Mystical Warrior

by Janet Chapman

  “But not a husband?” he quietly asked. “Was getting married ever one of your childhood dreams?”

  She looked up, smiling crookedly again. “It was until I was old enough to realize that husbands are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  He didn’t return her smile, but he did pull his hand away. “So are you saying that if some man here in the twenty-first century—say, some guy you might actually be able to like—were to ask you to marry him, you’d say no?”

  “Yes, I would probably say no.”

  “A flat-out no without even thinking about it? You wouldn’t even take a couple of days or weeks to even consider his proposal?”

  Wondering at the edge creeping into his voice, Fiona gave him a tight smile. “I believe that’s the best thing about this century. I can have a child without it being ostracized for being born out of wedlock, which means I won’t have to put up with a husband bossing me around in order to achieve my dreams.”

  “Husbands and wives are equal partners today, so nobody’s bossing anybody around,” he growled. “Marriage is about teamwork.”

  She snorted. “Tell that to Winter and Eve. When I lived with them, those poor women spent half their time trying to avoid an argument and the other half figuring out ways to make their husbands believe everything was their idea.”

  “They’re married to eleventh-century men!” he snapped. He took a deep breath, apparently to calm himself, although she didn’t know why he was getting so riled up to begin with. “Look,” he continued quietly. “My mother remarried, and she’s the happiest woman on the planet right now. She loves being married.”

  “Is her husband a warrior?”

  “What? No. What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked, the edge creeping back into his voice.

  “I don’t care what century it is; warriors give orders and expect to be obeyed, and they don’t leave that habit on the battlefield.” She beamed him a smile, hoping to soothe whatever had gotten him so riled. “I’m really glad your mother found someone who obviously cherishes her the way your stepfather must. But few marriages are love matches, even today. Oh, they start out lovely,” she said, waving at nothing, “but a majority of them turn nasty, and the men and women stay together for the sake of the children while having affairs with other people, and before you know it, everyone ends up either drinking too much or taking medicine to dull their heartache.”

  He blinked at her, and then his face suddenly darkened. “For chrissakes, those are soap operas! They’re not real.”

  She gripped the fence rail to keep from falling when she leaned away and kicked her smile up another notch. “I am aware the stories are exaggerated to make them interesting.” She sighed. “Why are we having this conversation, Trace? What does it matter that I don’t want to get married?” She tried smiling at him again, feeling more like Eve and Winter than she cared to admit. “You have my word of honor; I will not drag home innocent men all hours of the day and night.”

  He suddenly jumped down off the fence, grasped her waist, and lifted her down, then started leading her toward his truck.

  “I’m not going to An Téarmann,” she hissed, clawing at his hand.

  He pulled her off-balance with a muttered curse, forcing her to grasp his sleeve to keep from falling. “I’m not taking you anywhere. I’m giving you a shooting lesson.”

  “Is there a reason you can’t ask me to go with you instead of dragging me around like a recalcitrant child?”

  He finally let go of her to open his truck door. “Is that an eleventh-century word?” he asked, reaching in to his seat. “Because in this century, we just call them brats. Here,” he said, shoving a belted pouch at her. “Put this on. And you keep it on until I tell you to take it off.”

  She nearly dropped it, she was so surprised by its weight. But then he grabbed it away from her when she merely looked at it, too late realizing that it was just like the gun sheath he was wearing on his own thigh.

  She immediately snatched it back. “No, I want it,” she said, unbuttoning her coat one-handed as she held the gun out of his reach. She contorted out of the coat and let it fall to the ground, so excited that she started undoing the sheath’s buckle before her arm was even out of her sleeve.

  “You’ve got it upside down,” he said, taking it from her again. “Wait. Are you right- or left-handed, so I know which leg to strap the holster to?”

  She held up her right hand.

