Legacy Lost

by Jillian David

  Too tired; she couldn’t answer, couldn’t move.

  “Shel, wake up, darlin’.”

  It would be nice to raise her head, but none of her muscles cooperated.

  Opening her eyes didn’t even seem to work. Still dark.

  She awakened with a gasp. The room was pitch black.

  Strong arms tightened around her shoulders. The scent of cloves and potent male surrounded her, comforted her. Gave her a solid mass to grab hold of, stabilize her body and mind.

  “Eric?” she whispered, her throat raw like she’d been screaming.

  “You’re back.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “I’ve been back for a few days.”

  “Me, too.”

  “No. You got your leg fixed, woke up after three days, then knocked some sense into me, ESP-style. Then you’ve been out for a few extra days.”

  She lay on her back, staring at nothing. “Did my trick work?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He pulled her against the broad width of his chest, and she burrowed into it. His warmth and strength flowed over her.

  “But?” she asked.

  “After you pulled me into the light, you were gone for quite a while.”

  “How’d I get in your bed? Or are you in my bed?”

  “We’re in yours. I can be pretty persistent. And what I couldn’t accomplish, your brothers handled.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Although I think that doctor is about to kill Vaughn with her bare hands.”

  “He deserves it.”

  “Knowing him, yes.” He brushed his lips over the top of her head. “Can you see anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Worth it.”

  But her breathing came faster. Harder to shove the air in and out of her lungs. What if she never saw his face again? What if she lost her ability to work on the ranch? In Search and Rescue? What if she lost her independence?

  She patted her hand up his neck and over his jaw, over the rasping stubble, his soft and firm lips.

  His warm hand encircled her wrist, stilling her searching fingers. He kissed her palm.

  “You won’t be alone, Shel.”

  “Not possible in my family.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  What had she done? Panic choked her.

  “Maybe my vision will come back.” She ducked her head into his shoulder and concentrated on calming down. It made no difference. Fact was, she couldn’t see. “I’ll give it some time.”

  “You passed out at my bedside days ago.”

  “Give it more time, then.” She had to change the subject, and fast. It was heading into depressing territory at a rapid pace. “Besides, the passing out thing? Seems kind of contagious between you and me. Really, we should stop meeting like this.”

  His chuckle warmed her insides until she caught herself. She needed to hear his answer to an important question. “What if I stay like this, blind? Long-term?”

  “I’ll be right there with you.”

  “Reassuring. But the part about not being able to see? More than disappointing.”

  “I know.” His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”

  “Well, you did save my life. Fair’s fair.”

  “Geezus, Shelby.” He tightened his arms around her.

  A few waves of emotion pinged off her filters, but nothing else reached her mind. “Hey, I can’t hear your stream of consciousness.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Yes. Though I did miss your presence when it was gone.”

  “I thought you hated knowing what was going on in my head.”

  “No one should have to know all of that information. But I also miss it.” She sighed. “The way it is right now, without the constant monologue, is . . . easier, though.”

  “Long may it last.”

  “True. My ability to hear and see all of your thoughts might still come back.”

  “And if it does? You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me if that happened.”

  What would she do if she couldn’t shut off the fire hose of thoughts rushing out of Eric? She considered the possibility. Considered his sacrifice to save her. Considered his hunger for her body and her pleasure. Considered everything he meant to her as a friend and as a partner.

  Considered his rapid heartbeat and solid arms tightening around her.

  “I can live with it.” She paused. “Um, if you can, that is.”

  “Shelby, are you propositioning me? Because that’s pretty awful.”

  Her cheeks heated. “No! Well, not intentionally.” She burrowed her face farther into the crook between his arm and ribs. “Why? Would propositioning you have been a problem?”

  “Only inasmuch as I wanted to do it myself.”

  “Oh?”

