Taylor

by Irish Winters

  “Grandfather?” Taylor asked in total disbelief. “Is that you?”

  The guy in the shadows stood silent, just seconds before he rushed Taylor and grabbed him into a suffocating man hug. “I’ve waited for you. God Almighty, I’ve waited.”

  God Almighty? All this time I’ve been using my grandfather’s words?

  Taylor clung to the man his soul had hungered for. This was who he’d needed by his side all those long and lonely years, this man squeezing the daylight out of him.

  “You have your mother’s eyes and her nose, too.” Peter turned to Gracie, wiping his eyes. “Doesn’t he, Little Bird?”

  A wary smile shifted over her face. “Yes, Peter. He looks very much like Martha. And you.”

  Taylor choked, his heart too damned full. Man hugs, who needs them? He gripped Peter like the lost boy he was, two arms locked around his shoulders and not about to let him go. Finally, damned found.

  Peter shuddered, one hand to the back of his grandson’s head, holding him in place, and damned if being held in this older man’s arms didn’t release the floodgates. All the hurt leaked out of Taylor’s eyes and he let it go, unashamed and God Almighty proud to be a White Hawk.

  Let the world know. Real men do cry.

  Poor, sweet Gracie was out there somewhere. She’d been right on the verge of baring her soul, but this moment belonged to Peter. Taylor couldn’t have broken free if he’d tried. A world of hurt lifted from his shoulders. He closed his eyes and let Peter’s strength fill him up.

  “I remember you, sir.”

  “Not sir,” Peter scolded. “Only Grandfather or Granpa. That is all. Never sir.”

  Granpa. The reverent, beloved word fit perfectly.

  Peter loosened his grip, but still held tight to Taylor’s forearm. “Why didn’t you come home before?”

  “Because I didn’t know,” Taylor whispered. The man’s nearness awakened feelings long dormant, memories of riding his shoulders and wearing his baseball cap. Falling asleep in his arms. Being happy.

  “And how is it you know now?” Peter glanced at Gracie’s lowered head. “What has happened that has brought him back to us at this time? Little Bird? What are you not telling me?”

  “It’s okay. It’s done. Don’t worry about it.” Taylor reached for Gracie, needing her inside this incredibly tender moment.

  She hedged, still not lifting her gaze. “Luke, umm, shot Taylor.”

  “No! Why?”

  “To save your blood hunt. I came home as fast as I—”

  “Give me the lantern. Show me where he struck you.”

  “It’s okay, now,” Taylor insisted as she handed the lantern to Peter. “Honest. I’m good. Gracie’s been taking real good care of me and—”

  “She shouldn’t have to take care of you.”

  Well, yeah, but forgiveness was in the air. Taylor didn’t want to lose what little family he had left. She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the sleeve off his right shoulder, biting her lip, her fingers trembling. He steadied her, one hand on her collar bone, his thumb on her cheek, needing her to reconnect.

  Peter held the lantern high and peered over her shoulder. “Are you cleaning them each time you change the bandages, Little Bird?”

  “Yes, Peter, and I change the bandages every day.”

  “An arrow leaves a cleaner wound than any bullet,” Peter said slyly.

  “If you say so.” Taylor grunted, not going to argue the physics of torn muscle and blood loss between the two devastating ways to kill a man. He’d lived. Enough said.

  Gracie re-buttoned his shirt, but he couldn’t stop looking at Peter, noticing everything from the sharp intelligence in his eyes to the stubble on his chin. The USMC ball cap. His threadbare flannel shirt beneath a well-worn fishing vest. The polished wooden bow at his back. The quiver. A small backpack. The pistol on his hip.

  His grandfather. Hunter. Fisherman. Chronicle Killer. Damn it to hell.

  How does a guy even begin to reconcile the disparity between hero and villain? This villain didn’t look evil. Sadness etched his weathered face. Every line, every wrinkle seemed to slant downward. But evil? Never.

  Peter tapped Taylor’s right shoulder, avoiding the tender danger zone. “You pulled the arrow shaft out this way, I think, but you had to force the tip through your body first. Aiyee. Baby Bear. You suffered.”

  That about summed up the whole ugly mess, but to hear compassion roll off Peter’s lips like he’d hurt for his grandson? Nothing better in the world.

