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Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart of the Warrior
Lindsay McKenna
You are one of us! she had declared, and mercenary Roan Storm Walker knew that the words of the beautiful Amazon warrior Inca were true. Now, summoned by a power he scarcely understands, Roan is suddenly swept from his Montana home to the fierce jungles of South America for one purpose–to protect Inca and save countless lives.To her people, the mere mention of Inca's name evokes a woman whose beauty is rivaled only by her legendary power. But that influence comes with danger. When Inca turns to Roan to shield her against the far-reaching treachery of enemies, he must see beyond her compelling presence, into a wounded heart as vulnerable as his own.



“What is it about you that makes me feel as I do?” Inca demanded.
Roan smiled at the spark of challenge in her eyes. “What do you mean? Do I make you feel bad? Uncomfortable?”
“No…I like being close to you.”
He saw her eyes fill with confusion for a moment over her admission. He knew Inca was a virgin and, more than ever, he realized just how innocent she was.
“You make me feel safe in my world,” she continued. “And in my world there is no safety. How can that be?”
Roan’s heart soared. She trusted him. He needed—wanted—that trust. Just as much as he wanted her….

Morgan’s Mercenaries:
Heart of the Warrior
Lindsay McKenna


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A homeopathic educator, Lindsay McKenna teaches at the Desert Institute of Classical Homeopathy in Phoenix, Arizona. When she isn’t teaching alternative medicine, she is writing books about love. She feels love is the single greatest healer in the world and hopes that her books touch her readers on those levels. Coming from an Eastern Cherokee medicine family, Lindsay has taught ceremony and healing ways from the time she was nine years old. She creates flower and gem essences in accordance with nature and remains closely in touch with her Native American roots and upbringing.
To Karen David, a real, live warrioress and
healer. And a good role model for the rest of us!

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue

Chapter 1
“No…!”
Roan Storm Walker’s cry reverberated around the small, dark log cabin. Outside, the rain dripped monotonously off the steep, rusty tin roof. Breathing harshly, Roan pressed his hands to his face, dug his fingers frantically into his skull as he felt his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest. His flesh was beaded with sweat. Lips tightly compressed to halt another scream, another cry of grief and loss, he groaned instead, like a wounded cougar.
Lifting his head, Roan turned the dampened pillow over and dropped back down onto the small, creaking bed. He had to sleep. Great Spirit, let me sleep. Shutting his eyes tightly, his black lashes thick and spiky against his copper-colored skin, he released a ragged sigh.
Sarah…how he missed her. Brave, confident, foolhardy Sarah. It had been two years and he still missed her. How badly he wanted to touch her firm, warm shoulder or to smell that jasmine scent that always lingered tantalizingly in the strands of her short red hair. Gone…everything was gone. Swept from his life like litter before some invisible broom. Sarah, his wife, was dead, and his heart had died, too, on that fateful day. Even now, as he lay listening to the rain splattering against the roof of his cabin high in the Montana Rockies, he felt the force of his aching grief. The waves of agony moved through him like waves crashing in from the ocean and spilling their foamy, bubbling essence on the hard, golden sand.
Unconsciously, he rubbed his fingers across the blue stone hanging around his neck—his medicine piece. He’d worn the amulet continually since his mother, a Lakota medicine woman, gave it to him—before her death many years ago. Composed of two cougar claws representing the cougar spirit that was his protector, and two small golden eagle feathers, it hung from a thick, black, sweat-stained leather thong around his neck. The center of the medicine piece was an opalescent blue stone, roughly fashioned in a trapezoid shape. The bezel around the stone was of beaten brass that had long ago turned dark with age. No one knew what the stone was, or where it came from. He’d never seen another one like it in all his travels. His mother had told him it came from their ancestors, passed on to the medicine person in each succeeding generation of the family. He always touched this piece when he was feeling bad. In a way, it was like sending a prayer to his mother and her line of ancestors for help with the heavy emotions he wrestled with. Roan never took off his medicine piece; it was as much a part of him as his heart beating in his chest.
He closed his eyes once more. He was good at forcing himself to go back to sleep. His mother, a Lakota Yuwipi medicine woman, had taught him how to lucid dream. He could walk out of one harsh reality into the more amorphous world beyond the veil of normal human reach. More than likely he was able to do this because he had the genes of that long line of medicine people coursing richly through his bloodstream. His father was an Anglo, a white man—a physics teacher. Between both parents, Roan found it easy to surrender over to a power higher than himself, give himself back to the night owl’s wings of sleep, which almost instantly embraced him again.
As he moved from the pain of the past, which continued to dog his heels like a relentless hound on the scent of the cougar spirit that protected him, his grief began to recede. In lucid dream and sleep, he could escape the sadness that was etched in his heart. This time, as he slipped into sleep, Walker heard the distant growl of thunder. Yes, a Wakan Wakinyan, a mighty thunder being who created the storms that roved across the Rockies, was now stalking his humble cabin hidden deep in the thick Douglas firs on a Montana slope.
A slight, one-cornered smile curved Roan’s mouth as he felt his mood lightening, like a feather caught in a breeze and being wafted gently into the invisible realm of the Great Spirit. Yes, in dreaming there was safety. In dreaming there was relief from the pain of living in human form. Roan expected to see Sarah again, as he always did whenever this shift in his consciousness occurred. The Lakota called the state dreaming “beneath the wings of the owl,” referring to the bird they considered the eagle of the night. Within the wings of this night protector, the world of dreams unfolded to those who knew how to access this realm. Reaching this altered state had been taught to Roan at a very young age and he had found it an incredible gift, a means of healing himself, really, over the last twenty-eight years of his life.
Sarah? He looked for his red-haired Sarah, those flashing Celtic blue eyes of hers, and that twisted Irish grin across her full, soft lips. Where was she? Always, she would meet him while in the embrace of the owl. Full of anticipation, he spied a glowing light coming out of the darkness toward him. Yes, it had to be Sarah. As he waited impatiently within the darkness, the golden, sunny light grew ever closer, larger, pulsating with brilliant life of its own.
His cougar spirit’s senses told him this wasn’t Sarah. Then who? Even as he felt his disappointment, something strange happened. His cougar, a female spirit guardian with huge, sun-gold eyes, appeared out of the darkness to stand in front of him. He could see that her attention was focused fully on the throbbing, vital orb of light drawing closer. Walker felt no fear, simply curiosity, despite the fact that it was unlike Anna, his cougar spirit guide, to appear like this unless there was danger to him. Yet he felt no danger.
The mists surrounding the oblong light reminded him of thickly moving mist on a foggy morning at the lake below his cabin, where he often fished for a breakfast trout. Anna gave a low growl. Roan’s heart rate picked up. The golden oval of light halted no more than six feet away from him. Slowly, it began to congeal into a body, two very long legs, slender arms, a head and…
Walker felt his heart thundering in his chest. His cougar guardian was on full alert now, her tail stiff, the hackles on her neck ruffled and the fur raised all the way down her lean, supple spine. Roan was mesmerized as he watched the person—a woman?—appear. What the hell? He wasn’t sure what or who he was looking at.
Huge, willow-green eyes with large black pupils stared fiercely back at him.
Swallowing hard, Walker felt every cell in his body respond to this unknown woman who now stood before him. Although the golden light had faded to a degree, so he could see her clearly, it still shone around her form like rays of brilliant sunlight. She warily watched him as the tension built and silence strung tautly between them.
This was no ordinary human being. Walker sensed her incredible power. Few humans he’d ever known had an aura of energy like hers. It was so brilliant that he felt like squinting or raising his hand to shield his eyes from the glow. Her eyes drew him. They were magnetic, commanding, fierce, vulnerable and magical all at the same time.
He tried to shift his consciousness; it was impossible. She held him fully within her powerful presence. She was tall, at least six feet. Her skin was a golden color. What she wore confounded him. She was dressed in army camouflage fatigues and black, shiny military jump boots. On her proud torso she wore an olive-green, sleeveless T-shirt crisscrossed with two bandoliers containing bullets. Slung across her left shoulder was a rifle. Around her slender waist was a web belt with a black leather holster and pistol, several grenades and a wicked looking K-bar knife. Down her back, resting between her shoulder blades, hung a huge leather sheath, knicked and scarred, that held a machete with a pearl handle. She was obviously a warrior. An Amazon. A soldier used to fighting.
Roan could see and sense all these things about her. Despite her dynamic presence, the threat she presented in the armament she wore, the way her hand curled around the thick leather strap that bit into her shoulder as it held the rifle in place, she was beautiful. Roan could not tear his gaze from her full, square face, those high, proud cheekbones. From her narrowing, willow-green eyes, that fine thin nose that flared like the nostrils of a wary wild horse, or those compressed, full lips.
Her hair was thick and black and hung in one long braid over her right shoulder and down between her breasts, which were hidden by the bandoliers of ammunition. There was such pride and absolute confidence in her stance, in the way her shoulders were thrown back. As she lifted her chin imperiously, Roan wanted to simply absorb the sight of her and the feeling of that incredible energy swirling around her. He wondered if she was a figment of his imagination, a hybrid between Sarah and some kind of superhuman woman.
The instant he thought that, her eyes snapped with rage and utter indignation.
“Do not waste precious energy and time on such speculations!” she growled at him. “You were born into a medicine family. You know better!” She jabbed a finger at the amulet he wore around his neck. “You carry the stone of the Jaguar Clan. You are one of us! I am Inca. I am asking for your help, Roan Storm Walker. Well, will you give it? I do not beg. This will be the only time I stand before you. Answer me quickly, for many will die without you here by my side to fight the fight of your life and mine. I am in a death spiral dance. I invite you into it.”
Walker felt her outrage at the very thought that he might say no to her request. Inca. A mysterious name. The name of a woman from…where? Perhaps from the Inca empire in Peru? Her accent was thick, reminding him of Spanish. He touched the blue stone that lay at the base of his throat. It felt hot, and throbbing sensations moved through his fingertips. The amulet he wore was powerful; his mother had told him so, and Roan had often experienced strange phenomena regarding it. But he’d never before felt the level of energy that was emanating from it now. He glanced down and saw a strange turquoise-white-and-gold light pulsating around it, like a beacon.
“Where do you come from, Inca?” he demanded in an equally fierce voice. He was not afraid of her, but he respected her power. Where he came from, women were equal to any man.
“I come from the south, Storm Walker. The stone you wear around your neck tells me of your heritage. The spirits of your ancestors led me to you. You are needed in my country. Time is short. Many lives are at stake. My guardian says you are the one.” The woman’s green gaze grew demanding. “Are you? the one?”
“I don’t know. How can I help you?”
“You will know that when you see me the second time.”
He searched her shadowed features. She had the face of an Indian, all right—most probably of Incan heritage if she was from the south. Her stance was uncompromising. This woman feared nothing and no one. So why was she approaching him? He looked around, feeling another, invisible presence near her.
“Your guardian?” he asked.
A sour smile twisted her mouth and she gazed down at his gold cougar, which stood guard. “Watch,” she commanded. “I run out of patience with you.”
In moments the golden light enveloped Inca once more. Roan watched with fascination as the woman disappeared within spiraling bands that moved like a slow-motion tornado around her. But what walked out of the light moments later made him gasp. It was a huge stocky, black-and-gold male jaguar.
