Wyatt

Somewhere in West Texas

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The broad back of the stallion tensed beneath his weight. Goliath refused to take another step. Legs locked, the big horse tossed his head and canted a glance over his shoulder at his rider.

They hadn’t paused since leaving the mountain. Their desert crossing began during the night, but even when the heat of the sun bore down on them, Wyatt hadn’t paused. Ahead of him, the desert gave no quarter, though the evening twilight promised a respite from the temperature.

“If we push on through the night, you’ll be able to rest in a field of grass rather than sand, rock and stone.”

The words had no effect on the animal’s powerful flanks. The coiled muscles promised to buck—something Goliath hadn’t even attempted in years. If the horse wanted to rest, fine, they would rest. The animal had been his companion for more than a century—longer, perhaps, because Wyatt stopped counting the years for a long time until Quanto. Then he only tracked the turning of the wheel, as time mattered to the children. Dismounting, he freed the leather halter Goliath wore instead of a bridle. The horse didn’t need a bit in his mouth, and would likely take the hand off of anyone who tried to force one in there.

Stretching his neck, Goliath butt-checked him, a silent demand for his saddle to be removed. Amused, Wyatt stroked his neck before loosening the girth. He stripped him off all his gear including the saddlebags before he went for the saddle. Sweat lathered along Goliath’s silky hair, and he gleamed under the rapidly dying light. The saddle blanket reeked as he pulled it free along with the saddle. On prancing steps, the stallion sidestepped away, then dropped to roll in the hot sand. The stretch and roll left him covered in golden grit when he lurched to his feet.

Turning his tail, he trotted away. Wyatt shook his head and let him go. More than capable of taking care of himself, the horse would return after he’d rested and found water. After setting the saddle on a rock, he flipped the stinking blanket over and laid it out on another to dry. Sweat and grime coated Wyatt’s face, but he could ignore it. His hair clung to the back of his neck and his shirt seemed as clammy as his flesh. Tugging the hat from his head, he tossed it on the rest of his gear, then stripped his trail coat off before gathering his lengthening hair into his fist. With a knife, he hacked the excess length away leaving himself with a fistful of hair.

Eyeing it, he considered flinging it away. The simpler solution, but not the most practical, instead he secured the strands together with a tendril of power before stowing them in a bit of cloth. He’d burn them with the next fire he built. It could be days, but it was better than letting his hair be taken by some bird to some far flung place where some would-be mage, witch, or shaman might gather it for some quest or spirit vision. The unpleasant surprise for the recipients far outweighed any burden to him on carrying the hacked off pieces farther. Spreading out a cloth, he used the sharpened knife to cut the rest of his hair.

Paranoia haunts you, brother, and eats away at you. Quanto’s words drifted to him as though carried on the wind. A fanciful thought if he’d ever had one. The brother of his soul had truly gone where Wyatt could no longer follow. Who knew, maybe even now, he looked down at Wyatt. Perhaps he leaned against the rocks, youthful vigor filling his aged limbs once more, as he wore a disapproving frown.

“If you are there, my old friend, you know I cannot hear you and probably don’t want to. Go haunt our children. Look in on them.” Raking his fingers through his shorn hair, he shook loose any lingering bits, then wrapped the cloth tight around them. The knife fit in his boot, and he studied the shimmering landscape.

If Quanto indeed watched over him, it was not for companionship. No, the shaman likely wanted him to turn away from the task before him. For nearly six decades, Wyatt walked in the shadow of a man who could have been his great-grandchild—or perhaps the grandchild of his great-grandchild. He’d seen in Quanto a reflection of his own father. For all their years together, he had let the shaman win and, in the end, Quanto left him.

The sun continued to sink lower. Soon, darkness would bathe the twilight. Either he’d be waiting on the hard ground for Goliath’s return or—the horse nickered in the distance. A snort, and perhaps even an equine laugh—with Goliath anything was possible.

The stallion sailed toward him, tail raised and flagged as his brilliant trot ate up the ground beneath him. More graceful than a dancer, the stallion never failed to stun Wyatt. The animal’s pure grace and beauty had been what attracted his eye in the first place. Lying in wait atop a cliff, he had watched the Spanish army pass below carrying their so-called wealth and captured slaves southward. The horse ridden by the commander at their lead had been a spirited, beautiful creature and far too elegant for his rough master.