  The sheets crinkled and shushed as he sat up. He stroked her shoulder. “Shelby Taggart, would you consider a long-term relationship with a cynical cowboy like me who wants to do some pretty bad things with your body?” His fingers drifted over her waist and hip.

  She gasped, warmth flooding her pelvis.

  He chuckled. “And would you one day be open to that relationship turning into something permanent, maybe even marriage?”

  “What if I don’t recover my sight?”

  “I want you any way you come.”

  The answer was obvious. Had been for years.

  “Then yes. There’s no one else I want to be with. I just hope you don’t get bored of me or frustrated with my craziness.”

  “One”—the vinyl hospital mattress crunched as he leaned forward and dropped a kiss onto her forehead—“I will never get bored of you, ever. Two, your craziness has kept me coming back for seconds over many years. And now I can’t wait until the doctor clears you for all activities, if you know what I mean.”

  A delicious tension built up in her gut.

  He tilted her head up and kissed her deeply. “Since I’ve been sitting here for the past few days, I’ve had some chances to dream up new and awesome ways to make your toes tingle.” He licked the shell of her ear, raising goose bumps on her arms. “And for you to scream my name.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” She reached up to find his mouth and kissed him back. “Yes. I want to be with you, Eric. No one else. Forever.”

  “I can make that happen, darlin’.”

  With a sigh, she tucked herself into his chest once more, wrapped her arms around him, and drifted off in the most comfortable sleep she’d had in years.

  Safe. Loved. At peace.

  Acknowledgments

  No way could I have gotten this book or the series rolling without the expert eyes of editor-extraordinaire, Gwen Hayes. Her patience with neurotic writers has no upper limit. Warm thanks as well to Crimson’s fabulous editor, Julie Sturgeon, for taking every manuscript and making it so much better. It’s a mystery as to when she sleeps. Thank you to beta reader Carmen, whose enthusiasm and thoughtful comments make me want to improve and write even more.

  And hubby, I’m so sorry that there’s no bald guy on the cover. I used as much clout as I have, but the folks at Crimson said no. One day, we’ll put you in the lineup. I’m nearly certain it’ll happen soon . . .

  Turn the page for an excerpt from

  Immortal Flame

  Chapter 1

  Old things weren’t always useless. Take the Swiss watch Peter Blackstone wore. Tired leather strap, scratched face, older than most mortals. He had taken it off the wrist of an enemy, a dying Wehrmacht captain, in the icy forest of northern France in retaliation for the captain shooting Peter in the arm. Call it a souvenir turned taunting, old, reliable companion.

  Not that the damned watch helped the traffic. A cold mist slowed the cars on I-84 outside La Grande, Oregon. Steep, pine-rich mountains rose on either side, funneling bumper-to-bumper vehicles into the narrow canyon. No gritting of Peter’s teeth or clenching of
the steering wheel could stop that interminable timepiece from tick, tick, ticking down like a demolition bomb timer, reminding him how late he would be and the likely outcome of his tardiness.

  His final assignment. He hoped.

  Damn endless existence. He needed to complete this last assignment, the Meaningful Kill. Finally put an end to the monster he’d become.

  His gut knotted. Being late for his assignment created too much attention. Better to stay inconspicuous. Hell, he wore a seat belt only so police wouldn’t have a reason to ticket him. Too much to explain.

  The semi ten inches from his front bumper flashed its brakes. Peter slowed and negotiated one of the curves on the stretch of road. He rubbed his jaw and glanced again at the watch.

  Hell, even now, he could smell the sweet-sharp scent of snow and blood and hear the moans from the not-yet-dead as bodies littered the forest that ugly night in the Ardennes. Men crying out for their mothers in English and German, the sounds blending into a nightmare of suffering, as they were frozen alive.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror out of habit. Even after all these years, his dark brown hair would never turn gray, no matter how much he wished to age. It was the curse of the Indebted.