  “Okay. Good,” he said, crouching to sit on his heels. He reached around her to put the belt around her waist, and she heard the buckle close with a soft snap. But then she had to grab the belt when it started sliding down her hips from the weight of the gun. “Hold it up while I adjust it,” he said, placing it at her waistline.

  “Make it tight, so it doesn’t pull down my pants,” she told him as she bent over and lifted the holster. “This gun looks smaller than the one you’re wearing. Why can’t I have one just like yours?”

  He pulled the holster out of her hand and let it fall back to her thigh. “Trust me, it’s big enough to knock you on your bottom. It’s a semiautomatic pistol, with nine bullets. Spread your legs,” he said, sliding his hand between her knees.

  Fiona did as he instructed but then went perfectly still, looking toward the house so he wouldn’t see the heat climbing into her cheeks. She felt him wrap a strap around her thigh just above her knee and then felt his hand slowly move up her leg.

  “Open wider,” he said thickly.

  “Let me do it,” she said as she bent over and shoved his hand away. “I need to know how to put it on for when I go to the … bathroom,” she ended on a whisper.

  She spun away to hide her blush as she fumbled with the straps—which didn’t seem to have a buckle—only her hip smacked into Trace, sending him backward to land sprawled in the snow.

  “Will you calm down!”

  “There aren’t any buckles on this strap,” she muttered just as the two ends suddenly stuck to each other. “Oh, nice,” she said, lifting the flap on the holster. She pulled out the gun and straightened. “Do I just pull the trigger on this one, too, or do I have to push one of these buttons?”

  “For chrissakes!” he yelped, jumping up and grabbing her arm to spin her toward the woods. “You need to treat every gun as if it’s loaded.”

  “But I didn’t have my finger on the trigger, see?” she said, lifting her hand to show him, even though he was still gripping her arm. “Can I shoot it? I want to see the bullet hit something,” she said, looking around. “Does it explode whatever it hits?”

  She heard him take another deep breath. “You’re really scary, you know that?”

  “There,” she said, pointing at the fallen maple tree on the front lawn. “That stump looks just like one of those bastard demons,” she said, pointing the gun at it.

  “Will you hold on,” Trace growled, wrapping his arms around her from behind and grabbing her wrists. “It’s not loaded.”

  She frowned up at him. “Then what did you get all excited about?”

  “Because you always need to treat a gun as if it’s loaded. Now, pay attention while I show you how it works. First, you have to slide a bullet into the chamber.”

  He wrapped his fingers over her hand holding the gun and used his other hand to push a button on the side. Fiona gasped when something fell out of the bottom of the handle, and she tried to catch it.

  Only Trace beat her to it. “This is the magazine, or clip, and it holds nine bullets. That means you can have a total of ten shots if you keep one in the chamber, which is right here,” he said, touching the top of the gun.

  “Then why isn’t there one in it?”

  “Because even though the gun has a safety,” he said, pointing to another button on the side, “it’s actually safer to keep only the clip loaded. That way, if a kid gets hold of the gun, he can’t just pull the trigger and fire it.”

  “That’s wise,” she said, looking over her shoulder to smile at him.r />
  “Turn around and watch what I’m doing,” he said, nudging her again. “You slide the clip up in the handle like this. Listen,” he said, pushing on it firmly. “Hear that click? That means it’s fully seated.” He readjusted her grip, then took hold of the top of the gun and pulled it back toward her, although by the way the handle dug into her hand, she could see that he had to use a lot of pressure.

  “I think I prefer the revolver,” she said, frowning, “because I don’t want to have to do that every time. No, wait. You just pulled the trigger on yours the other day.”

  “That’s what makes this a semiautomatic,” he said. “Once you’ve loaded the chamber, every time you pull the trigger, it fires, until the clip is empty. And you’ll know it’s empty because the slide will stay cocked back.”

  “But I watched you firing at the demons the other day, and you just pulled the trigger once and held it back.”

  “Yeah, I modified mine to do that.”

  “I want mine to do that, too. It will be quicker.”

