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Praise for the novels of
SHARON SALA

“Veteran author Sala crafts two exciting leads bound by their love of animals and reluctance to trust people.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Healer

“Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist, she is an inspiration for people everywhere who wish to live their dreams. Her work has a higher purpose and she takes readers with her on an incredible journey of overcoming adversity and increased self-awareness in every book.”

—John St. Augustine, host, Power! Talk Radio WDBC-AM, Michigan

“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

Sharon Sala has a “rare ability to bring powerful and emotionally wrenching stories to life.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“A compelling page-turner and a reading experience I won’t soon forget!”

—Reader to Reader on Sweet Baby

The Warrior
Sharon Sala

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The older I get, the more I have begun to understand

the words of my elders.

When my grandfather died, my grandmother was

devastated. I remember hearing her say in a tiny,

broken voice, “I thought I would go first. I didn’t

want to be left behind.”

When my father, then my sister, died within two months

of each other, our whole family was broken. Grocery lists

they’d written the week before were still there, but they

were not. I remember my mother’s shattered words.

“No parent should outlive their child.”

Long before my fiancé, Bobby, ever began to get sick,

he told me out of the blue one day, “If anything ever

happens to me, you will be all right.”

Then, when he died, I wailed in a lost, hopeless cry,

“I wish I could go with him.”

In the ensuing weeks after his death, I remembered his

prophetic words and I was certain that he was wrong.

I know he laughs now, because time has proved

that he was right.

Despite the tragedies and sorrows life hands us,

there is always one undeniable truth.

As long as we draw breath, we owe it to the ones

we loved and lost to live out our lives without

wasting them on regrets.

So…just to set the record straight, you were right,

my love.

In honor of those we’ve loved and lost,

I am dedicating this book to the ones

who get left behind.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

North American Continent—early 1500s

Night Walker, second chief of the Turtle Clan of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, stood on a promontory overlooking the bay of great water near his village. He was a warrior of twenty-nine summers, with a face that was a study in planes and angles. He was also something of an oddity in the tribe, standing head and shoulders above every other warrior. His shoulders were broad, his muscles as hard as the line of his jaw, which, today, was clenched against the angry slap of the wind blowing against his skin. With each fierce gust, his hair—thick, black and straight as the arrows in his quiver—would lift from his shoulders to billow out behind him like the wings of a soaring eagle. As he stood, wearing nothing but a piece of tanned deer hide tied at his waist and hanging to just above his knees, his nostrils flared, savoring the scent of oncoming rain mixing with the ever-present tang of salty air.

For days he’d been having visions that troubled his sleep—bloody visions always ending with death. Troubled by what he believed to be a dark omen of things to come, he’d taken to standing guard on the highest point above the village. Today, when the storm had come in without warning, churning the great water into massive waves higher than Night Walker’s head, he’d felt a foreboding similar to that in his dreams.

Now he stood with his feet apart, his body braced against the storm front as he looked out across the bay, watching the dark underbelly of the angry clouds covering the face of the sun. As he watched, a long spear of fire shot out of the clouds and into the water with a loud, angry hiss, sending water flying into the air. Night Walker flinched, and the skin on his face began to tighten. Every instinct signaled that danger was upon them.

A second shaft of fire pierced the clouds, stabbing into the heart of the great water and yanking his gaze from the sky to the horizon. As he watched, a shape began to emerge from the far side of the rocky finger of land pointing out into the water. It was floating on the water like the canoes of his people, but much, much larger, and with big white wings filled with the angry wind. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and the sight left him stunned. The unsettled waters were rolling the big canoe from side to side, and he could see men running about on its floor, scrambling like tiny insects trying to outrun a flood as waves washed over the sides. His heart jumped; then his gut knotted as his sense of foreboding grew.

He turned and looked down at the village. His people were as yet unaware of anything more than the oncoming storm. As he watched, he saw his woman, White Fawn, come out of their tepee and go to the woodpile just beyond. She staggered once from a hard buffeting wind, then regained her footing and went about her task. He knew what she was doing—gathering dry wood before the storm got it wet, which made it difficult to burn. She was a good woman, always thinking of his comfort. The mere sight of her always made his pulse quicken. She was his heart, the other half of his soul, and even though the Great Spirit had not blessed them with children, he loved her no less. It wasn’t until she went back inside their dwelling that he turned back to the water. When he did, a jolt of fear shot through him. The great canoe was now inside the bay, and three smaller canoes filled with strange-looking men were in the water and coming toward shore.

Their presence was a threat to the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, even though he had no words to explain how he knew that. He turned and began scrambling down the steep slope of the bluff, desperate to get back to the village and warn his people.

Antonio Vargas was a pirate with an eye always on the prize just out of his reach. For months he’d heard rumors from Spain that a man named Colombo had found a new route to the West Indies and, in the process, found a land rich in wealth guarded only by a race of savages. In other words, a treasure ripe for the taking.

Before he could act on the notion, an unexpected raid in the night by an English privateer had decimated his crew. They’d managed to escape by sailing into a fog bank. A week later, he’d put into the nearest port and taken on more crew, and for more than a month now, they’d roamed the seas without encountering another vessel or coming within sight of any kind of land. Desperate to recoup his losses as well as his self-esteem, he’d decided to follow Colombo’s path and claim some of those easy riches for himself. Only it hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped.

They’d been on the water for more than two months, and Vargas had been beginning to fear his decision had been a bad one when land was finally sighted. It was none too soon. His men were weak, some suffering dysentery. He needed fresh water and fresh food. Sighting land was a godsend, but the upcoming squall at their backs was pushing them in toward shore far faster than he would have liked. As he prayed that they would not founder on a hidden reef, they’d done the best that they could to navigate into the bay. Between the swiftly approaching storm and the sheet of rain that they could see coming across the ocean, he was relieved to drop anchor. Giving orders as fast as he could shout them, Vargas watched as his crew scrambled to obey.

