Her pulse elevated as he stopped, dropped the luggage and straightened. When his hardened mouth softened temporarily and the corners hooked upward, her heart pounded. Her response to him unnerved Inca, for she’d never responded to a man this way before. The sensations were new to her, confounding her and making her feel slightly breathless as a result. When he extended his large, callused hand toward her, and Inca saw a wand of white sage in it, she relaxed slightly. Among her people, when one clan or nation visited another, sacred sage, ceremonially wrapped, was always given as a token of respect before any words of greeting were spoken.
Just this simple acknowledgment by him, the sacred sage extended in his hand, made Inca feel a deep sense of relief. Only Indians knew this protocol. Something wonderful flittered through Inca’s heart as she reached out and took the gift. If the sage was accepted, it was a sign of mutual respect between the two parties, and talk could begin. She waited. The dried sage’s fragrance drifted to her flaring nostrils. It was a strong, medicinelike scent, one that made her want to inhale deeply.
“I’m Roan Storm Walker,” he said in a quiet tone. “I’ve been sent here by Mike Houston.”
“I am called Inca,” she said, her voice husky. He was powerful, and Inca wanted to back away from him to assess the situation more closely. Ordinarily, men she encountered were not this powerful. “I was not expecting a medicine person. I do not have a gift of our sacred sage to give you in return.”
Roan nodded. “It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it.” His pulse was racing. He wondered if she could hear his heart beating like a thundering drum in his chest. Roan had realized for certain as he got out of the cab that Inca was the same woman who had entered his vision state that morning at his cabin. It was definitely her. Did she remember talking to him? Asking him to come down here to help her? If she did, she gave no hint to him. He decided not to ask, for it would be considered disrespectful.
She was incredibly beautiful in his eyes. There was a wildness to her—a raw, primal power as she stood confidently before him dressed in her military attire. Even though she wore jungle fatigues, black GI boots, a web belt around her waist and an olive drab T-shirt, she could not hide her femininity from him in the least. She wore no bra, and her small breasts were upturned and proud against the damp shirt that provocatively outlined them, despite the bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing her chest. Her face was oval, with a strong chin, high cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes. The color of her eyes made him hold his breath for a moment. Just as Mike Houston had said, they were a delicious willow-green color, with huge, black pupils. Her black lashes were thick and full, and emphasized her incredible eyes like a dark frame. Her hair was black with a slightly reddish tint when the sun peeked out between the sluggishly moving clouds and shined on it. The tendrils curling around her face gave Inca an air of vulnerability in spite of her formidable presence. He rocked internally from the power that surrounded her.
Roan had spotted the rifle leaning up against the crates, and he sensed her distrust of him. He saw it in the guarded look of her eyes. Her mouth was full and soft, yet, as she turned her attention to him, he watched it thin and compress. Mike was right: he’d have to earn her trust, inch by inch. Did he have the necessary time to do it? To protect her? To work as a liaison between her and Marcellino’s troops?
“Why do you worry about me?” Inca growled. She turned and put the sage into a small, coarsely woven sack that sat on top of the crates. “I would worry more for you.”
Frowning, Roan wondered if she’d read his mind. Mike had warned him that she had many clairvoyant talents. He watched as she shouldered the rifle, butt up, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. Any good soldier out in a rain forest or jungle situation would do that. Water down the barrel of one’s weapon would create rust. Clearly Inca was a professional soldier.
“Come,” she ordered as she strode quickly to the dock.
“Olá! Hello. Ernesto! Get up!” Inca called in Portuguese to the tug captain. The middle-aged, balding man roused himself from his siesta on the deck of his tug.
“Eh?”
Inca waved toward the crates. “Come, load our things. We must go, pronto.”
Scrambling to his feet, the captain nodded and quickly rubbed his eyes. His face was round, and he hadn’t shaved in days. Dressed only in a pair of khaki cutoffs that had seen better days, he leaped to the wharf.
Inca turned to Storm Walker, who stood waiting and watching. “We need to get these crates on board. Why don’t you stow your gear on the tug and help him?”
“Of course.” Roan moved past her and made his way from wharf to tug. The boat was old, unpainted, and the deck splintered from lack of sanding and paint to protect it from the relentless heat and humidity of Amazonia. Dropping his luggage at the bow, he watched as Inca moved to the stern of the tug. Her face was guarded and she was looking around, as if sensing something. He briefly saw the crescent-shaped moon on her left shoulder though it was mostly hidden beneath the tank top she wore. Mike Houston had warned him ahead of time that the thin crescent of gold and black fur was a sign her membership in the Jaguar Clan.
Inca barely gave notice to the two men placing the supplies on board. Topazio was restless, an indication that there was a disturbance in the energy of the immediate area. A warning that there was trouble coming.
“Hurry!” she snapped in Portuguese. And then Inca switched to her English, which was not that good. “Hurry.”
“I speak Portuguese,” Roan stated as he hefted a crate on board.
Grunting, Inca kept her gaze on the hill. Nothing moved in the humid, hot heat of the afternoon. Everything was still. Too still for her liking. She moved restlessly and shifted her position from the end of the wharf to where the asphalt crumbled and stopped. Someone was coming. And it wasn’t a good feeling.
Roan looked up. He saw Inca standing almost rigidly, facing the hill and watching. What was up? He almost mouthed the query, but instead hurried from the tug to the shore to retrieve the last wooden crate. The tug captain started up the rusty old engine. Black-and-blue smoke belched from behind the vessel, the engine sputtered, coughed like a hacking person with advanced emphysema, and then caught and roared noisily to life.
“Inca?” Roan called as he placed the crate on the deck.
His voice carried sluggishly through the silence of the damp afternoon air. The hair on his neck stood on end. Damn! Leaping off the tug and running along the dock, Roan ordered the captain to cast off. He had just gotten to the end when he saw two cars, a white one and a black one, careening down off the hill toward them. His breath jammed in his throat. He could see rifles hanging out the open windows of both vehicles.
“Inca!”
Inca heard Storm Walker’s warning, but she was already on top of the situation. In one smooth movement, she released her rifle and flipped it up, her hand gripping the trigger housing area and moving the barrel upward. She saw the guns stuck out of the windows. She felt the hatred of the men behind them. Turning on her heel, she sprinted toward the tug. It was going to be close!
To her surprise, she saw Storm Walker running toward her, his hand outstretched as if to grab her. Shaken by his protective gesture, she waved him away.
“You have no weapons!” she cried as she ran up to him. “Get back to the tug!”
Roan turned on his heel. He heard the screech of brakes. The first shots shattered the humid stillness. Bits of red dirt spurted into the air very