Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of the Warrior

“Do not touch me!” Inca jerked away from him. Her nostrils flared. “No man touches me without my permission.”

Shocked by her violent response, Roan instantly released her. He sat back on his heels. The anger in her eyes was very real. “I’m a paramedic…. I’m trained—”

“You do not presume anything with me, norteamericano,” she spat. Scrambling to her knees, Inca made sure there was at least six feet between them. He was too close to her and she felt panic. Why? His touch had been gentle, almost tender. Why had she behaved so snottily toward him? She saw the worry in his eyes, the way his mouth was drawn in with anxiousness.

Holding up his hands in a sign of peace, Roan rasped, “You’re right. I presumed. And I apologize.” He saw the mixture of outrage, defiance and something else in her narrowed eyes in that moment. When he’d first touched her, he’d seen her eyes go wide with astonishment. And then, seconds later, he saw something else—something so heart-wrenchingly sad that it had blown his heart wide open. And within a fraction of a second, the windows to her soul had closed and he saw righteous fury replace that mysterious emotion in her eyes.

Shaken by his concern and care for her, Inca got to her feet, despite the fact that she felt some pain in the region of the wound. They were a mile away from the dock now, the little tug chugging valiantly along on the currents. For now, they were safe. Placing the rifle on top of the cockpit, she turned her attention to the captain.

“Captain, I need a clean cloth and some good water.”

The grizzled old man nodded from the cockpit. “In there, senhorinha.” He pointed down the ladder that led below.

“Do you want some help removing that splinter?” Roan was behind her, but a respectful distance away. As Inca turned she was forced to look up at him. He was sweating profusely now, the underarms and center of his polo shirt dampened. His eyes were not guarded, but alive with genuine concern—for her. Inca was so unused to anyone caring about her—her pain, her needs—that she felt confused by his offer.

“No, I will take care of it in my own way.” She spun around and headed down the stairs.

Great, Roan, you just screwed up with her. He stood there on the deck, the humid air riffling around him, cooling him as he placed his hands on his narrow hips. Looking back toward shore, he saw the men leaving. Who were they? Who had sent them? Was Marcellino behind this? No one knew Roan’s itinerary except the good colonel. Worried about Inca, Roan stood there and compressed his lips. He’d forgotten Native American protocol with her. In his experience and training, Indians did not like to be touched by strangers. It was considered invasive. A sign of disrespect. Only after a long time, when respect and trust were developed, would touching be permitted.

Running his fingers through his short hair, Roan realized that he had to think in those terms with her. He was too used to being in the Anglo world, and in order to gain her trust, he must go back to the customs he’d grown up with in his own nation—the Native American way of doing things.

Still, he couldn’t get the feel of her skin beneath his fingers out of his mind or heart. Inca was firm and tightly muscled. She was in superb athletic condition. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on her tall, slender frame. Not many women were in such great shape, except, perhaps, some in the military. Rubbing his chin, he moved back to the cockpit.

Ernesto was mopping his forehead, a worried look in his eyes. He obviously hadn’t expected such an attack, and his hands still shook in the aftermath. He offered Roan a bottle of water. Roan took it and thanked him. Tipping his head back, he drank deeply.

Inca reemerged at that moment. She saw Roan, his head tipped back, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp he took. Again, fear rippled through her as she made her way up the stairs. A soft breeze cooled her sweaty flesh as she moved topside. Wanting to keep distance between them, she took another bottle of water that Ernesto proffered to her. She thanked him and drank deeply of it.

Roan finished off the water. He’d felt Inca’s return. The sense of her power, of her being nearby, was clear to him. As he put the plastic bottle back into the box near the wheel, he glanced up at her. His mouth dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. Roan straightened. He stared at her—not a polite thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself.

The injury on her upper left arm was now completely healed. No trace of swelling, no trace of blood marred her beautiful skin. As she capped the bottle of water and gave him a glaring look, he shifted his gaze. What had happened to her wound? It looked as if she hadn’t even been injured. But she had been and Roan knew it. The captain, too, was staring with a look of disbelief on his face. He was afraid of Inca, so he quickly averted his eyes and stuck to the task of guiding the tug.

Roan had a lot of questions. But asking questions was a sign of disrespect, too. If Inca wanted to tell him what she’d done to heal herself, she would in her own good time. Mike Houston had told him that she was a healer. Well, Roan had just gotten a firsthand glimpse of her powerful talents.