It wasn’t until the ship was secure that he took the time to scan the shoreline. Just beyond the shore, nestled up against a backdrop of trees that appeared to be the beginning of a forest beyond, was a village. He couldn’t tell much, but it appeared small, composed of no more than thirty dwellings. A slow smile broke across his face. He’d done it! He’d found Colombo’s famous new land, too. When he returned, he would also be lauded as a daring explorer. All he needed was proof, like some of the gold he heard Colombo had found. Uncertain as to which would be wisest—ride out the storm before it hit, then go ashore, or go ashore now and take the residents by surprise—Vargas let his greed settle the debate. If he waited, whoever lived there might hide or even run, taking their treasure with them.

Barking another set of orders for boats to be lowered, Vargas watched the village through his spyglass while he waited. When he saw movement and then savages gathering and pointing, he realized that they’d been spotted.

“Make haste!” he yelled, pointing toward shore. “They’ve seen us!”

Three smaller boats were lowered, manned by six men apiece. Vargas’s boat took the lead. About halfway to shore, he looked through his spyglass again, and as he did, his heart jumped. Four of the savages were heading toward the water, while the rest of the villagers had begun to gather in the background, obviously as curious about him and his men as he was about them. The wind was still high, churning the waves. The threatening rain seemed imminent, and yet the villagers didn’t seem worried. In response, Vargas’s concern over the storm dropped, too. If they thought nothing of it, then neither would he.

Within minutes, the boats were beached. Vargas vaulted out and strode forcefully through the raging surf, ignoring the rising wind and the sea slapping at his legs. Three of his men followed closely. He could hear them cursing and muttering among themselves about the storm and the cold, angry sea. Although more than half of them were weakened from dysentery, he was beyond caring about creature comfort. Greed rose like gorge within him as he watched the approaching savages.

Their skin was dark, but not as dark as a Moor’s. Their hair was long and straight, and seemed to be woven through with bits of feathers and what appeared to be strips of animal skin. They came without care for the wind whipping about their faces and necks, impervious to the impending storm as they stared at him and his men in fascination.

He didn’t know or care that they’d never seen men with light skin or hair on their faces, or seen people wear clothing, even in warm weather, that covered their entire bodies. He fingered the scimitar at his waist, then slid the palm of his hand from its hilt to the dirk he’d shoved beneath his wide leather belt. He looked past their crude weapons and animal skins to the bright bits of what he took to be gold, mingled with the strange gemstones and shells they were wearing around their necks. His gaze focused on a small pouch hanging from a leather strip around the neck of one of the savages and he imagined it filled with gold, as well. His imagination swelled as he pictured pots of the jewel-like stones within their huts, maybe even lying about on the ground.

When the first savage stepped up to him and lifted his hand in greeting, Vargas reached for his necklace.

Chief Two Crows, principal chief of the tribe, had been as stunned by the appearance of these men as had Night Walker. With no reason to suspect danger, he’d willingly gone down to greet them. But when the tall stranger with the hairy face suddenly grabbed at his medicine bag and sky stones, he grunted and knocked the man’s hand away.

Vargas grinned, then pointed at the chief as he spoke to his men. “So, amigos, the savage does not want to share.”

Someone chuckled behind him as the first drops of rain began to fall. He reached for the pouch, yanking it from around the old man’s neck before he could react, palmed his dirk and slit the savage’s throat.

The old chief’s shock died with him as his blood spurted onto Vargas’s chest.

“Now!” Vargas screamed, then pulled the scimitar from his waist and waved it above his head.

His men swarmed from the boats. With the rain hammering down upon them and the wind pushing against their backs, they raced toward the village, firing their small handguns and hacking at the savages, without care even for woman or child, as they began to run in terror toward the village that would provide no safety now.

Night Walker was halfway down the cliff when he heard the first screams and what sounded like short claps of thunder. But it wasn’t until he heard an answering war cry that he knew they were being attacked. He flashed on the visions he’d been having. Fear increased his speed.

He ran without thought for himself while the thunder of his own heart drowned out the screams of his people. The storm was on top of him now, yet he felt none of it. The fear in his belly lent speed to his strides. Tree limbs slapped at his face and against his chest, marking the smooth brown flesh with long, angry streaks, bringing blood that was quickly washed away by the torrent of rain. Night Walker was unaware of all of it—not the sharp, burning pain from the thorny limbs ripping at his flesh, nor the blood and rain pouring down his body. Even though he couldn’t hear her, White Fawn’s face was before him, her name echoing within his heart. He felt her panic, knew something terrible was happening to her—and that he was not going to be fast enough to save her.

When he finally burst out of the forest into the clearing, it was to a scene of horror. What he saw was worse than his nightmares, bloodier than his visions.

The enemy had come, and the enemy had killed.

Everyone.

The only signs of life were the strangers, ripping clothing from the People’s bodies, yanking totems and medicine bags from around their necks. Laughing as if their greatest joy in life was desecration.

When Night Walker saw a tall man with a hairy face reach down and rip the sky stone from around White Fawn’s neck, shock rolled through him. Her head lolled lifelessly as the man shoved her limp body aside with his foot. Night Walker saw the rain pouring down into her dark, unseeing eyes, flooding her nostrils, washing the blood from her face.

He screamed—first in horror, then in rage.

With the bodies of his people strewn about like maize husks tossed by the wind, he pulled the first arrow from his quiver, notched it and took aim. The arrow cut through the downpour in a blur, piercing the throat of the nearest man, who dropped the booty he’d been carrying and grabbed at both sides of the shaft. His eyes bulged as a bubble of blood popped on his lips. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Night Walker notched another arrow, took aim and let fly, watching with grim satisfaction as, one by one, the unsuspecting invaders dropped where they stood. Their cries of pain or shock went unnoticed by the others, drowned out by the sound of the storm. He fired off another arrow, then another and another, until he’d emptied his quiver, leaving them with a band of far fewer men than when they’d landed.

It wasn’t until he grabbed a club and a spear from a nearby hut and began running toward them, screaming an endless war cry, that the others realized he was there.

