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“Are you all right?” The woman eyed her. Her name was Mariska, and she was far too knowing for Holly’s taste. Far closer to bodyguard than escort, with a short sturdy form both rounded and strong—not to mention a sharp gaze that gave away more than Holly was probably supposed to see. So did her complexion, a distinctly beautiful brown shade that might have come from south India but instead came from the bear within her.
“You’re kidding, eh?” Holly said. “No, I’m not all right. Why can’t you people just leave us alone? Leave me alone?”
Mariska transferred her gaze to Holly’s hands, where they chafed against her arms in spite of the distinct heat still overlaying the fading summer day.
“Being here makes my skin crawl,” Holly told the woman, which was only the blunt truth. She’d felt it before, this sensation...on her Upper Michigan home turf, when she first started a restoration on an old clogged water feature. But nothing like this. One final squeeze of her upper arms and she let her hands fall. “You have no right to do this to me.”
But she’d always known they would. Just as she’d known that her parents would pay the price for hiding their family to protect Kai.
“Maybe we don’t,” Mariska said. “But we hope you’ll come to understand.” She lifted her chin at Jason, the tall man who served as her partner; they exchanged commentary in a silent but very real conversation, the likes of which Holly had previously seen only between her parents. Jason raised his phone, hitting the redial button. Again. Trying to reach the man they’d called Lannie with a strange mix of familiarity and deference.
“If you’re trying to reach him, why don’t you just talk to him?” Holly gestured between them in reference to the silent exchange they’d just had, only peripherally aware that the crawling sensation in her blood had eased.
“Lannie prefers that we don’t.” The woman gave her a wry look, one that said she had chosen her words diplomatically. “Besides, not all of us do that.”
“I don’t,” Holly muttered. Because she didn’t need it and she didn’t want it. She had no intention of letting someone else in her head—
It’s not real.
No way.
“What did you say?” Holly asked, a wary tone that drew Mariska’s surprised glance. Her glance would have turned into a question, had not a ringing phone pealed from the back of the store.
Jason made an exasperated face. “You might have picked up instead of just coming in,” he muttered, slipping his phone away—but he sounded more relieved than he might have.
Holly looked at him in surprise, understanding. “You weren’t sure he’d come.”
“Oh,” Jason said drily, “we were pretty sure he’d come. We just aren’t sure—”
“Shut up,” Mariska said, sharp and hasty, her gaze probing the back of the store.
It’s not real.
Holly spotted the new arrival against a backdrop of hanging bridle work and lead ropes, and understood immediately that this man owned this place.
That he owned any place in which he chanced to stand.
It wasn’t his strength, and it wasn’t the quiet but inexorable gaze he turned on her companions. It wasn’t even the first shock of his striking appearance—clean features with even lines, strong brows and nose and jaw, a sensual curve of lower lip and eyes blue enough to show from across the store. His hair was longer than stylish these days, layered and curling with damp around the edges.
No, it was more than all that.
“Oh, turn it off,” Mariska said.
Something changed—Holly didn’t even quite know what. Only that he was suddenly just a man in a casual blue plaid shirt yoked over the shoulder, half-buttoned and hanging out over jeans and boots, a heavy oval belt buckle evident beneath.
Cowboy, Holly thought, and found herself surprised by that. For the first time, she noticed not only bruises, but fresh bruises. A little smear of blood on a freshly washed cheek, a stain coming through the side of the shirt. An odd look on his face as he watched her, something both startled and somehow just as wary as she was—and then that, too, faded.
“That’s better,” Mariska grumbled, but the words held grudging respect. She exchanged a glance with Holly that was nothing to do with their individual reasons for being here and everything to do with a dry, shared appreciation for what they’d seen—a recognition that Holly had seen it, too.
The man rolled one sleeve and then the other, joining them with a loose walk that also somehow spoke of strength. “A little warning might have been nice,” he said, a quiet voice with steel behind it.
Jason held up the phone. “We called.”
“Did you?” the man said flatly. He eyed Holly with enough intent to startle her—as if he assessed her on a level deeper than she could even perceive.
She suddenly wished she wasn’t still wearing well-worn work gear—tough slim-fit khakis over work boots and a long-tailed berry-colored shirt. Her hair was still yanked back into the same ponytail high at the back of her head, and it was a wonder her gloves weren’t jammed into her back pocket instead of in her overnighter.
She released a breath when the man turned away from her.
Jason scowled, eyes narrowing, and Mariska stepped on whatever he was about to say. “Look, Lannie, this all happened fast, and we’re making it up as we go. There’s no cell reception between here and Cloudview—and we did call as soon as we could get through. If we’d been able to talk to you—”
Silently, she meant. Even Holly understood that much. But Mariska had said it. Lannie prefers that we don’t.
Lannie didn’t raise his voice...somehow he didn’t need to. “You aren’t supposed to be reaching out to me at all.”