From the first, Wyatt had known Goliath, and Goliath had known him.

Despite the dry desert air and his earlier sweaty back, the horse’s glossy fur was soaked with fresh water and no stench. “Someone found water.”

The horse bobbed his head, his mane tossing a stray droplet toward the greedy earth. Pivoting, he turned to head back the way he’d come, pausing only to glance over his shoulder.

“And you expect me to carry everything, don’t you?”

Snort.

Stomp.

Chuckling despite the delay, Wyatt waved him onward, then flung a cord of power around the saddle, halter, blanket, and saddlebags. They floated into the air and followed him as he slipped on the trail coat, then dropped the hat onto his head. “Lead the way.”

The stallion guided him across the next two miles, slowing only when he threatened to trot out of sight. The air cooled considerably, but as the last rays of the sun fought against the blanket of night, Wyatt caught the sound of rushing water. Oddly, he even recognized the depressed land and tall rocks.

He’d camped there when he’d hauled Kid to the mountain and let the boy bathe. Plenty of water for the horse and enough to wash himself. Settling their gear on a stable rock formation, he strode through the darkness. His eyes acclimated quickly. The land’s warmth gave him a topographical map to follow. Gathering the wood, he used his gift indiscriminately. Few lived in the desert. Fewer still traveled across the harsh, and unforgiving region, save in larger parties. Even his brethren among the tribes resisted venturing this far south anymore. If a war party came for him…a surge of pleasure flooded his chill veins. He almost looked forward to the distraction.

By the time he returned to the makeshift camp, Goliath loomed over their supplies and pawed the sand. He wanted to eat. He’d cooled himself sufficiently and had even dunked himself in the water and rolled in the sand again.

He was filthy.

“And I suppose you want me to brush you out now that you’ve made a mess.”

Another light whinny followed by a snort.

Once he had the fire lit, Wyatt stripped down to only his leggings, the buckskin a second skin to him over and above the denim he also had in his gear. He would trade them before he reached ‘civilization,’ though he planned to skirt the towns as much as possible save for when he needed to trade for feed. With a brush and comb, he worked Goliath’s coat free of any debris as the stallion ate. By the time he finished, the horse was half-asleep.

Pausing, he pressed an ear to the animal’s side and listened to the steady drum of his heart. For as long as he’d been capable, he’d kept Goliath young and vigorous with careful dosages of his blood. Over the intervening time, he’d sworn the horse had changed, grown either wiser or more canny. He definitely communicated his thoughts.

But had Goliath, too, reached an age where he needed more than Wyatt could provide?

“After this ride, you can rest my friend.” He murmured to the animal. “Whatever you wish. I will do all I can to make it so.”

If necessary, he’d leave word for Scarlett’s family—her brother-in-law Micah had a gift with horses. Though he himself was not Fevered, animals responded to him and his wife had the gift of animal speech. They would be fitting caretakers for Goliath after…

The stallion snorted and stomped his foot. His tail swished, a snap of movement that struck Wyatt as though he were a fly. Message received. He wanted to be left alone to sleep.

“Grumpy old man.” He told him before cleaning the tools he’d used to brush the horse and shucking the buckskin so he could wash himself. The temperature of the water was bracing, bubbling from deep below to fill the culvert. It only came above surface for a brief distance before vanishing below, the hard rock surface all that kept the sand from devouring it.

Still, he barely noticed the icy water sluicing over his scarred skin.

You don’t feel anything. You’re as dead outside as you are in. The strident tones of Katherine’s voice rippled over him. Spirits didn’t talk to him anymore.

Too bad his memories couldn’t shut up as well.

---

Quinn

Dorado

Tilting the chair back on two legs to lean in the shade afforded by the boardwalk’s overhang, Quinn monitored the comings and goings at the livery stable. The saloon proved quiet in the relative heat of the winter afternoon. Texas, it seemed, didn’t have the issues of plunging temperatures like up north or the waist deep snow of the Midwest. If anything, the damp cold brought on by rain or the cool delivered by chilly winds only kept the locals inside.

