The bear aimed another seeming half-hearted swipe at the man, and then gave his massive head a shake as he dropped back down on all fours. The man remained crouched between her and the beast, his fist extended with the knife pointing at it, the veins on his muscled arms standing out like cords against his skin. With one last series of groans and roars, the animal tossed his head and then abruptly swung his shoulder around. The beast lumbered back the way it came through the underbrush. It appeared to have lost interest in the fight.
The man watched the bear retreat. When he was satisfied the animal was gone, the stranger turned to Maggie. She could see beads of sweat sliding down off his brow along his black hair. There was a thin braid down the left side of his face where his hair laid flat just past his bare brown shoulders, but she was perplexed to notice the right side of his head was shaved clean in a crescent shape from temple to nape. She could see the bone-handled knife he still clutched in his hand as he glared at her. His hands were fisted at his sides and his chest heaved with the effort of slowing down his breathing. Maggie was too stunned to speak, but even just staring at him in return of his sharpened gaze was too much. She felt her head spinning as if she would vomit, but the last thing she wanted to do was throw up in front of the stranger, so she leaned forward and put her head in her hands.
“Keptchat!”
She heard the utterance that sounded like a curse, and felt his presence when he kneeled down beside her. Her limbs felt like rubber and she felt she was going to lose her head to a moment of panic. None of it made any sense. The warm hands that settled on her upper arms sent a shock through her bones, and the man holding her was most certainly not a dream.
Everything that had just happened was real.
The man muttered words she did not understand, as if talking to himself in another language. Maggie felt fingers grasp her chin and then the wet rim of some sort of container of water as he pressed it to her lips. She took a few sips and then shook her head to show him she had enough.
“Aptamehele,” he muttered.
He sat back on his haunches in front of her, now an unmoving statue as he surveyed her. Maggie returned his bold gaze this time. She imagined she should feel uncomfortable with the way his eyes raked over her, but she did the same to him so she figured they were on equal footing. Other than his brown leggings and knotted rawhide beaded belt, he was adorned with leather ties above each bicep and a pendant necklace decorated with beads and two black feathers. The necklace hung in the center of his broad chest, banging against his caramel skin when he moved. Some sort of hanging flap was secured around his hips by a narrow cord; was it a breechcloth?
His features could not be called handsome by the standards she was accustomed, but there was a fierce strength in the sharp lines of his face that captivated her. When she slowly returned her gaze back to his eyes, she was startled to find they were a luminous deep blue, which seemed peculiar for an Indian. A corner of his mouth slanted downward as he met her appraisal with his own.
“Why are you here, stupid woman?” he asked in clear, but hesitant English. She did not care for the mocking tone of his voice nor the way he raised his eyebrows to wait for her answer, as if he held some authority over her.
“I—I don’t know,” she managed to stammer. “Why are you here?” she countered. This was apparently a humorous response, and it caused him to laugh aloud and smile.
“Maybe you should be glad I am here. Lucky for you that bear was not too hungry.”
Maggie closed her eyes and shook her head. Yup. Still there when she opened her eyes and looked again. The blasted man was grinning as though she had provided him endless entertainment. How on Earth was she sitting in the middle of the woods after being attacked by a bear, with a man dressed in an Indian costume laughing at her? Maybe she had been sleepwalking and stumbled onto…onto what? Wait, Halloween was next month! Yes, that had to be it! An early Halloween party and some adults running around in the woods in costumes, perhaps taking things a little too seriously. Hell, the guy was probably drunk, especially considering the way he shaved the side of his head for one silly costume event!
She could think of no other explanation that made sense. She knew she was missing something important, but her brain seemed to be in a fog and the self-preservation of denial was controlling her senses.
“I really don’t know how I got here, mister, but—”
Maggie snapped her mouth closed when remnants of memory began to rush back. She could recall picking up stones in the barn, and then cutting her hand.
The air surged like an electric charge as she looked down at the ground and the fine hair on her arms pricked up when she focused on the object. Lying on pine needles beside her was the dark green stone.
She slowly reached out and picked it up, its weight not too heavy but definitely substantial as she raised it in front of her face. It was still stained with her blood.
The man dropped to his knees beside her and snatched her wrist in his own large hand. His startling blue eyes widened and he drew back somewhat as he slowly raised his gaze to meet her own. She tried half-heartedly to pull her hand away, but he held it firm as his eyes remained locked with hers, a flutter settling down deep in her belly at the connection. She could see him swallow hard and his lips closed together in a tight line. Finally he spoke in a low, even tone, but his eyes remained fixed on her.
“Sawwehone Shacquohocan,” he said. “This is a Bloodstone. How did you come by it?”
“I found it in my barn. I was cleaning up. I dropped it, I guess,” she stammered. Her answer was an honest one, but it seemed to incite his agitation.
“You say you found it? Or stole it?” he asked.
“No! I didn’t steal it! I just found it,” she tried to explain. “But I didn’t steal it. It’s just a rock, for Christ’s sake!” she insisted. She had no idea why she was trying to justify herself to him. Despite the fact that she still felt disoriented and had been nearly mauled to death by a wild animal, she felt like she had to make him understand.
