Taylor

by Irish Winters

Her eyes lit up. “Yes. You’re right. You do remember.”

  “What does she have to do with anything?”

  Gracie smiled despite his grumpy question. “Because Martha White Hawk was my mom’s best friend. My mother and yours were kindred spirits. You know, like two sisters who would finish each others’ sentences, who always knew what the other was thinking.”

  Taylor didn’t acknowledge that useless piece of trivia, so she started in again. “Do you remember anything from your childhood, any of the kids you played with?”

  It was impossible to miss the current of hope in her question, but where was she going with this? “No. Her name’s on my birth certificate. For hell’s sake, I was four when she died.”

  “You’re right. You were just a baby, but I thought maybe you’d remember something.”

  “What’s this about, Gracie?” Taylor finally called her by name. “You guys shoot me, kidnap me, and for what? Because of some woman I never knew? Give me a break. Tell me something I don’t know, something that makes sense.”

  “Actually, we’ve been keeping tabs on you for quite awhile now.”

  That got his attention. “You what? Who? Why?”

  “I know exactly where you live and who you work for.” She seemed excited to share. Gracie looked more like a college girl with a juicy bit of gossip than a prison guard. “For instance, right now you live by yourself in an old fixer-upper in West Alexandria. You enjoy restoring older houses when you have the time. You like to work with your hands, and you’re a skilled carpenter. In fact, you made the walnut banister in the entryway of your current project, and you do beautiful work. How’d you ever learn carpentry like that? It’s as if you have a kinship with wood.”

  “I’ve taken a lot of DIY classes and—” He snapped his jaw shut tight and glared at her. Damn. With no trouble at all she’d just gotten him to open his big mouth again. How’d she do that?

  She shrugged and continued. “Anyway, you’re really an artist at heart, not a warrior. It shows in everything you do. Your problem is you don’t get to spend much time at your craft because your employer, Mr. Alexander Stewart, keeps you busy with too many overseas or out of state assignments. You’re gone for weeks at a time. In fact, you just came back from Southern California Tuesday night.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. She knew way too much.

  “Mr. Stewart owns the very prestigious covert consultant group called The TEAM. He’s got one office in Seattle and another in Alexandria. He lives there with his wife, Kelsey, and he owns two dogs. He’s made quite a name for himself, hasn’t he?”

  The day just kept getting weirder. She sounded proud of him and his boss. Taylor bit his lip. This woman knew a helluva lot. “So you guys are watching me. Why?”

  Gracie leaned back in her chair. “It’s nothing sinister or anything like that, but did you know you were a member of the Mattaponi tribe?”

  “The what?” This girl could jump tracks faster than he could keep up. “Yeah. I knew I had some Indian blood in me, but I never heard of the—what’d you call it? The matta-whata tribe?”

  Gracie smiled despite his mean-spirited question. So far she did a lot of smiling, and he still didn’t have a clue where the conversation was headed. “The Matt-a-poni tribe,” she enunciated clearly. “They’re the native people who lived in Virginia before the English settled Jamestown in 1607. We didn’t think you’d know about your Native American ancestry. The Mattaponi people are a small tribe. I’d like to tell you more about us some day.”

  “You’re one of them?” he asked, like he cared. All he needed was to keep her talking, ‘cause he didn’t plan to hang around long enough for that some day she mentioned. Besides, something useful was bound to come out of her mouth. Any moment now.

  She nodded, her eyes bright with his interest. “Yes. I am.”

  “And that matters why?”

  Her smile faded just as determination manifested in her tight-lipped response. “Because your mother knew what would happen to you when she died. She knew your father wouldn’t keep his promise to teach you about her family and your noble heritage. The day she went into the hospital she asked my mother, Patience Fox, to promise to watch over you.”

  He nearly snickered. Patience Fox? What kind of name was that? But he didn’t want to offend Gracie, despite her annoying revelations. He had no feelings for his birth mother. None. Martha White Hawk might have been called Cinderella for all he cared. She was nothing but a fairytale he’d heard once a long time ago, and just as quickly forgot. Judith Armstrong, the wife of Marine Corps General Michael Armstrong, was the only mother he’d ever known, and this line of questioning was getting nowhere. He needed facts, not fiction.

