by Jackson, Pam
He could feel the darkness rising from his mind, and he quickly grabbed some gear out of the duffel bag Paul had left in the closet. Everything was clear. Nothing else mattered in his life except being with Andie.
As he raced for the door, armed with his gear, he leaped over the map that Andie had dropped to the floor before she ran from the cabin. He stopped and picked it up, remembering Andie’s fondness for the old parchment, and he placed it carefully on the table. His eyes scanned the map, remembering the old legends of Claudius and the mountain people who lived on this land well before hikers and Cub Scout troops invaded these hills on weekends and summer vacations. He ran his fingers over the spot that represented the sycamore grove and figured Andie would be heading back there. A memory flashed in his head of Luca Eberstark’s sadistic face as he fired at them, pinning them down among the craggy old trees. Clay shuddered at the thought of that repulsive prick being out there with Andie—his Andie.
But before he could run like the wind after his sweet angel, his eye caught the open page of the vellum binding atlas that Andie had pulled from the old steamer trunk. It had been left open to a relief similar to his uncle’s map. He picked up the atlas from the table and read the faded words inscribed on the rough paper. “Sicomac.” Not sycamore. He studied the atlas in disbelief. “Holy shit! She was right, the cave does exist.”
Both the atlas and his uncle’s map showed identical topography of the area, but the atlas was imprinted with foreign words that represented each section of land. Clay was excellent at learning foreign languages; that’s what gave him a lethal edge in adapting to his undercover roles in distant countries. He owed that strength to his Aunt Lorraine. She was born and raised in these hills, and her family had descended from old Jersey Dutch farmers who settled along the New York and New Jersey borders prior to the American Revolution. When Clay spent his summer vacations up here, not only did he learn the lay of the land from his uncle, but his aunt had taught him the culture and the old ways of the people who had first settled this land. That included the old language, Jersey Dutch. It was a combination of Flemish and English, with the occasional Native American word thrown in for good measure.
“I’m a damn genius!” A crooked smile spread across his face for only a moment. His ego-stroking party would need to take a back seat to the fact that he hadn’t prepared himself with all the details of this assignment. He should have reacquainted himself with the history and the old tales of Claudius; he should have looked through every map, including this damn atlas that had been sitting here all along. His fault—he couldn’t deny the fact that he should have split the surveillance detail with Paul or with one of the other agents. Instead of reviewing the case and spending some time researching what Andie might be looking for, he had chosen to stay in Manhattan and stalk her through a zoom lens like a lovesick teenager.
Paul had pulled Clay off his surveillance detail after he’d photographed Andie at dinner that evening with Tivoli. Paul was anticipating that Andie might make the first move to locate Claudius’s cave before Tivoli sent out his own recon team to do the job—and he was right. Unfortunately, this gave Clay only a short window of time to make it to his newly inherited home, do a weapons check, and mentally assess his mission.
Paul had been using Clay’s inherited house for the past month as his personal base camp for operations. Out of boredom—very common on long details—Paul had decided to start renovations on the place. When Clay had returned to the house, he was met by a tiled master bathroom and the fumes of freshly painted walls. Paul had even decorated with some family photos that he’d found in an old box. Most likely it was the high from the fumes that was making Clay’s old friend act like Martha Stewart in combat boots. Clay remembered cringing as he saw the old photo of himself after his Special Forces graduation sitting empirically over the smaller frames. He felt a hundred years old as he stared into the photo at those naive eyes. He’d been ready to take on the world, but he definitely had underestimated the amount of loss he would see through those eyes in the years to come.
Paul had set up Clay’s family house and the hunting cabin with enough food and weapons to take on an army—or at least some belligerent hikers, whichever stood in Clay’s way. The only item Paul had forgotten was the map. Clay had needed to make sure Andie saw it so she would reveal her true objective in attempting to locate Claudius’s cave—and Clay had to do all this while following his damn orders to keep up his cover ID. Fucking Academy Award material.