Roan vaguely heard Anna growl. In response the male jaguar hissed and showed his long, curved fangs. His golden eyes were huge, with large, shining black pupils. As the animal stalked around them, his tail whipping impatiently from side to side, his thick body strong and sensuous as he moved, Walker watched in awe. Anna remained on alert at his side, but did not attack the slowly circling jaguar.
The coat on the cat was a bright gold color, patterned with black crescent moons. To Roan, the massive jaguar seemed formidable, invulnerable. His mind churned with more questions than answers. A woman who turned into a male jaguar? She was a shape-shifter—a medicine person from South America who had the power to change shape from human to animal, and then back into human form at will. That in itself was a feat that few could manage successfully. He recalled that his mother, who worked with the Yaqui Indians of Mexico, had possessed shape-shifting abilities herself. One never knew, seeing a bird, a reptile or a four-footed, if it was in fact human or not. Walker had been taught never to kill anything that approached him in such a bold, fearless manner.
As he watched the male jaguar make one complete circle, Roan was wildly aware of the throbbing power around the animal…around this mysterious woman called Inca. As he stared, he felt an intense, searing telepathic message being impressed upon him, body and soul.
I cannot control the tides of the ocean. I cannot change the course of the winds. I cannot control what is free and yearns to roam. I can only bend and surrender to a higher power through my heart, which rules me. I bend to the will of the Great Goddess, and to the Jaguar Clan. I ask you to willingly, with pure heart and single-minded purpose, to work with me. My people need your help. I ask in their name…
To Walker’s surprise, he felt hot, scalding tears stinging his eyes. The impassioned plea made him blink rapidly. Tears! Of all things! He hadn’t cried since…since Sarah had died so unexpectedly and tragically. Trying to halt the tumult of feelings radiating through his chest and around his heart, he watched the jaguar through blurred vision. What the hell was going on? This was no lucid dream. This was some kind of phenomenal, otherworldly meeting of the highest, purest kind. He’d heard his mother speak in hushed tones of those times when the gods and goddesses of her people would come to her in her dreams. She had often described rare meetings just like the one he was having now.
Was Inca really a human being? A shape-shifting medicine woman? A shaman who lived in South America? What was the Jaguar Clan? All questions and no answers. The stone at his throat seemed like it was burning a hole in his flesh. He felt it with his fingertips; it was scalding hot. This was the first time it had ever activated to this extent. His mother had said that the stone possessed powers beyond anyone’s imagination, and that at the right time, he would be introduced to them. Rubbing his throat region, he understood this was no ordinary meeting. This had something to do with the stone’s origin and purpose.
The jaguar stopped. He stared up at Roan with those huge eyes that were now thin crescents of gold on a field of black.
Walker felt the inquiry of the massive jaguar. His heart was beating hard in his chest, adrenaline pumping violently through him. Fight or flight? Run or stay and face combat? She was a warrior for something. What? Who? Who does she represent? The light or the dark? Walker knew she wasn’t of the darkness. No. Everything within him shouted that she was of the light, working on the side of goodness. Yet she was a combat soldier. A modern-day Amazon.
Roan felt his cougar rub against his thigh, and he draped his fingers across the female animal’s skull. She was purring and watching the jaguar with interest. Looking down, Roan saw Anna was once again relaxed, no longer on guard or in her protective stance. That was his answer.
Lifting his head, Walker looked over at the male jaguar. “Yes, I’ll come. I’ll be there for your people.”
Within seconds, the jaguar disappeared into the cloud of brilliant, swirling light. And in the blink of an eye, the light was also gone. She was gone. Inca…
The drip, drip, drip of the rain off the tin roof slowly eased Walker out of his altered state. This time, as he opened his eyes, the grayness of dawn through the thick fir trees caught his attention. Twisting his head to one side, he looked groggily at the clock on the bedstand: 0600. It was time to get up, make a quick breakfast, drive down the mountain to Philipsburg, fifty miles away, and meet with his boss, Morgan Trayhern, leader of the super secret government group known as Perseus. A messenger had been sent up the mountain two days ago to tell him to be at the Perseus office in the small mining town at 0900 for a meeting with him and Major Mike Houston.
As Roan swung his naked body upward and tossed off the sheet, his feet hitting the cool pine floor, he sighed. Hands curling around the edges of the mattress, he sat there in the grayish light of dawn and wondered who the hell Inca was. This lucid dream was no dream at all, he was sure. He’d never had an experience like this before. The stone against his upper chest still burned and throbbed. Rubbing the area, he slowly rose to his full six foot six inches of height, then padded effortlessly toward the couch, where a pair of clean jeans, a long-sleeved white Western-style shirt, socks and underwear were draped. First, make the coffee, then get dressed. He pivoted to the right and made his way to the small, dimly lit kitchen. Without coffee, no day ever went right for him. He grinned a little at that thought, although his mind, and his heart, were centered on Inca. Who was she? What had he agreed to? First, he had to see what Morgan Trayhern and Major Mike Houston had up their sleeves. Roan knew Houston had worked down in South America for a decade, and he might be the right person to share this experience with. Maybe…

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Morgan Trayhern growled at Mike Houston from his place behind the huge dark maple desk in his office.
Army Special Forces Major Mike Houston turned slowly away from the window where he stood and faced his boss. “Inca must lead that Brazilian contingent into the Amazon basin or Colonel Jaime Marcellino and company will be destroyed by the drug lords. Without her, they’re dead,” he said flatly. Then his eyes snapped with humor. “They just don’t know it yet, that’s all.”
Rubbing his square jaw, Morgan dropped the opened file labeled Inca on his desk. “Damn…she’s a lone wolf.”
“More like a lone jaguar.”
“What?” Disgruntled, Morgan gave Mike a dark look.
“Jaguars,” Mike said in a calm tone, “always hunt alone. The only time they get together is to mate, and after that, they split. The cubs are raised by the mother only.”
Glaring down at the colored photo of a woman in a sleeveless, olive-green T-shirt, bandoliers across her shoulders, a rifle across her knees as she sat on a moss-covered log, Morgan shook his head. “You vaguely mention in your report that Inca’s a member of the Jaguar Clan.”
“Well,” Mike hedged, “kind of…”
“What is that? A secret paramilitary organization down in Brazil?”
Mike maintained a dour look on his face. He unwound from his at-ease position and slowly crossed the room. “You could say that, but they don’t work with governments, exactly. Not formally…” Mike wasn’t about to get into the metaphysical attributes of the clan with Morgan. He tiptoed around it with his boss because Mike felt Morgan would not believe him about the clan’s mysterious abilities.
“But you’re insisting that Inca work with the Brazilian government on this plan of ours to coordinate the capture of major drug lords in several South American countries.”
“Morgan, the Amazon basin is a big place.” Mike stabbed his finger at the file on the desk as he halted in front of his boss. “Inca was born near Manaus. She knows the Amazon like the back of her hand. The major drug activity is in the Juma and Yanomami Indian reservation around Manaus. You can’t put army troops into something like this without experts who know the terrain intimately. Only one person, someone who’s been waging a nonstop war against the drug lords in that area, knows it—Inca.”
With a heavy shake of his head, Morgan muttered, “She’s barely a child! She’s only twenty-five years old!”
Mike smiled a little. “Inca is hardly a child. I’ve known her since she saved my life when she was eighteen years old.”
“She’s so young.”
Mike nodded, the smile on his mouth dissolving. “Listen to me. In a few minutes you’ve got to go into that war room with emissaries from those South American countries that are capable of raising coca to produce cocaine, and sell them on this idea. Inca has a reputation—not a good one, I’ll grant you—but she gets the job done. It ain’t pretty, Morgan. She’s a Green Warrior. That’s slang for a tree hugger or environmentalist. Down there in Brazil, that carries a lot of weight with the Indian people. She’s their protector. They worship her. They would go to hell and back for her if she asked it of them. If that Brazilian army is going to make this mission a success they need the support of the locals. And if Inca is there, leading the troops, the Indians will fight and die at her side on behalf of the Brazilian government. Without her, they’ll turn a deaf ear to the government’s needs.”
“I read in your report that they call her the jaguar goddess.”
Raising one eyebrow, Houston said, “Those that love her call her that.”
“And her enemies?”
“A Green Warrior—” Houston grimaced “—or worse. I think you ought to prepare yourself for Colonel Marcellino’s reaction to her. He won’t have anything good to say when he hears we’re going to pair him up with Inca.”
Studying Houston, Morgan slowly closed the file and stood up. “Mike, I’m counting on you to help carry the day in there. You’re my South American expert. You’ve been fighting drug lords in all those countries, especially in Peru and Brazil. No one knows that turf better than you.”
“That’s why Inca is so important to this operation,” he said as he walked with Morgan toward an inner door that led to an elevator to the top secret, underground war room. “She knows the turf even better than I do.”
Morgan halted at the door. He rearranged the red silk tie at the throat of his white shirt. Buttoning up his pinstripe suit, he sighed. “Did you ever find anyone in our merc database who could work—or would want to work—with the infamous Inca?”
Grinning a little, Houston said, “Yeah, I think I did. Roan Storm Walker. He’s got Native American blood in him. Inca will respect him for that, at least.”
Morgan raised his brows. “Translated, that means she won’t just outright flatten him like she does every other male who gets into her line of fire?”
Chuckling, Mike put his hand on Morgan’s broad shoulder. The silver at the temples of his boss’s black hair was getting more and more pronounced, making Mike realize that running Perseus, a worldwide mercenary operation, would put gray hairs on just about anyone. “She’ll respect him.”
“What does that mean? She’ll ask questions first and shoot later?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Great,” Morgan muttered. “And Walker’s in the war room already?”
“Yes. I told him to stay in the shadows and keep a low profile. I don’t want him agreeing to this mission you’ve laid out for him without him realizing he has to work directly with Colonel Marcellino. And—” Mike scowled, looking even more worried “—he needs to understand that the ongoing war between Marcellino and Inca will put him between a rock and a hard place.”
Snorting, Morgan opened the door, heading for the elevator that would take them three stories down into the earth. “Sounds like I need a damned diplomat between the colonel and Inca, not a merc. Roan’s always taken oddball assignments, though. Things I could never talk anyone else into taking—and he’s always pulled them off.”
“Good,” Mike murmured, hope in his voice as he followed Morgan into the elevator, “because Walker is gonna need that kind of attitude to survive.”
“Survive who?” Morgan demanded, “Marcellino or Inca?”
The doors whooshed closed. Mike wrapped his arms around his chest as his stomach tightened with tension. The elevator plummeted rapidly toward their destination. “Both,” he said grimly. “There won’t be any love lost between Marcellino and Inca, believe me. They’re like a dog and cat embroiled in a fight to the death. Only this time it’s a dog and a jaguar….”

Chapter 2
What in the hell am I doing here with all this fruit salad? Roan wondered as he slowly eased his bulk down into a chair in the shadows of the huge, rectangular room. Fruit salad was military slang for the ribbons personnel wore on their uniforms. Ribbons that spoke of various campaigns and wars that they served in, and medals they’d earned when they’d survived them. His own time in the Marine Corps as a Recon came back to him as he scanned the assembled group of ten men. Roan recognized two of them: Morgan Trayhern, who sat at the head of the large, oval table in a dapper gray pinstripe suit, and Major Mike Houston, who was a U.S. Army advisor to the Peruvian military. Roan amended his observation. Mike was retired. Now he was working for Perseus and for Morgan.
