Storming Whitehorn

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 sure 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.

He pulled into a space and parked the car. Tossing his suit coat into the back seat, he headed inside the café. A country tune by Garth Brooks greeted him at the door. A handful of patrons were scattered around the café, some at the counter, others in booths. Heads turned at his entrance. Curious glances followed him as he made his way to a booth in the back. Whether they were staring at him because he was a Native American or because he was over-dressed for the lunch time crowd, he wasn’t sure.

Since arriving in Whitehorn, he hadn’t felt an open hostility from any of its residents. Though he couldn’t say he felt welcomed, either. Bigotry was alive and well across the country. Whitehorn was no worse or no better than any other town. No matter how much he’d like for it to be different, he would never be able to convert everyone to a world of complete acceptance.

A waitress with a bright smile and long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, joined him at his booth. She plunked a menu down onto the Formica-topped table and set a coffee mug next to it. Without asking, she filled his cup to the brim with the steaming brew. “If you’re looking for break fast, you’re half an hour too late. We’ve already got the grill set up for lunch.”

Storm shook his head. “That’s okay. Coffee’s fine for now.”

“Sure thing,” she said with a nod. “My name’s Janie. If you need anything else, just holler.”

Storm watched as Janie made her way to the front counter. His mind drifted back to the haunting scene he’d witnessed at the cemetery. Other than Alice Brooks’s histrionics, he had to admit the Kincaid family had seemed normal. They weren’t the monsters he’d remembered them to be as a child.

For years he’d clung to his hatred of the Kincaid family like a lifeline, finding solace and strength in bitterness. He’d blamed them for Raven’s unexplained disappearance, not wanting to believe that his brother would have abandoned him unless he’d felt he’d had no other choice. While Raven had talked little of his affair with Blanche Kincaid, Storm knew he’d been disturbed by Blanche’s older brother, Jeremiah. Jeremiah had been the devil incarnate. He’d belittled Raven in public and had threatened him in private. There was little doubt in Storm’s mind that Jeremiah Kincaid had played a role in Raven’s death.

If only he could get the police to agree.

Storm picked up his mug, blew the steam off the top and took a sip of the hot coffee. Once the mystery behind his brother’s death had been officially solved, he intended to be on the first plane back to Albuquerque. There was nothing here to keep him in Whitehorn.

Nothing but a family he’d turned his back on.

And a niece he did not know.

Storm set the mug back on the table. He stared at the clouds swirling across its cooling surface, as though searching for a way to soothe his guilt. In the days since he’d returned to Whitehorn, he’d seen Summer a handful of times. Always from a distance, never face-to-face.

He’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment to approach her. Only that moment had yet to come. Today he’d been just a few feet from finally meeting her. But as was too often the case, when it came to facing up to his personal responsibilities, he’d chosen the easy way out. He’d run.

Storm closed his eyes and took in a painful breath. For thirty years he’d lived with the thought that his brother had abandoned him. Wounded and betrayed, he’d purposefully distanced himself from the town and the people that had reminded him of his loss.

But now he knew the truth. Raven had died all those years ago.

Storm had run out of excuses to hide. His brother was gone for good. But Raven’s daughter was still alive and well. And she was his last link to the only person he’d ever loved.

With a deep sigh, he opened his eyes. Glancing around the café, he caught the eye of the blond-haired waitress.

Smiling, she strolled over to his booth. “Did you change your mind about lunch?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d just like to pay the bill.”

“That’s too bad,” she said, tearing a page from her receipt book and placing it on the table in front of him. “Fried chicken’s the special today. The cook fixes a mean bird.”

Storm gave a polite smile. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. Maybe you could help me with something, though. I’m looking for someone. Summer Kincaid. Do you know her? Or where I might find her?”

“Summer? Sure, I know her. She’s a doctor. Your best bet at finding her would be at the Whitehorn Memorial Hospital, or the clinic she runs at the Laughing Horse Reservation. If you can’t find her at either of those two places, she’s probably at home taking care of her baby step daughter, Alyssa. Her number’s in the phone book. Only look under the name Night hawk.” The waitress winked as she turned to leave. “She’s a married lady now.”

Night hawk. So Summer had married a Cheyenne. Despite being raised by the Kincaids, she’d chosen to live her life with a Native American. He felt vindicated by the thought.

He knew her name and how to reach her. Now all he needed was the courage to call her.