Wyatt

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Somewhere in North Texas

Three days later…

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Goliath snorted as they pressed on well after dark. Behind him, Quinn made no comment as she followed him. It was never her idea to stop for the night, and had he traveled alone, he and Goliath would continue onward. The farther north they rode, the colder it became. Their path would avoid major towns or human populations until they reached the Mississippi River.

Then they would make some noise.

A copse of trees ahead would afford some shelter from the wind, and Wyatt could reinforce it with his gift. It would let the horses rest, as well as Quinn. As if he’d read his mind, Goliath already turned toward the hill. A cutting breeze from the north promised colder weather as the night deepened. Clouds hid the stars and gave the sense of true dark.

Quinn didn’t say a word until he’d dismounted, and then she only asked, “Here?”

“Here.” Wyatt paused in releasing the straps of Goliath’s girth to watch as Quinn all but tumbled out of the saddle. For a moment, she stumbled then her legs locked. Pain rippled across her expression as she straightened then stomped one booted foot against the ground. The gelding she’d ridden swung his head to look at her.

A part of Wyatt wanted to offer assistance, but he shoved the urge back into a mental box and proceeded to strip Goliath of his tack. A distant section of his mind acknowledged Quinn mirroring his actions. The gelding didn’t have half of Goliath’s stamina. Since he and the stallion set a slower than their normal pace, he had to hope the horse could handle it.

Once free of the gear, Goliath trotted into the dark. The sound of water trickling reached Wyatt’s ears. He hadn’t even realized there was a creek nearby, but his stallion had unerring sense.

“I’ll get the water,” he told Quinn. “You get the wood.”

Before he took a step, a pile of wood appeared in the center of the copse. Smelling freshly cut, the wood was also dry. She must have known exactly where it was because all she did was flick a look from him to the ground, then resumed rubbing her horse down.

Useful, but irritating. Why? Because she didn’t explain any of it, nor did she seem to have any intention of doing so. Wyatt took two waterskins from his gear and followed the sound of the stream into the night. Goliath stood soaking wet on the banks, head down as he drank his fill. At Wyatt’s approach, the horse tossed his head before looking back at the darkened tree copse then at Wyatt again.

Ignoring the judgment in the equine’s manner, he squatted to fill the waterskins. The water held the bite of winter in it. Winter had been mild in the southern part of the state, but the farther north they traveled, the harder the journey would become. “I’ll brush you after I get the fire going.”

Goliath snorted at the information, his disdain clear. Sometimes, the horse had too much personality. Of course, he would take care of him. Goliath and he had been together too long to need the words.

So why, then, had he spoken them?

Waterskins full, he left the stream to return to the copse in time to see the fire come to life. Wyatt stilled at the edge of the circle the flickering light created. The sudden burst of yellow-gold in the midnight left his vision dazzled. Tracking Quinn’s movements, he stared as she stripped off the duster she’d seem to wear permanently and dropped it on the saddle she’d secured on a branch. Next came her hat, and then the wind caught the long midnight hair, tugging it free from the braid she’d kept it in.

If his heart could speed up, it would have hammered against his cold ribs. As it was, he gulped in a deep breath then exhaled. The danger in question pivoted at the same moment Goliath shoved at his back. The misstep and stumble were a humiliation, but he raised his chin before tossing one of the waterskins to her. Better for him to stay away from the fire.

“It’s cold tonight, and it’s going to get colder.” Even as she spoke, the breeze picked up.

“I’ll be fine.” The heat wouldn’t do much for him anyway. “Settle in.” He turned to his gear even as his mind began to thicken the air on the far side of the copse to create a windbreak. He couldn’t enclose it fully, as the smoke needed to escape up, but he could douse the effect of the potential storm. He could keep the horses warm.

And Quinn.

Goliath made his way back into the circle. He paused at Quinn’s horse and nickered at the gelding. She’d already fed him and the horse was half asleep. Instead of coming to Wyatt, Goliath nudged at Quinn’s shoulder. The woman reached a hand up to stroke the stallion’s nose. When he prodded her again, she set the waterskin down and reached for a currycomb.

“I can do that.” He set the waterskin aside and crossed the clearing, only to have Goliath swing so the horse was closer to Quinn. What the hell was the beast up to?

“Apparently he doesn’t want you to do it. Why don’t you heat up some of the water? I have chicory in my pack, we can make some coffee.” The request caught him off guard. She had made do with plain water the last few days. Pausing, Wyatt studied Quinn. There were hollows in her cheeks that hadn’t been there before and the intensity of her blue eyes seemed to flame even brighter than the fire.