“No, sir,” Jason said, just a little bit miserable. “The Jody thing. I know. But that wasn’t your fault, and we—” And then he stopped, apparently thinking better of the whole thing—and who wouldn’t, from the quick, hard pale-eyed look Lannie gave him?
Holly found herself smiling a little. After hours in the care of these two, unable to so much as use a toilet without an escort, it was gratifying to see the tables turned. Even if she did wonder about the Jody thing.
But Lannie didn’t linger on the moment. He ran a hand through his damp hair, carelessly raking it back into some semblance of order. “You want coffee?”
“Holly drinks tea, if you have it,” Mariska said, apparently well-briefed on all things Holly. “So do I.”
Jason looked as though he’d drink whatever Lannie put before him.
They joined Lannie in a tiny nook in the back hallway, which had a coffeemaker and electric teakettle, a diminutive refrigerator, a sink and half a box of donuts sitting on an upended fifty-gallon drum. Lannie reached for the teakettle plug...and hesitated there, leaning heavily on the counter.
As if for that moment, the counter was the only thing holding him up.
Holly shot a startled look at Mariska and Jason, finding them involved in some sort of mostly silent but definitely emphatic disagreement. By the time she looked again at Lannie, the teakettle was firing up and Lannie had pulled a bowl stuffed with tea bags from the narrow, open-faced cabinet above the sink—right next to the big green tin of Bag Balm, some half-used horse wormer and an open bag of castration bands.
“So,” Holly said. “Lannie. My name is Holly Faulkes, and I don’t want to be here.”
He pulled four mugs from the half-sized drainer hanging in the sink, and she realized she hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know—but that unlike everyone else in this mess, he wasn’t impatient or annoyed by it.
“Phelan,” he told her, swirling the coffee in its carafe. “Phelan Stewart. But yes. You can call me Lannie.” He filled one of the mugs with coffee and handed it out to Jason without looking; the teakettle activity built to a fever pitch. “What’s your story, Holly Faulkes?”
“What’s yours, eh?” she countered. “Why are they dumping me on you?”
Lannie held out the tea bags without any visible reaction, and Holly plucked out a random blend and passed the bowl to Mariska. Lannie put his hip against the counter and sipped coffee—only to immediately dump it down the sink, exposing a gleam of torso through the gaping shirt and annoying Holly simply because she’d noticed.
“Faith,” he said, as if that explained it all. And then, “Holly Faulkes, if you’d come with a group, I’d say you all needed to become a team. Since you’re here alone, you’re probably not playing well with others in some way.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, patently ignoring Jason’s dilemma over whether to try the coffee. “You must be important to them.”
She found herself amused. “Because Brevis only bothers you with the important things, eh?”
“Something like that. And the fact that I’m on sabbatical.” He held out his hand. After a hesitation, Holly offered him her tea bag. He took Mariska’s, plunked them both into mugs, poured hot water on top and handed the mugs over. “Your turn. Or would you rather have them tell your story?”
Holly relaxed, curling her hands around the mug. He might be Sentinel, but he wasn’t pushing her. He’d given her options.
Even if they were both bad ones.
So she told him the truth. “I’m not a Sentinel, I don’t want to be a Sentinel, and I’m not going to drink your Sentinel Kool-Aid no matter how you dress it up in obligation and heroics.”
She heard Mariska’s intake of breath, but Lannie’s quick blue glance quelled her. “Sentinel isn’t something you get to choose.”
“And yet it’s a choice I made a long time ago,” she told him, not an instant’s hesitation. “It’s a choice my family made—that we were forced to make. That’s not something you can change, eh? But it’s obvious you’ll have to work that out for yourself.”
“You’ll stay long enough for me to do that?”
“As if that’s a choice.” But she felt the briefest flash of hope, felt herself halfway out the door.
“Brevis pulled Mariska in from Tucson. So either you’re in a great deal of danger or they think you’ll run—and if you do, that you’ll be good at it.”
“Run?” Holly shot Mariska a baleful look. “How stupid do you think I am? You people already found me once. My best chance of getting on with life is to let you figure out what a waste of time this is. If you don’t, then we’ll see about running.”
“Fair enough,” he murmured. “Give me your word on that and these two will leave, and we can get you settled.”
Holly’s temper flared hot and strong. She set the mug on the counter with a thump. “Pay attention, why don’t you? I’ll be settled when I’m back home in the Upper Peninsula, rebuilding the business you’ve just destroyed!”
She transferred her glare to Jason and Mariska. “And meanwhile, who’s feeding my feral cats? Who’s holding my best friend’s hand when she has her first baby? Do you people even think about what you’ve done, or do you just ride through on the strength of your astonishing arrogance?”
Jason summoned up a bright smile, only a hint of panic behind it. “Ohh-kay, then,” he said. “My job is done. I’ll just wait in the car.”
“Jason,” Mariska said, annoyance in her voice.
“Thanks for the coffee.” Jason inched behind Holly to put the mug on the barrel. “Such as it was.”
“Faith,” Lannie said again—but his voice didn’t have the same quiet strength, and Holly shot a look at him, finding his knuckles white at the edge of the counter and his tanned face gone pale, his shoulders tight...his expression faintly surprised.
