She laid her palm against Jake's cheek. "I care so deeply about you. You've been a wonderful friend to me and Reese."
"But you don't love me."
"Don't, Savannah," came Frank's warning voice from the doorway, his eyes glinting with anger.
"I have to do what's right, Frank."
"Then think about Reese."
"I am thinking about her. Are you?"
"Are you implying that I don't care about my own niece? I've been a surrogate father to her."
"She has a real father. It's not fair to him. I only wish I'd seen that sooner."
"Reese's father is alive?"
Savannah glanced up at Jake. He had taken so many blows and had remained faithful to his vow to her. She knew she couldn't pretend to be what he needed. He deserved so much more.
"Yes...Reese's father is alive."
"Jerricho."
Savannah closed her eyes and inclined her head.
"Well," Jake said on a weary sigh, "I guess that says everything."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her throat tight with emotion. No matter how she felt about Donovan, she had given a piece of her heart to Jake. His friendship had meant so much to her. She didn't want to lose it, but knew nothing would ever be the same.
"Come on, Jake," Frank said in a cajoling tone with a forced edge. "She's just been under a strain. We all have. You two can't just walk away from each other. Not because of Jerricho. He's history anyway."
His remark sent a jolt through Savannah. "What have you done, Frank? Please tell me you kept your word and left him alone."
Frank's eyes narrowed on her. "He's the cause of all your problems and yet you're worried about him? Jesus, Savannah, wake up."
"I am awake, Frank. Perhaps more than I've been in the last eight years. Whether Donovan stays or goes, I know who I am now, and I know what I want. I can't spend the rest of my life pretending that things never changed. Reese deserves to know her father, if he wants to know her."
"I do." The reply seemed to come out of nowhere.
Frank wrenched around and found Donovan standing behind him in the hallway. A single punch to the jaw laid her brother out flat.
Savannah gasped and knelt down at her brother's side.
"He'll be fine," Donovan said through a split lip that had undoubtedly resulted from his hitting the hardwood floor in his bedroom.
He had awoken in the trunk of Frank's car, a rag shoved in his mouth and his wrists and ankles bound like a convicted felon's.
His injured arm hurt like a son of a bitch from throwing his weight up against the trunk lid, and he cradled it protectively in front of him.
He'd finally been released by Savannah's aunt, who looked shocked at finding him a prisoner in Frank's trunk. Donovan would probably never know why Savannah's brother hadn't killed him, as he had threatened, why he had driven home, instead. But Donovan took it as a sign he had no intention of ignoring.
Savannah looked up at him with an accusatory glare, but then her expression suddenly changed.
"You're bleeding. And your arm's hurt."
"You can thank your brother for that. You might request that he be a little less zealous in his protection of you. Your future husband may not like it."
Jake obviously took that as a prompt. "The infamous Donovan Jerricho," he said from across the room, looking more curious than intimidated.
"The infamous pediatrician, Dr. Jake...?"
"Marshall," he answered. "And I doubt anyone thinks I'm infamous. My patients only know me as the man who gives them candy after a shot. Nothing nearly as glorious as being a pro footballer."
"Ex-footballer."
"Ah, yes. It looks like your arm's still troubling you. If you'd like to stop by my office sometime, I have a hydrobath that's quite therapeutic."
"You're joking, right?"
"Not at all."
Donovan leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and shook his head. "Has anyone told you that you're too damn nice?"
A half grin tipped up the corners of Jake's mouth. "It's a fatal flaw, I suppose."
"Are you two finished?" Savannah asked in an exasperated tone as she held her brother's head in her lap.
"Here, let me take him." Jake came over and slid his arm beneath her brother's shoulders, then attempted to heft him off the ground.
Donovan reached down and put his arm under Frank's other side. Together, the two men lifted her brother to his feet, still groggy from the blow.
"Let's get him to a bed."
Savannah watched as all the men in her life exited the room, leaving her there alone on what was to have been her wedding day. Well, why should anything be any different? She seemed destined to be alone.
"Can I come in?"
Startled by Donovan's voice, Savannah jumped to her feet. "You shouldn't be here. Jake will be back in a minute."
"I don't think so. He's taking Frank to his office."
Savannah heard the roar of an engine and raced to the window in time to see Jake's car leaving the driveway, her brother slumped on the seat next to him.
Donovan gently turned her to face him. "I still love you, Savannah. I tried to stay away, but I couldn't."
"You managed it quite well for a long time."
"I was an ass. A stupid, immature kid who had been handed the world and didn't know what to do with it."
"So you think you know better now, do you?"
He lightly skimmed a finger along her cheek. "I think so, but I could still use some help. If you tell me that you don't love me, I'll leave and never darken your doorstep again."
Savannah willed herself to say the words. She could list at least twenty reasons why it was a bad idea to allow him back into her life. She should run as far and fast as she could--but her feet were glued to the floor.
"I don't love you, Donovan. I'm sorry. It's over for me."
He said nothing, but she recognized the devastation in his eyes. She had seen that same look in her own eyes for months after he had left. Hurt beyond words. A vast emptiness that nothing could fill.
