Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Page 8

  Inca shot up out of the water, gasping for air, but still holding on to her rifle. Roan surfaced next to her and immediately wound his arm around her waist.

  “Get rid of the boots!” he yelled, and he took the rifle from her.

  Struggling, Inca did as he ordered. She saw the tug in the distance, a blazing wreck. The helicopter was mercilessly pummeling it with bullets.

  “Now the ammo!”

  “No!” she cried. “Not the ammo!”

  “You’ll drown!”

  “No, I will not.” Inca flailed and pushed his hand away. “Swim for shore,” she gasped.

  Roan wasn’t going to argue. He kept the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. They struck out together. The Amazon River might look smooth on the surface, but the currents were hell. He kept his eye on the chopper.

  “It’s turning!” he yelled at Inca, who was ten feet ahead of him. “It’s coming for us! Dive!”

  Inca saw the military helicopter turning, its lethal guns trained on them. She heard Roan’s order. Taking a huge breath into her lungs, she dived deeply and quickly. It was easy with the extra weight of the ammo around her upper body. At least twenty bullets zinged around her. Roan? What about him?

  Worried, Inca halted her dive and turned around. Roan? Where was he? She could hear the helicopter’s shattering sound just above them, the reverberation pulsating all around her. It was hovering over the water, very near to where she treaded. Roan was wounded! She felt it. No!

  Anxiety shattered Inca. She kicked out violently and moved in the direction she knew Roan to be, even though she could not see him. The helicopter moved away, the dark shadow leaving the area. Concentrating, her lungs bursting for air, Inca kicked hard and struck out strongly. Roan? Where was he? How badly was he shot?

  Her heart beat in triple time. Inca didn’t want to lose Roan. She’d just found him! He was so much like her blood brother, Michael. Men like Roan were so rare. And she wanted—no, demanded of Mother Earth—that he be saved. She was lonely, and he filled that lonely space within her.

  Yes, it was selfish, but she didn’t care. Inca struck out savagely. She felt Roan nearby now. Well, selfishness had landed her in hot water with the clan before. Inca knew she was being tested again, but she didn’t care if she failed this test, too. She would not let Roan die!

  Blood and muddy water moved by her in thin, crimson and brown strips. She saw a shadow up ahead, striking toward the surface. Roan! Inca followed and, with her hand, pushed him upward. She could see blood oozing around his lower leg. He must have taken a bullet to the calf. Was his leg broken? Could he swim?

  Unsure, Inca moved up, slid her arm around his massive torso and urged him upward.

  They broke water together, like two bobbins coming to the surface. Water leaked into her eyes. She shook her head to clear them. The helicopter was moving back down the river, leaving them. Relief shuddered through Inca.

  “Roan! Roan, are you all right?” She held on to him as he twisted around. His lips were drawn back from his clenched teeth. His face was frozen with pain.

  “My leg…” he gasped, floundering.

  “Can you use it to swim?” Inca cried. Their bodies touched and glided together. She kicked strongly to keep his head above water.

  “Yeah…not broke. Just hurts like hell…And the blood. We’ve got piranhas in this water….”

  Inca tugged at his arm. “Do not worry about them. Just head toward that shore. Hurry!” Mentally, Inca sent out her guardian and told him to keep the bloodthirsty little piranha schools at bay. Once they got the scent of blood in the water, fifty to a hundred of them would attack and shred both of them in a matter of minutes. That was not how Inca wanted to die. Nor did she want the man who relied heavily on her now to die, either.

  “Kick! Kick your good leg,” she ordered. “I will help you….”

  It seemed like hours to Roan before they made it to the sandy red shore. Gasping for breath, he crawled halfway out of the water before his strength gave out. He was weakened from the loss of blood. Looking over his shoulder, he could see his bloody pant leg.

  Inca hurried out of the water, threw off her ammo belts and ran back to him. She urged him to roll onto his back, and then hooked her hands beneath his arms. Grunting and huffing, she managed to haul him completely out of the water and onto the bank. Positioning him beneath some overhanging trees, she stopped for a moment, panting heavily. Dropping to her knees, she took out her knife and quickly slit open his pant leg to reveal the extent of his wound.

