“I love you, Father.” Through her tears, she struggled to tell him all the things in her heart—about Sam, Molly, Cobb, and the child to come. When the dawn arrived, she still sat beside the pond. The land around the water’s edge had been scorched to black and her dress had turned to ashes. It was Sam who found her and pulled her into the safety of his arms. She couldn’t tell him, not yet. The words wouldn’t come. Somehow, he seemed to know and stroked her hair as she wept against his chest.
She would never see her father again.
The world grew a little darker.
Kid, The Main House, the Flying K
Scarlett’s pain pulled at him, but then Quanto sat in his room. The twilight illuminating him told Kid they were in the dreaming. The old man gazed at him and understanding flooded through him. The shaman was dying. One by one, he’d bid farewell to his children. Cody’s distance, Noah’s preoccupation and now Scarlett’s pain—they were losing a father.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, accepting the loss pouring in from so many directions.
“I have one last favor to ask, William Kane.”
“Anything,” he said. And he meant it.
* * *
An hour later, after he sent Sam to find Scarlett at the bathing pond, he woke Evelyn. The smart, sensitive woman who held his heart didn’t hesitate when he told her about the request. They would need Jason.
Quinn
Dorado proved to be a bustling town even in midwinter. A town packed with secrets. Staring at the line of houses, Quinn settled in to wait. Having tracked the targets so far, Quinn could afford to be patient.
Buck, Winter Solstice, The Flying K
One by one, he and his siblings gathered together. There were only four of them—Cody, Scarlett, Noah, and himself. Their spouses understood their need to be alone. He’d spent the last few weeks learning a great deal about his lineage, his family, and what it truly meant to be a Morning Star. Quanto left it to him to decide, and he had. His family needed to know. So, he told them all he could...
Wyatt, Midnight on the Mountain
Seated at Quanto’s bedside, Wyatt listened to the rattle and rasp of his dying breaths. He held Quanto’s hand in his, sitting vigil. When Quanto walked into the long dark, he would not walk alone. It would only take a few drops of blood, and Wyatt could save him—stave off long dark. Quanto’d gone to sleep at sundown, and he hadn’t stirred since. He could no longer tell him no…
It wasn’t what Quanto wanted, however, so Wyatt stayed his hand. Another long, rattling sigh then the room went silent. One beat.
Two.
Then nothing.
Wyatt waited then raised his head. The old man stood before him. His spirit straightened as age fell away, leaving the robust man of his prime. Kindness and patience shone in his eyes.
“May the grass be ever soft at your feet, and the sun warm on your back, old friend.” Wyatt told him, fighting the urge to pull him back. He could—the spirit realm could not stop him. No spirit tread near him, having forsaken him so long ago.
Quanto touched a hand to his heart, then extended his arm and vanished. Beneath Wyatt’s fingers, the flesh grew cold before he stood. All that remained was the physical form, an old man wasted and withered by the years—honed to be the most perfect part of himself. With great care, Wyatt wrapped the body and carried him from the cabin.
Outside, the funeral pyre stood. It had taken him two days to haul all the lumber he needed from the frozen woods. Snow drifted down, and a fine white powder dusted the ground. Setting the body down, he returned to the house and gathered the last few items he needed. Personal pieces, all the bits and bobs of a life long-lived—anything he hadn’t sent to his children which might somehow retain anything of the shaman’s personal energy. It took most of the night to gather everything.
Near dawn, he lit four torches and they hovered into the air, each at a different corner of the pyre held in place by Wyatt’s will. He had stopped every threat to the shaman for more than fifty years. He’d found a place and a family by his side. A chill was all he had left.
Movement flickered and Wyatt turned from his vigil to find Kid standing next to him. The younger man wasn’t truly present, yet his appearance was welcome.
“When you need me,” Kid told him, solemn and direct, “I’ll be there.”
