“Do you think…” she trails off, and I can hear the reluctance in her voice.
“What?” I ask, giving her a little, teasing squeeze. She shakes her head against me.
“Never mind,” she mumbles. I push her back, see that her face is coloring, and she refuses to meet my eyes. I’m mystified by her reaction.
“Niahm, you can ask me anything. I won’t laugh or make fun of you. Promise.”
Still refusing to look at me, her next words are the last thing I expect to hear.
“Think you might ever kiss me again?”
I can’t help it; I laugh. Her eyes fly to mine then, anger sparking.
“You said you wouldn’t laugh!” she accuses, trying to pull away.
“I’m not laughing,” I say, laughing more. She glares at me, and I pull her close again. “Niahm, I’m not laughing,” I say, running one thumb along her jaw. That stops her fighting me, and she relaxes into me.
“I think I might kiss you now,” I say, leaning to within a hairsbreadth of her mouth. “Or, maybe later,” I tease, stepping away from her. Her mouth drops open in shock, and she looks ready to punch me.
“Okay, I’ll do it now,” I say, laughing again, kissing her before she can get a good swing going. She doesn’t resist the kiss for even a moment, stunning me with her trust and acceptance. I might feel bad about teasing her, except that I’m as caught up in the experience of kissing her as she seems to be.
“What do you want?” Jean watches me warily, dropping casually into an offensive stance, body taut with alarm. Looking at her, I suddenly realize that in her very short life, she has had two definite things happen.
She’s had a run-in either with another immortal, or with a Sentinel.
And she’s had training.
Most immortals live decades, if not hundreds of years, to get to the level of suspicion that Jean has acquired—not to mention having the tactical moves she seems to have. I move to the recliner, sitting down as casually as possible, lifting one leg to cross over the other, moving slowly, indicating I mean her no harm. It’s a potentially foolish move on my part. I’m vulnerable, unable to get up fast enough to defend myself if she has had the training I suspect she has. I simply wait, watching her as she stands between me and the front door—a smart place to be, I can’t help but think admiringly.
Finally, she relaxes fractionally, not going so far as to sit, but standing up straight, though she does not lose the tenseness in her body.
“Fine. I get it,” she says. “Out with it.”
I almost smile at her impatient words, reminding me so much of her granddaughter.
“I can’t leave.” She opens her mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand. “No. That’s not right. Let me rephrase: I won’t leave.”
“Because you’re bound to her.” It’s more statement than question.
“That would be reason enough,” I confirm. “But it isn’t all.”
Confusion flits through her eyes, followed by understanding, and then fury.
“Do you dare tell me you are in love with her? It’s forbidden!”
“Not forbidden,” I shake my head. “Just frowned upon. We could go into the long list of reasons as to why that is, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? The fact is I will stay by Niahm’s side as long as she will have me. Not you, or an army of Sentinels, will change my mind. There’s only one person who can compel me to go—which you would understand had you ever experienced bonding yourself.”
Jean gives a slight shudder at the thought, her eyes like daggers as she glares at me.
“She’s my granddaughter,” she says, words laden with meaning.
“I’m aware.”
“She has my eyes.”
I swallow, having known this topic would come up, still unsure of how to deal with it.
“Again, I’m aware.”
Jean drops slightly again, into her attack position and I wonder if she’s even aware she’s done it.
“If you even consider—”
I’m out of the chair before I can stop myself, which does nothing to ease her tension.
“I would never—” Seeing her fists clench as she crouches even lower stops my motion. I quickly drop back into the chair, forcing my voice to calm. “I would never hurt Niahm, not even for my own selfish purposes.”
She watches me cautiously, weighing my words. She relaxes fractionally, standing erect once more, but not relaxing her fists.
“Why? If you know there’s a chance…”
“Because there’s always the chance for error,” I answer, an image of Niahm hurt and bleeding, her mortal life draining from her, shoving its way into my head. I push it away, sick at the thought, frantic at nothing more than imagination. As if she can see what I’m seeing, Jean blanches.