But only until he saw her watching. Then the weakness disappeared; he returned her gaze with an even expression.
Holly, it seemed, wasn’t the only one hiding the truth of herself from the Sentinels.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_ddf520f0-fe40-5f76-b925-a567376bec69)
For all her resentment, Holly found herself regretting Mariska and Jason’s departure, as they unloaded her single, quickly packed suitcase, handed Lannie a thin file folder and drove away.
They were, if nothing else, familiar.
Not like Lannie Stewart—not only unfamiliar, but just a little more Sentinel than she wanted to deal with on her own.
But she’d known all her life that this day might come. If she blamed the Sentinels for anything, it was for being the kind of organization that sent her family into hiding in the first place.
Lannie locked the door behind them, made sure the open sign was flipped to Closed and went behind the cash register counter to do...
To do cash register things, probably. She didn’t care. Although she had the impression that he was, somehow, actually assessing her. That his attention never left her.
Screw that. She glanced pointedly at the full darkness that had fallen since her arrival. “I haven’t eaten yet.” Of course, she hadn’t wanted to. Until he’d come into the store, her stomach had been unsettled by that funky discomfiting feeling under her skin, the faintest bitter taste in her mouth. How he’d buffered that, she didn’t know. But now her stomach growled.
He made a sound that must have been acknowledgment. “In, out, or fast?”
“It’s your game. You choose.”
He stopped what he was doing, a bank bag in hand, and she drew breath at the blue flint in his gaze. “Nothing about this is a game.”
“Lannie!” A young woman’s voice rang out from the back of the store. A waifish young woman emerged from between the shelving, her hair dyed black, her makeup dramatic and her piercings generous; she dragged in her wake a wiry older man with mussed hair and a bruised face—eye puffy, lip split and swollen. “Lannie, did you see what those men did to him? What business did they have back there, anyway?”
“None,” Lannie dropped the cash bag on the scratched counter over a glass-front display of fancy show spurs and silver conchas, and lifted his brow at her. It had been her task, apparently.
“That’s not my fault,” she protested, confirming it. “First you lit out after Aldo, and then those strongbloods came when they should be leaving you alone—” She stopped, scowling, her attention riveted on him. “They got you, too. I knew it.”
“Faith.” It was a single word, but it had quelling impact. Holly fiddled with her suitcase handle, and it occurred to her that she could run. She’d never promised. And they weren’t paying any particular attention.
Lannie looked down at the splotch of blood at his side, briefly pressing a hand to it.
“Five to one,” the old man said helpfully. “Our boy took care of it.”
Lannie grunted. “No one’s boy,” he said, but Holly heard affection for the old man behind his words. “And it’s not bleeding anymore.”
“You’ll need food,” the girl said, as if she’d somehow taken over. She closed the distance to the counter with decisive steps, picking up the bag. “You go. I’ll take care of this.”
“Faith,” he said, and it sounded like an old conversation. Finally he shook his head, a capitulation of some sort. “Learn to make the coffee, would you?”
Faith tossed her head in a way that made Holly think the coffee wouldn’t change. “See you tomorrow, Lannie.” And then, on her way out the back again, she offered Holly an arch glance. “Don’t you cause him trouble, whoever you are.”
Startled—offended—Holly made a sound that came out less of a sputter and more of a warning. But the young woman was already moving out through the same aisle that had brought her.
The elderly man held out his hand, a spark of interest in his eye. “I’m Aldo. And this is Lannie.”
There was nothing to do but take that dry and callous grip for a quick shake, contact that brought a whiff of something potent. Pot? She startled, looking to Lannie for confirmation without thinking about it, and found a resigned expression there.
Lannie came out from behind the counter. “She knows who I am, Aldo. And don’t you go charming her.”
“No,” Aldo said, looking more closely at Holly. “Not this one. She’s all yours, Lannie. I’m sleeping in the barn tonight, good with you? Good. You’ll be right as rain tomorrow, see if you’re not.”
Holly took a deep breath in the wake of his abrupt departure. Then another. Trying to find her bearings, and to refocus on the resentful fury that had gotten her through these past twenty-four hours so far. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said. “I’m not all yours. Not in any sense of the word.”
“Not yet,” he said mildly, and caught her elbow as if she would have stalked by, luggage and all, to batter her way through that locked door and out into the world. “The truck’s out back. Let’s eat.”
* * *
Lannie tossed the suitcase into the truck bed and climbed into the pickup with a stiffness that made him very much rue that five against one.
He let her open her own door simply because she needed the chance to slam it closed again. And she did, too—not once, but twice, then reached for the seat belt with a brusque efficiency that spoke as much for her familiarity with this model truck as for her simmering anger.
He inserted the key and waited. It didn’t take long.
“Not yet?” Holly made a noise in her throat. Lannie took it for warning—and he wondered how strong her Sentinel blood ran, and if anyone else in her family took the cat.