A man named Miguelito Colon saw the crazed savage coming toward them and shouted at Vargas over the storm.

Vargas spun just in time to see the attacker run Colon through with a spear. Even though he was accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, he flinched as Colon’s guts spilled out on the ground, the spear still quivering in his belly.

Vargas roared in anger, surprised by both the savage’s sudden appearance as well as the shocking number of his crew who now lay dead. As the rain blurred his vision, a cold wind whipped through the village, suddenly chilling him to the bone.

At that moment, it crossed his mind that he should have waited until the storm passed before coming ashore. But nothing could change what was, and the savage was only one man—little more than a lingering nuisance.

“Get him!” he shouted, waving his men toward the tall, nearly naked man coming at them on the run.

Arturo Medajine grabbed for his handgun, took aim and fired. But the powder was soaked, and by the time he dropped the gun to reach for his sword, the savage was upon him.

The savage swung his wooden club as he passed, cracking Medajine’s skull. The man never knew what hit him.

Night Walker’s gaze was still fixed on the man who’d killed White Fawn. As he passed her grandfather’s corpse, he grabbed the spear from Brown Owl’s lifeless hands then leaped a small child’s body.

The next man to come at him did so with a broadsword. Night Walker dodged, then speared him in the gut. The man was still screaming as Night Walker took the sword out of his hands and decapitated him where he stood.

Vargas was shocked. The savage was still alive and downing his men one after the other. Compared to the others they’d encountered, this one was extremely tall—as tall as Vargas himself. Before he could react, thunder rattled the ground on which they stood. The lightning bolt that followed struck nearby, so close that they were all momentarily blinded. By the time Vargas could see clearly again, the savage was less than a hundred feet away and another of his men was dead.

His fingers tightened around the hasp of his scimitar as a storm gust staggered him.

“Damnation,” he cursed, and then swung his blade in the air. “Peron! The savage! Stop him!”

Luis Peron was at home on the deck of a ship, but, weakened from dysentery and slogging around in the mud with the armload of furs he’d just dragged out of a hut, he was at a huge disadvantage. Still, Vargas was his captain, and orders were to be obeyed. He dropped the furs and was reaching for the knife in his belt when a blow from the savage’s broadsword split his breastbone.

He dropped where he stood.

Vargas’s heart ricocheted against his rib cage. This wasn’t happening. He’d fought the most heinous of men—in seaports, on the sea, in the dark, beneath the subtle glow of a full moon, even in the alleyways of London, England, in full daylight. So why had killing one savage become such a difficult feat?

Nervous now that his men were too few, and knowing he was dangerously out of his element, Vargas began to retreat, taking the remaining men with him.

“Back to the boats!” he yelled, and then, without waiting to see who followed, he started running, now facing the full fury of the storm.

The few surviving sailors gladly obeyed and headed for the boats, following Vargas’s retreat. But for every two steps Vargas took, the storm slowed him by one. Afraid to look over his shoulder—afraid to slow down—all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Even though the intruders were falling one by one beneath Night Walker’s hand, he felt no satisfaction. Revenge would not be done until he had spilled the blood of the man who’d cut White Fawn’s throat and ripped away her medicine pouch. Not until he watched the tall, hairy-faced thief draw his last breath would the fire in his gut cease to burn.

When the invaders suddenly turned away and began running back to their canoes, Night Walker panicked. They couldn’t escape! They had to pay for what they’d done.

He caught up with the slowest of them within seconds, grabbed him by the hair hanging out from under his water-sodden hat and yanked.

The man’s white-rimmed eyes had one last glance of the sky before Night Walker’s flint knife sliced across his jugular and an arterial spray of red shot across his line of vision and everything went dark.

Night Walker only grunted as the body fell at his feet. He was nothing but one less man between him and the one who’d killed White Fawn.

Another flash of lightning shot out of the clouds, striking the bluff on which Night Walker had been standing only a short time ago, momentarily blinding him. Even as he kept running, there was a subconscious part of him that wished he’d still been on that bluff when the fire had come down. Then he wouldn’t be feeling this horrible, rending pain. Then he wouldn’t have to face burying every person he’d ever known and loved.

By the time his vision cleared, the strangers were at the edge of the great water and pushing off from shore, piling into one canoe as fast as they could climb, leaving the other canoes behind. Rage surged as he lengthened his stride. He couldn’t let them get away. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Then he saw the tall one—the leader—grab the oars and begin to paddle against the surge. Still too far from shore to reach them in time, Night Walker knew that revenge was slipping away. When the other men began to row, as well, he knew his chance had flown.

By the time he reached the water, they were as good as gone, but his rage and fury were not. He ran out into the surf until the backwash from the storm reached his knees. He lifted his arms above his head, screaming into the storm—cursing the man with White Fawn’s sky stones, calling for the Old Ones, pleading with the Great Spirit, offering his soul for the right to avenge the deaths of White Fawn and the dead Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya.

As the canoe moved farther and farther away, he stood there in the water, and screamed and shouted, pointing toward the canoe, then slapping his chest and opening his arms as if embracing the storm.

He was daring them to come back, to face him man-to-man—to give him a chance to avenge his people in an honorable way. But it was obvious these men had no honor, because they kept rowing in the opposite direction.

Vargas couldn’t believe it. The bastard was still daring them—slapping at his chest as if offering the broad expanse as a target. After the humiliation of turning tail and running, he couldn’t resist the offer, but he was too far away to throw a knife, and his pistol was empty. He wasn’t sure if he could load his gun again in this downpour, but he was damn sure going to try. He crouched down in the boat, then pulled his jacket up and over his head. Using it as a cover, he began trying to load his gun. The boat was rocking so hard he kept spilling his powder. Twice he dropped the lead shot. His hands were shaking from exertion, but his determination won out. Rising from the bottom of the boat like Neptune coming up from the bottom of the sea, he threw off his jacket, stepped up onto a seat, bracing himself against the rock and roll of the boat. The savage was still there, holding his arms out at his sides and shouting words Vargas could not understand, although their meaning was clear.

