Читать книгу Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of the Warrior - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 9

Inca was lonely. Frowning, she shifted on the large stack of wooden crates where she sat, her booted feet dangling and barely touching the dry red soil of the Amazon’s bank. Her fine, delicately arched brows knitted as she studied the ground. In Peru, they called the earth Pachamama, or Mother Earth. Stretching slightly, she gently patted the surface with the sole of her military boot. The dirt was Mother Earth’s skin, and in her own way, Inca was giving her real and only mother a gentle pat of love.

Sighing, she looked around at the humid mid-afternoon haze that hung above the wide, muddy river. The sun was behind the ever-present hazy clouds that hugged the land like a lover. Making a strangled sound, Inca admitted sourly to herself she didn’t know what it was to feel like a lover. The only thing she knew of romantic love was what she’d read about it from the great poets while growing up under Father Titus’s tutelage.

Did she want a lover? Was that why she was feeling lonely? Ordinarily, Inca didn’t have to deal with such an odd assortment of unusual emotions. She was so busy that she could block out the tender feelers that wound through the heart like a vine, and ignore them completely. Not today. No, she had to rendezvous with this man that her blood brother, Michael Houston, had asked her to meet. Not only that, but she had to work with him! Michael had visited her in the dream state several nights earlier and had carefully gone over everything with her. In the end, he’d left it up to Inca as to whether or not she would work as a guide for Colonel Marcellino—the man who wanted to kill her.

Her lips, full and soft, moved into a grimace. Always alert, with her invisible jaguar spirit guide always on guard, she felt no danger nearby. Her rifle was leaning against the crates, which were stacked and ready to take down the Amazon, part of the supplies Colonel Marcellino would utilize once they met up with him and his company downriver.

She was about to take on a mission, so why was she feeling so alone? So lonely? Rubbing her chest, the olive-green, sleeveless tank top soaked with her perspiration from the high humidity and temperature, Inca lifted her stubborn chin.

She had a mild curiosity about this man called Roan Storm Walker. For one thing, he possessed an interesting name. The fact that he was part Indian made her feel better about this upcoming mission. Indians shared a common blood, a common heritage here in South America. Inca wondered if the blood that pumped through Walker’s veins was similar to hers, to the Indians who called the Amazon basin home. She hoped so.

Her hair, wrapped in one thick, long braid, hung limply across her right shoulder with tendrils curling about her face. Inca looked up expectantly toward the asphalt road to Manaus. From the wooden wharves around her, tugs and scows ceaselessly took cargo up and down the Amazon. Right now, at midday, it was siesta time, and no one was in the wharf area, which was lined with rickety wooden docks that stuck fifty or so feet off the red soil bank into the turbid, muddy Amazon. Everyone was asleep now, and that was good. For Inca, it meant less chance of being attacked. She was always mindful of the bounty on her head. Wanted dead or alive by the Brazilian government, she rarely came this close to any city. Only because she was to meet this man, at Michael’s request, had she left her rain forest home, where she was relatively safe.

Bored by sitting so long, Inca lifted her right arm and unsnapped one of the small pouches from the dark green nylon web belt she always wore around her slender waist. On the other side hung a large canteen filled with water and a knife in a black leather sheath. On the right, next to the pouch, was a black leather holster with a pistol in it. In her business, in her life, she was at war all the time. And even though she possessed the skills of the Jaguar Clan, good old guns, pistols and knives were part and parcel of her trade as well.

Easing a plastic bag out of the pouch, Inca gently opened it. Inside was a color photo of Michael and Ann Houston. In Ann’s arms was six-month-old Catherine. Inca hungrily studied the photo, its edges frayed and well worn from being lovingly looked at so many times, in moments of quiet. She was godmother to Catherine Inca Houston. She finally had a family. Pain throbbed briefly through her heart. Abandoned at birth, unwanted, Inca had bits and pieces of memories of being passed from village to village, from one jaguar priestess to another. In the first sixteen years of her life, she’d had many mothers and fathers. Why had her real parents abandoned her? Had she cried a lot? Been a bad baby? What had she done to be discarded? Looking at the photo of Catherine, who was a chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed, happy little tyke, Inca wondered if she’d been ugly at birth, and if that was why her parents had left her out in the rain forest to die of starvation.