Roan was the only other person besides Morgan and Mike wearing civilian attire. In his white cotton Western shirt, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly to just below his elbows, his well-worn jean’s and a pair of dusty, scarred cowboy boots, he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb in this assemblage, members of which were now scrutinizing him closely. Let them. Roan really couldn’t care less. At twenty-eight he was already a widower, and the dark looks of some colonels and generals were nothing in comparison to what he’d already endured.
“Gentlemen, this is Roan Storm Walker,” Morgan began. “He’s an ex-Recon Marine. I’ve asked him to sit in on this important briefing because he will be working directly with the Brazilian detachment.”
Roan noticed a tall, thin man in a dark green Brazilian Army uniform snap a cold, measuring look in his direction. The name card in front of him read Marcellino, Jaime, Colonel, Brazil. The man had hard, black, unforgiving eyes that reminded Roan of obsidian, an ebony rock, similar to glass in its chemical makeup, which was created out of the belching fire of a violent volcano. Instinctively Roan felt the controlled and contained violence around the Brazilian colonel. It showed in his thinned mouth and his long, angular features that hinted of an aristocratic heritage. Everything about the good colonel spoke of his formal training; he had that military rigidity and look of expectation that said his orders would be carried out to the letter once he gave them.
Maybe it was the intelligence Roan saw in Marcellino’s restless, probing eyes that made him feel a tad better about the man. Roan knew he would have to work with him, and his instincts warned him that Marcellino was a soldier with a helluva lotta baggage that he was dragging around with him like an old friend. People like that made Roan antsy because they tended to take their misery and unconscious rage out on others without ever realizing it. And Roan wouldn’t join in that kind of dance with anyone. It was one of the reasons why he’d quit the Marine Corps; the games, the politics choked him, and he withered within the world of the military. His gut told him Marcellino was a man who excelled at those bonds of politics.
Clearing his throat, Morgan buttonholed everyone seated around the oval table. One by one he introduced each man present. Roan noted there was either a colonel or a general from each of the South American countries represented at the table. In front of him was a file folder marked Top Secret. Roan resisted opening it up before being asked to. When Morgan got to his corner, Roan lowered his eyes and looked down at the well-polished table.
“I’ve already introduced Roan Storm Walker, but let me give you some of his background. As I mentioned, he was a Recon Marine for six years. A trained paramedic on his team, he saw action in Desert Storm. His team was responsible for doing a lot of damage over in Iraq. His specialty is jungle and desert warfare situations. He holds a degree in psychology. He speaks five languages fluently—Spanish, German, French and Portuguese, plus his own Native American language, of the Lakota Sioux nation. He will be working with Colonel Jaime Marcellino, from Brazil. But more on that later.”
Roan was glad once the spotlight moved away from him. He didn’t like being out front. People out front got shot at and hit. He had learned to be a shadow, because shadows could quietly steal away to live and fight another day. As he sat there, vaguely listening to the other introductions, Roan admitted to himself that the fight had gone out of him. When Sarah died two years ago, his life had been shattered. He had no more desire to take on the world. With her his reason for living had died. If it hadn’t been for Morgan nudging him to get back into the stream of life, he’d probably have drunk himself to death in his cabin up in the mountains.
Morgan would visit him about once a month, toss a small mercenary job with little danger to it his way, to keep Roan from hitting the bottle in his despair. Trayhern was astute about people, about their grief and how it affected them. Roan knew a lot about grief now. He knew what loss was. The worst kind. He tried to imagine a loss that would be greater than losing a wife or husband, and figured that would probably be losing a child. It was lucky, he supposed morbidly, that he and Sarah never had children. But in truth he wished that they had. Sarah would live on through that child, and Roan wouldn’t feel as devastated or alone as he did now. But that was a selfish thought, he knew.
Still, he felt that losing a loved one, whether spouse or child, was the hardest thing in the world to endure. How could one do it and survive? As a psychologist, he knew the profound scarring that took place on the psyche. He knew firsthand the terrible, wrenching grief of losing a woman he loved as well as life itself. And Roan swore he’d never, ever fall in love again, because he could not afford to go through that again. Not ever. His spirit would not survive it.
“Gentlemen, I’m turning this briefing over to Major Mike Houston. You all know him well. He was a U.S. Army advisor up until very recently.” Morgan allowed a hint of a smile on his face. “Mike is now working for Perseus, my organization. He is our South American specialist. One of the reasons you have been handpicked to represent your country is because you have all worked with him in some capacity or another. Major Houston is a known quantity to you. You know he’s good at his word, that he knows the terrain and the problems with the drug trade in South America. You know he can be trusted.” Morgan turned to Mike. “Major Houston?”
Mike nodded and stood up. He, too, was in civilian attire—a pair of tan trousers, a white cotton shirt and a dark brown blazer. When he turned on the overhead, a map of Brazil flashed on the screen in front of the group.
“The government of Brazil has asked this administration for help in ridding the Amazon basin of two very powerful drug lords—the Valentino Brothers.” Mike moved to the front and flicked on his laser pen. A small red dot appeared on the map. “We know from intelligence sources in the basin that the brothers have at least six areas of operation. Their business consists of growing and manufacturing cocaine. They have factories, huge ones, that are positioned in narrow, steep and well-guarded valleys deep in the interior of the rain forest.
“The Valentino Brothers capture Indians from the surrounding areas and basically enslave them, turn them into forced laborers. If the Indians don’t work, they are shot in the head. If they try to escape, they are killed. What few have escaped and lived to tell us about their captivity, relate being fed very little food while working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. If they don’t work fast enough, the overseer whips them. There is no medical help for them. No help at all.”
Mike looked out at the shadowy faces turned raptly toward him. “All of you know I’m part Quechua Indian, from Peru. I have a personal stake in this large, ongoing mission. We have drug lords enslaving Indians in every country in South America in order to produce large quantities of cocaine for world distribution. If the Indians do not do the work, they are murdered. The captured women are raped. After working all day they become unwilling pawns to the drug dealers at night. Children who are captured are forced to work the same hours as an adult. They suffer the same fate as an adult.” His mouth became set. “Clearly, we need to make a statement to these drug lords. The head honchos aren’t stupid. They use the rain forests and jungles to hide in. Even our satellite tracking cannot find them under the dense canopy. What we need, in each country, is someone who knows the territory where these factories are located, to act as a guide, to bring the army forces in to destroy them.”
Mike grimaced. “This is no easy task. The Amazon basin is huge and the military must march in on foot. The only way units can be resupplied is by helicopter. When they get farther in, helicopters are out of range—they can’t reach them without refueling—so we must rely on cargo plane airdrops. The troops’ medical needs aren’t going to be met. If there is an emergency, a sick or wounded soldier will have to be carried out to a place where a helicopter can pick him up and transport him back to the nearest hospital. As you all are aware, I’m sure, there are a lot of deadly things out in the Amazon. Piranhas in the rivers, channels and pools. Bushmaster snakes that will literally chase you until they sink their fangs into you. Mosquitoes carrying malaria, yellow fever and dengue. There’s always the threat of unknown hemorrhagic viruses, victims of which can bleed out before we can get them proper medical help. There are insects that with one bite can kill you in as little as forty-eight hours if you are without medical intervention.”
Mike paused, then moved on. “Colonel Jaime Marcellino has been chosen to lead the Brazilian Army contingent, a company of their best soldiers—roughly one hundred and eighty men. He is their rain forest specialist. He has knowledge of the problems inherit in that environment.”
Jaime bowed slightly to Houston.
Mike went on. “We all agree that Colonel Marcellino’s experiment with a company of men in Brazil will teach us a lot about how to organize military attacks against drug strongholds in other countries. What we learn from his mission will help all of you in preparation for yours. He will be our guinea pig, so to speak. Mistakes made there we will learn from. What works will be passed on in an after-action report to all of you.”
Moving toward the front of the room, Mike tapped the map projected on the huge screen. “We have it on good authority where six factories, in six different valleys, are located. We have a guide who will lead the colonel’s company to the nearest one, which is about ten hours southeast of Manaus, up in a mountainous region known as Sector 5. The colonel’s company will disembark at Manaus, motor down the Amazon and, at a predestined spot, off-load and meet their guide. The guide will then take them through a lot of grueling hilly and swampy terrain to reach the valley where the factory is located. Once there, Colonel Marcellino will deploy his troops for a strategic attack on the facility.” Mike shrugged. “It is our hope that the Indians who are captive will be freed. We don’t want them killed in the cross fire. The Valentino Brothers have heavily fortified operations. Their drug soldiers are men who live in the rain forest and know it intimately. They will be a constant threat.”
Jaime held up a long, narrow hand with closely clipped carefully manicured nails. “Major Houston, I am sure my men will be able to take this factory. Do not look so worried.” He smiled slightly.
“Colonel, I wish I could share your optimism,” Mike said heavily. “I don’t question your willingness and passion for this mission. But it’s going to be hard. No army in South America has tried such a thing before. There’s bound to be a steep learning curve on this.”
“We are prepared,” Marcellino answered in his soothing well-modulated tone. He looked at Morgan. “My men are trained for rain forest warfare.”
Morgan nodded. “We realize that, Colonel. That’s why you’re being asked to lead this mission. Even though your men have trained for it, that doesn’t mean they’ve actually undertaken missions in the basin, however. There’s a big difference between training and real-time experience.”
Jaime nodded. “Of course, Mr. Trayhern. I’m confident we can do this.”
Mike Houston cleared his throat. “For this mission, we are sending Roan Storm Walker with you, Colonel. He’ll be your advisor, your translator, and will work directly between you and the guide. He will answer only to you and to Morgan Trayhern at Perseus, which has the backing of this administration to undertake this plan of attack. Even though Storm Walker has no military designation, his judgment will be equal to your own.” Houston drilled Marcellino with an incisive look. “Do you understand that?”
Jaime shrugged thin, sharp shoulders beneath a uniform resplendent with shining brass buttons and thick, gold braid and epaulets. On his chest were at least twenty ribbons. “Yes, yes, of course. I will order my officers to acknowledge that he has full authority to override their decisions in the field.” Frowning, he turned and looked down the table at Storm Walker. “However, he must check with me first before any action is taken.”
“Of course,” Mike assured him. “Roan knows chain of command. He recognizes you as the ultimate authority over your men.”
Nodding, Jaime raised his thin, graying brows. “And what of this guide? What is his status with me?”
Mike sent a brief, flickering glance in Morgan’s direction and kept his voice low and deep as he answered. “The guide knows the terrain, Colonel. You should listen to the advice given to you. This is a person who has lived in the basin all her life. Storm Walker will be her liaison with you, and she’ll be your point man—woman—on this mission. You’d best heed whatever advice she gives you because she knows the territory. She’s had a number of skirmishes with the Valentino Brothers and has every reason for wanting them out of the basin.”
Curious, Jaime straightened, his hand resting lightly on the table. “Excuse me, Major. Am I hearing you correctly? You said ‘she’? I thought our guide would be a man. What woman has knowledge of the basin?” He laughed briefly and waved his hand. “Women stay at home and have our children. They are wives and mothers—that is all. No, you must have meant ‘he.’ Sim?”
