Her mouth went dry. Brooding. Sexy. Naked at the moment. Mouthwatering.
“Good. He’s, umm, good. Could you hand me the eggs while you’re in there?”
Luke retrieved the eggs from the top shelf and shut the refrigerator door. “Will you be okay alone with him while I’m gone?”
Oh, heck yeah.
Gracie cracked the first egg into a glass bowl. “Sure. It’s not like he’s dangerous or anything. Once he eats breakfast, he’ll probably just sleep the rest of the day.”
“You’ll keep him restrained, though, won’t you?”
“Sure. He’s in the shower now. You can help me get him back into bed before you leave.”
Luke lifted an eyebrow. “He’s not cuffed?”
She swallowed hard, gulping past the knot in her throat. She had cuffed him. Kind of. “For heaven’s sake, he needed to use the restroom and take a shower. The cuffs might’ve made him fall. Besides, were you going to give him a sponge bath?”
Luke glanced at the closed guest bedroom door. “Just don’t underestimate him. Taylor’s a Marine. He’ll do whatever it takes to escape. Keep your guard up. I’d like to drive him up to see the graves after breakfast. That should wear him out.”
The shower turned off, and darn it anyway. She had one egg cracked and French toast still to make. The griddle wasn’t even plugged in. He’d be out the door in no time and hungry.
Move it.
Damn it. Where are my boots?
That they weren’t anywhere in sight told Taylor a lot.
He eyed Luke when he exited the bedroom, his shirt still undone. “You took my boots?”
“I did,” Luke said from the kitchen table, a newspaper spread beside his plate.
The smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle filled the air. Coffee. Eggs. Maple syrup. Taylor shot his uncle a grumble of disapproval, but damn it. His stomach grumbled louder. The shower took a lot more out of him than he’d expected.
“You guys aren’t going to let me leave, are you? At least let me call my boss then and tell him where I am and that I’m okay.”
“Sorry. No phones. No cell towers, either. When I need to, I use the phone at the service station on the highway.” Luke pointed toward the open front door, like that meant anything to a guy who had no idea how’d he’d gotten all the way back to Gracie’s. “You’ll stay here with us until Peter’s hunt is complete.”
“You can’t let him kill this last reporter. It’s wrong.”
“I won’t interfere with my father’s wishes.” Luke’s steely gray eyes meant what they said.
“But the police and FBI will shoot him on sight when they catch up to him,” Taylor insisted. “Did you think of that?”
“They won’t. Your grandfather was a Marine scout sniper just like you. He knows how to conceal himself.”
A scout sniper? Really? Granpa and I have a lot in common.
Gracie had been busy at the stove. When she turned—
Damn it. Freeze frame. Black jeans. Black boots. A light-green blouse tucked into those jeans. Sparkling, dark eyes swept over him. The prettiest peach-color blossomed up her neck and cheeks, filling him with male pride for putting it there. Her hair hung loose at her shoulders, but her smile? It bathed the room in something brighter than sunlight. It bathed him, too. Right down to his socks.
His heart stuttered, and he couldn’t look away. With one bat of those long lashes, she’d stolen his breath.
She came to his side. “Your shirt. May I help?”
“Yeah. Sure.
Looking down at her fingering the buttons and buttonholes took on a whole new dimension. His breath hitched at the touch of her trembling fingers on his bare chest. Energy arced, heating his blood. Need rippled up his veins. His hand rose unbidden to cup her cheek, but he caught himself before he made contact. What the hell?
“The bed wasn’t uncomfortable last night? Not at all?” The pink on her cheeks flared to crimson. She’d finished with his shirt, and he was caught in the spell of a beautiful woman.
Stupidity rolled off his tongue. “It wasn’t uncomfortable at all.”
Luke coughed politely behind them. The spell was broken, but Taylor couldn’t drag his eyes off her. She moved with delicate ease, like a flower petal caught on the breeze, and nothing but buttons between them.
