Night of the Hawk

by Vonna Harper

  Your flesh scraping mine. Peeling off the layers.

  Everything about Hawk held her attention. She hadn’t realized the solidity of his chest before because the flannel shirt, when dry, had hidden more than it revealed. The sodden fabric was now plastered to him and highlighted too much muscle. A man like that wouldn’t be satisfied with an official document detailing the council’s decision that spelled out procedures for legal appeal. No. He embraced action. The physical.

  Deep in the wilderness. No longer walking but standing with her naked legs spread wide and a trembling hand pressed to her chest. She’d become a trapped animal, a doe in heat waiting for a rutting buck to approach. Although she quivered and fear gnawed at her, she wanted this. Wanted the magnificent buck to rear onto her back and spear her. They’d mate under the canopy of trees, and her belly would swell with his seed. She might never see him again, but she’d never forget.

  “That one gives me the creeps,” Brad muttered, indicating Mato. “Reminds me of a junkyard dog. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

  Watching Mato as an elderly man joined him and they began speaking, she acknowledged that the reporter had pointed out an important point. Despite her momentary lapse of sanity, she didn’t see Mato as a junkyard dog or even as a buck any longer, but more like a cougar or wolf. She’d be a fool to let down her defenses around that predator. He had to know his impact on women and had undoubtedly long used his raw sensuality to get what he wanted. If she had the sense she was born with, she’d drive out of his world without saying a single word to him.

  But she couldn’t because even now the memory of the hawk photograph haunted her. She had to have it. Had to paint it and bring it to life.

  And what about the man who’d taken the picture? Did she have to have him as well?

  Hell, yes. Nipples hard, back arched, nails clawing at his flesh as he drove her to the ground and made her scream.

  “What are you staring at?” Brad asked. “Don’t tell me he turns you on.”

  “Why don’t you get your head out of the gutter,” she snapped. She might have said more but something strange happened. Almost as one, those standing in the rain started forming a tight circle, with Mato Hawk and the older man in the middle. If Mato didn’t want the attention, he gave no indication. Instead he seemed to embrace the others, to become one with them.

  In contrast, she had never felt more alone.

  More wanting.

  Hearing a drumbeat, she stared until she spotted another man kneeling in the mud, a drum resting on his knees. This man’s arms lifted and fell, lifted and fell as he pounded out a slow rhythm on what no doubt was a homemade instrument. The assembled townspeople were moving in time with the sound, as was she. Although the reporters she’d been talking to now spoke in urgent, staccato tones, she didn’t try to concentrate on them. Even when one aimed his digital camera at the crowd and began taking flash pictures, her gaze and thoughts and emotions went no further than the group—or, rather, Mato Hawk.

  Hawk?

  Yes, he was that.

  And more.

  From the way he’d lowered his head, she had no doubt the wind was trying to drive rain shards into his face. Then the wind whirled in another direction, slamming into his shoulder and forcing him to turn with it. If she had been standing beside him, they’d fight the wind together, and once they’d won, they’d what?

  Celebrate their victory.

  Sink to the ground and fuck in the mud.

  “Laxgebu,” the older man said. “Hear me, Wolf People. The sacred river of our ancestors is threatened. We place its protection in your hands.”

  Shoulders squared, Mato’s boots beat against the sodden ground. Even from where she stood, she could sense his energy and commitment. He’d entered a zone, a space, a something she couldn’t comprehend and yet ached to join him in.

  “Look down on us,” the older man—who must have been Mato’s father, from what she could ascertain—continued. “Hear our prayer. This is your river, Laxgebu. Home to the sacred salmon. A sign—send us a sign. We entrust the river to you for safekeeping, as our ancestors did in ancient times. We pray for guidance. What, oh, Laxgebu, do you want from us?”

  Action.

  Alarmed, she looked around to see who had spoken, but the reporters all had their mouths closed, their attention riveted on what she believed should be a private ceremony. And yet the word or emotion or whatever it was had come from somewhere out in the atmosphere. She was trying to convince herself she hadn’t heard what she had when the older man lifted his face and arms to the heavens. His eyes were closed, his aged body swaying. Mato touched a steadying hand to the older one’s back.

  “For generations you kept the river pure for us, your children,” the speaker continued in a voice loud enough to battle the storm. “For as long as Salmon Spirit has returned to the water, it has been Salmon’s home. Laxgebu, do not let that end! Look into our hearts and know we need the river as much as Salmon does.”

  “Hearts, hearts, hearts,” the assembled townspeople chanted.

  The older man nodded. “Without the river, our souls will die. Keep it as it has always been so our children and children’s children will not forget those who came before them. So the sacred Salmon will live for all time.”

  She was drifting, no longer flesh and blood and chilled skin. Instead of concerning herself with the logistics of getting behind the wheel and going to the small but cozy and dry cabin, she concentrated heart and soul on the words being said. And on Mato, who was intently watching the older man. A few moments ago his sharp gaze had unnerved her, but now it was all she could do not to beg him to acknowledge her again. Instead he remained locked in a time and space and emotion foreign to her. A new kind of hunger slipped through her, a craving for not just understanding but acceptance.