She had never thought he would feel it, and she had certainly never believed she would be around to witness it. Instead of any satisfaction, a terrible hollowness sank deep inside her.
"Take care of yourself," he said, his gaze holding hers for a long moment before he turned and left the room.
Savannah stood rooted to the floor, her heart beating wildly, her lie ringing in her ears. She had done the right thing, she told herself over and over as his footsteps echoed down the hallway, then the steps, as the front door opened and closed, as his boots crunched over the gravel drive, heading away from her house--and out of her life forever.
Suddenly she felt unbearable grief at the thought of never seeing him again and ran from her room, her breath rasping in her lungs as she threw open the front door and flew down the driveway.
"Wait!" she called out.
Donovan stopped at the end of the driveway, but did not turn around. Savannah slowed as she neared him, coming to a halt a few feet away.
"Please look at me."
"I can't." The hurt was so real in his voice that it struck her like a dagger.
With tentative steps, she came around to stand in front of him, shocked to find tears in his eyes. In all the years she had known him, he had never cried.
She reached up and wiped her thumb across his cheek. He captured her hand and held it there, staring down at her, and within that beautiful blue gaze, she saw the boy she had once loved so desperately. She had believed he had been lost forever.
He wouldn't help her. Wouldn't give her a single word to make it easier for her to say what she had chased him down to say.
But suddenly, her fear melted away. The truth was, she still loved him. Had always loved him. Would never stop loving him.
She wanted to face the rest of her life with him at her side. She had to know if it could ever be the way she had dreamed it could.
Rising up on tiptoe, she looped h
er arms around his neck, her kiss conveying all the love that had never left her.
And in that kiss, she knew she had made the right decision. The world had become new again, and with it, she had found a promise of forever.
Hunter's Right
Jaid Black
Verily, a time of great suffering shall fall upon the whole of the world, for its women will dwindle in numbers. Disease shall soon spread, female babes will not be born, and bloodlines will die out. But, yea, the strong Vikings shall live on, for almighty Odin has seen fit to warn us. We are His chosen people.
Take to the earth, the haven bequeathed to us; the belly of the gods. Dwell below her dirt and leaves, now and forever, untouched by the Outsiders and their ways. Yea, let each warrior cling unto a wife, that his seed may bear fruit and our race prevail. Should a time come when there are fewer females than warriors in our stronghold, then hunt on the Outside and take them.
By any means necessary, take them.
--VIKING LEGEND
Chapter One
Arctic seacoast
Present day
It was turning out to be one hell of a long day. The flight schedule had begun at the crack of dawn. She'd flown from Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C., to Seattle in Washington State, then onward to Fairbanks, Alaska. In Fairbanks, a military chopper had picked her up. The team was currently en route to their destination: nowhere. Almost literally. The highly classified army complex that operated just north of the Arctic circle was top secret and could only be reached in one of two ways: by helicopter, as they were currently approaching it, or by dogsled.
Corporal Ronda Tipton of the U.S. Army blinked her eyelids rapidly to keep from falling asleep. How she could doze off in a loud military chopper was beyond comprehension, but it had been an exhausting day. By the time the aircraft landed, her journey would be seventeen hours from start to finish.
Staring out the small window on her left to the beautiful winterscape below, Ronda's mind alternated between fatigue and excitement. This was the first invigorating assignment she'd had in ages. Her last several years in the army had been on the dull, paper-pushing side of things. All computers and paperwork--no action.
That state of affairs, however, had been inevitable after she'd taken a bullet to the kneecap from a guerrilla's gun in Haiti. Helping two fellow soldiers get to safety had made her something of a hero, but it had also retired her from active duty and landed her with a desk job. Her knee had long since healed, but returning to the field was still out. She'd never pass the army's stringent physical requirements for active combat or for any assignment that required more than minimal risk.
Now, at age thirty-three, Ronda was more than ready to shake up her mundane nine-to-five existence, if even just for a little while. When her boss had offered her the opportunity to oversee a classified military project in the Arctic circle, she'd jumped at the chance. She had joined the army to see the world and to make a difference, not to sit behind a desk accepting and rejecting expenditures for the military's budget.
"What the...?" Ronda's brown eyes widened as she was suddenly jarred back and forth in her small seat. "What's going on?" she shouted over the loud buzz of the helicopter's engine--and over the sound of rotary blades grinding against each other.
Her heart stilled. Something was very wrong. Ronda had been a passenger on more chopper rides than she could count, and she'd never experienced anything like this. The jumping, jarring, and plummeting went way beyond turbulence.
Her heart began to race. With both hands, she clutched the safety harness that came over her head and across her chest until her knuckles turned white. "What is going on!" she yelled again, much louder and more demanding this time. "Lieutenant?"
Suddenly there was the horrific grinding sound of shredding metal, and all hell broke loose.
"Hold on, we're going down!"
"Oh, Jesus--send aid! Command--this is Phantom III--send aid!"
"Oh my God!" Ronda clutched the harness impossibly tighter. Blood pounded in her ears. Perspiration drenched her forehead and dripped down the side of her face. Her teeth rattled together from the helicopter's frenetic bumping.
