Journey's End

by BJ James

  “I’ve Decided Your Fate.”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by BJ James

  About the Author

  FORWARD

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Copyright

  “I’ve Decided Your Fate.”

  “And?” He was so close, his lips nearly brushed hers. The clean familiar scent of him tantalized and beguiled as he took her in his arms.

  “And this,” he whispered as his lips touched hers.

  He meant to keep it brief. But something in her, the soft yielding of her mouth, drew him nearer, holding him closer. She was too sweet. Dear heaven!

  The beat of his heart roughened in answer to the enchanting pleasure of her yielding, his kiss deepening, even as his mind said no. Slowly his mouth gentled on hers, and slowly drew away. Looking down at her, he knew he wanted her more than anything. But she was too vulnerable, her emotion in her shadowed eyes too naked.

  “One day,” he said with a tenderness he’d never known was in him. “But not this day.”

  Dear Reader,

  The celebration of Silhouette Desire’s 15th anniversary continues this month! First, there’s a wonderful treat in store for you as Ann Major continues her fantastic CHILDREN OF DESTINY series with November’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Nobody’s Child. Not only is this the latest volume in this popular miniseries, but Ann will have a Silhouette Single Title, also part of CHILDREN OF DESTINY, in February 1998, called Secret Child. Don’t miss either one of these unforgettable love stories.

  BJ James’s popular BLACK WATCH series also continues with Journey’s End, the latest installment in the stories of the men—and the women—of the secret agency. This wonderful lineup is completed with delicious love stories by Lass Small, Susan Crosby, Eileen Wilks and Shawna Delacorte. And next month, look for six more Silhouette Desire books, including a MAN OF THE MONTH by Dixie Browning!

  Desire...it’s the name you can trust for dramatic, sensuous, engrossing stories written by your bestselling favorites and terrific newcomers. We guarantee handsome heroes, likable heroines...and happily-ever-after endings. So read, and enjoy!

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  BJ JAMES

  JOURNEY’S END

  Published by Silhouette Books

  America’s Publisher of Contemporary Romance

  Books by BJ James

  Silhouette Desire

  The Sound of Goodbye #332

  Twice in a Lifetime #396

  Shiloh’s Promise #529

  Winter Morning #595

  Slade’s Woman #672

  A Step Away #692

  Tears of the Rose #709

  The Man with the Midnight Eyes #751

  Pride and Promises #789

  Another Time, Another Place #823

  The Hand of an Angel #844

  *Heart of the Hunter #945

  *The Saint of Bourbon Street #951

  *A Wolf in the Desert #956

  †Whispers in the Dark #1081

  †Journey’s End #1106

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Broken Spurs #733

  *Men of The Black Watch

  †The Black Watch

  BJ JAMES married her high school sweetheart straight out of college and soon found that books were delightful companions during her lonely nights as a doctor’s wife. But she never dreamed she would be more than a reader, never expected to be one of the blessed, letting her imagination soar, weaving magic of her own.

  BJ has twice been honored by the Georgia Romance Writers with their prestigious Maggie Award for Best Short Contemporary Romance. She has also received the following awards from Romantic Times: Critic’s Choice Award of 1994-1995, Career Achievement Award for Series Storyteller of the Year, and Best Desire of 1994-1995 for The Saint of Bourbon Street.

  FORWARD

  In desperate answer to a need prompted by changing times and mores, Simon McKinzie, dedicated and uncompromising leader of The Black Watch, has been called upon by the president of the United States to form a more covert and more dangerous division of his most clandestine clan. Ranging the world in ongoing assembly of this unique unit, he has gathered and will gather in the elite among the elite—those born with the gift or the curse of skills transcending the norm. Men and women who bring extraordinary and uncommon talents in answer to extraordinary and uncommon demands.

  They are, in most cases, men and women who have plummeted to the brink of hell because of their talents. Tortured souls who have stared down into the maw of destruction, been burned by its fires, yet have come back, better, surer, stronger. Driven and Colder.

  As officially nameless as The Black Watch, to those few who have had the misfortune and need of calling on their dark service, they are known as Simon’s chosen... Simon’s marauders.

  Prologue

  “No!”

  Boot heels thudding on the bare wood floor, Ty O’Hara scowled and paced and listened.

  “No,” he declared again into the telephone. “There have been guests here from early spring into early August. I can’t have any over the winter. I won’t.”

  In rare impatience, he whipped his Stetson from his head, sailing it across the room. Any other time he would have been mildly pleased when he scored a bull’s-eye, with the stained and worn hat settling perfectly onto the peg by the door. Another time, but not today. Not when he had the sinking, drowning feeling he was waging a losing battle.

  “I said no. N, period. O, period. A short, simple word an intelligent woman such as yourself should have no trouble comprehending.”

  He stopped his pacing abruptly, his fingers raked through sweat flattened hair. “Of course I love you. Of course I trust you. Of course I know what you’re asking is exactly the sort of thing that saved you. And of course I know you wouldn’t ask unless this was of the direst importance.

