Читать книгу Sentinels: Jaguar Night - Doranna Durgin - Страница 13

Meghan strode out into the yard with purpose. Jenny’s dog, a mixed cattle dog—all pricked ears and foxy face, mottled blue coat and short, stout tail—circled her with excitement, barking at the sudden energy and movement in the yard. Meghan hushed her with a gesture and stood in the center of the packed-dirt hub of the ranch, reassuring herself that some things were still normal.

The main house. All one floor, it had started small and grown over the generations. It had belonged to her mother’s family…although Meghan knew little of them. Only her mother had manifested the coyote, after her grandmother’s long-lost Sentinel lover had ended the happily-ever-after story of the ranch. Until then, generations of Lawrence ranchers had raised horses, grazed cattle and escorted tourists around the mountain ranges that formed the inviting sky islands of southern Arizona. And then came Meghan’s grandmother, who’d had Margery Lawrence and never married when her Sentinel lover didn’t return for her. Margery followed Meghan’s grandmother’s path and loved a man who died before Meghan was even born.

So here she was, raised by her mother and then by her aunt, who hadn’t taken to the Southwest and had moved back East as soon as Meghan came of age.

And so Meghan had decided to choose her own family.

The ranch house, tiny casita—Jenny’s and Anica’s—and storage shed made up the yard. There, where the cleared flatland elongated to a point, lived the smaller livestock, all damaged or behaviorally problematic or simply in need of hospice care.

The horses took up most of the space, occupying a long mare motel with covered, open-sided stalls, paddock runs, several communal paddocks and even a separate quarantine area. This generation, Encontrados was purely a rescue ranch, funded by donations, investments, volunteers and a grant or two. Never enough to get comfortable, but…

Successful.

And those who helped her run it…they were her people now.

People she intended to keep safe from Dolan Treviño and whatever trouble he’d brought with him.

She headed for the three-stall quarantine barn, the ranch barn, made of sturdy timbers and thick planking from rough-sawn wood. A detour through the mare motel showed her Luka, groomed, relaxed and happily munching on hay. One of a kind, her dangerous Lipizzan gelding turned indispensable ranch horse.

Inside the quarantine barn, Meghan found a wideopen stall filled with fresh, deep wood shavings and a welcoming flake of hay already shoved into the hay rack. The cool, dim light of the little barn made her realize how warm the day had grown. It might still be spring out there, but it was looking real hard at summer.

There was no sign of Jenny or Anica, but Jenny’s dog had darted back toward the casita—Jenny, at least, was there. And all looked to be ready here, so…

It gave Meghan a moment to realize how tired she was. Bone-tired, after a night of no sleep, wrestling with the effects of a mysterious Atrum Core poisoning and sometimes wrestling with the jaguar himself. And fit as she was, the hike back to the ranch had been a long one. If she was lucky, she’d grab a nap before the new horse arrived—an event that could occur any minute now, or late in the afternoon. With a volunteer at the wheel, she wasn’t inclined to nag.

She emerged from the barn, cast another thoughtful look around the place…felt another surge of protectiveness.

I shouldn’t have brought him here.

He’d said the Core thought him dead. He’d argued it, even.

She hoped he was right. But she didn’t think the only threat to Encontrados came from the Core. The Sentinels, too, knew how to focus on a goal…and how to sacrifice others along the way.

It made her realize just how very much she’d been taking the ranch’s safety for granted. It had been so many years since her mother’s death…so many years since she’d seen even a hint of Sentinel or Atrum Core activity.

Well, you’ve seen it now.

So she stood in the doorway to the barn, and she listened. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, falling into unconscious habit. Sometimes she listened to a horse, sometimes to the land, sometimes to the true mood of those around her…sometimes she just listened to see what was there.

And this time she heard something.

It was small and slippery and whispery, a harsh and discordant sound. She tipped her head, followed it.

It moved.

From the outer edge of the property toward the center, it eased between strong wards. As if in response to having been noticed, its movements increased in speed; Meghan felt a hint of malevolence, and fury swelled within her. How dare anyone send such an incantation sneaking around her ranch? Trespassing, unwelcome…malignant.

