Journey's End

by BJ James

  “Neither have I,” she shot back at him.

  “Cocky! I like that. But you have to win first.” He backed away. With a sweep of his arm, he gave her the lead and the advantage. “Win or lose, is it a deal?”

  Merrill very carefully leaned the broom against the wall. With her chin tilting a regal inch, she refused to shy away from the burning intensity beneath the laughter. Her chin lifted another degree. “You’re on, O’Hara.”

  “You’re quiet.”

  Her voice was low. A ripple, drawing him from the peaceful atmosphere of the shack. Ty looked up from his study of his tin cup and the dark, red wine. “Does that mean that I’m normally a chatterbox?”

  Merrill broke a crust of bread from the half eaten loaf and tossed it to Shadow who lurched from his comfortable place by the hearth to catch it in mid-arc. Teeth snapping with the strength of a steel trap, in one swallow the wolf gulped down the bread. Then, plainly exhausted by the long day of tracking he dropped heavily on the floor again. Muzzle resting on paws, his ice blue eyes flicking from Ty to Merrill, half dozing, he waited for the next morsel with the patience of his kind.

  “It means,” she said precisely, shaking crumbs from her fingers as she made her point, “I expected you would gloat.”

  “I got to choose the wine.” Raising his cup, he toasted her with it. “What more could I want?”

  “The winner’s pound of flesh.”

  “Ahh, yes, there is that.” He wanted more than that, much more. With exaggerated indifference Ty picked up a sliver of cheese and added it to Shadow’s treats. The wolf lurched, snapped, gulped, and flopped in place to resume his sleepy watch.

  “Well?” Merrill prodded.

  “I haven’t decided. But there’s time, the evening is young and there’s more wine.” Hefting the dusty bottle from its place of honor dead center of the blanket spread over the floor, he refilled her cup and his own.

  “You like keeping me in suspense, don’t you? Val warned me that you have an abominable obstinate streak, even for an Irishman.”

  “Of course I have. How can I deny it?” Setting his wine aside he leaned back on the blanket, propping his head on a fist. With his free hand he stroked her arm from elbow to shoulder and back again. “Look how firm I stood and how abominably obstinate I was about you.”

  She laughed. A small, quiet laugh. “Folded like a crooked prize-fighter.”

  “Always have, always will, when Val and Patience are concerned. After the expected token resistance.”

  “You thought I was a man.”

  “Not for long.”

  “I expected you to send me packing the first day.”

  His hand wandered to her shoulder again, his fingers tangling in a loosened strand of her hair. “So did I.”

  Merrill sighed and relaxed. It was difficult to stay wary when his touch was pleasing, the room tranquil. Tonight the fire held no demons. “You’re a softy, Tynan O’Hara. You’ve fought battles and wars, hunted men and animals. Along the way from there to here, you’ve hurt and been hurt. But deep down, beneath the armor, you’re a softy.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” Merrill asked the question that answered a question. “The reason behind Fini Terre, for Montana. Val calls this your journey’s end. When the blood and the killing became too much, you found your place here.”

  “Fini Terre, a coward’s hideaway?” he suggested softly. His fingers coiled once more in her hair, then slipped away as he waited for her response.

  “Fini Terre, the end of a journey for peace. A wise man’s paradise.” She touched his shoulder as he’d touched hers, feeling the restrained power of a strong man, remembering his gentle compassion. “A man who is anything but a coward.”

  “You’re sure of that, are you?”

  Merrill nodded once, a slight tilt of her head that could’ve been lost in shadows left untouched by the flickering light of the lantern and the fire. “As sure as I am of anything. No,” she said with subdued fervor. “Surer than I am of anything.

  “Val has told me about her family.” On an evening when the memory of a mission gone wrong was too much. When grief for the young, dark haired, dark eyed, hostages of a small, petty war had been too raw. When guilt that she hadn’t saved the children—as she’d been sent to do—had been too devastating.

  The doorbell had rung and Merrill had forced herself to answer. Valentina O’Hara. never more than an acquaintance, but once a fellow agent, waited on the doorstep. Waited to become her friend.