Mike girded himself internally. He flashed a look of warning in Roan’s direction. Now the muck was going to hit the fan. “No,” he began slowly, “I meant she. This is a woman who was born and raised in the basin. She knows at least fifteen Indian languages, knows the territory like the back of her hand. No one is better suited for this assignment than she is. Roan Storm Walker will interface directly with her, Colonel. You will not have to if you don’t want to.”
Though he frowned, Jaime said laughingly, “And why would I not want to meet this woman and hear her words directly? If she is Indian and knows Portuguese, there should not be a language problem, eh?”
Biting down on his lower lip for a moment, Mike said quietly, “She is known as the jaguar goddess, Colonel. Her real name is Inca.” He saw the colonel’s eyes widen enormously, as if he’d just been hit in the chest with an artillery shell. Before the Brazilian could protest, Mike added quickly, “We know the past history between Inca and yourself. That is why Roan Storm Walker is going along. He’ll relay any information or opinions from Inca to you. We know you won’t want to interface with her directly due to…circumstances….”
Marcellino uttered a sharp cry of surprise. He shot up so quickly that his chair tipped over. His voice was ragged with utter disbelief. “No! No! A thousand times no!” He swung toward Morgan, who sat tensely.
“You cannot do this! I will not allow it! She’s a ruthless killer! She murdered my eldest son, Rafael, in cold blood!” He slammed his fist down on the table, causing the wood to vibrate. “I will not permit this godless woman anywhere near me or my troops!” His voice cracked. Tears came to his eyes, though he instantly forced them back. “I lost my eldest son to that murdering, thieving traitor! She’s a sorceress! She kills without rhyme or reason.”
Choking, he suddenly realized how much of his military bearing he’d lost in front of his fellow officers. His face turned a dull red. He opened his hands and held them up. “I apologize,” he whispered unsteadily. “Many of you do not know me, know of my background. My eldest son, the light of my life…the son who was to carry on my name, who was to marry and someday give me grandchildren…was senselessly and brutally murdered by this woman named Inca. She is wanted in Brazil for thirteen murders. Thirteen,” he growled. Straightening up, his heart pounding, he again apologized. “I had no idea you would suggest her,” he told Morgan in a hoarse tone.
Morgan slowly rose and offered a hand in peace to him. “Please, Colonel, come and sit down.”
An aide scrambled from near the door to pick up the colonel’s fallen chair and place it upright so that he could sit down. Hands shaking, Jaime pulled the chair, which was on rollers, beneath him. “I am sorry for my outburst. I am not sorry what I said about this sorceress.” Sitting down, he glared across the table at Morgan and Mike Houston. “You know of her. You know she’s a murderer. How can you ask me to tolerate the sight of her, much less work with her, when she has the blood of my son on her hands?” His voice cracked. “How?”
Houston looked to his boss. This was Morgan’s battle to win, not his. Sitting down, he watched Morgan’s face carefully as he rose to his full height to address the emotionally distraught colonel.
“Jaime…” Morgan began softly, opening his hand in a pleading gesture, “I have four children. I almost lost my oldest son, Jason, in a kidnapping and I know of your grief. I’m deeply sorry for your loss. I truly am.” Morgan cleared his throat and glanced down at Mike who sat looking grim. “I have it on good authority that Inca did not kill your son Rafael. She said she was on the other side of the basin when he and his squad surprised a drug-running operation in a village. Inca denies killing your son. The person in this room who knows her well is Mike Houston. Mike, do you have anything to add to this, to help the colonel realize that Rafael was not murdered by Inca?”
Mike leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Jaime’s grief-filled face. The colonel had lost his hard military expression, and his dark eyes were wild with suffering and barely checked rage. Mike knew that in most Latin American countries, the firstborn male child was the darling of the family. In the patriarchal cultures in South America, to lose the eldest son was, to the father of that family, to lose everything. The eldest was doted upon, raised from infancy to take over the family business, the family responsibilities, and carry on their long heritage. Mike knew the people in Jaime’s social strata were highly educated. Jaime himself, descended from Portuguese aristocracy of the 1700s, had a proud lineage that few others in Brazil possessed. Rafael had been trained, coaxed, nurtured and lovingly molded according to this prominent family’s expectations. Mike knew even as he spoke just how devastating the loss was for the colonel.
“Colonel Marcellino. Inca is my blood sister.” He held up his hand and pointed to a small scar on the palm of his hand. “I met her when she was eighteen years old. She saved my life, quite literally. She almost died in the process. The Inca I know is not a murderer. She is a member of the Jaguar Clan of Peru, a group that teaches their people to defend, never attack. If someone fires on Inca, or someone attacks her, she will defend herself. But she will never fire first. She will not ever needlessly take a life.”
Marcellino glared across the table at him. “Do not paint a pretty picture of this murdering sorceress. The men in Rafael’s squad saw her. They saw her put a rifle to her shoulder and shoot my son cold-bloodedly in the head!”
“Listen to me,” Mike rasped. “Inca was two hundred miles away from the place where your son was killed. She was with an old Catholic priest, Father Titus, at an Indian mission on the Amazon River. I can prove it.” Mike pulled out a paper from the open file in front of him. “Here, this is an affidavit signed by the priest. Please, look at it. Read it.”
Belligerently, Jaime jerked the paper from Mike’s hand. He saw the sweat stains on the document and the barely legible signature of the old priest. Throwing it back, he barked, “This proves nothing!”
Mike placed the paper back into the file. Keeping his voice low and quashing his feelings, he said, “No one in your son’s squad survived the attack by the drug lord and his men. I saw the report on it, Colonel. All you have is one person’s word—a man who was later captured and who is suspected of working with the same local drug lord who indicted Inca. He said Inca was there. You have a drug runner’s word. Are you going to believe him? He has every reason to lie to you on this. He wants to save his hide and do only a little bit of prison time and get released. How convenient to lay the blame at Inca’s feet. Especially since she wasn’t there to defend herself.” Houston tapped the file beneath his hand. “I know Father Titus personally. The old priest is almost ninety. He’s lived in the basin and has helped the Indians at his mission for nearly seventy of those years. At one time he helped raise Inca, who was orphaned.”
“Then all the more reason for the old priest to lie!” Jaime retorted. “No! I do not believe you. The blood of thirteen men lays on Inca’s head. There is a huge reward, worth six million cruzeiros, or one million dollars, U.S., for her capture, dead or alive, in Brazil. If I see her, I will kill her myself. Personally. And with pleasure. My son’s life will finally be avenged.”
Roan shifted slightly in his chair. The atmosphere in the room was cold and hostile. Not one man moved; all eyes were riveted on the colonel and Mike Houston. Roan saw the hatred in the colonel’s face, heard the venom that dripped from every stilted English word he spoke. The colonel’s black eyes were a quagmire of grief and rage. Part of Roan’s heart went out to the man. Jaime had made the worst sacrifice of all; he’d lost a beloved child. Well, Roan had something in common with the colonel—he’d lost someone he’d loved deeply, too. But who was Inca? The woman he’d seen in his dream earlier? She sounded like a hellion of the first order. Warrioress, madwoman—who knew? Roan looked to Mike Houston, who was laboring to get the colonel to see reason.
“Inca’s only responsibility is as a Green Warrior for Mother Earth,” Mike said quietly. “She has taken a vow to protect the Amazon Basin from encroachment and destruction by anyone. Twelve of these so-called murders were really self-defense situations. Plus, the twelve men who are dead are all drug dealers. Inca does not deny killing them, but she didn’t fire first. She shot back only to save herself and other innocent lives.” Mike held out a thick folder toward Jaime. “Here is the proof, colonel. I haven’t understood yet why the government of Brazil has not absolved Inca of those trumped up charges. I’d think Brazil would be happy to see those men gone.” He laid the file down. “But I don’t want to get off track here. You can read her sworn statements on each charge when you want.”
“It is well known she hates white men!” Marcellino snapped, his anger flaring.
“Not all,” Mike countered. “She’s my blood sister by ceremony. She respects men and women alike. Now, if someone wants to destroy, rip up, start cutting down timber, hurt the Indians or make them into slaves, then Inca will be there to stop him. She will try many ways to stop the destruction, but murdering a person is not one of them. And as I said, she will fire in defense, she will never fire the first shot.”
“And I suppose,” Marcellino rattled angrily, “that the thirteen men she killed fired on her first?”
“That’s exactly what happened in twelve cases,” Houston said gravely. “Your son is the thirteenth to her count, he shouldn’t have been added. Members of the Jaguar Clan can be kicked out of it by firing first or attacking first. She can only defend herself. So twelve men fired first on her, Colonel. And she shot back. And she didn’t miss.”
“She murdered my son! He’s one of the thirteen.”
“Inca was not there. She did not shoot your son.”
Morgan appealed to Marcellino. “Colonel, would you, as an officer, lead your entire company of men into an unknown area without proper help and guidance?”
“Of course not!”
“Inca knows the basin better than anyone,” Morgan said soothingly. He lifted a hand toward Roan at the end of the table. “This man will be standing between you and Inca. You won’t have to face her. You won’t have to see that much of her. He’s your liaison. Your spokesman, if you will. Inca can lead you and your men safely to this valley in the mountains. I know much is being asked of you, and that is why Roan is here—to assist and help you as much as he can. Anything she tells him, Roan will relay on to you or your officers. I realize the pain of your loss, and we tried to come up with a plan that would somehow protect you and her both during this mission.”
“I will kill her if I see her.”
“No,” Morgan said, his voice hard and uncompromising, “you won’t. If you really want to take this mission, you will promise to leave her alone.”
“And you will not order one of your men to shoot her, either,” Houston growled. “Any attempt on Inca’s life, and she’ll leave you and your company wherever you are. And if you’re in the middle of the rain forest, Colonel, without a guide, you’ll be in jeopardy.”
“Then I will hire an Indian guide to lead us.”
Houston shook his head. “There isn’t an Indian willing to lead you into the area, Colonel. If the drug lords find out that they did, they’d move into their village and murder everyone in retribution.”
Jaime tried to take a breath. It hurt to breathe. His heart was wild with grief. Rafael had been murdered two years ago, but it felt like only yesterday. Rubbing his chest savagely, Jaime snarled, “You cannot ask this of me. You cannot.”
Morgan moved around the table and faced him squarely. “Colonel, if I thought for a heartbeat that Inca had killed your son, I would not have asked you to head this mission. Nor would I have asked Inca to be your guide. I believe Mike Houston. I’ve never met her, I only know of her reputation in Brazil. I know that if a person becomes a legend, many times the truth gets tattered and distorted. I believe the old priest’s affidavit. He has no reason to lie to protect her. Priests don’t lie about something like this. I’ve also read her sworn statements on each charge. I believe she’s innocent in such charges.” Morgan eased his bulk down on the table next to Marcellino’s chair.
“Colonel, you are a man of consummate honor. Your family’s heritage stretches back to the kings and queens of Portugal. You were the only person we wanted for this mission. You are a brave and resourceful man. You are someone who is good at his word. Your love of your country has been obvious in the twenty years you’ve served in her military. You are one of the most decorated men in your country.” Morgan held the officer’s dark gaze. “I believe, Colonel, that if you will give me your word that you will not harm Inca for the duration of the mission, that you can be trusted. Look beyond her. Look at what you will accomplish for all the people of Brazil. You will be a hero.”