“I can—are you ill?” They couldn’t afford for her to slow them down.

“No, I’m cold. I’m filthy. And I’m in a bad mood.” She didn’t sound any of those things as she ticked them off. Instead, she simply continued brushing Goliath down, her motions even and rhythmic. The firelight flickered over her features, and the shadows danced along her hands as they moved.

“Usually women want something more than coffee when they are in that state.” At least the women he’d known.

Quinn paused to give him a long look. “Are you trying to make a joke?”

“Is it working?” The retort slipped free before he could reconsider it. Keeping Quinn with him was part of his plan. Her formidable skills would be useful for distracting Adam. Her presence at his side also kept her away from the kids and limited her potential threat to him and Adam alone.

“We’ll see after I’ve had my coffee.” The less than subtle jab amused Wyatt. He had a couple of pots and tin cups in his pack. Oddly, he didn’t recall adding them to his supplies, but he’d simply never removed them after the ride to fetch Kid. Had that been over a year before? He’d washed everything, then stored it all in the saddlebags.

Ten minutes later, Goliath’s damp coat gleamed as he settled in on the far side of Quinn’s gelding and munched his way through some hay and grain.

She spoiled the horses, but he supposed they needed all the fuel they could get. Wyatt spared the stallion a scolding look, which the horse ignored. The gelding definitely needed the meal. The stallion didn’t.

“He was hungry,” Quinn said as she spread her bedroll on the ground next to the fire. When she sank onto it with a half-pained hiss, Wyatt scowled. The slowness of her movements, coupled with the faint grimace tightening her mouth, warned him she was suffering more on the journey than she’d shared.

“So are you,” he said, pouring her coffee into one of the mugs. Steam rolled off the top and he held out to her, but it vanished from his hands and into hers before he could step closer. Cradling the tin cup, she took a deep breath of the steam before sipping.

A low groan vibrated from her and then she took a longer, deeper drink. What game was Quinn playing? Goliath snubbing him for her was a power play. The stallion didn’t approve of how hard he was pushing the woman and the other horse. Was Quinn trying to seduce him?

When she looked at him over the rim of the cup, he ignored the flashfire response in his blood. Very little moved him, and his physical responses were phantoms—memories of what they should be. Still, heat crawled along his spine and began to spread through his system.

“Why are you staring at me?” The pointed question as she lowered the mug reminded him he had other things he needed to know.

“We’ll take a longer break here, start out after the sun is well and truly up in the morning. The river will be high this time of year and we need to ford it.”

“I figured. I crossed it a few months ago.” She took another long swallow of coffee before digging into a pack and pulling out some jerky. Tearing off a strip, she looked at him questioningly.

He didn’t need food. It was better to conserve their supplies for her, so he gave a sharp shake of his head. Keeping one eye on the coffee still heating, he went to work on cleaning Goliath’s tack. It would keep his hands busy, and he could check her saddle when he was done.

With a shrug that earned a second grimace, Quinn took a bite of the dried meat. As she chewed, she pulled off her boots. The fire wasn’t that warm, but she was shaking dirt out of them.

Testing a strap, Wyatt said, “Perhaps you want to share how you tracked the McKennas—or the Matthews, whatever you want to call them—to the Flying K?”

Her position as their guardian didn’t really interest him, but he wanted more information on her.

“Not particularly. Would you like to share why you’ve avoided your brother for all these years?” Quinn didn’t dance around the topic, she went straight for the jugular.

He could respect that. “Not particularly,” he turned her response on her. “However, I will say that I am no longer avoiding him.”

“Does it have anything to do with nearly dying?” The question lassoed him, and he ceased studying the leather to study her.

“What do you know about it?” There had been a lot of rumors—once—but decades of living on the Mountain should have erased them from recent memory. Even the survivors would have passed by now.

“I know you and your brother went to war once, and I know you both worked hard to kill each other. I also know one of you went down.” She punctuated the dry response by taking a bite of the jerky. Tucking the dried meat into her cheek, she continued, “I know you took out an entire town when it happened, but someone covered it up and they couldn’t find survivors—only bodies.”

The details were sketchy, but she could easily be referring to the last war. The war Quanto dragged him out of, flesh scorched and his mind nearly gone. If Quanto hadn’t come when he had… “There were no survivors to that day. Nearly everyone who fought lost a piece of themselves, if not their lives.”

Quinn nodded slowly, then washed down her bite with a swallow of coffee. He held out his palm expectantly. Eyebrows raised, she lifted her chin and the cup went from her hand to his palm. He filled it with the heated coffee and waited a beat. She ported it back to her hand. Was she doing that out of habit or out of a desire to keep him away?