The pain of abandonment was always with her. Wiping her damp fingers on the material of the brown-green-and-tan military fatigues she wore, she skimmed the photo lightly with her index finger. She must have been ugly and noisy for her mother and father to throw her away. Eyes blurring with the tears of old pain, Inca absorbed the smiling faces of Michael and Ann. Oh, how happy they were! When Inca saw Mike and Ann together she got some idea of what real love was. She’d been privileged to be around these two courageous people. She’d seen them hold hands, give each other soft, tender looks, and had even seen them kissing heatedly once, when she’d unexpectedly showed up at their camp.

He’s coming.

Instantly, Inca placed the photo back into the protective plastic covering and into the pouch at her side, snapping it shut. Her guardian, a normally invisible male jaguar called Topazio, had sent her a mental warning that the man known as Storm Walker was arriving shortly. Standing, Inca felt her heart pound a little in anticipation. Michael had assured her that she would get along with Roan. Inca rarely got along with anyone, so when her blood brother had said that she had eyed him skeptically. Her role in the world was acting as a catalyst, and few people liked a catalyst throwing chaos into their lives. Inca could count on one hand the people who genuinely liked her.

The slight rise of the hill above her blocked her view, so she couldn’t see the approach of the taxi that would drop this stranger off in her care. Michael had given her a physical description of him, saying that Roan was tall with black hair, blue eyes and a build like a swimmer. Mike had described his face as square with some lines in it, as if he’d been carved out of the rocks of the Andes. Inca had smiled at that. To say that Roan’s face was rough-hewn like the craggy, towering mountains that formed the backbone of South America was an interesting metaphor. She was curious to see if this man indeed had a rugged face.

Inca felt the brush of Topazio against her left thigh. It was a reassuring touch, much like a housecat that brushed lovingly against its owner. He sat down and waited patiently. As Inca stared into the distance, the midday heat made curtains where heat waves undulated in a mirage at the top of the hill.

Anticipation arced through her when she saw the yellow-and-black taxi roar over the crest of the hill on the two-lane, poorly marked road. She worried about the driver recognizing her. Although there were only a few rough sketches of her posted, artists for the government of Brazil had rendered her likeness closely enough for someone to identify her. Once Storm Walker got out of the cab, it would mean a fast exit on the tug. Inca would have to wake the captain, Ernesto, who was asleep in the shade of the boat, haphazardly docked at the nearby wharf, and get him to load the crates on board pronto.

The taxi was blowing blue smoke from its exhaust pipe as it rolled down the long hill toward Inca. Eyes narrowing, she saw the shape of a large man in the back seat. She wrapped her arms against her chest and tensely waited. Her rifle was nearby in case things went sour. Inca trusted no one except Mike Houston and his wife, Rafe Antonio, a backwoodsman who worked with her to protect the Indians, Grandmother Alaria and Father Titus. That was all. Otherwise, she suspected everyone of wanting her head on a platter. Inca’s distrust of people had proved itself out consistently. She had no reason to trust the cab driver or this stranger entering her life.

The cab screeched to a halt, the brakes old and worn. Inca watched as a man, a very tall, well-built man, emerged from the back of the vehicle. As he straightened up, Inca’s heartbeat soared. He looked directly at her across the distance that separated them. Her lips parted. She felt the intense heat of his cursory inspection of her. The meeting of their eyes was brief, and yet it branded her. Because she was clairvoyant, her senses were honed to an excruciatingly high degree. She could read someone else’s thoughts if she put her mind to it. But rather than making the effort to mind read, she kept her sensitivity to others wide open, like an all-terrain radar system, in order to pick up feelings, sensations and nuances from anyone approaching. Her intuition, which was keenly honed, worked to protect her and keep her safe.

As the man leaned over to pay the driver, Inca felt a warm sheet of energy wrapping around her. Startled, she shook off the feeling. What was that? Guardedly, she realized it had come from him. The stranger. Storm Walker. A frisson of panic moved through her gut. What was this? Inca afraid? Oh, yes, fear lived in her, alive and thriving. Fear was always with her. But Inca didn’t let fear stop her from doing what had to be done. After all, being a member of the Jaguar Clan, she had to walk through whatever fears she had and move on to accomplish her purpose. Fear was not a reason to quit.

The cab turned around and roared back up the hill. Inca watched as the man leaned down and captured two canvas bags—his luggage—and then straightened up to face her. Five hundred feet separated them. Her guard was up. She felt Topazio get to his feet, his nose to the air, as if checking out the stranger.

