The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing

by Rhodan, Rhea

  “It was my great-great-grandmother’s. And I think you understand well enough.” She pressed the silver Celtic knot into Cayden’s hand. “Don’t worry about Clint. I’ve never seen him look at any woman the way he looks at you. You’re too young yet to understand how attached men can be to their realities, how hard they’ll deny anything that refuses to fit into them. When it comes down to it, though, they’re not so different from us; it’s their hearts that rule them, not their minds.”

  “I wasn’t certain. There was the jewelweed and the chamomile, and… You’re of the blood, as well as a practitioner, aren’t you?”

  Moira smiled. “Not many are aware of the distinction. To answer, I’m Catholic, for the most part. I’ve only a bit of the sight; it comes to me in dreams. Your question answered the one I would have asked, you know.”

  “As you’ve answered mine. That still doesn’t mean I can accept this.”

  A knock at the door was followed by Clint’s voice, “We really should head out. The game will be over soon. I’d rather avoid the traffic.” His voice was strained.

  Moira called, “Hold your horses.” She whispered to Cayden, “You must accept it. I’ve had two terrible dreams. The worst one is a great evil sinking its claws into my son. I think, I hope, you’re the answer to my prayers to The Mother, if the not The Father. I’ve asked Clint to carry it. He says he’ll not indulge my superstitions.”

  That was Clint, all right. “What was the other dream?”

  “It was strange, murkier. The same shapeless evil from the other dream is stealing a baby from his mother. When I woke up, I thought the babe was Clint. Going back over it, I’m not so certain.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “How did she do it? How?” Milton Cumberland punctuated his thundering question with a wave of the hand bearing a pristine linen handkerchief and covered his mouth with it as he broke off in a long hacking cough. He tossed it into the wastebasket and rose from the deep chair. Dean remained sitting uncomfortably behind his desk in the Long Meadow office that Sunday afternoon.

  “And why? What good is such power if you’re dead? That stubborn old woman and her lofty ideals. She was probably thinking of her granddaughter.” He turned and bent into his son’s face. “Whom you were supposed to get rid of, you lamentable excuse for a man.”

  He stalked to the chair and sat down. “And me, the fool, trusting you to accomplish the simple task while I attended to my health in Costa del Sol. Imagine my dismay when I received a call informing me you had bungled it, and the little bitch wasn’t even hurt. I couldn’t very well raise suspicions by taking care of it myself after that, could I? No, I was forced to move on Aileen before I was fully prepared. Thus, she was able to thwart me.” His fist landed on the desk with bang. He rose again to lean over it with unveiled contempt. “If I didn’t need you, I’d get rid of you. And you can be sure I wouldn’t botch the job.”

  Dean Cumberland, having spent most of his life on the receiving end of that mien, was growing weary of it. He slowly rose to lessen his disadvantage, though he still had to look up to his father.

  “According to you, Cayden Sinclair was weak and all but powerless. It turns out she’s a champion fencer with a flock of winged minions at her disposal. I thought you knew everything worth knowing.” He couldn’t keep the bitter sarcasm from his tone. “That information would have proven helpful. I’m beginning to wonder which is more important to you: success in this venture, or setting me up for failure in order to rake me over the coals for it. Certainly nothing gives you greater pleasure.”

  He sighed. “Moving on, I agree that another attempt to eliminate the girl would be too risky at present. However, while you were sunning yourself on the coast of Spain, I took the liberty of engaging in further research on her mother, using contacts and methods I’m far more comfortable with. Weren’t you the one who implied at our last meeting that more flies can be caught with honey than vinegar? In any case, I discovered that although Muriel Sinclair will not inherit the property and has no great interest in cash, she does want her daughter back, safely away from her grandmother and all of her ‘unnatural practices.’”

  Milton drew back, but didn’t sit. “Finally developing a spine, eh? And a dash of initiative to go with it. There may be some small hope for you yet. Dare I assume you found her a suitable incentive for convincing her daughter to sell the land?”

