For Her Eyes Only Page 4

  Leona looked outside to the gathering storm clouds. Owen was to meet her at the store; they’d take a short walk to the restaurant, so there was no need for her raincoat. She smoothed the brooch on her sweater; the intertwined Celtic design seemed to suit the green shade. She usually preferred no jewelry, especially anything that would remind her of her lineage. But the brooch gave her comfort on an unsteady voyage, that of spending a few hours with a very desirable, sexual man. “Listen, younger-sister-by-three-minutes, I’ve had a few dates since Joel died.”

  “Yes, but you’ve never set out deliberately to score, and that’s what you want to do tonight, to relieve the pressure and those dreams, isn’t it?”

  “I have no intention of ‘scoring’ tonight. I just thought it would be nice to have dinner with Owen. Especially since my handyman started on my bedroom-closet design today. I had to take all my things out of the closet and stash them all around the bedroom, covering them with plastic. Vernon did such a good job here in the shop, renovating the dressing rooms and my upstairs bathroom, that I asked him to help me with a few things at home. There will be sawdust all over. I wasn’t looking forward to going home to that mess, let alone fixing something for dinner.”

  “Okay, so you’re going to check this sexy guy out, feel around a little bit to see if you feel safe with him—and then, you’ll probably nail him.”

  Leona sighed. Tempest had always been the most direct of the triplets. “Do you have to always be so frank, Tempest Best?”

  “Yeah, Leona Fiona.” With gloves protecting her psychic hands, Tempest had searched for and found the brooch. In the hunt, she’d also found love, one Marcus Greystone, a tough and powerful businessman.

  Leona wasn’t looking for love; she didn’t want a second chance at being mortally wounded, of having half of her soul torn away. Tonight, her needs were simple: to feel like a desirable woman in the arms of a very potent male. She dug into her large tote, one handcrafted by Claire and simply called “Leona’s Big Black Carry-All.” After zipping open her makeup bag, she freshened her face carefully, adding just a touch of raisin eyeliner to emphasize her green eyes.

  “You’re all in a tizzy.” Tempest said, picking up on her anticipation. “My sister, primping for a date. I think this is so funny. You, the cool, structured, guarded one, accepting a date from a guy you’ve never met before—”

  Tiny quivering polka dots seemed to flow from Tempest, and kept Leona from connecting with her sister’s thoughts.

  “Ah-ah-ah, you’re prowling where you shouldn’t,” Tempest admonished her. “Don’t worry, it’s okay, nothing to worry about.”

  Obviously both of her sisters were absolutely bubbling with news and keeping it to themselves. That irritated Leona a little, but then both had recently married and Leona had been prudent about their marital intimacy. “You could give me a hint.”

  “It’s just…different. And kind of funny. You’ll find out soon enough. Tell me more about this cowboy.”

  Leona inhaled slowly. For now, she’d allow both of her sisters to keep their little secrets to themselves. “It’s a dinner date, nothing else.”

  Annoyed, she brushed her hair, a smooth cut turned under at her shoulders. Claire’s gentle understanding earlier contrasted with the mental smirk Leona was feeling from Tempest. “I’ve had dinner dates before, Tempest Best.”

  “You know this one matters, and you’re all primed and trembling. You’re wearing lacy briefs beneath your black slacks, aren’t you?”

  When Leona had freshened up in the shop’s tiny bathroom, she had changed her undergarments, which, of course, Tempest’s psychic antenna had realized. “Thongs are so declassé, little sister,” Leona teased back. “You should upgrade.”

  “Marcus really likes my thongs,” Tempest purred. Then her tone changed as she warned, “Be careful, Leona Fiona. If you feel any energy about this guy, anything potentially dangerous at all, get the hell out of there. The Borg descendant could be the same psychic vampire who tried to kill Claire and me, by way of the poor fools he sucks into his power. We felt him. We knew he was around. And we already know what he wants—the brooch and the power that goes with it. But he’ll have to kill us all to get that power. All he needs is one weak link to take us all down. With Neil and Marcus making Claire and me stronger, he’s going to go after you. You’re still mourning Joel, and that makes you very vulnerable to this creep’s energy. Apparently, psychic vampires feed on the weak and vulnerable, ingest their energies and become stronger. They’re like the real bloodsuckers, only these guys deal with minds.”