She wasn’t a prodigy when it came to wards, not like her mother. She didn’t have the power. Still, she knew enough to find the nearest ward lines, to grasp those shadowed glow lines in her mind’s eye and slam them together over that dark blot of unwelcome presence.

A sizzle; a pop. The presence vanished. The ward lines wavered, momentarily diminished—but they were tied strongly to the land, and the thin spots soon flowed back into balance.

Meghan let out a long, deep breath, finding herself with a small grim smile of satisfaction. “No trespassing,” she murmured to the world at large, and went to take her nap.

Dolan opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. His body continued the low-key background thrumming he now associated with Meghan, but was still plenty weak, muscles full of burning pain and lassitude. Unfamiliar panic surged within him—concern that Meghan, barely schooled and unpracticed, had truly done him harm. Had somehow locked him away from the jaguar permanently.

It’s been only half a day. She said it would take time.

He smelled the water by the bedside and took solace. If he could smell the water, then the jaguar still lurked.

Not to mention he was damned thirsty.

He sat for a moment, checking his stability, taking in the details of this room. An old room, nothing quite in true any longer, everything worn around the edges…comfortable. It smelled of Meghan, gingery, and while at first he accepted the effect as a natural for her house, his gaze finally landed on the rocking chair in the corner. He realized that the bundle of light knit cotton throw was actually a bundle of Meghan beneath the cotton throw.

He watched her sleep for a moment, getting his bearings. The bedside clock said it was early afternoon; they’d only been here a few hours.

She’d said it would take time. Not a few hours, but time.

He quashed the flare of impatience and reached for the bedside pitcher—slowly, deliberately, taking none of his muscles for granted—to pour himself a full glass. He downed it in a few deep gulps, his eyes still on Meghan. She hadn’t stirred. Exhausted…and with good reason.

He wondered about her arm. No cat’s claws made a wound to be so casually dismissed—too prone to infection, regardless of size. He should check…

And still his body urged him to return to sleep, a deep escape from pain. He found the glass still in his hand—and then he misjudged the distance to the serving tray. The tumbler clunked awkwardly into place.

Meghan’s eyes opened at once. “You’re awake,” she said, voice a little creaky. “How are you?”

“I was wondering the same of you.” He flung the quilt back and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, relieved to find himself still fully clothed. “Your arm?”

She pushed the light throw down; she wore a bright coral tank top under a white, gauzy tunic, spaghetti straps barely visible. His gaze got hung up on the strong, graceful lines of her neck and the sweep of her collarbones; she pushed up the tunic sleeve and held her arm out for inspection, turning it this way and that.

What he saw got his attention, all right. “That can’t be the same wound.”

Her face held the smallest of smiles. “My mother’s herbs drove off the Core poison,” she said. “You think they can’t deal with a couple of scratches?” But she shifted so the window light hit her skin, and he saw the remains of the bruising, the clean red puncture marks. “It’s still sore,” she admitted. “But give it another day.” She slid the tunic sleeve back into place. “There’s a reason I don’t use those herbs for everyday injuries.”

So she thought like a Sentinel, even if she didn’t want to. Low profile. “It would draw a lot of attention if you healed overnight from every bump and bruise.”

She brushed a self-conscious hand down the front of the tunic. “Bad enough they’ll wonder why I’m in town clothes with a horse coming in any time now.” But of course a plain T-shirt or tank top would have revealed the wounds—and her healing rate.

She gathered the throw and draped it over the back of the rocker as she went to the window, looking over the back edge of the property, the intense blue sky filling the window. Light shone through the gauze tunic so the tank top outlined her spare shape in clear silhouette—strong shoulders, the nip of her waist, the flare of her hips and a tight, toned bottom.

Dolan scrubbed a hand over his face. It still felt like someone else’s hand, not quite doing his bidding, tingling painfully in every joint. “I didn’t mean to take your bed.”