He took aim and fired.

The sound of the shot rang in his own ears. Even through the downpour, he could smell the burning powder. In his mind, he could almost see the shot spanning the distance between himself and the savage.

He held his breath—waiting to see the savage drop, just as the others had done. Only then would the whole sorry sortie be behind him.

Night Walker had screamed until his voice was nearly gone. He’d prayed and begged and cursed the Old Ones, demanding to know why he alone had been spared. The muscles in his body were starting to tremble. His gut was a knot of pain. He’d pulled at his hair and ripped his own flesh with his fingernails, needing satisfaction—wanting to die.

Then he saw the leader suddenly stand up in the canoe and point at him.

He screamed into the wind and slapped his own chest over and over, daring the man to come back and fight, but the invaders were still moving toward their winged canoe.

There was a loud noise, and then everything, including time, seemed to slow down. It was still raining, but suddenly it was as if he were seeing each raindrop as it fell, hearing his own heartbeat over the roll of thunder, feeling the exhalation of his own breath more sharply than the wind hitting him in the face. In the midst of that reality, he saw something fly from the hand of the man who’d killed White Fawn, coming at him, cutting through the rain, pushing aside the air with a high-pitched whistle.

He stopped, his arms dropping at his sides as he watched it come, accepting that this was death. The Old Ones had heard his prayer. Whatever this was, it would end his life in battle in an honorable way. He would join White Fawn and the others. He would not walk this land alone.

He waited. Unblinking. Barely breathing. Watching as death came for him.

Then it hit.

He waited to feel pain.

Expected to see his own blood pouring down his chest.

Instead, it bounced off the broad expanse of his chest and fell into the water.

He grabbed his chest in disbelief.

“No!” he screamed, then spun toward the village, striding to the shore, staring at the bodies, willing them to rise up and walk. This couldn’t be happening.

He’d tried to avenge them, but the enemy was escaping.

He’d tried to die, to go with them, but he’d failed at that, too.

He looked over his shoulder. The man in the canoe was staring at him in disbelief. Night Walker’s misery was complete. He didn’t notice that the wind had died and the rain had quit falling. All he could think about was everything he had lost.

Then the clouds parted, and a single ray of light poured down onto the shore, bathing him in what felt like fire.

So…now I will die.

He arched his back, lifted his arms above his head, closed his eyes and waited to be consumed. Instead, he heard drums, then voices, and even though he couldn’t see them, he knew he was in the presence of the Old Ones. When their chants turned into words, he fell to his knees.

“Night Walker—son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, son of the Turtle Clan—we hear you. Brave son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, you have fought well. You have honored us in life as you honor us in death. Look now to the great waters. Look upon the face of your enemy and know that whatever face he wears, you will always feel his heartbeat. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, we have heard your prayer. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, listen to our words. You will live until the blood of your enemy is spilled upon your feet. You will live until you feel his last breath on your face. Then and only then, will you be as all men. Then and only then, will you suffer and grow old. Then and only then, will you live until you die. But for now it as you have asked. You will live.”

The light disappeared. The clouds blew away. Night Walker swayed, then staggered where he stood. The Old Ones were silent. The fire was gone, and he was not consumed. He looked to the water. The enemy was climbing aboard the great canoe and scrambling about as if they were crazed.

He saw the tall bearded man standing at the front of the canoe, staring toward shore. He felt the man’s blood pulsing through his body in an urgent, panicked gush, though he did not know why.

Vargas was in shock. He had witnessed the savage’s baptism in fire, expected to see him incinerated, been shocked to see him standing safely on the sand. The men around him began talking in hushed tones, attributing magical powers to the fact that though the savage had been shot, the bullet had bounced off his flesh like a single drop of rain. That he’d been struck by lightning and walked away unharmed.

Vargas was afraid. He didn’t know what had just happened, but when it came to the supernatural, he was out of his element. Yet what other explanation could there be? The savage had killed more than twelve of his men single-handedly, been shot without suffering a wound and been struck by lightning without being burned. The man should be dead, and yet they were the ones on the run and the savage was standing alone on shore, watching them go.

He knew his crew was scared. They’d all been through something they didn’t understand. But it was over. It was over, and he was still alive to tell the tale. He wanted to turn his back on the whole thing and pretend it had never happened. But there was the matter of all those dead men, and the still-pressing need for food and fresh water.

He felt the eyes of his men on him, waiting to see what would happen next. He’d lost face when he’d let one single man—and a savage, at that—put him on the run. He turned his back to shore and faced the crew.

“Hoist the anchor!” he shouted.

Even though two men ran to do his bidding, no one would look at him. A shiver of fear ran through him. Sailors were a superstitious lot. If they lost trust in him, his own life was in danger.

He shoved one of the crewmen who was running past him. “Weakling! Make haste, or I’ll feed you to the fishes.”

The sailor staggered, quickly righting himself before hurrying to do what he’d been told. The captain was angry, and they all knew him well enough to know that he would take his anger out on whoever was closest.

But the ones who’d been on shore with Vargas weren’t afraid of him—not anymore. They’d seen him panic. They’d seen him turn tail from only one savage and run like a woman toward safety. They were sick and hungry, and someone needed to be blamed for their situation. Vargas was the logical target.

By the time the moon rose that night, Vargas was standing at the end of the plank, begging for his life. It never struck him that the savages he’d killed that morning had been doing the same thing. He didn’t feel remorse for what he’d done to them—only that his life was going to end in such a humiliating fashion.

A shot rang out.

Unlike the shot he’d fired at the savage that morning, this bullet quickly found its mark. He felt a fire in his chest, and then he was falling, falling.

Water closed over his face, then washed up his nose, choking off the curses he was heaping on the heads of his mutinous crew. The last image that swept through his mind before he died was of the savage pointing at him from shore.

One

Georgia—Present Day

Despite the hundreds of years that John Nightwalker had been on this earth, he had yet to feel completely comfortable wearing clothes. And from the look the female bank teller was giving him as he stood in line at the First Savannah Savings and Loan to cash a check, she would have been perfectly happy to help him strip.

