TWICE A HERO

by Susan Krinard

  "I can only hope he stays in his right mind." Liam folded his arms and made all the appropriate motions of someone preparing to sleep.

  A victory, of sorts, in their little skirmish of wills; he'd be out soon enough. She made a strategic retreat. Fernando was still waiting outside. He gestured for her to come near.

  "Señorita," he said. "We talk."

  It was probably more English than she'd heard him speak to date, but she was willing to give it a try. He walked to the champas, well out of earshot of the tent, and she followed.

  "Two things I tell you," he said, searching for each word with grave concentration. "Uno… The señor is un hombre orgulloso. He walks alone. He does not… like taking help from people. Needing una mujer, not good for his pride. Makes him weak. He must be strong. Others need him."

  Mac listened carefully to his earnest statements, piecing them together. She repeated it back to Fernando. "Liam is a proud man, a loner who doesn't like to take help from people, especially not women. It makes him feel weak, and he has to feel strong, to know others need him."

  "Bien. Understand." Fernando smiled with that same grave mien. "He likes you, señorita. You like him."

  That nonplussed Mac too much to summon an immediate response. If Fernando knew that much about Liam O'Shea, they must have been together a long time indeed.

  "You are mujer muy valiente," Fernando said into the gap. "Like the señor." He put his two hands together, interlacing his fingers. "Good thing. But he needs more than he say."

  Does he? Mac rolled these observations around in her mind, her heart beating a little harder than it should. After all, why should it matter to her?

  "There is more, señorita."

  Mac focused on Fernando again. "Yes?"

  "You came here from very far."

  She went still. "Yes."

  "And you want to get back. But the way is not easy."

  Shivers had begun racing up and down Mac's spine. "What do you mean?"

  "I know the sacred place. I know la Have. The key. It has been broken. Only when it is entero, whole, can the way open again.

  "Only then can you return."

  Chapter Eight

  Thus we play the fools with

  the time, and the spirits

  of the wise sit in the

  clouds and mock us.

  —William Shakespeare

  "RETURN?" MAC CROAKED.

  "By the path through Xibalba. The way you came."

  Xibalba. The Maya Otherworld, which the ancient Maya had believed could be reached through the mouths of caves—or the entrances to the temples they had built to their gods.

  And broken keys. Mac remembered to breathe again. Keys—the two halves of the pendant. The ones she'd lost coming through, on the other side. The keys that had opened a tunnel through time.

  And on this side of time, Liam wore one around his neck, while the other…

  The other was Peregrine Sinclair's. In San Francisco. The one Homer would bequeath to her with stories of a curse that must be appeased.

  "You know," she said dazedly. "Who I am. All of it."

  He only gazed at her. "The key must return. The danger is great. You must bring it back, for you and for the people." Without warning he turned to go.

  "Wait! Fernando, I need to know—"

  But he had vanished as he seemed so prone to do, leaving her thoughts muddled and her legs weak with shock. She just managed to make them carry her back to her palmetto shelter. She sat down on the ground as the implications raced through her mind.

  Fernando had told her that the two halves of the pendant were a key. A key to the temple—to the tunnel that had carried her across time. That she must have both halves, both pendants to make the tunnel work again.

  It didn't matter how he knew how she had come here. She knew he was right. She'd unknowingly held both halves of the key to the wall in the tunnel, and activated whatever mechanism opened the path through time.

  Now she had only one pendant—or access to only one. Liam's, which he wore around his neck. Only half of the key. And that meant…

  That meant she was trapped in the past until she found the other one. "You must bring it back, for you and for the people," Fernando had said. His people? The Maya? And why? Did they understand the full wonder of the miracle inside that temple?

  They would, if anyone could. The ancient Maya'd had an obsession with time. They'd calculated back thousands of years before their civilization began, and centuries beyond its death. Who better to build a time machine?

  But how did such a machine work, if machine it was? Did it pass through some other dimension between past and future?