  If she came to comprehend this ritual, this prayer, would he allow her closer to him?

  Would he peel off both their clothes and kneel before her in the cold mud while they kissed and touched and she cried?

  While she cupped her hands under her breasts and lifted them, silently begging him to take them into his mouth?

  She was losing it—not just it but chunks of herself she’d always taken for granted. And unless she grabbed hold of herself again, she’d lose definition and distinction. She’d come to exist only for him.

  And if he didn’t want the gift of her body and maybe her soul as well…?

  Out in the rain, the wind again slammed into Mato, his father, and the rest of those he considered his family. The world around him was dark and wet, the school porch light barely penetrating the dense night. Beside the reporters stood the young woman who’d captured his attention back when he should have been focused entirely on what he needed to say to the hearing officer. Now her large eyes were wide, her mouth slack, her slender body so tense he wondered if it might shatter.

  What are you thinking? he asked her in his mind. Do you believe we’re crazy, or does some part of you understand that certain connections between humans and their physical world defy logic? Do you care?

  I don’t know what I’m feeling. He sensed her respond. Something I never have before, not just about what’s happening, but you—maybe you most of all.

  I feel the same way about you—and I don’t want to. A warning: don’t trust me. There’s more to me than you can possibly comprehend.

  I know.

  Her response sent loneliness and hunger arcing through him. He wanted her. Just like that, he burned with the need to throw her to the ground and mount her. It wouldn’t matter whether she responded with a fierce embrace, a willing body, and a soft inner core or fought him—he’d bury himself so deep inside her neither of them would ever forget their union.

  What was he thinking? He was a man, not an animal. He’d never forced a woman to have sex, not simply because women had always given themselves to him, but because he respected both women and himself too much.

  And yet�
�and yet—maybe it was the storm and the duty ahead of him and his fears for this precious land, but he wanted to become something simple. Something primitive. Powerful.

  And if she responded to the hard animal lurking beneath his outer shell…?

  Sensing his mother’s presence, Mato held out his hand so she could give him the sacred trumpet that was his right and responsibility, but he continued to lock eyes with the woman. Thanks to the distraction his mother had afforded him, he was able to distance himself a little from the unspoken communication between himself and the stranger—and from thoughts he’d never shared with another human being. Yes, she was young and attractive and, if he could believe the look in her eyes, intelligent, but why, tonight, was she distracting him?

  Because she senses something about me? Or because she represents danger?

  Danger, he could handle. As for the possibility that she might somehow fathom that there was more to him and his world than outsiders would ever comprehend…Learning the answer to that could be vital to his survival. But the question wouldn’t be addressed tonight.

  Run, he warned her. Otherwise I’ll change you.

  Maybe we’ll change each other, she responded.

  Holding the mouthpiece against his lips and closing his eyes, Mato blew, the trumpet pointed toward the evergreens beyond the parking lot. He held the note for as long as his lungs could stand, finding peace in the thought that the sound he’d created was drifting out into the night.

  His breath spent, he pulled in more air and blew again. The third time, the faint cry of a wolf drifted in. Although he thanked the earth gods for the gift, when he opened his eyes and sought her out, he saw that the young woman was silently begging him to explain what she’d just heard.

  You cannot understand, he told her. Only those who are of the Wolf Clan have that right, that responsibility. Leave. While you can.

  “Do not think of anything except ritual,” his father whispered. “That and continuing the promise our fathers’ fathers’ fathers made to protect this land.”

  “I know what I must do,” Mato responded. What I will do to safeguard what is precious.

  Rain continued to drench him, but although he was shivering, Mato managed to block off his discomfort and focus on the rest of the Wolf Clan members as their feet beat out a rhythm as old as time. After the frustration of trying to get through to the hearing officer, he took comfort in their shared experience. As the chief’s son, carrying the burden of responsibility for the land was falling to him, and he now understood why his father had told him the burden would be a heavy one. Sometimes duty came before his personal need for such essentials as warmth. And love.

  When the wolf spirit again answered the trumpet, he allowed his own spirit to drift into the trees. He couldn’t see Wolf; that gift was seldom given. But Wolf had sent one of his fellow creatures to embrace him. Smiling, he acknowledged his personal spirit’s presence in a nearby pine tree, but instead of taking wing and hovering over him as he often did, the hawk’s beak opened, and his lonely warning cry filled the air.

  Danger. Danger from the woman.

  4

  Mato was heading for the parking lot. Seeing him alone instead of surrounded by others should have made it easy for Smokey to approach him, but for too long she stared at that broad back. It’s not the right time, she tried to convince herself. The last thing he wants to talk about tonight is letting some strange broad make use of his photography.

  But if she didn’t take advantage of the moment, would later be any easier? Besides, the thought of going to wherever he lived dried her throat. And then there was the matter of getting through the night with him on her mind, and more. No matter how many toys she’d brought with her, they wouldn’t be enough. Hoping no one was paying any attention to her, she plodded through the mud after him. One thing about being drenched was she no longer had to worry about getting wet.

  He’d opened the driver’s door to a well-used four-wheel-drive pickup when she caught up to him. Working moisture into her mouth, she noted he hadn’t locked his vehicle. Proof he trusted everyone?

