Make Mine a Marine

by Julie Miller

  Tenderly, lovingly, knowing he watched her, BJ pressed her hand over his heart. “It's gone. Damon's mark. All the scars. They're gone.”

  His warm skin cooled at the brush of autumn air. But beneath her palm, she felt the beating of his heart thudding more rapidly with each breath he took. He pulled her hand away and looked down, seeing his true self for the first time.

  BJ stretched upward, touching her lips to the healed skin, awestruck by the masculine beauty that encased the noble man.

  She tipped her face up to his. “I died, and the curse was lifted. You made beautiful, glorious love to me three times that night. I'm due in late May. I hope that sometime before then you'll marry me and give our child the father that I never had. One who's there. One who loves with his whole heart and soul.”

  Her voice caught as she thought of Jake and the love fate had cheated her of as a child. “And if he's too smart or too strong or perfectly average, you'll be a father who lets him know he's special in your eyes.”

  “Sweetheart, I…” Brodie's rough thumb gently brushed a tear from her cheek. “If I remember rightly, I'm an ugly mug even without all the scars.”

  BJ laughed, shutting off her tears with a grateful smile. She clutched at the soft collar of his shirt, wanting to be closer. “Yeah. But you're my ugly mug.”

  His hands encircled her waist and drew her up against him. “I'm old-fashioned, to say the least. I've got a lousy temper and I'm overprotective.”

  BJ grinned. “I keep weird hours. I have childish hobbies. I'll always be a smart-mouthed brainiac.”

  “Yeah, but you'd be my smart-mouthed brainiac.”

  BJ's responding laugh faded in dumbstruck wonder. Before her eyes, a marvelous transformation was taking place. The centuries' old grooves beside Brodie's eyes softened, and for the first time in several lifetimes, Brodie smiled.

  She gasped at the miracle of atrophied muscles coming to life once more. “Brodie.”

  He framed her face in his hands, beaming his love down to her. “I'm not always sure how things are done here in the modern world, but if you proposed marriage a few minutes ago, I accept.”

  “I did.”

  “I will.”

  Her heart soared as Brodie swung her up into his arms and pledged his love to her with a kiss.

  She clung to him, answering the vow with her own eager mouth.

  A while later, Brodie sat in a rocking chair on the porch, holding BJ in his lap. Duke dozed contentedly at Brodie's feet.

  “Beej?”

  “Hmm?” BJ tightened her hold around his shoulders and snuggled closer.

  His voice rumbled with husky emotion. “Thank you for my life.” He placed his hand over her abdomen, surrounding her and their child in the secure haven of his love. “Thank you for my future.”

  BJ slipped her hand over his. “It's our future, big guy. And for us, the only thing immortal is our love.”

  Shadow of the Hawk

  Julie Miller

  Dedication

  I’d like to thank all the teachers who influenced my life, in the classroom and as a colleague—in particular, Jane Boursaw, Jane Furkin, Sally Williams, Doug Allbritton, Nancy Gilmer, George Lake, Dr. Ben Nelms, Carol Noel, Mary Wadsworth, Mary Nowak Rose and Lana Jacobson Schroder. And I’d like to thank the students who have made teaching so special for me, including that rare St. Paul High School speech team of five ladies—fine young women and heroines all.

  Prologue

  "Shadow Man."

  Hawk ignored the static interruption from his radio, closed his eyes and stood perfectly still. He tilted his nose to the sky and tested the scent of the jungle. His breath moved in and out in sync with the hot, oppressive breeze on the humid air.

  He sifted through the exotic perfumes of lush green vegetation, animal spoor, rotting underbrush and rare flowers. He recognized the fresh kill of a predator. He tilted his head and reassured himself that the acrid odor of recently fired gunpowder still whispered through the air.

  But no man.

  He should pick up the scent of man.

  "Damn it, Hawk! Are you there? Report in! Over!"