He plucked the stone from her hand and a hiss escaped from between his clenched teeth when they both saw the burn on her palm. A twist of lines scarred her skin where she held the stone, tender to touch and disturbingly…organized. As if a strange knot shape had been branded to her skin.
There was no more time to ponder her predicament because the man swiftly scooped her up and stood to his feet, holding her in his bare arms as if she weighed nothing at all. One hand rested gingerly around her shoulder where the bear had scratched her, and it was only then that she began to feel the sharp burning ache the claws had left in her skin.
“I can walk just fine, thank you,” she protested. He glanced down at her.
“Your wound needs to be bound. You have lost much blood.”
His purposeful gait cut a path through the underbrush, the tall growth brushing against his leggings as he navigated to a nearby clearing. When they entered the spot where a sorrel horse stood patiently ground tied, he let Maggie’s legs drop down but still he held his arms around her waist and kept her close. Her chin was even with his collarbone, and her cheek brushed against his chest. The scent of sweat mixed with evergreen and smoke bonded to him, overwhelming her senses. With a sickly feeling in her bones, Maggie glanced around the clearing. A panic began to rise as she looked at her surroundings and realized they were familiar.
They were standing at the entrance to her barn. Only it was not there.
She was aware it was damn impossible, but she knew the farm better than anyone did. They were standing on it—on her property. Two tall ancient Cyprus trees marked the spot behind the barn, overlooking a steep drop off that tumbled down to the river below. There was a winding gravel trail to navigate the slope, which still appeared to be there. She could hear the roar of the waterfall beyond the clearing.
The trees were shorter than they had been earlier in the day, the trunks a smaller diameter and their branches not yet as full. An old split
rail fence had guarded the drop off to the river below for as long as she could remember, but it was not anywhere to be seen now. Her fingers curled into fists and she barely felt it when her nails dug crescent-shaped daggers into her palms.
“You said you found the Bloodstone. When did you find it?”
She knew it made no sense, but the truth was the only thing she could cling to with any certainty in the midst of rising panic.
“I found it today. This morning, the fifth of October.”
At this confession, he placed his fingers on her chin and twisted her head gently upwards to meet his stare, his head cocked to the side. His brows furrowed and his eyes searched her own in a question he could not seem to put to words. She did not understand what she was doing there, or who the man was. She was willing to wager he was just as confused as she was.
“It is now the month your people call September,” he replied.
“But it can’t be September,” she insisted. “That doesn’t make any sense! I was just here today, and I cut my hand— I think I passed out.”
He shook his head.
“This is the place I buried the Bloodstones one year ago. The ground is not disturbed. No one knows this place but me.”
“What…what year did you bury them?” she whispered, the words rushing out before she could stop the ridiculous question.
“The year your people call 1621.”
She felt relieved that his arms still held her as her knees buckled and the blessed darkness swallowed her one more time.
CHAPTER 3
Something tickled her cheek, rhythmic in its motion. Her eyes were not open, but she could feel the sensation of swaying with the gait of the horse. She squeezed her eyelids shut, knowing she was not yet prepared to accept what she might see. If it was the woods and bear from her strange dream, she feared she would start screaming. She could remain in denial if she refused to look around.
A sharp scent of evergreen stung her senses, and as she curled her head downward she tasted the salty sweat of his skin from where her mouth had rested against him. She opened her hand and settled her palm flat against his chest. A gentle thud pounded beneath her fingers, nearly as musical as the gait of the horse they rode. He must have noticed she was awake, because as she stirred his warm hand slid up to cover hers where it rested over his heart. Calloused but strong, his touch immediately comforted her, so Maggie let her hand remain under his.
Curiosity took over and she opened her eyes. She sat sideways on the horse, held firm by the stranger’s arms. There was a jagged tear in her jeans and a flap of fabric exposed her leg where it rubbed against the horse’s coarse mane. Positioned securely in the embrace of the stranger, her legs lay against his leather-covered thigh, which he used to nudge the barrel of the horse. Her cheeks brightened in a flush when she realized she had been sleeping. Had she lost her mind?
“You said a word earlier. It sounded like you cursed at me. Kept-cha or something?” she stammered, for lack of anything sensible to say.
“I said keptchat. It means foolish person.” His arms flexed, and he lowered his mouth closer to her ear. A tendril of his loose brown hair glanced across her skin and the subtle motion sent a shiver through her. “Only a foolish woman would walk up to that old bear.”
She pulled her hand away and closed it into a fist, but she saw the corner of his lips turn up in a smile and she relaxed. She could not help but smile back at his teasing gesture. Now that his hand was free, he returned it to the leather reins, the gesture enclosing her deeper in his embrace as the horse continued to pace.
“You speak English.” More of a statement than a question, she felt his head nod in agreement.
“Yes. My uncle wanted me to learn the tongue. He fears the settlers do not always speak truth, so we should know their words. Many from my village have learned English.”
She considered his reasoning, which sounded sensible. For an Indian. In 1621.
“I – I don’t know your name. And I don’t belong here – I need to get home.”