  “A yacht her husband’s been trying to buy from me for years, along with a trust containing sufficient funds for Cayden Sinclair to purchase the building her fencing studio occupies, as well as the mortgage on her apartment, with enough left to live comfortably for the rest of her life. That’s over and above the generous sale price.”

  Milton arched his eyebrows. “All contingent on her convincing the stupid girl to sign over the deed for Buchanan’s Crossing?”

  “Naturally, and within a deadline,” Dean said, smiling, as he returned to his chair. “Mrs. Sinclair told me she’d be remiss as a loving wife and mother if she didn’t move mountains to make it happen.”

  Milton removed another neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket, shook it, and coughed into it. He also sat down. “I assume you feel I should credit your paltry effort, insufficient though it no doubt will be. What makes Mrs. Sinclair think she can control her daughter now when she hasn’t been able to in the past?”

  “Even if both her home and work weren’t in Springfield, there’s precious little for a girl like Cayden in East Granby without her grandmother there. In addition, it’s common for families to become closer when one of them becomes critically ill. Aside from those considerations, Muriel Sinclair struck me as a woman who’s quite capable of getting what she wants, if she really wants it.” He smirked when he added, “You may have noted she was content to ignore the girl for two years, in spite of being such a ‘loving mother.’”

  “We can’t count on it, though, can we?” Milton hoisted himself out the chair, prompting a coughing fit. “I’m running out of time.”

  “It’s always gloom and doom with you. Don’t forget, we’ve got Clint MacAllen. We can’t lose.”

  “You simpleton, didn’t you hear what I just said? Aileen’s blocked me. We need more than the better part of MacAllen now. We need all of him.” Milton Cumberland’s voice was raw and harsh. He walked stiffly toward the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “Unless you want to join me in hell soon, see that you get it.”

  Clint’s conversation was cautious on the long drive to her apartment. Wisely so, considering the sins he’d committed during the dinner with his parents. He was brave enough to ask her what she and his mother had discussed in the bedroom, though. She smiled and told him the subject of their conversation had been how silly men could be. He looked so wounded she had to laugh.

  The weight of the amulet resting against her thigh in the pocket of her skirt made her think of Moira and Lewis: their loving easy manner, the unmistakably solid marriage they shared. If Moira had found a way to live with Lewis and his fixed realities, maybe she could find a way to live with Clint and his. He was a good, kind, intelligent, impossibly sexy man, as well as the Keeper.

  It followed that if she was going to succeed, she was going to have to choose her battles. Celebrating the completion of the mall with his employees instead of Midsummer’s Eve with her was reasonable. The holiday didn’t hold any significance to him. It was his lie that rankled. She could forgive him for stopping her from sharing what she was with his parents, too, though it irritated her considerably more.

  She was still debating how to handle it when they walked into her apartment.

  “Should I call the hospital for you, see how you’re grandmother’s doing? What with your electronics issue, on account of…”

  Tempting as it was to force him to finish the sentence, Cayden allowed him to trail off. “Thank you. I don’t want to imagine what I could
do to a phone right now. I’ll get us some tea. You’re due for another infusion of the headache blend.” She turned at the drape that separated her living space from the kitchen. “You’ll want to ask for the nurses’ station.”

  When she returned with the tray, she set it on the end table, then looked at Clint. “Well?”

  “You’d better sit down.” He pulled her next to him on the daybed without waiting. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  To spare him, she said, “She’s in a coma. At least, that’s what the doctors would call it.”

  His expression went from deep concern to one of bewilderment. “How did you find out?”

  “She told me as much when you left the room. To expect it, that is. That’s why I told you to call the nurses’ station. After your performance at your parents’, I feel safe in assuming you don’t want to me explain what’s actually happening with her.”