  He nudged her to face forward again. “No, for you, it would be really, really dangerous,” he drawled. “And there’s also the fact that fully automatic guns are illegal.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re really, really dangerous,” he growled. He pulled the gun out of her hand and stepped away. “I’m going to shoot a couple of rounds at the stump first, and I want you to watch the gun, not the tree, okay? Plug your ears.”

  “Wait. I saw parts of the bullets shoot out the side of your gun the other day.”

  “Those are the empty shells that hold the powder. Trust me, the bullets went out the barrel. Plug your ears.”

  “Wait. Won’t we scare the townspeople? It was quite deafening in the room.”

  He looked over at her and sighed. “Nobody around here’s going to get worried about a couple of gunshots. Any more questions?” he growled.

  She mutely shook her head, stifling her smile.

  “Okay, plug your ears and watch,” he said, holding the gun out in both hands.

  She saw his thumb flip the little button on the side and realized she’d have to remember to push the correct button so she didn’t end up popping the clip out instead. She stuck her fingers in her ears but still jumped when the gun went off, then flinched again when he shot a second time almost immediately.

  He suddenly popped the clip out while still pointing at the tree, pulled the trigger a third time—just as she dropped her hands because she thought he was done—and made her jump again in surprise as her ears rang painfully.

  “Okay, now, watch this,” he said, still pointing toward the tree. “See how the slide stays back because the gun’s empty? There are two more full clips on your holster, so when you’ve fired all your rounds, you just pop out the empty clip and slide in a new one. But remember to make it click,” he reminded her as he pushed the clip back in the handle. “And here, you push down on this button with your thumb, and you’re back in business.”

  The slide slammed forward rather violently, and she saw Trace push the safety back on. She reached out for the gun, but he pulled it back.

  “No, I want you to load it yourself,” he said, dropping the clip out and then pulling the slide so that the bullet popped out of the chamber. He pushed the bullet down into the top of the clip, handed it to her, and then handed her the empty gun.

  “I still believe I prefer the revolver,” she said, staring at the two items in her hands. She looked up at him. “Because honestly? If the demons are chasing me, I don’t think I’ll have time to remember which buttons to push in what order.”

  He stared at her for what seemed like forever, and she could tell by how his eyes darkened that he was probably picturing the demons chasing her.

  So she smiled. “Then again,” she said, shoving the clip into the handle, making sure she heard it click, “nine shots are better than six, and I prefer not to blow my leg off in the meantime.” She had to stiffen her right arm and point the gun toward the ground in order to pull the contrary slide back, but when she let it go, she was fairly certain there was a bullet in the chamber. She held the gun out in both hands, making sure the skin between her thumb and finger wasn’t in the way, and slipped off the safety and aimed at the tree.

  “You need to line the notch in the rear sights up with the white bead on the front of the barrel,” he said, bending down behind her. He reached around and held her arms to lift the gun, tucking his head against her ear. “See where my bullet hit the tree? Line the sights up so it’s right behind that front bead, and then slowly pull the trigger.”

  “I won’t have time to line them up if I’m being chased,” she said, finding it difficult to line up the white dot, probably because his being so close was distracting her.

  And he certainly didn’t smell like fish today.

  “You have to aim only if your target’s at a distance. Within ten paces, just point and shoot. But if your target doesn’t know you’re there, you can take the time to aim for a vital spot.” He stepped away and plugged his ears. “Okay. Fire two shots, then put the safety back on before you lower the gun. Just remember, it’s going to pack a hell of a wallop, so be prepared. No, wait!” he said.

  Fiona clicked the safety back on, still holding the gun aimed at the tree, and turned to see him sit down in the snow and pat his legs as he looked toward the barn. “Come on, Misneach,” he called excitedly, slapping his legs again. “Come, boy!”

  “No, don’t bring him here. The noise will scare him.”

