Shifting. Part 24

Pleasant was an understatement.

I maneuvered the bike out of the barn and s.h.i.+vered. The morning air was cold on my shoulders. I glanced at my tank top and jogging shorts-both hand-me-downs from Kat O'Connell-and wondered if I should grab a sweats.h.i.+rt.

I propped the bike against the barn and turned to shut the door. Shash looked at me and whined. He'd been whining at me from the moment I pushed him off my feet so I could get out of bed.

"You big baby. I don't have the luxury of lazing in bed until noon, like you." He lay down and rested his head between his paws, and I shut the door.

I climbed onto my bike, about to ride it to the end of the driveway where Bridger picked me up, but paused. A car door slammed, a sound as out of place as bees swarming at midnight-Bridger always waited in his car until I came to the road. I squeezed the bike's brakes and stared down the driveway, thoughts of the night before, of what Naalyehe had said about the poacher, fresh in my mind.

Then another sound reached my ears-footsteps. Running along the gravel driveway. Toward me.

My heart exploded in my chest. I climbed off the bike and threw it to the ground, then clenched my fists and balanced on the b.a.l.l.s of my feet. If the poacher wanted to kill me, he'd have to fight me first.

Adrenaline flooding my body, I stared toward the road, ready to face my fate. Bridger came running around the corner of Mrs. Carpenter's house, his eyes wide with my reciprocated fear.

I ran at him and leaped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist and burying my face in his neck. I clung to his hard shoulders and forced the p.r.i.c.kling tears to stay in my eyes.

"I thought you were someone else!" I gasped.

"Shh," Bridger whispered, running a hand over my hair. "I didn't mean to scare you, Maggie. It's okay." I felt more than heard the quiet laughter rumbling deep in his throat and realized he was holding me and I felt like a complete dork. I'd never been so close to a man.

I pulled away from his neck and stared into his dusky eyes, wondering if he could feel my embarra.s.sment. He grinned and laughed louder, yet made no move to put me down. I unhooked my ankles, which had been anchoring my legs around him, and he lowered me to the ground. But instead of releasing me, his hands braced the small of my back and pulled me against him. He stared down into my eyes.

"You know ... I love you," he whispered.

The morning seemed to go silent, all sound squelched by my thundering heart. I wondered if Bridger could feel my heart hammering against his chest as I stared up at him in shocked silence. Had I heard him right? Did he really say he loved me?

He must have realized what he'd said. His hands loosened their hold and his eyes narrowed.

Warmth pulsed through my body, making me suddenly, uncommonly brave. I slipped my hand into his obsidian hair and, looking right into his eyes, pulled his face halfway toward mine.

Bridger froze. His eyes studied mine, like a wild animal's searching for danger. A million different emotions traveled over his face too fast for me to guess what any of them meant. And then, so slowly I thought I might die, one of his hands inched its way up my back and into my loose hair. Still scared, still unsure, he moved his face closer to mine and paused. But then his hand tightened in the roots of my hair and his mouth found mine.

His lips were hesitant, as unsure and wary as his eyes had been, as gentle as a b.u.t.terfly's wings. But they felt so right on mine, like the missing link to my existence. I stood on my tiptoes, pushed my body against his, and wrapped my arms around his neck. Finally he realized I needed him like I needed air.

His arms pulled me against him so tight I could hardly breathe. I didn't mind-breathing is highly overrated. I couldn't get close enough to him, couldn't touch enough of him, though my fingers were learning every angle of his face, knotting in his hair, sneaking into the short sleeves of his T-s.h.i.+rt, and discovering exactly how his muscles felt as they tensed beneath my touch.

His hands moved over every inch of my back, clinging to my tank top.

"Maggie." He breathed into my mouth.

I growled deep in my throat-couldn't help it! I was like an animal giving in completely to instinct. He pulled away, searching my face with eyes full of questions. Then his hold tightened around my waist and once again he leaned down and kissed me. For the second time I wrapped my arms around his neck, refusing to relinquish his mouth, his closeness. Him.

Silver City, New Mexico, seemed to disappear. Only Bridger existed in my universe. And if my Wiccan foster mother had been right and my stars needed to line up, there was probably a new constellation in the sky of a boy and a girl sharing a first kiss. In that instant, I knew I loved him more than I had loved anything or anyone in my entire life.

And then I remembered.

He would never be mine.

And I could never be his. His family would never let me be.

My heart clenched and my universe shattered. My stars sped way out of orbit.

His hands slowed their touching and his lips froze on mine. He pulled away and looked into my eyes. "Why are you crying?" he whispered, resting his forehead against mine and trying to catch his breath.

I closed my eyes in an attempt to stop the tears threatening to escape. "I'm a local girl."

"Maggie, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

I opened my eyes and saw my pain mirrored in his, the glistening of unshed tears. Slowly, he took a step back, distancing himself.