  “But,” he turned to face a bank of windows and the mountainous vista they offered, “the answer is still no.”

  He found no pleasure in the view. None in his refusal. Sighing, he grumbled, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  There was silence in the cabin, then, interrupting the coaxing voice whispering in his ear, he demanded, “Why? Why is it so important this Santiago comes here? With the resources Simon McKinzie has at his command, why send his walking wounded to me?”

  Finding no resolution in the mountains, Ty turned his back on them. “It was your suggestion?” Closing his eyes he thought of a much loved face with a stubborn chin framed by a wealth of hair only a shade lighter than his own black mane. Of a level gaze a shade darker, descending from deep blue to navy in solemn resolve. Of a mouth that trembled in tenderhearted concern. “Because this is your friend, you promised I would help?”

  He began to pace again. “No, I wouldn’t want you to break your promise. Yes, I remember our promise to each other. We are blood brothers and sisters, Val. We were born that way,” he reminded drolly. “No, I haven’t forgotten cutting our palms when you were eight and I was ten, then bleeding all over each other to make the bond stronger.”

  Once he would have smiled at the memory: The five of them, descending in age by one year or two from Devlin, to Kieran, to himself, then Valentina and the youngest, Patience. Five O’Haras huddled
together on a summer day, swearing secret and eternal fidelity, biting back pain, dripping O’Hara blood.

  A kid’s stunt and Dev’s idea, but Tynan had decided more than once over the years that the ritual had succeeded. Why else had he always been such a soft touch for his sisters? Why now, he wondered as he went down in flames. Crashing, burning, sighing in defeat, he agreed, “All right.”

  Pausing, he waited for the long distance jubilation to subside. “That’s what I said. Yes, I promise.” His brows plummeted in a deepening frown. “When? When will this Merrill Santiago come?”

  Gripping the telephone, he squinted and nodded. “You were so certain I would agree, he’s already on his way?”

  “She?”

  His eyes blinked open, the telephone crackled under his grasp. “She! Tell me this is a joke, Val. I need for you to tell me this is a joke.”

  The open phone line hummed hollowly in his ear.

  “Val! No! Don’t you dare.”

  With the sounding of a pleased and wicked chuckle, the line went dead. Valentina had seized her victory and signed off. Leaving her brother with a broken connection and a growing sense of dismay.

  “A woman!” Ty muttered to the four walls, to the mountains, to the darkening Montana sky. “Merrill Santiago is a woman.” The receiver clattered into its cradle. “What the hell have you done? Why, Valentina?”

  Brooding in the gathering of twilight, Tynan knew with dreadful certainty there was no help for his sister’s coup. No remedy for an O’Hara fait accompli.

  “Caged with a wounded kitten for the winter. A female kitten! God help me. God help us both.” Teeth clenched, he scowled into the first fall of night. “Beginning with tomorrow.”

  One

  Snow!

  Tynan O’Hara looked into a cloudless Montana sky and offered another silent plea. He cajoled. He implored. Before that he’d commanded, demanded. And he’d cursed.

  But Mother Nature, that fickle and wily lady, hadn’t listened. No more than Valentina had listened.

  “When will I learn to say no, and mean it?” he asked the wolf sitting patiently at his feet.

  As it echoed through the comfortable, but spartan room, the sound of his deep voice would have been startling if there had been ears other than his own and the wolf’s to hear. He spoke softly for a man so large, his words filled with unshakable, ironic calm even in anger. Anger directed at himself, destined to be short lived as his anger always was.

  Leaving the window and its ever changing view, he crossed to a woodstove. The scarred and monstrously ugly antique, more than thrice his thirty-five years, had proven more than thrice as practical for his needs than one less ugly and more modern. Lifting a battered tin pot from the iron top, he refilled a tin cup nearly as battered. Sipping the brew that would have grown hair on his chest if it weren’t there already, he returned to his study of sprawling pastures and silent mountains. The latter, riddled with deep gashes of chasms carved by the great rivers of ice called down by the unheeding Mother Nature aeons before, forever fascinating.

  Ty moved with an easy grace, walked with an agile step. Attentive and poised as he was in everything.

  Given his manner, his coal black hair, his chiseled cheeks and darkly weathered skin, were it not for his eyes, he might have been mistaken for a member of the nearby Indian tribe. But as there were no ears to hear the soft, deep voice, neither were there eyes to see the eyes that were as blue as a Montana lake, bluer than its sky. Irish eyes, an arresting reminder of his black Irish heritage, in a thoroughly American face.

  The quietude with which he surrounded himself, with which he unfailingly reacted, told less of his share of the fabled Irish temper than of a remarkable control. Which, now, as he looked out over the rugged land, was sorely tested.

  This was his home, his time. The season of the tourist, the interim when he served as guide and outfitter for the temporary guest, was over. The season purposely cut short, with most of the horses moved to more temperate pastures; the summer hands decamped, scattered, taking up their winter’s work.

