And her husband-to-freaking-be, thankyouverymuch.
* * *
The next twenty minutes or so were pretty much a blur to Rabbit. He got his hand shaken and his back thumped enough that his shoulder started to tingle. Or maybe that was just part of the whole-body sizzle that’d hit him about three seconds after he got the ring on Myr’s finger and the first wave of Oh, holy shit, I’m getting married! hit him for real.
He’d known what he wanted, had known he was going to ask her, of course; hell, he’d had the ring for nearly a month, burning a hole in his frigging pocket. He’d wanted to wait until today, though, to share the moment with their teammates and the magic of the equinox. No way he’d expected Seth’s trick with the fire, though, or for the god to give them their mated marks. That added a whole ’nother layer to the tingles, that was for sure.
As the crowd around him thinned a little and the congratulations died down, he took her hand and brushed his fingertips across her mark, feeling a skim of heat shiver through his own forearm.
He grinned. Oh, yeah. This was going to be very cool.
“Happy?” she asked with a sassy, knowing arch of one eyebrow.
“Very. You?”
“Duh.”
He chuckled and tucked her close against his side, “Yeah. Duh.” Their style might not work for everyone, but it was perfect for the two of them, and that was what mattered, wasn’t it? He didn’t think he’d ever find someone else who got him the way she did, or who made him want to protect the hell out of her on one hand, while challenging her to go faster, farther and hotter on the other. And the thing was, as he looked around, he saw the same kind of love in each of the mated pairs—and in the family joy of Patience, Brandt and the twins—as they leaned into each other and laughed, touched, looked. There was love in every small gesture and moment, reaffirming the bonds that they might have discovered in the years leading up to the war, but that would last for decades to come.
He didn’t know if it was because the magic-users were wired to love so deeply and fiercely, a trick of the jun tan, or what, but he got it now, more than he ever had before.
Looking up at the sky as the fire started to burn low, he let out a long, slow breath. “It doesn’t excuse everything you did, you know.”
“What?” Myr had been talking to Anna—he had tuned out at the first mention of bridesmaids—but now she zoned back in on him and followed his eyes to the sky. “Are you looking at the moon?”
“No. Those five bright stars over there.” He pointed. “They make up the great boar constellation.”
“Your place in the sky.”
“And the old man’s.”
She tightened her grip on him. “He’s gone.”
He shook his head. “Not really. He’s still stuck in here.” He tapped a thumb on his chest. “I can’t . . .” He glanced off to the side, to where the ceiba spread its huge branches far overhead. “I’ve fought and I’ve protected, but I haven’t really forgiven, until now.” Looking back down at the others, he swept a hand toward the mated pairs. “Look at them. Hell, look at us. What we’ve got is special. It’s everything. If you had died—”
“I didn’t.”
“But if you had, that would’ve been the end for me. I would’ve . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to say what was in his heart. Not with the gods so near, with their gift so fresh. “Anyway. I understand better now what happened to the old man, how it must’ve felt to watch Cassie die, then see the boluntiku race off to Skywatch, knowing they were going to kill his sons and not be able to do a damned thing about it. Look at Brandt.” He pointed to where the big Nightkeeper had Harry on his shoulders and Braden swinging from one of his arms, the three of them laughing like loons while the puppy barked like crazy and jumped up, trying to nip at the boy’s sneakers. A few feet away, Patience stood back with Jox and Hannah, and tried to look like she thought they were a bunch of idiots. Her eyes danced, though, giving her away. “Think of what he’d be like if he’d lost that. If any of us had lost each other.”
“It didn’t happen.” She pressed her face to his arm. “We’re all here. I’m here.”
