Taylor

by Irish Winters

  “Anything!” Her chin sank to Taylor’s forehead, her tears merging with the sweat on his brow “His death will destroy Peter.” And me.

  “Then let us make sure he lives.” Luke took hold of Taylor. “My truck is parked at the side of the road. The keys are in it. Run and open the side door so I can—”

  “No. I’ll lower the tailgate. It will be easier if you put him in the bed of the truck with me. I can hold him while you drive.”

  She ran and had the tailgate down by the time Luke made it through the brush. “Here,” she said after she’d climbed into the bed, her arms outstretched. “I’ll hold onto him, but drive slow.”

  Luke fastened the tailgate, his face grim. He climbed into the driver’s side, started the engine, and the green neon glow from Fred’s Bar and Grill faded behind them.

  Chapter Four

  The melody of a sad sweet song filled the air and he was pretty sure he’d died. Had to be an angel singing. Taylor peeled one eyelid open and squinted into the dark night sky. The universe glistened above him. Millions and millions of stars looked down on him as the vehicle rumbled to where he didn’t know.

  There was a time waking up like this would have meant capture in Taliban territory, but no more. Even the hyper-vigilance he’d come home with from Afghanistan had diminished. He could sleep most nights. Kind of.

  He listened and waited for a chance to escape, but something about his predicament made him want to stay. The long strands of hair in his face for one thing. They tickled, but smelled good. Flowery. Feminine. Good deal.

  The fact that a woman held him for another, her head facing away from him. The breeze whipped her hair in soft swirls. It danced across his chest and face, lulling him into peace. The sad melody thrumming through her body soothed, an odd sensation for a guy who’s used to jackhammering artillery and muzzle flash. RPGs. IEDs. All those other noisy making sons of bitches.

  Whoever this gal was who had a hold of him, she cut a slender profile against the dark night sky and starlight overhead. Her hand was warm and gentle on his forehead, the other across his collarbone, cradling him on her lap to lessen the sway of the ride. He turned into her shirt, just to inhale something besides the smell of his own sweat, and blood.

  Her hold tightened. She curled her body around him. “You’re safe now.”

  He dared to believe. Somehow, this angel had claimed him after someone else clobbered him over the head. Good deal. The stars faded. He let go.

  The next thing he saw was the amber glow of campfire on branches and trees overhead. His nostrils flared at the scent of burning wood. The woman still sang, and her song seemed part of the smoke drifting up into the sky.

  He turned toward her voice, his vision blurry. There was something familiar about her, or maybe the song. The melody became one with the fire in a dream world where otters and rainstorms played together. Where great Indian hunters roamed mighty forests with arrows and bows. Where the wind was filled with promise and magic. Where white men didn’t rule.

  Interesting theory. What the hell? Am I drugged? Concussion? Dead?

  She faded from view, but the calm assurance of her still present voice blanketed him with comfort and safety. There was no danger here. He let the melody take him. Shadowy doors and walls passed by as strong arms lifted him onto softness, and she was there again, touching his chest where the arrow had left its bloody hole.

  He brushed her hand away. “No. Don’t touch.”

  “Shush, Taylor. I’ll help you,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”

  Home? Really? He squinted, needing to see with his own eyes. Sure didn’t look like his place. Maybe hers?

  She cleansed the hole in his chest with coolness that quenched the fire, and he believed her. She seemed to know how to stop the pain. And being pain-free made him relax more.

  Taylor sighed. She had such a gentle touch, but he missed the soft brush of her hair. She’d tied the dark black strands back. Through the fog in his head, he thought he detected tears. And something else. If he wasn’t feeling so disoriented and comfortable, he might have been able to pinpoint that other emotion shifting along with sadness and determination in her dark eyes.

  Something about her jogged a memory in the farthest recesses of his brain, but he was too tired to retrieve it. He drifted. Sad murmurs faded around him and he was caught in the peaceful web of her song. She was beautiful. The soft ends of her dark ponytail fell across his shoulder, the smell of it like the freshness of sky. He reached for her, but she’d fastened his wrists and arms to earth.

