I can feel the flames fan my cheeks as I quickly look away, trying to pay attention to the discussion. Honestly, though, I have zero creativity concerning writing a script or planning the stage props. I’m very creative in the kitchen, but this kind of creativity is better left to those whose input will actually be helpful. Put me on the stage and tell me what to sing or say, and I can hold my own pretty well, but that’s the end of my talent in that area. I begin to sigh again, then realizing how it may sound to Sam, I try to suck it back in.
This, of course, causes me to choke. I begin coughing violently, attracting the attention of every set of eyes at the table. Yup… his, too. I stand and try to excuse myself around gasping for air. No one really pays attention when they see I’m not in mortal danger, so I make a quick exit.
In the hallway, I lean over, coughing and holding my stomach. Just when I almost have it under control, I hear, “You should get a drink of water.”
It’s not the words, but the source of the words that causes me to gasp, and I begin choking anew. A set of hands reach out and guide me to the drinking fountain. I lean over and take a mouthful, swallowing it against my breath. I cough a few more times, between a few more swallows of water, and soon I’m able to control it.
“Thanks,” I croak, avoiding looking up at Sam’s towering height. I swear he must be, like, six-six as my eyes are right at chest level.
“No problem. Are you okay, now?”
Nervously, I realize his hand is still lingering on my shoulder.
“How tall are you?” I blurt out. He blinks in surprise, and it occurs to me that my tone sounds a little accusatory, as if he’s been keeping it secret. I drop my voice to a murmur, “Not that I, you know, wonder about it very much, or anything.”
“I’m six-three,” he says. “How tall are you?” I glance up at him, and quickly away, but not before I see the grin and teasing glint in his eyes.
“About a foot shorter,” I say.
“About a foot?”
“Fine, exactly a foot, okay?” I know I sound sullen, but I still haven’t decided whether I should be nice to him or not—especially when I’m this confused about him. I’ve never been confused about a boy before. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never even kissed a boy before.
“Should I call you shorty, or shrimp?” he laughs.
I glare at his chest. “Should I call you lanky or Lurch?” I shoot back. Yeah, I know. Lame. But he only laughs more. Then he slips his hand from my shoulder and holds it toward me.
“You can call me anything you want if you’ll agree to a truce.”
I glance at his hand, at him, then back to his hand, suspiciously. “A truce?”
He shrugs. “We got off on a really bad foot, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry for offending you. But we have to figure out a way to co-exist peacefully, and I’d really like to be your friend.”
I scrunch my eyebrows. “You sound like my dad,” I grumble. Then I relent and place my hand in his, tired of being angry all the time. His long fingers close over mine, strong and warm. Then he’s shaking my hand, as if we’d just met. I glance up into his smiling face, my gaze immediately sliding away, embarrassed.
“Hi, my name is Sam. It’s nice to meet you.”
I can’t help but smile back at the silly charade.
“Niahm,” I say.
“Hmm… Niahm. That’s an unusual name.”
I shrug. “I have unusual parents.”
He gives my hand a squeeze and releases it.
“Should we go back in and help with the planning?” he asks.
I look toward the door. I can hear voices from within. Somehow, I doubt they’ll miss me.
“No, I think I’m going to cut out for today. I should go home, anyway, and—”
“Feed the chickens?” he interrupts.
“Something like that,” I smile.
“Mind if I go with you?”
“You want to feed my chickens?” I ask, perplexed.
He grins. “No, I want to work the horses.” Oh, duh. “And I’d like to meet your unusual parents.”
I shrug. “Okay, just remember you asked for it.”
We leave without telling anyone that we’re going. I’m not sure of Sam’s reasons for this, but mine are clear. I don’t want Stacy giving me that told-you-so look because this isn’t what she thinks. This is just deciding to be nice to Sam, nothing more.
“So, what transportation did you use to get to school? Livestock or thumb throttle?”
