Storming Whitehorn

by Christine Scott

  Storm stepped through one of the living room’s set of French doors and onto a wide screened-in porch. The porch ran the length of the back of the house. From here, the view of Blue Mirror Lake was spectacular. Its flat, shiny surface, indeed, looked like polished glass. A dense forest of pine trees surrounded the property, and the air was thick with their pungent scent. In the distance, he saw the mountains of the Laughing Horse Reservation.

  His breath caught painfully at the sight. Though he’d traveled many miles to escape from his past on the reservation, he could never completely leave behind its harsh memories. He glanced around the bed-and-break fast, at the casual display of Kincaid wealth, and felt a bitter taste rise in his throat. No matter how many college degrees he might acquire, or how much money he made in his law practice in New Mexico, he would never forget his troubled past, his poor, hand-to-mouth up bringing. He would never be able to stand tall in a world that included the Kincaid family.

  With the ghosts of the past chasing him, Storm whirled away from the sight of the reservation and strode back into the house. The heels of his shoes pounded against the pine floor as he made his way to the front door. But he didn’t care about the noise. He didn’t care about anything but escaping.

  “Mr. Hunter…Storm.” There was a note of desperation in Jasmine’s sweet melodic voice.

  Storm clenched his jaw in annoyance and told himself to keep walking. Don’t look back. Don’t stop, no matter how great the temptation might be.

  Her boots tapped an urgent beat against the wood floor as she hurried toward him. Guiltily, he heard the breathless quality of her voice as she called, “Please wait. I’d like to talk to you.”

  A heavy hand of frustration pressed against his shoulders, slowing his pace. Though he was only a few steps from a clean getaway, he couldn’t find the strength to abandon her. He chided himself for being so weak-willed and wondered what it was about this woman that, when she was near, made him lose all sense of judgment.

  Wheeling to face her, he didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “Ms. Monroe, I’m very busy. I don’t have time—”

  “This won’t take long,” she assured him. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion. Her chest rose as she took in a steadying breath. “I—I just wanted to thank you.”

  He raised a brow in disbelief. “You want to thank me?”

  She nodded. “That, and to apologize.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead he waited for her to continue, purposefully schooling his face to be void of expression, uncertain whether to trust her unexpected change of heart.

  “Earlier I jumped to the wrong conclusion. When you brought my mother home, she looked so weak and helpless, I—I was shocked. I said the first thing that popped into my mind. I accused you of hurting her, without knowing the facts. For that I’m truly sorry. Please don’t think that I would judge you, or anyone else, for that matter, solely on the color of their skin. Because it just isn’t true.”

  He believed her.

  During her plea for understanding, Jasmine had looked him straight in the eye. Her gaze had never wavered, not once. Either she was the coolest liar he’d ever met, or she was telling the truth.

  He’d bet the house on the latter.

  Grudgingly he asked, “Your mother, is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” she said, striving for a light hearted tone, and failed. Blushing, she gave a self-deprecating smile and added, “Or at least she will be, now that she’s home. Thank you, once again, for taking care of her.”

  Then, with the impetuousness of the young, she reached out and enfolded him in an innocent hug of gratitude.

  While he told himself the gesture was probably not unusual for this woman who seemed so open with her own feelings, he wasn’t prepared for such a free-spirited reaction. To his chagrin, his body reacted in a most uncordial manner.

  With her soft curves pressed against him, he felt himself harden in response. His hands caught her waist with the intention of pushing her away. Instead he found himself pulling her closer.

  As though she sensed a shift in the mood, Jasmine pulled back. With her hands still linked behind his neck, she lifted her eyes to his. A slight frown wrinkled her brow. Her look was not one of alarm, but rather of curiosity.

  Her face was turned upward to his. Her lips, so soft and full and inviting, proved too much of a temptation. Once again, he lost his battle with will-power.

  Knowing full well all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this, Storm was unable to stop himself. Slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.

  He heard the quick inhalation of her breath, felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, and waited for her to resist. But she didn’t. Instead she leaned forward, tilted her head in a more accommodating position and silently encouraged him to deepen the kiss.

