and the beginnings of gratitude. “I know it’s a lot to ask…”

  Old habits kicked in, manners ingrained since he’d been a child. “You didn’t ask, ma’am, I offered and it’s the sensible decision. I give you my word, I will not look.” No matter how beautiful you are… His body tightened at the idea of her naked and wet and he nudged her inside and closed the door, pivoting to face the wall. He glued his gaze to the wood. “Soap and washing cloths are on the edge of the first pool.” He’d put fresh ones out himself.

  He felt every whispered footstep of hers as they hushed across the floor. “I see them.” The low, sweet contralto of her voice wrapped around him and squeezed. The rustle of fabric slid across his senses followed by the splash of water and her long low sigh. He was damn near in physical pain as his cock hardened.

  Gelding. Every spring they evaluated the young stallions on the ranch. Some were kept for breeding, but others were gelded. Geldings provided sturdy backs, and gentle dispositions for riding. It might be a conformation defect or bad temper that led to the culling, but the process was one Kid remembered in infinite detail. Every Kane son learned how to wield that knife and not injure the animal unduly. Imagining the process helped to deflate the overwhelming urge to turn around and join her in that bath.

  And then she sighed, pleasure mingling with relief. “This…thank you again.”

  A long vertical slice delivered along the back of the testicle… Kid gritted his teeth. He almost had it under control and then he heard the splash of water and smelled the soap.

  He was in hell.

  “Why do they call you Kid?” Her voice penetrated the red haze of lust clouding him and he fought to focus on the question.

  “I was named for my father, but they’ve always called me Kid.” He shrugged. Even his father called him Kid. Half the time he forgot he had another name.

  “Do you mind if I ask what your given name is?” The timidity didn’t suit her. She’d faced down Wyatt and Quanto with an even temper and an iron spine, despite her injuries. “I’m sorry if it seems an intrusive question. I just want to focus on something besides how tired I am.”

  And how could he not respond to that? “Jebidiah William.” The mouthful of a moniker sounded so much more somber and serious than he cared for.

  “So Quanto is not your father?”

  Kid laughed. “No.” Did he look Indian? He hadn’t really taken a look at himself in a while, his hair had definitely grown and it fell to his shoulders, but he had blue eyes, like his brother. “Most people call my father Jed.” Or Mr. Kane, or Boss.

  “Hmm, you don’t look like a Jed.” Water trickli
ng over bare skin and trailing down her naked body…

  Vertical slices, tie off the vein, snip the testicle and remove. His jaw locked and he had to cough once to even find his voice. “That’s why they call me Kid.”

  “It doesn’t suit you.” The observation surprised him.

  Focus on the words, not the idea of soap on her breasts or the water rinsing it away… He swallowed. “It’s just a name, ma’am. I’m the youngest, so I’m Kid.”

  “Do you mind if I call you William?”

  He blinked at the request. Water falling rapidly filled the silence.

  “I’m going to try and climb up into the other pool if you don’t mind. The water’s very dirty now.”

  “Of course…” That he managed to push the words out impressed him. “Are you okay?”

  He listened intently for any sound of distress, memorizing the wood grain pattern on the back of the door.

  “Oh yes,” another long sigh. “Oh you’re right this water is so much hotter. I haven’t had a hot bath in so long.”

  Hell. This was their revenge for his flouting of their advice. Quanto and Wyatt were evil and he was in hell. Absolute hell and haunted by the most exquisite of punishments.

  “Don’t soak too long and be careful of your bandage.” He grimaced at the harsh tone.

  “I won’t.” She didn’t seem to notice his tone, thankfully. While her grief hadn’t lessened, an easement lightened the air. She relaxed. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He couldn’t remember what it was. Imagining the knife slicing his own testicles was the only thing keeping his pants on. “What was it?”

  “Do you mind if I call you William?”

  “Why?” The question confused him.

  “Why would you mind?”

  He shook his head. “No, why do you want to call me William?” No one did. Not really—not anymore. Caroline had… Fondness welled up, the bleakness of grief giving way to the welcome reminder.

  A splash of water echoed in the chamber. Had she shrugged? Had her breasts lifted out of the steaming water? Were her nipples hard? Would he die from his balls swelling so uncomfortably? “I’m sorry, I think I’m more tired than I thought I was...”