  Hmm. This woman doesn’t want me to fly away. I could, you know. Fly. Float. Fade away...

  The angel dipped into him with an offering of refreshing water. Still humming the melody, she gave him a drink, speaking his name in her lullaby. Taylor Michael White Hawk Armstrong, son of Martha Catherine White Hawk Armstrong, grandson of Peter White Hawk and Magdalene...

  He gulped the cool liquid, losing track of the litany of names pouring off her lips. They dissipated with the smoke, winding up an unseen spiral staircase into the night sky while he sucked the water dry.

  She slipped a tablet between his lips and gave him more to drink, so he did, thankful for simple act of living.

  “Rest,” she murmured. “Heal.”

  The throbbing stopped. He was going to live. He believed in her, so he let go again.

  Taylor Michael White Hawk Armstrong, whoever the hell that was, faded into crackling firelight and smoke.

  “Do you think Peter will return once the blood hunt is complete?” Gracie asked Luke.

  He answered without a second’s hesitation. “Yes. Father has stood by Mary’s side for fifteen years. He’ll return if only to tell her when she’s free and to give her back to the Great Spirit.”

  “And now Taylor is home,” Gracie whispered.

  They sat on her front porch on the wooden bench. Fireflies flickered in the tall grass at the road’s edge. The last of the campfire Luke had started now dwindled to glowing embers. Tendrils of white smoke spiraled heavenward.

  The fire was an Indian custom, a way of celebration and welcome home for warriors after a successful hunt. If Taylor only knew simple things like that.

  It had taken both of them to get him into her house and the bed, the one her mother had used until Gracie could no longer care for her at home. Undressing him revealed an unexpected Catholic totem from his past life—a shiny Saint Michael the Archangel medal at his neck.

  Gracie fingered the medal, needing to see both sides. It matched the one she wore. Why had his father allowed him to keep anything of his dead mother’s? Michael Armstrong had certainly discarded everything else tainted with the White Hawk name.

  By the time Taylor was cleaned and treated, her back hurt as much as her heart. She wasn’t qualified to treat a puncture wound like his, but she knew enough to call wise old Dr. Kearney, one of the tribe’s few doctors. And he knew enough not to ask too many questions.

  Dr. Kearney treated the wound and assured Gracie and Luke that Taylor was strong and would heal with little trouble.

  “Change his dressing every day,” Dr. Kearney said before he’d left. “Be sure you give him the antibiotic twice a day, and be good to him. He’s one of ours, isn’t he?”

  Gracie gulped and nodded, not wanting to admit to anything more than yes, Taylor was one of the tribe. The good doctor didn’t need get caught up in the White Hawk tragedy.

  She hugged herself, wishing she could warm the chill that had grown in her heart since Mary died. If the Great Spirit were as kind and benevolent as the White Hawks believed, why was Peter now caught up in a quest for revenge because of that same Spirit?

  As much as she wanted to support him and the White Hawk family, she didn’t understand. Call a blood hunt what you will, it was nothing more than vengeance. Restoring the balance? Noble talk, but it only meant the perpetrators behind Mary’s suffering and death had to die. How would another’s death restore balance in
the universe?

  She’d honestly thought she’d understood the reason for the hunt until it ensnared Peter’s only full-blooded grandson. The men who’d hurt Mary deserved to die. No doubt. But Taylor?

  Her heart ached. Tomorrow would be a busy day. Peter would need to eat if he returned. The wild turkey from the last hunt needed to be thawed and a menu planned for the beleaguered White Hawk family. So sad. Peter had lost both daughters and his wife long before their times. She, Gracie Fox, was the only female left in his life and all because of a promise made long ago between a White Hawk and a Fox.

  And then it hit her. She should’ve seen it earlier in the way Luke cradled Taylor’s head when he loaded him into the back of his truck, in the tenderness of an older man with his dead sister’s only child. He’d been so gentle.

  “Look me in the eyes, Luke. You’re lying, aren’t you?” How could she not have seen? The second his breath hitched, she knew. “Ryder did this, didn’t he? You didn’t shoot Taylor, did you? Trina’s son did.”