  “H-how bad is it?” Roan gasped. He quelled the urge to sit up and grip the wounded leg. He felt Inca’s hands moving quickly across his lower extremity, checking it out.

  “Bad…” she murmured.

  Roan forced himself to sit up. The bullet had torn through the fleshy, muscled part of his lower leg. Fortunately, it had missed the bones. Unfortunately, the wound was still spurting blood.

  “An artery’s been cut. Put pressure on it,” he muttered. Dizzy, he fell back, and felt blackness encroaching on his vision. His gaze was pinned on Inca. Her hair was wet and stuck to the sides of her face. Her expression was intense, her eyes narrowed as she reached out and placed her hand across the jagged wound.

  “Close your eyes,” she snapped. “Do nothing but rest. Clear you mind. I will help you.”

  He didn’t have much choice in the matter. Her hand, the moment it touched his feverish leg, was hot. Hot like a branding iron. Her fingers closed across his leg, strong and calming. Groaning, he stopped struggling and lay beneath the shade of the overhanging trees, breathing hard. His heart was pounding violently in his chest. Sounds meshed and collided. He was dumping. His blood pressure was going through the floor and he knew it. Damn. He was going to die. Darkness closed over his opened eyes. Yes, he would die.

  Just as he drifted off into unconsciousness, Roan saw something startling. He saw Inca kneeling over him, her hand gripping his leg, and the blood spurting violently between her fingers. He saw the tight concentration on her face, her eyes gleaming as she focused all her attention on his wound. Roan saw darkness begin to form above her head. It appeared to be a jaguar materializing. Was he seeing things? Was he out of his mind? Was the loss of blood pressure making him delirious? Roan gasped repeatedly and fought to remain conscious. The head and shoulders of a jaguar appeared above Inca. And then it slid, much like a glove onto a hand, down across her head and shoulders. Blinking rapidly, Roan saw a jaguar where Inca had once been. Sweat ran into his eyes. Then he saw Inca, and not the jaguar.

  Simultaneously, he felt raw, radiating heat in his lower leg. He cried out, the burning sensation so intense that it made the pain he’d felt before feel minor in comparison. Automatically, his hand shot out, but he was weak and he fell back. In the next instant, he spiraled into a darkness so deep that he knew he was dying and whirling toward the rainbow bridge where a spirit went after death.

  Chapter 5

  Roan awoke slowly. The howl of monkeys impinged on his consciousness first. Secondly, he heard the raucous screech of parrots as they shrieked at one another in a nearby rubber tree. And then—he was fatigued and it was an effort to sense much of anything—he felt warmth against his back. At first he thought it was Sarah snuggled up beside him, because she would always lay with her back against his in the chill of the early morning hours. The sensation in his heart expanded. No, he wasn’t imagining this; it was real. Very real.

  As he pried his eyes open, the events of the night before came tumbling back to him in bits and pieces until he put it all together. He’d been shot…he’d been bleeding heavily and he distinctly remembered dumping and preparing himself to die.

  Wait…Inca…

  His eyes opened fully. Roan pushed himself up on his elbow and twisted to look over his shoulder. In the gray dawn light, a vague yellowish-white glow illuminating to the cottony clouds suspended over the rain forest, he saw Inca. She was curled up on her side, one arm beneath her head, the other hand w
rapped protectively around the barrel of the rifle that paralleled her body.

  He’d been dying. Inca had leaned over him and placed her strong, firm hand over the spurting, bloody wound on his leg. He glanced down to see the pant leg torn up to his knee, revealing his dark, hairy calf. Sitting up and frowning, Roan slid his fingers along the area that had been chewed up by the bullet. Nothing. There was no sign of a wound. And he was alive.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Twisting to look over his shoulder again, he stared hard at Inca. She had healed him with her mystical powers. Now he recalled the burning heat of her hand on his flesh. He’d thought he was getting third-degree burns. He’d fainted from loss of blood. Scowling, he touched his brow. Yes, he was feeling tired, but not as weak as yesterday, when he’d lost at least a couple pints of blood.