  “About that…at my folks’… I know I blew it, again. I’m sorry. Give me a break here, will you please? I mean, who would believe…?” He must have read her face. “Not helping, right? Look, they really liked you, and I’m crazy about you, and I just didn’t want them to think… Shit, I’m doing it again.”

  He clearly wasn’t ready to hear more on the subject of Gran and the Crossing. He was genuinely sorry. And he had just said he was crazy about her. She exhaled. “Let’s set that aside for now. You should consider it a reprieve rather than a pardon, though, and contingent on you drinking your tea.”

  She hadn’t noticed how tense he was until he visibly relaxed. “Thank you, warden.” He drank the tea in one long draught, then started kissing her. His lips were hot and tasted like the honey that had settled at the bottom of the cup. “God, I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you tried to walk away from me this morning.”

  “Oh, have you.” She grinned, not making it a question.

  “Mmm-hmm. This too.” He unbuttoned her blouse down to her vest, then started on it. By the time her brain caught up, her blouse and vest were on the floor and her skirt was unzipped. “Stand up a sec’. For once, I want a good look at your lingerie before I remove it.”

  She indulged him, if only to see whether she could make his eyes turn greener.

  “Oh yeah. Now turn around. Full circle. Mmm-mm. Definitely one of my better ideas. God, even white lace is sinful on you.” He held his fist to his chin as though in contemplation. “It could be the boots, though. Why don’t you put them in my lap so I can unlace them and see?”

  His commanding tone sent a quiet ripple of desire from her head to her toes. Obedience was an unfamiliar, but apparently arousing, concept. He leaned over to nuzzle her cleavage while he deftly unlaced her boots.

  “How can you do that without watching what you’re doing?”

  “Hockey,” he murmured into her breasts, his tongue tracing the inner outline of lace. He tossed each boot next to the fireplace, then massaged her feet a long minute. He set her legs aside and got up. “Lie on your belly. Bend your elbows and prop your chin on your palms. Swing your legs, slow and easy.”

  “You’re awfully bossy.” Smiling, she rolled into position anyway. The way he was staring made her feel sexy.

  He walked around the daybed. “I am one hell of a lucky man. Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it.” His voice rasped across her sensitive skin.

  He traced the thong’s winding lace bands around her hips with his finger, then followed each to where they met at the top of the seam of her butt cheeks. He tugged at the strip that ran between, bringing just the right amount of pressure to bear on just the right spot. She gasped. He did it again, a little harder, a little longer. Heat flooded her and she moaned.

  Suddenly, she found herself flipped over, half upright, shoulders leaning against the back of the daybed with her legs splayed and Clint’s head between them. His tongue was like fire licking her. One of his fingers was holding the thin strip of fabric aside and the other was feeding that fire, building it. She thrashed her hips, searching for ultimate relief, until he pinned her in place with his powerful free hand. The forced surrender pushed her beyond that elusive edge. She screamed as the first wave washed over, trembled with those that followed. Clint slowed and gentled, but didn’t stop until she was drained.

  Through half-closed eyes, Cayden glimpsed the golden highlights of his sandy hair made glowing by the afternoon sun streaming through the window. No longer cut so close that it stood on end, the soft cool little flames soothed her agitated fingers, helped bring her back.

  She finally mumbled, “Mmm. I think I like it when you’re bossy.”

  He sat on heels and licked his lips, the devil in his grin. “Figured I had a better chance nuzzling myself back into your good graces than begging.”

  “Well, you’ve sold me on showing rather than telling when it comes to apologies.” She grinned back.

  Clint laughed and put his arms on either side of her to shove himself up. He was staring down at her, his pupils so dilated it was hard to tell whether the irises were gray or green. Her gaze drifted lower, to the large and very obvious reminder he wasn’t done with her yet.

  Gaze still glued to his zipper, she floundered, trying to pull her feet onto the daybed to make room for him to lie next to her.