Taylor made himself comfortable in one of the wooden chairs on Gracie’s front porch. Everything here spoke of a simple lifestyle, from the turkey in the smoker to the baskets of ferns and purple flowers swinging from ceiling hooks. Chickens pecked and scratched in the gravel beyond the porch, their quiet clucking a gentle sound on a gentle day.
Gracie’s eyes were bright when she handed him a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. “Have you ever eaten smoked turkey before?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I have.” Right now all he wanted to do was watch her.
“You’ll like it. I’m also making sweet potato casserole.” She didn’t linger, but checked the smoker and returned to the kitchen. He cocked his head. She still hummed that same song.
He and Luke ate in silence. When at last his appetite was satisfied, he looked across the yard. There stood the game shed. His hand went to the bandaged hole beneath his new shirt. His mood darkened. It was no small thing Luke had done to him. Every instinct told him to make his uncle pay.
Luke must’ve felt the shift in tension. He’d turned his body to face his nephew. Yes. They were still enemies more than family.
“So, umm, what’s the birth order? Was Martha the oldest?” Taylor asked, trying to regain some of the contentment he’d awakened with.
“Yes, then Matthew, myself, and Mary. You’ll meet Matthew later today.”
Why? Is he out killing reporters with Peter? Of course he was, probably shooting another innocent bystander to protect Peter’s almighty blood hunt. Gah—would he ever understand the ways of the White Hawks?
Taylor leaned gingerly against the hard back of the chair. The memory of Luke’s arrow sticking out of his chest nagged, wrung the optimism out of him. “Where does Gracie fit in this family?” This damned, crazy family.
Luke’s half-smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I thought she told you. She’s not a White Hawk. Her name is Gracie Fox.”
Oh, yeah. Taylor knew that. White Hawk or not, she was just as guilty. His false perception of her kindness faded in the glare of that same reality.
Luke pulled a three-by-five photo from his pocket and handed it to him. “You might find this interesting.”
Taylor took the picture. He recognized the little boy. Him. About three years old, wearing blue jeans and a western shirt. Baby-sized cowboy boots on his feet. A black teddy bear clutched under his arm. A little girl in pigtails sat with him in a sandbox, her arms stretched out wide, a plastic pink shovel in one hand and a green bucket in the other. As little boy Taylor leaned into her face, she’d scrunched her nose and squeezed her eyes tight, her lips puckered up for his kiss.
“Cute picture. Who’s the girl?”
Luke nodded toward the back door. “Gracie.”
“She’s my age?” Taylor looked closer at the photo. He and she could’ve passed for twins with all that long dark hair.
“There must have been something in the water that year. Patience and Martha got pregnant at the same time.”
“Only Gracie’s father stayed with her mother, right? He did right by her?” Taylor couldn’t hold back his sarcasm.
“Yes, he did. Patience and Leroy were married the same day as your mother and father. They might not have done things in the proper order, but they did right by each other. And Gracie has been watching you for years. Sometimes she’d see you at school or outside your father’s home when she accompanied her mother. It was more difficult to track you when you joined the Corps. By then, you’d become very special.”
“Why? What’d Gracie’s mother care? Seems like a foolish promise to make to a dying woman anyway. We moved around a lot. What did Martha care once she was dead and burie
d?” He tossed the picture back at Luke, not meaning to sound so heartless, but the shed door beckoned, daring him to forget what had happened inside its concrete walls.
“I’ve learned never to underestimate the wiles and will of a woman named Fox.” Luke tucked the picture in his shirt pocket. “You were just a little when your father took you. It broke Peter’s heart. Patience shared everything she found out about you. I think it gave him some small measure of peace knowing you were safe, even if you weren’t happy. She took pictures, too. I’ll have to ask Gracie about them. Maybe she’ll share them with you someday.”
Taylor drummed his fingertips on his knee. The whole concept of being watched annoyed him no end. Gracie and her mother were nothing but a misguided pair of stalkers, and Luke was the king of misguided. Taylor scanned the yard. Planning. Any minute now. It would be time to leave. All he had to do was wait for Luke to relax. Ten to one the keys to that diesel were still in the ignition.