The chopper was out of control. The small four-seater was being jarred and bumped in so many directions, she could no longer tell up from down or left from right. All she knew was that the snowcapped mountains of ice that had seemed so distant were now suddenly, horrifically, spiraling into bone-chilling view.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod...
The chopper made impact, crashing into the side of a mountain coated with unforgiving ice.
We're going to die! Oh my God--nooooo!
It was Ronda's last coherent thought. Then, mercifully, blackness engulfed her until she knew no more.
She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious. When Ronda pulled herself up from under the wreckage that had once been a part of Phantom III, groaning like the wounded animal she felt to be, she surmised that more than a day had passed. Call it intuition, call it an educated guess, or call it the painful knot that had formed on the side of her head, but she was certain she'd been knocked out cold for a day or two.
Delicately probing her head for further injuries, she quickly ascertained that she had sustained only the single wound at her left temple. Ronda winced as her fingers grazed over the tender lump. She knew enough about basic survival to realize that, while painful, the knot was not deadly. Dried blood was in the golden curls at her hairline, but she felt no shards of metal in the wound.
Though the injury to her head probably wouldn't kill her, the bitter cold snow surrounding her for as far as the eye could see might. She needed help, food, and medical supplies.
Where am I?
Ronda's gaze anxiously darted around, searching for other survivors. Her forehead wrinkled as she noted that the remaining wreckage was much more sparse than it should have been. A piece of metal here, a part of a blade there...
She stilled. And then, knowing and simultaneously dreading the answer, she weakly dragged her feet toward the edge of the snowy shelf she'd awoken on.
She moved slowly, cautiously, testing each inch of snow, not sure what was solid mountain and what was white fluff that would disintegrate under her feet--and send her plummeting below. Finally glancing over the ice-coated cliff, she drew in a deep breath as she visually confirmed what she'd hoped her mind had been wrong about. Sorrow for men she barely knew hit her like a punch to the belly.
The others were all gone. She was the only survivor.
Ronda could barely see what was left of Phantom III, but her army-trained eyes honed in on the fact that nobody--nobody--could have survived that crash. The chopper had fallen too fast and too many thousands of feet below for any of the crew to have escaped certain death. Bloodstained snow and shredded metal were scattered everywhere.
Ronda shivered, her teeth chattering, as reality set in. The coldness of the snowy mountainside she was stranded on seeped though the protection of her army-issued snowsuit and into her bones.
She was alone--all alone. Any flares she might have launched to signal her position had probably gone down with the larger portion of Phantom III and its ill-fated crew.
How did I survive?
Her seat must have ripped away from the main cabin of the aircraft. How, she'd never know.
Now what was of utmost importance was the need to survive. She'd made it this far. She owed it to herself, as well as to the family members of the crew, to get to safety and to tell the army where the men's remains were located.
Backing away from the dizzying view below, Ronda quickly went to rummage through the small bits of Phantom III left on the plateau of ice. Moving so briskly made the pain at the side of her head sting fiercely; she hissed, but otherwise ignored the throbbing at her temple as she poked around the helicopter's remains.
Nothing. Not a flare, not a radio, not even a solitary bandage or a crumb of bread. Nothing.
She sighed, her eyes briefly closing before flic
king back open. "What do I do now?" Ronda whispered. "Think, girl. Think."
There was but one course of action: find a way off this mountain, and find it now.
Easier said than done.
Ronda sat on a sizable boulder nearby, leaned back against the snowy mountain, and tried to figure out just how in the world she would get out of this nightmare. She wasn't Superwoman--she couldn't fly off the damn thing like some comic-book hero. And without the proper equipment, she couldn't climb down off of it, either. Which left her...
Sitting right where she was.
A part of Ronda morbidly wondered if she'd have been better off going down with Phantom III. At least the other crew members had died on impact. She was facing starvation, hypothermia, and a painfully slow death.
Jaw tight, Ronda forced herself back up to her feet. "I'm not dying like this!" she yelled, her voice echoing throughout the mountains. She took a deep, icy breath and expelled it, realizing how stupid it was to holler out her frustration and fear when nobody would hear it. She needed to conserve her energy for whatever lay ahead.
"I'm not dying like this," she repeated more quietly. In active duty--okay. While in enemy territory--okay. But not standing on a cold, lonely mountaintop. Turning to face the boulder, she sank one booted foot in a crevice near its base, leaned a palm against the solid mountain wall to her left, and tried to think. There had to be a way off this mountain.
Both of Ronda's parents had died as military heroes: her mother in Russia during the Cold War, her father several years ago in Afghanistan. As a child, the loss of her mom had been a kid's worst nightmare realized. As an adult, the death of her dad had been more tragic still, for she'd lived with him and loved him for so much longer. Ronda's only consolation at their funerals was knowing they had died as honored American heroes. Nothing less than what either of them would have wanted.
She didn't want to be a hero if it meant dying. Odd as it might sound coming from a career military woman, she wasn't a pro-war person. She believed that the function of the armed forces should be defensive only--to protect and defend the country, that Americans might know peace and safety. She didn't agree with quite a few stances the military had taken over the years, but she wisely kept her mouth shut and her job intact.