“You’re telling the truth,” she states.
“Yes.”
“You can’t ever tell her,” she says, her tone brooking no argument.
“I can’t promise that,” I answer.
“You have to! You cannot tell her, cannot bring her into this nightmare.”
“Lying to her is already almost impossible.” Another side-effect of bonding. I can lie by omission. I can even lie to protect her, even from emotional hurt, but if she suspected, if she asked outright, I could not lie.
“She’s already suffered so much.” Her words are whispered, anguished.
“I know,” I say, allowing the accusation in my voice. “I know better than anyone.”
“I went to the site of the crash,” Jean says, moving to sit in the window seat. It’s as close to letting down her guard as she can get without sitting down next to me like old pals, I muse wryly. “I found them. I watched as they took Beth away, followed, and stayed with her in the morgue for three days.” I grimace; that’s a full day longer than necessary. If the change is going to occur, the longest known time is forty-eight hours. “I refused to let them touch her. I kept hoping…” As if just remembering who she’s speaking to, Jean glances at me, clears her throat.
“Well, obviously she didn’t change,” she says, trying for emotionless but not quit getting there. “She’s dead. That means there’s a very good chance that Niahm is not immortal, either.”
“Do you think I haven’t thought this through a million times since I first saw her eyes? And a million more since the accident?” I shake my head. “It’s the worst kind of torture, being bound to her, and loving her on top of that, knowing that there’s a chance, that I may never know if…” I look at Jean, allowing her to see my vulnerability for just one second, to assure her that I will not act, will not attempt to take Niahm’s life just to see if she’s immortal or not. If she’s not…the image comes again, Niahm bleeding and lifeless, and I know that I would not survive that.
Jean gives one sharp nod, indicating her acceptance of my words. “But you’ll tell her?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I just can’t make the promise.”
“If you tell her, I’ll set the Sentinel’s on you myself,” she promises.
“No, you won’t,” I say, “Not as long as Niahm stands in the line of fire.”
“No,” she agrees, “Not as long as she’s in the way.” Her unspoken words are loud and clear: once Niahm is no longer here, I’ll have her tracking me, ready to inform the Sentinels the moment she finds me. I know I’ll be able to avoid her; I have centuries of hiding skills. But I also think that once I no longer have Niahm, I won’t care if they find me.
“I don’t trust you,” she says.
“Nor I you,” I answer. “But because you are Niahm’s grandmother, I give you my word that neither Shane nor I will harm you. In fact, as long as Niahm wishes it, we’ll protect you.”
“As long as she wishes it. As long as she’s around,” she clarifies.
“Yes.”
“I can’t make the same promise in return,” she says, and I smile grimly.
“Well, I suppose tha
t speaks to which of us loves her more, doesn’t it?” I say, standing and turning my back on her as I leave the room, enter the kitchen and exit by the back door. I expect the point of a knife or a bullet to enter my exposed back, but all I get is the heat from her angry glare.
Chapter 29
Niahm
Today, Sam mounts the Irish. Which would be excitement enough for me, but even better he has asked me to help. I’ve never broken a horse myself. I know the procedure, but haven’t even seen it firsthand. So to say I’m excited is about as much of an understatement as saying Bob has a slight liking for chasing the chickens.
Autumn is heavy in the air now, the days cool, leaves changing from green to brilliant yellows, reds and purples, in preparation for their falling from the trees for the sole purpose of causing me more work in raking them up. Other than that un-fun activity, I really do love the fall. The colors, the smells, not to mention the best apples of the season, are all benefits of the season.
Sam backs out of the stall, handing me the longe line that he’s already secured to the Irish. I glance at him, questioning. “Lead him to the paddock, would ya?” he asks, as if I’ve ever done such a thing with a wild horse.
Not wanting to let him down, I take the rope, pushing the nerves back to keep the stallion from sensing them.