  Luke opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Nothing had to. It made perfect sense, but Gracie needed to hear the truth. Right here and now. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me what Ryder did today.”

  Luke huffed a deep sigh of resignation, the fear of a trapped man glowing in his eyes. It took a long minute before he admitted, “You’re right. Ryder knew Taylor would be at the range today. I take him with me sometimes when I go to see Martha’s son.”

  “Have you ever talked with him? Does he know who you are?”

  Luke shook his head. “No. I keep the promise I made to Peter, and I speak the truth when I say that now. Taylor and I have chatted many times about guns, but he doesn’t know I’m his uncle.”

  Gracie could’ve screamed at the stupid, cruel tragedy stalking the White Hawk family. From the moment Taylor was taken from them, his father made it clear who would suffer the most if any White Hawk attempted to see or speak with Taylor. Since Peter couldn’t bear for his grandson to be hurt, he made his family and friends swear on their lives not to interfere with Michael in the raising of Martha’s son.

  There were many times Gracie and her mother could have, but loyalty to Peter and the very real fear that they’d never see Taylor again, that Michael might abuse Taylor if they did, stayed their hands and feet.

  Michael Armstrong was not a man to cross. The one time he’d caught sight of Peter at a USMC Officer’s Ball, he’d all but whisked Taylor away to military school the next day. It took months to track him down, months of anguish. And even though Peter confronted Michael and swore on his dead wife’s grave it wouldn’t happen again, Michael didn’t relent. His son advanced quickly once in the Corps and deployed more than most, whether he wanted to or because Michael made it happen. He surely had the clout, given his rank. Somehow, he kept Taylor beyond reach, and of course, he had staff to do it for him when he was away.

  And that woman Michael had married? Gracie cringed at the thought of the second Mrs. Armstrong, so unlike the first. How could Judith have stood back and let Taylor be shipped away like a piece of furniture? It certainly absolved her of maternal responsibilities, but what kind of a woman does that? What kind of mother?

  For years, Taylor had been all but lost to the White Hawks. Until now.

  “Tell me,” Gracie asked again. “I need to know what happened.”

  Luke bowed his head to his clenched fists. “Ryder told Trina and me he was spending last night with a friend. Robbie lives not far from the range, so Trina agreed. I’d planned to pick him up this morning. It’s not unusual. Robbie’s a good boy, but I had a feeling something was not right. When I checked his room this morning, his bow and arrow were gone. I called his friend’s home. There was no sleepover. Robbie said that he and Ryder played video games until nine last night, when Ryder said he had to go home.”

  “Only he didn’t, did he?”

  “No, and he knew right where Taylor would be this morning. He spent the night camped out in the trees opposite the donut shop. Taylor had no idea he was being stalked.”

  “How did you know where to look for Ryder?”

  “I didn’t. The only reason I was at the donut shop was to see Taylor again. He looks so much like her.”

  “You saw Ryder release his arrow?”

  Luke shook his head, his face bleak. “I saw my nephew fall. After returning home from war, unscathed...” Luke’s voice caught. A mighty tremor rattled through his body. “I witnessed my adopted son’s attempt to kill my sister’s only child.”

  Gracie’s anger dissipated in the face of Luke’s grief. “But why? Ryder’s just a boy. He’s twelve. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “It’s my fault. I’m the one who told him about the sacred nature of the blood hunt, how it must be protected at all cost. I told him how the Great Spirit honors the sacrifice of a true warrior. You have to understand. Ryder’s father was a cruel man. In his mind, Ryder believed he needed to protect Peter at all cost.”

  “But why shoot Taylor?”

  Luke groaned. “Because of what my father has done. People are frightened of the serial killer targeting reporters. And because of the news report last night, Taylor’s TEAM is now protecting one of the men who hurt Mary. I panicked when I heard that. I told Trina how bad it might be if Taylor were to apprehend his own grandfather, that he might kill Peter before he knew who he was. Ryder must’ve overheard. I should’ve been more careful.”

  “So Ryder knows Taylor is Peter’s true grandson?”