  Screeching tires jolted him back to reality. Hell. He swerved and barely missed the braking semi. The driver behind him wasn’t as quick, and the pickup plowed into the back of Peter’s SUV, propelling it into the concrete barrier. Air whooshed out of his lungs as he jerked against the seat belt. His neck snapped forward as a ripping sensation seared pain into the base of his skull.

  His SUV ramped the barrier, the undercarriage screaming against wet concrete. Peter’s entire world inverted, sky beneath him and rocks above, with only a thin casing of metal standing between his head and the scraping rocks. Not good. He threw his hands over his head and pushed against the charcoal upholstery in time for the airbag to erupt from the steering wheel. His ribcage exploded in sharp, hot agony that sent fireworks of light bursting in his vision.

  After that, it was as if his own car waged a personal assault on him. But the blade would be no match against the airborne missiles of glass piercing his face. To make things even more interesting, the SUV righted itself but then jolted halfway down the mountain slope.

  Peter’s head snapped forward and back, and a loud crack reverberated from his lower back, out of tune with the groans and screeches emanating from the nearly obliterated vehicle.

  An eternity later—he didn’t use the term lightly—the crumpled metal death trap came to rest at the bottom of a muddy embankment, the yellow hazard lights flashing, horn blaring … and upside down.

  Stunned, Peter dangled from the seat belt. His ears rang. His skull throbbed. His left arm had bent into an unnatural angle against the door handle. Not good at all. A normal human would be dead by now. Unfortunately, he still lived.

  Hell. He was most definitely going to be late for that appointment.

  The knife strapped to his lower leg pulsed, warming up in hungry anticipation for the assignment. That damned, cursed weapon tied to his damned, cursed existence.

  The sky and ground continued to spin in his vision. Over the hum of his ringing ears, liquid drizzled onto the fabric ceiling, a constant tapping sound in the sudden silence. One touch to his head revealed a chunk of skin partially detached from his skull.

  Steam hissed from the engine as the tangy-sweet scent of antifreeze mixed with burnt oil. Taking a deep breath, he dragged fumes into his burning lungs. From far away, voices drifted down to him.

  Pain lanced through his neck when he tried to see out the window. He had to fix that broken arm.

  Damn, this is going to hurt.

  With his right hand, he grabbed his left wrist and pulled. His guttural howl echoed in the destroyed car as he forced arm bones back into place, grinding the broken ends against each other. He squeezed his hand over the injury. The arm had started to knit, but he needed the bones to heal even faster. His body would repair the life-threatening injuries first and his head and broken bones second, but it would take way too much time.

  The whine of his car’s smoking engine and drone of the horn muffled the shouts of bystanders scrambling down the hill.

  Have to get out of here.

  He attempted to exit the car, leaning against the mangled door, but his numb legs wouldn’t move. They’d lodged between the pedals pushed in by the crumpled engine block and the steering column. Instinctive fear rose up. Trapped again. He forced himself to relax while suspended upside down. In the distance sirens wailed.

  So much for being inconspicuous.

  Damn it. He needed to stash the knife before anyone saw it.

  Reaching his unbroken arm down—no, up—to the pinned, insensate leg, Peter unclasped the top strap of the holster. One more strap. As he strained against the seat belt, pain erupted in his lower back, but now he could touch the lower clasp.

  The voices of his rescuers drew closer, urging him to work faster. Frantic, he brushed the buckle with this fingertips and opened the clasp. Fresh sweat beaded his brow, and his jaw ached from clenching.

  The strap slid free of the buckle, and the knife fell to the roof with a dull thunk, landing in pooled blood. The physical agony of separation from the weapon hit him like a punch to his gut. The yearning to connect with the blade burned with a searing inferno in his chest.

  Focus.

  Stretching, he grabbed the knife and shoved it into the seam of the passenger seat.

  He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain swamped him.

  • • •

  It had been one month and twelve days since her last vision.