  And what about the consequences of her traveling through time—of saving Liam's life? He could marry, have children, impact other lives. Yet surely Liam O'Shea couldn't be so crucial in the grand scheme of things that his living would alter the course of history.

  So maybe… she sat up. Maybe she was making entirely too much out of this. She knew what she had to do. She had to get back to her own time. She had to find the key that would open the time-gate. And that meant…

  The palmetto wall sagged as she leaned against it. That meant getting the other pendant, assuming she could beg, borrow, or steal Liam's. And that meant traveling over a thousand miles away to a certain famous City by the Bay. In the year 1884.

  How could she hope to accomplish that? There had to be another way. Maybe one half of the pendant alone would work.

  It was worth a try.

  One step at a time. The first was getting Liam's pendant. She'd wondered why he was wearing the symbol of a severed friendship, but now she was grateful. At least she knew where it was. If he hadn't taken it off when he'd dressed, maybe she could steal it while he was out. If the pills had worked the way they always had with her.

  First things first. She'd have to make sure Liam was asleep before searching for the pendant. Another hour should do it. The less she saw of him between now and her next attempt to time-travel, the better.

  She climbed awkwardly into the hammock and fell gratefully into an exhausted sleep.

  The sun was angled low in the sky when she woke. She rubbed her eyes and rolled out of the hammock, guessing at the time. Blast Liam for stealing her watch.

  Then she remembered the antique watch she'd shoved in her pocket following the attack.

  It was still working, though it looked as though it had been on at least one hardy trip through the jungle. She'd slept longer than she'd intended, but with luck the pills would have kept Liam under. She tucked the watch back in her pocket and left the champas.

  Fernando was, naturally, nowhere to be seen. She crept toward the tent, preparing herself. She didn't want to see Liam. She didn't want to be around him. She wanted to get the hell out of this place, before something worse happened. Before she became… attached.

  But when she opened the tent flap and found Liam lying asleep, one arm dangling over the side of the cot and the other draped loosely across his chest, her heart crashed right through the walls of sense and logic. As if it were the first time she'd seen him in the flesh. Or when she'd realized who he really was. The feelings were the same, and overwhelming.

  No. Not the same—stronger. She felt a sudden urge to touch him, to make sure he was still alive.

  She walked into the tent and stood over the cot. His features were so relaxed in sleep, almost gentle, the deeper lines smoothed out and the sardonic smile relaxed. His lips were slightly parted. She remembered the feel of them, the strength in them, their unapologetic boldness by the lake. The feelings they'd aroused in her.

  This was someone who might need someone else, who might feel…

  "Liam?" she whispered.

  He didn't stir, didn't so much as twitch.

  "Does this mean I can say something without a sarcastic answer from you? That's good. Because if what I hope is true, this may be the last time I see you."

  Or touch you.

  Slowly s
he raised her hand, let it hover over his mouth. That was far too great a danger. She shifted her attention to the bandage around his head. No new blood leakage that she could see; the wound must have been superficial.

  His hair was sleek and pale brown, streaked with gold, flowing back like a lion's mane. It was so beautiful, so unlike her own unremarkable straight dark brown hair. He surely wouldn't feel it if she just let her hand rest there for the briefest of moments.

  "I know you aren't going to miss me," she said wryly. "I'm just a major annoyance to you—you've made that pretty clear. And you're the worst kind of judgmental chauvinist. But—" She gave in to temptation. Her hand moved of its own accord, stroking back the thick strands of his hair. "I don't think I'm going to forget you."

  She could have sworn his lips twitched, but his breathing remained deep and steady.

  "Just don't let that go to your already considerable ego, O'Shea. That was what the kiss was about, right? Trying to prove you had one up on me."

  She studied his clean-shaven jaw. There was a ghost of a bruise there, but she didn't know if she'd given it to him. "I'm not apologizing for the punch. You had it coming. I just hope some woman's going to come along and teach you the rest of the lesson."

  Yeah. Lucky woman with a job like that. As if he'd let any woman with a brain or a will of her own get near him.