The man was tall, much taller than Inca had expected. He was probably around six foot five or six. To her, he was like a giant. She was six foot in height, and few men in the Amazon stood as tall as she did. Automatically, Inca lifted her strong chin, met his assessing cobalt-colored eyes and stood her ground. His face was broad, with the hooked nose of an eagle, and his mouth generous, with many lines around it as well as the corners of his eyes. His hair was black with blue highlights, close-cropped to his head—typical of the military style, she supposed. He wasn’t wearing military clothing, however, just a threadbare pair of jean’s, waterproof hiking boots and a dark maroon polo shirt that showed off his barrel chest to distinct advantage. This was not the lazy, norteamericano that Inca was used to seeing. No, this man was hard-bodied from strenuous work. The muscles in his upper arms were thick, the cords of his forearms distinct. His hands were large, the fingers long and large knuckled. There was a tight, coiled energy around him as he moved slowly toward her, their gazes locked together. Inca dug mercilessly into his eyes, studied the huge, black pupils to find his weaknesses, for that was what she had to do in order to survive—find an enemy’s weakness and use it against him.

She reminded herself that this man was not her enemy, but her radarlike assessment of him was something she just did naturally. She liked how he moved with a boneless kind of grace. Clairvoyantly, Inca saw a female cougar walking near his left side, looking at her to size her up! Smiling to herself, Inca wondered if this man was a medicine person. Michael had said he was Lakota, and that his mother was a medicine woman of great power and fame. His face was rough-hewn, just as her blood brother had described. Storm Walker was not a handsome man. No, he looked as if his large, square face had been carved from the granite of the Andes. She spotted a scar on his left cheek, and another on the right side of his forehead. His brows were thick and slightly arched and emphasized his large, intelligent eyes as they held hers. Few men could hold Inca’s stare. But he did—with ease.

Her pulse elevated as he stopped, dropped the luggage and straightened. When his hardened mouth softened temporarily and the corners hooked upward, her heart pounded. Her response to him unnerved Inca, for she’d never responded to a man this way before. The sensations were new to her, confounding her and making her feel slightly breathless as a result. When he extended his large, callused hand toward her, and Inca saw a wand of white sage in it, she relaxed slightly. Among her people, when one clan or nation visited another, sacred sage, ceremonially wrapped, was always given as a token of respect before any words of greeting were spoken.

Just this simple acknowledgment by him, the sacred sage extended in his hand, made Inca feel a deep sense of relief. Only Indians knew this protocol. Something wonderful flittered through Inca’s heart as she reached out and took the gift. If the sage was accepted, it was a sign of mutual respect between the two parties, and talk could begin. She waited. The dried sage’s fragrance drifted to her flaring nostrils. It was a strong, medicinelike scent, one that made her want to inhale deeply.

“I’m Roan Storm Walker,” he said in a quiet tone. “I’ve been sent here by Mike Houston.”

“I am called Inca,” she said, her voice husky. He was powerful, and Inca wanted to back away from him to assess the situation more closely. Ordinarily, men she encountered were not this powerful. “I was not expecting a medicine person. I do not have a gift of our sacred sage to give you in return.”

Roan nodded. “It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” His pulse was racing. He wondered if she could hear his heart beating like a thundering drum in his chest. Roan had realized for certain as he got out of the cab that Inca was the same woman who had entered his vision state that morning at his cabin. It was definitely her. Did she remember talking to him? Asking him to come down here to help her? If she did, she gave no hint to him. He decided not to ask, for it would be considered disrespectful.

She was incredibly beautiful in his eyes. There was a wildness to her—a raw, primal power as she stood confidently before him dressed in her military attire. Even though she wore jungle fatigues, black GI boots, a web belt around her waist and an olive drab T-shirt, she could not hide her femininity from him in the least. She wore no bra, and her small breasts were upturned and proud against the damp shirt that provocatively outlined them, despite the bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing her chest. Her face was oval, with a strong chin, high cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes. The color of her eyes made him hold his breath for a moment. Just as Mike Houston had said, they were a delicious willow-green color, with huge, black pupils. Her black lashes were thick and full, and emphasized her incredible eyes like a dark frame. Her hair was black with a slightly reddish tint when the sun peeked out between the sluggishly moving clouds and shined on it. The tendrils curling around her face gave Inca an air of vulnerability in spite of her formidable presence. He rocked internally from the power that surrounded her.