  What did that feel like?

  “Ah, Mr. Hawk, please, do you have a moment?” If her hands weren’t buried in her coat pockets, she might have touched him, just a light brushing of her fingers designed to get the feel of him. Nothing too intimate. Too dangerous.

  He turned, graceful, slow, and measured, and she wondered if he was digging into his memory to see if he knew her voice. Instead of responding, he looked down at her with the rain running off his hair and his jeans plastered to his legs.

  Swallow! Swallow. Get it out. Stumbling through the words, she managed to blither that she’d seen some of his photography today. “You’ve captured some incredible images. I do a little painting, nothing that’s going to make me rich and famous, but I’d love to use some of your subjects on a few oils.”

  More of his silence. Now that people were turning on their headlights, she found herself staring up into the most arresting eyes she’d ever seen. Beyond black, they had a depthless quality, as if he could see beneath the surface to her core. A core that fairly screamed out its sexual strength.

  “I’ll pay you,” she blurted, though she hadn’t given remuneration a thought before. “I don’t want to deprive the museum of any of your work, but maybe you have duplicates.”

  “What are you doing here tonight?”

  Oh, shit, face-to-face his voice scraped her nerve endings. That accomplished, it dug deeper, probed through the layers. Forcing her brain cells to unscramble, she voiced her lie about being on vacation. He didn’t nod or shake his head, but she had the feeling he’d seen through her deception.

  “I’ve sold some of my work,” she pressed on. “In a gallery near where I live. If I manage to do justice to your shots, I should be able to get double what I have up to now. We could work out an arrangement whereby I give you a percentage. Maybe you’d like me to donate to the art gallery.”

  “I asked you a question. What are you doing here tonight?”

  He hadn’t moved, not so much as a muscle twitch. It was a good thing because if he’d done something as unnerving as lean toward her, she might splatter like a raindrop hitting the ground. Damn, but he was hot! Hot in a primal way she had no defense against and quite frankly didn’t want to have. The cold night hadn’t stolen so much as a degree of heat from him. It would take much more than rain to suck the life force out of him, a force that crawled over her skin and made inroads she prayed to hell he was unaware of.

  “I learned you might be here,” she finally thought to say. “I, well, I had no idea how you’d respond to my request, so I thought I should observe you first.”

  “And despite what you saw, you came looking for me?”

  Funny, even with all those vehicles pulling out, she had no trouble hearing him. “It did give me pause,” she admitted. “I mean, you’re pretty intense.”

  “I have to be.”

  Did he want her to ask why or tell him she understood where he was coming from? Maybe he was burned out on the subject for tonight and only wanted to go home. But although her own simple but dry cabin called to her, a much stronger draw kept her in place.

  Ah, shit, turned on. Lip-floating turned on.

  Think, damn you! Think. “Look, why don’t you sleep on what I said. If you’d give me your phone number, I could call tomorrow and—”

  Up close she was smaller than he thought she’d be, not fragile but far from rugged. He didn’t know her name or where she was from and whether she was alone, but right now none of those things mattered. The stranger was female, pure female. Giving off vibes as old as time and as new as this moment. The hot energy radiating from her might be something she had no control over, instinctive messages escaping from a primitive element she’d either spent years trying to tamp down or wasn’t aware of.

  He was aware, damn it, more than aware. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered talking to her, an outsider.

  In
some respect he saw her as nothing more than a bitch in heat, a female giving off the ageless message that she was ready to mate. If they were both animals, the mating would have already begun, instinct-ruled strangers brought together by lust and nature. As soon as he’d deposited his seed in her, the union would end. He’d never know whether he’d impregnated her, and she wouldn’t be able to recall which of her kind had fathered her offspring, wouldn’t care.

  Not an animal, damn it! Not now.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “You can do what you want with the photographs.”

  Her mouth started to open. To his relief and disappointment, she closed it before he insanely tried to cover those soft lips with his. No kissing! Nothing that spoke of instinctual intimacy. “Thank you,” she muttered. “Ah, I didn’t think it would be this easy. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”

  “Ask for my phone number again,” he told her even as something warned him to walk the hell away from her. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets because he knew what would happen if he touched her.

  At least what he wanted to happen.

  He gave his number to her without waiting for the question, and although she didn’t write it down, he had no doubt she’d remember. Before he could decide what, if anything, he should say or do next, a nearby horn honked. His uncle, barely visible through the rain-washed windshield, gave him a half-wave, half-warning gesture. “Call me tomorrow,” Mato said to the woman. “We’ll arrange to get together.”

  “Together?”

  “So I can give you some prints. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Maybe he was wrong, but he was nearly certain she was squeezing her thighs together. “The photographs.”

  Long seconds after her last word, she turned and walked away. She appeared unaware of her probably ruined shoes and wasn’t trying to pull her coat against her neck, maybe because her mind was still on him.

  Tomorrow. The thought took him far from what had dominated him for weeks and had brought him out into the storm. Tomorrow he’d decide whether to invite her out to his place or tell her he’d meet her someplace in town, someplace he wouldn’t be tempted to rip off her clothes.