Inclining his head, Wyatt turned back to the waiting pyre. The first light of dawn crested the mountain and he released the torches. They struck the timber at the same time. As the flames began to lick at the wood, the light crept over the face of the mountain and, one-by-one, the buildings disappeared leaving only the barn. Kid remained with him, a quiet if effective reminder the old man didn’t give up.
Wyatt watched the flames. With Quanto went the life they’d built as if it had never existed. But it had, and the piece of the dreaming he’d forged on the mountainside had been the only true home Wyatt ever knew.
His time on the mountain was over.
* * *
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* * *
Enjoy an excerpt of
A Man Called Wyatt
Book 8 of Fevered Hearts
A Man Called Wyatt Sneak Peek
Wyatt, Somewhere in West Texas
Goliath refused to take another step. The broad back of the stallion tensed beneath his weight. Legs locked, the big horse tossed his head and then rolled his eyes as he canted a glance over his shoulder at his rider. They’d not paused since they’d left the mountain. Their desert crossing began during the night, but even when the hot blistering sun bore down on them Wyatt hadn’t paused. Ahead of him, the desert gave no quarter though the evening twilight promised a respite from the temperature.
“If we push on through the night, you’ll be able to rest in a field of grass rather than sand, rock and stone.”
The words had no effect on the animal’s powerful flanks. The coiled muscles promised to buck—something Goliath hadn’t even attempted with him in years. If the horse wanted to rest, fine, they would rest. His companion for more than a century—longer perhaps—Wyatt stopped counting the years for a long time until Quanto. Then he only tracked the turning of the wheel, as they mattered to the children. Dismounting, he freed the leather halter Goliath wore instead of a bridle. The horse didn’t need a bit in his mouth, and would likely take the hand off of anyone who tried to force one in there.
Stretching his neck, Goliath butt-checked him, a silent demand for his saddle to be removed. Amused, Wyatt stroked his neck before loosening the girth. He stripped him off all his gear including the saddlebags before he went for the saddle. Sweat lathered along his silky hair and he gleamed under the rapidly dying light. The saddle blanket reeked as he pulled it free along with the saddle. On prancing steps, the stallion sidestepped away, then dropped to roll in the hot sand. The stretch and roll left him covered in golden grit when he lurched to his feet.
Turning his tail, he trotted away. Wyatt shook his head and let him go. More than capable of taking care of himself, the horse would return after he’d rested and found water. Setting the saddle on a rock, he flipped the stinking blanket over and set it on another to dry. Sweat and grime coated Wyatt’s face, but he could ignore it. His hair clung to the back of his neck and his shirt seemed as clammy as his flesh. Tugging the hat from his head, he tossed it on the rest of his gear, then stripped his trail coat off before gathering his lengthening hair into his fist. With a knife, he hacked the excess length away leaving himself with a fistful of hair.
Eyeing it, he considered flinging it away. The simpler solution, but not the most practical, instead he secured them together with a tendril of power before stowing them in a bit of cloth. He’d burn them with the next fire he built. It could be days, but then it was better than letting his hair be taken by some bird to some far flung place where some would be mage, witch or shaman might gather it for some quest or spirit vision. The unpleasant surprise for the recipi
ents far outweighed any burden to him on carrying the hacked off pieces farther. Spreading out a cloth, he used the sharpened knife to cut the rest of his hair.
Paranoia haunts you brother, and eats away at you. Quanto’s words drifted to him as though carried on the wind. A fanciful thought if he’d ever had one. His brother had truly gone where he could no longer follow. Perhaps he did look down at him, perhaps he even leaned against the rocks, youthful vigor filling his aged limbs once more and wearing a disapproving frown.
“If you are there my old friend, you know I cannot hear you and probably don’t want to. Go haunt our children, look in upon them.” Raking his fingers through his shorn hair, he shook loose any lingering bits, then wrapped the cloth tight around them. The knife fit in his boot and he studied the shimmering landscape.