  “You still haven’t told me why you shot me or why you’re keeping me here. That’s all I want to know.”

  A hint of sadness darkened her eyes, but like a shadow passing in front of the sun it was quickly gone. “The Mattaponi are a proud people. When your mother married your father, she did so against her father’s wishes. Her father is Peter White Hawk. She risked everything. She was a young girl and so in love. Your birth was the only thing that kept Peter from disowning her.”

  Taylor sighed. This story just wouldn’t end. He closed his eyes in frustration as much as resignation. There was no sense in listening anymore. Nothing Gracie said mattered and it didn’t help.

  “When my mother died two years ago, I promised her I’d watch over you until I died. If I’m lucky enough to have a daughter some day, she’ll make the same promise. She’ll continue to watch over you as my mother and I have.”

  “Whatever.” God Almighty, woman, give it a rest. This warrior doesn’t need another guardian angel. Got one.

  She stood to leave as if she’d read his mind. “I’m sorry. I’ve worn you out. You’re tired.”

  That softly spoken comment made him angry all over again. “What I need is the truth, not some wacko bedtime story.”

  Sadness shifted through her eyes, but he was fed up with this roundabout way of telling him nothing. “Spit it out. Why am I here?”

  She drew in a deep breath. “Well, Taylor Michael White Hawk Armstrong, whose mother was Martha Catherine White Hawk Armstrong, whose grandfather is the noble Chief Peter White Hawk of the proud Mattaponi tribe of the Commonwealth of Virginia, whose people ruled long before the white man came to change the world—you’re here because you need to be kept out of harm’s way. You’ll remain in my home until the blood law is fulfilled and satisfied. You’re here because you’re the grandson of a great warrior who is even now on the final hunt of his life. It will ultimately result in his death. You are here because your mother loved you. That’s why.”

  She said those words like a chant she’d long ago memorized and reverently recited now. Her eyes lit with tenderness, as if she’d just bequeathed him with something precious and rare.

  Wrong. If she expected all that gibberish to mean something, she was out of her ever-loving mind. She wasn’t going to loosen his hands and he was stuck listening to nonsense. He bit his lip to keep from saying anything because right now, none of it was nice.

  “You need to rest. We’ll continue later.”

  Damn. She just doesn’t get it!

  Unbelievable. He truly doesn’t know anything about his mother. Not really. And he doesn’t remember me, either.

  Gracie let her eyes drift over Taylor’s angry, handsome face. What had happened to the bright smiling boy she remembered from childhood? Despite everything she’d just shared, his jaw remained tight and square. Impenetrable. Anger glittered under the ledge of his brow. Was there no part of the real Taylor left? Was there no joy in his soul? Was he nothing more than an extension of the cold General Michael Armstrong?

  Her fingers rubbed against the thumb tucked inside her clenched hand while she searched mentally for any clue that might unlock this hard man’s heart. Anger shuddered off him. Her need to share the good memories with him battled his desire to leave, but how could he? T
he man might be determined and bullheaded, but he was still physically weak. And she couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not until he understood what had happened and why.

  “Tell me about the mother who raised you,” she said, hoping for a way inside his heart or head. Maybe once she got him talking, there’d be a way to segue back to Martha.

  His upper lip lifted into a sneer. “Why? Don’t you already know everything about her, too?”

  Gracie swallowed hard. “I know some things. I know that her name is Judith and she loves you. She sent care packages to you while you were deployed to Afghanistan, and she misses you. She wishes you’d visit her, but I also know she’s not an equal match for your father. He bullies her the same as he bullied you.”

  “He does not. Where are you getting your information? My father’s a Marine Corps General. He’s important. He’s busy. That’s all.”

  The truth became crystal clear. Taylor may not like his father, may even hate him, but he wouldn’t admit it. She could wait.

  “I’m sorry. I may have jumped to a wrong conclusion. What if I tell you my favorite memory of my mother first?”