  Logic and reason escaping him, he brushed his tongue against her lips and felt them open to him. Gently he explored the moist heat of her mouth, savoring its sweet taste.

  Closing her eyes, she collapsed against him, letting her softness mold his body. She clung to him, burying her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, bringing a delicious shiver coursing down his spine.

  A low moan of desire escaped his throat as he tightened his grip on her waist and let the kiss deepen. Storm had never felt this way before, this recklessness, this intense yearning for more. Proof was in the fire in his belly, as well as in his heart. This was different. Jasmine was different. After a lifetime of loneliness, it had taken him only a moment to realize what had been missing.

  She was the one.

  He had finally found his soul mate.

  The unexpected thought came from out of no where, chilling him. Abruptly he ended the kiss. Winded, he sucked in deep drafts of air as he stared down at her flushed face. Her lips were swollen from his caress, and her eyes sparkled with an excitement that he had ignited. He felt another surge of desire for this woman deep in his loins.

  He tore his gaze from her face and forced himself to look at the pale, white arm that rested against his own coppery skin. Once again, the differences in their lives came crashing down upon him, screaming out to him what a fool he’d been.

  Jasmine Kincaid Monroe would never be his soul mate. The only thing they shared was a star-crossed history. What he felt for her was lust, plain and simple.

  As his brother before him, he wanted what he could not have. The sooner he realized that, the better.

  With the harsh reminder echoing in his mind, he pushed himself from the tempting warmth of her embrace and turned away. He hurried outside. Rocks crunched beneath his shoes as he strode to the car. He slung himself into the front seat, gunned the engine to life and shifted the car into gear. Gravel and dust spewed from beneath the tires as he spun out onto the driveway.

  Midway down the lane into town, he allowed himself to glance into the rearview mirror. Like a dream that had disappeared upon waking, Jasmine was no longer there.

  Chapter Two

  Jasmine felt numb the next morning as she stared across the rolling green slopes of the Whitehorn Cemetery. The sky was overcast, the sun hidden behind a bank of storm clouds, making the white marble head stones and the simple lime stone crosses appear almost luminescent in the false twilight. A cool breeze swept the grounds, carrying with it the promise of the long winter ahead. She shivered in her simple black dress, wishing she’d remembered to bring a sweater.

  Moodily, she blamed her lack of fore thought on Storm Hunter. Him, and his damned kiss. Since yesterday she’d been unable to think of little else. Thoughts of Storm and their encounter had left her restless and preoccupied. He’d come and gone in a blink of an eye like a fast-moving tornado, but the damage he’d left behind had been devastating.

  Her womanly pride had been shattered.

  Pushing the troubling thought from her mind, she concentrated on the ceremony taking place. Along with a small gathering of the Kincaid clan,
Jasmine had come to pay her respects to a cousin she barely knew. For this was the day that Lyle Brooks was being laid to rest.

  While they’d been close in age, only a year apart, Lyle had spent most of his life in Elk Springs. It wasn’t until recently that he’d made his presence known in Whitehorn. A presence that had spelled trouble from the start.

  Though the details were still sketchy, Lyle’s fateful business dealings had rocked the small town of Whitehorn. He’d been a major player in the planning of the casino/resort that would encompass both the Kincaid property and the Laughing Horse Reservation. His grandfather, Garrett Kincaid, had entrusted him to oversee the family interest in the project. A decision that an obviously distraught Garrett now regretted.

  For reasons unknown, Lyle had killed one of the construction workers at the building site by pushing him off of a forty-five-foot ledge. When Gretchen Neal, the lead detective on the case, uncovered his culpability in the crime, Lyle had tried to kill her to silence her. Before he could carry out his plan, Jasmine’s cousin, David Hannon, had shot and killed him in a gun battle.

  Construction on the new casino/resort had been halted, its future in limbo. The business deal, which would have been profitable for both the town of Whitehorn as well as the members of the Laughing Horse Reservation, had been dealt a lethal blow. One from which no one was certain it would recover.