“If you couldn’t defeat your brother before,” she said casually. “What makes you think you can now?”

The dagger struck its mark, but he used the waterskin to add to the liquid in the pan heating next to the fire all the while enforcing his will to keep the bubble around them tighter. It had warmed enough that Quinn didn’t even shiver.

“That information will cost you,” he told her without glancing in her direction.

“What’s the price?”

“What’s your real name?” Quinn was neither a Native name nor one for the Coven…at least he didn’t think so. Arguably his knowledge of witches was lacking.

Water warming, he settled back to his work and waited. How much did she want to know his story?

Why the hell did he care if she did?

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Quinn

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After three days of almost nonstop silence, with Wyatt only speaking when absolutely necessary, he’d decided to get chatty. The jerky helped to assuage her hunger, but the persistent ache in her chest didn’t seem to be relaxing any time soon. She’d stripped out of her heavier duster once the fire was lit. It was too cold, but the long sleeves on the shirt and the undershirt helped. Then Wyatt did something to contain the heat of the fire, and she was pretty sure she could strip down and examine her ribs, except she wasn’t alone.

And she didn’t want to know Wyatt that intimately. The—thing—he was…

He’s a person.

Quinn closed her eyes for a moment, then reached into her saddlebag for a flask. She’d refilled it courtesy of the Kanes. They wouldn’t miss a little whiskey, and the alcohol would help what might be a busted rib. Even breathing hurt, if she tried to take too deep a breath.

Pouring the whiskey into the strong chicory coffee altered its scent some, but the taste was heavenly and exactly what her exhausted body needed. Finally, she returned her attention to Wyatt. Offering him the flask seemed only fair, but he simply shook his head. The man didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. What was it about him? For as long as she could remember, she’d plotted exactly what she would do if she came face to face with one of the twins. Even better, what she’d do if she could take out both of them.

As unyielding as he appeared, he’d also expressed concern for her when she’d gone after the weather Fevered. His attention for his family also struck her as odd for someone so fierce. Every tale she’d ever heard of the First Ones listed them as cold, detached, and brutal.

When she didn’t answer his challenge question immediately, he resumed his work on the saddle. The care he demonstrated for his tools, for the plan, hell, for her, they all suggested he was more than what she’d been led to believe over the years.

“Jessica,” she said, the name almost alien on her tongue. “But I prefer Jessie, if you plan to use it.” Only Rosemary had ever called her Jessica. The other witches used Quinn. She’d been Quinn nearly as long as she existed. Names had power, but so did the removal of them.

Easier to treat her as a tool or a weapon rather than a person.

“You don’t look like a Jessica,” he said, and the name sounded even stranger on his lips than it did on hers.

“Thank you?” Was that a compliment or an insult? She took another swallow of whiskey-laced coffee. Each drink eased the throb in her chest and, while she still couldn’t take a deep breath, it helped with the pressure. They could make it back east faster, but Wyatt disagreed with the plan. He wanted them on the ground, traveling overland for some reason.

“Jessie is only slightly better.”

“Is disparaging me the reason you asked?” Not that she was particularly defensive of the name Rosemary bestowed upon her. It wasn’t the name blessed by her parents. Of course, once the auguries and the medicine walkers determined her future and her purpose, her parents had forgotten her name in favor of her destiny.

People were troubling. Even those who should have loved without question and protected without reservation—the choice to embrace fated roles over blood or even soul left her without name or real sense of family. The isolation had done her a favor though, because living when everyone else died made life lonely enough. At least grief didn’t walk at her side.

“No,” Wyatt said after a moment, as though he had to consider whether he meant insult or not. “You do not look like a Jessica or a Jessie. Yet you go by Quinn and that sounds more like a title or a warning than a name.”

She shrugged, though amusement curved through her and the corners of her mouth began to twitch. “A warning? You’re really a sweet talker.”

His brows drew together, and he finally turned away from the saddle to stare at her across the fire. The light did interesting things to his features, illuminating the different colored eyes. The green one darkened as though the shade of grass in springtime while the blue one became almost incandescent. Her eyes did that—or so she was told—yet she rarely studied them in a mirror.

The supernatural quality sent a shiver skating down her spine, but of anticipation, not fear. What made this man who he was? “Have you always had your powers?” The question slipped the tether and betrayed her curiosity.