  Looking down at her, Roan’s heart expanded wildly. In sleep, Inca looked vulnerable and approachable. Her hair, once in a thick braid, was now loose and free about her shoulders and face. Black tendrils softened the angularity of her cheeks. Her thick, ebony lashes rested on her golden skin. His gaze moved to her lips, which were softly parted in sleep. Instantly, his body tightened with desire.

  Grinning haphazardly, Roan forced himself to sit up and look around. Running his fingers through his sand-encrusted hair, he realized he needed to clean himself up. Testing the leg, he was surprised to discover it felt fine, as if nothing had happened to it. A flock of scarlet ibis, with long, scimitarlike beaks, flew over them. Their squawks awakened Inca. He watched, somewhat saddened because he’d wanted more time to simply absorb her wild, ephemeral beauty into his heart.

  As Inca opened her eyes, she met the penetrating blue gaze of Roan Storm Walker. Lying on the sandy bank, the warmth of it keeping her from being chilled in the dawn hour, Inca felt her chest expanding like an orchid opening. The look in the man’s eyes was like a tender, burning flame devouring her. She was most vulnerable upon awakening. Normally, Inca would shove herself out of this mode quickly and efficiently. Nearby, Topazio lay and yawned widely. There was no danger or her spirit guardian would have growled and jolted her out of her wonderful sleep.

  Inca drowned in the cobalt blue of Roan’s large eyes. She saw a soft hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. What a wonderful mouth he had! She had never considered men beautiful, or bothered to look at them in that light before. With Roan, gazing at him was a sensuous pleasure, like eating a luscious, juicy fruit.

  Inca found herself wanting to reach out and slide her fingers along his flat lower lip and explore the texture of him. She wanted to absorb that lazy smile of welcome. Simultaneously, she felt that incredible warmth of an invisible blanket embracing her once more. This time she didn’t fight it. This time, she absorbed it and knew it came from Roan to her—as a gift. Inca accepted his gift in her sleep-ridden state. Nothing had ever felt so good to her. It made her feel secure and cared for. That particular feeling was so new to her that it jolted her even more awake. Her eyes widened slightly as she considered the feelings that wrapped gently around her like a lover’s arms.

  Always, it was Inca who cared for others, who protected them, and not the other way around. The last time she’d had this feeling of care and protection was as a child growing up. After being asked to leave the village of the Jaguar Clan at age eighteen, she’d never felt it again. Not until now, and this sensation was different, better. She felt like a thirsty jaguar absorbing every bit of it.

  As she studied Roan’s shadowed features, the soft dawn light revealing the harsh lines around his mouth, the deeply embedded wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, she realized he laughed a lot. Father Titus had similar lines in similar places on his round, pudgy face, and he was always laughing and finding pleasure in the world around him, despite the fact that he was as poor as the Indians he cared for.

  “You laugh a lot,” she murmured drowsily, continuing to lie on her back observing him.

  Roan’s smile broadened boyishly, then faded. “I used to. I lost the ability to find much to laugh about two years ago.”

  Placing one arm behind her head, she gazed up at the soft, grayish-yellow clouds that hung silently above them, barely touching the canopy of the rain forest. “Why did you stop laughing two years ago?”

  Roan lost his smile completely. He felt the tenuous intimacy strung between them, and realized he was starving for such intimacy. He’d had it once before and he missed it so very much. Now it was a gift growing between himself and Inca, and Roan was humbled by it.

  “Two years ago, my wife, Sarah, died in a climbing accident.” Roan felt old pain moving through his chest. He pulled his knees upward and wrapped his arms around them. He looked out at the silently flowing Amazon that stretched endlessly in front of him.

  “You’d have liked Sarah,” he told Inca in a low, intimate tone. “She had red hair, cut short. She was an artist who drew the most incredible flowers and landscapes. She was a hellion. She knew no boundaries except the ones she wanted to create for herself. She was a world-class mountain climber. And she laughed at danger….” Roan closed his eyes. Why was he telling Inca all of this? It had sat in his heart like an undigested stone, rubbing and grinding on almost a daily basis. Yet, by him speaking to Inca, it was as if that stone was finally dissolving away and not hurting him as much.

