Chapter 5
Two years earlier…
Abbie paused her ascent as dark gray clouds gathered around her and Wilder. The weather had turned with such unnatural speed that it was hard to process the abrupt temperature shift. Always before, he’d regulated their bodies, making the climb bearable no matter the conditions.
“Abbie!” he hollered.
With a shake of her head, she signaled she intended to push on. They were close to the summit, and it was safer to camp there for the night.
Fifteen minutes later, she cursed herself for a fool.
Never had it been more apparent than when a low, distant rumble filled the air, causing the mountain to react.
It breathed as if coming to life and grumbled its displeasure.
Around them, the atmosphere became staticky, like pulling apart two socks after forgetting a dryer sheet.
“Abbie, wait!”
But she was already in motion, trusting the cam she’d placed. Her confidence in her skill was strong. Second-guessing only led to undermining it, and eventually, to mistakes.
The rock she’d weighted gave way, and the ricocheting tumble of stone sounded like rapid gunfire. A scream tore from her throat as she pitched backward off the cliff face, her terror multiplying when the cam slipped loose.
It seemed as if she fell through space for an eternity, and each second carried the expectation of brutal impact. She braced for jagged rocks, sheared skin, and crushed bones.
But it wasn’t what she experienced at all.
In the distance, she heard Wilder’s frantic shout and somehow felt his horror ripple through her.
Her heart thundered in her ears, drowning out the sound along with the rushing wind.
If she’d have thought about it, she’d have expected to freeze as the distance between them widened.
Yet her cells warmed all on their own, growing hotter until her insides were an inferno.
A kaleidoscope of colorful images flashed through her mind, impossibly bright. They appeared and vanished again as if a bored teenager were flipping a TV remote in a manic haze. Abbie tried to grab one and hold on before she lost what was left of her sanity.
Suddenly, it all stopped.
The impact stole her breath.
Her ribs ached like a bitch, and every inhale was a struggle.
When she dared open her eyes, she was sure she’d died and landed in an alternate version of hell.
Nothing was familiar. The mountain she and Wilder had climbed was gone.
If she didn’t know better, she’d say she was in a different area of the United States altogether. One with a shit-ton of dirt.
The only other explanation was a magical vortex. When she next saw Wilder, she intended to ask if those were possible.
Closing her eyes, she took mental stock of her body. Nothing hurt to excess, and Abbie prayed it meant no broken bones.
“What the Sam Hill was that?” The grizzled voice came from a distance, yet echoed off the surrounding canyon walls.
“Never seen nothin’ like it in all my thirty-nine years,” another male voice said, slow and filled with suspicion.
Leather creaked, and a horse snorted.
“Should we check it out?” asked a tentative third.
“Well, what else we gonna do, ya lunkhead? God’s honest, boy, you got sawdust rattlin’ ’round that skull. I should’ve left your ma’s letter unopened.”
A sixth sense told Abbie she didn’t want to be found by these three. She jackknifed into a sitting position, muffling a groan by biting down on her knuckle. A frantic glance around revealed few decent hiding spots. Pulse pounding, she scrambled for the nearest gap in the rocks.
The unmistakable ch-ch-ch of a rattle stopped her cold.
Shit.
Every cell in her body screamed, “Move!” but even the twitch of a finger might earn her a venom-laced bite. Her breath hitched, the desert air scraping down her throat like sandpaper. The situation had officially gone from bad to biblically worse.
The air shifted beside her.
Thwack. Thunk.
And the rattling stopped.
Abbie stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as the snake writhed then fell still. An arrow pinned its triangular head to the ground with surgical precision, and dust curled up in lazy spirals around the shaft.
With a scream locked in her throat, she searched for the source.
Tucked into the rocky outcrop above her, a man stood half-shadowed, his expression unreadable.
In his hand, a bow with another arrow at the ready.
He was lean, but solid in a way that said he didn’t run from a fight, and his skin was sun-bronzed.
Long black hair blew over his shoulders, making him appear like a warrior from another time.
He didn’t move or speak, just stared at her, waiting.
Abbie glanced back toward the approaching noise.
Gruff and arguing, the cowboys made no effort to deaden the sound of their advance.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Her savior repositioned and slung the weapon across his back. “They’re hunting for trouble. Best not to let it be you.”
“I—” She gestured toward the rock. “There was an accident. A metaphysical anomaly.”