Clay had removed the map from an old family Bible that was kept on the top shelf in the hall closet. The map had been held between the crisp pages, preserved in a plastic bag, for many years. He had placed it in the cheap frame and mounted it to the wall over the fireplace, making sure the words The Den of The Outlaw Claudius Smith were visible through the glass.
Sicomac—that word was the key, and he couldn’t wait to tell Andie. He knew exactly where Claudius’s cave was—in fact, he knew it all too well.
Clay’s jawline went rigid, and he turned to the duffel bag to remove some of its deadly contents. He grabbed a lightweight, black military sweater reinforced with canvas patches in the areas where heavy gear and straps would lie, and he pulled it over his head with lightning speed. He did a quick check of his ammo and weapons and sprinted from the tiny cabin into the wet snow. I’m comin’, darlin’, just sit tight.
Chapter 14
A thin veil of low clouds shrouded the full moon and masked the tree-lined landscape. There were no cries from forest animals, no soft swish of tall pines swaying in the night breeze. Only the impenetrable white wall of thick fog and wet snow that surrounded Andie.
It was strange; she should’ve been terrified, but instead she felt at ease. The muted moonlight gave off just enough light to illuminate a path through the snow. She was grateful for the dull light since she had run from the cabin with no survival gear and no flashlight. Absolutely brilliant, Andie. You’re an idiot!
She stopped her full-force run when her legs couldn’t take the strain anymore, and she propped herself against a large granite boulder. She didn’t know how far she ran, and the lights from the hunting cabin had faded long ago. This stop would only be temporary, so she could catch her breath and check the GPS on her phone. She knew from comparing the photos of the map she’d taken with her phone’s camera to the vivid cartoon-like GPS screen that she needed to head northeast to pick up the nearest path that would lead her back to the sycamore grove.
She remembered the terrifying scene earlier that day; she had watched the deadly shootout between Clay and Eberstark’s men from a distance and had finally decided to do her best Annie Oakley impression on a snowmobile to get Clay the hell out of there. A vivid flashback hit her hard: Clay fatally shooting one of the mercenaries in the throat, the man’s lifeless body lying in a pool of thick blood in the clearing near the grove. The last thing Andie wanted to do was revisit that area and stumble upon a body in the middle of the night, but she had no choice. Stressing over a frozen corpse was the least of her worries. Luca Eberstark could still be out here, and she remembered Clay’s warning back at the hunting cabin about “the wolf at the door.” She prayed he was dead or at least heading back to the city to regroup and check in with Tivoli. Dead would be best.
She knew she had a slim chance of finding her way back to that grove before the sun came up, but her other options were no better. She thought about it for a minute: option number one, she could go back to the cabin and grovel her way back into Clay’s good graces and spend a comfortable night in a warm cabin with new flannel sheets; option number two, she could sit on this cold and uncomfortable boulder and most likely freeze to death by morning; or option number three, she could face the dead guy in the sycamore grove. All of them left a bad taste in her mouth.
Unbelievable! She’d rather step over a rotting corpse than bootlick her way back into Clay’s life and ask for his help again. It’s official, I’ve lost my mind!
She thought b
itterly about how easy it was for Clay to make up all those lies. He’d been watching her for weeks—stalking her like she was prey. And what confused her most was that she wasn’t more upset by it. She’d felt safe—and she could kick herself because she was still savoring the memory of Clay pinning her wrists to the wall as she felt the heat from his parted lips rippling against her skin, making her sex tingle and yearn to be satisfied.
Walk it off, girl. He is not an option. Stick with option three.
She slid off the boulder and checked the direction of the nearest highlighted trail on her phone’s GPS map. She was ecstatic that she was able to get service up here. It was only one bar, but she was grateful to see the tiny block icon lit at the taskbar at the top edge of her phone. Suddenly, the silence that had comfortably surrounded her was shattered as the phone softly chimed, indicating an incoming text message. “Oh, shit! Please don’t be Tivoli, not now ... please, no.”