If Quanto indeed watched over him, it was not for companionship. No, the shaman likely wanted him to turn away from the task before him. For nearly six decades, Wyatt walked in the shadow of a man who could have been his great-grandchild—or perhaps the grandchild of his great-grandchild. He’d seen in Quanto a reflection of his own father. For all their years together, he had let the shaman win and in the end, he left him.
The sun continued to sink lower, soon darkness would bathe the twilight. Either he’d be waiting on the hard ground for Goliath’s return or—the horse nickered in the distance. A snort, and perhaps even an equine laugh—with Goliath anything was possible.
The stallion sailed toward him, tail raised and flagged as his brilliant trot ate up the ground beneath him. More graceful than a dancer, it never failed to stun Wyatt. The animal’s pure grace and beauty had been what attracted his eye in the first place. Lying in wait atop a cliff, he had watched the Spanish army pass below carrying their wealth and captured slaves southward. The horse ridden by the commander at their lead had been a spirited, beautiful creature and far too elegant for his rough master.
From the first, Wyatt had known Goliath and Goliath had known him.
Despite the dry desert air and his earlier sweaty back, the horse’s glossy fur was soaked with fresh water and no stench. “Someone found water.”
The horse bobbed his head, his mane tossing a stray droplet toward the greedy earth. Pivoting, he turned to head back the way he’d come, pausing only to glance over his shoulder.
“And you expect me to carry everything, don’t you?”
Snort.
Stomp.
Chuckling despite the delay, Wyatt waved him onward, then flung a cord of power around the saddle, halter, blanket, and saddlebags. They floated into the air and followed him as he slipped on the trail coat and dropped the hat onto his head. “Lead the way.”
The stallion guided him across the next two miles, slowing only when he threatened to trot out of sight. The air cooled considerably, but as the last rays of the sun fought against the blanket of night, Wyatt caught the sound of rushing water. Oddly, he even recognized the depressed land and tall rocks.
He’d camped there when he’d hauled Kid to the mountain and let the boy bathe. Plenty of water for the horse and enough to wash himself. Settling their gear on a stable rock formation, he strode through the darkness. His eyes acclimated quickly. The land’s warmth giving him a topographical map to follow. Gathering the wood, he used his gift indiscriminately. Few lived in the desert, fewer still traveled across save in larger parties. Even his brethren among the tribes resisted venturing this far south anymore. If a war party came for him…a surge of pleasure flooded his chill veins. He almost looked forward to the distraction.
By the time he returned to the makeshift camp, Goliath loomed over their supplies and pawed the sand. He wanted to eat. He’d cooled himself sufficiently and had even dunked himself in the water and rolled in the sand again.
He was filthy.
“And I suppose you want me to brush you out now that you’ve made a mess.”
Another light whinny followed by a snort.
Once he had the fire lit, Wyatt stripped down to only his leggings. The buckskin a second skin to him over and above the denim he also had in his gear. He would trade them before he reached ‘civilization’ though he planned to skirt the towns as much as possible save for when he needed to trade for feed. With a brush and comb, he worked Goliath’s coat free of any debris as the stallion ate. By the time he finished, the horse was half-asleep.
Pausing, he pressed an ear to the animal’s side and listened to the steady drum of his heart. For as long as he’d been capable, he’d kept Goliath young and vigorous with careful dosages of his blood. Over the intervening time, he’d sworn the horse had changed, grown either wiser or more canny. He definitely communicated his thoughts.
But had Goliath, too, reached an age where he needed more than Wyatt could provide?
“After this ride, you can rest my friend.” He murmured to the animal. “Whatever you wish, I will do all I can to make it so.”
If necessary, he’d leave word for Scarlett’s family—her brother-in-law Micah had a gift with horses. Though he himself was not Fevered, animals responded to him and his wife had the gift of animal speech. They would be fitting caretakers for Goliath after…
The stallion snorted and stomped his foot. His tail swished, a snap of movement that struck Wyatt as though he were a fly. Message received. He wanted to be left alone to sleep.