  Taylor pulled Gracie into his side, determined she stay. “I’m fine, Granpa. Honest.”

  “Are you home for good now?” she asked Peter.

  “I just came back to sit with my girls one last time.” He lifted the lantern, lighting the headstones behind them. “Why were you sitting here in the dark?”

  “Taylor and I needed to talk.”

  And you were just about to tell me you loved me. Taylor peered into her barely lit face. Shadows hid her eyes, but something had changed. His gut pinched. Weren’t you?

  Peter’s gaze shifted over their shoulders to the path behind them. His hand went to the pistol on his hip. “Shh. Someone is coming.”

  “It’s just us,” Luke said quietly as he and Matthew stepped into the soft glow of the lantern. “Hello, Father.”

  “You shouldn’t have shot Taylor,” Peter declared angrily. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I only did it because—”

  “I don’t care. This is my only grandson.” Peter’s eyes narrowed. He took a step toward Luke, lifting the lantern higher. “You lie. I see it in your eyes. You lie.”

  Luke stepped back from his father’s accusing finger.

  “You’re protecting someone. Is it Trina’s son? He shot Taylor, didn’t he? Ryder did it.”

  Holy shit. Taylor glanced down at the woman in his arms. Gracie seemed to have shrunk into his side at this confrontation. “Is that true? Did you know? Did you lie to protect the guy who nearly killed me?”

  She nodded, her dark eyes glittering in the lantern light. “It was not my lie to confess. Listen. Luke will explain.”

  Yeah, right. Now that he’s caught. This oughta be good. And why the hell that little shit, Ryder? And Trina?

  That explained how he’d been shot and moved so quickly from the crime scene. Luke must’ve been with Ryder when it happened, the lying sonofabitch. Taylor rolled the pain in his neck away, pissed at his uncle all over again.

  “He’s young, Father. You know the life he came from. My stepson wanted to prove himself, to protect you, so the perfect grandson he’s only heard about wouldn’t harm you or interfere with your hunt.”

  Stepson? Perfect grandson? Me? Ouch. Taylor caught the jab. So this arrow-shooting incident was a bizarre case of sibling rivalry? Weird. Really weird. But a touch on the amazing side of weird, too. Luke had lied to protect his stepson, not even his real flesh and blood kid, kind of honorable in an off-the-charts way. And freaking kind. Downright scary compassionate. He’d been ready to go to jail for the punk, too. What the hell? Was this whole tribe over-the-top protective of their children?

  The damnedest inkling of pride skittered front and center of Taylor’s well-honed military mind. Uncle Luke, huh. What a guy. He would’ve made a decent Marine.

  Gracie forsook the refuge of Taylor’s side and stepped forward. “I knew, Peter. Yes, Taylor, I lied. I covered for Ryder, too.”

  “No, she covered for me,” Luke said. “Ryder’s young and desperate to belong. Blame me. This is my fault. Not his.”

  Damn. What a mess.

  Gracie turned back to Taylor. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you what Luke didn’t want me to share.”

  Taylor honestly didn’t know what to say. Her lie was a small thing in the grand scheme. He could see the logic behind it, but this family needed one big time out. A little luck wouldn’t hurt, either.

  He lifted his palms for attention and stepped between his uncle and grandfath
er. “Listen. I’m wounded, but I’m okay. It’s time this family came together. I want to meet your other grandson, Granpa. I want to meet Ryder. Maybe he can teach me a thing or two about archery. How old is he?”

  I might want to wring his neck first, but hell. By the sounds of it, the little bugger’s a White Hawk through and through.

  “Ryder’s twelve. He shouldn’t have taken the law into his own hands,” Peter said.

  “Why not?” Luke asked, his calm demeanor restored. “Isn’t that what we White Hawks do? Isn’t that what you’re doing on this blood hunt of yours?”

  No one spoke. Tension hung in the cool night air. Even the breeze seemed suspended after that quiet challenge, but Taylor couldn’t take this standoff, either. “Come on, guys. I can’t lose any of you. Never again. Let’s talk. Find a better way.”

  Peter’s dark eyes shifted to Taylor. Pride flashed between them. “That’s exactly what Martha would have said. She would have forgiven Ryder, too.”

