by Janzen, Tara
The phone clicked in Kristine’s ear. She pulled the receiver away and gave it a good long look, her free hand sliding the pencil through her fingers. Harry’s wife was either a terrible liar, or half the history department at Colorado State University was in for a very rough summer. If Kristine believed for a minute that Harry was contagious, her next call would be to buy shares in Poudre Valley Hospital.
Instead she called Dr. Timnath, who was conveniently out of town. Convenient for him, not for Kristine.
That left Dean Chambers, the man who held her tenure bid in the palm of his hand. She’d been kowtowing to him for nine solid months and really hated to ruin a perfect streak of subservience with an irate phone call. Maybe if she forewent the irate part she’d be okay. The man would surely want to know his outlaw had come home to roost—on her doorstep.
Thinking only pleasant thoughts, Kristine punched in the dean’s number with the chewed eraser end of the pencil.
“Hello,” the man himself answered on the third ring. There was no mistaking the deep bass of his voice. It was one of his greatest tools of intimidation.
“Good morning, Dr. Chambers. This is Kristine Richards.”
“Yes?”
So much for idle pleasantries, she thought. “I’m calling to tell you Kit Carson has arrived, and I was wondering . . . uh, wondering what you wanted me to do with him.”
“Do with him, Dr. Richards?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. On the downswing she got waylaid by the sight in her living room. Outlaw or not, Kit Carson couldn’t possibly be doing what she thought he was doing. She craned her head to the right and watched in growing disbelief as he rolled something up in a cigarette paper and licked the edge.
“Dr. Richards?” Dean Chambers’s voice rumbled into her ear.
“Yes,” she hissed into the phone. “Do with him. He’s—” She stopped abruptly, lifting her head and sniffing the air. Tobacco. She immediately calmed down. Then she got riled all over again, watching wide-eyed as he blew smoke rings into her pristine mountain air. Perfect smoke rings, one after the other, sending little ones through big ones, single ones through double ones. The smoke hovered above him, holding shape in concentric circles long after it should have dissipated. She’d never seen the like.
“. . . suggest you work with him,” she caught Dean Chambers saying. “You have Harry’s preliminary research. If you had doubts about your qualifications for this opportunity, you should have spoken up before agreeing to the project.”
She snapped her attention back to the phone. “No, that’s not it,” she said quickly. “I’m more than qualified to write up Carson’s findings, but—” But what, Kristine? But he kissed you? Right, that was just what Dr. Chambers needed to hear. “But he’s . . . but I’m . . . but he doesn’t . . .”
“Is there a problem, Dr. Richards?” The dean’s voice cut through her confusion like a knife.
“He’s strange,” she said weakly, knowing how stupid it sounded. At least she had enough presence of mind not to add that he was better looking and more of a barbarian than the dean could imagine. She’d always thought that derogatory term referred to Carson’s methods, not his personality. His kiss had wiped that little theory right out of her mind.
“He’s apparently led a strange life,” Dr. Chambers said. “If he’s having trouble adjusting to his new environment, I suggest you act as his cultural liaison. Your efforts won’t go unrewarded.”
The words “things of power” were on the tip of her tongue, right on the very tip, begging to be released. She fought the urge with everything she had inside her. Concentrating on those elusive rewards, she tried to get the conversation back to something that would highlight her intelligence.
“Have you made arrangements for his accommodations?” she asked. “He seems at loose ends.” Not brilliant, she thought, but not stupid.
“I’ll leave that up to you as his cultural liaison. Frankly, from what we’ve been hearing these last couple of months, we weren’t at all sure Mr. Carson would fulfill his contract. You might contact faculty housing.” The dean paused, and Kristine heard a disturbing hesitation in his voice when he continued. “Remember, Dr. Richards. We are only interested in Mr. Carson’s provisional inventory of the ancient remains of Tibet. I recommend you concentrate your efforts on the research we paid for and not on whatever else he may be involved in. He is a man of many talents, not all of which we wish to be associated with.”
Perfect, she thought. Absolutely perfect. “You’ve been very helpful, Dr. Chambers,” she said, refraining from sarcasm. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone in disgust and plopped her chin into her hands, knowing she’d just been royally dumped on.
His cigarette finished, Kit walked over to a window that looked out over rolling hills leading to a reservoir, the escarpment beyond, and the city on the plains below. The redwood deck swept around the north and east sides of the house. The south side was a glassed-in area with a quarry-tile floor, filled with plants and sunshine. Her house was so open, far different from his own in the upper reaches of the Kai Gandaki River in Nepal, near the Tibetan border. His house, which he had lived in for several years, had been built to hold off the cold of bitter winters and the winds funneling down through the gorge. Hers welcomed the elements into every room. He would enjoy the comforts it offered.
The comforts and the company, he thought, discounting the small lack of an invitation. His partners had obviously not seen fit either to send an explanation with the trunks, or to make any arrangements for his arrival. In all likelihood, they probably hadn’t thought he’d get out of Tibet alive, not with the Turk battling for the prize he’d attained. But the woman had a doctorate, and he’d sensed even greater intelligence than the title implied. She would surely respond to reason, and if not, he’d learned much of the art of persuasion from his second father, Sang Phala.