  She came to talk. Merrill must listen, must hear.

  And talk she did, through the night, into dawn. Sense, common sense, nonsense. Fact, fiction. Black, white, gray. She talked of Simon and The Watch, of success and failure, triumph and tragedy. Of coping. She spoke of life and death. She spoke of love and families. Merrill’s. Hers.

  Somewhere in the darkest depths of that night, Merrill had been drawn from the brink of emotional destruction. Before Valentina was done she had taken the first tottering steps on the long, painfully slow path to recovery. By dawn she was more than half in love with the idea of the O’Haras. A family, not an extension of the military.

  “Keegan and Mavis, parents straight out of a lovely, fun filled fairy tale.” Her expression grew wistful as she began the roll call. “Quiet, scholarly, brave Patience. Logical Kieran, jack-of-all-trades and master of all, for whom recognizing the impossible is not an option. Dashing, daring Devlin with a wicked grin, a daredevil’s soul, and a talent for making both engines and women purr.”

  “Then Tynan. Reclusive Tynan,” he filled in as she fell silent. “Obstinate, even for an Irishman.”

  The fire crackled, a log collapsed. But there were no voices in the sound crying out to her. No children danced in fiery death.

  This was Montana. And Tynan.

  “Tynan.” Continuing, she dismissed his simplistic summary of himself. “A soldier, with medals for honor and valor and for his wounds hidden away. A gifted hunter who found the hunt—the blood, the death—abhorrent. For whom the killing of animals for pure sport became too much.”

  Pausing, she recalled the single, most powerful element of Valentina’s argument, then Simon’s, convincing her that it was here in Montana, here on Fini Terre, that she would regain her perspective, her self respect, and her strength. Here, with this man. “Tynan, wisest of the O’Haras. Rancher at heart, philosopher in his soul. Idealist with the courage of his convictions.”

  “Some would say bleeding heart,” he said.

  Some had.

  “Because you’ve chosen to hunt with a camera and fishing rod, rather than a gun?”

  “Something like that.” It hadn’t been that simple, but the explanation sufficed.

  The fire blazed hotter. A ramble sounded deep in Shadow’s throat. As the wolf crawled on his belly an inch further from the heat, an inch closer to Merrill, she set her wine aside to lay the last of her bread and cheese within reach of the furry muzzle.

  “I saw a book of photographs,” she said as the repast disappeared. “I didn’t mean to snoop and I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “No problem. I make and publish one each season. A sort of album for those who’ve been here. They each choose a selection of their better photographs. Sometimes of their fishing trophies. These are submitted to a professional photographer who makes the final selections and arranges them in or derly sequence. This year’s book will be mailed in time for Christmas.”

  “A tangible memory of what, for many, was a first in a lifetime adventure.”

  “I hope so. The kids are the best, the most fun. Shadow usually chooses one as his special person. Someone he senses is troubled. This past summer it was a young girl who lost her sight in an auto accident. She was deathly afraid of animals and had refused a guide dog. After a week she was riding. By the end of the second week, she was eager to get home to set in motion the procedures for acquiring a dog.

  “Some of the best photographs this year were hers. Someone was always
willing to talk her through a shot, explaining where to focus, the position of the sun and the shadows in relation to whatever animal we encountered. Perhaps it was the keenness of her hearing, or some sixth sense, but she seemed to know how long an animal would stand and when it would bolt. In a way it wasn’t a surprise when she became adept at fly casting.”

  Pausing in his long discourse, he smiled at the pleasant memory. “There are other yearbooks, if you’d like to see them.”

  “I would. The one I’ve seen is amazing.”

  “Even more amazing, when you realize these are amateur photographers. With a short course of instruction from a trained photographer at the first of their stay, but amateurs still.”

  “Modern pioneers going into the wild with trusty camera or fly rod in their scabbards rather than weapons.”