Well, some of them.

As it turned out, the McKennas running the livery didn’t stay out of sight or isolated. Several times a day, riders trotted in and dropped off horses and one or both brothers would greet them. Sometimes the riders lingered, other times they simply passed over coin before leaving. Earlier in the day, a couple had hired a buckboard and two horses. They were heading to San Antonio. The haggling over the price and length of their visit went on for twenty brutally boring minutes. The eldest brother handled the negotiation. David Matthews didn’t cede ground to the belligerent fellow and had even begun to walk away before the other man caved.

Not Matthews. Quinn corrected herself mentally. They are McKennas here. David is now Mitchell. Kent changed his name to Royce, and Julianna is Jenny. Plain, boring names unrelated to their previous existence. A doctor, a lawyer, and an apothecary were now settlers, horse handlers, and unremarkable. They’d made themselves smaller, easier to miss, and while Quinn admired the talent it took to exert such influence… How long can they deny their heritage?

The brothers worked in tandem to clean stalls and sister Jenny hadn’t made an appearance from their home since she’d delivered lunch to her brothers. From Quinn’s position, monitoring all three wasn’t difficult though the house hid anything approaching from behind.

Lifting her tin mug for a drink of the rapidly cooling coffee, Quinn debated stepping inside for more. The bartender already found Quinn’s choices odd. Drinking hot drinks rather than liquor. Sitting on the porch rather than a table inside the common room. Taking a room at the newly reopened hotel rather than a flop with the pair of working girls who lingered inside near the bar.

Tomorrow, Quinn would have to shift positions. The town of Dorado, though freshly reconstructed over the last couple of years, was far too small to let strangers vanish into the nonexistent crowd. As though summoned by the thought, boots echoed against the boardwalk as a tall man made his way toward Quinn’s position.

A silver star occupied a prominent place on his coat while the brim of his hat limited her view of his features.

Sam Kane—Quinn learned his name shortly after arriving—was the town marshal and eldest son of Jebidiah Kane, the region’s largest and wealthiest landowner. Out for his afternoon stroll, most likely. The marshal put in regular appearances, based on what Quinn had tracked for the last two weeks. When he nodded in passing, Quinn returned the greeting.

Bypassing the table, he stepped inside the saloon. The batwings thudded together as they closed. Awareness of being watched soured the last dregs of the coffee as Quinn drained them. Setting the tin cup aside, Quinn let her coat fall open and settled a hand on the grip of her holstered pistol. Without motion, Quinn studied the street. The feeling of observation increased, as though a physical pressure exerted itself against Quinn’s body and skull.

A telepath.

Limited options presented themselves. Either a Fevered newly introduced to their power scanned the whole town or a particularly powerful Fevered focused solely on peeling away the secrets housed within Quinn’s mind. Either way, their task would be met with disappointment. Standing slowly, Quinn took the time to drop a single nickel on the table next to the tin cup. More than what was needed for cleaning the coffee cup, but the action bought time to search for the searcher.

No one on street level stared at the saloon. The brothers had closed the doors to the livery stable and the marshal remained inside the establishment. Finished, Quinn stepped off the boardwalk, intending to cross the street at a diagonal as though headed for the hotel lodging.

Adjusting her hat, Quinn used it as a shield and an excuse to glance up. Many of the shops along the main strip had homes above them or at least storage and rooms. No curtains moved over the saloon or the bank. The marshal’s office seemed quiet. Ten steps across the dirt street, and a flicker of movement over the General Store caught Quinn’s eye. A man filled the window and made no pretense of watching and the pressure redoubled. Rejecting the contact, Quinn headed for the hotel. Better to get out of sight and break the connection rather than court a confrontation.

The door to the hotel opened and another man stepped out. Similar enough to the marshal for her to identify him as another Kane, the pressure of a second gift focused in Quinn’s direction.

“Miss?” Surprise kindled the young man’s voice, but Quinn didn’t let it dissuade her. He was as Fevered as the marshal wasn’t. The possibility the man in the window above was also a Kane and Fevered wasn’t lost on her.