  He leaned forward as far as he could, his jaw tight, and every vein in his neck displayed. “How about you stop the horseshit and let me get the hell out of here?”

  The depth of his anger slapped her in the face.

  She’d failed. Kindness had failed, too.

  Gracie pushed out of her chair, needing time to think. There had to be a way.

  Chapter Eight

  “I need to use the head,” Taylor bit out before she walked out on him.

  Damn her. The woman made no sense. Every direct question he’d asked was met with another idiotic story that led him down some merry trail of Indian lore that meant nothing. He’d hurt her feelings, but how much can a man take? Besides, Mother Nature had been calling for a while, and there was no sense asking more questions. The circle of useless answers didn’t end.

  For some insane reason, his request made her smile again. You’d think a woman who’d been snapped at would let him alone, wouldn’t you? Not Gracie. Her pretty face seemed to brighten no matter what he said or how he said it. If this was brainwashing, she was damned good.

  “We can take care of that in one of two ways.” She reached under the bed and pulled out a urinal bottle.

  “No. Hell, no.” He’d never pee in a bottle when he was perfectly capable of—well, almost perfectly capable. Unless he disturbed the clots and started bleeding again.

  She followed the bottle with a pair of ankle cuffs, raising both high for him to see.

  This can’t be happening!

  A twinkle of mischief glittered in her eye. Yeah. She enjoyed torturing him.

  He nodded toward the ankle cuffs in her hand. “I want my pants, too.”

  She shook her head. “No. You’re an ex-Marine. I don’t think being naked or bleeding would stop you from running, but just in case, I’m keeping your boots and pants for now.”

  “Well, I need something to cover up with then. Hell, woman. I’m not traipsing around like this.” If he could reach her, he’d wring her pretty little neck.

  She pulled the sheets loose at the end of his bed. That shut him up. The last thing he needed was some stupid dame stealing his blankets when he was restrained and naked in bed. Gracie didn’t do that, though. She lifted the sheet just high enough to attach a cuff to each of his ankles. The cuffs were linked with a chain and lined in cloth so they didn’t chafe.

  They were just damned rude.

  Lying there with his arms bound by leather belts, his feet exposed and ankles cuffed felt just plain stupid. And embarrassing. Okay, so now what? Was she going to undo his wrists or not? Did she expect him to jump out of bed and parade around in the buff? Not like he could, but still.

  Again, mischief danced through her eyes.

  “What?” Taylor snarled, tired of the game playing.

  “These cuffs are connected with a twelve-inch chain. I have the key. I’ll be back in three minutes to check on you. You have three choices. You can be in the bathroom.” Gracie nodded to two closed doors. Apparently, one was the head. Good to know. At least she had indoor plumbing. “You can be on your way back to bed, or you can already be in bed and covered. Regardless, I’ll be back in three minutes.”

  Great. Three minutes to take care of business while hobbled. That ought to be fun. He glanced at the window, but that made her smile again.

  “Don’t waste your time. The window doesn’t open. It’s nailed shut, and there is only one other way out of here.” She loosened the restraints on his arms from either side of the bed before she lowered the side rails.

  Not one hint of anxiety showed on her face even though his hands were free and he could easily lock them about her throat. Interesting. He massaged one wrist, then the other, debating how badly he needed to use the head.

  “You’re now free to use the facilities. There’s no window in the bathroom, just a shaving kit on the counter when you feel up to it. We’ve thought of everything you might need while you’re here with us. I’ll be back to see you in three minutes.” She left, closing the door.

  Three minutes? Was that a threat? Sure sounded like one.

  He swung his feet to the floor. Cuffs or not, wounded or not, he wanted out. The sooner the better.

  Arghhh. He sucked in a quick breath. Not so fast. The stiffness in his body forced a quick reconsideration of that plan. The stab in his chest, too. He cradled his right arm, needing more support than he’d expected. Ouch. Maybe I’m not ready to run. Or move. Crap.