  His pulse beat, rich with life, in the warm hollow of his throat. His shirt was half open, revealing the impressive swell of his chest, crisp with curly blond hair. God, but he was so strange and beautiful, like some precious relic too rare to hold…

  Her attention snapped back to his neck as her mind registered what she had just seen. A thin strip of leather lay across his collarbones, disappearing into his shirt. He was still wearing the pendant. She was in luck.

  "This is it," she said. "At least I hope it is." And when I get home, it'll be something to remind me of an adventure I had once, a long time ago.

  With utmost care she peeled the edge of his collar back from his skin and snagged the thong between two fingernails. She felt the weight at the end of it and began to reel it in like a fish on a line.

  There was no mistaking the shape and design. It was the very chip of carved stone that Liam's bones had worn in the tunnel. When it was safely in her hand, she spread the thong into a wide loop and pulled the leather cord, inch by inch, up and over his head. It slipped free of his hair, and she began to relax.

  "Looking for something?"

  Liam was gazing at her through hooded eyes. She shoved the pendant into her pocket, on top of the watch. "I… was just checking up on you."

  "Sure you were." His voice was leisurely and deep, the words drawled and deliberate. Effects of the medication, no doubt. She remembered how she'd felt the first time she'd taken the stuff: Good. Relaxed. Almost intoxicated.

  "Should I be gra'ful for such so… licitous care?" he asked.

  "I wouldn't dream of expecting anything like gratitude from you, Mr. O'Shea."

  "Because I'm not a… gentleman?"

  Considering the state he was in, Mac was surprised that he managed to inject so much challenge into a single sentence.

  "I didn't come here to argue. You need to rest."

  "Ha." He grinned crookedly. "You're right. I'm not a gentleman. Prob'ly never will be."

  Not derisive, not the way she would have expected. There was an almost caressing note that made her stomach quiver.

  "If I was, I'd never've kissed you, Mac. Not right. Don' know why I did it. Sorry."

  Apologizing? Now that was something she'd never have expected. But instead of satisfaction she felt a sting of humiliation—that he was telling her what she'd already suspected. He hadn't kissed her because he… because he…

  Found me desirable. Oh, hell, Mac. Get a grip. What does that matter now? Why would you want it, anyway?

  "And I didn't—protect you," he went on. His gaze darkened to a smoky half-light. "You… could've taken a bullet yourself."

  There was a strange intensity in him, a kind of little-boy earnestness that caught her attention and held her rapt.

  "Believe me, Mac," he said. "I would die first."

  "Listen," she said awkwardly. "It was my choice—"

  "A… damnfool act of idiocy."

  "Funny you should say that, O'Shea, given your reputation."

  The corner of his mouth tilted lazily, dispelling the strange mood. "And what do you know about my reputation? Is it… written in your history books?"

  "Not as much as you'd like, I'm sure." This was ground she was sure of—bantering with an edge of challenge. "Let's just say I know you've taken plenty of damnfool chances yourself."

  He chuckled, husky and low. "They don' call me 'Lucky Liam' for nothing. I take chances. And I get what I want."

  She didn't expect his next move, the way his hand reached out for hers in slow motion and captured it before she could think to pull away. "I'm beginnin' to wonder, darlin', if you aren't… part of my luck."

  Darlin'? Mac swallowed. He was looking at her that way again, the way he had down by the lake—as if he could actually find her attractive.

  Her fingers felt claustrophobic in his hold. Her lips felt very full and tender and none too capable of forming the right response. "I wouldn't bet on it. I… uh, I wouldn't say that I'm a particularly lucky person to be around."

  An easy tug pulled her closer to the cot. "Humility, Mac? That does surprise me."

  "I don't imagine it would be a trait you're familiar with."

  "Touché." His thumb moved in an arc over the palm of her hand, and she flinched in surprise. The caress reversed itself, repeated. Sharp tingles shot from her hand straight to suddenly sensitive parts of her body. "But I owe you. I always pay my debts."