She hesitated, but decided that it was better to face her demon than to ignore him. She pressed the screen, allowing her to view the number and the text. It was an unknown number, but she tapped the text icon and read the message.
I know I hurt you. I didn’t mean to lie. Had to, so you wouldn’t get hurt. Sorry.
“Damn it,” she said, more relieved than angry. It was Clay, and she had to be strong. Being weak and powerless with this man was getting old, and he wasn’t here to help her find the Atros Fallis or because he desired her—he was here because it was his job.
She found herself tapping away at the small keys on the screen, knowing she would regret it.
Leave me alone. I don’t need your help.
His response came quickly.
You can’t find it yourself—trust me.
“Wanna make a bet, tough guy? I don’t need you,” she said aloud as she touched the screen to delete the text. She wasn’t going to return his message. Nothing he could say would change her mind.
Her phone chimed again. For a moment, she stared at the lit screen and the tiny envelope icon indicating a new text message. She didn’t want to play this game with him, but curiosity was killing her. Once again, she tapped at the screen to view the text.
This tough guy will take that bet.
Her heart dropped to her knees as she realized she hadn’t sent a second text to him, but had said those words aloud. She turned quickly, trying to see into the heavy fog. “Clay? Are you there?”
Her phone chimed again, and she tapped the screen with a shaky finger.
Turn to your left.
She turned and felt a knot of anxiety in her stomach. A figure emerged from the white mist like a shadowy specter. It was Clay, and as he approached, she recognized the fearsome automatic weapon she had found in his duffel bag. It was slung across his shoulder by a wide nylon strap, and he held his Colt 1911 pistol in his right hand. He flipped up the monocular night vision goggle that was attached to his head with a harness, making him look like something out of a crazy sci-fi movie—a Cyclops alien hunter with lethal intent.
“Gimme your phone, Andie—now!” he commanded, as he pulled off the night vision goggle and attached it to his belt.
“What? You are freaking unbelievable! I told you, I don’t take orders from you!” Her green eyes flashed with anger, and she forced the slender phone deep into her pocket. “Go to hell!” She stood her ground as he came at her fast.
“Been there, sweetheart. It’s not a pretty place,” he hissed out, his teeth clenched and his eyes narrowed. His body towered over her, and he pulled her close with his right arm—pistol still in hand. “Andie, don’t make me handle you like this. I told you back at my house this morning to remove the battery. Tivoli could track you if he has your GPS location—service or no service. He might be tracking you as we speak.”
“Oh, shit ... no, no, no. I’m an idiot!” She was frantic, and with a trembling hand she dug the phone from her pocket. Panicking, she fumbled to press the power button.
He holstered his Colt and grabbed the phone. He removed the battery, and with a quick and solid movement, he threw the phone and the battery against a large pine tree. She heard the tin-like pings of the phone bursting apart.
She despised the tears that were welling in her eyes, and she tried her best to push them back. “Clay, I’m sorry. I forgot. I messed up—I’m a damn stubborn fool. I’ve put your life in jeopardy since we’ve met, and all you’ve wanted to do is protect me. This is exactly why I don’t deserve kindness or happiness—I’m reckless and selfish. This is why Roger killed himself, and this is why ... why I don’t deserve ... to be kissed by you.”
“What?” he asked as the corner of his luscious mouth curved into a wry grin. “Is that what you want me to do, Andie? Do you want me to kiss you? Damn, woman, I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.” She watched him bite down on his bottom lip and shake his head before he spoke again. “What concerns me, Andie, is that I don’t think I can stop at just kissing you.”
He eased up close to her and reached out to touch her hair. He gently pulled out the elastic band that held her ponytail and delved his fingers deep into her thick locks. He pulled her tightly against him, and she could feel his heart pounding from behind the thick slabs of muscle that covered his chest.
“I don’t want the pain and punishment anymore—all I want is you,” he murmured. “I’m too far gone. The truth is, I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to walk away from you after I’ve held you and kissed your sweet lips over and over again. So sweetheart, you better be sure that you want this kiss, because I’m the type of guy your father warned you about.”