John felt her gaze but was ignoring all the signals. Not only was he not in the mood for dallying with a stranger, she was wearing a wedding ring—a big no-no for him. He shifted from one foot to the other, then looked down at the two little boys clinging to the legs of the woman in front of him and grinned. The oldest one smiled back, while the younger one continued the exploration of his right nostril with his index finger.

“Hi,” the older one said. “My name is Brandon Doggett.” He pointed toward the little guy. “That’s Trevor Doggett. He’s my little brother.” Then he pointed at his mother’s backside, which John had already noticed was quite shapely. “That’s my mama. Her name is Doggett, too.”

When Mama Doggett realized her name was being bandied about, she glanced over her shoulder to see who her son was talking to. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw John Nightwalker’s face. The smooth coffee skin, high cheekbones, strong chin and nose were telling of his Native American heritage, but it was the sexy smile and glint in his eyes that stopped her breath. She might be married, but she wasn’t dead and the man was stunning.

“I hope the boys aren’t bothering you,” she said.

John grinned. “No, ma’am.”

“Daddy calls her Lisa,” Brandon offered.

Lisa Doggett rolled her eyes as John chuckled.

The low, husky rumble of his laugh made the female teller lose count of the cash she’d been dispensing. With pink cheeks and a muttered apology to her customer, she began again.

Lisa Doggett, being next in line, finally reached the teller and proceeded with her business. When they were done, the teller handed each little boy a lollipop, which they promptly peeled and popped into their mouths. Lisa flashed John a shy goodbye smile and started toward the front door with her sons in tow.

Being next in line, John moved up to the window, patiently waiting as the teller keyed in some data from her previous customer. There was a moment of silence—a soft, peaceful sound of shuffling feet and the distant murmurs between loan officers and their clients—then John felt the atmosphere change. To him, the room was suddenly stifling and charged with an anger he didn’t understand.

“Sir. How can I help you?” the teller asked, but John didn’t respond.

His gaze went from Lisa Doggett and her boys, who were on their way toward the exit, to the surrounding customers waiting in line. Suddenly one of the two boys cried out, then turned around and ran. John noticed a toy car in the middle of the lobby and figured it had fallen out of a pocket. He saw the mother’s irked expression turn to one of quiet patience as she waited for her son’s return.

His attention moved from them to the rest of the crowd. At first glance, no one stood out, and then his gaze fell on a tall, heavyset man standing in line on the other side of the lobby. He was wearing a pair of faded Levi’s and a heavy denim jacket. The jacket seemed out of place, considering the outside temperature was in the high eighties. That alone immediately set him apart. The man’s lower jaw jutted from his face like a bulldog’s—a strong protruding lower jaw that extended beyond the tip of a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. His skin was ruddy, his hair a brittle yellow color. John could feel the tension emanating from him. He didn’t know what was going to happen but sensed it wouldn’t be good.

As he continued to watch, the big man headed toward a teller, walked up to the window and slid what appeared to be a white cotton bag across the counter. It looked like an ordinary deposit bag, but when the teller’s face turned pale and her eyes widened in shock, John tensed.

He could see the man’s lips moving, but he was too far away to hear what was being said. All of a sudden the teller’s eyes rolled back in her head as she dropped to the floor in a faint. Everyone heard the thud as her head collided with the hard marble floor. The teller next to her screamed out for help as everything ground to a halt.

Wallace Deeds cursed beneath his breath, unable to believe what had just happened. In all the years he’d been doing this, he’d never had anyone faint on him before. He was a criminal, but he wasn’t stupid. At this point, his best bet was to retrieve the note he’d handed to the teller and calmly walk out of the building. To his dismay, the note was no longer on the counter. It was on the floor beside the unconscious woman.

“Crap,” Wallace muttered, and slid his hand in his pocket, taking comfort from the gun he could feel inside. He glanced up and around, quickly sizing up the number of people inside the bank against his need for dough. He opted for a hasty exit.

But his plan was screwed by a secretary who’d come to the unconscious teller’s aid. She was on her knees beside the woman and feeling for a pulse when she discovered the note.

I have a gun. Put all your money in the bag and keep quiet or you’re a dead woman.

Unaware that he’d been made, Deeds was already heading toward the door when the secretary stood up and screamed.

“Stop him! He has a gun!”

Wallace cursed and turned. The bank guard was pulling out his pistol and coming toward him on the run. Without thinking, Wallace grabbed the nearest customer by the arm and put her in a choke hold as he pulled out his own gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.

“Everyone on the floor! Now!” he screamed.

The bank guard stood his ground, still aiming his weapon and shouting, “Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it and let her go!”

John groaned. The hostage was none other than Lisa Doggett, the young woman with the two little boys who’d been in line in front of him.

Bad move. Bad, bad move.

The young mother’s panic was evident as she cast a frantic, wild-eyed gaze at her little boys. Trevor, the youngest, began to cry and started toward her.

“Don’t anybody move!” Wallace roared, waving the gun at the guard, then at the kids and back again.

John knew the man was a hair’s breadth away from shooting someone, whether he meant to or not, and Trevor Doggett’s determination to get to his mother was putting him in harm’s way. There was no time for John to think about the wisdom of his actions.

In one swift move, he pulled a knife from his boot and leaped forward, desperate to draw the gunman’s attention away from the boys, his hostage and the guard with the gun, knowing full well that he was going to get shot. Knowing full well it was going to hurt like hell—but it wasn’t going to kill him.

That was the edge he had over everyone else in the room. He’d faced death and cheated it countless times over the last five hundred years and had every confidence in the world that he was going to cheat it again.

When Wallace Deeds saw the movement from the corner of his eye, he swung his pistol. A man was coming at him on the run.

“Son of a bitch!” he screamed, then fired.

The shot went straight into John’s chest. He felt the impact and a sharp, searing pain, but he didn’t go down.