  Now they were gathered here to pay their respects to a man who hardly deserved them. Even before they’d discovered the extent of Lyle’s evil, Jasmine had never felt comfortable around her cousin. He’d had such a dark aura, and there were always too many bad vibrations emanating from him.

  Jasmine frowned. Dark aura? Bad vibrations? Good grief, she was starting to sound like her mother. She sighed. Mystical nonsense, or not, Lyle Brooks was one man whose spirit she wanted to see settled, not roaming free to cause more heart ache.

  She scanned the group, looking for familiar faces. Her mother and her sister, Cleo, were nearby. As well as Aunt Yvette and Uncle Edward, with their daughter, Frannie, and her husband Austin, at their side. Noticeably absent, however, was their son, David, the man responsible for Lyle’s death, and his fiancée, Gretchen Neal, whom he intended to marry come spring.

  Garrett Kincaid, with his distinctive head of silver hair, stood tall and straight at the front of the group, supporting his grief-stricken daughter, Alice Brooks, Lyle’s mother. Alice’s husband, Henry, hovered at his wife’s side, helplessly patting her arm, trying to ease her sorrow. Henry looked pale and hollow-eyed, devastated by the loss of his only son.

  Across the way, Jasmine spotted her cousin, Summer Kincaid Night hawk. When Summer’s mother, Blanche Kincaid, had died, Yvette and Celeste had taken her under their wing, raising her as their own daughter. Inseparable since childhood, Jasmine and Summer were like sisters. Now, though Summer wore a somber expression and her long dark hair was gathered into a severe bun at the back of her head, Summer glowed with an internal happiness that couldn’t be dimmed even in the darkness that surrounded this day. Obviously marriage to Gavin Night hawk agreed with her.

  Some of the new cousins were in attendance also. These were the illegitimate sons of Larry Kincaid, Garrett’s only son, who’d recently been united on the Kincaid ranch. While Jasmine barely knew this new batch of relatives, it felt good to have them gathered around her. It gave her hope for a new beginning, the possibility of a familial closeness yet to come.

  The minister’s final blessing rose above the cry of the wind and Alice Brooks’s sobs of grief, signaling an end to the service. With a nod toward Garrett, the minister picked up a handful of newly spaded dirt and tossed it onto the bronze casket as it was lowered into the ground. In turn, Garrett and Henry Brooks followed suit, letting a fistful of dirt sift through each of their hands.

  When it was Alice Brooks’s turn to perform the ritual, she stood beside the gravesite, shaking uncontrollably. Then, with an ear-piercing scream of anguish, she threw herself onto the casket, wailing in consolably. The winches holding the coffin shuddered at the added weight. The grounds keeper operating the lift fumbled with the switch, cutting the power. A communal gasp of surprise arose from the crowd.

  “For God’s sake, Alice. What are you doing?” Garrett called, reaching for his daughter.

  At first Henry Brooks stood frozen to the spot, his eyes wide, his mouth dropping open in surprise. At the sound of his father-in-law’s gruff voice, he gave a visible shake, ridding himself of his stupor. Quickly he grabbed for his wife.

  Alice clung to the casket, stubbornly refusing to relinquish her death grip. Jasmine’s heart went out to the woman. Though Alice had a reputation for being shrewish, no one deserved to suffer such grief. After a few agonizingly discomfitting moments, the two men finally coaxed her to loosen her hold. They pulled her away, half carrying, half leading her from the gravesite.

  The crowd dispersed amid murmurs of shock at the dramatic scene they had just witnessed.

  Shaken by the unexpected events, Jasmine turned to leave. As she did so, she spotted a tall figure at the fringe of the gathering. He stood apart from the group, almost hidden beneath the shading branches of one of the many pine trees that stood sentry over the hallowed grounds. But she had no trouble recognizing him.

  It was Storm Hunter.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she stopped and stared at him, wondering why he’d come. Though he saw her, he didn’t move, nor did he look away. Instead he held her gaze without flinching.