“I don’t get it.” Taylor opted for distraction. “How can you let Peter do what he’s doing?”
Luke’s eyes took on a far away stare. “We’re not so different from the white man. We seek for balance through our laws just as you seek it through your court system. Our laws are just different.”
“Did you know he sliced his victim’s tongues in half? That he stuffed glass and cloth down their throats? It’s barbaric. We have to stop him.” Taylor’s agitation spiked again.
“No. Peter didn’t torture either of those people the way they tortured Mary. He could have, but he didn’t. Instead, his strike was sure and swift, just as your shots were in the service, just as my arrow flies when I hunt. Those reporters didn’t feel the sting of the arrow when they died, much less one second of what they forced my sister to endure. The signs he left on their dead bodies will identify them in the spirit world for who and what they were in this life.”
“You call mutilation of corpses signs for the spirit world?”
Luke didn’t respond, just kept staring over Gracie’s barn.
“You ever hear of innocent until proven guilty?”
“It’s a good theory.”
Damn it. The more Luke refused to argue, the angrier Taylor got, and the faster they went around the same old circle. Distraction wasn’t working, not with this passive guy.
“I’d like to at least meet him before the FBI kills him.” Taylor clenched his jaw at the paradox he’d just spoken. Yes, his grandfather was a cold-blooded murderer, but Taylor felt a bond between them. He did want to meet this guy. He wanted Peter to see him. To be proud of him. That’s all.
“Tell me about your father.”
“The General? What do you want to know?” Good ploy, Uncle Luke. Distraction. Change the subject. Keep me off balance. Guess two can play that game.
“Did he play ball with you? Did he teach you to hunt or fish?”
Taylor grunted. “You already know the answer to that. He’s a busy man. He’s got more important things to do.” Like go to meetings. Travel. Leave home in a hurry. Come back tired and cranky and short-tempered. Tell me to shut up.
“Too busy for the son he had to steal from us?” Luke asked softly.
“He’s driven, that’s all. He’s got a lot on his plate. Like I said, busy.”
Taylor stifled what he really wanted to say. If he’d ever spent one decent hour with that bastard, he couldn’t place it. The General was the important one. Heck, even Judith Armstrong was nothing more than staff when Michael Armstrong came home, and Taylor was just the kid and the only one at that. That’s what it always felt like, a visit from a very important guest who, if Taylor was lucky, might just pat him on the head before he went out the door again to do great and honorable things. If he wasn’t lucky, well...
“You call him General,” Luke said softly. “Not father or Dad.”
Shit. Taylor scuffed his stockinged feet against each other. There was no tactful way to admit that calling his father Bastard hadn’t gone over too well the one time he’d tried it.
“Are you up for a short ride?” Luke asked, thankfully not waiting for an answer. “I’d like to show you something.”
“Do I get my boots back?” So I can get the hell out of here?
“You’ll be okay without them.” Luke stuck his head inside the door. “We’re leaving, Gracie. Did you want to come with us?”
She was out the door in a second. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
She didn’t lock the door behind her, but scrambled up onto the middle of the bench seat in Luke’s old truck. Taylor’s mood changed the instant he slid in next to her. Her hip and thigh alongside his were warm. He restrained his arm from circling her shoulder, but he couldn’t hold back his nose from drawing in a deep breath of her.
He stole a quick sideways glance and found her looking back at him. Warmth flushed her cheeks and his good nature resurfaced. “You look happy today.”
“I am,” she agreed shyly.
“Where are we going?”
She shrugged her shoulders like a little girl with a secret. “You’ll see. I think you’ll like this place. It’s very special to me.”
Luke started the noisy diesel engine, and before long, they clattered along a winding road through the trees. “It’s not a long walk if you ever decide you want to come back.”
“Everything’s a long walk without boots.”
She slapped his knee. “You’re such a grumpy man,” she scolded cheerfully. “Enjoy this moment. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, and you’ve just discovered the part of your family that’s been missing from your life. You should be happy.”