“Alright, Hercules, let’s get you out to begin the newest torture,” I tell him, directing him toward the gate. He doesn’t like having me at the controls, used to Sam as he is, but I don’t give him a break, even as he tosses his head wildly. He decides I’m not messing around and follows me.
Once in the paddock, Sam gets the halter on him then puts the blanket over his back with the saddle. He’s been getting the horse used to the saddle, so he barely flinches at this.
“Okay, are you ready?” he asks me. I grab hold of the halter, bolstered by the trust Sam has on his face as he watches me. He stands up on a block, and leans across the Irish on his belly, giving him his weight. The Irish isn’t thrilled with this, and takes a few steps to the side.
“Hold it there, Hercules,” I command, grasping the halter tighter and showing him the whip—which I would never use on him, but he doesn’t know that. It works and he stops moving, settling for tossing his head and blowing loud breaths out between his lips.
Sam removes and reapplies his weight a few times until the Irish stops tossing. Then he places his foot into the stirrup and calmly lifts his right leg over until he’s seated on the saddle. The Irish complains again by stomping a few times, but doesn’t try anything else. Sam climbs off and on a few times, then says, “Okay, Niahm, let’s walk him.”
“What?” He’s kidding, right?
“Let’s walk. You’ve got him by the harness, just lead him along.”
“You wearing some padding?” I’m only half-joking. Sam just laughs. I shrug and take a step. Amazingly, the Irish follows.
“Good boy, Hercules,” I murmur.
“Why do you call him that?” Sam asks a few minutes later, relaxing in the saddle, one hand resting lightly on the pommel, the other on his hip. He has more confidence in me keeping control that I have in myself.
“I don’t know,” I answer, leading them around the perimeter of the corral. “You haven’t named him yet, and I was tired of thinking of him as... well, him. He seems big, strong, and demi-god-like, so I just kind of nicknamed him Hercules.”
Sam smiles. “It’s a good name.”
I glance back up at him, the sun glinting off his copper hair, his smile directed my way, and shake my head. “Only for Greek myths and cartoon characters,” I say.
“It’s a good name,” he repeats. I might have argued further except that Bob chooses that moment to chase an escaped chicken into the corral. The Irish definitely doesn’t like this new development and rears up, ripping the halter from my grip. I manage to grab the longe line, but Sam, who’d been unprepared and relaxed flies off the backside of the stallion. I hear him hit the fence, and instinctively release the line. The Irish, not one to pass up an opportunity, races to the opposite side of the paddock, away from me, Sam, Bob, and the squawking chicken.
“Sam!” I exclaim, rushing to his side, followed closely by Bob who has forgotten the chicken in his concern for Sam. Sam sits up, laughing as Bob manages to lick his face from jaw to hairline.
“Gross, Bob, stop,” I say pushing him away.
“It’s fine,” Sam refutes, scrubbing Bob behind his ear.
“Are you okay?” I ask, worried that he’s hurt.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been thrown. Probably not the last, either,” he grins.
I smile, relieved that he’s fine. I’d heard him hit the fence... or, I thought I had. Then Bob gives a little whine, and nudges Sam’s arm with his nose. That’s when I see the blood saturating his upper sleeve.
“Sam, you’re hurt,” I say, grabbing his arm. He glances down, then looks at me with alarm. Huh, I’ve never seen Sam panic over an injury before.
“It’s fine,” he says urgently, “just a scratch.”
“How can you know?” I tease, trying to calm him. “Let’s get inside and I’ll clean it up for you.”
“No!” His answer is quick, sharp, and I flinch. “I mean,” he says more calmly, “it’s no big deal. I’ll just go home and let Shane take care of it.”
“Sam, don’t be silly. I’m hardly a squeamish girl. If it doesn’t need stitches, I can bandage it for you.”