  “There are rifles and handguns,” Ty explained. “Don’t kid yourself about that. Only a fool would venture into the unpopulated areas without protection. We can’t always predict what we’ll run into. A bull moose in rutting season, a rattler, a grizzly with cubs, which do you think would welcome any intrusion?”

  “None of the above.”

  “Exactly. It isn’t rutting season, rattlers have gone to ground, but the grizzly is unpredictable. Go prepared. Expect the unexpected.” With a two fingered stroke of her cheek, he turned her face to him. “At the first sign of tracks even remotely like those we found down by the lower meadow, move cautiously, but move. We have a grizzly on our range. I think a male from the signs. But a he-bear readying for winter sleep or awakened, as they often are, by hunger can be vicious.”

  “Worse than a mother with cubs?” The beat of his touch lingered, a warm radiance that transcended the blazing fire.

  Ty’s mouth quirked in a grim smile. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be the one making the comparison.”

  “It’s always worse when there are little ones.” A chilling memory leached every vestige of comforting warmth as she turned again to stare into the fire. “Little ones,” her voice broke hoarsely, “of any kind.”

  “I know, sweetheart, I know.” Ignoring the swift turn of her head and the sear of her probing look, he straightened and shifted, and drew her back against him. When she would have struggled out of his embrace, he quieted her with a single word. “Stay.” Then another. “Please.”

  She had no defenses against him. No deaf ear to turn to the tenderness in his voice. No armor to repel the delight of his soothing touch. His fingers were magic, kneading away the mounting tension as his murmuring tones calmed her.

  “I know. Santiago,” he said her name gruffly. “First in, last out. Speaking the native tongue, becoming one of them. Too close.” A bitter accusation. “Too close. Simon shouldn’t ask it of you.”

  Her fingers closing over his wrist stopped him. But she made no effort to move away. “What I do,” she whispered, “what I’ve done, I did because I wanted it. Simon has never once asked more of me than I was willing to give. The last,” her grip grew tighter, harder, “the last was my mistake. I waited too long, trusted foolishly, guessed wrong.”

  She spoke the cost in an unforgiving undertone. “The children paid.”

  “You made no mistake, Santiago.” He took his wrist carefully from her grip. His fingers resumed their questing strokes, easing taut muscles of her neck and shoulders. “Ramon Guiterrez is a dime a dozen crook. A slimy son of a bitch who stumbled on a bit of power, but hasn’t a clue to the meaning of honor. He never intended to let the children go. They were destined for death the minute he took them hostage.”

  Merrill shook her head violently. “A kind lie can’t resolve my guilt or bring back the children.”

  His fingers drove into the tender flesh above her collarbone as if he would shake her and make her listen. “I’m not being kind. What I’ve said is the truth, not a lie.”

  “You can’t know that!”

  His nails scored her skin. Tomorrow he would be sorry, tonight he was only intent that she listen and believe. “I can know. I do know. I was there. When Guiterrez was unimportant slime instead of important slime, I was there.”

  Merrill would have turned then, to see the look on his face. He wouldn’t allow it. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand?”

  “You were there, years ago?” Recalling Vatentina’s tale of the family’s wandering, of studying and learning, their unorthodox education gleaned from so many lands, so many cultures, on a guess she said, “But first, as a child.”

  Though she couldn’t see, he nodded. “Then as a man.”

  “For Simon?” An astonishing concept, but it was, for Merrill, the logical conclusion.

  “For myself.”

  In a startled moment she didn’t understand, then his oblique point was clear. “You were a mercenary?”

  “Once.” The admission was terse. “For a while.”

  “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”

  “There were reasons.” Realizing how cruelly he held her, he eased the force of his grip, but didn’t release her.

  “Ramon Guiterrez.”

  The nod again. “We were friends.” A wry smile drew down his mouth as he plucked a pin from her bound hair. “I thought he needed me.” Another pin slid away. “What he needed was a fool in a uniform.”

  “The boy who had been your friend had become the slimy son of a bitch.”

  Ty laughed then, bitterly. She had a way of cutting to the heart of the matter. “A lying, slimy son of a bitch.”