Roan had spotted the rifle leaning up against the crates, and he sensed her distrust of him. He saw it in the guarded look of her eyes. Her mouth was full and soft, yet, as she turned her attention to him, he watched it thin and compress. Mike was right: he’d have to earn her trust, inch by inch. Did he have the necessary time to do it? To protect her? To work as a liaison between her and Marcellino’s troops?

“Why do you worry about me?” Inca growled. She turned and put the sage into a small, coarsely woven sack that sat on top of the crates. “I would worry more for you.”

Frowning, Roan wondered if she’d read his mind. Mike had warned him that she had many clairvoyant talents. He watched as she shouldered the rifle, butt up, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. Any good soldier out in a rain forest or jungle situation would do that. Water down the barrel of one’s weapon would create rust. Clearly Inca was a professional soldier.

“Come,” she ordered as she strode quickly to the dock.

“Olá! Hello. Ernesto! Get up!” Inca called in Portuguese to the tug captain. The middle-aged, balding man roused himself from his siesta on the deck of his tug.

“Eh?”

Inca waved toward the crates. “Come, load our things. We must go, pronto.”

Scrambling to his feet, the captain nodded and quickly rubbed his eyes. His face was round, and he hadn’t shaved in days. Dressed only in a pair of khaki cutoffs that had seen better days, he leaped to the wharf.

Inca turned to Storm Walker, who stood waiting and watching. “We need to get these crates on board. Why don’t you stow your gear on the tug and help him?”

“Of course.” Roan moved past her and made his way from wharf to tug. The boat was old, unpainted, and the deck splintered from lack of sanding and paint to protect it from the relentless heat and humidity of Amazonia. Dropping his luggage at the bow, he watched as Inca moved to the stern of the tug. Her face was guarded and she was looking around, as if sensing something. He briefly saw the crescent-shaped moon on her left shoulder though it was mostly hidden beneath the tank top she wore. Mike Houston had warned him ahead of time that the thin crescent of gold and black fur was a sign her membership in the Jaguar Clan.

Inca barely gave notice to the two men placing the supplies on board. Topazio was restless, an indication that there was a disturbance in the energy of the immediate area. A warning that there was trouble coming.

“Hurry!” she snapped in Portuguese. And then Inca switched to her English, which was not that good. “Hurry.”

“I speak Portuguese,” Roan stated as he hefted a crate on board.

Grunting, Inca kept her gaze on the hill. Nothing moved in the humid, hot heat of the afternoon. Everything was still. Too still for her liking. She moved restlessly and shifted her position from the end of the wharf to where the asphalt crumbled and stopped. Someone was coming. And it wasn’t a good feeling.

Roan looked up. He saw Inca standing almost rigidly, facing the hill and watching. What was up? He almost mouthed the query, but instead hurried from the tug to the shore to retrieve the last wooden crate. The tug captain started up the rusty old engine. Black-and-blue smoke belched from behind the vessel, the engine sputtered, coughed like a hacking person with advanced emphysema, and then caught and roared noisily to life.

“Inca?” Roan called as he placed the crate on the deck.

His voice carried sluggishly through the silence of the damp afternoon air. The hair on his neck stood on end. Damn! Leaping off the tug and running along the dock, Roan ordered the captain to cast off. He had just gotten to the end when he saw two cars, a white one and a black one, careening down off the hill toward them. His breath jammed in his throat. He could see rifles hanging out the open windows of both vehicles.

“Inca!”

Inca heard Storm Walker’s warning, but she was already on top of the situation. In one smooth movement, she released her rifle and flipped it up, her hand gripping the trigger housing area and moving the barrel upward. She saw the guns stuck out of the windows. She felt the hatred of the men behind them. Turning on her heel, she sprinted toward the tug. It was going to be close!

To her surprise, she saw Storm Walker running toward her, his hand outstretched as if to grab her. Shaken by his protective gesture, she waved him away.

“You have no weapons!” she cried as she ran up to him. “Get back to the tug!”