  His eyes flashed open; dark pools of midnight sank into the angles of his camouflage-streaked face. He beat down a surge of panic that could obliterate his powers and scanned the perimeter of the trampled foliage one more time.

  He flexed his white-knuckled grip around the barrel and trigger of his AK-47. Where was his calm? Where were his guides?

  "Hawk! Either you get a trail or you get the hell out of there! I can hold this chopper on the ground another two minutes, tops. The Chameleon's men are closing in on our position."

  Hawk flipped the switch on his radio. "Shadow Man here. Shut up already, Major. I read you."

  Relief tempered the authoritative clip in Major Murphy's voice. "Del Rio's got this thing jerry-rigged to fly us out of here, but she won't take another hit." A two-second pause echoed like thunder in Hawk's ears. "Any sign of the colonel?"

  "Nothing." Hawk backed over his own path, not wanting to disturb a single clue. "There ought to be some track. I've got a firefight. Two men. I've got a U.S.-issue boot print and the Russian guy's sweat. But it goes nowhere. I can't find him."

  But he'd been here. Hawk knew it in his bones that Colonel Ramsey had taken the hit in this man-made clearing. He'd followed the trail easily enough. One military man in pursuit of a civilian, both stripped of heavy gear to travel fast.

  The evidence of their fight was here. Crushed greenery. Impacted earth. Blood.

  But there was no track out.

  Neither man had left this place.

  And yet they were gone.

  "Head out, man. That's an order." The heavy sigh across the static plunged into the hollowness of Hawk's soul.

  He'd never failed before.

  "Peace, my son." The ancient voice spoke the words in his native tongue. "Look into yourself and find your peace."

  Hawk threw the blanket off his shoulders and inhaled deeply. The tangy spice of the burning offering filled the sweat lodge. In his mind, he named the scents one by one…tansy, hickory bark… He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off the demon that threatened to lead him astray from his destiny. Dampness coated his naked skin. Heat moved through his pores like the wings of the spirit he sought, and cleansed his mind of troubling thoughts.

  Otis Peace Hands’ wizened voice guided him back to his quest. "Seek the light, son. The past is the past. Seek the light."

  Blackness swirled into a kaleidoscope of color. Shapeless at first. Then the fuzzy images began to take form.

  A gray-winged hawk, flecked with black points, soared from the center of the maelstrom. His spirit guide.

  Hawk joined the bird and flew high above the swirling mass, then plunged with him down into the color. As they descended, the hues around him took shape. Leaves. In greens of every shade from the newest grass to the most ancient of firs. Trees. Golds and browns and tints of black defined the trunks and branches.

  The jungle.

  His guide had returned him to the jungle.

  Hawk struggled against the image. He sought the future. He sought the answer to the dreams that plagued his lucid nights.

  Ancient words chanted in his brain. Otis was calling the power. The tribal elder was calling forth the power within Hawk.

  Hawk's lungs constricted. He gasped for air and collapsed to the floor. His body spasmed in one strong seizure that compressed every fiber in him.

  And then he was free.

  Not the jungle.

  The wooded glade of his Alaskan home where he'd lived as a child. His favorite among his sixteen homes in eighteen years as a third-generation military brat.

  The hawk sailed above the treetops, following a ribbon of crystal blue water that twisted down the mountain to the ocean.

  The air around Hawk cooled. He relaxed and fell into the dream.

  The hawk glided down to the water and snatched a fish in its talons. The triumphant h
unter settled on the shore and thanked God for the kill, in the tradition of the old ones. He thanked God for the bounty of this day and the strength it would provide.

  Then the raptor turned its head and Hawk's vision became one with the great bird's. A flat rock jutted out into the water. Two bear cubs frolicked in and out of the glacial stream, batting at fish, teaching themselves the way it had always been, learning their strengths, honing their skills. Nature continued its balanced cycle of life.

  A hoarse bellow trumpeted from the woods, the warning bark of the cubs' mother. Hawk watched the massive Kodiak lumber out from the trees onto the rock shelf. She sniffed and nuzzled her cubs, bonding them with her scent.