  “Nope, not making that mistake again. My neck is still sore from falling asleep on this thing Friday night. Besides, I’m gonna need all the room I can get to properly take care of this.” He looked down to where her gaze was locked. His fingers went to his zipper.

  “Take off your shirt first. Then your T-shirt.”

  He was already unbuttoning his shirt when he said with another grin, “Now who’s being bossy?”

  Her hands had been behind her back, ready to unhook her bra. She paused. “If it’s going to be a problem…”

  He grinned. “No problem. You bare those beauties for me, I’ll be your slave for life.” He yanked his T-shirt over his head, exposing his six-pack.

  Cayden ran her tongue along her lips. He had the finest, most masculine torso she’d ever laid eyes on. The hair on his chest was darker than the hair on his head, tawny rather than sandy. The feathery arrow disappeared below his zipper, pointing to his equally impressive erection. She swallowed.

  He shucked his shorts along with his jeans. Her next swallow stuck in her throat, and she actually started drooling. She scrabbled behind her back, trying to remember how to unhook her bra.

  Clint saved her the trouble when he wrapped his arms around her and did it himself. He had great arms—forearms and biceps. She was grateful he saved her the trouble of getting up, because she wasn’t at all sure she could have managed that, either. Besides, it was much nicer to be lifted by those big hands into bulging arms, held tight to that awesome chest, and carried up the stairs to her bed.

  Many hours, much love, and a nap later, Clint went downstairs to forage in her refrigerator. She wouldn’t have let him go if he hadn’t promised to bring her a sandwich.

  He let out a yell, “Christ!” Then in a fake friendly voice say, “Nevermore, where’ve you been old buddy?”

  “Noisy Keeper. Noisy Warder. Joining done. Stop joining. Done joining?”

  “I kinda missed you. Hell, who doesn’t enjoy confirming his heart’s in good working order by having it jump started? But, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then no, we’re not done. We’ll never be done. I can’t believe I’m talking to a damn bird as if it understands me.”

  “Nevermore understand clueless Keeper bastard.”

  Cayden felt compelled to yell down, “Nevermore, quit swearing at Clint.”

  Her answer was a caw and the flapping of wings.

  Colors in the loft were mostly gray when her eyes blinked open. Shifting her body brought a pleasant soreness and a niggling question. Why hadn’t last night’s explosive orgasms
resulted in some variety of conspicuous electrical repercussions? Her power should have grown since the Joining.

  The sheets rustled beside her, and Clint pulled her more tightly into his arms. The sun might be an hour from rising, but he’d likely have to leave for work soon. After all the energy he’d expended last night, and with his appetite, he’d need breakfast.

  He cupped her breast and brushed below it. “Your tat…” He fell back and knuckled his eyes with both fists, then bent to take a closer look.

  Much as she enjoyed the warmth of his breath, along with the idea of allowing him to freak out over the moving leaves and waving branches of the ancient oak tattooed below her breasts, she thought it best to roll over.

  That was when she saw the empty plate. “Hey, where’s my sandwich?”

  “Ate it. You were sleeping. It would have, um, dried out, gone bad, or something.”

  If he didn’t look any more apologetic than he sounded, that was okay. She preferred fruit and granola with kefir for a cold breakfast. The mention of food seemed to have taken his mind off her tat, too.

  While he was in the shower, she filled a couple bowls with granola and set a plate of raspberries by Nevermore’s perch. Clint sat at the kitchen table and eyed the plate uneasily. “Maybe you should hold off on those. I don’t think…”

  Nevermore pushed through the bird door in the window and hopped onto his perch. He glared at Clint. “Think not Keeper job.” He downed the raspberries with enthusiasm.

  “I need coffee for this.” He scrubbed his hand over the shadow of stubble on his chin. “Hell, I’m not even sure I can handle him with coffee.”

  “Handle not Keeper job.” Nevermore speared the last raspberry. He glared at poor Clint again, then cocked his head toward the window a second before the outer door buzzer went off. “Bad News.”