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"Heard you got a fine new bartender."
Quinn frowned. "News sure travels fast. I just hired her last night."
Johnny nodded. "Word is Artie's been blabbing to everyone how he got thrown out on his ass for no good reason."
"Artie needs to shut his mouth before I punch his head down where the sun don't shine. But yeah, he's out. Thank God. Got someone in there who knows how to run a bar. Tamed the help and the customers without even raising her voice."
And me.
"We could sure use a fine-looking woman around here," the cowboy said.
Quinn's fists knotted on the reins. "Pass the word the rule is hands off, Johnny. No one touches her or they'll have to go through me."
The man's eyes rose almost to the Stetson that sat on his head. "That so? Any special reason?"
"Because I said so. Now let's get to work."
Johnny gave him a speculative look but trotted back off. As they all fell into a working rhythm like a choreographed ballet, Quinn was nevertheless glad that they were only moving a small part of the herd today, because his mind kept wandering. He had the feeling he'd been bewitched.
"I'm a vampire."
Had she really said that? Did she even expect him to take her seriously?
In Texas, outrageous legends were as common as household pets. So many had been handed down by the Comanche who had settled this particular area of the state. His grandfather had told him plenty of those stories. The one uppermost in his mind was the chupacabra, the bloodsucking beast who wreaked havoc wherever it went.
Legends are not necessarily fantasy, haitsi.
Sam again. Given how tumultuous his thoughts were today, it was no wonder that the man who'd shown him how to find a quiet inside, who'd helped point him toward better goals than rebelling against his father's hardness, would be coming to mind again.
He wondered if Sam would believe Selene was a vampire. If he did, Quinn knew he might just do the same, without question. That was how much faith he had in Sam's judgment.
He still remembered the day Sam had first shown up in his life. One of the hands, out riding fence line, had radioed in to Quinn's dad that there was an intruder who'd set up camp on the edge of the north pasture by a tiny stream. Quinn's father had gone out there with couple of hands to send him on his way. Curiously, when he returned, he'd merely said the man meant no harm and suggested the owner allow him to camp there a couple weeks. He'd also told Quinn and his brothers not to bother him.
Which meant Quinn went out there to get a look. The man was anywhere from sixty to a hundred and sixty, white hair flowing past his shoulders, creased skin leathered by the sun. Piercing blue eyes looked Quinn up and down when he rode up as if he was the stranger.
Then the stranger rose gracefully and held out his hand.
"I'm Sam," he said in a voice that, hand to God, sounded as if it rolled out of the deep earth where centuries of his ancestors might be buried.
Quinn's grandfather had told him stories of men like Sam Red Elk. Not shamans, but Native American philosophers. His grandfather had died when Quinn was very young, no more than seven or eight, but he'd made an indelible impression on him, a stark contrast to his own father. Maybe for that reason and some inexplicable others, he'd sneaked out and camped overnight with Sam more than once. On that handful of nights, Sam had taught Quinn what peace and serenity was. He'd helped Quinn let go of his angers from his many clashes with his father and helped him find the quiet he'd needed to center himself, decide what he wanted to do with his life.
Ironically--given how much he'd always thought he hated this life--what he'd realized he'd wanted was to own his own ranch.
But it wasn't necessarily those memories of Sam that were dogging Quinn's mind today. It was the glimpse of a different world where outlandish things were possible, and the stories Sam had told him that supported that idea. Stories so unbelievable Quinn had to believe they were true. No one could make up such fanciful things.
A land so big and open as this, with so many empty spaces, made a man consider things other people scoffed at. But he'd had a real live piece of it up close and personal. After Quinn had bought the Last Chance Ranch, Sam had come back into his life, camped out on the edge of the property for nearly a year. He'd said he was monitoring some kind of magical fault line, one of the things that had made him recommend the place for Quinn. It has good energy, haitsi. You'll be happy here.
Quinn hadn't known how to process that, at least not until he'd seen firsthand what Sam had meant about "monitoring". He could say it was tricks played by the dusk hours, but he still vividly remembered the night he'd stayed with the shaman on the spring solstice. Sam had laid a hand on him while his eyes were closed and Quinn had felt the energy of the earth beneath them. That fault line was a living, breathing snake the size of a river, coiling and moving, carrying them. It filled Quinn up, held him under, held him still in every part of him and told him the world was way damn more than he'd ever know, even if he lived a thousand years.