“I am. I guess,” Taylor agreed reluctantly. “But you’re holding me against my will, and I’ve still got a hole in my chest. Oh, yeah, and I’ve got no boots and my truck’s missing.”
“But you have your clothes back.” She blushed with that gentle reminder, and whatever was happening between them, he didn’t want it to stop. She’d lit up like a burnished rose at sunrise. He looked down into her sparkling eyes, willing to forgive and forget just to keep her looking at him the way she was. Just to keep her smiling.
“Yes. I do. Okay, I guess I’m a little happy.”
“And you no longer have such a big a hole in your heart, do you?”
“You tell me. Do I?”
“Well, maybe yes. This is a very hard time for you, but it’s also a very good time, isn’t it? You have found your mother again.”
Despite the fact that his family was a dysfunctional mess to the nth degree, he couldn’t deny the light in her eyes or the truth in her words. “Yes. The last couple days have been full of surprises.” And you’re definitely one of them.
Chapter Fourteen
The truck lurched to a stop at the low picket fence of a small country graveyard.
“We’re here,” Luke announced. “Wait, Taylor. I’ll help you get down.”
He walked swiftly around the truck, but by then Taylor had already slid off the seat and reached for Gracie’s hand. Only yesterday she’d relinquished those same fingers to him in order to save his grandfather. This crazy family confused him.
He tugged her off the running board, and she fell easily into his arms. Time stopped. All he saw was her, just the glimmer in her brown eyes. Her palms rested flat against his chest, missing the wound.
Luke had to be out there somewhere, but Taylor honestly didn’t know where. This woman became everything. His world. Maybe his universe. His body reacted instinctively, his hands sliding around her shoulders and beneath her hair. Her breath hitched like he wanted it to. For a wounded man barely on the mend, his brain had something else in mind.
The attraction with this delightful non-White Hawk woman grabbed every male muscle in his body with a need to possess and protect, not that she needed it. Gracie Fox was a study in self-reliance, gentleness and compassion, mixed with a tough vulnerability. She had stood by the troubled, passionate men of the White Hawk tribe. He doubted she needed men for much other tha
n to reach the highest shelf in her kitchen, but he wanted to be that man.
The tip of her tongue moistened her top lip. The tables were turned. His warden was caught, but not struggling to break free. Not one bit. She stepped in closer, like that helped.
When she cupped his left jaw, he closed his eyes. The tenderness of this sweet woman’s touch slammed into the protective wall he’d built. He’d needed it to keep his father out. Then his stepmother’s regret. But standing with Gracie inside the barrier like she belonged there, he didn’t know what to do, run or surrender to her charms.
In the blink of an eye, his world had taken an abrupt one hundred and eighty degree turn. He couldn’t catch his balance. Worse, he didn’t want to.
“You have your mother’s kind eyes,” she whispered, her palms warm on his skin. “I’m glad you’re home, Taylor White Hawk Armstrong.”
And therein was his dilemma. His name. The newly discovered Taylor White Hawk battled with the older, entrenched son of General Armstrong. They didn’t seem to belong in the same room together, much less in the same body. Like the polarizing ends of two powerful magnets, they pushed each other away. More like shoved. More like thrust. The wicked jet engine kind of thrust. Tearing him apart with what he thought he knew and all Gracie and Luke had just revealed.
Over twenty-three years ago, Michael Armstrong had declared open war against Peter White Hawk when he’d taken his only grandson. Legal or not, the two men had been at war ever since with Taylor in the middle. Automatically, his fingers tightened around Gracie. If there was to be a war, he wanted her on his side of the wall. Maybe she could help him win. Maybe she could help him live through it.
The scent of the pine needles beneath his stocking feet lifted up around Gracie and him. God Almighty, he wanted to believe he could win that war.
“Ahem,” Luke interrupted the moment with an exaggerated cough. “Come, Taylor. This is what I wanted to show you.”
Gracie stepped outside of his wall, back into reality. He let her go. Almost. She took his hand, and together, they walked past a three-foot high picket fence to the clearing where Luke stood waiting beside two white granite headstones. Dates showed on neither. The closest read:
Taylor Page 13