The Man from Forever (4 page)

Her body, her hated woman's body.

He flopped back on his pelt but a moment later scrambled to his feet and strode to the nearest wall. Although it lay in complete shadow, he placed his hand flat over a drawing of men herding elk into a brush-and-rope enclosure. When the settlers came bringing their hungry cattle with them, the elk had fled to the mountains and there had no longer been a use for the enclosures. Still, this drawing, like others of Eagle and Bear and Frog and Weasel, of generations of Maklaks
life and ways, remained. As long as they did, as long as he devoted himself to their care and protection, he wouldn't be alone.

Guided by instinct, he ran his hand over his people's entire history, ending with the winter when the army burned a small village and forced them to take shelter in caves under land capable of sustaining only rabbits and mice. The men, himself included, had searched for food to fill their families' bellies and when, in desperation, they'd killed some of the enemy's cattle, they'd known they were doing something that would never be forgiven. There were no drawings of that because what today's enemy called Captain Jack's Stronghold was far from this sacred place. There was only what he'd created last winter—proof that the Maklaks weren't all gone after all. He remained.

Alone.

 

She should have come to Canby's Cross yesterday. Loaded down with fresh film and a container of water, Tory left her car at yet another of the areas designated for vehicles. As she'd done yesterday, she'd chosen early morning so she could absorb the area's essence without interference from her fellow travelers. Yesterday, compulsively taking pictures and finding people to talk to, she'd kept this particular site at the back of her mind. However, as she was waking this morning, she decided to make coming here the first order of business. After all, this was why she'd come to the lava beds, and activity, particularly this activity, should bury last night's dream.

Maybe.

It took no more than a couple of minutes to walk the short distance to a large white cross designating where General Canby, her ancestor, had lost his life. She stood looking up at it, reaching out with her senses for something of the man. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted distant Mount Shasta, the rising sun painting it gold and red. She became aware of closer landmarks, such as the rocky outcropping to
her right, where armed Modocs had hidden while peace talks took place in the flimsy tent General Canby and the other peace commissioners had set up.

The army's headquarters, a hastily erected tent city, was several miles away. Even farther away was Captain Jack's Stronghold. From what she understood, the site where she now stood had been chosen because it had been seen by both sides as a neutral location.

But appearances were deceptive. The land lay in desolation all around her, perfect for friend and foe alike to conceal themselves while the principals argued and postured and tried to find grounds for compromise.

It hadn't worked. The Modocs, led by their chief, Captain Jack, and the young killer, Hooker Jim, had ambushed the whites. In a matter of minutes her great-great-grandfather and a minister had been murdered, and former Indian superintendent Alfred Meacham left for dead.

Not sure of her emotions, Tory turned in a slow, contemplative circle, trying to imagine what the general had seen and felt during the last morning of his life. She couldn't recall when she'd first heard of his role in history. As a child, she'd thought that being killed during an Indian war was a noble way to die. As she grew older, she occasionally thought of him with a sense of sadness because he hadn't lived to see his grandchildren. But most of the time he never entered her mind. Standing here now, she knew he would always remain a part of her.

Although she'd brought her camera with her, it dangled from her fingers. Taking a picture would reduce the experience to something one-dimensional when she wanted to keep her senses alive and alert.

Once again she turned to take in her surroundings, this time not so she could gain a greater perspective on her ancestor, but because
that
feeling had returned.

The wind blew across the grasses and flattened them until they reminded her of a vast gray carpet. Dark lava rocks punctured the carpet and created the only contrast in color.
A faint gray haze coated the sky and made it difficult for her to gauge the height of the hills surrounding Canby's Cross. Still, driven by something she didn't quite understand, she imagined she could hear the impatient sounds of waiting horses, the clang of weapons, men's angry or nervous voices.

And through it all she knew she was being watched.

C
rouched behind a boulder, he watched the young woman run her hand over the white cross. When he'd first seen her car, he thought she might be leaving. If she did, he would be able to dismiss her from his mind, his thoughts, and think only of staying alive and safeguarding his people's legacy. If she did, he would never know what she smelled like, sounded like, felt like under him. Never know her name, or why his life had been linked with hers.

She hadn't left. Instead, she'd come to where the army leader had lost his life. More of the enemy than he could count had walked to the cross to aim their cameras at it, but she was simply standing beneath it, alone, looking sad and cautious, her eyes taking in her surroundings.

She sensed he was here. Everything about the way she moved and looked told him that. He could walk away from her, leave her with nothing except her suspicions. Or he could approach her and see if she again ran in terror.

Instead, he simply watched and absorbed and learned as she crouched at the cross's base and ran her fingers over the
dried grasses growing there. She looked, he thought, almost as he must when he touched his son's blanket. Knowing that twisted his heart in a way he didn't want. She was the
enemy
. It was his right to hate her. But how does a man hate a woman who has crawled into his dreams?

Confused, he moved a little closer so he could study her features without being watched in return. As he did, she sprang to her feet and looked warily in all directions, her long, straight, shiny hair floating on a breeze. She was like others of her kind, stupid in the ways of the wilderness. If she had spent her life hunting, she would know to watch for birds or rabbits frightened from their hiding places. The birds and small creatures always told when something dangerous was about.