  Then she turned toward the hawk, toward Hawk himself and reared up on her hind legs, crying out a warning to him. She raised her snout and bellowed again, and as she took the defensive stance, Hawk could see the blood matting the fur on the left side of her chest.

  The brave maternal warrior's heart had been ripped out.

  And then Hawk sensed the darkness behind him. He felt a chilly rush of air wrap a cloak about his shoulders. The trees around him blurred, then popped, exploding into utter blackness.

  The water crashed against the rock, splashing blue, then gray, then freezing into black tendrils of ice that reached out toward the cubs.

  The Kodiak howled. She dropped to all four legs and circled her cubs, placing herself between them and the darkness that closed in around them.

  The encroaching void swept Hawk up in its clutches and carried him toward the rock. Then the ground itself shattered beneath his feet and fell away into a nothingness darker than the darkness itself.

  The bear turned her tawny eyes to him. Sad eyes. Pleading eyes. Empty eyes.

  And then it was gone.

  Hawk jerked and knew himself once more. The sweat lodge. His father's uncle, Otis. The vision quest.

  Damp with sweat, gritty with smoke and dirt, he flattened his palms on the floor of the lodge and pushed himself up to a sitting position. His father's blanket lay twisted about his hips. A mystic warmth hung in the air, but Hawk felt cold. He felt a lingering chill all the way to his bones and shivered.

  The only warmth he knew radiated from the oblong piece of black obsidian—his sicun, or spirit stone—that hung from a leather strap around his neck. He clutched the stone in his fist, feeling the heat of spirit magic coursing through it, ebbing from it into his hand.

  "What does it mean, Otis?" he asked, explaining in brief detail the vision that had come to him. "The mother? The encroaching darkness? What is she telling me?"

  Otis rubbed a thumb and forefinger back and forth across the tip of one of his silvery braids. Hawk knew no one could truly understand a vision except the recipient. But he also valued the wisdom of his elders, and respected their knowledge of secrets that even one with his gift did not yet comprehend.

  "I do not know, son," the old man finally said. "I can only tell you this. You must save her. Or you will die."

  Chapter One

  Hawk slipped into the town meeting almost thirty minutes after it had started and wondered what he had missed. The verbal fireworks spouting from one side of the room to the other were threatening to turn these normally dull, endless monthly proceedings into a riot.

  "They're heathens down there!" A plump Anglo woman with a shrill voice pointed an accusing finger at a gray-suited man across the aisle. "It simply isn't safe for them to go."

  The man adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his nose in an irritated gesture. "I say it's a matter of money. With budget freezes on the horizon, the school system simply can't afford this trip or the insurance liability it would create."

  Hawk folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the back wall. Allowing the debate to fade into a meaningless buzz of white noise, he used his unobtrusive position to study the packed high school auditorium.

  He attended these town hall meetings as a matter of course, an unofficial representative of the Native American citizens who populated the town and two reservations on the outskirts of Marysville, Kansas. His main concern had always been to see that tribal lands were maintained for tribal use, at the discretion of the council of elders. His own Pawnee ancestors came from a different region of the country, but many traditions were the same across Indian cultures—a respect for the land, honor and respect for one's ancestors, and an inviolate sense of community.

  Since retiring from the Marine Corps and settling in Marysville almost four years ago, Hawk had established a counseling practice that catered to the various needs of the tiny rural town in northeast Kansas. He'd just come from a session with a young couple dealing with the grief of losing an infant son to SIDS.

  One didn't have to live in the big city to face tragedy. The crazy, inexplicable problems of the world could touch down anywhere.

  Hawk had discovered that living in a sparsely populated rural area sometimes meant those problems were secreted away and left to fester, either from lack of knowledge and resources to combat them, or because of town gossip. He'd seen a lot in his forty years, but one thing he'd learned at a young age was how damaging and demoralizing a few misspoken rumors could be to a person's character and spirit. Judging by the number of people in the audience springing to their feet to voice their two cents' worth on the issue at hand, little Marysville was no different.