“No.” He spoke the word soft but certain. He straightened and lodged her closer against his chest, his skill at riding while managing a wayward passenger quite apparent.
“No? What do you mean, no? I don’t know you. I can’t stay here – just take me back where you found me, I’ll find my way home.”
“My name is Winkeohkwet. The English call me Winn.” He lowered his voice with the next words. “You will not find your way home. It is not there anymore.”
“Stop the horse, let me down. That’s – that’s impossible!”
The horse did not plod along too rapidly, so she guessed she could jump down without injury. She shoved her hands against his chest and squirmed to show him she was serious.
“Let me down!”
“No. Your wounds need to be treated. You lost much blood.”
“I can go to a hospital for that! Let. Me. Down!”
“I know not what hos-tel is, but you will stop your fight!” he growled.
He uttered something harshly under his breath and sat abruptly back, causing the horse to drop its haunches and slide to a stop. Maggie twisted around and tried to pry his arm away from her waist, but the bastard was too strong and determined. How dare he refuse to release her! She wanted to wipe the grin off his smug face. She made another attempt to jump off his lap but he anticipated the motion, defeating her attempts to flee. Who the hell did he think he was? She’d damn well get down if she wanted to!
Frustration washed through her, surging over her body like a rapid. She wanted to fight, to make him let her go, and then…then she would just go home. It sounded like a simple plan, but stark reality confirmed she was terribly lost. She panicked with the knowledge that her current predicament was not a dream, and that the raven-haired man who held her was very, very real.
“Stop fighting, woman,” he said, the words even but ground out in a hoarse whisper. “There is nowhere for you to go.”
“Stop calling me woman, my name is Maggie,” she whispered, her eyes imprisoned by his softened gaze. Frustration remained in the pit of her stomach, tinged with fear of her impossible situation. The impatient glare on Winn’s face faded and he cocked his head slightly to the side as he studied her. His eyes darted a glance at her flushed cheeks, then traveled downward to her lips. She knew her cheek was chafed and smeared with dirt-laced tears, and she suddenly wished he were not so damn close.
His hand slipped upward and his fingers pressed against the back of her neck, his grasp large enough to cup her face and tilt it toward him so that their eyes met. She had an abrupt awareness of his closeness and tasted the salt of her own tears on her lips. His blue eyes captured her gaze, holding her prisoner more securely than his arms ever could.
“Stop it then, Maggie,” he whispered, enunciating her name in his peculiar accent. “There is nowhere for you to go.”
“I want to go home. Just let me down.”
His eyes softened as he shook his head. “You cannot return to your place. I am…sorry.”
The smothering panic that gripped her eased, his touch like embers against her skin despite the chill of the evening breeze. His fingers moved in her hair, as if he meant to comfort her, the gentle soothing motion an anchor which helped her slow down her hammering heart and get some sort of handle on the panic.
Flung through time by someone unknown force, saved from imminent death by a fearless stranger—none of it could be rational, and submitting to such an implausible scenario caused her to question her own sanity. How could she possibly accept it? Could he be real—could it all possibly be real?
They both heard the steps of horses coming their way. His face remained close to hers and she could see him become tense. She chastised herself for clinging to the man, but she let him hold her all the same.
“What meaning is Maggie? A strange name,” he asked, her name drawn out as he tested it on his tongue.
“Maggie? It doesn’t mean anything, I think.”
“You belong here now,” he said. His hands left her face and he let out a sigh. “My brothers are near. They will ride with us back to the village.” He gathered the reins together and the horse snorted, hooves prancing in response.
“Ntënuyëm!”
Winn uttered the greeting as a shriek and the two newcomers answered immediately in kind. His horse began to stomp, lifting its hooves in place in anticipation as the two riders approached.
They dressed similar to him, in leather leggings and beaded adornments, bare-chested as well. If he had not told her they were his kin, she would not have guessed as much. One man, shorter than Winn but with slightly more breadth to his shoulders and waist, stood silent behind a round creased face. His brown eyes held a careful tolerance as he deferred to his companion. The second man compared to Winn in stature, but when his hostile black eyes fell sharp on Maggie, the fear that Winn had chased away returned. His dark copper skin gleamed with sweat, its shade quite different from Winn’s lighter brown. The two men wasted little time in survey of her before they spoke to Winn.
They spoke in short, tight responses, the cadence of their exchange abrupt. She had no idea what they were saying or what language they spoke, but she was pretty sure the two newcomers were angry. The shorter man said little since the other seemed to dominate the conversation. The second man shot a glare at Maggie, then at Winn, and erupted into a furious stream of shouting. Winn listened without interruption, but then something the other man uttered caused him to snatch Maggie’s bloody hand and hold it up for them to see.
“Sawwehone Shacquohocan!”
Although his body was tense behind her, the words he spoke were calm. Not knowing what they were saying infuriated her, especially since she seemed to be the target of the other man’s anger. At the sight of her hand, the two men fell silent. The silence stretched as they stared.
“What is going on?” she asked, half turned around in Winn’s lap. She snatched her wrist away, a motion that brought laughter from the shorter man. The other remained silent, his lips pursed in a tight line.
The Blooded Ones Page 2