"I can't be with you for a couple of weeks. I came to tell you good-bye. After I talked to my dad last night ..." He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and waited for me to say something, anything, but I didn't-just stared at him and wondered why my life seemed to be eternally cursed. And wondered how a suffocating wall of tension had sprung up between us. Then I knew. I had crossed an uncrossable line. We had crossed that line. He was guilty, too.

"Are you going to be all right without me?" he asked.

I clenched my teeth and folded my arms over my chest. "You are so arrogant. Of course I'll be all right without you. I don't need you to survive because I learned how to do that when I was five years old."

"Promise me you won't walk home from work at night. I don't want to worry about you."

"Then just don't think about it, because I'll walk home if I want," I retorted. I was mad and wanted him to worry. He didn't deserve my anger-the kiss was my idea-but I could tell he regretted that kiss, and that made me want to hurt him. "Are you leaving town?" I asked a little too sharply.

"I've just got to take care of some family stuff." He studied me for a moment before looking down at his brown leather shoes. When his eyes met mine again, they were empty, the cold eyes of a statue. "I'm not sure when I'll see you next." There was a certain finality in his voice that made bile rise in my throat. I'd heard that finality in so many other voices, so many times in my life. And every time I'd heard it, I was s.h.i.+pped to a new foster home within days. I couldn't talk.

"Screw this," he whispered. He took a step forward and caught my face in his hands, looking right into my eyes. "You've got to trust me. And I'm sorry." He leaned down and kissed me again-hard and fast.

Without another word, he turned and left.

I stood in the shadow of the barn for a long, long time. I had just experienced one of the best moments of my life.

Immediately followed by one of the worst.

26.

I played Scrabble with Mrs. Carpenter most of the day. If she wondered why I kept spelling words like "bleak," "sorrow," "regret," and "kiss," and lost three games in a row, she didn't ask. All she asked was, "Why aren't you and Bridger out riding bikes?"

I swallowed a lump that lodged in my throat. "He can't hang out today."

"Do you need a ride to work? My leg's feeling pretty decent today."

"Um. Yeah, I guess I do."

She nodded, studying me.

When it was nearly time for me to go to work, I went to my room and put on jeans and a black s.h.i.+rt that smelled the faintest bit of Bridger.

I needed to get him out of my mind. I strode out of my room and groaned. Even his sister's mountain bike was a reminder, propped up beside the chicken coop. It was then that the idea came to me. Even though I didn't have to cross any mountain paths to get to work, I figured, why not? Riding the bike to work would save Mrs. Carpenter the ch.o.r.e of driving me. She said her leg didn't hurt, but I knew better.

I walked the bike out of the barn and propped it up against the front porch, then stuck my head into the air-conditioned house. Mrs. Carpenter was stretched out on the love seat, her leg propped up on a stack of pillows, a crochet hook and yarn flying in her hands.

"I'm going to ride my bike, so you don't have to drive me to work," I said.

She looked up from her crocheting and frowned. "What about getting the bike home? Will it fit in Bridger's car?"

I cringed inside. "He can't pick me up tonight. In fact, won't be around for a couple of weeks. But I don't mind riding the bike to and from work-it has a headlight I can use after sunset so I won't get hit by a car."

Mrs. Carpenter frowned. "I don't like the thought of you riding home alone in the dark. Not with wolves and wild dogs in the area. I'll pick you up. You can put the bike in the back of the truck." She focused on her hands again, winding yarn on her fingers and sweeping it off with the crochet hook faster than an old woman should have been able to move.

"Are you sure?" I asked, relief welling up in my chest.

"You know I am," she said, giving me the same look her son had given me when he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I'll see you tonight, then."

As I stepped out onto the front porch, I glanced at the barn and relived the memory of Bridger's lips on mine. I pinched myself. Hard. "Stop thinking about that," I whispered, "or you'll go crazy!"

Cranky as a badger, I yanked the helmet from the bike handle, and as I strapped it beneath my chin, I noticed a huge bird circling overhead. I watched the bird, wondering if it was a carrion eater that had found something dead. In spite of the hot day, a chill s.h.i.+vered down my spine. I picked up a fist-sized rock and chucked it at the bird. The rock soared harmlessly through the air and the bird flew out of view.

"Stupid bird," I mumbled, swinging my leg over the bike.

I got to work, windblown and sweaty, in less than twenty minutes. It helped that the ride was downhill. Jose let me park the bike just inside the back door and stood eyeing it as if ogling a sports car.

"I think I'm paying you too much," he said, running his hand over the angular blue bike frame. "This is a Gary Fisher HiFi Pro Carbon bike. Don't these cost, like, thousands?" Jose looked up at me for an answer. Naalyehe peered at me from his place at the cutting board.