When Deeds’ hostage fainted and went limp, she became a liability instead of a shield. Disgusted, he shoved her aside and squeezed off another shot. But it was the knife suddenly protruding from his chest that sent his second shot into the ceiling next to the first.

A collective gasp rose from inside the bank, followed by a silence so stark that everyone froze.

Lisa Doggett had come to and was on her knees, shielding her children with her body.

The tellers had ducked behind the counter.

The people who’d dropped to their bellies when the shooting started were staring but not moving.

No one ran.

No one spoke.

But the ones who could see were staring in disbelief at the two giants standing in the middle of the lobby—both bleeding profusely—waiting to see who dropped first.

The pistol slipped out of Deeds’ hand as he reached toward the bone handle of the knife stuck in his chest. But the moment he touched it, he shuddered. Had someone poured hot oil into his chest? He looked up. People’s faces were blurring.

“How…” He sighed, then staggered backward.

John groaned as he put a hand to his own chest. The warm gush of his blood was already slowing as he watched the gunman fall. Wallace’s head hit the tile with a sickening crack, but he never felt it. He was already dead.

The bank guard holstered his weapon and started toward John.

Lisa Doggett was shaking, but she was alive and her children were safe.

People were getting up and yanking out their cell phones, anxious to tell their loved ones what had just happened. While on his belly, one customer had videoed the whole thing with his cell phone, and now he was in the act of forwarding it to his brother. The image of what had transpired would be all over the Internet before nightfall.

Horace Miles, the bank president, was moving through the crowd, making sure everyone was okay. When he saw the blood on the front and back of John’s shirt, he gasped and yelled for someone to call 911.

John was anxious to be gone before he had to explain why the bullet hole in his chest was already nearly closed. He pulled his knife out of the robber’s chest, then wiped the blood off the blade onto the man’s jacket before slipping it back into the sheath inside his boot.

The bank guard reached John and took him by the elbow.

“You need to sit down, son,” he said. “You’ve been shot.”

“I’m okay,” John said.

“The police are coming!” someone said.

Sirens could be heard in the distance. John sighed. He needed to leave—now. He started toward the door, but Horace Miles cut him off. Like the guard, he took John by the elbow and tried to usher him to a chair.

“Please,” Miles said. “You’re bleeding. Let us help you.”

“I’m all right…really.”

But the bank president would have none of it.

Lisa Doggett came toward him, hugging her little boys to her legs as she stared at him in disbelief.

“You saved my life. You saved all of us,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Yeah…sure,” he said, then gave in to the inevitable. He was caught now, and there was no way out of it.

The two little boys stared at him—silent now in the face of what they’d witnessed.

“Mama’s okay, boys,” John said softly.

Brandon nodded. “You stopped the bad man,” he said.

John just winked and nodded. The pain in his chest was fading swiftly, but the sirens were also getting closer. Moments later, a half-dozen police cars were on the scene, followed by two ambulances. A paramedic team followed the police inside, then, at the guard’s direction, headed for John.

He sighed. How the hell was he going to explain his way out of this?

“I’m okay,” he said as the paramedics dropped their bags and began to cut off his shirt. “I said…I’m okay,” he repeated, and to prove he was right, he pulled up his shirt, revealing the wound that was almost closed.

Both paramedics rocked back on their heels, staring at John and then at each other.

“Mister…how in—”

“Er…uh…I studied with the Dalai Lama,” John said. “Learned how to control bleeding and heal myself with my mind. Ever hear of it?”

They looked at each other, shrugged, and then began packing up their gear while sneaking curious looks at him.

But they weren’t the only ones staring. The bank president was in shock. He’d seen the bullet pierce John’s chest, seen the blood spurting, yet now the wound was nearly closed. He’d seen the other scars on John’s chest, too, and was staggered by what this man had suffered and lived through.

Just when John was getting ready to leave, a skinny man in a suit followed several uniformed officers into the bank, paused long enough to question the guard, then headed straight for John, who recognized the type, as well as the badge clipped to the man’s belt.

Great. A detective. Naturally nosy, disinclined to believe anything he was told. This ought to be good.

John saw him pause to look at the dead man; then he looked straight at John, who stared back without flinching.

Horace Miles stepped into the silent breach by introducing himself as the cop approached.

“I’m Horace Miles, president of the bank. I saw everything.”

“Detective Robert Lee,” the newcomer said, then put his hands on his hips and gave John the once-over, eyeing the bloody shirt as well as the blood on John’s jeans. “So, hero, what’s your name?”

Sarcasm was the last thing John expected. It made him angry. He stood abruptly, well aware that he was now towering over the skinny man’s head.

“Considering the fact that right now, my chest hurts like hell, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm,” he drawled. “My name is John Nightwalker, and I’m not a hero. I was just in the wrong place at the right time.”

Lee wanted to be pissed, but the man was right. “Sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. Let’s back up and do this all over again. So, Mr. Nightwalker, could you tell me what happened?”

John pointed to the walls where a half-dozen cameras were mounted. “I could…but it appears that Mr. Miles here will be able to provide several different angles on the incident for your viewing pleasure. Suffice it to say, the man tried to rob the bank, took a woman hostage and was pointing his gun at one of her kids. I distracted him. He shot me instead of the kid. I put a knife in his chest.”

Believing John had already been tended by paramedics, Lee’s next thought was the weapon in question. “May I see that knife?”

John winced as he leaned over, pulled up the leg of his jeans, then pulled the knife back out of its scabbard.

The detective’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped as he eyed the wicked blade. It was almost ten inches in length, with its widest point no less than three inches across. The handle appeared to be some kind of bone—maybe ivory. He frowned.

“Hell, mister, that thing’s big enough to fight bears with.”

“Yes.”

Startled by the easy answer, Lee gave John a cool look. “Don’t tell me you fight bears, too?”

“Okay,” John said, well aware he was pissing the man off. But he didn’t care. The detective’s attitude was anything but cordial, and John would have liked a couple of painkillers for his trouble.

Lee’s mouth dropped. “You fought a bear?”