Still, he didn't ridicule her for her lack of knowledge; her body's language told him that she sensed something few did. Yes, many came here, but instead of letting the land tell them what had happened that cold morning, they read the talking leaves they'd brought with them or the plaques that had been placed in the ground back where they left their cars. As a consequence, they knew nothing.

She understood that yesterday waited in the wind, and for that he admired her. He wondered what she heard, whether everything was being revealed to her or whether she knew only the army's side. For her to truly understand this haunted place, she needed to hear the beating of Maklaks' hearts, feel their fear and anger. There was only one way she could know all that; only one person who could tell her—him. In his mind he imagined himself looking into her soft, dark eyes while his words brought his people back to life.

What was he thinking? She was evil! Muscles taut, he touched his hand to the knife strapped to his waist.

He'd been here that long-ago day, a silent and somber shadow among other shadows that had come to watch this meeting between his chief and the army leaders. Keintepoos had had no faith in the words the army men spoke because those men were ruled by their leaders who lived far away
and made decisions about things they didn't understand, who hated and feared the Maklaks, who they had never shared meat with. His voice hard with anger and frustration, Keintepoos had agreed with the shaman Cho-ocks and the killer Ha-kar-Jim that if the army lost their leader, the others would flee in disarray. That was why Keintepoos had killed the army man, but instead of going back to where they'd come from, the army's strength had grown until there was no escaping them.

Why did today's enemy grieve over the army man's death? General Canby was one of those who'd helped bring destruction to the People.

The woman was still looking for him, her attention split between the cross and whatever she was trying to find in the horizon. With her every movement, his awareness of her grew, until it was as if she stood beside him, her hand extended to him in invitation and challenge. He felt his body weakening, knew that if she placed her fingers on his flesh, he would forget everything except his need for her.

Sucking in sage-sweet air, he gripped his lower thigh with all the strength in his fingers until hunger for her was replaced by pain. Still, he knew that once the pain was gone, she would again crawl inside him. For a moment of awful and total weakness, he wanted nothing else in life.

Then, because he was a warrior in a world where it was a lonely thing to be a warrior, he pulled hatred from deep inside him and fed upon it.

“
Blaiwas!
Eagle! Hear my cry. I seek your wisdom. Should the woman live?”

Although he scanned the sky, he saw nothing. Again he sent out a plea, secure in the knowledge that the wind pushed his words behind him where she couldn't hear. “
Blaiwas.
Eagle. You are my spirit and the truth lives within you. This woman beats upon my body with fists I do not understand. I must know. The owl call I heard last night. Is it the cry of a mortal bird or Owl himself sending his warning? Am I to die? Is she?”

The sky remained clean and clear, hazed only slightly by the morning, but as he continued to study it, he saw a small, dark and familiar shape. Closer and closer the shape came until he had no doubt that his spirit, Eagle, had answered. Directly overhead now, Eagle rode the wind in large, graceful circles until it was so close that he easily made out the knife-like tips of its talons. It flew with its head lowered, not because it sought food but because it had locked its eyes on him.

Eagle.
Blaiwas.

Aware that the woman had taken note of Eagle, he sent out a silent message of thanks that his spirit had answered his call, then repeated his question. As if absorbing the whispered words, Eagle aimed its magnificent body upward in a powerful thrust. The coal-black bird with its pristine white head and tail nearly disappeared before jackknifing and heading down again. This time it aimed itself at the woman, coming so close that she ducked. A cry that seemed to come from the depths of the earth burst from Eagle and held, echoing.

“I see, heed your message. She is danger. I will not forget. Now go! Leave this sorrowful place. Return to Yainax, your mountain.”

Eyes still intent on the eagle who she feared might attack again at any moment, Tory couldn't be sure whether or not she'd heard a male voice. Given the state of her nerves, anything was possible. An eagle, the largest she'd ever seen—heading right toward her! Coming so close, she swore she'd felt its body heat! Impossible, just like the voice. Then, taking her eyes off the disappearing eagle, she caught a movement near a boulder some fifty yards away. Except it was more than a movement, it was reality.

The warrior had returned. Standing in stark relief against the muted background, he seemed otherworldly and yet… Unconsciously using her researcher's senses, she took in his hard and healthy body, his sure stride, the proud lift to his head. He seemed unaware of anything except her, and as he
came closer, her awareness of the rest of her world faded into nothing.

He might be a hoax—had to be a hoax. Still, her heart and nerve endings hinted at something very, very real. As yesterday, only a single strip of material stood between him and nudity. His slender weapon rode low and secure along his right hip, and his hand hovered scant inches from it, warning her that a sudden movement from her might propel it into his competent fingers. His long ebony hair absorbed the sun and played with the wind and made her ache to bury her fingers in it.