Morgan raised his hand and swept it toward the rest of the men sitting around the table. “And think of the glory you will receive, the recognition, for going in first to strike a blow for freedom from these drug runners. Your name will be on the lips of people around the globe. Is that not a credit to your son? Could this mission be undertaken in his name? In his memory?”
Morgan saw Marcellino sink back into the chair. He knew the officer’s ego and pride were tremendous. And typical of South American aristocracy, fame and power would appeal strongly to the colonel. Morgan was hoping it would break the logjam on this mission. He tried to sit there appearing at ease, even though his gut was knotted while he waited for the man’s answer.
Roan watched the proceedings with rapt attention. So, he was to be a bridge, a liaison between this wild woman from Amazonia and the colonel who wanted to kill her in the name of his lost son. Roan realized the immensity of his mission. Was this woman, Inca, sane? Was she manageable? Would she respect him enough to stay out of Marcellino’s way so they could successfully complete the assigned task? Roan wasn’t sure, and he had a helluva lot of questions to ask Houston when the time was right.
All eyes were on Marcellino as he sat back, deep in thought over Morgan’s softly spoken words. No one moved. The Brazilian finally looked at Houston. “What makes you think she will work with Storm Walker?”
“He’s Indian like she is. Inca respects Indians.”
“He’s a man.” Marcellino’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Inca doesn’t hate men. She respects men who have honor, who have morals and who aren’t destroying Mother Earth. Roan, here, comes from a similar background. He’ll be able to understand her, and vice versa. I believe it is a good match, and I believe Inca will get along well with him.”
“And what if she doesn’t?”
“Then,” Mike said, “the mission is off. Morgan and I realize your loss, Colonel. We’ve worked hard to put the right people in key positions to help you get through this mission successfully. If Roan can’t forge the bond of trust we need with Inca, in order to work with you, then this mission is scrubbed.”
Nodding, Marcellino glared up at Morgan. “If it had been anyone but you asking this of me, I would tell him to burn in hell.”
Relief shuddered through Morgan, though he kept his face expressionless. Reaching out, he placed his hand on the colonel’s proud shoulder. “Jaime, I share your grief and your loss. But I’m convinced Inca is innocent of your son’s death. She is the only person we know who can give you success on your mission. I know I’m asking a lot from you in begging you to rise above personal hurt, grief and rage, and look at the larger picture. You can be the deliverer of hundreds of people. The name Marcellino will be revered in many Indian villages because you had the courage to come and eradicate the drug lords from the basin. I know you can do this. And I don’t deny it will be difficult…”
The colonel slumped slightly. He felt Morgan’s grip on his shoulder, heard the sincerity in his rumbling voice. “Very well,” he whispered raggedly, “you have my word, Morgan. I will reluctantly work with Inca. But only through this man.” He pointed at Roan. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I see her. I want to kill her—I won’t deny it. He had best make sure that she never meets me face-to-face….”
Morgan nodded and swallowed hard. “I know Roan will do everything in his power to convey that message to Inca. She will be your scout, your point person, so the chances of seeing her are pretty slim. But I’ll make sure he tells her that. I have no wish to hurt you any more than you’ve already been hurt by your son’s loss.”
Eyes misting, Jaime forced back tears. He looked up at Morgan. “And do you know the terrible twist in all of this?”
“No, what?”
“My youngest son, Julian, who is a lieutenant, will be leading one of the squads under my command on this mission.”
Morgan closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he rasped, “Colonel, your son is safe. Inca is not going after him—or any of your men. She is on your side of this fight.”
“This time,” Marcellino said bitterly. “And for how long? She is infamous for turning on people when it suits her whims and wiles.”
“Roan will see that things go smoothly,” Morgan promised heavily, shooting him a glance down the table.

Roan waited patiently until the room cleared of all but him, Morgan and Mike. When the door shut, he slowly unwound from his chair.
“I didn’t realize what I’d be doing.”
Mike nodded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t brief you beforehand, Roan.”
Morgan moved toward the end of the table, where Roan stood. “More importantly, do you want to take this assignment?”
With a shrug, Roan said, “I wasn’t doing much of anything else.”
Morgan nodded and wiped his perspiring brow with a white linen handkerchief, then returned it to his back pocket. “I’ve never met Inca. Mike has. I think you should direct your questions to him. In the meantime, I’m going to join the officers at a banquet we’ve set up in their honor in the dining room. See me there when you’re done here?”
Roan nodded, then waited expectantly as the door closed behind Morgan. Silence settled over them, and Roan discovered Mike Houston’s expression became more readable once they were alone. Roan opened his hand.
“Well? Is she a killer or a saint in disguise?
Grinning, Mike said, “Not a killer and not a saint.”
“What then?”
“A twenty-five-year-old woman who was orphaned at birth, and who is responsible for protecting the Indian people of the Amazon.”
“Why her?”
“She’s a member of the Jaguar Clan,” Mike said, sitting down and relaxing. “You’re Native American. You have your societies up here in the north. Down in South America, they’re known as clans. One and the same.”
“Okay,” Roan said, “like a hunters’ society? Or a warriors’ society?”
“Yes, specialists. Which is why the societies were created—to honor those who had skills in a specific area of need for their community. The welfare and continuing survival of their families and way of life depends on it.”
“So, the Jaguar Clan is…what?”
“What kind of society?” Mike sighed. “A highly complex one. It’s not easy to define. Your mother, I understand, was a Yuwipi medicine woman of the Lakota people. She was also known as a shape-shifter?”
Roan nodded. “That’s right.”
“The Jaguar Clan is a group of people from around the world who possess jaguar medicine. They come from all walks of life. Their calling is to learn about their jaguar medicine—what it is and what it is capable of doing. It is basically a healers’ clan. That is why Inca would never fire first. That is why she defends well, but never attacks. Her calling is one of healing—in her case, to help heal Mother Earth. She does this by being a Green Warrior in Brazil, where she was born.”
“The colonel called her a sorceress.”
“Inca has many different powers. She is not your normal young woman,” Mike warned him. “Combine that with her passion for protecting the people of the Amazon, the mission she is charged with, and her confidence and high intelligence, and you have a powerful woman on your hands. She doesn’t suffer fools lightly or gladly. She speaks her mind.” Mike grinned. “I love her like a sister, Roan. I don’t have a problem with her strength, her moxie or her vow of healing Mother Earth and protecting the weak from drug runners. Most men do. I figured you wouldn’t because, originally, Native American nations were all matriarchal, and most still have a healthy respect for what women have brought to the table.”
“Right, I do.”
“Good. Hold that perspective. Inca can be hardheaded, she’s a visionary, and she can scare the living hell out of you with some of her skills. They call her the jaguar goddess in the basin because people have seen her heal those who were dying.”
“And do you trust Marcellino not to try and kill her?”
“No,” Mike said slowly, “and that is why you’ll have to be there like a rock wall between them. You’ll need to watch out for Inca getting shot in the back by him or one of his men. You’re going to be in a helluva fix between two warring parties. Inca has a real dislike for the military. According to her, they’re soft. They don’t train hard. They don’t listen to the locals who know the land because they are so damned arrogant and think they know everything, when in reality they know nothing.”
“So I’m a diplomat and a bodyguard on this trip.”
“Yes. You’re at the fulcrum point, Roan. It’s a messy place to be. I don’t envy you.” He smiled a little. “If my wife and child didn’t need me, and vice versa, I’d be taking on this mission myself. Morgan wanted someone without family to take it, because the level of risk, the chance of dying, is high. And I know you understand that.”
Nodding, Roan ran his long index finger across the highly polished surface of the conference table enjoying the feel of the warm wood. “Is Inca capable of killing me?”
Chuckling, Mike said, “Oh, she can have some thunderstorm-and-lightning temper tantrums when you don’t agree with her, or things don’t go the way she wants them to, but hurt you? No. She wouldn’t do that. If anything, she’ll probably see you as one more person under her umbrella of protection.”
“Will she listen to me, though? When it counts?”
Shrugging, Mike said, “If you gain her respect and trust, the answer is yes. But you don’t have much time to do either.”
“Where am I to meet her? Hopefully, it will be without Marcellino and his company.”
“On the riverfront, near Manaus, where the two great rivers combine to create the Amazon.”
“How will you get in touch with her?”
Houston gave him a lazy smile. “I’ll touch base with her in my dream state.”
Roan stood there for a second absorbing Houston’s statement. “You’re a member of the Jaguar Clan, too?”
“Yes, I am.”
Roan nodded. He vividly recalled the experience he’d had earlier—the dream of the woman with willow-green eyes. “What color are Inca’s eyes?” he asked.
Mike gave him a probing look. He opened his mouth to inquire why Roan was asking such a question, and then decided against it. “Green.”
“What shade?”
“Ever seen a willow tree in the spring just after the leaves have popped out?”
“Many times.”
“That color of green. A very beautiful, unique color. That’s the color of Inca’s eyes.”
“I thought so….” Roan said, his own eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he realized he and Inca might have already met….

Chapter 3
Inca was lonely. Frowning, she shifted on the large stack of wooden crates where she sat, her booted feet dangling and barely touching the dry red soil of the Amazon’s bank. Her fine, delicately arched brows knitted as she studied the ground. In Peru, they called the earth Pachamama, or Mother Earth. Stretching slightly, she gently patted the surface with the sole of her military boot. The dirt was Mother Earth’s skin, and in her own way, Inca was giving her real and only mother a gentle pat of love.
Sighing, she looked around at the humid mid-afternoon haze that hung above the wide, muddy river. The sun was behind the ever-present hazy clouds that hugged the land like a lover. Making a strangled sound, Inca admitted sourly to herself she didn’t know what it was to feel like a lover. The only thing she knew of romantic love was what she’d read about it from the great poets while growing up under Father Titus’s tutelage.
Did she want a lover? Was that why she was feeling lonely? Ordinarily, Inca didn’t have to deal with such an odd assortment of unusual emotions. She was so busy that she could block out the tender feelers that wound through the heart like a vine, and ignore them completely. Not today. No, she had to rendezvous with this man that her blood brother, Michael Houston, had asked her to meet. Not only that, but she had to work with him! Michael had visited her in the dream state several nights earlier and had carefully gone over everything with her. In the end, he’d left it up to Inca as to whether or not she would work as a guide for Colonel Marcellino—the man who wanted to kill her.
Her lips, full and soft, moved into a grimace. Always alert, with her invisible jaguar spirit guide always on guard, she felt no danger nearby. Her rifle was leaning against the crates, which were stacked and ready to take down the Amazon, part of the supplies Colonel Marcellino would utilize once they met up with him and his company downriver.
She was about to take on a mission, so why was she feeling so alone? So lonely? Rubbing her chest, the olive-green, sleeveless tank top soaked with her perspiration from the high humidity and temperature, Inca lifted her stubborn chin.
She had a mild curiosity about this man called Roan Storm Walker. For one thing, he possessed an interesting name. The fact that he was part Indian made her feel better about this upcoming mission. Indians shared a common blood, a common heritage here in South America. Inca wondered if the blood that pumped through Walker’s veins was similar to hers, to the Indians who called the Amazon basin home. She hoped so.