  “Right.”

  The last pin fell. The coil at her nape tumbled down her back. “Are we done with this, Santiago? Do you believe me when I give you my word that nothing could have saved the children?”

  “I believe you.” And she did. But nothing could ease the hurt of being fooled, or the grief. “Now I understand why Valentina was so certain you could help me.”

  “I suspect she planned for it to go both ways. Misery loves company, but let’s not be miserable for a while.” His hands glided the length of her hair, lingered, then fell away. Drawing a long breath, Ty moved away, he moved on. “We have some wine to finish and a toast to make.”

  When the last of the “good red wine’ trickled into her cup, he touched its rim with his. ”To better days.”

  “In time.” For the first time in a long while, Merrill was sure they would come.

  Ty regarded his cup and moved on again. “A good wine deserves better days as well.”

  “Fine goblets, misshapen tin, flavor’s the same to any but a connoisseur.”

  “But there’s more to wine than mere flavor. For anyone.” His gaze met hers, holding, mesmerizing. “It should be seen, as a beautiful woman should be seen. It’s bouquet savored, as her fragrance should be. It’s taste cherished as her kisses must.”

  As the day had fallen beyond twilight, the single lantern had burned low and guttered out. There was only the dying fire to light the last of their simple banquet. The errant desires the ride might have quenched had been kindled and rekindled many times over by what he saw in her face in the soft, lazy play of the flames.

  There were times when she looked into the fire and he saw things that made him want to console and comfort her. And times, like now, when she looked at him, her mouth tender, her eyes luminous, and he wanted more. Much more.

  Beyond the shack, a full moon rode the crest of the horizon. A brilliant beacon, as he’d promised, to lead them home. The horses, cropping with innate patience, had begun to stir fretfully. Rested from his chase of the meandering bear, Shadow rose, pacing before the glass doors, ready to run, to hunt again, to howl with his genera at the night.

  “We should go.”

  Merrill nodded, but made no more effort to rise than he.

  “But first.” Taking her wine from her, putting it aside with his, he let the last of his thought trail away as he cupped his palm at the side of her throat. His thumb rested easily over the pulsing hollow, his fingers fit the curve of her nap
e, teasing the silky tangle that fell over his wrist in a fall of molten gold.

  “But first?” she asked as he drew her closer.

  “I should collect my wager.”

  “Then you’ve decided my fate.”

  “I’ve decided.”

  “And?” He was so close, his lips nearly brushed hers. The clean familiar scent of him tantalized and beguiled as he took her in his arms.

  “And this,” he whispered as his lips touched hers.

  He meant to keep it brief, a teasing penance, the victor collecting his reward. But something in her, the quiet need in the caress of her fingers tangling in his hair, the soft yielding of her mouth, drawing him nearer, holding him closer. She was too sweet. Dear heaven! Too sweet to tease.

  The beat of his heart roughened in answer to the enchanting pleasure of her yielding, his kiss deepening, even as his mind said no. Slowly, with the yearning of a man too long alone, his mouth gentled on hers, and slowly he drew away. Looking down at her he knew he wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone and anything. But she was too vulnerable, the emotion in her shadowed eyes too naked.

  He’d never known that desire could be gentle and tender. Nor that passion could be patient.

  Bringing her back to him, tucking her head against his throat, with his lips a quiet caress against her forehead, he held her close to the calming beat of his heart. From some unfathomable well of wisdom came the certainty that out of gentleness and tenderness desire would flourish and grow richer. Out of patience, passion would become its own reward.

  There would come a day when they would make love, must make love. But not yet. Not this day. Tilting her head back, he looked long into the dreamy softness his kiss had awakened in her, and felt a quiet contentment.

  “One day,” he spoke his thoughts as his lips brushed hers in one last kiss. Putting her from him with a tenderness he’d never known was in him, in a promise left unspoken, he traced the softness of her mouth with a fingertip. “But not this day.”

  Smiling ruefully, his hands falling away from her, he murmured, “Let’s go home, sweetheart.”