“Grumpy old man.” He told him before cleaning the tools he’d used to brush the horse and shucking the buckskin so he could wash himself. The temperature of the water was bracing, bubbling from deep below to fill the culvert. It only came above surface for a brief distance before vanishing below. The hard rock surface all that kept the sand from devouring it.
Still, he barely noticed the icy water sluicing over his scarred skin.
You don’t feel anything, you’re as dead outside as you are in. The strident tones of Katherine’s voice rippled over him. Spirits didn’t talk to him anymore.
Too bad his memories couldn’t shut up as well.
Quinn, Dorado
Tilting the chair back on two legs to lean in the shade afforded by the boardwalk’s overhang, Quinn monitored the comings and goings at the Livery Stable. The saloon proved quiet in the relative heat of the winter afternoon. Texas, it seemed, didn’t have the issues of plunging temperatures up north or the waist deep snow of the Midwest. If anything, the damp cold brought on by rain or the cool delivered by chilly winds only kept the locals inside—well some of them.
As it turned out, the McKennas taking over the livery didn’t keep them out of sight or isolated. Several times a day a riders trotted in and dropped off horses—one or both brothers would greet them. Sometimes the riders lingered, other times they simply passed over coin then left. Earlier in the day, a couple had hired a buckboard and two horses. They were heading to San Antonio. The haggling over the price and length of their visit went on for twenty, brutally boring minutes. The eldest brother handled the negotiation. David Matthews didn’t cede ground to the belligerent fellow, and had even begun to walk away before the other man caved.
Not Matthews. Quinn corrected mentally. They are McKennas here. David is now Mitchell. Kent changed his name to Royce and Julianna is Jenny. Plain, boring names unrelated to their previous existence. A doctor, a lawyer, and an apothecary were now settlers, horse handlers and unremarkable. They’d made themselves smaller, easier to miss and while Quinn admired the talent it took to exert such influence… How long can they deny their heritage?
The brothers worked in tandem to clean stalls and sister Jenny hadn’t put on an appearance since she delivered lunch before retreating to their home. From Quinn’s position, monitoring all three wasn’t difficult though the house hid anything approaching from behind.
Lifting the tin mug for a drink of the rapidly cooling coffee, Quinn debated stepping inside for more. The bartender already found Quinn’s choices odd—hot drinks rather than liquor. The porch rather than a table inside the common room. A room at the newly reopened hotel rath
er than a flop with the pair of working girls who lingered inside near the bar.
Tomorrow, Quinn would have to shift positions. The town of Dorado, though freshly reconstructed over the last couple of years, was far too small to let strangers vanish into the nonexistent crowd. As though summoned by the thought, a boots echoed their strikes against the boardwalk as a tall man made his way toward Quinn’s position.
A silver star occupied a prominent place on his coat while the brim of his hat limited the view of his features.
Sam Kane, Quinn learned his name shortly after arriving, the town marshal and eldest son of Jebidiah Kane, the region’s largest and wealthiest landowner. Out for his afternoon stroll, most likely. The marshal put on regular appearances, or so Quinn had tracked for the last two weeks. When he nodded in passing, Quinn returned to the same.
Bypassing the table, he stepped inside the saloon. The batwings thudded together as they closed. Awareness of being watched soured the last dregs of the coffee as Quinn drained them. Setting the tin cup aside, he let his coat fall open and settled a hand on the grip of the holstered pistol. Without little motion, Quinn studied the street. The feeling of observation increased, as though a physical pressure exerted itself against Quinn’s body and skull.
A telepath.
Limited options presented themselves. Either a Fevered newly introduced to their power scanned the whole town or a particularly powerful Fevered focused solely on peeling away the secrets housed within Quinn’s mind. Either way, their task would be met with disappointment. Standing slowly, Quinn took the time to drop a single nickel on the table next to the tin cup. More than what was needed for cleaning the coffee cup, but the action bought time to search for the searcher.
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