Her hair, wrapped in one thick, long braid, hung limply across her right shoulder with tendrils curling about her face. Inca looked up expectantly toward the asphalt road to Manaus. From the wooden wharves around her, tugs and scows ceaselessly took cargo up and down the Amazon. Right now, at midday, it was siesta time, and no one was in the wharf area, which was lined with rickety wooden docks that stuck fifty or so feet off the red soil bank into the turbid, muddy Amazon. Everyone was asleep now, and that was good. For Inca, it meant less chance of being attacked. She was always mindful of the bounty on her head. Wanted dead or alive by the Brazilian government, she rarely came this close to any city. Only because she was to meet this man, at Michael’s request, had she left her rain forest home, where she was relatively safe.
Bored by sitting so long, Inca lifted her right arm and unsnapped one of the small pouches from the dark green nylon web belt she always wore around her slender waist. On the other side hung a large canteen filled with water and a knife in a black leather sheath. On the right, next to the pouch, was a black leather holster with a pistol in it. In her business, in her life, she was at war all the time. And even though she possessed the skills of the Jaguar Clan, good old guns, pistols and knives were part and parcel of her trade as well.
Easing a plastic bag out of the pouch, Inca gently opened it. Inside was a color photo of Michael and Ann Houston. In Ann’s arms was six-month-old Catherine. Inca hungrily studied the photo, its edges frayed and well worn from being lovingly looked at so many times, in moments of quiet. She was godmother to Catherine Inca Houston. She finally had a family. Pain throbbed briefly through her heart. Abandoned at birth, unwanted, Inca had bits and pieces of memories of being passed from village to village, from one jaguar priestess to another. In the first sixteen years of her life, she’d had many mothers and fathers. Why had her real parents abandoned her? Had she cried a lot? Been a bad baby? What had she done to be discarded? Looking at the photo of Catherine, who was a chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed, happy little tyke, Inca wondered if she’d been ugly at birth, and if that was why her parents had left her out in the rain forest to die of starvation.
The pain of abandonment was always with her. Wiping her damp fingers on the material of the brown-green-and-tan military fatigues she wore, she skimmed the photo lightly with her index finger. She must have been ugly and noisy for her mother and father to throw her away. Eyes blurring with the tears of old pain, Inca absorbed the smiling faces of Michael and Ann. Oh, how happy they were! When Inca saw Mike and Ann together she got some idea of what real love was. She’d been privileged to be around these two courageous people. She’d seen them hold hands, give each other soft, tender looks, and had even seen them kissing heatedly once, when she’d unexpectedly showed up at their camp.
He’s coming.
Instantly, Inca placed the photo back into the protective plastic covering and into the pouch at her side, snapping it shut. Her guardian, a normally invisible male jaguar called Topazio, had sent her a mental warning that the man known as Storm Walker was arriving shortly. Standing, Inca felt her heart pound a little in anticipation. Michael had assured her that she would get along with Roan. Inca rarely got along with anyone, so when her blood brother had said that she had eyed him skeptically. Her role in the world was acting as a catalyst, and few people liked a catalyst throwing chaos into their lives. Inca could count on one hand the people who genuinely liked her.
The slight rise of the hill above her blocked her view, so she couldn’t see the approach of the taxi that would drop this stranger off in her care. Michael had given her a physical description of him, saying that Roan was tall with black hair, blue eyes and a build like a swimmer. Mike had described his face as square with some lines in it, as if he’d been carved out of the rocks of the Andes. Inca had smiled at that. To say that Roan’s face was rough-hewn like the craggy, towering mountains that formed the backbone of South America was an interesting metaphor. She was curious to see if this man indeed had a rugged face.
Inca felt the brush of Topazio against her left thigh. It was a reassuring touch, much like a housecat that brushed lovingly against its owner. He sat down and waited patiently. As Inca stared into the distance, the midday heat made curtains where heat waves undulated in a mirage at the top of the hill.
Anticipation arced through her when she saw the yellow-and-black taxi roar over the crest of the hill on the two-lane, poorly marked road. She worried about the driver recognizing her. Although there were only a few rough sketches of her posted, artists for the government of Brazil had rendered her likeness closely enough for someone to identify her. Once Storm Walker got out of the cab, it would mean a fast exit on the tug. Inca would have to wake the captain, Ernesto, who was asleep in the shade of the boat, haphazardly docked at the nearby wharf, and get him to load the crates on board pronto.
The taxi was blowing blue smoke from its exhaust pipe as it rolled down the long hill toward Inca. Eyes narrowing, she saw the shape of a large man in the back seat. She wrapped her arms against her chest and tensely waited. Her rifle was nearby in case things went sour. Inca trusted no one except Mike Houston and his wife, Rafe Antonio, a backwoodsman who worked with her to protect the Indians, Grandmother Alaria and Father Titus. That was all. Otherwise, she suspected everyone of wanting her head on a platter. Inca’s distrust of people had proved itself out consistently. She had no reason to trust the cab driver or this stranger entering her life.
The cab screeched to a halt, the brakes old and worn. Inca watched as a man, a very tall, well-built man, emerged from the back of the vehicle. As he straightened up, Inca’s heartbeat soared. He looked directly at her across the distance that separated them. Her lips parted. She felt the intense heat of his cursory inspection of her. The meeting of their eyes was brief, and yet it branded her. Because she was clairvoyant, her senses were honed to an excruciatingly high degree. She could read someone else’s thoughts if she put her mind to it. But rather than making the effort to mind read, she kept her sensitivity to others wide open, like an all-terrain radar system, in order to pick up feelings, sensations and nuances from anyone approaching. Her intuition, which was keenly honed, worked to protect her and keep her safe.
As the man leaned over to pay the driver, Inca felt a warm sheet of energy wrapping around her. Startled, she shook off the feeling. What was that? Guardedly, she realized it had come from him. The stranger. Storm Walker. A frisson of panic moved through her gut. What was this? Inca afraid? Oh, yes, fear lived in her, alive and thriving. Fear was always with her. But Inca didn’t let fear stop her from doing what had to be done. After all, being a member of the Jaguar Clan, she had to walk through whatever fears she had and move on to accomplish her purpose. Fear was not a reason to quit.
The cab turned around and roared back up the hill. Inca watched as the man leaned down and captured two canvas bags—his luggage—and then straightened up to face her. Five hundred feet separated them. Her guard was up. She felt Topazio get to his feet, his nose to the air, as if checking out the stranger.
The man was tall, much taller than Inca had expected. He was probably around six foot five or six. To her, he was like a giant. She was six foot in height, and few men in the Amazon stood as tall as she did. Automatically, Inca lifted her strong chin, met his assessing cobalt-colored eyes and stood her ground. His face was broad, with the hooked nose of an eagle, and his mouth generous, with many lines around it as well as the corners of his eyes. His hair was black with blue highlights, close-cropped to his head—typical of the military style, she supposed. He wasn’t wearing military clothing, however, just a threadbare pair of jean’s, waterproof hiking boots and a dark maroon polo shirt that showed off his barrel chest to distinct advantage. This was not the lazy, norteamericano that Inca was used to seeing. No, this man was hard-bodied from strenuous work. The muscles in his upper arms were thick, the cords of his forearms distinct. His hands were large, the fingers long and large knuckled. There was a tight, coiled energy around him as he moved slowly toward her, their gazes locked together. Inca dug mercilessly into his eyes, studied the huge, black pupils to find his weaknesses, for that was what she had to do in order to survive—find an enemy’s weakness and use it against him.
She reminded herself that this man was not her enemy, but her radarlike assessment of him was something she just did naturally. She liked how he moved with a boneless kind of grace. Clairvoyantly, Inca saw a female cougar walking near his left side, looking at her to size her up! Smiling to herself, Inca wondered if this man was a medicine person. Michael had said he was Lakota, and that his mother was a medicine woman of great power and fame. His face was rough-hewn, just as her blood brother had described. Storm Walker was not a handsome man. No, he looked as if his large, square face had been carved from the granite of the Andes. She spotted a scar on his left cheek, and another on the right side of his forehead. His brows were thick and slightly arched and emphasized his large, intelligent eyes as they held hers. Few men could hold Inca’s stare. But he did—with ease.
Her pulse elevated as he stopped, dropped the luggage and straightened. When his hardened mouth softened temporarily and the corners hooked upward, her heart pounded. Her response to him unnerved Inca, for she’d never responded to a man this way before. The sensations were new to her, confounding her and making her feel slightly breathless as a result. When he extended his large, callused hand toward her, and Inca saw a wand of white sage in it, she relaxed slightly. Among her people, when one clan or nation visited another, sacred sage, ceremonially wrapped, was always given as a token of respect before any words of greeting were spoken.
Just this simple acknowledgment by him, the sacred sage extended in his hand, made Inca feel a deep sense of relief. Only Indians knew this protocol. Something wonderful flittered through Inca’s heart as she reached out and took the gift. If the sage was accepted, it was a sign of mutual respect between the two parties, and talk could begin. She waited. The dried sage’s fragrance drifted to her flaring nostrils. It was a strong, medicinelike scent, one that made her want to inhale deeply.
“I’m Roan Storm Walker,” he said in a quiet tone. “I’ve been sent here by Mike Houston.”
“I am called Inca,” she said, her voice husky. He was powerful, and Inca wanted to back away from him to assess the situation more closely. Ordinarily, men she encountered were not this powerful. “I was not expecting a medicine person. I do not have a gift of our sacred sage to give you in return.”
Roan nodded. “It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” His pulse was racing. He wondered if she could hear his heart beating like a thundering drum in his chest. Roan had realized for certain as he got out of the cab that Inca was the same woman who had entered his vision state that morning at his cabin. It was definitely her. Did she remember talking to him? Asking him to come down here to help her? If she did, she gave no hint to him. He decided not to ask, for it would be considered disrespectful.
She was incredibly beautiful in his eyes. There was a wildness to her—a raw, primal power as she stood confidently before him dressed in her military attire. Even though she wore jungle fatigues, black GI boots, a web belt around her waist and an olive drab T-shirt, she could not hide her femininity from him in the least. She wore no bra, and her small breasts were upturned and proud against the damp shirt that provocatively outlined them, despite the bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing her chest. Her face was oval, with a strong chin, high cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes. The color of her eyes made him hold his breath for a moment. Just as Mike Houston had said, they were a delicious willow-green color, with huge, black pupils. Her black lashes were thick and full, and emphasized her incredible eyes like a dark frame. Her hair was black with a slightly reddish tint when the sun peeked out between the sluggishly moving clouds and shined on it. The tendrils curling around her face gave Inca an air of vulnerability in spite of her formidable presence. He rocked internally from the power that surrounded her.
Roan had spotted the rifle leaning up against the crates, and he sensed her distrust of him. He saw it in the guarded look of her eyes. Her mouth was full and soft, yet, as she turned her attention to him, he watched it thin and compress. Mike was right: he’d have to earn her trust, inch by inch. Did he have the necessary time to do it? To protect her? To work as a liaison between her and Marcellino’s troops?
“Why do you worry about me?” Inca growled. She turned and put the sage into a small, coarsely woven sack that sat on top of the crates. “I would worry more for you.”
Frowning, Roan wondered if she’d read his mind. Mike had warned him that she had many clairvoyant talents. He watched as she shouldered the rifle, butt up, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. Any good soldier out in a rain forest or jungle situation would do that. Water down the barrel of one’s weapon would create rust. Clearly Inca was a professional soldier.