John grinned slightly. “You don’t fight bears, detective. You either outrun them or kill them. I’ve done both.”

Lee snapped his mouth shut and glared.

“Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”

“Yes, actually, I do.” John pulled out his wallet and produced the license.

Lee eyed it without comment, then handed it back.

The bank president was surprised by the detective’s attitude.

“I’m sorry for interrupting, Detective Lee, but you don’t seem to understand. This man averted what could have been a long, drawn-out hostage situation. He saved a woman’s life and, most likely, the lives of everyone in here. There’s no way of knowing who that bastard would have shot next. Mr. Nightwalker did nothing but defend himself. The robber shot first. Ask anyone here.”

“Oh, I will,” Lee said.

“Am I free to go?” John asked.

“I’m going to need you to come down to headquarters and—”

“Why?” John asked. “Your case is closed.”

“Because you put a knife in a man’s chest, that’s why,” Lee argued, then realized people were staring and pulled back his emotions.

“He shot me first,” John said. “Don’t I get to defend myself?”

“Yes, but—”

“I have a permit for the knife.”

“I’m the one doing the questioning,” Lee snapped.

“Then ask me some questions,” John said.

Lee glared, then remembered that this man had supposedly been shot. “If you’re shot, why aren’t you on your way to the hospital?”

John sighed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes and yanked his shirt off over his head.

“That’s where it went in.” He turned around. “And that’s where it came out. I heal fast.”

The raw edges of burned flesh were obvious, but the wound was almost closed. Lee didn’t believe a damned word of what he was being told but couldn’t figure out the man’s angle.

“No one heals that fast,” he said. “Those are old wounds. You might have been shot, but not today. You and that dead man were in cahoots, and for some reason you backed out and killed him to keep from being brought down with him.”

“Bullshit,” John said, and pointed to the cameras again. “Watch the fucking movie, Detective. I’ve banked here for years. Mr. Miles has my address and phone number if you’re interested. Now…if you’re not going to arrest me, I’m leaving. I need to rest.”

John held out his hand, waiting for the cop to give back his knife.

The silence stretched between them, but John wouldn’t budge. Finally Lee handed back the knife and watched John return it to the scabbard, then pick up his bloody shirt and walk out of the bank without looking back.

Lee was angry and distrustful but had no reason to hold him. Instead, he pointed to all the cameras.

“I want that security footage. Now.”

Horace Miles waved a teller over. “Go to the back and get all the security tapes from today and bring them here, please.”

Savannah was far behind him as John neared the turnoff leading toward his home. Glad the two-hour trip was nearly over, he began to slow down. Moments later, he turned off the main highway and began the long winding drive up the bluff to his house. Owning the land where his village once stood had taken several hundred years to make happen, but once it had, he found an odd sort of peace in living here again.

He’d dodged civil wars, fought through world wars, and had long since gotten over the shock of watching the unsullied beauty of the country go to hell in a handbasket while trying to find the reincarnation of his enemy. It pained him to see refuse washing down once-pristine mountain streams. The clean air he’d taken for granted as a child was now a luxury. Landfills were a scourge on Mother Earth. The Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya would be shocked by what time and people had done.

He owned three other homes in separate parts of the country, and every few years he switched residences to keep from having to explain to neighbors why he never aged. It was simple. He would just change his hairstyle and choice of clothing, then present himself as a relative of the previous owner. So far, the system had proven to be foolproof, but he never took anything for granted. Caution—and finding the soul of the man who’d murdered his people—was always at the forefront of his mind.

For the past three years, he’d been back in Georgia. From his bedroom window he could see the place where he’d laid the bodies of his people to rest. Although their bones had long since turned to dust, his memory of the day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

Usually he took pleasure in the drive up the bluff to his house, but not this time. He was heartily glad it was over. This morning had been unexpected and exhausting. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled into the garage, closing the doors behind him. His chest still hurt, but it was no longer open or bleeding. Within a couple of days there would be nothing left but another scar to add to the collection already on his body.

He got out of the Jeep, grabbed the groceries he’d bought earlier and headed for the kitchen. It was a long drive from Savannah, so his only purchases had been nonperishables. When he needed fresh vegetables or anything dairy, he bought it down in Justice, a little town only a few miles away. Justice boasted a population of almost five hundred people and was little more than a spot on the map. Down there, people referred to him as Big John. They knew nothing of the wealth he’d accumulated over the centuries, his skill in the stock market or the goods he imported and exported to different countries. He kept his acquaintances at a friendly arm’s length. The less he shared of himself, the better.

As soon as the groceries were put away, he headed for the utility room, stripping off his clothes as he went. The shirt was a bust. Even if the blood washed out, there was the small matter of the bullet holes. He tossed it in the trash, treated the blood spots on his jeans with stain remover, then tossed everything into the washer and turned it on. When he left the room, he was wearing his favorite outfit—the skin in which he’d been born.

His body was toned, his legs long and lean. His shoulders were wide, and bore the weight of centuries of despair with equanimity. His hair, which had once hung all the way to his waist, was now short and spiked. Instead of the occasional feather he’d once worn in it, there was a tiny silver earring in the shape of a feather hanging from his left ear, his only outward claim to his past.

Even though the wood floors were bare of rugs, he moved silently. The windows he’d left open earlier in the day were now funneling a cool ocean breeze against his skin, which he much preferred to air-conditioning.

On his way through the living room, his gaze automatically went to a small scraping knife decoratively framed and hanging on the wall between a stone ax and a dream catcher. That small piece of flint was all he had left of White Fawn. Regret tugged at his heart as he remembered her—bent over the task of scraping meat from pelts and skins with that very knife—remembered the soft, warm clothing she made for them after the skins had cured. If fate had been kind, he would have died with the others. But he hadn’t died. He’d asked the Old Ones for the impossible, and it had been given, even though he had yet to fulfill his side of the bargain. Angry with himself and what he considered his failure for being unable to find the enemy, he turned off the memories and headed for his room to shower.