  “Tempest, I understand perfectly—I could be the next one on his list. But I refuse to live my life in fear. I’m living away from major bodies of water that make us vulnerable to other psychic energy. I’m safe here in Kentucky.”

  For her next uncertain heartbeats, Leona tried to make herself believe just that.

  Three

  OWEN HELD HIS BREATH AS LIGHTNING LIT UP THE STORMY clouds. Seconds later thunder rolled across the pastures of his farm. The dark green shade of the lush bluegrass fields reminded him of the woman he’d met today, her red hair sleek and gleaming around her face, her body lean and moving gracefully toward him.

  Leona Chablis was a woman who liked to touch, to feel, a very sensual woman. Her slender pale hands had seemed to float as she had wrapped the tote bag in tissue, then placed it in a box.

  From the first moment he’d really looked at her, Owen had wanted Leona’s seemingly very capable hands on him.

  If a woman could be compared to a sleek, long-legged, racing thoroughbred, Leona would be that woman. Add an exciting touch of a strong, untamed wind in a wild storm, and that described her even better. Like a stallion scenting a mare, Owen had been turned on by her unique fragrance. The comparison was crude, perhaps, considering all the class that Leona exuded. But there were sexual undercurrents in Leona that Owen instinctively knew were red-hot, and he intended to tap into them.

  In another hour, Owen intended to hold those hands, to feel her warmth against him. He’d inhale her exotic scent; it had somehow reminded him of Montana’s sweetgrass, of the smoke and sage his ancestors inhaled when cleansing themselves.

  But it had been ancestral influences that had driven his sister to the brink of insanity. She’d been too receptive to the disasters in her life, too open and the wounds went deeper each time.

  Owen was the only one who truly understood the dangerous bog of real and unreal in which Janice lived. He was of that same blood, descended from a unique strain of powerful Blackfoot shamans, whose gifts ran more to intuitive senses and to visions than to healing. Though the Shaws had lived modern lives they could not escape their heritage.

  When he was a boy, the whispers of the ancient ones and the haunting dreams had terrified Owen; the elders had said he could walk into the past, or into the future. Owen had wanted nothing of those visions, and neither had their strict father.

  He’d learned tonight that Janice was still in danger.

  As Owen’s pickup had pulled into the farm earlier, Janice’s live-in nurse and caretaker had come running toward him.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” Robyn White had cried, as the rain began to pelt her stout, middle-aged frame. She held up her fists and Janice’s two long, black braids dangled from them.

  Robyn had seemed terrified as she explained. “Janice cut her hair. I don’t know where she got the scissors or that bottle of alcohol—it must have been stashed somewhere here before you moved in. Meds and alcohol are a bad mix. She ran away again, and I couldn’t stop her. She’s gone to that pond again, and we have tornado warnings tonight. Owen, you’ve got to get her.”

  Fear for his sister had tightened his gut painfully. “Did she—?”

  “I don’t think she hurt herself. I don’t think she had time.”

  As he got out out of the truck and began to run, the wind and rain plastered his shirt to him. Owen ignored the weather as he frantically searched for his sis
ter. He saw that Willow, Janice’s Appaloosa mare was still safe, her white-mottled rump showing clearly against the barn’s black paint. Moon Shadow, a big Percheron, stood at the board fence, staring down at the pond in the hollow. The horses had come from Montana with them and were as necessary as air to Janice. They reminded her of another time, when she was safe and happy and loved on the Shaw’s small farm. When their parents had both died in a car wreck, Janice was sixteen and Owen twenty-seven, just getting a start in business. As her guardian, Owen had to sell off everything but a few acres of their parents’ farm to meet bills.

  “She always goes to the pond,” he reminded himself as he ran to the board fence and scanned the area near the basketball-court-sized pond. In the hollow beside the pond, he saw her. A low layer of mist blurred her white-clad body, the hills shadowy in the distance. He patted Moon Shadow, and murmured, “She’ll be okay, boy.”

