Jasper Mountain (15 page)

“Delighted you join us this evening, Jack,” Turtle said, his face pinched as though he smelled something foul.

Jack grinned and nodded. “Mr. Barger. The pleasure is entirely mine.”

“And Jack is precisely who we’re celebrating tonight,” Isabella interrupted, handing Victor, then Jack a glass of champagne. The other ladies drifted about the room, dispensing glasses to the rest of the assembled men.

“To Jack,” Victor toasted, “and his very hard-earned and, I must admit, a bit delayed promotion.”

“To Jack,” the room chorused. Not only did everyone dress for effect, they spoke for effect, as well. Jack wondered if he might count on anything in this world as genuine. Only one thing to do. Time to toss a rock of reality.

“Quite amazing,” Jack said as glasses were raised to lips across the room. “Just a few days ago we searched for a missing man, and now we join in a toast, as if in celebration of finding him, safe and sound. Shame the man is still missing.”

Silence fell.

“That reminds me,” Victor said, his voice immediately cutting through tension. He handed Jack a book.
Julius Caesar.
“From my private collection. To commemorate your promotion and continuing success. A special gift, from me. Enjoy. To you, Jack, my godson, and the offspring of my most trusted friend.”

As if on cue, talking and laughter began, attentions focused back to small, scattered groups of conversation. Victor’s recovery impressed Jack. He managed to regain control and at the same time made Jack feel like an ungrateful jackass. The man was a master.

“To Junior!” Sheriff Cain held up a glass of champagne.

Isabella slipped between them. “I have a surprise before we serve dinner. And this is especially appropriate in honor of Jack’s promotion and his bright future.”

Jack clutched his glass, wondering what was coming next.

“We’re all going to have our fortunes told,” she said, then lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “That is, if we dare!”

Several feminine giggles of delight rose along with one of Victor’s eyebrows.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present for your amusement and pleasure, the mysterious and gifted Madame Shabanov!”

Jack felt her before he saw her. A presence so strong it filled the room, announcing her with more flourish than Isabella’s dramatic proclamation. Despite her enormous presence, a tiny, delicate woman walked into the room. Jack fell into her black eyes and was instantly lost. She was real. The Faerie from the Forest stood before him, not a mythical creature, but a flesh-and-blood woman.

He felt like he did when the platform pulled him up from the mine, and the sun blinded but reminded him there was light, life, and the taste of sweet air above the existence of smothering darkness.

Everything has changed,
Jack thought, as the reality of her existence sparkled through his soul. Everything.

M
ilena entered the parlor, acutely aware all eyes appraised and judged her. Silence drew across the room like a curtain, followed by glances of curiosity, surprise, appreciation.

Suspicion. Envy.

She admired the dramatic abilities of the proprietress. The madame had orchestrated quite an entrance. One by one, Milena boldly met each person’s gaze, determined not to show fear to these wealthy
gaujos
who, in any other circumstance, would not allow someone like her to walk among them.

A man watched her along with all the others, his eyes lit with the fire of a predator. On the outside, he appeared calm, but a dark and persistent power exuded from him. Everyone else in the room fell away into the shadows.

Suddenly, she felt another commanding life spirit among these people, someone other than the predator. Alarm filled her. In a flash, she knew. The man who had hunted at Rolf’s side, who sensed her presence despite her cover of night, was here.

Frantic, she ripped her awareness away from the predator and settled on blue eyes, wide with wonderment. She froze. The Hunter.

Her panic changed to confusion. No man had ever looked at her with such bewildered joy. Not lust, not desire, but awe, as if she were a rare and never before seen treasure. And his boyish face, handsome, open, and shining with honesty. Kindness. Although the room glowed only with lamps and outside dusk swept the sky, sunlight sparkled in his hair.

Had he hunted her that night on the mountain? Tracked her like some animal, some prize to be dragged to Rolf’s bed? The man standing in the group before her and what she knew of the Hunter did not match. At all.

His kindness. His light. One explanation. A trick.

Isabella grasped Milena’s hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, who will be first? Who possesses courage enough to allow Madame Shabanov a peek into their soul?” The proprietress’s voice rippled with dramatic excitement.