Later, washed clean of blood and wearing a pair of old gray sweats, John went about the solitary business of preparing a meal for himself. His life was what it was—but by choice. Yes, there were times when he was so lonely he couldn’t think, when the memory of White Fawn’s laugh was so strong he wanted to weep. Yes, there had been other women in his life through the ensuing centuries, but none that had ever replaced her in his heart.

Living in his skin while the world grew up and old around him had not been easy. He’d been an “uncivilized” man to the hordes who’d invaded, when in his eyes, they’d been the ones with no heart and no civility. They recognized nothing of the indigenous people’s rights, but he’d soon learned the need to be able to communicate with the interlopers, and had become a guide and an interpreter for the explorers and trappers later on.

Throughout the ages, he’d watched the natural beauty of the land on which he’d been born become glutted with people with no conscience, no interest save their own wishes and desires. They’d come on ships by the hundreds, then the thousands. They’d cut down the trees, and built houses and dams; they’d made roads and cities, and fouled the water and the air so many times over the centuries that he’d lost count. When their numbers had been too many and their greed had been too great, then had come the wars. Fighting over religion and countries and the color of skin. It was enough to make a man go crazy, but he’d been raised in the old ways, and warriors didn’t cry. They endured.

After so much time of being a “lesser” member of society because of the color of his skin, the irony that it was now fashionable to be able to claim Native American heritage was not lost on John Nightwalker.

When his food was ready, he filled a plate and took it out onto the patio overlooking the ocean. It was the same place he’d been standing when he’d first seen the devil ship sail out of the storm and into their lives. He cut a piece from the steak that he’d cooked and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly while watching the horizon with a dark, steady gaze. Even though centuries had come and gone since the massacre, old instincts die hard. The need to still stand watch was strong. And even though he didn’t believe fate would be so kind as to send his enemy back to him that way again, he had learned long ago not to trust anyone or anything—not even fate.

What he did know, and had known for at least sixty years, was that the soul he sought had once again been reborn. And he knew this because of the signs that came with it.

The first was always the dream of the massacre, after which he would wake up shaking and sick to his stomach, drenched in sweat. He’d learned, too, that the closer he got to the reincarnated soul, the more rapidly his heart would beat. He’d followed those feelings all over the world so many times he’d lost count, but he had never been able to find his nemesis. When the feelings disappeared, he could only assume that his enemy was dead and once again his soul was no longer earthbound.

He finished his meal in silence, watched the sea until the sun had set behind him, then got up and went inside. He turned on the television in the kitchen as he cleaned up, only to find that the botched bank robbery was the topic of the national news. He watched the film clip without moving, wincing slightly when he heard his name come out of the newscaster’s mouth. Still, it was done, and he wouldn’t have changed anything in any way. When the newscast was over, he turned off the TV and went to bed.

Another day had passed.

One more night alone.

Detective Robert Lee hit Rewind on the bank security tape, then Stop. Then Play. Once again he saw the botched bank robbery in progress, from the moment the teller fainted to the point where the perp headed for the door. He saw the guard grab his pistol as the perp took a hostage. It wasn’t pretty, but it was, in the realm of law and order, what constituted an ordinary screwup, not unlike a dozen other scenarios he’d seen in his eighteen-year career on the force. It was what came next that didn’t make sense. And if he hadn’t been watching it over and over for the last few hours, he wouldn’t have believed it had happened.

When he got to the point where the perp, who they now knew was a man named Wallace Deeds, had taken a hostage, his attention shifted into high gear. First the hostage’s two little boys began to cry. When the smallest boy started toward his mother, Lee began to tense, waiting for that damned Indian to make his move. And even though he knew what was going to happen, it was still shocking to witness. All of a sudden, Nightwalker was in full camera range, running at the gunman and his hostage with a knife in his hand.

Lee watched Deeds spin and fire. He saw the bullet hit the Indian. He saw blood spurt out the back of his shoulder and his shirt instantly turn red. Then Lisa Doggett went limp and Deeds shoved her away. He watched her come to and run to her boys, shielding them with her body. Deeds seemed to be about to fire a second shot, but it never happened. One moment the knife was in Nightwalker’s hand and the next it was in Wallace Deeds’ chest.

Deeds went down, but the Indian didn’t. That was what kept freaking Lee out.

When the Indian bent over and pulled the knife out of Deeds’ chest without staggering or showing any pain, Lee simply couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He wanted to have a reason to go after Nightwalker, but there wasn’t one, and considering the half-dozen new cases on his desk, he knew it was time to let this one go, however reluctantly.

Two days later—Justice, Georgia

Alicia Ponte’s life was one of wealth and privilege. She was the daughter of a rich man, the type of woman who headed committees and organized charity functions. She wore the right clothes, knew the right people and always made the society pages. She had friends, but none were close. She’d had one boyfriend in college and a brief relationship with another man over three years ago, and nothing that mattered since.

At twenty-seven years old, she had always thought of herself as confident and self-assured, but the last twenty-two hours had proved her wrong. She was scared—as scared as she’d ever been—and of someone who was supposed to love her. The irony that she’d waited until now to run away from home was lost in the gut-wrenching fear that kept her moving. But her flight was about to be sidetracked by the need for fuel.

She glanced down at the gas gauge. It was too close to empty to dare trying to make it to Savannah, but according to a road sign she’d seen a mile back, Marv’s Gas and Guzzle should be able to take care of that.

A short while later, she came upon the city limit sign of Justice, Georgia, population: 488. Alicia didn’t care how many people lived here. She just wanted some of Marv’s gas—and maybe a cold drink and a snack—then she was back on the road. Only, running wasn’t going to solve her problem. She couldn’t run forever. She needed a place to hide. That she was hiding from her father was nothing short of horrifying, but there was no denying what she’d accidentally overheard.

Her father—Richard Ponte, the largest arms manufacturer in the western hemisphere—was selling weapons to the enemy in Iraq, as well as to the American soldiers who were fighting them. Profiting from the war in the most hideous manner and arming both sides with the same most up-to-date munitions money could buy.