  Taylor winced. Damn. I did that? Maybe there’s hope for me after all.

  “Are you hungry, Peter? I smoked a turkey today,” Gracie offered, “and I made your favorite sweet potato casserole.”

  “That sounds good,” he said wearily, and Taylor was amazed at the very normal conversation they were having with an admitted killer. His grandfather didn’t look the part. If anything, he just looked old, tired, and very sad. “I’ve picked a very good night to visit. My grandson is here and now a feast of thanksgiving. What more can an old man ask for?”

  The five of them walked back to Gracie’s home. Before long, they were crowded around her small kitchen table like any other normal family, bringing each other up to date on trivia and drinking coffee. Gracie spooned bread pudding onto dessert plates and covered it with cream. Peter ate his fill while Taylor listened and watched. And wondered.

  It must’ve been paradise when the laughter and chatter of Martha, Mary, Maggie, Patience, and Gracie filled his grandfather’s home. No wonder Peter resorted to the extreme measure of a blood hunt. What did he have to live for once the gentle, spirited women in his life were gone or taken from him? Why not go out in a blaze of glory, fighting one last good fight in honor of his daughters?

  The more Taylor sat and listened, the clearer the path before him. While he’d sworn off revenge only hours earlier, he could not swear off the mind-numbing loyalty on display between Luke and Ryder. Peter and Mary. Gracie and—me.

  Taylor looked to her now. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to catch her eye long enough to give her a wink, much less a heartfelt smile. She’d withdrawn from him after Luke spilled the truth about Ryder in the cemetery. He didn’t blame her for covering for Luke. How could he? The woman was cut of the same fierce cloth as these men and a few Marines he knew.

  He tapped his fingertips to the table beside his empty dessert plate to get her attention, but her gaze barely shifted. I’m still here, Gracie. Look at me. Smile for me. There’s nothing to forgive. I’d have done the same thing.

  When she didn’t comply with his mental wish, he tipped back and relaxed. Matthew had just opened a bottle of peach something or other, a liqueur saved for special times. Tonight certainly fit the bill, because Taylor had made up his mind.

  It might cost his job, his good name, and hell, maybe even his life, but the decision had never been clearer. When Peter left to complete his blood hunt, he would not go alone. Taylor would go with him. For Mary. For the White Hawk men. For family. For tribe.

  Oohrah!

  Chapter Twenty

  “Where are you, Taylor?” Alex muttered as he stared at the Chronicle Killer puzzle pieces in his hands, all the evidence, reports and findings his team had presented to him over the last few days. It was late and all his agents had gone home for the day. Only Mother remained.

  “Damn it, son. Call me. Let me help.”

  Since he didn’t know who to trust at the local precinct, he’d already notified the Virginia Attorney General. He’d handed over all of the concrete evidence that linked the Chronicle Killer murders to Peter White Hawk. He’d also presented his TEAM’s findings on the Mary White Hawk assault and offered his theory as to how that crime had been covered up and was linked to the current murders.

  D.A. Branson was plenty impressed and promised swift resolution of both cases. It just didn’t quell the nagging twist in the pit of Alex’s gut. He’d missed something. General Armstrong’s son was involved in the fifteen-year-old White Hawk tragedy, but how?

  The young man simply did not travel in the same circles. Taylor’s extensive military upbringing, followed by an outstanding USMC career and deployments allowed little social life. Mary and he hadn’t gone to the same school together. Even if they had, she was older. Taylor would’ve been nothing but an annoying twelve-year-old at the time of her assault, not even a teenager.

  Think, Stewart. Think. What are you not seeing?

  He stalked to the plate glass window in his office and stared at the nightlife below. Evening traffic rolled down King Street, east to the Potomac and back up the hill again to the metro station. A few horns honked, but for the most part, the traffic flowed.

  This was his go-to-spot when stress go the best of him. He stretched the tension out of his shoulders and stared, his fingertips tapping an undulating beat against the glass. Taylor might be injured—or worse.