Roan turned on his heel. He heard the screech of brakes. The first shots shattered the humid stillness. Bits of red dirt spurted into the air very near his feet. Damn! More shouts in Portuguese erupted behind them. Inca was following swiftly behind him. He didn’t want her to get shot. Slowing, he reached out and shoved her in front of him. He would be the wall between her and the attackers. Who the hell were they, anyway? Digging the toes of his boots into the red dirt, Roan sprinted for the wharf. Already the tug was easing away from the dock. The captain’s eyes were huge. He wanted out of here. Pronto!

More gunfire erupted. Inca cursed softly beneath her breath. She halted at the end of the wharf and shouldered her rifle. With cool precision, with wood exploding all around her, she squeezed off five shots in succession. She saw Storm Walker leap to the tug, which was sliding past her. Turning, she jumped from the wharf onto the deck of the vessel herself. It was a long jump, almost five feet. Landing on her hands and knees, she felt Roan’s large hands on her arm drawing her upward. He was pushing her behind the cockpit of the tug in order to protect her.

Growling at him, she jerked her arm free. “Release me!” she snarled, and then ran to the side of the cockpit closest to the riverbank. The men were tumbling out of the cars—six of them. They were heavily armed. Inca dropped to one knee, drew the leather sling around her arm and steadied the butt of the rifle against her shoulder and cheek. She got the first man in the crosshairs and squeezed off a shot. She watched as the bullet struck him in the knee. He screamed, threw up his weapon and fell to the earth, writhing in pain.

Rifle fire rained heavily around them. The captain was swearing in Portuguese as he labored hard to get the tug turned around and heading out to the middle of the mile-wide river. Pieces of wood exploded and flew like splinters of shrapnel everywhere. He ducked behind the housing of the cockpit, one shaking hand on the old, dilapidated wooden wheel.

Crouching, Roan moved up alongside Inca. He reached out. “Let me borrow your pistol,” he rasped, and leaned over her to unsnap the holster at her side.

Inca nodded and kept her concentration on the enemy. Ordinarily, she’d never let anyone use her weapons, but Roan was different. There was no time for talk. He took her black Beretta, eased away from her and steadied his gun arm on top of the cockpit. She heard the slow pop at each squeeze of the trigger. Two more men fell. He was a good shot.

Those left on the shore fell on their bellies, thrust their weapons out in front of them and continued to send a hail of fire into the tug. They made poor targets, and Inca worked to wound, not kill them. It wasn’t in her nature to kill. It never had been. To wound them was to put them out of commission, and that was all she strove to do. Wood erupted next to her. She felt the red-hot pain of a thick splinter entering her upper arm. Instantly, the area went numb. Disregarding her slight injury, Inca continued to squeeze off careful shots.

Finally the tug was out of range. Inca was the first to stop firing. She sat down, her back against the cockpit, the rifle across her lap as she pulled another clip from her web belt and jammed it into the rifle. Looking up, she saw Storm Walker’s glistening features as he stopped firing. This man was a cool-headed warrior. Michael had been right about him being a benefit to her, and not a chain around her neck. That was good. His face was immobile, his eyes thundercloud dark as he glanced down to see how she was doing.

“You’re hurt….”

Roan’s words feathered across Inca. She glanced down at her left arm. There was a bright red trail of blood down her left biceps dripping slowly off her elbow onto the deck.

Without thinking, Roan stepped across her, knelt down and placed his hand near the wound. A large splinter of wood, almost two inches long and a quarter inch in diameter, was sticking out of her upper arm. Her flesh was smooth and damp as he ran his fingers upward to probe the extent and seriousness of her wound.

“Do not touch me!” Inca jerked away from him. Her nostrils flared. “No man touches me without my permission.”

Shocked by her violent response, Roan instantly released her. He sat back on his heels. The anger in her eyes was very real. “I’m a paramedic…. I’m trained—”

“You do not presume anything with me, norteamericano,” she spat. Scrambling to her knees, Inca made sure there was at least six feet between them. He was too close to her and she felt panic. Why? His touch had been gentle, almost tender. Why had she behaved so snottily toward him? She saw the worry in his eyes, the way his mouth was drawn in with anxiousness.

Holding up his hands in a sign of peace, Roan rasped, “You’re right. I presumed. And I apologize.” He saw the mixture of outrage, defiance and something else in her narrowed eyes in that moment. When he’d first touched her, he’d seen her eyes go wide with astonishment. And then, seconds later, he saw something else—something so heart-wrenchingly sad that it had blown his heart wide open. And within a fraction of a second, the windows to her soul had closed and he saw righteous fury replace that mysterious emotion in her eyes.