“How far do we go downriver?” Inca demanded of him. Despite the tone she used, she was enjoying his company. Normally, men managed to irritate her with their arrogant male attitude, but he did not. Most men could not think like a woman; they were out to lunch instinctually and jammed their feelings so far down inside themselves that they were out of touch completely. Inca found the company of women far preferable. But Roan was different. She could see the remnants of his worry and concern over her wounding. He didn’t try to hide or fix a mask on his feelings, she was discovering. The only other man she knew who was similar was her blood brother, Michael. Inca liked to know where a person stood with her, and when that person showed his feelings, whether they were for or against her, Inca appreciated it.

Roan smiled a one-cornered smile. At least she was still talking to him. He saw the frosty look in her eyes, the way she held herself, as if afraid he was going to touch her again. Remaining where he was, he said, “Let me get the map out of my luggage.” He brightened a little. “And there’s a gift in there for you from Mike and Ann, too. I think things have calmed down enough that we can sit and talk over the mission while you open it.”

Inca nodded. “Very well. We will sit on the shady side of the boat, here.” She pointed to the starboard side of the tug. Suddenly, she found herself wanting to talk to Roan. Why did he have the name he did? How had he earned it? She watched as he moved to the bow of the tug to retrieve his luggage.

Settling her back against the splintery wall of the cockpit, Inca waited for him. Roan placed the canvas bag, which was tubular in shape, between them and slowly sat down, his legs crossed beneath him. As he unzipped the bag, she watched his deft, sure movements and recalled his touch.

Men did not realize their touch was stronger and therefore potentially hurtful to a woman or a child. Mentally, she corrected herself. Not all men hurt women, but she’d seen too much of it in South America, and it angered her to her soul. No one had the right to hurt someone frailer or weaker.

“Here,” Roan said, digging out a foil-wrapped gift tied with red ribbon. “Mike said this was special for you.” And he grinned.

Inca scowled as she took the gift. She made sure their fingers did not touch this time. Oh, she wanted to touch Roan again, but a large part of her was afraid of it, afraid of what other wild, unbidden reactions would be released in her body because of it.

“Thank you.”

Well, at least Inca could be civil when she wanted to be, Roan thought, laughing to himself. He was discovering it was all about respecting boundaries with her. He watched covertly, pretending to search for the map, as she tore enthusiastically into the foil wrapping. She was like a child, her face alight with eagerness, her eyes wide with expectation. The wrapping and ribbon fluttered around her.

“Oh!”

Roan grinned as she held up smoked salmon encased in protective foil. “Mike said you had a love of salmon.”

For the first time, Inca smiled. She held up the precious gift and studied it intently. “My blood brother knows my weaknesses.”

“I doubt you have many,” Roan said dryly, and caught her surprised look. Just as quickly, she jerked her gaze away from him.

“Do not be blinded by the legend that follows me. I have many weaknesses,” she corrected him throatily. Laying the package in her lap, she took out her knife and quickly slit it open. The orange smoked fish lay before her like a feast. Her fingers hovered over it. She glanced at him. “Do you want some?”

“No, thank you. You go ahead, though, and enjoy it.” Roan was pleased with her willingness to share. Among his people, it was always protocol to offer food first to those around you, and lastly, help yourself.

She stared at him through hooded eyes. “Are you sure?” How could he resist smoked salmon?

She was reading his mind. He could feel her there in his head, like a gentle wind on a summer day. For whatever reason, Roan felt no sense of intrusion, no need to protect his thoughts from her. He grinned belatedly as he pulled the map from the plastic case. “I’m sure. The salmon is your gift. Mike and Ann said you love it. I don’t want to take a single bite of it away from you. Salmon’s a little tough to come by down here,” he joked, “and where I come from, there’s plenty of it. So, no, you go ahead and enjoy.”

Inca studied him. He was a generous and unselfish person. Not only that, he was sensitive and thoughtful to others’ needs. Her heart warmed to him strongly. Few men had such honorable traits. “Very well.” She got to her feet and went over to the tug captain. Roan watched with interest. Ernesto, his chest sunken, his flesh burned almost tobacco brown by the equatorial sun, reached eagerly for part of the salmon. He took only a little, and thanked Inca profusely for her generosity. She nodded, smiled, and then came and sat back down. Lifting a flake of the meat to her lips, she closed her eyes, rested her head against the cockpit wall and slid it into her mouth.

Roan felt Inca’s undiluted pleasure over each morsel of the salmon. In no time, the fish was gone and only the foil package remained on her lap. There was a satiated look in her eyes as she stuck each of her fingers in her mouth to savor the taste of salmon there.