  Pain shot a bolt of red-hot electricity straight through his chest. Hot damn. Hurrying was out. Three minutes? Not enough time. Maybe Gracie would err on the side of maybe ten before she came charging back? Maybe a half hour?

  He groaned. It would take that long just to walk across the room. He almost reconsidered the bottle. It was closer. Doable. Okay, not for long, but for one painful second, peeing into a bottle didn’t seem so bad.

  He coughed. Bad idea. The insignificant movement sent shock waves enough to take him to his knees. It took all he had just to sit up straight. The clock was ticking.

  Clutching the thick bandage on his chest, he counted the steps between the bed and the nearest closet door. Fifteen. Maybe more, given the cuffs. And he was stark-assed naked and panting like he’d run a marathon.

  One foot to the floor and the room wobbled. He leaned back against the bed. He’d walked a mile or so last night and didn’t feel this woozy. Of course, he was still pumped full of adrenaline. Losing all that blood probably didn’t help.

  Okay. Slow down, Rambo. You can do this.

  He felt his way gingerly from bed to nightstand, and then to the wall and the nearest closet door, taking baby steps all the way. The ankle cuffs hampered his equilibrium as much as his progress, but he was damned if he’d fall on his face. He’d need Gracie’s help getting back to his feet, and he’d be naked. Yeah. Not a pretty picture.

  Finally, at the first door, he opened it. Great. A closet.

  A knock and Gracie’s pleasant voice called, “One minute left.”

  Shit, I’m not going to make it.

  He growled. This was a lot like work and he just needed to pee. Speeding up the baby steps, he barely made it into the head when the bedroom door squeaked open behind him. Whew. He shut the door and dropped his ass to the commode. Talk about a lot of trouble for nothing.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t tied to the bed anymore, and she was just a woman, probably unarmed, maybe a hundred ten pounds or so. Taylor took a deep breath and reconsidered. Escape and bleed to death or stay and play mind games with the nut job on the other side of the door? She might not be the Chronicle Killer, but he wasn’t going to spend any more time with her if he could help it.

  “I take it you’re still in there?” Damn, she was pushy. And punctual.

  Where else would I be?

  “Need any help?”

  “No.” Hell, no.
He flushed just to prove to her how much he didn’t need help, every muscle complaining at the simple action. Damn, what the hell’s wrong with me?

  “Okay?”

  Okay what? Was she going to sit out there and wait for him? He deliberated at the door, her on the other side, probably with her ear against the wood. No doubt listening for him to fall on his butt.

  Fine. If that was how she wanted to play the game, he’d give her an eyeful—and hopefully NOT fall on his face in the process. Jerking the door open, he let her have it, all six feet three inches of an angry guy in the raw.

  The room was empty.

  He would’ve laughed if dizziness hadn’t reminded him the bed was all the way over—there. He hobbled, making it just in time to jerk the sheet off the bed and around himself before the bedroom door opened.

  And Crazy Gracie was back. She stood there with her hands on her hips, that same knowing smirk on her face.

  He tightened the sheet, pointing to his cuffed ankles. “You wanna stop playing games and take these stupid things off before I fall down and start bleeding again?”

  She stayed at the door. “First, get back into bed. Lie down flat on your back and put your feet all the way under the blanket. Then strap your right arm into the restraint. When you’ve done that, I’ll attach your other wrist restraint. Only then will I remove the cuffs.”

  He met her cocky stare and raised her one Hell, no. He was easily twice her size and in good physical condition, well, except for the hole in his chest and a slight twinge of dizziness that had gotten damned annoying. Didn’t matter. Not in his universe. He was a USMC scout sniper. She was just a—a woman.

  “No.” He wrapped the sheet tighter, widening his stance—to the measly twelve inches the ankle cuffs allowed. “I’m not lying here one more second. Get out of my way and—”

  “No.” She met his stare and raised him a full on Make me. I dare you.

  He took a semi-threatening step toward her, cuffs, sheet and all. Two can play that game.

  The crazy woman didn’t back down for a second, and she was what, five feet four at the most? She matched his step, not like taking a baby step was impressive, damn it. Still, she’d advanced. Not retreated. What the hell?