“Ha, ha,” I mock. “Except when it’s snowing, my only transport is my feet.”
“I live a little further, so I drove. Want to ride with me back to your place?”
“Uh…” His question stumps me. It shouldn’t. I’ve caught rides with any number of people in town, and never thought twice about it. But this whole being nice to Sam thing is new, and instinct makes me want to say no. Thinking it feels a little too friendly also makes me want to say no. Being in a confined space so close to Sam makes me want to say no. Not wanting to explain any of that to him makes me finally mumble, “Okay.”
He looks at me oddly. “I’m a pretty good driver. I promise to get you there in one piece.”
“Oh, yeah, no… I know that. I mean, I don’t know that, but…”
“But?”
But I’m feeling flustered by you right now. Why is that?
“No but, just… okay.”
He narrows his eyes in confusion, but doesn’t press the issue. He leads me to his truck—the same one he brought the horses to the stable in—and opens my door. Like that doesn’t make me even more uncomfortable, as if we were on a date or something. What can I do, though, but climb in and let him close the door behind me.
“I’m not rushing through my chores so that I can get out to the pasture to watch Sam with the Irish. I’m hurrying because… okay, maybe that’s the reason a little bit. It has nothing to do with Sam. I just want to watch the horse. He’s so beautiful. All six-foot-three, red-headed—” I gasp and break off, glaring at Bob as if he caused me to say that. He’s trying to be a good friend, sitting at my feet, glancing at me as much as he possibly can while I ramble—not an easy task with the chickens in front of him, egging him on just by existing.
“I so did not mean that,” his head, which had been inching back in the direction of the source of his divided attention, jerks toward me at my harsh tone. I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand—and grimace as I feel the grind of the chicken feed, which is now rolling down my face. I angrily brush the feed from my hand using the front of my jeans, then brush it from my face, as Bob tries to catch the miniscule falling pieces, pretty much just snapping air between his jaws—which makes me laugh.
I back out of the pen, calling Bob with me. His head hangs dejectedly as a result of my cutting into his chicken chasing time with my conversation, but once the gate closes behind us, he perks up and bounds off. I walk into the horse barn, peeking in on Sheila, my mare. She stands happily in her clean stall, eating fresh hay next to her full water trough. I know I should be happy my parents are back and that they’ve done some of my more time consuming chores, like cleaning Sheila’s stall and feeding and watering all the horses.
I grunt and turn toward the sounds I can hear coming from outside in the paddock. I give in to the urge and follow the sounds out.
Sam is working the Irish in the same manner as the previous time. This time, I climb up on the top rung of the fence and watch more closely. Bob jumps up on his hind legs, paws at me once and whines, as if upset that I didn’t bring him up to sit with me. I push a palm toward him and he backs down, settling for sticking his nose through the bottom rung.
The Irish continues his wild defiance, though not quite so harshly as previously. Sam just keeps on clucking and soothing, and while they are both covered in sweat once again, neither is breathing quite as hard once the stallion gives in. Sam grins at me, walks closer to the horse,
shortening the line as he goes, continuing to talk in monosyllables as he nears. The Irish tosses his head and snorts, but allows the nearness. Sam urges the horse forward, walking next to him.
“What do you think, Niahm? Thinks he’s ready for the saddle?”
It takes me a few seconds to grasp the question, since he delivers it in the same soothing voice, just slightly louder than his other words.
“I think that would be cruel,” I say. “Look at the poor beast, he’s sweating and exhausted.”
“Best time to try it,” he says.
“I think you’d do better to give him a name.”
He grins at me again, and I look away, Stacy’s words ringing in my mind again.
“Got any ideas?” His words pull my attention back to him.
I lean forward, hooking my feet behind the next log down, leaning my weight on my arms as I consider the stallion, now walking almost docilely next to Sam.
“I don’t know. He’s an unusual horse; he should have an unusual name.”
“Yeah, that’s why I haven’t named him yet. Nothing’s come to me that seems right.”