  “No. Ryder simply decided he was the right man to protect his grandfather, that he’d stop anyone who might hurt Peter.”

  “But why Taylor?” Gracie persisted. “Why not any of the other people at the shooting range? They’re all protecting the last reporter. Why did Ryder single out Taylor? Has he been with you when you’ve spoken to Taylor or something?”

  “Because Taylor looks like us,” Luke said. “Ryder has no respect for white men, but even he can see the warrior in Taylor. He wasn’t worried about the others. Most of them are white, Hispanic, or black. Only Taylor is of our tribe. It shows. Ryder said Taylor was the only man brave enough to track his grandfather.”

  “So Ryder felt threatened by Taylor?”

  Luke shook his head. “Not threatened. Jealous maybe. Angry.”

  “You should’ve taken Taylor to the hospital or at least inside my house.”

  “How could I do that? The people at the hospital would’ve asked too many questions and you have no locks on your home. What if Peter had returned? What if he found Taylor?”

  “But he needed a doctor. You should’ve called Dr. Kearney right away. Taylor’s lost a lot of blood. His wound was dirty.”

  Luke closed his eyes. “I had to protect my son,” he ground out, his expression hard as stone. “I had to make sure he was safe with Trina before I could take care of Taylor.”

  Gracie’s heart ripped open wider at this new twist to the White Hawk tragedy. “I’m sorry, Luke. I know you did the best you could. How is Ryder now?”

  “He’s like all boys who think they’re brave warriors. It was one thing to release the arrow, but another thing to kill a man. Ryder’s sick at what he’s done. He begged me to let him come help Taylor, to apologize, but I wouldn’t allow it. He’s home with his mother where he belongs.”

  Gracie understood. Despite the extreme circumstances, Luke protected the child he loved like his own. “You mean we have Ryder to thank that Taylor is still alive?” she asked to lighten the dark mood.

  “No,” Luke said somberly. “There is nothing to be grateful for. Ryder is confused. He’s seen too much cruelty in his short life. He just wanted Peter to be proud of him. He wants to belong.”

  She mulled that over for all of two seconds. “Are you going to call the police?”

  “You tell me,” he said sharply. “Am I?”

  Gracie studied the worn wooden planks at her feet. Of course not. There was no hope for people like her and the White Ha
wks when they broke the law. Only people born of privilege seemed able to avoid the consequences for their crimes. They didn’t even have to be rich, just had to know the right people in the right places. Like them, the ones who’d destroyed Mary’s life.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve sinned a most grievous sin. I’ll be damned to the lowest pits of Hell for teaching Ryder the finer skills of archery.”

  Gracie turned to face him in the dark. He didn’t look at her, but kept his gaze cast into the forest beyond her yard. “No. Your intentions were pure. Peter will still be angry, but both of his grandsons will live. You can thank Ryder’s skill for that.”

  “I used to be proud of his accuracy.” Luke’s anguish resonated through his words. “Ryder is one of the few who can bring a bird on the wing down with one arrow, but now...”

  Gracie shivered. Knowing a twelve-year old had that kind of skill frightened her. “He needs help, Luke. You can’t let him think what he’s done today is easily forgiven. It isn’t.”

  “He already knows. Trina won’t let him out of her sight.”

  “And his bow is—”

  “Locked away with mine.”

  “And once Peter’s blood hunt is complete?”

  Luke sighed. “When this is over, I’ll tell the authorities that I shot Taylor. I’m already going to prison for covering for my father’s crimes. I can’t let them take Ryder, too. I can’t do that to Trina.”

  Gracie lowered her head at the enormity of Ryder’s crime and the depth of Luke’s love for his new family.

  “He’s just like Taylor,” Luke said quietly. “Ryder is desperate to belong. He needs a family. We’ll all go to jail for helping my father,” he said to the dark.

  True. Gracie accepted that sad fact. She placed a hand on Luke’s knee. In all of her days spent serving Mary and the White Hawk family, she’d learned one lesson very well. Life was difficult, but there were still good people in the world. Miracles still happened. One had only to believe and never give up.

  “All is not lost, Luke. Something good did happen today.”