Immediately, the predator came forward. All else in the room dropped away. As he approached, his desire, forceful as a deadly avalanche down a mountainside, rumbled over and almost knocked her from her feet.

Isabella squeezed her hand. Milena tried to take a deep breath, made impossible by the ridiculous undergarments the proprietress had forced her to wear. The corset—an implement of torture, Milena thought—made an impenetrable shield against the taking in of air. The petticoats, more than any amount of skirts worn by a Romani woman, weighted her down. No wonder these American women chose to sit most of the day. Who possessed the unending strength to move against such restrictions of dress? The clothes held Milena in a frightening grip. She fought the urge to flee.

“Madame Shabanov, it is my pleasure to present Mister Victor Creely, the president of Jasper Mining Company and, if I may be allowed a small digression of affection, my very dear friend.”

Smoothly, Victor took Milena’s hand from Isabella’s gloved one and brushed his lips across her fingers. He searched her face for her reaction; perhaps he expected a giggle, a blush, a smile. She wanted to shudder with revulsion at his touch. She showed nothing.

“I’m charmed, Madame Shabanov.” His voice was smooth, alluring. The soft rattling of a deadly snake.

Isabella ushered them to a small, velvet-draped table, and Milena caught a glimpse of Beth, her eyes downcast and hurt on her pretty face. Beth had been at Victor’s side when Milena entered the room. How quickly he came forward for a taste of something new, leaving the lovely young flower to wilt by the wall.

“I tell your future with seeing cards, my crystal ball, or I read your palm,” Milena said just like she’d rehearsed earlier with Isabella. She pulled each one out of her bag and set them on the round table, grateful to concentrate on something other than the man before her. When she looked back at Victor’s face, she saw him measure her. In turn, she decided to measure him.

Rich, his expensive clothing told her. Particular, from his neatly barbered hair and smoothly shaved face. Powerful. She wasn’t sure if that came from his broad-shouldered body, his decisive movements, or his overwhelming presence, but in this pack of jackals, he reigned king.

“Oh, please,” Victor answered, “read my palm. I’ve always been sure my future’s in my hands.” He turned over his hand and presented it to her.

“Both,” Milena corrected him. He raised his eyebrows and held his hands over the table, palms up. She hesitated. His eyes glinted with interest, and he dared her with his look. Showing a confidence she didn’t really feel, she took them in her own and lightly caressed his palms with her thumbs, sparking the slight and guarded connection she used to tell fortunes. His expression flashed alarm, but he smoothed it over, strong and in charge once more. He hid the tremor well, but not from her. She would see much about this man others did not. His palms were smooth, yet hardened. Not exactly those of a working man, but once they had been thick with the calluses of labor.

“Hard work has brought you far,” she said.

“Don’t need no fortune-teller to know that,” a voice scraped with skepticism.

“Sheriff,” Isabella admonished. “Hush.”

“No,” Milena said, “I mean very difficult work.”

His hands bleed, and he swipes them down dirty pants and reaches to pick up another crate. He is starving, afraid, alone. Tears stain his filthy cheeks. He is exhausted. This job is his only way to survive. Without it, he will die. He works furiously. Determined. He is not a man. Only a boy. A little boy.

Her voice softened. “You were very young. Just a child.”

Victor’s eyes lost their harsh glare. He nodded. “That’s true.”

“You spoke correctly, Mr. Creely,” Milena said. “Your hands tell your future, but much more. Your emotions, health, talents, strength.” She stopped for effect, then continued. “Your fears.”

Concern flashed in his eyes. Then they drained of everything except his wall of confidence. “I have no fears, Madame Shabanov.”

She dropped her attention back down to his hands. Oh, yes, he had fears. Isabella warned her of being too personal, especially with the men. Compliment, admire, praise, and flatter them, the proprietress advised. That’s what they sought from the Boarding House and its occupants.

“You possess a great prowess with details, your mind is powerful, your memory strong. And,” she said, her voice light so not to offend, “I see a great love of argument.”

The men in the room, Victor included, burst into appreciative laughter that died down in the next moment.