“I know. But the old man didn’t have that, he hadn’t had it for a long, long time.” Looking up at the Great Boar, he said, “I owe you, old man, for getting me away from Oc Ajal, away from Phee and Anntah. I owe you for raising me on your own, and when you couldn’t handle that anymore, for bringing me to live with Jox and the others. I owe you for coming back and helping the others find me, and for telling me the truth about who I am. I’m grateful for all of those things, even if you didn’t really do them for me. And I get it now. I understand why you were the way you were. That didn’t give you the right to be an asshole or a shitty father, but it gives me a reason to let it go. So there it is. I forgive you, Father. It doesn’t matter whether or not you give a crap, because I do. I forgive you, and I hope you’ve found your peace up there with your family.”
It wasn’t until he finished that he realized the others had all fallen silent, that they’d heard what he’d said. But as he looked around at them and shrugged a little, suddenly uncomfortable, he caught Patience giving him a thumbs up. Then Jox. Then Strike and a few of the others. And that made it okay, somehow. Better than okay, even.
It made it right, finally.
“Well,” Dez said into the silence. “I think this calls for the newly traditional Cardinal Day feast . . . Who’s up for some football, beer and wings?”
A laughing, ragged cheer rose up from the group, gaining ground and volume as it went, and the others dispersed to grab the coolers and other essentials from the winikin’s hall.
When Rabbit started to follow them, though, Myr tugged him back. “Not so fast, buster.”
“Wait, what? Did I do something wrong?”
Her flashing eyes softened. “No, baby, you did something very right.” She pressed her hand over his heart, which thudded double-time when she leaned in and kissed him softly. “I’m so proud of you.” She kissed him a little harder. “I love you.”
This time when she kissed him, he closed his hands on her hips and took it deep, whispering through their new bond, Thank you, and, I love you, too, and Gods, I’m so glad you’re mine.
Heat rose as the kiss continued, tightening his skin and making him think they should slip away for a half hour or so and nobody would notice. But when he started to urge her off toward the shadows, she twisted away, shot him a sidelong look and headed for one of the coolers to snag a couple of beers, then skipped toward where a game of touch football was forming up, cocking a “come hither” finger at him as she went.
He laughed aloud and followed, joining her in the huddle, grabbing his beer and letting his body bump against hers, amping the anticipation that was growing steadily between them.
The night was young, after all, and they didn’t need to rush. There was a whole world of trouble for them to get into . . . and they were going to have a lifetime together to do it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A series of childhood trips to the Yucatán left Jessica Andersen with an enduring love of Mayan myths and legends. Since leaving academic science for a career as a novelist, she has written more than twenty science-based romantic suspense novels. Now she’s thrilled to bring her research background to bear on one of her earliest fascinations, the Mayan 2012 doomsday. Jessica is a lifelong New Englander; she and her critters currently live in eastern Connecticut, on the border where Yankee country intersects with Red Sox nation (go, Sox!).
Connect Online
www.jessicaandersen.com
facebook.com/docjess
* * *
Don’t miss the brand-new contemporary series by Jessica Andersen, writing as Jesse Hayworth, beginning with
Summer at Mustang Ridge
Available in summer 2013 from Signet Eclipse!
Read on for a special preview.
* * *
Foster grinned as he led Brutus in from the geldings’ pen, w
here a dozen or so mustangs were munching hay and snoozing in the sun.
The chestnut snaked his head around, feinting for a nip.
“Quit that.” He nudged the horse out of his space, reminding him how the pecking order went: without Brutus at the top, despite his delusions of grandeur. The mustang had been at the ranch since last fall’s gather and had been under saddle for nearly six months. He’d been in the working string for only a few weeks, though, and was still reserved for the wranglers’ use because his better-than-average smarts were paired with an unpredictable streak wider than the stripe running down his nose. He wasn’t dangerous, but Foster wouldn’t exactly call him reliable, either. And given his quick mind, big feet and smooth gaits, he was worth putting some time into.
Annoyed that his nap had been interrupted, the gelding rolled an eye back at Foster.
“Yeah, yeah, life’s tough. You think this is hard work, try being a real cow horse. Compared to them, you’re just a glorified trail pony.”