  When Owen opened the gate and clicked his tongue, the heavily built Percheron followed him. Instantly, Willow swung in behind them. As Owen walked toward his sister, he prayed that the horses’ presence would settle Janice’s stretched nerves.

  The sheets of rain were cold, fierce, and gray, punctuated by lightning. Thunder rolled as Owen came to stand near his sister. He couldn’t touch or hold her, because in this mood, her body battling the combination of medicine and alcohol, Janice would likely fight him. He had to remain calm and get her out of the storm.

  Janice’s white blouse and jeans clung to her as she held her head and rocked her thin body. The smell of liquor bit into the fresh scent of the rain as she spoke. “The voices, Owen. Make them stop. I came here, like they said. They said they would stop, but they didn’t.”

  He’d been unprepared for the shock of seeing Janice without her beautiful, long, black hair; the wet, chopped strands plastered to her stark, pale face. Janice looked like the child she still was, mentally. At twenty-seven, Janice had already lived a hectic, unsteady life. Periodically, she’d escaped Owen’s watchful eye and had tried to find relief in a constant flow of men and in alcohol. The move to Kentucky had been a desperate one, to pluck her from her Native American background, and the dangerous fate her spiritual ancestry brought her.

  He urged the Percheron near Janice, and when the big horse nuzzled her, Owen said, “Moon Shadow needs you. So does Willow. We need to put them in the barn and dry them. Can you help me?”

  Owen had to get her away from that pond and into shelter. One wrong touch from him, and Janice could bolt—she had before….

  Janice stared at the pond, the layer of mist over it. “The spirit needs me to help him. People died here. He’s mourning them.”

  The spirit voices. They’d begun during Janice’s obsession with her computer, when she’d spent hours in front of the monitor working on her graphic designs. Finally, Owen had removed any electronic communication from Janice’s life, and the voices had stopped—for a time. They’d begun again almost immediately after the move from Montana. “Janice, it is only the wind and the storm. There aren’t any voices.”

  The old ones had spoken of spirit guides. Sometimes, Owen almost believed she did hear voices. Was it possible that Janice could actually communicate with the dead?

  She could be having a flashback, or a reaction to mixing her medicine with alcohol. Her black eyes seemed flat, her voice a monotone. “I heard them in my sleep. When I awoke, they were still there, telling me what I must do…help the spirit mourn the people.”

  “Do you hear them now?”

  She tilted her head. Rain pelted her face as she seemed to listen carefully. “No. But sometimes I still do. Except not now.”

  Owen nudged Moon Shadow between Janice and the pond, blocking her view. Suddenly, she straightened and gasped; Janice wrapped her fingers in the Percheron’s mane as if it were an anchor. Then she held on to him with both arms, pressing her head against his throat. “Moon Shadow, you won’t die, will you?”

  “The horses are fine. They love you, Janice. They need you.” Come back to me, sister. Come back. Let this new life heal you….

  Death always seemed so close to Janice. She had already tried walking into a lake to be with their deceased parents. The pond wasn’t as deep as that lake, but the storm was dangerous, lightning striking too near. Owen moved away a little and clicked his tongue. Moon Shadow nickered and started slowly following, with Janice at his side. Owen took her hand, just as he had that day when their parents had died.

  After years of struggling for a degree and working at “starter” jobs, he had finally been set to launch into corporate business. But his sixteen-year-old sister had become almost his child, needing him desperately. With both parents gone, Janice began sinking into depression. At the same time she began showing signs of reading the earth’s seasons and animals. Instinctively, Janice knew she had to fight. She often chose the wrong weapons—alcohol and affairs. To be loved and accepted, she gave everything to a succession of men, weakening herself even more. With each affair and rejection, she sank deeper.

  Traditional treatment for depression, visits with psychologists and even brief stays at “retreats,” hadn’t been entirely successful. Janice’s medication had helped somewhat. In the end, Owen had found that Janice responded to the simplest things, a quiet life and animals. Even now, in the slashing rain, as she walked beside Moon Shadow, she seemed more at ease.