Still in her office, Kristine waited for yet one more telephone transfer, knowing her options were dwindling faster than the snow in the high country. Faculty housing was booked until Saturday, the married students housing had a waiting list two pages long, and the dorms were full for the next two weeks with the Christian Crusaders.
The secretary came back on the line. “Dr. Richards?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve found a cancellation in Corbett Hall, but—”
“We’ll take it,” Kristine blurted out.
“But it isn’t a private room,” the secretary finished.
“That’s his problem,” Kristine muttered under her breath, and thirty seconds later had given the secretary all the information she had, his name and a billing address to the history department.
With her first success of the day under her belt, she went out to garner another one, getting rid of the most intriguing man she’d met in many a moon. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
“We’re in luck,” she said, gaining his attention as she entered the living room.
“I have felt the same,” he replied, turning with his rogue’s smile in place. His eyes darkened with the same warmth she felt in his smile, chasing the lightness out of her heart.
She girded herself against the intensity of his gaze by tightening the sash on her robe. It was far too early in the morning to be thinking the thoughts racing around in her mind, and he was far too much of a stranger to have put them there.
But he hadn’t felt like a stranger when he’d kissed her, and there weren’t enough hours in the day for her to explain that discrepancy.
“I meant, I’ve found you a place to stay. The university will pick up the tab, but”—she unwittingly shook her head to match the movement of his, and her words slowed—“I’m afraid you’ll have a roommate—” She suddenly realized what she was doing and stopped. “Is there a problem?”
“I must stay here, Kreestine,” he said, his gesture taking in the whole house. Her house.
“Here? Right here?” Surely she’d misunderstood. There seemed to be an awful lot of t
hat going around.
He nodded, and she found herself again following along, her hair brushing against her shoulders. With effort, she jerked her head in the opposite direction.
“No. No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head vigorously. “You can’t possibly stay here. It’s totally out of the question. Impossible.”
“Imperative,” he countered.
“Unreasonable,” she said more firmly.
“Ordained.”
“Ordained?”
“You have accepted responsibility for the trunks. In return I must accept responsibility for your safety. There is no other way.”
Kristine stared at him, dumbfounded. Her first instinct was to call Dean Chambers back and reexplain the situation a little more succinctly. Or better yet, demand he talk to Kit Carson himself and get a good dose of what she’d been up against all morning. The man needed more than a cultural liaison. He needed a full-blown course in Western civilization. One in logic wouldn’t hurt either.
“Good, we are agreed,” Kit said, taking her silence for the necessary acquiescence, pleased he hadn’t had to resort to more energy-consuming means. The journey had been very long, tiring his mind as well as his body. “I will need food and rest. Then we will begin sorting through photographs and my accompanying notes. We lost a mule in a river crossing, and one of the yaks disappeared into a crevasse, but these things happened early in the journey, and I’m sure they were only carrying supplies and not journals. Still, the inventory must be checked. Our camp was raided under the shadow of Mount Tise, but once again the gods were with us and the bandits did not get what they had come for, though one of the muleteers was injured. Sometimes, this is the way, is it not?”
His wild story caught at her imagination, despite a strong warning that told her to cut short his litany of disasters and insist that he leave—before her curiosity completely overruled her common sense. But the longer he talked, the more curious she became, especially about healthy Harry.
“When did Dr. Fratz jump ship?” she asked baldly, playing a disturbing hunch. “After the mule, or did he make it through the raid?”
Kit chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, Harry. He has no heart for adventure, no heart at all. He abandoned the caravan shortly after we crossed the border into Tibet, which was just as well. It was his mule we lost.”
“He wasn’t sick?”
“Only with fear.”
Her hand tightened into an unconscious victory fist. She’d suspected it the night before, and now she knew. That milksop had run out on an expedition she would have given her eyeteeth to be on, river crossings, disappearing yaks, bandits, and all. Now, instead of sharing in the glory of discovery, she’d been relegated to sorting and writing—neither of which required a bodyguard, as Carson had implied.
She glanced back up at him, silently admitting he would make an impressive one, if one was needed. Which it was not, she firmly reminded herself. The very idea was ludicrous. No woman needed a man for protection, or anything else as far as Kristine could tell. She’d gotten along quite well without one for four years. Actually, she’d gotten along better without one. She had no intention of ruining the winning combination of herself and her work by allowing some overly charismatic outlaw to breathe down her neck while she resurrected his project from the shambles a bunch of men had made of it.
Drawing in a deep breath, she prepared to explain her position in formal tones befitting their professional relationship. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with a dormitory room for a couple of days, Mr. Carson.” There was that title again, appropriate for the circumstances, but oh so inappropriate for the man himself. On Saturday you can move into one of the faculty apartments. It is completely outside the realm of my responsibility or the confines of custom for me to allow you to stay in my home. I hope you understand.” And she did, fervently. She didn’t know what she’d do if he didn’t. Calling the police seemed rash, and unlikely to forward her career.
“Then we are not agreed?” he asked, looking surprised. It was a rare emotion for him, if she was reading his underlying reaction correctly.
“No, we are not agreed.”
