The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

Jake’s mouth twisted.

Just went to prove what a useless thing a man’s brain could be.

The bottom line was that it was cold and he hurt and why he’d got out of the ‘Bird and set off on this all-but-forgotten ribbon of hard-packed dirt and moldy leaves was beyond him. But he had, and he’d be damned if he’d turn around now.

The trail was as familiar as the gate, the road, his old Thunderbird. It had been beaten into the soil by generations of foxes and coyotes and dogs, by ranch hands and kids going back and forth to the cold, swift-running waters of the creek.

Jake had walked it endless times, though never on a cold night with his head feeling as if somebody was inside, hammering to try and get out.

He should have taken something. Aspirin. A couple of pills, except he didn’t want to take those effing pills, not even the aspirin, anymore.

By the time he emerged from the copse of trees and brambles, he was ready to turn around, get in the car and head straight back to the airport.

Too late.

There it was.

The house, the heart of El Sueño, a brightly lit beacon. Sprawling. White-shingled. Tucked within the protective curve of a stand of tall black ash and even taller oaks, and overlooking a vast, velvety lawn.

Somewhere in the dark woods behind him, an owl gave a low, mournful cry. Jake shivered. Rubbed his eye. The skin felt hot to the touch.

The owl called out again. A faint, high scream accompanied the sound.

Dinner for the owl. Death for the creature caught in its sharp talons. That was the way of the world.

Some lived.

Some died.

And, goddammit, he was getting the hell out of here right now …

You can’t run forever, Captain.

The voice was clear and sharp in his head.

Somebody had told him that. A surgeon? A shrink? Maybe he’d told it to himself. It wasn’t true. He could run and run and never stop—

The big front door of the house flew open.

Jake took a quick step back, into the shelter of the trees.

There were people in the doorway. Shapes. Shadows. He couldn’t make out their faces. Music floated on the night air.

And voices.

Many voices.

He’d made it clear he wanted to see nobody but family.

A useless request.

His sisters would have invited half the town. The other half would have invited itself. This was Wilde’s Crossing, after all.

Okay.

He could do this. He would do this.

Just for tonight because the truth was, deep in his heart, he still loved this place more than any other on earth. El Sueño was part of him. It was in his DNA as much as the Celtic ice-blue of his eyes, the Apache blackness of his hair. Centuries of Wilde blood pulsed through him with each beat of his heart.