When Lightning Strikes

He was in deep shit.

Killian stood in the doorway of his half-assed excuse for a home and stared out at the encampment. Sunlight glanced off the naked, textured surface of the sandstone cliffs, turned the rock from gray to gold. Everything was still and quiet. Frost clung stubbornly to the rooftops and tents, sparkling like glitter-dust in the sunlight.

The air in the hideout seemed thick this morning, almost stagnant. No birds swooped and dove yet, or chattered in early morning call. No wind whistled through the cottonwood leaves. It was preternaturally quiet.

Killian let out a steady breath and eased forward, leaning against the doorjamb, watching Viloula's cabin. A confusing mix of emotions left him feeling uneasy and vaguely restless. He didn't for a second believe that crap of Vi's about him and Lainie being soul mates, but he had to admit?at least now, in the solitude of his own cabin?that there was something between them. Something strange and unexpected and frightening.

You know what that's like, Killian, coming home to an empty house....

The words slammed through him again, made him wince.

A grim, bitter smile curved his lips but didn't light his eyes. That's why he'd taken her to Viloula's. It had had nothing to do with using the old woman's obeah magic. He'd just wanted to get away from Lainie, away from the wrenching sadness in her eyes and the quiver of desperation in her voice. And the impossible connection he felt when he looked at her.

She knew him; knew the dark, ugly secrets of that

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empty house on the prairie. Knew the secrets that haunted him and the realities that had driven him from civilization fifteen years ago and turned him into the ruthless, selfish outlaw he'd become. Somehow .. . she knew.

"Jesus," he cursed. Reaching back into the cabin, he yanked his flannel work shirt out of the corner, where he'd thrown it some weeks back. It smelled of wood-smoke and dust and decay. He reached into the breast pocket and pulled out an old bag of tobacco. Rolling a cigarette, he lit it and took a long, thoughtful drag. Smoke wreathed his face, blurred his vision for a second, and stung his eyes. The sharp, familiar scent filled his nostrils.

He leaned against the doorjamb and took another drag. He could see her silhouette through the dirty window. She stood stiff and erect. He wondered fleetingly if she still looked so sad, still looked as if she'd never had a friend in her life and never really been one.

All she'd asked him for was a little help.

Help. Need. The words drove through him, sliced through the defenses he'd set up so long ago. It was surprising how badly they hurt; even worse, even more painful, was the realization that he couldn't help her. He'd known it, of course, known for years that he was a worthless excuse for a man. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, he'd always thought that maybe someday he could go back, become once again the young man filled with dreams and fueled by honor.

He smiled bitterly. Now he knew the truth; he'd known it the second she asked him for help. There was no honor left in him, if in fact it had ever really been there. It was one of the things he'd left behind so long ago, one of the many things that died in that little house

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on the windy prairie. He couldn't help her. Hell, he couldn't help anyone.

People who counted on John Killian died alone.

He flinched at the thought of Emily. He still couldn't believe he'd mentioned her to Lainie.

Why? Why had he mentioned his wife?

The question drew the strength from him for a moment. He hadn't said his wife's name aloud in ten years, maybe more. And yet, with Lainie, it had come naturally.

Why? The question was cold and stark. It jabbed him, pierced the armor he'd spent a lifetime creating.

He told himself it had been because he'd wanted to prove to her that she was wrong, and he wanted to believe it. He wanted it more than he'd wanted anything in years.

But he couldn't quite manage it. He was many things?a cheat, a loser, an outlaw?but he wasn't a liar, especially not to himself. He'd always looked life square in the eyes and taken the heat head-on.

He'd told Lainie because, somehow, he'd needed to tell her. And that wasn't even the most frightening realization. He'd told her the truth because she'd needed to hear it, part of it anyway.

She'd needed it; he'd known that somehow, and it had moved him to respond.

He cursed harshly and threw his cigarette to the ground. It lay there, rocking, its red and gray tip smoldering against the cold, hard dirt. A pathetic wisp of smoke trailed upward, melting away in the air.

He glanced down at Viloula's place again, drawn in spite of himself to look for her. She was still standing in front of the window. Instinctively he knew that she was afraid. He felt her fear, tasted it on his tongue,

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smelled it in the freshness of the morning air. It was as if it were his fear, too.