It was his turn to shrug. He sat back, reclining on the dirt. He hadn’t bothered with his bedroll or to strip off his boots. He didn’t eat. He didn’t rest like a normal man…because he’s not normal. The argument could be made that neither was she. Normal people didn’t live hundreds of years.

“What I am, I became.” Not a clear answer, but he spread his hands. Her duster rose off her saddle then settled again next to her even as her saddle floated to him. “I am as I have always been. You want to put your definitions upon it, based on your experience. You may do as you wish, for that is how you view the world, but I am as I was made.”

“Being made doesn’t define you, it simply gives you a bucket of talents, appearance, and history. What you do with them is what defines you.” She hesitated, then dismissed the kneejerk reaction. If they were to work together, they needed to trust each other.

He didn’t trust her, hadn’t when she went to deal with the Fevered in the cabin. It was why her chest hurt and she was littered with bruises.

She definitely didn’t trust him, because he represented too many unknowns. His ‘brother’ was her enemy, and she hadn’t been convinced that Wyatt didn’t belong in that category yet.

“If you are what you were made, then define what you do with what you are.” They had been raised in two totally different environments despite the similarities of their births. Quinn rubbed a hand against her chin. “When I was still a baby, the spirits gave my parents the name Kanda for me.”

Show trust to receive trust. It was one of the oldest rules.

“Magical power…if the spirits gave it to you, then it’s your name.” Wyatt went over every piece of the saddle, his examination thorough. “I lived for a while as a man, and I made a man’s mistakes. I have fought a war since then, a war I started.”

“It is the name for the spirits and a calling, I suppose. My parents surrendered me, as was proper for a child called to greater things.” Once upon a time, she had resented all involved. “What mistakes did you make?” They’d moved away from her original question about why he thought it possible to defeat his brother now when he had failed before, but they were circling back to it.

“I acted as young men do. I discovered that I liked to drink and to gamble and to romance beautiful women.” A sardonic note crept into his voice, turning the deep baritone almost gravelly. “I let my passion for these things distract me from the vision quest my brother and I were supposed to be having. What was the point of appeasing the old gods when there was so much new to be explored?” Suddenly his gaze wasn’t on her, but some distant past only he was privy to.

Easing forward, she pulled a knee to her chest. The position eased some of the stress on her side and allowed her to focus on his words.

“I was drunk on this new existence I’d discovered. Our parents raised us in the tribe, then in seclusion when the tribe wouldn’t have us anymore. I was too young to understand we’d been shunned. Our parents didn’t shun us, they embraced us, raised us and gave us values. My brother and I were close. We could finish each other’s sentences, and half the time we didn’t have to speak to know what the other would do.” The corner of his mouth kicked a little higher. “We were so much alike, until we left on our vision quest. What he saw and what I saw…they were different things, and we embraced the change.”

He quieted for so long, she feared he might not continue. Done with her saddle, he released it and it returned to where it had been and the duster lay across it once more. The fire burned merrily and the air around them was as toasty as if they had sat inside a cabin instead of a copse of trees. His abilities did that, and he did it all without any sign of strain or focus.

That impressed her more than anything else he’d done. It was as though it were a negligible amount of power.

“I saw nothing,” he admitted, and the weight of his gaze struck her. “Nothing. I expected some great revelation and I saw an endless nothingness. Half the time, accused my brother of making his vision up. He saw a different world, a different…well, it doesn’t matter what he saw. I decided if I saw nothing, then I would enjoy the one life I had and I—”

“Indulged?” she supplied the word simply. His logic and reasoning were not so far from her own.

“Yes. My brother did not share my appetites, so I would often leave him for days at a time to his spiritual journeying. Meanwhile, I availed myself of the nearest town’s pleasures—a conclave Spanish that had grown with trappers and other discontents.” His mouth twisted and he shook his head.

“What?”

“I’d almost forgotten about that, about how I used to be. Reminded me of someone else or maybe that someone else reminded me of who I have been.” Again, he shook his head and looked away from her to study the fire. His eyes narrowed as though suspicious, but he continued. “After one particularly long week of debauchery, I returned to check on my brother. I thought to bring him a bottle of rum. He wouldn’t drink it, I told myself, but I’d bring it to him anyway.”

Silence blanketed their little campfire then Goliath snorted. She glanced from Wyatt to the horse. The stallion, unlike her gelding, had his head up and his attention focused on the man speaking.

“I was slow moving. The drink, it had burned through me and I took my time about getting back. When I arrived…” Just like that, a choking sense of grief flooded her, and she was not an empath. She didn’t read emotions, but the sense of his pain throbbed in her bones. “Adam was dead.”