  In the barn, she helped Owen towel down the horses, but she was too quiet. When he swept her hair back from her face, the heavy mass stood out in ragged peaks. He was careful to smooth it again, to arrange the strands on her forehead, as Leona’s bangs had been styled. Janice stood before him, obedient as always, accepting his gentle touch.

  “I brought you a present,” Owen said. “You’ll like it.”

  Janice loved presents. But this time, she didn’t respond; her head turned toward that pond as if it still drew her to it.

  “I’m hungry,” Owen stated, to distract her. Even now, Janice frowned and tilted her head, as if hearing something he could not. “What’s for supper?”

  When Janice stared at him, her black eyes seemed hollow as if she were still in a trance. “People die around me. Our parents, Uncle Dan, our cousin Merry, and Sarah Jones. Do you think that I bring death to them?”

  Sarah Jones had been an elderly housekeeper living with them in Montana. With endless patience and love and caring, Sarah had given Janice a measure of stability while Owen was still working outside the home at the investment company. But when Sarah had passed, Janice had sunken into a worrisome quiet no doctor could penetrate. Owen had fought the fear that he was losing Janice. Their move to Kentucky had been her idea, and he’d been desperate to do anything to help her. “You bring life, Janice. Remember how you helped with the calving and the foals?”

  “But my baby was stillborn. Because of how I am—bad. The voices said I’m bad.”

  An innocent at seventeen, Janice had an affair and she’d miscarried, which had resulted in more trauma to her delicate senses.

  “You are not bad. How could I love you if you were bad? You’re good, Janice. You’ll have other babies…when the time and the man are right.”

  “You’re doing all this for me, and you’ve never had your own life, Owen. That isn’t right. You should have your own family now, not be burdened with me,” she stated in one of those startlingly lucid moments that seemed to escape the darkness cloaking her.

  “I haven’t met the woman I want.”

  Her black eyes seemed to see inside him. “I think you have.”

  At times, Janice frightened Owen. They carried the same shaman blood, the connection real and often carrying too much truth. Normally males with gray eyes had unusual visions, but Janice was the exception. She’d proven that ancient shaman strain existed in her, a woman with black eyes.

  “I would know if I met the right woman, wouldn’t I?” Owen asked gently.

  “You deny what you cannot see. But you know.”

  He smiled and ran a p
layful hand over her ragged hair. “I know you’ve cut your hair.”

  “Am I in trouble?” she asked with that childlike innocence.

  Owen tilted her chin, his fingers in the ragged hair framing her face. He mourned her long black hair, the way it rippled with a life of its own, like sun on a blackbird’s wings; Janice’s hair had been like their mother’s. “I think it’s going to look good on you. It just needs a little trimming. Women change their looks all the time. That’s all you did. We’ll get some of those magazines about hairstyles. It will be a game, choosing one. I’ll help you.”

  He’d have to warn the beautician about Janice. Knives and scissors had to be kept locked. Owen continued talking quietly as he urged his sister into the house. She submitted easily to her nurse’s care, and after dinner, Janice seemed exhausted. Robyn helped her with her nighttime routine, and Janice settled into bed with art and graphic magazines.

  In the meantime, Owen quickly changed his damp clothing. He would have to wait to retrieve his laptop from his locked pickup. Experience had taught him that Janice couldn’t be anywhere near computers, even those locked with passwords. Especially during nights like this one.

  Her fascination with a computer had been too intense. At first, she’d been excited and lively about her new computer setup, and Owen was relieved that she was investing her creative talent in learning and creating graphics. He’d begun to hope for a normal life for them both. Then Janice slowly changed, transferring her energy from learning the programs, into hours of creating primitive designs of whirling circles and bold slashes.

  To keep Janice safe from herself had become almost a full-time job. To place his sister permanently in a caretaking facility wasn’t an option for Owen; caretakers wouldn’t understand her as well as he did. But then, how did one explain what wasn’t real, what ran only in the blood from the ancient ones?