  And Tynan O’Hara had returned to the small cabin no tourist and few ranch hands had ever entered.

  He wasn’t misanthropic. Far from it. He truly enjoyed these people he called summer folk, enchanting the ladies with his easygoing charm, engaging the gentlemen with his down-to-earth approach to life and living. And all of it easily, naturally done, with Ty hardly realizing that he had. He was always glad to see them come, the wide-eyed and eager adventurers with childhood dreams of the West tucked in their hearts and shining on their faces. He delighted in sharing with them this land, the land that had chosen him, the wilderness that fulfilled his own dream and halted his restless wandering.

  Yet when summer was done, and the mildest of autumn past, he was equally as glad to see them go. As delighted to have the land he called Fini Terre to himself once again.

  Now winter loomed and, with no respect for the calendar, could arrive at any minute. When it came, born on westerly winds created by the ever changing Pacific Coast weather, like all survivors of this challenging parcel of earth, he would be ready.

  In a barn divided into both stable and garage, there was a truck, a snowmobile, and a snowplow. Stored in sheds set apart were gasoline and hay to fuel whatever form of transportation he wished or would need.

  A plentiful supply of wood was chopped, split and stacked in a shed attached to the small cabin. An ample reserve of food and medical supplies had been laid down in the cellar, along with a selection of his favorite wines. Just in case, though he didn’t know what case, there were kegs of water, as well. In this place of clean streams, lakes, and snow, it required a stretch of the imagination to envision the lack of water becoming a problem. Within the cabin, itself, there were lamps and oil, candles, and books. Even snowshoes and skis, and every other conceivable supply, from flashlights to extra buttons.

  As efficiently as the ever busy red squirrel, he had prepared. And like an old bear he looked forward to the six foot snows and was ready to hibernate. Like an old bear in a tuxedo, he admitted ruefully when he thought of the generator, waiting and ready for when the electricity would inevitably fail; the sophisticated radio he would use only in the event of an emergency; and a state-of-the-art computer residing in the small, anterior room off the gallery that he called his lair.

  “What the hell happens now when the snows cover the windows and seal the doors?” he asked the wolf as he regarded a sky that showed no sign of granting the very weather of which he spoke. “What will I do when the electricity stops and the generator dies, and the lonelies creep in?”

  The lonelies.

  His name for a very integral part of living as he did. That endless interval when Spring is nearly a dream realized, yet Winter lingers arrogantly, behaving its worst, its mood most capricious. A condition perfect for sending one plummeting into depression and the madness of cabin fever, or for strengthening one’s resolve and renewing one’s soul as it did for Ty.

  “What will it do to Simon McKinzie’s walking wounded? What miracle does he expect of me?”

  The wolf grinned, thumped his tail once on the bare floor, and kept his own counsel. Tilting his head, he presented the soft, vulnerable underside of his ebony throat to be scratched.

  “No answer, huh?” Without interrupting his vigil, Ty stroked the wolf. “I guess you’re thinking it’s my own fault, that we wouldn’t be in this predicament if I’d only said no to Valentina. But could you say no to your sister? Wait!” In a forestalling motion he lifted his hand from the wolfs throat. “Don’t tell me, I know. But I promise you, sport, you’d be as big a sucker as I’ve always been if your sisters were like Val. Or Patience.”

  The wolf turned an uncertain look at him.

  “You don’t think so, I take it?” A nearly silent rumble drew taut the furry black throat as the wolf turned to stare again out the window. “Better think again. You’d understand if you knew their history with me. No,” he corrected
. “You’d understand better if you knew my slavish history with them.”

  With a self mocking shake of his head, Tynan O’Hara murmured, “I keep telling myself the day will come when I won’t be such an easy mark for either of my sisters. But, in my heart, I know that will also be the proverbial cold day in Hell.”

  The rumble became a soft growl, as the wolf grew uncommonly impatient with his master’s uncommon monologue.

  “I know, sport,” he soothed the wolf. “I’m not completely blinded, I see it, too.”

  A flash of light where there should be only grass and rolling hills had caught human as well as canine attention. Setting the cup aside, with hands shoved abruptly into the hip pockets of his jeans, his mouth drawn into a stark line and eyes narrowed against the brilliant unsullied sky, Ty waited with the wolf for a second flash.

  “There,” he muttered. A sound not unlike a growl itself.

  As if needing only this cue, the wolf drew himself to attention. Ears perked and acutely tuned. Eyes, no less blue than any fourth generation Irishman’s, riveted. As the ridge of fur bristled the length of his spine, he stood like a shadowy sentinel by the side of the human he’d chosen as his own.

  The light flashed, then again in another place, drawing ever closer to the cabin. “And there,” Ty confirmed grimly. “Coming too fast.”

  The flash, light glinting off the windshield of a vehicle approaching as if it expressed the turbulent mood of its driver, became constant. In a matter of minutes, if it made the grade that dipped, then rose to the cabin, the Land Rover would be in his yard.