Shaken by his concern and care for her, Inca got to her feet, despite the fact that she felt some pain in the region of the wound. They were a mile away from the dock now, the little tug chugging valiantly along on the currents. For now, they were safe. Placing the rifle on top of the cockpit, she turned her attention to the captain.

“Captain, I need a clean cloth and some good water.”

The grizzled old man nodded from the cockpit. “In there, senhorinha.” He pointed down the ladder that led below.

“Do you want some help removing that splinter?” Roan was behind her, but a respectful distance away. As Inca turned she was forced to look up at him. He was sweating profusely now, the underarms and center of his polo shirt dampened. His eyes were not guarded, but alive with genuine concern—for her. Inca was so unused to anyone caring about her—her pain, her needs—that she felt confused by his offer.

“No, I will take care of it in my own way.” She spun around and headed down the stairs.

Great, Roan, you just screwed up with her. He stood there on the deck, the humid air riffling around him, cooling him as he placed his hands on his narrow hips. Looking back toward shore, he saw the men leaving. Who were they? Who had sent them? Was Marcellino behind this? No one knew Roan’s itinerary except the good colonel. Worried about Inca, Roan stood there and compressed his lips. He’d forgotten Native American protocol with her. In his experience and training, Indians did not like to be touched by strangers. It was considered invasive. A sign of disrespect. Only after a long time, when respect and trust were developed, would touching be permitted.

Running his fingers through his short hair, Roan realized that he had to think in those terms with her. He was too used to being in the Anglo world, and in order to gain her trust, he must go back to the customs he’d grown up with in his own nation—the Native American way of doing things.

Still, he couldn’t get the feel of her skin beneath his fingers out of his mind or heart. Inca was firm and tightly muscled. She was in superb athletic condition. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her tall, slender frame. Not many women were in such great shape, except, perhaps, some in the military. Rubbing his chin, he moved back to the cockpit.

Ernesto was mopping his forehead, a worried look in his eyes. He obviously hadn’t expected such an attack, and his hands still shook in the aftermath. He offered Roan a bottle of water. Roan took it and thanked him. Tipping his head back, he drank deeply.

Inca reemerged at that moment. She saw Roan, his head tipped back, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp he took. Again, fear rippled through her as she made her way up the stairs. A soft breeze cooled her sweaty flesh as she moved topside. Wanting to keep distance between them, she took another bottle of water that Ernesto proffered to her. She thanked him and drank deeply of it.

Roan finished off the water. He’d felt Inca’s return. The sense of her power, of her being nearby, was clear to him. As he put the plastic bottle back into the box near the wheel, he glanced up at her. His mouth dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. Roan straightened. He stared at her—not a polite thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself.

The injury on her upper left arm was now completely healed. No trace of swelling, no trace of blood marred her beautiful skin. As she capped the bottle of water and gave him a glaring look, he shifted his gaze. What had happened to her wound? It looked as if she hadn’t even been injured. But she had been and Roan knew it. The captain, too, was staring with a look of disbelief on his face. He was afraid of Inca, so he quickly averted his eyes and stuck to the task of guiding the tug.

Roan had a lot of questions. But asking questions was a sign of disrespect, too. If Inca wanted to tell him what she’d done to heal herself, she would in her own good time. Mike Houston had told him that she was a healer. Well, Roan had just gotten a firsthand glimpse of her powerful talents.

“How far do we go downriver?” Inca demanded of him. Despite the tone she used, she was enjoying his company. Normally, men managed to irritate her with their arrogant male attitude, but he did not. Most men could not think like a woman; they were out to lunch instinctually and jammed their feelings so far down inside themselves that they were out of touch completely. Inca found the company of women far preferable. But Roan was different. She could see the remnants of his worry and concern over her wounding. He didn’t try to hide or fix a mask on his feelings, she was discovering. The only other man she knew who was similar was her blood brother, Michael. Inca liked to know where a person stood with her, and when that person showed his feelings, whether they were for or against her, Inca appreciated it.

Roan smiled a one-cornered smile. At least she was still talking to him. He saw the frosty look in her eyes, the way she held herself, as if afraid he was going to touch her again. Remaining where he was, he said, “Let me get the map out of my luggage.” He brightened a little. “And there’s a gift in there for you from Mike and Ann, too. I think things have calmed down enough that we can sit and talk over the mission while you open it.”