She smiled and moved in close to his lips. “Clay, you’re the type of guy my father would’ve been proud to call family. So shut up and kiss me already.”
She felt his warm lips press against hers, strong and demanding. He parted her lips with his tongue, and she moaned slightly as he penetrated her mouth, reaching for her own playful tongue. With each small moan from Andie, his kiss became more urgent—pleading for all of her. The invasion was so erotic that she felt heavy in his arms, ready to surrender herself to him.
She felt his hand travel down her back and under her jacket, slipping beneath the hem of her sweater and onto her bare back. His touch was searing hot against her cool skin, and she wanted those strong hands to caress every inch of her naked body right here in the snow, or up against this giant boulder. She really didn’t care where they were, as long as he was touching her. She was his.
He gently broke from their kiss, and she could hear his breath, ragged and lustful, when he finally spoke. “Under any other circumstances, I would have no problem taking you right here in the woods. Believe me, Andie. I’m not resting until I have you over and over again, but we need to get back to the cabin and out of sight.” He turned away, his gaze surveying the edge of the woods and beyond. “Besides,” he whispered, smiling like a sly fox. “I have a surprise waiting for you back there.”
Her face filled with color. She wasn’t a prude by any means, and Clay’s passionate kiss and roaming hands definitely had let her know this was only a prelude to something more, but she hadn’t expected him to boast about it.
He read the astonishment on her face, and he shook his head and laughed. “Don’t worry, Andie. Business first, then pleasure. I promise you that. I found Claudius Smith’s cave, and we have a lot of work to do, so let’s go.” He placed the night vision goggle back on his head and flipped down the monocular. He grabbed her hand and gripped it firmly. “You stay next to me. I’m not letting you go ... ever.” His lips curved into a slight, sweet smile, and she believed that promise with all of her heart.
Chapter 15
“See this word, sicomac?” Clay pointed to the word inked faintly onto the atlas. He stood next to Andie, trying to read her reaction as her eyes darted across the yellowed, laid paper map and focused on the word in question. “And do you see these very small words here?” He pointed to two almost illegible words scribbled under the word sicom
ac. The words read, ratelslang bome. “Now see how the topography between the atlas and Uncle Owen’s map are identical?”
“Yes, they are definitely similar,” she said, peeling her jacket off and slinging it over the back of a kitchen chair. “But what do these words mean? I noticed them when I looked at the atlas, but they looked Flemish or German to me, and I couldn’t translate it.”
“Yeah, well, I can translate it,” he said. “And it’s not German or pure Flemish, it’s a combination of Flemish, English and Lenape Indian dialect—it’s known as Jersey Dutch. It was a language that was spoken in these hills during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I learned it from my Aunt Lorraine. Evidently, Uncle Owen never learned the language.” He shook his head and grumbled something below his breath. “Most likely, he didn’t pay attention to my aunt long enough to ask her the meaning. He always said that Claudius’s cave was hidden somewhere in the sycamore grove. It’s sicomac, not sycamore—no wonder the fool never found a damn thing.”
Andie could feel the tension in Clay’s voice; he evidently disapproved of his uncle’s treatment toward his aunt during their marriage. Probably one of the many reasons he has intimacy issues, she thought. Then again, her childhood memories of her own parents’ relationship were abruptly cut short when her mother passed away—her father’s only mistress was the army. Maybe this was why she felt a connection with Clay. Two peas in a dysfunctional pod.
“What does sicomac mean, and what’s a ratelslang bome?” Andie asked, feeling confidence that Clay was now on board with the idea that the cave existed and that the legend of the Atros Fallis was true.
“Sicomac means resting place or burial ground in Lenape, and ratelslang bome means rattlesnake tree in Jersey Dutch.”
She shot him a look of disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? So we’re looking for a tree made of rattlesnakes in a Native American cemetery.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her long, wheat-colored hair.