Then again, what did that make him? Head trail-pony wrangler? Executive greenhorn herder? Overlord of make-sure-the-dudes-don’t-kill-themselves?
It made him employed—that was what. And saving for better days.
He gave the gelding a nudge as they reached the barn, where the bright sun turned to murky shadows at the doorway and a nervous horse—or one with a questionable sense of humor—could spook. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned conversationally. “This is supposed to be my day off, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your—”
Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as they stepped from light into dark, and Brutus gave a sudden elephant snort and exploded in a spook that was part pent-up energy, part Aieeeee, mountain lion! The big gelding’s shoes struck sparks on the cement as he tried to wheel and bolt, dragging Foster around with a thousand pounds of momentum and a cement-strong neck. Vader got in front of him and splayed all four feet, barking, trying to head off the runaway.
Foster hauled back on the lead. “Whoa, dang it! And, Vader, git!”
As the dog scurried out the back, Foster caught a flash of brown hair and wide, scared hazel eyes in a triangular face. He had only a split second to think Oh crap at the realization that the little girl was about to get flattened. Then Brutus swung his haunches around and bumped her hard, and she went flying across the aisle.
She hit the wall and went down in a pink-and-denim heap.
Oh crap turned into an inner nine-one-one, but Foster’s body kept reacting, using thirty-some years of experience to juggle the gelding away from the kid and down to the other end of the aisle.
“Knock it off!” he growled, getting right up near one of Brutus’s white-rimmed eyes. Where normally he would’ve soothed, now he muscled the blockheaded chestnut under some semblance of control, then kicked open a nearby stall and sent him into it still wearing his halter. “Don’t you dare get tangled in that lead,” he ordered, then ran the door shut and latched it tight.
He spun back, expecting to find the little girl still down. She wasn’t, though. She was on her feet, plastered in the corner where the tack stall jutted out a few feet into the aisle. Her pink T-shirt and jeans were streaked with dust, her face sheet white. All arms and legs, with a long torso and those big hazel eyes, she reminded him of a long yearling in the middle of a growth spurt, when all the pieces didn’t go together quite right.
She hadn’t made a sound, wasn’t crying now, just stood there staring at him.
“You okay?” When she didn’t say anything, he took a step toward her and reached out a hand. “Are you hurt?”
“Lizzie!”
Foster’s head whipped around as a dark-haired woman in a ridiculous black pantsuit raced into the barn wearing the same sort of look he’d seen before in a half-wild heifer’s eyes when he’d made the mistake of getting between her and her newborn calf. The kind of look that said she didn’t care what happened to her or anything around her as long as she got up close and personal with the little one, pronto.
He did what he should’ve done back then, which would have saved him a whole bunch of black-and-blues. He got the heck out of the way.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Shelby dropped to her knees, hitting so hard that the cement grated through her pants. Not seeing any blood or obvious injuries on her daughter, she whipped a look over her shoulder at the stranger. “What happened?”
“She spooked one of the horses, zigged when she should’ve zagged and took a tumble. By the time I got Brutus in a stall, she was up and moving.” He was straight out of central casting, filed under “cowboy, circa twenty-first century” in worn jeans, scarred brown boots and a black felt hat that was flecked with hay and dirt and sat low on his forehead. Compared to the guys in the dining hall, he looked faded and authentic. And concerned. Points there.
Focusing on Lizzie, she brushed at the dirt smudges on her daughter’s clothes and tried to remember how to breathe. She’s okay. It’s okay. But it wasn’t, not when Lizzie could’ve gotten seriously hurt because her idiot mother had stopped paying attention for a few minutes. “Why did you leave the dining hall? I told you not to go near the horses without a grown-up!”
Lizzie didn’t answer, didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t give her any sign to indicate that she’d heard or understood.
“Is she okay?” He sounded dubious. “I didn’t see her hit her head, but she seems kind of out of it.”
Shelby stood and faced him, tucking her daughter behind her. “She’s fine.”