  “She was a warrior woman.”

  Nodding, Roan answered, “Yes. In all ways. She was a part of nature. More animal than human at times.” He smiled fondly in remembrance. “We lived in a small cabin up in the Rocky Mountains in Montana. Hurt birds and animals would show up on our porch, and Sarah would care for them, feed them, tend their injuries, and when they were well enough, she’d free them. She’d always cry….” He shook his head and smiled gently. “Sarah was so attuned to nature, to life, to her own heart. One moment she’d be laughing and rolling on the floor with me, and the next, she’d read a newspaper or magazine and begin to cry over something sad she’d read.”

  Inca digested his hoarsely spoken words. She realized he was allowing her entrance into the deepest part of his heart. She had no experience with such things, but she sensed that she needed to be careful. Just as she offered comfort when she held a sick baby in her arms for healing, Roan needed that comfort from her right now. Pushing her fingers through her hair, Inca whispered, “How did she die?”

  “On the Fourth of July, a holiday in our country. She was climbing a tough mountain made of granite to get ready for her big climb on El Capitan a week after that. She had friends that climbed that mountain every year. But this time Sarah was alone. I knew where she was, and what time she was to come home….” Roan felt his gut knotting. “I was out back of the cabin, fixing my truck, when I felt her fall. I could hear her scream in my head…and I knew…”

  Wincing, Inca said, “You were in touch with her spirit. People who touch one another’s hearts have this direct way of talking to one another.”

  Roan nodded. “Yes, we had some telepathy between us.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I jumped in the truck and drove like a madman to the rock wall where she’d been climbing.” His voice turned ragged. “I found her dead at the bottom. She’d died instantly of a skull fracture.” And if he’d given her his medicine piece to wear, she might still be alive today. But he didn’t voice his guilt over that issue.

  “A clean death.”

  “Yes,” Roan said, understanding Inca’s words. “At least she didn’t feel any pain. She was gone in a heartbeat. I’m glad she didn’t suffer.”

  Wryly, Inca looked up at him. He was suffering and she wanted to reach out and console him. Shocked by that, she curled up her fingers. “But you have been suffering.”

  “Sure. When you love someone like I loved her…well…”

  Inca sat up. Her hair fell around her back, shoulders and arms, the ebony strands reaching well below her breasts. She opened her hands. “I do not know what love is. I have seen it between Michael and Ann. I have see
n a mother’s love of her child, a father’s love of his children.”

  Giving her a look of shock, Roan tried to hide his reaction. “But…you’re twenty-five years old. Isn’t there someone in your life—a man—you love?”

  Scowling, she skimmed the hair through her fingers and separated it into three long swatches. Expertly, she began to braid it, her fingers flying through the silky length. “Love? No, I do not know love like that.”

  Trying not to stare at her like an idiot, Roan quickly put some facts together about Inca. “Don’t your clan members ever marry among themselves?”

  Shrugging impatiently, Inca said, “Almost always. Only we understand each other’s special skills and talents. People outside the clan are afraid of us. They are afraid of what they do not understand about us. Sometimes, a jaguar clan member will marry outside of it. Michael married Ann. There is no law as to who you marry. Of course, we would like the blessing of the elders.”

  “And does the person marrying a member of the Jaguar Clan know about his or her special skills?”

  “Eventually, perhaps. And sometimes, no. It just depends. I know that Ann knows everything about Michael and his skills. She accepts them because she loves him.” Inca took a thin strip of leather, tied off the end of her braid and tossed it across her shoulder. She saw the amazement on Roan’s features. Why was he so surprised she did not have a lover? Did he not realize that in her business she had no time for such things? Life and death situations took precedence over selfish pleasures such as love…or so she told herself.

  “Does Ann have problems coping with Michael’s unusual abilities?”

  Inca smiled. “I think so, but she tries very hard to accept what she does not understand about metaphysics. And their daughter has her father’s skills, as well. Clan blood is carried on, generation after generation. One day my godchild, little Catherine, will be going up to the village for years of training.” She smiled, satisfaction in her tone. “Until then, I get to see her from time to time, whenever I am near Mike and Ann’s house.”