Inca nodded. “Very well. We will sit on the shady side of the boat, here.” She pointed to the starboard side of the tug. Suddenly, she found herself wanting to talk to Roan. Why did he have the name he did? How had he earned it? She watched as he moved to the bow of the tug to retrieve his luggage.

Settling her back against the splintery wall of the cockpit, Inca waited for him. Roan placed the canvas bag, which was tubular in shape, between them and slowly sat down, his legs crossed beneath him. As he unzipped the bag, she watched his deft, sure movements and recalled his touch.

Men did not realize their touch was stronger and therefore potentially hurtful to a woman or a child. Mentally, she corrected herself. Not all men hurt women, but she’d seen too much of it in South America, and it angered her to her soul. No one had the right to hurt someone frailer or weaker.

“Here,” Roan said, digging out a foil-wrapped gift tied with red ribbon. “Mike said this was special for you.” And he grinned.

Inca scowled as she took the gift. She made sure their fingers did not touch this time. Oh, she wanted to touch Roan again, but a large part of her was afraid of it, afraid of what other wild, unbidden reactions would be released in her body because of it.

“Thank you.”

Well, at least Inca could be civil when she wanted to be, Roan thought, laughing to himself. He was discovering it was all about respecting boundaries with her. He watched covertly, pretending to search for the map, as she tore enthusiastically into the foil wrapping. She was like a child, her face alight with eagerness, her eyes wide with expectation. The wrapping and ribbon fluttered around her.

“Oh!”

Roan grinned as she held up smoked salmon encased in protective foil. “Mike said you had a love of salmon.”

For the first time, Inca smiled. She held up the precious gift and studied it intently. “My blood brother knows my weaknesses.”

“I doubt you have many,” Roan said dryly, and caught her surprised look. Just as quickly, she jerked her gaze away from him.

“Do not be blinded by the legend that follows me. I have many weaknesses,” she corrected him throatily. Laying the package in her lap, she took out her knife and quickly slit it open. The orange smoked fish lay before her like a feast. Her fingers hovered over it. She glanced at him. “Do you want some?”

“No, thank you. You go ahead, though, and enjoy it.” Roan was pleased with her willingness to share. Among his people, it was always protocol to offer food first to those around you, and lastly, help yourself.

She stared at him through hooded eyes. “Are you sure?” How could he resist smoked salmon?

She was reading his mind. He could feel her there in his head, like a gentle wind on a summer day. For whatever reason, Roan felt no sense of intrusion, no need to protect his thoughts from her. He grinned belatedly as he pulled the map from the plastic case. “I’m sure. The salmon is your gift. Mike and Ann said you love it. I don’t want to take a single bite of it away from you. Salmon’s a little tough to come by down here,” he joked, “and where I come from, there’s plenty of it. So, no, you go ahead and enjoy.”

Inca studied him. He was a generous and unselfish person. Not only that, he was sensitive and thoughtful to others’ needs. Her heart warmed to him strongly. Few men had such honorable traits. “Very well.” She got to her feet and went over to the tug captain. Roan watched with interest. Ernesto, his chest sunken, his flesh burned almost tobacco brown by the equatorial sun, reached eagerly for part of the salmon. He took only a little, and thanked Inca profusely for her generosity. She nodded, smiled, and then came and sat back down. Lifting a flake of the meat to her lips, she closed her eyes, rested her head against the cockpit wall and slid it into her mouth.

Roan felt Inca’s undiluted pleasure over each morsel of the salmon. In no time, the fish was gone and only the foil package remained on her lap. There was a satiated look in her eyes as she stuck each of her fingers in her mouth to savor the taste of salmon there.

Sighing, Inca lifted her head and looked directly at him. “Your name. It has meaning, yes?”

Shocked at her friendly tone, Roan was taken aback. Maybe his manners had earned him further access to her. He hoped so. Clearing his throat, he said, “Yes, it does.”