Movement to her left, and a blond stepped onto the street. Power eddied around him, and it took Quinn only a moment to pin him as a shifter. The door to the saloon opened and another Kane appeared to her left.

Five men all told—or so her ears told her as the door to the General Store opened and closed. Kanes. If the Marshal was behind her, the man standing in front of her was likely the youngest—Kid.

That left Jason and Micah—whom she suspected were the two to her left. Three Fevered, two not.

“We just want to talk, ma’am.” Kid spoke in measured, even tones. A wave of calm washed toward her, pushed like a tide. So—emotions were his thing? His brother was a telepath and he was an empath? Locking her legs, Quinn stood against the tide. The emotion crested then broke around her and scattered. Confusion filled his blue eyes, but he raised a hand to his brothers as though asking them for patience or to at least let him control the situation.

The wolf narrowed the space between them, but he didn’t come within striking distance. Quinn hadn’t come looking for a fight with them. For the most part, these Fevered seemed to have their gifts under control.

“Believe me when I say you want to stop what you’re doing.” The warning was the only one she’d give.

“Miss, as I said, all we want is to talk to you.” Hands raised, the empath projected a sense of well being and trust. How often did he manipulate others?

“Miss?” The only other non-Fevered brother asked, shock underscoring the syllable. “Quinn, the fearsome bounty hunter, is a woman? How the hell—beg your pardon, ma’am—did you miss that Jason?”

“Not the time.” Cool tones as devoid of emotion as Kid was full of it flowed through Jason’s voice.

“Stop it, all of you.” Sam strode into her line of sight and then took a stance in front of his brother. He removed his hat and studied her. “Ma’am? Or would you prefer Miss Quinn?”

“Quinn is fine.” It had been her name for as long as she could remember. Raising her brows, she kept her arms loose and her hands away from her weapons. In truth, she would only need the gun for the marshal, but he wasn’t the greatest threat. “Is there a problem, Marshal? Or is your family in the habit of accosting women on the streets of the town you reportedly protect?”

Slapping his hat against his thigh, the marshal studied her. Most men would stutter an apology or offer an excuse. They overlooked her gender, assumed they had to be mistaken. Yet the man before her offered neither. He was too assessing, weighing his judgment perhaps. “You’ve been here two weeks, made no friends, showed no attempt to find a place, and haven’t moved on.”

“So your town is not interested in my coin?” Raising her chin, she allowed a faint smile to play across her mouth. “Or is staying in the hotel also akin to breaking the law?”

Lips compressed, Sam frowned. “Ma’am, we can stand out here all day and play games, but I am the marshal. I’ll ask the questions. You’re a stranger. We’ve learned to be wary of strangers.”

“Even a woman? Truly?” The town seemed full of surprises.

“Especially women.” It was the wolf’s turn to intercede. He leaned against a post, his expression intent despite his posture’s air of relaxation.

“Cody.” The marshal silenced the wolf. “What is your interest in the McKennas?”

“Who?” Two could play stupid—or in their case, maybe all six of them.

“Quinn, we can do this the hard way or the easy way.” The marshal’s voice bordered on impatience, yet the drawl seemed charming, as did his direct focus and lack of disbelief in the idea of her being the potential threat. From all accounts, he was a good man.

She didn’t relish the idea of killing him. “Are you charging me with a crime, Marshal?”

Another push from the man behind him, and Quinn transferred her gaze to lock with Kid’s. His eyes widened a fraction as she waited for the next wave of his power and consumed it. Shock rippled across his face and he staggered back a step. The wolf was at his side and then a second mental blow thrummed against her. Switching her attention to Jason she consumed the slash of his attack. The telepath would have gone to his knees if his brother hadn’t caught him.

A growl telegraphed the wolf’s attack, and she raised her hand, bracing for his lunge. Slapping her palm against his chest, she leashed the animal within him and the gold ring around his eyes bled to blue even as his face went chalk white.

“Really sorry bout this, ma’am,” Sam’s murmured apology was the only warning she received before a fist slammed into her jaw and the world went black.