  In deference to the day’s event, he wore a black, double-breasted suit. His starched-white shirt complemented the darkness of his skin. His long hair was slicked back GQ-style, emphasizing his high cheekbones and the sculpted line of his jaw. Despite his grim expression, he looked breath-stealingly handsome.

  Memories of the kiss they’d shared flooded her mind, warming her skin with a sensual flush of heat. She could still feel the pressure of his mouth against hers, could still taste his lips. Desire still pulsed through her body.

  Though her pride had taken a blow when he’d left her without a word of explanation, she found herself drawn to him like a willow branch to water. She stepped toward him, her mouth curving into a tentative smile of greeting.

  But the cold, prohibitive look in his eyes stopped her. Jasmine stumbled to a halt, shivering beneath his frosty glare. Holding her gaze for just a moment longer, he turned away, spurning her once again.

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t think what to do next. An unfamiliar chill of rejection enveloped her, stiffening her limbs, numbing her mind. Never before had she been rebuffed by a man twice in as many days. The experience was as humiliating as it was crushing to her ego.

  Until now she’d thought of herself as a desirable woman. At least, the men in town had certainly made her feel that way. She’d never wanted for a date, not since she’d turned a sweet sixteen. But with all their clumsy attempts to woo her, none of the local men had ever come close to arousing in her the earth-shattering sensations she’d experienced with Storm’s single kiss. What made his rejection even harder to understand was that she could have sworn Storm had felt the same way.

  “Jasmine?” Summer’s soft voice interrupted her pensive thoughts. She linked arms, pulling Jasmine close to her side. “You’re trembling. Are you all right?”

  Jasmine watched Storm’s departure through the cemetery while trying to focus on her cousin’s words. “It’s just the wind, the cold. I’m fine, really.”

  Summer frowned. “You don’t look fine. You look as though you’ve lost your best friend.”

  No, just a chance at something wonderful.

  Summer followed the direction of her distracted gaze, her frown deepening. “Do you know that man?”

  Jasmine bit her lip, hesitating before answering, uncertain what to say. Storm Hunter was Summer’s uncle. Though Storm had left Whitehorn long before her birth, and had never bothered to contact her since, he was still her closest living relative on her father’s side. She wasn’t sur
e what Summer’s reaction might be to his appearance.

  Unable to lie to her cousin, Jasmine said, “That man was Storm Hunter, your uncle.”

  Summer flinched at the words. Her gaze startled, she looked across the cemetery grounds to the chapel’s parking lot where Storm was climbing into his car. Pain and confusion filled her eyes. And Jasmine realized she wasn’t the only woman feeling rejected.

  Jasmine muttered an oath beneath her breath. Damn the man. Since arriving in Whitehorn, Storm Hunter had caused nothing but trouble for every single person his presence had touched.

  Hadn’t he done enough damage?

  For her sake, as well as her family’s, perhaps it would be best if he returned to where he’d come.

  One hand clenching the steering wheel, Storm put the cemetery far behind him. With his free hand, he loosened his tie and wrenched it from the collar of his shirt. Fumbling blindly with the top button, he breathed a sigh of relief as it popped open. A suit and tie were his daily lawyer’s uniform, but today the outfit felt as though it were choking him.

  At least, that was the excuse he allowed himself for his agitated state. He refused to blame his foul mood on his reaction to seeing Jasmine again. He told himself that the white-hot flash of desire he’d felt had nothing to do with his quick departure from the cemetery. Nor did it have anything to do with the lingering conviction that somehow he and Jasmine were fated to be together. No, he wasn’t running away. He’d merely accomplished what he’d set out to do—see for himself the family that had destroyed his life. The Kincaids.

  Only, until he saw her standing alone amid the mourners, he’d forgotten that one of the Kincaids included a member of his own family. Summer Kincaid, his brother’s only child.

  Storm drove slowly through Whitehorn’s downtown area, passing the police station and the movie theater. Down the street from the court house, he spotted the Hip Hop Café. Though it was too early for lunch, he didn’t think he could face the four silent walls of his hotel room. He needed a place where he could go to unwind and not have to listen to the sound of his own guilty conscience.