“Among our people, names carry energy and skills.” Inca lifted her hand. “I was named Inca by a jaguar priestess who found me when I was one year old and living with a mother jaguar and her two cubs. She had been given a dream the night before as to where to find me. She kept me for one year and then took me to another village, where another priestess cared for me. When I was five years old I learned that my name meant I was tied to the Inca nation of Peru. Each year, I was passed to another priest or priestess in another village. At each stop, I was taught what each one knew. Each had different skills and talents. I learned English from one. I learned reading from another. Math from another. When I was ten, I was sent to Peru, up to Machu Picchu, to study with an Andean priest name Juan Nunez del Prado. He lived in Aqua Caliente and ran a hostel there for tourists. We would take the bus up to the temples of Machu Picchu and he would teach me many things. He told me the whole story, of what my name meant, and what it was possible to do with such a name.” She lifted her hand in a graceful motion. “What my name means, what my destiny is, is secret and known only to me and him. To speak of it is wrong.”

Roan understood. “Yes, we have a similar belief, but about our vision quest, not about our name. I honor your sacredness, having such a beautiful name.” Roan saw her fine, thin brows knit. “With such an impressive history behind your name, I think you were destined for fame. For doing something special for Mother Earth and all her relations. The Incas were in power for a thousand years, and their base of operation was Cuzco, which is near Machu Picchu. In that time, they built an empire stretching the whole breadth and length of South America.” Roan smiled at her. He saw that each time he met her gaze or shared a smile with her, she appeared uneasy. He wondered why. “From what I understand from Mike, you have a name here in Amazonia that stretches the length and breadth of it, too.”

“I have lived up to my name and I continue to live the destiny of it every day,” she agreed. Eyeing him, her head tilting slightly, Inca asked, “Have you lived up to yours?”

Inca would never directly ask why he had been given his name, and Roan smiled to himself. She wanted to know about him, and he was more than willing to share in order to get her trust. They didn’t have much time to create that bond.

“My family’s name is Storm Walker. A long time ago, when my great-great-grandfather rode the plains as a Lakota medicine man, he acquired storm medicine. He had been struck by lightning while riding his horse. The horse died, and as he lay there on the plain afterward, he had a powerful vision. He woke up hours later with the name Storm Walker. He was a great healer. People said lightning would leap from his fingers when he touched someone to heal them of their ills or wounds.”

“Yes?” Inca leaned forward raptly. She liked his low, modulated tone. She knew he spoke quietly so that the captain could not overhear their conversation, for what they spoke of was sacred.

“One member of each succeeding generation on my mother’s side of the family inherited this gift of lightning medicine. When our people were put on a reservation, the white men forced us to adopt a first and last name. So we chose Storm Walker in honor of my great-great-grandfather.”

“And what of Roan? What is a roan? It is a name I have never heard before.”

He quelled his immediate reaction to her sudden warm and animated look. Her face was alive with curiosity, her eyes wide and beautiful. Roan had one helluva time keeping his hands to himself. He wanted to see Inca like this all the time. This was the real her, he understood instinctively. Not the tough, don’t-you-dare-touch-me warrior woman, although that was part and parcel of her, too. When there wasn’t danger around, she was wide-open, vulnerable and childlike. It was innocence, he realized humbly. And the Great Spirit knew, he wanted to treat that part of her with the greatest of care.

“Roan is the color of a horse,” he explained. “Out on the plains, my people rode horses. Horses come in many colors, and a roan has red and white hairs all mixed together in its coat.” He smiled a little and held her burning gaze. “My mother was Lakota. A red-skinned woman. My father was a white man, a teacher who has white skin. When I was born, my mother had this vision of a roan horse, whose skin is half red and half white, running down a lane beneath a thunderstorm, with lightning bolts dancing all around it. She decided to call me Roan because I was part Indian and part white. Red and white.”

Inca stared at him. She saw the vulnerable man in him. He was not afraid of her, nor was he afraid to be who he was in front of her. That impressed her. It made her heart feel warm and good, too, which was something she’d never experienced before. “That is why you are not darker than you are,” she said, pointing to his skin.

“I got my mother’s nose, high cheekbones, black hair and most of her skin coloring. I got my father’s blue eyes.”

“Your heart, your spirit, though, belongs to your mother’s red-skinned people.”

“Yes,” Roan agreed softly.

“Are you glad of this?”

“Yes.”

“And did you inherit the gift of healing?”

Roan laughed a little and held up his hands. “No, I’m afraid it didn’t rub off on me, much to my mother’s unhappiness.”

Shrugging, Inca said, “Do not be so sure, Roan Storm Walker. Do not be so sure….”