Heart of the Storm. Lindsay McKenna
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It wasn’t an unusual request; all places had spirit guardians, so she thought little about its greeting or request.
Having lived not far above sea level for the last two years, she felt the six-thousand-foot elevation of the desert plateau taking a toll on her. Her breath rasped as she climbed ever closer to a stand of juniper on the next tier of the sandstone formation.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Dana recalled dreaming of this place. As a child, she’d come often to visit Grandma Agnes, and had played hour after hour upon these smooth red rock skirts. She’d been like a wild mustang filly, and the elevation hadn’t bothered her at all. Now it did.
But the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of the trees and brush, all conspired to relax her after the three-day drive from Ohio. Oh! How Dana had missed all of this—the wildness, the freedom, the silence of Mother Earth surrounding her. What had made her think she could ever be happy in the Midwest? Dana frowned as she recalled again how she’d run away like a coward after the deaths of the two people she loved most in the world. Her adopted grandmother was right: she needed to come home. To be here. To live here once again.
This canyon had always been a place of joy and healing for Dana. She used to play hide-and-seek with her friends up here where the trees grew. Fond memories flowed back, sweet as honey. The wide blue sky, the thin wisps of cirrus that reminded her of threads on a weaving loom, and the faraway song of a cardinal all conspired to dazzle her with the intense beauty of the moment. She should never have left. It seemed like such a stupid, knee-jerk reaction now.
Dana halted near the first juniper and slowly turned east, toward the winter hogan. Gasping for breath, she pressed her hand against her pounding heart. Perspiration on her temples dampened strands of her hair. Home. She was finally home. Back where she belonged. As she stood there, embraced by a cooling breeze, and hearing the cry of a red-tailed hawk, Dana felt much old grief sinking out of her, flowing from her body and into Mother Earth.
Yes, the grief that had encased her was finally shedding, like an old, worn snake skin. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, cleansing breath into her lungs, and felt so much of what she’d carried since their deaths miraculously dissolve. Perhaps the biggest mistake she’d made was not staying with Agnes. Her grandmother had pleaded with her to come home, to live with her after the tragedy. Dana regretted not having listened to the wise elder who loved her so fiercely.
As she opened her eyes, Dana inhaled a new scent, one unfamiliar to her. What was it? She lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring as the wind brought a whiff to her once again. It wasn’t unpleasant, and something about it stirred Dana’s womanly senses, long dormant.
Chase rose in one smooth, unbroken motion. Like the cougar at his side, he took three steps toward the woman, who had her back to him. As he threw his arm around Dana’s shoulders, his other hand gripping her left arm, he laughed to himself. She was such easy prey!
The instant the steel arm clamped around Dana, she gave a cry of surprise. That same musky scent filled her nostrils. Her eyes bulged as she was jerked back against the hard, unyielding plane of a man’s body, his powerful fingers digging into her left arm.
Without thinking, Dana jabbed her right elbow into his midsection. It felt as if her elbow had smashed into an unforgiving metal wall.
Letting out a cry of surprise, Chase nearly lost his hold on the woman. He’d expected her to be a rabbit, to stand helplessly, squeal and surrender without a fight. Instead, she’d fought back! Anger flared in him. It wasn’t anger aimed at Dana, but rather himself. A grudging respect was born in Chase as he expertly kicked her legs out from under her. Not wanting to hurt Dana, he monitored the force with which she fell to the smooth sandstone ledge, landing on her belly.
Bringing her left arm up between her shoulder blades, Chase carefully pressed a knee into the small of her back while he held her head down with his other hand. He tempered the amount of pressure he brought to bear on her, and was surprised once more by her fighting spirit. Dana struggled to escape. She didn’t scream, but tried to twist free, lashing out with both her feet.
Sweat trickled down Chase’s temples as he leaned over, his breath coming in gasps. “You made three mistakes, woman.”
Dana froze. The man’s husky voice was so close to her left ear it shocked her. The rock bit into her right cheek as he held her head down on the sandstone. His voice was dark, deeply masculine, and sent new alarms racing through her. Dana was receiving mixed signals from her intuition now. Confused, she finally stilled and stopped fighting. Who was this man? Was he going to kill her? The thought momentarily paralyzed her.
Chase felt the tickle of her dark hair against his mouth as he whispered into her ear, “The first mistake was that you didn’t pay enough attention to your surroundings.” Hard, sharp gasps exploded from her lips. “Secondly, you allowed me to draw you to where I was hiding, by sending out my cougar spirit.” He saw her face drain of color, her eye narrowing with rage. Good, she wasn’t a rabbit, after all. “Lastly, a warrioress always has her ally guarding her, but you didn’t send your own guide out to look for danger.”
With a grunt, Chase released Dana. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and watched her with veiled interest.
Dana scrambled to her knees, breathing raggedly. Leaping upward, she whirled around, wildly aware that her captor stood only a few feet from her. When she met his narrowed golden eyes, she checked the urge to run. She saw hints of amusement in those large, intelligent eyes of his. He was laughing at her! Fear turned to fury.
“Who are you?” Dana demanded, her voice low and off-key.
Chase gestured for her to sit down.
Dana refused, glaring at him.
He forced himself to ignore her primal beauty, the way she was crouched and ready to fight him all over again, if necessary. “Sit. Your knees are shaking so bad you’re going to fall down if you don’t.”
Grudgingly, Dana glanced down. He was right. She was feeling terribly shaky from the adrenaline rush flaring through her bloodstream. “How do I know you won’t attack me again?” she retorted angrily.
She took a few steps away from this giant of a man. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, but no shirt, and his chest was broad, massive and without hair. He was Native American, no doubt about it. And powerful. Again, she saw laughter in his eyes. He hadn’t made a move toward her. Yet. Nervously, she wiped her damp palms against the thighs of her jeans.
“I don’t make a habit of attacking or raping helpless women. Sit down.”
Dana felt that same confusion overwhelm her once more. This man had attacked her. Then he’d released her. Was he her enemy? If so, why had he let her go? Her knees buckled abruptly, and she threw out her hands, cushioning her fall. Landing with a thump on the red sandstone, she felt weak and vulnerable before this warrior.
Searching his tanned, square face, Dana felt a sizzling sensation build within her and momentarily wipe out her fear and uncertainty. Her first impression, of a cougar, had been right. He had topaz-colored eyes that lightened or darkened with his mood changes. His face was hard, weathered by the elements. She couldn’t tell if he was a full-blooded Indian; his nose was hawklike, his nostrils now flared to catch even the faintest of scents.
The only hint that perhaps he wasn’t a killer appeared in his mouth—the corners curved naturally upward. Her darting gaze took in the powerful breadth of his shoulders. His chest was massive, his arms tight and thick with muscles. But he was far from musclebound; no, this man’s body was taut, in shape and honed to perfection. The sunlight made his copper skin glow with an almost unearthly radiance.
Dana blinked, unable to assimilate all that she saw and felt around this man, who stood like a nearly naked god. The jeans he had on were thin and faded from use. And he was wearing leather Apache boots, with their distinctive curled tip—designed for picking up snakes and hurling them off to one side. That way, the wearer was not bitten, and the snake lived to go about its business.
This man was indeed a cougar, coiled and waiting to leap upon her at any moment.