“Doesn’t your uncle have any say in it?”
Sam shrugs. “The horses are more of my thing than his. He likes to ride, occasionally, but he’s not as crazy as I am about them.”
“Oh yeah? Why are you so crazy about them?”
“I’ve been riding horses for so many years, that I guess it makes me feel like I’m home.”
“So, where is that? Home, I mean.”
Sam glances at me, wariness stealing into his face. I get the distinct feeling that he doesn’t want to answer me.
“Is it a secret or—” I ask, when the silence lengthens.
Just then, the Irish gives a kicking buck, throwing his head.
“Whoa, there,” Sam’s attention is drawn back to the horse. “I think he’s had enough for one day,” he calls to me, struggling with the lead. “Can you get the gate for me, Niamh?”
I jump down and swing the gate open, stepping behind it as he leads the Irish through. I follow him into the stable and pull the gate open for his stall. Sam removes the lead, and gives the nervous horse a quick rubdown, before rewarding him with an apple from the bucket of apples I keep in the barn for just such things.
He hangs up the lead on the nail tacked outside the stall, then follows me back outside. Bob comes bounding over, bypassing me and waggling his tail enthusiastically for Sam. I lift my eyebrows at him. He grins, not so innocently.
“I just used a little bribery on Bob the couple of times I’ve been here. Wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be attacking me again.”
“Bob, you traitor!” I accuse. He glances up at me, his ears flattening in chagrin for all of about one-tenth of a millisecond. Sam and I laugh and I glance up at him. Suddenly the smile drops from Sam’s face and he steps closer to me, alarm on his face.
“What?” I ask, my hands immediately going up to my cheeks, wondering what’s wrong.
“Your eyes!” he declares, and I relax. I’m used to the strange reaction when someone really looks at my eyes for the first time, and realizes that they are clear, only ringed with gold which gives them the appearance of actually having color.
“Yeah,” I smile, “I know my eyes are different, they’re—”
“Colorless,” he finishes, still sounding alarmed. I bristle a little at his summation. I’ve had them called unique, unusual, exceptional… any number if descriptive verbs, but never “colorless.”
“They’re not exactly colorless, they just—”
“There you are, kiddo.” My father’s words boom across the yard, and I realize how close Sam and I are standing as he stares into my eyes, and I take a step backward, a little freaked by Sam’s intensely worried demeanor.
“Hey, dad,” I say back, turning to see him and my mother striding across the yard toward us. I roll my eyes. Remember me saying how everyone in town wears jeans except on Sunday’s? I should have qualified that with: except my parents. They always dress in one of two ways: as if they are on a safari, or they were headed to 4 o’clock tea with the Queen. Today, they are in Safari mode—my dad even has the hat, and the shorts with knee-socks.
As they near, smiling expectantly toward Sam, I turn back.
“Sam, these are my parents, Jonas and Beth Parker. Mom and dad, this is Sam Coleman.”
Sam still looks stunned, and slightly nauseated. Somehow I doubt my eyes can be the cause of such a reaction, so there must be something else going on.
“How are you, Sam? Welcome to town,” my father says, pumping his hand.
“Oh… yes, thanks,” Sam’s response is rote, distracted.
“Sam, would you like to stay for dinner?” This from my mother, who I love, but I groan at her invitation. Since I usually cook, it’s extra work for me, not her.
“What?” That pulls Sam out of his reverie, though the furrow in his forehead doesn’t ease. “Dinner? Uh, no… no, thanks. I… I have to go. I have to be…” He glances at me again, in an expression close to horror and I find myself caught up by it. Now he has me worried. Something is definitely wrong.
He turns away, striding toward his truck without a backward glance. He slams the door behind him and guns it down the driveway.
“Okay,” I murmur, “that was odd.”
“Well, isn’t he a tall drink of water,” my father teases, and I groan.
“Please, dad, that’s creepy.”