“I thought you understood about . . .”
“And I wish you would understand,” she said over his uncompleted sentence.
Forbearing a sigh, Kit lowered his gaze and dragged a hand through his hair. Sang Phala had taught him many things, but the old lama had obviously never dealt with an American woman. He wondered if they were all so self-determined, or if it was a purely personal trait in Kristine. He was used to women who obeyed without question and had little knowledge of women who didn’t. It was an interesting experience, interesting and a shade irritating.
Kristine crossed her arms over her chest and watched him carefully, trying to gauge how he was taking her ultimatum. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look like he’d given up either. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine why he was insisting on staying. Sure, she’d responded to his kiss with unprecedented enthusiasm, but her every action since had been designed to discourage him. If her ex-fiancé had shown even half of his tenacity, she might be married now instead of heading into spinsterhood with only her degrees to keep her warm.
Maybe she should try another tack and stretch her authority a bit. The man might be more infamous than famous at the moment, but he was still a visiting scholar of sorts.
“If you would prefer a hotel,” she said, “I’m sure the university will pay for your room and board.” They were already into his project to the tune of thousands and thousands of dollars. What was a few hundred more? “We have a number of fine establishments here in Fort Collins, including a bed and breakfast place close to the school, The Charters House. The Mountain Inn has a swimming pool and it’s just a couple of blocks from my office, or there’s the . . .”
So be it, Kit thought, only half listening as she extolled the virtues of all the places he would not be staying. He’d never found any protection in innocence or ignorance, though at one time he’d had both in abundance. He didn’t want to frighten her, but she’d left him no choice.
“Kreestine,” he interrupted, and waited until he had her undivided attention, until her mountain-violet eyes focused on him, impatient but waiting. “Others will find the trail harder to follow, but one will come, and before he finds me, he will find you. I cannot leave until it is known that what I have brought is no longer within his reach.”
A brick wall, Kristine thought. It was like talking to an inscrutable brick wall. “Who will be coming for what?” she asked in exasperation, pressing him to make a point, any point at all, without beating around the bush.
Kit started to tell her the details were unimportant, then hesitated, caught by the spark of warning in her eyes. Not just the pertinent facts, he decided, but the truth with all its unknowns, with all its possibilities.
“The Turk will come for the treasures of Chatren-Ma,” he said. He spoke the last word softly, like the invocation it was, and the immediate change in her eyes told him she knew exactly what the name implied.
Kristine opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed on her lips. The man had an unsurpassed ability to stun her into gaping silence, but he’d definitely made his point.
She finally found the wherewithal to choke out a word. “Impossible.”
“Difficult and dangerous, but not impossible,” he said. “Not for me, and not for the Turk. He led the bandit raid on our camp. An ocean will not stop him.”
Absolutely impossible, Kristine insisted silently. The professor in her refused to believe in the fabled monastery lost in the clouds and snows of the high Himalayas. She’d sooner believe in Atlantis or Shangri-la. She knew the famous legend of Chatren-Ma. It was supposedly the resting place of the earthly remains of the lama of Saskya and the Kāh-gyur he’d translated into Mongolian for Kublai Khan, the Mongol conqueror of China in the thirteenth century. As a historian specializing in the Trans-Himalayan region of Asia, which stretched
with the Himalaya Mountains from Afghanistan through India, encompassing countries such as Nepal and Tibet, she’d read a lot of legends. Tibet, in particular, was awash in them. The forbidden land grew legends and gods and demons with abandon, and few scholars had ever penetrated its veil of mystery.
And now here was Kit Carson, Kautilya, as big a mystery as any she’d read about, speaking of Chatren-Ma and bandits. Of course, bandits.
Three
Every archaeological site in the world was seething with bandits these days, Kristine knew. Especially if the site was fabled, as most were before they were “officially” discovered by someone with an academic title. That didn’t do an archaeologist in Tibet any good, because everything in Tibet was too sacred to excavate. Hence Carson’s provisional inventory of visible historical remains, a parameter he’d obviously always intended to push to the limits and beyond. No wonder Harry had turned tail, she mused.
“Was the monastery intact?” she couldn’t resist asking, then felt foolish. How could a nonexistent monastery be intact? But then maybe, just maybe, sometime in the night the stars had aligned in a manner to sanction miracles. Chatren-Ma!
“Will you give me a week to conduct my business?” he asked, ignoring her question.
She ignored his, forcing her voice into calmness. He seemed so sure. “Can you prove it?”
Thrust and parry, Kit thought, allowing a half smile to form on his mouth. He hadn’t wanted to frighten her and he obviously hadn’t. Why hadn’t the university sent him this woman in the beginning? Taking Harry Fratz back to the Nepalese border had cost him two days he could have used to stay ahead of the Turk. Then again, if the school had known about his true mission, they wouldn’t have sent anybody. He’d needed their nominal inclusion to convince the Chinese of his more honorable intentions.
Kristine watched him slip a long chain with a key on it from around his neck. He strode over to the trunks, his boots jingling in muted tones, his long legs powerful and sure of their destination. Despite the necessity for skepticism, her excitement flickered, then stirred into vigorous life.