“You’re born of a Traveler.”
She gaped and shook her head, not knowing what the hell a Traveler was or how this man might know anything about her heritage.
The stranger gave her a quarter smile. “I’ve seen you in dreams. But we must go.”
He extended his hand and waited, steady and patient, as if they had all the time in the world, when they both knew they didn’t.
She hesitated only a second before scrambling forward and accepting his offer of help.
Together, they climbed a shallow ridge, ducking into an opening just as the cowboys rounded the corner and spotted the pinned rattler.
“I’ll be, Pa! You ever seen anythin’ like that?”
“Shut up, ya fool boy.” The burly man in charge had no softness for his son. He was harder than the stone Abbie rested against. “This is a fresh kill. Eustace, find that blasted savage. He can’t have gone far.”
Abbie wanted to scream at the injustice of it, but settled for squeezing her savior’s hand. The real “savage” was the bigoted white man in the saddle, prepared to harm whomever he encountered, with extra hatred reserved for a proud Native American man.
“Blink us higher up the canyon,” the low-voiced stranger urged.
“I’m not a witch,” she whispered back. “I don’t know how.”
His intense gaze bore into hers, and a frown tugged at his brow as if he were trying to figure out why she was lying. He gave one decisive nod, then eased to her right, preparing to climb higher.
No equipment or fail-safes.
Abbie froze.
She began trembling, and her feet refused to budge when he gestured for her to follow.
“I don’t think I can,” she said. Her words were barely audible, yet he heard and understood.
An emotion similar to compassion shone on his chiseled visage. That sensitivity was at odds with what history books had claimed, and Abbie was grateful they’d gotten his people’s “barbaric” behavior wrong.
Instinct said she’d be in dire straits had he not happened along. If the rattlesnake hadn’t gotten her, the predatory cowboys would’ve.
The stranger scanned the ledge above them before looking for an alternate route. Below, loose pebbles fell under the pressure of Eustace’s booted feet as he advanced toward their hiding spot.
“We must go, Traveler’s child,” her companion stated quietly. “He’ll be upon us soon.”
She nodded, taking his proffered hand.
You can do this, Abbie. You’ve free climbed plenty of times.
But nerves ate at her, and the fingers she stretched toward handholds shook as she moved along the cliff’s edge. She tried to block out the snake scare, praying she wouldn’t encounter another in the shaded hollows.
“Do you—”
The stranger held a finger to his lips and halted her ascent, gesturing for her to back into the shadows of the rock wall. His gaze locked with hers, sharp as the arrow that saved her life.
“Quiet,” he whispered, as if fearing she hadn’t understood.
Closing her lids, she concentrated on breathing evenly, hoping to control her anxiety. What fresh hell had she landed in this time? How had she gotten here, and where the fuck was Wilder?
Twelve miles away, leaning against the bar of The Broken Halo Saloon, Jonas Thorne waited impatiently for his friend to finish his poker hand, but Draven Masters was in no particular hurry.
“Masters,” he barked. “Anomaly.”
Other than a sharp nod, the gambler remained silent and appeared relaxed as he tossed down two of his five cards. The dealer shot a worried glance toward the only individual willing to bet against Draven.
“Clive?”
Whether the man was asking for permission or if Clive Cabbot, notorious hot-head, intended to gun him down for dishing out cards, Jonas didn’t know.
Clive slammed his fist on the table. “Fucking deal already!”
The dealer’s gulp was audible.
“This is a friendly game, Cabbot. If you cannot keep a civil tongue, I’d advise you to walk away,” Draven said in his heavy French-accented drawl.
Jonas wanted to bang his head on the bar.
No way would Clive not view the rebuke as anything but an insult.
And they didn’t have time for an altercation.
Somewhere out on the plains, a magical disturbance had just taken place.
Already, a handful of townspeople were speculating about the colorful burst seen from this distance away.
Draven’s job, as a potential Guardian assigned by the Goddess Isis and the Fates, was to monitor supernatural events and ensure the mortal world never got wind of them.
Powers like theirs were too advanced for the average individual’s comprehension.
But the man was rebellious at best, refusing to do as he was told.
Fifteen minutes had passed since the event. Sure, Jonas could go it alone, but magical mishaps weren’t supposed to be his responsibility.
They were Draven’s.
Town sheriff was his.