“Oh, but darling, your father’s right. No wonder you’ve been in such a bind about him.”
“Mom!” I head toward the house, but they follow, tormenting me.
“Did you see them when we came out? Gazing into one anoth—”
I slam the door behind me, shutting out the rest of my father’s words, but not the sound of their laughter.
Sometimes, loneliness is the better option.
Chapter 11
Sam
I slam the door open, and Shane’s reaction is immediate. He stands and steps toward the closet where we keep the weapons, his eyes never leaving me. Then, whatever he sees, he relaxes.
“Her eyes!” I explode.
His alarm turns to amusement as he looks at me.
“Do you have them in your hand?” he asks lightly.
“What?” His question throws me, until I follow his gaze down to my clenched fists. I relax them and blow out a breath.
“You wanna sit?” he asks, indicating the table.
“Yes,” I huff, then proceed to pace beside the table, while Shane slides back into the chair he had vacated, where he was working on one of his blasted Sudoku puzzles. I can’t stand the things myself.
“You want to tell me about it, or just wear a hole in the floor?” Shane continues writing numbers, not lifting his eyes.
I grunt, not sure how to tell him. Finally, I just blurt it out.
“They’re colorless.”
That stops Shane short, and he looks at me in some alarm.
“I thought they were unusual… gold. They appeared gold the few times I glimpsed them. Her rim is still large enough to give the impression….” I stop pacing and drop into the chair across from him. I think back to all the times I’d seen her. She was either wearing those infernal sunglasses, or far away, or not looking at me….
“How did I miss it?” Misery laces my voice as I drop my head into my hands.
“That’s no’ hard to fathom. You weren’t lookin’, now, were ya?” I can gauge the strength of Shane’s upset by the fact that he’s allowed the slightest burr to creep back into his voice. “How long ha’ it been since we’ve seen one?”
“Too long,” I answer. “But why does it have to be her?”
We sit in silence for long minutes, both considering. When Shane speaks again, he’s back under control, all traces of his true heritage lost in his American accent.
“Okay, well, it is what it is,” he reasons. “It’s not completely unheard of for an immortal to bond with another i
mmortal.”
“But we don’t know for certain that she is. We only suspect. And there’s only one way to find out for sure.”
Shane nods. He understands instinctively what I’m talking about. It’s bad enough to bond with a mortal, and have to watch them die. The only way to take that nightmare to a new level is to add in the possibility that she might be immortal, but not know unless she dies—and comes back—before her fifty-third birthday. To watch her pass that benchmark and not “die” beforehand means an eternity of living with if. To lose her before that and have her not be immortal is unthinkable.
Leave it to me to bond with a temperamental, stubborn, pig-headed, possible immortal.
Chapter 12
Niahm
Gotta love Saturdays. I can sleep in ‘til six. I don’t have to get ready for school, before I get up and start my chores. I don’t even bother with makeup or doing my hair. I can get to that later.
“Hey, mom,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. She’s already up, making me breakfast.
“Morning, baby,” she says, walking over to kiss me on the head as I drop into a chair. I don’t get to be babied too often, so I take advantage when I can.
“Where’s dad?”
“Oh, he’s out in the stable, admiring those Coleman horses.” She puts a plate of food in front of me—the kinds of food I never eat when I’m home alone, like bacon, eggs, and toast—and sits down across from me.
We talk about her and my dad’s newest book, which the publisher is pushing for a completion date on, and I update her on the nothing new that’s been going on around the farm and in town.
“Why don’t you invite the Coleman’s out to dinner, Niahm?” Mom asks, taking a bite of her dry toast. Ugh. I can’t eat toast unless it’s slathered with butter and jam.
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure they’re inundated with invites, mom. I’ll bet they haven’t eaten at home once.”
“Well, now, if everyone assumed that, they wouldn’t be getting a single invitation, would they?” I huff out a sarcastic sigh at her words. “Just ask them, okay?”
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