  Alex had liked him the minute he’d looked up and saw Taylor stiff and formal at his office door, ready for his job interview. The young man in crisply ironed dress slacks, white shirt and a tie was neither reticent nor introverted that day. Taylor was more controlled than shy. Stoic. Alex knew the drill. He’d drawn a circle around himself that excluded everyone but his buddy, Gabe Cartwright. It was nothing but self-defense at its purest—a sure sign Taylor had lost too many friends.

  You can’t lose a friend you never made.

  A cab screeched to a sudden halt on the street below. Bumpers crunched. Horns blared. Angry hands flipped off rude gestures and—

  “Sonofabitch.” Alex hissed under his breath.

  The link was made. He just had to see it again to know for sure he was right. Shoving the paperwork aside on his desk, he searched. It had to be there somewhere. He thumbed through another stack, and bingo. Found it. The newspaper clipping of Mary White Hawk’s funeral.

  Thank God this reporter didn’t ascribe to the truth-twisting school of Crosland Webster. Alex studied the photo of graveside service with better eyes. This particular reporter had done an excellent job of accurately recording the small affair. So had the photographer.

  He’d caught a perfect shot of Peter White Hawk walking from his daughter’s graveside, his face downward, his fists clenched. Just a step behind him walked two younger men and a young woman. All three men wore the same angry expressions on their faces, their dark hair trimmed in short military cuts that reminded Alex of—

  Sonofabitch! Twins? He was looking at twins, at least brothers who looked exactly like Peter, who looked a lot like—

  Holy hell. Taylor. I’m looking at Taylor.

  Alex slapped the intercom button on his phone.

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “I want to know in five damned minutes how many times General Armstrong has been married. Get me a picture of his wives. All of them!”

  “You bet. I’ll get them for you in a—”

  He hung up on Mother. Alex hadn’t thought to question the difference in skin color between General Armstrong and his son. The General was light-haired, another stark difference with his only son. Alex had never met his wife. Hell, he didn’t know anything about the man’s marital situation, but he wanted to know now. Was there ever a Mrs. Armstrong of Native American Indian ancestry?

  Taylor was young enough to be Peter’s grandson. Or his nephew. That might mean—

  He’s tangled up in the Chronicle Killer murders. Peter White Hawk is his grandfather. He has to be. Taylor’s at White Hawk’s place right sonofabitchin’ now. Damn it to hell. H
ow colorblind am I?

  Alex punched his intercom again.

  “You know a woman can only work so fast, Boss,” Mother answered, complaining, “but you’ll never guess what I—”

  “Taylor is Peter White Hawk’s grandson,” Alex snapped. He didn’t care what she’d found. He had the proof he needed at his fingertips.

  “You know, I really hate when you ask me to investigate what you already—”

  “Never mind. Get Harley. Get Mark. Get everyone back in here. Now!”

  Alex ended the conversation before Mother turned nosy, his gut clenching for an entirely different reason. Why the hell was Taylor at White Hawks? Was he hiding? Working with Peter? Is that what this disappearing act was really about? Conspiracy? Did he know about the previous two murders?

  The thought curdled Alex’s blood. Hunting Peter down would be bad enough, but Taylor? The very real prospect of a showdown with two fellow Marines that he respected did nothing for the acid climbing up his throat.

  Not even remotely possible. Not Taylor. Alex settled his mind. The Leavitt and Hemmings murders occurred prior to Taylor’s disappearance. He’d been on an op with the Border Patrol in California. That Alex knew for sure. The young man had filed meticulous after action reports. He checked in on schedule. Never missed a single Sit Rep.

  And that bastard Charles Oakes. Why the hell did he care where Taylor was? Knowing he was a traitor sealed the deal. Charlie meant to hurt Taylor. Maybe Peter, too.

  In the end, the whys and hows of Taylor’s disappearance didn’t matter. Alex knew his men, and this kid was no renegade gunslinger. He needed help and a friend. Someone in his corner. Plain and simple.

  Alex shot one quick promise to the world outside his window, to the kid whose own father didn’t seem to care where he was tonight.

  “Button up and hunker down, son. I’m coming.”

  Damn. What’s going on? Where am I?

  Taylor opened his eyes, a difficult thing to do when they’re damned near pasted shut. His tongue felt the same, thick and glued to the roof of his mouth. The room spun in swirling blacks and flickering whites. His eyeballs hurt. He blinked the overwhelming drowsiness in his head away.