  “Naw. He must have come up from the marsh when he heard my shots, so he can’t be gun-shy. I was afraid all that gunfire the other day had ruined him for life. I’ll cover his ears so it won’t be too loud. Hey, Misneach, you’re not afraid of a little noise, are you, you big demon fighter?” he said when the pup barreled into him. Trace turned Misneach around and tucked him up against his chest, and covered the pup’s ears with his hands and smiled up at Fiona. “Okay, you can kill your demon tree now, and then go give Mac some lunch while I have one last look around.”

  She turned and lined up the front bead on the gun with the hole Trace had made and pulled the trigger—but nothing happened.

  “Safety’s on,” he said with a chuckle.

  Fiona slid it off with her thumb, aimed, pulled the trigger, and stumbled backward several steps when the gun discharged, giving a yelp of surprise when her right hand felt like she’d just been stung by a swarm of bees.

  “Again,” Trace said with a laugh. “Then, while still aiming, drop the clip out and shoot it a third time.”

  She braced herself and fired, dropped the clip and fired again, and with her ears ringing and her entire arm numb but for the thousand needles sticking into it, she lowered the gun and turned to him, smiling broadly. “Can I buy this pistol from you after the battle? And the holster and the extra clips?”

  “Absolutely, unequivocally, no,” he said as he scrambled to his feet—though he was laughing. He took the gun from her and closed the slide, then picked the clip up off the ground. “But maybe after a month of lessons, I’ll consider giving it to you as a gift.”

  Fiona felt heat creeping into her cheeks again. “I believe I prefer to buy it from you,” she whispered, spinning away when she saw the laughter leave his eyes. She walked to the tree stump, wanting to kick herself when she realized she’d just hurt his feelings. “Not that I don’t appreciate your offer,” she said without looking back. “But really, teaching me how to shoot it is gift enough. Oh no!” she cried when she reached the tree. “I didn’t hit it even once.”

  “That’s because you closed your eyes each time you pulled the trigger,” he said, coming up behind her. She saw him reach into his pocket, pull out some bullets, and push them one at a time into the clip. “You need to keep both eyes open. Here, put this in your holster, and sleep with that gun on your hip until this is over.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, sliding the gun into her holster. “I … you �
�� I don’t want to be—”

  “Forget it,” he said, spinning away. “You’d better go check on Mac.”

  Fiona stared at his back as he walked away, wondering if she wasn’t an ass. The man might be pushing at her one minute and pulling her the next, but he’d confessed that it was because he was scared.

  She walked over and picked up her coat, and started toward the house. The only thing was, she didn’t know what Trace Huntsman was scared of, exactly.

  Not her, surely. Although he’d admitted to having feelings for her, he’d also admitted that he didn’t particularly like that he had them. And it certainly couldn’t be that she was a woman, because he’d also admitted that he liked women in general.

  He was so different from any other man she’d ever met, including her brothers. Trace was a warrior, but any warrior she’d ever known simply saw something he wanted and took it, usually by brute strength, whereas Trace seemed to prefer to … coax whatever he desired to come to him.

  Like the first time he’d kissed her; she’d expected him to overwhelm her, but after initiating the kiss, he had simply waited for her reaction. And the second time, he’d asked her either to kiss him or slap his face, as if he hoped she would make up his mind for him. She blew out a sigh as she walked onto the porch. Trace wasn’t just the most interesting man she’d ever met; he was also the most confounding.

  She stopped with her hand on the doorknob when she heard Misneach barking frantically, sounding as if he was running down the path to the marsh. She spun around and ran to the end of the paddock, stopping when a gust of moist, frigid wind nearly knocked her over. Grabbing the fence post for support, she saw Trace running down the bluff behind the house through the snow, trying to intercept the dog.

  She could see the waves crashing against the shore, sending spray high into the air. And on the swelling waves, for as far as she could see, were dozens of huge whales swimming back and forth, with hundreds of what looked like dolphins weaving in and out among them, their incessant chattering carried inland on the wind.