Sam had opened his eyes at one point, and Quinn had looked deep into the center of the earth. Maybe the man had spoken, maybe he hadn't, but he'd heard the words as if they were writing themselves across his soul.
You will find your heart in the otherworld, Quinn. The world men deny because they fear its strength. They fear losing control of what they know. Be brave, Quinn, and find your heart.
If Selene was a vampire, that would qualify as the otherworld, wouldn't it?
He wanted to scoff at himself, but he remembered those energies uncoiling beneath his feet, in Sam's eyes, inside of Quinn himself. Damn, he sure could use some advice from Sam. He lived in Nevada now. Quinn missed him, but he knew the man was as close as a phone call or a day trip in his plane. The line with Sam had always felt sure and strong.
Lifting a hand, Quinn touched the bite mark on his neck. He could easily dismiss it as a love bite. Other women had marked him that way before. But this one appeared more detailed and precise. That had been no nip, but a full, locking penetration that set a tingle to his balls just thinking about it. Had she actually drunk his blood? When her silky skin had pressed against his and her sensuous lips caressed his neck, he'd felt lightheaded. Last night he'd chalked it up to the incredible intensity of the orgasm, but was it more than that?
Maybe she was just one of those Goth freaks who liked to pretend she was a vampire. There were towns in Texas where whole groups of people dressed in black and red and made themselves up to look like denizens of another world. Even brewed bloodlike concoctions they drank, saying it empowered them. Quinn thought they were crazy, but to each his own. Selene seemed as far from those people as it was possible to be, but she'd given no clue as to where she came from.
Whatever she was, she'd mesmerized him last night, leading him in an exquisite erotic dance.
When had he ever seen himself as a submissive? Yeah, he knew what the word submissive meant. You didn't get to be his age with his experience and not know a whole lot about the different sides of sex. Or the fantasies that just being near her seemed to evoke. He could still feel the press of the leather belt confining his wrists.
Okay, the sex with Selene, both real and imagined, was beyond amazing, but regardless of last night's play and his early morning dream, he was still a guy. He needed to establish more balance between them if they were to continue on with this--whatever it was. There was no question that they'd be moving forward. The lust and hunger boiling between them wasn't going to disappear.
He should take the reins a whole lot more. Right? Last night he'd been willing to let her lead the dance because, truth be told, he wanted her with
a hunger he wasn't sure would ever be appeased. But tonight would be different. The roles would be reversed. He would be in charge and the lovely Selene would do his bidding. Count on it.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, interrupting his conversational duel with himself. "Hey, Quinn."
As Dave Ojeda spurred his horse in Quinn's direction, Quinn pulled up on Midnight's reins and waited for the hand to join him. "What's up? Looks like we're in good shape here." The herd was moving slowly but compactly. They hadn't had to chase dogies or look for lost calves.
"We are, but Johnny and I wondered if you want us to head them a little farther north. The next pasture is still showing signs of a lot of new growth. We might want to give it a little more time to fully mature."
Quinn lifted his Stetson, wiped his forehead with his forearm and resettled his hat on his head. "I guess. If you guys don't mind the extra time. It means making sure we get them through two gates."
Dave chuckled. "They're just moseying along in this heat. I don't think they'll give us any trouble."
"Okay then. Thanks for noticing. I'll go on ahead and open the gate and ride sentry."
As Dave nodded, Quinn turned Midnight in that direction. Then Dave hollered after him again.
"While you're going that way, can you give that cow that's decided to wander a nudge back with her friends?"
"Sure. No problem."
Quinn urged Midnight forward with the pressure of his knees to where the stray cow was ambling from the herd. When it refused to respond to Midnight's insistent movements, Quinn uncoiled the single-tail whip hooked at the side of the saddle and cracked it in the air. The cow gave him a what the hell look but turned and moved back to the others. He flicked the whip once more for good measure.
Looping the whip onto his saddle again, he recalled Selene's words from the night before. "Do you own a whip?"
Exactly what the hell did she think she was going to do with it? He wasn't into pain. Was he?
This was ridiculous. He never let himself get distracted while he was working. The ranch was serious business to him. He'd known this woman less than twenty-four hours, spent only a brief time with her in bed, yet his body burned for her and his mind kept drifting back to her. On sex. With her. Hunger simmered constantly beneath the surface like liquid on a slow flame.