She tried to judge the speed of his walk to gauge how much longer she had before he was close enough to touch her, but she couldn't tear her thoughts from his body's beautiful flow. He seemed to be not arms and legs and shoulders and hips, but a single and perfect meshing of everything a man needed to be. His muscles came from the earth, from wrestling life itself from that earth. Watching him walking sure and flat-footed over hostile ground, she believed him totally in touch with his world. In winter he must have to dress to protect himself against the elements, but this wasn't a man for expensive wools and high-tech synthetics. When the elements drove him to shelter, he would clad himself in what the land around him provided. Remain part and parcel of the land, of eternity.

Through flared nostrils, she breathed of the virgin air and felt herself a virgin—waiting for the man who would take her.

“What do you want?” she asked when only a few feet separated them.
Why me?
Her entire being hummed with awareness.

He stared, not blinking, eyes like night and the distant past and maybe the future, as well.

“What do you want?” she repeated in a voice that shook and carried no strength. He had it all; maybe he had everything she would ever need.

“You do not belong here. Go.”

His words were thickly accented, hard and rusty as if he hadn't spoken in years. She tried to concentrate on that, but what he'd said demanded her complete attention. “Don't belong?”

“I am
la'qi.
I say you must leave.”

“La'qi?”
She stumbled over the foreign word.

“Chief. Chief of this place. I say you do not belong here.”

A hoax. Someone's idea of a huge joke.
Except no laughter waited in his eyes, and she didn't see how even the finest actor could master his speech pattern, or look as if he'd been forged from the wilderness. It was as if his English came from a half-forgotten source, as if it had been years since he'd had anyone to talk to. “I don't understand.”

Instead of saying anything, he placed his hand on her shoulder, the grip not quite painful but nothing she could escape. She swayed and then grew strong from his grasp. He, a stranger, had no right touching her. He would know that if he obeyed the laws she'd obeyed all her life, but his incredible eyes spoke of a world beyond her comprehension.

“What do you want?” she asked, although the weight and warmth and warning of his touch made talking all but impossible.

“For you to leave.”

“You—you can't mean that.” His fingers were heat and barely contained strength. It was as if he were pulling her into him with the contact, and if she didn't soon put an end to it, there wouldn't be anything left of her. “I—I have a perfect right.”

“You are evil.”

Evil?
This wasn't funny. She'd tell him that just as soon as he released her thoughts, her everything. “Why are you following me?”

“You came to my land. Walked where you had no right.”

“No right? Look—” She tried to slide out from under him, but he increased the pressure just enough to warn of pain should she resist. She still felt as if he'd wrapped invisible chains around her, but she was now beginning to put herself
back together. No longer did she feel as if she might shatter. “Look, this is public property. I don't know what your game is, what you've been paid to pull this stunt, but it isn't working.”

“I do not play games. I will know the truth. I
must
know. What is your name?”

“My name?”

“Yes. What do they call you?”

On the verge of telling him, she reached deep down inside for the tenacity that had taken her to the top of her profession. Risking a wrenched shoulder, she rocked back and ducked at the same time, effectively freeing herself. Still, she was left with the unsettling awareness that she now stood alone only because he knew he could recapture her whenever he wanted.

“You are the enemy.” His voice rumbled over the words and made her hair stand on end. “Your presence is not wanted on Maklaks land.”

“Maklaks?”

“Your people call us Modoc but we are Maklaks.” He punctuated his words by tapping his broad, hard, dark chest.

Telling herself that this was an Oscar-winning performance, she quickly judged the distance between her and her car. Even if she'd been an Olympic sprinter, there was no way she could reach safety before his long legs ran her down. Her hands, dangling helplessly by her sides, felt like totally useless appendages. In truth, she wanted to clamp them around her throat to protect it from the deadly looking knife strapped to his hip.

“I ask you one more time. What is your name?”

“Victoria Kent,” she said in a rush, her voice squeaking a little at the end. “Everyone calls me Tory. What—what does it matter? Look—”

“Victoria? Queen Victoria?”

He was talking about the queen of England. But the woman had been dead, what, nearly a hundred years?
“N-no,” she stammered. “It's a family name. My great-great-grandfather's daughter—”

“Kent? What is that?”

“My father's family's name. Look, I don't know what you're pulling, but it isn't funny. I've had—I've had just about enough of this.” She made what she hoped was a decisive move toward the path leading to the parking lot, but before she'd taken more than two steps, he blocked her progress.

She looked up at him, struggled against the sense of size and strength that flowed around him and lost the battle. There wasn't an ounce of flab on him, no pale patches of flesh untouched by the sun. His arms and legs told of a man capable of any physical task demanded of him. She gauged his height at around six feet, an imposing piece of knowledge given that he was barefoot and still loomed over her. She glanced down at his feet; at least she tried to, but her gaze snagged on his perfectly molded thighs and calves. Tarzan couldn't hold a candle to him. He seemed utterly impenetrable, a tree of a man capable of withstanding the fiercest storm.

He took a step toward her and leaned down. When his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, she realized he was using all his senses to gain a better understanding of her. She shrank from his scrutiny but didn't try to escape again, not because she didn't want to, but because as long as he wanted it, he could keep her here. She wasn't up to the battle, especially not one with a man who made her feel newborn and weak and hungry simply by looking at her.