“Come,” she ordered as she strode quickly to the dock.
“Olá! Hello. Ernesto! Get up!” Inca called in Portuguese to the tug captain. The middle-aged, balding man roused himself from his siesta on the deck of his tug.
“Eh?”
Inca waved toward the crates. “Come, load our things. We must go, pronto.”
Scrambling to his feet, the captain nodded and quickly rubbed his eyes. His face was round, and he hadn’t shaved in days. Dressed only in a pair of khaki cutoffs that had seen better days, he leaped to the wharf.
Inca turned to Storm Walker, who stood waiting and watching. “We need to get these crates on board. Why don’t you stow your gear on the tug and help him?”
“Of course.” Roan moved past her and made his way from wharf to tug. The boat was old, unpainted, and the deck splintered from lack of sanding and paint to protect it from the relentless heat and humidity of Amazonia. Dropping his luggage at the bow, he watched as Inca moved to the stern of the tug. Her face was guarded and she was looking around, as if sensing something. He briefly saw the crescent-shaped moon on her left shoulder though it was mostly hidden beneath the tank top she wore. Mike Houston had warned him ahead of time that the thin crescent of gold and black fur was a sign her membership in the Jaguar Clan.
Inca barely gave notice to the two men placing the supplies on board. Topazio was restless, an indication that there was a disturbance in the energy of the immediate area. A warning that there was trouble coming.
“Hurry!” she snapped in Portuguese. And then Inca switched to her English, which was not that good. “Hurry.”
“I speak Portuguese,” Roan stated as he hefted a crate on board.
Grunting, Inca kept her gaze on the hill. Nothing moved in the humid, hot heat of the afternoon. Everything was still. Too still for her liking. She moved restlessly and shifted her position from the end of the wharf to where the asphalt crumbled and stopped. Someone was coming. And it wasn’t a good feeling.
Roan looked up. He saw Inca standing almost rigidly, facing the hill and watching. What was up? He almost mouthed the query, but instead hurried from the tug to the shore to retrieve the last wooden crate. The tug captain started up the rusty old engine. Black-and-blue smoke belched from behind the vessel, the engine sputtered, coughed like a hacking person with advanced emphysema, and then caught and roared noisily to life.
“Inca?” Roan called as he placed the crate on the deck.
His voice carried sluggishly through the silence of the damp afternoon air. The hair on his neck stood on end. Damn! Leaping off the tug and running along the dock, Roan ordered the captain to cast off. He had just gotten to the end when he saw two cars, a white one and a black one, careening down off the hill toward them. His breath jammed in his throat. He could see rifles hanging out the open windows of both vehicles.
“Inca!”
Inca heard Storm Walker’s warning, but she was already on top of the situation. In one smooth movement, she released her rifle and flipped it up, her hand gripping the trigger housing area and moving the barrel upward. She saw the guns stuck out of the windows. She felt the hatred of the men behind them. Turning on her heel, she sprinted toward the tug. It was going to be close!
To her surprise, she saw Storm Walker running toward her, his hand outstretched as if to grab her. Shaken by his protective gesture, she waved him away.
“You have no weapons!” she cried as she ran up to him. “Get back to the tug!”
Roan turned on his heel. He heard the screech of brakes. The first shots shattered the humid stillness. Bits of red dirt spurted into the air very near his feet. Damn! More shouts in Portuguese erupted behind them. Inca was following swiftly behind him. He didn’t want her to get shot. Slowing, he reached out and shoved her in front of him. He would be the wall between her and the attackers. Who the hell were they, anyway? Digging the toes of his boots into the red dirt, Roan sprinted for the wharf. Already the tug was easing away from the dock. The captain’s eyes were huge. He wanted out of here. Pronto!
More gunfire erupted. Inca cursed softly beneath her breath. She halted at the end of the wharf and shouldered her rifle. With cool precision, with wood exploding all around her, she squeezed off five shots in succession. She saw Storm Walker leap to the tug, which was sliding past her. Turning, she jumped from the wharf onto the deck of the vessel herself. It was a long jump, almost five feet. Landing on her hands and knees, she felt Roan’s large hands on her arm drawing her upward. He was pushing her behind the cockpit of the tug in order to protect her.
Growling at him, she jerked her arm free. “Release me!” she snarled, and then ran to the side of the cockpit closest to the riverbank. The men were tumbling out of the cars—six of them. They were heavily armed. Inca dropped to one knee, drew the leather sling around her arm and steadied the butt of the rifle against her shoulder and cheek. She got the first man in the crosshairs and squeezed off a shot. She watched as the bullet struck him in the knee. He screamed, threw up his weapon and fell to the earth, writhing in pain.
Rifle fire rained heavily around them. The captain was swearing in Portuguese as he labored hard to get the tug turned around and heading out to the middle of the mile-wide river. Pieces of wood exploded and flew like splinters of shrapnel everywhere. He ducked behind the housing of the cockpit, one shaking hand on the old, dilapidated wooden wheel.
Crouching, Roan moved up alongside Inca. He reached out. “Let me borrow your pistol,” he rasped, and leaned over her to unsnap the holster at her side.
Inca nodded and kept her concentration on the enemy. Ordinarily, she’d never let anyone use her weapons, but Roan was different. There was no time for talk. He took her black Beretta, eased away from her and steadied his gun arm on top of the cockpit. She heard the slow pop at each squeeze of the trigger. Two more men fell. He was a good shot.
Those left on the shore fell on their bellies, thrust their weapons out in front of them and continued to send a hail of fire into the tug. They made poor targets, and Inca worked to wound, not kill them. It wasn’t in her nature to kill. It never had been. To wound them was to put them out of commission, and that was all she strove to do. Wood erupted next to her. She felt the red-hot pain of a thick splinter entering her upper arm. Instantly, the area went numb. Disregarding her slight injury, Inca continued to squeeze off careful shots.
Finally the tug was out of range. Inca was the first to stop firing. She sat down, her back against the cockpit, the rifle across her lap as she pulled another clip from her web belt and jammed it into the rifle. Looking up, she saw Storm Walker’s glistening features as he stopped firing. This man was a cool-headed warrior. Michael had been right about him being a benefit to her, and not a chain around her neck. That was good. His face was immobile, his eyes thundercloud dark as he glanced down to see how she was doing.
“You’re hurt….”
Roan’s words feathered across Inca. She glanced down at her left arm. There was a bright red trail of blood down her left biceps dripping slowly off her elbow onto the deck.
Without thinking, Roan stepped across her, knelt down and placed his hand near the wound. A large splinter of wood, almost two inches long and a quarter inch in diameter, was sticking out of her upper arm. Her flesh was smooth and damp as he ran his fingers upward to probe the extent and seriousness of her wound.
“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.”
“Your heart, your spirit, though, belongs to your mother’s red-skinned people.”
“Yes,” Roan agreed softly.
“Are you glad of this?”
“Yes.”
“And did you inherit the gift of healing?”
Roan laughed a little and held up his hands. “No, I’m afraid it didn’t rub off on me, much to my mother’s unhappiness.”
Shrugging, Inca said, “Do not be so sure, Roan Storm Walker. Do not be so sure….”

Chapter 4
Roan had excused himself and went to the opposite side of the tug from where she stood. Once he felt sure they were safely motoring down the Amazon, the shooters nowhere in sight. His adrenaline had finally ebbed after the firefight. He’d noticed her hands were shaking for a little while afterward, too. It was nice to know she was human. It was also nice to know she was one cool-headed customer in a crisis. Not too many people that he knew, men or women, would have been so efficient and clear thinking in that rain of hot lead.
Absently, he touched the medicine piece at his throat and found the blue stone was so hot it felt like it was burning his skin. It wasn’t, but the energy emanating from it made it feel that way. The stone always throbbed, hot and burning, anytime he was in danger. Roan knew without a doubt, from a lot of past experience, that the mysterious blue stone was a powerful talisman. There had been so many times in the past when it had heated up and warned him of forthcoming danger. One of his biggest mistakes had been not listening to his intuition the day his wife, Sarah, had gone climbing and died. On that morning, before she left, Roan had had a powerful urge to take off his amulet and place it around her slender neck. He knew she would have accepted the gift, but he’d never, ever entertained the thought of giving the stone to anyone. It had been ingrained by his mother and the tradition of his mother’s tribe that the medicine piece should remain with one person until near the time he or she was to die, and then be passed on to the next deserving recipient. Still, the urge to give Sarah the stone had been overpowering, but he’d fought it because of his ancestral tradition. He told himself that it was wrong to take the stone off and give it away prematurely. Sadly, he now knew why his cougar guardian had urged him through his intuition to give Sarah the necklace to wear that day. It might have saved her life. He would never know. Rubbing his chest, Roan frowned, the guilt eating at him even to this day.
When he’d grabbed a cab at the airport to head to the dock, the blue stone had begun to throb with heat and energy. Roan had thought the stone was warning him about Inca, but he’d been wrong. She wasn’t the one to fear; it was the gang that followed him to the dock that had brought danger.
He wanted to ask Inca a hundred questions now that things were calming down, but he knew Indian protocol, so he had to forego his personal, selfish desire to get nosy. Still, being in her company was like being surrounded by an incredible light of joy and freedom.
Moving to the other side of the tug, he dug deeply into his canvas carry-on bag. Because he was Indian, and because it was only proper to introduce himself to the spirits of this new land, Roan pulled out a large, rainbow-colored abalone shell, a stick of sacred white sage and a red-tailed hawk feather fan. Native Americans did not presume that the spirits of the water, land or air would automatically welcome them into their midst. A simple ceremony of lighting sage and asking for acceptance was traditional.
Once the flame was doused, Roan placed the smoldering smudge stick in the shell. Picking it up, he faced the north direction, the place where Tatanka, the great white buffalo spirit, resided. Leaning down until the shell was near his feet, Roan used the fan to gently waft the thick, purling smoke upward around his body. The smoke was purifying and signaled his sincerity in honoring the spirits of this land. Fanning the smoke about his head, he then placed the shell back on the deck. Sitting down, his back against the cockpit, Roan closed his eyes and prayed. He mentally asked permission to be allowed to walk this land, to be welcomed to it.
As he said his prayers, his arms resting comfortably on his drawn-up knees, Roan felt a burst of joy wash over him. He smiled a little in thanks. That was the spirits of the river, the land and air welcoming him to their territory. He knew the sign well and was relieved. Roan didn’t want to go anywhere he wasn’t welcomed by the local spirits. It would have been a bad choice, and bad things would have befallen him as a result.
Opening his eyes, he dug into his tobacco bag, which he always carried on a loop on his belt. The beaded bag, made out of tanned elk hide and decorated with a pink flower against a blue background, was very old. It had been his mother’s tobacco bag. Digging into it, he held the proffered gift of thanks upward to the sky, and then to the four directions, to Mother Earth, before bringing it to his heart and giving thanks. Then, opening his hand, he threw the fragrant tobacco outward. He watched the dark brown flakes fly through the air and hit the muddy water, then quickly disappeared.
To his surprise, four river dolphins, sleek and dark, leaped within ten feet of the tug, splashing the peeling wood of the deck. Stunned, Roan watched the playful foursome race alongside the tug.
“The river spirit has taken your prayers and gifts to heart,” Inca said in a low, serious voice as she approached him from the left.