Sam looks anxious, and I’m admittedly surprised. He’s always calm in emergency situations. But then, I’ve never seen him hurt, so I guess maybe he’s just calm with others, but doesn’t deal so well when it’s himself.
“What about the horse?”
I glance over at the Irish, contentedly pulling weeds from the ground now that he’s been set free.
“He’s fine for a few minutes. Let’s get you inside.”
Sam hesitates, looks around as if searching for an answer, and then finally sighs.
“Okay,” he says, standing and pulling me up with him.
We walk into the house, and he immediately excuses himself to use the restroom. I begin gathering supplies—a wet rag, bandages if it’s small, gauze if it’s a larger cut, and some ibuprofen for any pain. Jean walks into the kitchen at the same time Sam emerges from the bathroom.
“What’s going on?” Her tone is suspicious, accusatory.
“Sam hurt himself when the horse threw him,” I answer. “He’s fine. I’m just going to clean it up a little.”
Jean’s face tightens and she steps toward me. “Let me do that,” she commands.
“I’ve got it,” I say firmly, standing my ground. She looks at Sam, a pleading look in her eyes, and I feel once again like I’m missing some vital piece of the story here. Sam steps around her and peels his outer shirt off. I try not to check him out in his thin white T-shirt, but who am I kidding? I definitely look.
“Sit,” I say, pointing to the chair. Jean steps closer, and I stiffen, wishing I could command her to go away. Instead, I turn my attention to Sam. I roll his sleeve up and wipe around the edges of the wound, glancing up to gauge if I’m hurting him. He has a tightness around his eyes, watching me warily and I get the impression that he’s concerned for me more than himself. I glance back down at the wound just below his shoulder, which is spurting bright red blood still, and see how deep it is. I dab it with a piece of gauze, and he winces.
“Um, I think you’re going to need stitches,” I say. He only grunts, but Jean steps closer, peering over my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” she demurs.
Sam glances down. “I think you’re right,” he says, and Jean lifts her brows at that.
“Luckily, Shane can take care of that,” he says, directing his words to her.
“Ah,” she says, as if he’d answered a question for her.
“I think you should go to the clinic,” I say, but he’s already shaking his head, trying to pull his shirt back on.
“No
. Shane is a medic. I’d rather he did it.”
“Fine,” I say, stopping him from pulling his shirt over the wound. “At least let me wrap it in gauze first. I don’t want it infected, and I don’t want you to bleed to death on the way home.”
He grins at me, as if I’d made a joke, and I just shake my head at him, feeling again like I’ve missed something. He sits patiently, watching me closely as I bind his arm with a sterile pad and a strip of gauze, a slight smile on his face. When I finish, he looks down at it.
“Good job, Doc. Where did you learn such good bandaging skills?” He’s teasing, but I feel a flush steal up my face and refuse to look at him as I pick up the remnants of the supplies.
“Nowhere,” I murmur, turning away from him.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing my hand. I glance back at him, then over at Jean who is watching us closely. There is no way I’ll admit to him—especially in front of her—that when I was younger, I decided it was unfair that girls couldn’t become Boy Scouts. So I studied every merit badge requirement and passed them off—albeit to myself. A wide smile splits Sam’s face.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. “Just, thanks.” He lifts his wounded arm, as if I might have forgotten what he might be thanking me for. He leans forward, and I wonder if (hope) he’s going to kiss me, but Jean shuffles, reminding us of her unwelcome presence, and he releases me.
“Just give me a sec and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Go where?” Sam and Jean both say at the same time, both sounding edgy. I turn back toward them, just catching the tail end of their look at one another.
“With you,” I say. “I’m not letting you drive alone when you’re bleeding.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam says.
“Yes, Niahm, you should probably—”
“I’m not letting him go alone,” I interrupt Jean.
“What about Hercules?” Sam asks, and I roll my eyes at him.
“He’ll be fine. He roams out there all the time. When I get home, I’ll put him back in the stable.” I pause. “And quit calling him Hercules.”