  "Forget it."

  "I don't forget." His thumb made another circuit of her palm. "But I wonder… why you did it."

  Like a snake with its prey, Liam held her captive. Her mind couldn't come up with anything even remotely intelligent in response. "I would have done the same thing for anyone."

  "Brave Mac." No ridicule, only a solemn gravity. Then he chuckled, a deep vibration she felt through her hand. "And so soon after you gave me that gentle little tap."

  "I should have knocked you out."

  "Ah, yes. I… had it coming."

  Mac jerked. Those had been her words, spoken when he'd supposedly been asleep. If he'd heard that, if he'd heard the things she'd said… She worked her fingers in his grip. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

  "And what other… lessons do I need to learn, darlin'?"

  Damn. He had heard. He'd been faking sleep the whole time, and she'd been too stupid to realize it. "Okay," she said. "You've had your fun. Let me go."

  "Or you'll hit me again?" He tugged on her hand, and she was hard-pressed not to fall right on top of him. "Is that how women in your time… persuade their men?"

  "You're not my—" She bit off the sentence. "O'Shea—"

  "Call me Liam. We've braved death together, haven't we?"

  This wasn't possible. She couldn't be feeling what she was feeling, letting herself be affected by the things he said and his gaze and touch. She wasn't a total idiot. Her hormones weren't supposed to control her mind.

  But down by the lake it hadn't been her mind that responded to his kiss, that made her lash out. Her mind hadn't even been remotely involved.

  This was desire. Reckless, crazy desire. Something she'd only felt glimmers of in her own time.

  His fingers had worked their way up past her wrist and under the rolled-up sleeve of her borrowed shirt. "Maybe you need a lesson or two, Mac. We made a good start by the lake this morning."

  "You've… got to be kidding."

  "One lesson for another." Feather touches dipped into the soft hollow of her elbow. "Fair trade."

  "You'd be a lousy student."

  Gradually he was pushing up from the cot, revealing no signs of pain. "Are you afraid?"

  "Of wh
at? You? I thought we'd been through—"

  "That a woman has nothing to teach me."

  She grabbed his wrist and detached his hand from her arm. "I'm not your idea of a woman, thank God."

  He propped himself on his elbows without so much as a wince. "You're right. I've never met a woman like you."

  His straight face and steady stare made it seem almost like a compliment. He was damned good at that, making you trust him. Making you forget you'd ever had any common sense whatsoever.

  The tent's exit was only a few feet behind her. She had the pendant. All she had to do was walk out. He wouldn't try to stop her. It wouldn't be worth his effort to continue the game. Not to a man like him.

  She turned quickly, before she could change her mind.

  "A woman," he drawled behind her, "who isn't afraid of bullets but hides her body in men's clothes. Who claims equality with men and runs away when they come within spitting distance. Do I have that right… Miss MacKenzie?"

  She came to a dead stop. "It's just possible that a woman might not be interested."

  The cot creaked. In self-defense she turned to face him again. He was on his feet, legs apart, unexpectedly steady.

  "No," he said. "Not you. You have too much passion in you."

  "Uh, I have to… get back to my own time," she said, fumbling over the non sequitur. "I don't belong here."

  "You've discovered how to return?"

  There had to be something certain, something she could hang on to. She pushed her hand into the pocket of her borrowed pants, clutching the pendant. "I… think so."

  "Then I'll escort you—to make certain you reach your destination."

  "I think it would be better if we just said good-bye here." She thrust out her hand. "It was… nice to have met you."

  "Nice?" He ignored her hand. "That isn't the way I'd describe either one of us, Mac."

  There must be a way to end this conversation and distract him from his dangerous—yes, that was the term—focus on her.

  Of course. The watch she found at the site of the attack; she'd meant to show it to him anyway. She fished the chain from her pocket, careful not to pull out the Maya pendant along with it.

  "I picked this up off a bush right after you were shot at," she said. "One of the guerrillas, or whatever they were, must have lost it. I thought maybe—"