Surprised, Roan tried to hide his pleasure that she was coming to speak to him. He would never gain her trust if he kept going to her and plying her with endless questions; she’d slam the door to herself tighter than Fort Knox.
The dolphins leaped again, their high-pitched cries mingling with the sound of the foaming, bubbling water. They arced high and splashed back into the river.
Roan smiled a little. “Helluva welcome. I didn’t expect it.”
Inca stopped and gazed at him critically. He looked relaxed, his large, scarred hands resting on his narrow hips. His profile was Indian; there was no question. Only the lightness of his copper skin revealed his other heritage, through his father. “The dolphin people don’t often give such a welcome to strangers to their land, to their river,” she murmured. She saw and felt his amazement and gratitude. Maybe Michael was right after all: Roan stood apart from all other men she’d known before. He was more like a Jaguar Clan member, knitted into the fabric of Mother Earth and all her relations. Roan understood that all things were connected, that they were not separate and never had been. Her heart lifted with hope. It was a strange, wonderful feeling, and automatically, Inca touched that region of her chest. She studied the medicine piece that hung around his thickly corded neck. With her clairvoyant vision she could see the power emanating from around that beautiful sky-blue stone he wore.
“You said your mother was a healer, yes?”
Roan nodded and squatted down. “Yes, she was.” He saw that the smudge of sage had burned out. Tossing it into the river as an added gift, he took the abalone shell and placed it back into his bag.
“And did she heal by laying her hands on others, as we do in the Jaguar Clan?”
Roan wrapped the feather fan gently back into the red cotton cloth and placed it back into the bag as well, and then zipped it shut. He craned his neck upward and met her half-closed eyes. There was a thoughtful look on Inca’s face now. She was so incredibly beautiful. Did she know how attractive she was? Instantly, he saw her brows dip. Was she reading his mind again? Frustrated, Roan figured she was, as he eased to his full height once again.
“My mother was a Yuwipi medicine woman. Her assistants would tie her wrists behind her back and tie up her ankles and then roll her up into a rug and tie the rug up as well. The lights would be doused, the singers and drummers would begin. The ceremony takes hours, usually starting at nightfall and ending at dawn. My mother, with the help of her spirit guides, was released from her bonds. She then prayed for the person whom the ceremony was for. Usually, that person was there in the room. There could be five, ten or fifty people sitting in that room, taking part in the ceremony. Lights would dance through the place. Horns would sound. The spirits brushed the attending people with their paws, their wings or tails. All prayers from everyone were directed to the person who was ill.”
Inca nodded. “A powerful ceremony. And did the person get well?”
He smiled a little and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “They always did when my mother conducted the ceremony. She was very famous. People came to her from around the world.” He glanced at Inca’s shoulder, where the splinter had wounded her. “And your clan heals with touch?”
Inca nodded. “You could say that.”
“And healing is your calling? Your vision?”
“It is my life,” she said simply. Lifting her hand, she watched as the dolphins sped away from the tug, finished with their play. “I took a medicine vow when I became a woman at age twelve. The jaguar priestess who was training me at that time inducted me into the service of our mother, the earth. She then prepared me to go to the clan’s village for training, which began at age sixteen.”
Roan shook his head. “It sounds like you were passed around a lot, from person to person. Did you ever find out who your parents were?” Instantly, he saw her close up. Her eyes grew opaque with pain and her lips compressed. Roan mentally kicked himself. He’d asked the wrong damn question. “Forget it,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to answer. That’s too personal….”
Touched by his sensitivity, Inca found herself opening up at his roughly spoken words. She saw so much in his large eyes, in those glinting black pupils. Normally, if someone broached a question regarding her past, she’d shut down, get angry and stalk off. Not this time. Inca couldn’t explain why her heart felt warm in her breast, or why her pulse quickened when he gave her that special, tender look. Always, she felt that blanket of security and warmth automatically surround her when Roan met and held her gaze. She was unsure of how to react, for she’d never met a man quite like this before. She wanted to be wary of him, to remain on guard, but his demeanor, and the fact that he was Indian like her, made her feel safe. Safe! No one had ever given her that sense before.
“No, I will answer your question.” Inca sat down and leaned against the bulkhead. The last of the shakiness that always inhabited her after a confrontation left her. Being with Roan was soothing to her hard-wired nervous system, which was always on high alert. She crossed her legs, her hands resting on her thighs. Roan did the same, keeping a good six feet of space between them. Inca sighed. There was always something soothing about the gentle rocking of a boat in the arms of the Amazon River. “At times like this, I feel like a babe in my mother’s arms,” she confided throatily. “The rocking motion…somewhere in my memory, a long time ago, I recall being rocked in the arms of a woman. I remember fragments of a song she sang to me.”
“One of the priestesses?”
“No.” Inca picked at a frayed thread of the fabric on her knee. “I remember part of the song. I have gone back and asked each woman who helped to raise me if she sang it, and none of them did. I know it was my real mother….”
Roan heard the pain in her low voice. He saw her brows dip, and her gaze move to her long, slender, scarred hands. “I was abandoned in the rain forest to die. As I told you before, a mother jaguar found me. I was told that she picked me up in her mouth and carried me back to where she hid her two cubs. When the first jaguar priestess found me, I was a year old and suckling from the mother jaguar. I have some memories of that time. A few…but good ones. I remember being warm and hearing her purr moving like a vibrating drum through my body. Her milk was sweet and good. The woman who found me was from a nearby village. In a dream, she was told where to go look for me. When she arrived, the mother jaguar got up and left me.”
Inca smiled softly. “I do not want you to think that the people who raised me from that time on did not love me. They did. Each of them is like a mother and father to me—at least, those who are still alive, and there are not many now….”
“You were on a medicine path, there is no doubt,” Roan said.
“Yes.” Inca brightened. “It is good to talk to someone who understands my journey.”
“My mother set me on a path to become a medicine man, but I’m afraid I disappointed her.” Roan laughed a little and held up his hands for a moment. “I didn’t have her gift.”
“Humph. You have a spirit cougar, a female, who is at your side. Medicine people always have powerful spirit guides. Perhaps you will wait until middle age to pick up your medicine and practice it. That is common down here in Amazonia. Most men and women do not even begin their training until their mid-forties.”
“You were trained from birth, which means you brought in a lot of power and skills with you,” Roan said. He saw Inca smile sadly.
“There are days when I wish…” Her voice trailed off. Shaking her head, she muttered, “To be hunted like an animal, with a price on my head…to be hated, feared and misunderstood.” She glanced over at him. “At least the Indians of the basin understand. They know of my vow, know I am here to help protect them. The white men who want to destroy our rain forests want my life. The gold miners would kill me if they saw me. The gaucqueros, the gem hunters, would do the same. Anyone who wants to rape our land, to take without giving to it something equal in return, wants me dead.”
Roan felt her sadness. Quietly, he said, “It must be a heavy burden to carry. I hope you have friends with whom you can share your burdens and dreams.”
Rubbing her brow, Inca whispered, “I am all but thrown out of the Jaguar Clan. Grandfather Adaire has sentenced me and told me never to return to the village where all clan members train. I—I miss going there. Grandmother Alaria…well, I love her as I’ve loved no one else among those who have raised me. She is so kind, so gentle, all the things I am not…. I am like a rough-cut emerald compared to her. She is so old that no one knows how old she is. I miss talking to her. I miss the time we spent together.”
“Then you’re an outcast?” Roan saw the incredible pain in every feature of Inca’s face. In some part of his heart, he knew she was opening up to him in a way that she rarely did with anyone. The energy between them was tenuous…fragile, just like her. He found himself wanting to slide his arm across her proud shoulders, draw her into his arms and simply hold her. Hold her and comfort her against the awful weight of pain she carried. In that moment, she was more a hurting child to him than a warrior woman.
“No, not exactly an outcast… Oh, to be sure, some members have been cast permanently out of the clan.” She gave him a pained, one-cornered smile, and then quickly looked away. “My sentence is an ongoing one. Grandfather Adaire says I am walking on the dark side with some choices I have made. And until I can walk in the light all the time, I am not allowed to return to the village as a full member of it.”
Roan frowned. “Light and dark? Familiar words and themes to me.” He opened his hands. “Where I come from, in our belief system, light does not exist without darkness, and vice versa. You can’t have one without the other. And no human being is ever all one or the other.” He glanced over at her. “Are they expecting you not to be human? Not to make mistakes?”
She laughed abruptly. “The Jaguar Clan is an honorable part of the Sisterhood of Light. There are rules that cannot be broken…and I broke one of them. It was a very serious thing. Life-and-death serious.” Inca frowned and tugged at the frayed thread on her knee until it broke off in her fingers.
“Mike Houston said you saved his life,” Roan said. He ached to reach out to her now. There were tears swimming in her eyes, although Inca’s head was bowed and slightly turned away from his in an effort to hide them from him. In her softened tone he could hear the wrenching heartache she carried. She moved her hands restlessly.
“That is why I was asked to leave my own kind, my home…. Michael was dying. I knew it. And yes, I broke the rule and went into the light where the souls of all humans who are dying go. I pulled him back from the Threshold. I gave my life, my energy, my heart and love, and drew him back. If not for Grandmother Alaria, who revived me because I was practically dead after saving Michael, I would not be here today.”
“So, you saved a life? And Grandfather Adaire kicked you out of the clan for that?” Roan had a hard time understanding why.
“Do not be judgmental of Grandfather Adaire. He was only following the code of the clan. You see, we are trained in the art of life and death. Because we have the power, that means we must walk with it in strict accordance to the laws of the universe. I broke one of those laws. Michael had made his choice to die of his wound. I had been caring for him for a week, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I had met my real brother. Oh, he was not, but that was the bond we had from the moment we met. It was wonderful….” She sighed unhappily. “I saw him slipping away daily. My heart cried. I cried alone, where no one could see me. I knew he would die. I did not want it to happen. I knew I had the power to stop it. And I knew it was wrong to intervene.” Inca smiled sadly as she looked at the shore, which was a half a mile away on either side of the chugging tug.
“I wanted a brother just like Michael. I’d been searching so long for a family—I was so starved to have one—that I did it. I broke the law. And I did it knowingly.” Gravely, Inca turned her head and met his dark blue eyes. “And that is why I was asked to leave. What I did was a ‘dark side’ decision. It was selfish and self-serving.”
Roan choked as she finished the story. He felt anger over it. “Didn’t Grandfather Adaire realize that, because you were abandoned, family would mean so much more to you than it would to others?”
She hitched one shoulder upward and looked out at the muddy river. “That is an excuse. It is not acceptable to the clan. I broke a law. It does not matter why I broke it.”
“Seems a little one-sided and unfair to me,” he groused.
“Well,” Inca said with a laugh, “my saving Michael’s life, in the long term, had its positive side. He asked to become my blood brother. And when he fell in love with Dr. Ann, and she had his baby, Catherine, I became a godmother to their child.” The tears in her eyes burned. Inca looked away. She wanted to wipe them away, but she didn’t want Roan to know of her tears. No one ever saw her cry. No one. Choking on the tears, she rasped, “I have a family now. Michael and Ann love me. They accept me despite who I am, despite what I do for a living.” She sniffed and reached for a pouch on her right side. “Look…here…let me show you baby Catherine….”

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