  The mayor pounded his gavel on the table, trying to maintain order. The auditorium quieted briefly, and even Hawk gave the man his full attention.

  "I think the council should table the discussion for now." He gestured to the four men and one woman on either side of him on the stage. "We'll look at this in executive session and address your concerns next month at the May meeting."

  "But you can't wait that long!" A dried-up string bean of a woman stood up next to the plump one who'd spoken earlier. "This field trip is scheduled for the end of the school year. We have to stop it now!"

  "Stop what?" A new voice entered the fray. A younger woman in the very front row, who'd been hidden from Hawk's view by all the bodies in between them, stood up and spun around to face the audience. "Stop their education?"

  Every eye in the now-silent room focused on her. Her wide-flung arms slowly dropped to her sides. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and her fingers crept together and clenched tightly in front of her.

  The poor thing had a sudden case of stage fright. Hawk stood up straight, his intuition immediately kicking in when he sensed someone in trouble. Though too far away to read her facial expression clearly, he could see her head moving from side to side as though scanning the audience for a friendly face and finding no one.

  Hawk knew Sarah McCormick by reputation only. She taught at the high school. He didn't socialize much with the townsfolk, but he recognized the McCormick name as one of the old guard. Her family had been one of the first to settle in Marysville. A street and park were named after one of her pioneering ancestors. Her family's name seemed to have captured the attention of the crowd, but it didn't appear to be giving her much confidence right now.

  Almost unbidden, he let his powers of perception slide over her. A coppery glow of fear surrounded her plain oval face, but the paleness in the halo he perceived revealed she was more self-conscious than afraid.

  She was a thirtyish woman of average height who hid the details of her figure beneath a drab printed dress that fit her like a sack. She had tamed unruly strands of toffee-colored hair into a restraining clip at the nape of her neck.

  Her suddenly timid, undecorated appearance called to mind the unflattering phrase spinster schoolmarm. Hawk swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. Nicknames were labels. And labels could be cruel things.

  He'd heard plenty of them himself. New boy. Chief. Weirdo. Crazy man.

  He beat down the old memories and concentrated his power on Miss McCormick. Besides her coppery aura of fear, he detected something else. An indefinable determination about her slender shoulders. He saw courage i
n a rich azure light that darkened and gathered strength around her. In a few seconds of interminable silence, Hawk picked up more valor from her lone figure than from anybody else in the room.

  He wondered if she had any idea just how much spirit she carried inside her.

  "Sarah, sit down. You're embarrassing yourself." Walter Kensit, sitting to the right of the mayor, whispered the warning in a voice that was painfully loud enough for anyone without a hearing aid to catch.

  Hawk spared a piercing glance for the newly reelected councilman. Miss McCormick turned and looked at him, too, revealing thick waves of hair that fell to her waist. It seemed so old-fashioned to wear hair that long, hair that probably hadn't seen more than a trim since she'd graduated from high school.

  But there was nothing old-fashioned about the steely set of her posture. The schoolmarm pulled back her shoulders and lifted her chin, defying Kensit's thoughtless interruption. Her courage eased Hawk's flare of concern and transformed it into respect.

  When she turned around to face the crowd, her fear had receded. He tamped down on his sixth sense and listened to what she had to say.

  "Education isn't limited to the classroom," she began quietly, moving to the center aisle so everyone could see her. "It isn't limited to books or computers or equations."

  The thread of steel mixing with the soft silk of her voice captured Hawk's attention along with the rest of the audience.

  "The opportunity to learn is all around us. If we limit ourselves, we limit our children's futures."

  The woman had very expressive hands, thought Hawk. She moved her hands and arms with a precision and grace he'd attribute to a ballet dancer or artist. She used them now to emphasize her point.

  "This is no different from taking our elementary students to the zoo. It's no different from taking our ag students to the fish hatchery. The only difference is in distance."