  Allison La Croix pulled her hair from the jacket collar, straightened her scrubs, and closed the car door. Hefting her overnight bag onto her shoulder, she paused and inhaled the cold, early spring air. Could she do it today? Could she walk through the doors of Grande Ronde Hospital’s emergency department?

  Every day when she passed through those sliding glass doors, apprehension mounted like a needle tip poised just above her skin. Her right hand still throbbed with residual echoes of electrical fire on her fingertips from her last connection. How long could she avoid touching anyone skin to skin? How long could she avoid triggering her twisted gift? The intervals between her visions were growing shorter, but she had no idea why. How many more could she handle?

  With a determined breath, she entered the ER at 7:55 a.m., right on time. Ambulance bays vacant? Check. No screaming family members outside the ER door? Check. No whump, whump of chopper blades coming in for a landing? Double check.

  Maybe today will be a good day.

  She twisted her long hair into a clip as the familiar flowery scent of chemical disinfectant wafted over her. As Allison reached the registration desk, she waved at a plump, smiling, older woman.

  “Morning, Doctor Al,” the woman said.

  “Hi, Marcie. How’s it been so far?”

  The receptionist held up the latest bestselling medical thriller. “Real calm. I’ve had time to catch up on some reading.”

  Allison smiled at her choice of words. Doctors and staff never said the “Q” word when they came onto shift. Merely thinking the word “quiet” seemed to magically attract multi-victim traumas, drug-seekers, and large quantities of cardiac arrests.

  “You think it’s going to rain today?” Allison asked.

  She averted her gaze as Marcie changed the computer screen from a shopping website to the hospital registration system.

  “Hope so. Maybe light rain later. The Wallowas look good. Might get more snow next weekend.”

  To the east, powdery snow covered the 9,000-foot peaks of the Wallowa Mountains. She’d give anything to be up there right now, surrounded by the mellow scent of pine, serenaded by the burble of clear water running down the valleys. Hiking or snowshoeing, it didn’t matter; either was like aloe on a burn to Allison’s soul.

  Walking to the back of the ER, she dropped her overnight bag on an empt
y chair in the doctor’s work area. She waited until her graying counterpart, Dr. Buddy Clark, finished a dictation, his voice gravelly. His shoulders sagged from the twenty-four-hour shift, which had also deepened the circles beneath his kind eyes. She thanked her thirty-two-year-old body for its youth; at least she recovered much faster than her sixty-something colleague.

  “Anything I can take care of for you?” she asked.

  “Not this morning. Last night was pretty tame, long may it last.” He made the sign of a cross, merrily kissed his fingers, and raised them as his eyes twinkled. Buddy, cheerful even when tired, was nothing if not consistent with his superstitions.

  “Don’t jinx me.” She patted him on the back, careful not to touch his skin.

  “Hey, Al, did you consider my offer to set you up with that physical therapist?” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stubbled jowls. “He’d be a perfect match. Educated, outdoorsy, probably a good family guy. Cute, but not too metrosexual. Ruggedly handsome.”

  She cringed. A family guy? God, no. Too many risks. The possibility of another vision of a loved one filled her with cold terror. She couldn’t trust herself to invest in a relationship when all she would think about was when that next vision of death would arrive. No, thank you. She wasn’t putting herself through that pain ever again.

  At least working in the hospital allowed some semblance of purpose, an opportunity to perform penance. Here she could make a difference, atone for the devastating knowledge her ability yielded. If she had the power to randomly see the death of people she touched, at least the medical training gave her the ability to save other peoples’ lives. Saving someone—anyone—made up for the inevitable deaths she predicted. Her gift might have been easier to manage if she got images when she touched every person, or if she knew which people would trigger her visions, but no, she received sudden, random pain instead. The nasty surprises never got easier, even after years of avoiding hugs, declining to brush her niece’s hair, and refusing to kiss her own sister’s cheek at her wedding. Allison only risked direct touch when she had no other choice. She only risked touch when she felt emotionally braced, and that wasn’t often.