“Maybe somebody should take a look at her. It’s Stace’s day off, but Gran has doctored more banged-up riders than your average ER.”
She’s seen plenty of doctors. “We don’t need anybody, but thanks. And thanks for containing the situation.” She had some idea of how fast things could get out of control when horses were involved and shuddered to think how much worse it could’ve been. “I’m very sorry she got underfoot. It won’t happen again.” She tightened her grip on Lizzie’s shoulder. “That’s a promise.”
“But she’s—”
“Perfectly okay just the way she is.”
His eyes snapped up to hers, as if she’d just said more than that. “Oh. Sorry. I, ah . . . Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” Don’t you dare pity us.
He frowned at her instead and then looked at Lizzie. “What is she, seven? Eight? And you brought her to singles week? There isn’t going to be our usual family-vacation vibe, you know.”
It wouldn’t have irritated her so much if she hadn’t already been thinking the same thing. “She’s nine. Not that it matters, because we’re not here for guest activities. I’ll be working in the kitchen.”
“You’re . . .” He trailed off.
“The new assistant cook,” she filled in.
“What happened to Bertie?”
“The doctor wants her on bed rest until she has her baby.” Which was why she and Lizzie had hit the road a week ahead of schedule, arriving in the middle of speed dates rather than next week’s thirty-person family reunion.
“You’re a chef?”
“Nope. I’m in advertising, but a friend of mine knows Krista and the ranch. When she found out I wanted to get Lizzie away from the city for the summer, she set things up. The next thing I knew, I had a summer job and a place for us to stay.” It was such a simple summary for what had been in reality a really tough choice involving dire warnings from both her boss and Lizzie’s doctor, and the inner fear that she’d come into September with Lizzie no better and her clients having forgotten who she was. In her line of work, you were only as good as your last campaign.
“A summer job.” His face was deadpan.
“Yep. Now through Labor Day. Three months, give or take.” She tipped her head. “Problem?”
He gave her an up and down just like the guys in the dining hall, only he didn’t look nearly so appreciative of her round-toed shoes and clingy pants. “Nope. No problem at all. I mostly do my own cooking
anyway. What Krista does up at the main house is her business. What happens in the barn is mine.”
Shelby wasn’t sure which annoyed her more: the way he’d zeroed right in on Lizzie’s issues, the implication that she wouldn’t be able to handle herself as a ranch cook . . . or how she was way too sensitive on both fronts. Points-wise, it was a draw.
Refusing to dwell on it—or on him—she snagged Lizzie around the neck in a fake headlock they’d learned from watching too much TV wrestling for a pitch that hadn’t gone anywhere—Women’s Xtreme Wrestling. Fight like a girl!—and tugged her toward the door. “Come on, kiddo, it’s back to orientation for us. And consider yourself lucky if I don’t tattoo a couple of those rules on the insides of your eyelids.”
* * *
Foster watched them leave, telling himself it was because he wanted to be sure the little girl was moving okay. He wasn’t sure whether she’d been shell-shocked or if there was something else going on, but it seemed like her mother had it covered either way. Still, though, he’d had a fall or two that he’d walked away from, only to feel it later.
“Kid’s fine,” he muttered, and it didn’t take Brutus’s snort to tell him that his eyes had wandered. Okay, so little Lizzie’s mama had a fine rear view, with nice curves and a feminine wiggle. And the front view was just as good, all sleek and pretty.
So, that was Bertie’s fill-in? Huh. Wouldn’t have been his choice . . . but then again, it wasn’t his choice, was it? And while Krista was whip smart, she had a soft heart and a penchant for good deeds. He should know; he’d been one of them. He only hoped she didn’t get burned by this one.
“Ah, well. Not my problem.” Besides, Gran might be a little nutty around the edges, but she was plenty sharp when it came to her kitchen, and she had Tipper, Topper and Krista to back her up. They’d be okay, even if Ms. Fancypants flaked on them.
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