"I'm just borrowing it," I said as I tied a white, bleach-scented ap.r.o.n around my hips. I hurried out to the dining room and my feet skidded to a halt. Every booth was full.

Jose had said New Mexico summers brought tourists to town. You could tell the tourists, too, because they had a certain look about them, like city people trying to look southwestern. They wore brand-new cowboy boots that had probably never touched horseflesh, had on cowboy hats without a trace of sweat on them, and their sunburned noses looked like glossy red peppers. They tipped well, at least.

In addition to the tourists, the summer semester at the university had started, so college kids, a few at least, decided to come in out of the evening heat for a cold beer and some of the best Navajo Mexican food in the world.

It was outdoor eating season, too. Strands of white Christmas lights hung on giant umbrellas over the outdoor tables so customers could enjoy their evening meals in the cool night air, at the steel tables set up on the sidewalk. Tonight necessity made some of them sit at those tables. The restaurant was packed.

Somehow, I got a.s.signed to wait on the outdoor tables. Yana and Penney were better servers, but I got the hard tables. I was back and forth through the restaurant's gla.s.s front door so many times, it was a miracle I didn't spill anything.

When the sun started to dip behind Wind Mountain, turning the sky a brilliant orange, I had to stop for a breather. All my customers were taken care of for the moment, so I figured it was all right to lean against the brick restaurant and watch the sky fade to black. One thing about being so busy-I could almost forget about Bridger. Almost.

A breeze lifted the stray hairs around my face and cooled my sweaty back. That was one of the nice things about Silver City. Its elevation was high, almost six thousand feet, so though the days were hot, the nights cooled to the point of being chilly.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the smells of juniper and dust, then looked up at the sky again. My breath caught in my throat. The twilit sky outlined a dark shape. A bird, broad winged and floating eerily on the breeze, soared directly overhead. The second one I had seen that day. I hurried into the restaurant and practically ran through the dining room.

"Naalyehe!" I gasped, sticking my head in through the kitchen door. "There's a bird outside. I've seen it twice today and want to know if it means something significant."

Naalyehe set two steaming plates of food down and followed me to the front of the restaurant. Outside, we peered at the purple sky.

"There," I said, pointing.

Naalyehe squinted up at the sky, his face following the path of the bird as it flew away from the fading horizon and out of view. "Atash," Naalyehe whispered. "Flying to the east." He looked at me, his eyes full of curiosity.

"Is it bad?" I asked, fighting a surge of dread.

"Is there a reason you need protection?"

"What do you mean?"

"That is a golden eagle. The eagle ... Atash ... is a symbol of protection. That can be good. Or bad. What do you need to be protected from?"

"The poacher, Rolf Heinrich," I whispered.

Naalyehe nodded. "Be safe."

"Thanks," I said, hoping he couldn't hear the tremble in my voice.

Around ten o'clock, things died down. Everyone decided to go home-or to their hotel rooms-which was fine with me. My ap.r.o.n was heavy with tips, my shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and my brain running on overload. I wanted to think about kissing Bridger and what happened after. My gut told me it was a mistake, but my heart and lips longed for more. And now the eagle. How much danger was I in?

"So, how are you and Bridger?" Penney asked with a gleam in her eye. She and I were carrying a bulging bag of trash out to the Dumpster together.

"I don't know. Not good."

She let go of her half of the bag and it fell against me, splattering my designer jeans.

"No! What happened?"

"I kissed him." My cheeks started to burn. "And then he apologized."

"Well, that's not necessarily bad. You'll see. He probably just wanted it more romantic. Or maybe he's sorry he didn't have the cojones to kiss you first."

"Maybe," I said. But I'd heard the regret in his voice and seen it in his eyes.

"Don't worry too much. With the way Bridger looks at you, I have no doubt he'll come to his senses. You'll see."

I nodded, hoping she was right, but not daring to believe too strongly. It would hurt less if I never truly hoped.

"So, is he picking you up tonight?"

"No. He's taking care of some family stuff."

"He's probably hunting. The O'Connells are really big into hunting," Penney said, picking up her half of the garbage bag again. "They use the abandoned mine as their own personal shooting range. You can hear the guns echo clear over here sometimes. I heard Bridger is a perfect shot and the army tried to recruit him to be a sniper the very day he turned eighteen. And the CIA, too. But I don't know if that is true."

A wave of unease washed over me. "Really? He's never mentioned anything about guns or hunting to me before."

"Are you serious? He and his dad seemed to live to hunt before his dad moved. When Bridger was in elementary school, he wore camouflage clothes every day, and at recess he had the other students pretend to be wild animals and he'd pretend to shoot them. Kind of creepy, if you ask me. But I suppose, if you have a b.u.t.tload of money, you can afford to be creepy." She must have seen something in my face. "Oh, Magdalena, I'm not saying he's creepy. Just that his love of hunting is."