“You are a man of strong will. You have a love of perfection. You possess much confidence.” But the line on his palm stretched across, broken in several places, hinting of doubts he held deep within. She did not mention the distrust of himself that must haunt him. Interesting. Not even Victor Creely trusted Victor Creely. Milena continued. “You love your work.”

“So inform us of something we don’t know.” Again, the rough voice.

“Cain, quiet,” Victor said in a low tone. Milena did not speak of the extremes she saw in his hands. Strength leading to ruthlessness, confidence growing to a pride that devoured character. Not only a man who loved his work, but a king who must rule, at all costs.

She raised her eyes. His gaze bored into her, searching. This man was not merely strength. This man was danger.

“What else do you see, Madame Shabanov?” he asked. She returned to studying his palm.

A tuft of hair springs out. Fingernails grow and curl into claws. The beast springs and rips into her flesh.

She blinked her eyes against the vision. His hands were again normal. He smiled. “What else?” he persisted.

“You have great command of words. You are able to use them to your advantage,” she said.
Deceit,
his palm told her.

“You insist to get what you want. Within you is endless desire,” she said, as again his hands spoke.
Bloodthirsty. Merciless.

“Calm. Patience.”
Cold-blooded. Relentless.

“Passionate.”
Vicious.

Victor’s eyes held her, pinned. The room dropped away and the King of the Jackals overwhelmed her. She must end this.

“Great vigor and success,” she said. “Riches. Prosperity.” Safe, empty words with no meaning. Words the
gaujos
always preferred to hear. She tried to pull away from him. He tightened his grip.

“I couldn’t ask for more,” he said and raised both her hands to his lips. This time, his mouth lingered. He tasted her. She saw from his expression that if he could devour her, he would.

“Jack,” he said, looking up from the table. “Jack must be next.”

The crowd shoved Rolf’s hunting companion to the front. Victor relinquished his chair and, to Milena’s complete dismay, Jack Buchanan took his place. Determined not to let him sense her fear, she met his gaze.

His face broke with a slight smile of shyness. She wanted to believe what she saw; yet she knew better than to believe such deceit. She did not want to touch him, this man who hunted her like an animal, yet came to her, his true spirit hidden in a cloak of kindness and a mask of honesty. She recognized this one as a master of trickery. He must be, to wear such a disguise.

“Give her your hands, Jack,” Victor prompted.

“If it’s all the same,” he said, shaking his head. A blush ran up his neck. An accent of America, once she’d heard before from the southern regions, colored his voice. Still shaking from her connection with the Jackal King, she imagined a wall erected between herself and this Hunter of Women and concentrated on strengthening the barrier. She must not open to him. She must not.

“Give her your hands, Jack,” a female voice echoed.

“He’s skairt!” the sheriff called out. “Junior’s skairt of a little girl.”

Milena lifted her head and glared at the haughty face that matched such a rough voice. “I am not a little girl.”

Her statement elicited laughter, particularly from the men. Jack shoved his hands onto the table. Summoning all her defenses and protection, she reached out and gently touched him. He jumped like a bolt of lightning hit him.

His hands were rough, calloused, cracked. They’d bled, and recently. New scars covered old. Compassion grew for the kind of life that caused this, but she pushed her feelings aside. She must not allow empathy to open the door between them, and she must not let him see she knew him, or that they had already met on the side of the mountain beneath a full moon.

From under his cuff peeked the tip of a scar puckering his wrist, a burn. She shifted her attention to the other wrist and saw the same. More scars. An echo and memory of flames so intense they burned cold, like ice. A terrible fire destroying everything. Everything.

A wall of flames. The scream of a woman rips through his soul. Horror, frustration, he can’t reach her in time. He doesn’t reach her at all. An expansive desert of emptiness. A heart, barren and lost. Guilt crumbles his soul, pain burrows deep. Her children want their mother. They look to him for answers. He has none. He should have insisted they all leave. They would be safe. Alive. He can’t live with this. He simply cannot.

Coward.

Connection with him transported her back to the
MoortYak,
her own experience of death and fire, sorrow without an end. She curled in against the memory and fought against reliving it.