Sighing, Inca lifted her head and looked directly at him. “Your name. It has meaning, yes?”

Shocked at her friendly tone, Roan was taken aback. Maybe his manners had earned him further access to her. He hoped so. Clearing his throat, he said, “Yes, it does.”

“Among our people, names carry energy and skills.” Inca lifted her hand. “I was named Inca by a jaguar priestess who found me when I was one year old and living with a mother jaguar and her two cubs. She had been given a dream the night before as to where to find me. She kept me for one year and then took me to another village, where another priestess cared for me. When I was five years old I learned that my name meant I was tied to the Inca nation of Peru. Each year, I was passed to another priest or priestess in another village. At each stop, I was taught what each one knew. Each had different skills and talents. I learned English from one. I learned reading from another. Math from another. When I was ten, I was sent to Peru, up to Machu Picchu, to study with an Andean priest name Juan Nunez del Prado. He lived in Aqua Caliente and ran a hostel there for tourists. We would take the bus up to the temples of Machu Picchu and he would teach me many things. He told me the whole story, of what my name meant, and what it was possible to do with such a name.” She lifted her hand in a graceful motion. “What my name means, what my destiny is, is secret and known only to me and him. To speak of it is wrong.”

Roan understood. “Yes, we have a similar belief, but about our vision quest, not about our name. I honor your sacredness, having such a beautiful name.” Roan saw her fine, thin brows knit. “With such an impressive history behind your name, I think you were destined for fame. For doing something special for Mother Earth and all her relations. The Incas were in power for a thousand years, and their base of operation was Cuzco, which is near Machu Picchu. In that time, they built an empire stretching the whole breadth and length of South America.” Roan smiled at her. He saw that each time he met her gaze or shared a smile with her, she appeared uneasy. He wondered why. “From what I understand from Mike, you have a name here in Amazonia that stretches the length and breadth of it, too.”

“I have lived up to my name and I continue to live the destiny of it every day,” she agreed. Eyeing him, her head tilting slightly, Inca asked, “Have you lived up to yours?”

Inca would never directly ask why he had been given his name, and Roan smiled to himself. She wanted to know about him, and he was more than willing to share in order to get her trust. They didn’t have much time to create that bond.

“My family’s name is Storm Walker. A long time ago, when my great-great-grandfather rode the plains as a Lakota medicine man, he acquired storm medicine. He had been struck by lightning while riding his horse. The horse died, and as he lay there on the plain afterward, he had a powerful vision. He woke up hours later with the name Storm Walker. He was a great healer. People said lightning would leap from his fingers when he touched someone to heal them of their ills or wounds.”

“Yes?” Inca leaned forward raptly. She liked his low, modulated tone. She knew he spoke quietly so that the captain could not overhear their conversation, for what they spoke of was sacred.

“One member of each succeeding generation on my mother’s side of the family inherited this gift of lightning medicine. When our people were put on a reservation, the white men forced us to adopt a first and last name. So we chose Storm Walker in honor of my great-great-grandfather.”

“And what of Roan? What is a roan? It is a name I have never heard before.”

He quelled his immediate reaction to her sudden warm and animated look. Her face was alive with curiosity, her eyes wide and beautiful. Roan had one helluva time keeping his hands to himself. He wanted to see Inca like this all the time. This was the real her, he understood instinctively. Not the tough, don’t-you-dare-touch-me warrior woman, although that was part and parcel of her, too. When there wasn’t danger around, she was wide-open, vulnerable and childlike. It was innocence, he realized humbly. And the Great Spirit knew, he wanted to treat that part of her with the greatest of care.

“Roan is the color of a horse,” he explained. “Out on the plains, my people rode horses. Horses come in many colors, and a roan has red and white hairs all mixed together in its coat.” He smiled a little and held her burning gaze. “My mother was Lakota. A red-skinned woman. My father was a white man, a teacher who has white skin. When I was born, my mother had this vision of a roan horse, whose skin is half red and half white, running down a lane beneath a thunderstorm, with lightning bolts dancing all around it. She decided to call me Roan because I was part Indian and part white. Red and white.”

Inca stared at him. She saw the vulnerable man in him. He was not afraid of her, nor was he afraid to be who he was in front of her. That impressed her. It made her heart feel warm and good, too, which was something she’d never experienced before. “That is why you are not darker than you are,” she said, pointing to his skin.

“I got my mother’s nose, high cheekbones, black hair and most of her skin coloring. I got my father’s blue eyes.”