Son of the Morning

Grace squeezed past him and dug change out of her pocket. A quarter bought her a dial tone. She punched in the numbers, then waited until a recorded voice told her how much more change to feed the beast.

Kris answered immediately, his voice anxious. She turned her back on the big guy, and lowered her voice. "I’m okay," she said, not giving her name. "But they almost caught me this afternoon, and I had to leave. I just wanted you to know. Is everything okay on your end?"

"Yeah." She could hear him gulp. "Are you hurt, or anything?"

"No, I’m fine." "That was you, wasn’t it?" His voice shook. "That shooting at the McDonald’s. They said on television a woman in a brown truck. I knew it was you."

"Yes." "The police don’t know what happened. All those men vanished before the cops got there."

Grace blinked. That was surprising news. She had expected the cops to be hot on her trail, too.

Evidently Parrish didn’t want the cops to catch her, preferring to do so himself. She didn’t know why; she had seen about half the city’smuckety -mucks on the donor list, so she had no doubt he could pull enough strings to get the papers out of the evidence room, or whatever they called it. He could also have her killed in her cell, and she would be just one more jail violence statistic.

The implication was startling. Parrish wanted her alive, and he wanted her ashis prisoner. A wave of revulsion swept her at the thought, but she didn’t analyze it.

"I have to go now," she told Kris. "I just wanted you to know I’m okay, and tell you how much I appreciate what you did."

"Grace-" His voice cracked on her name. "Take care.’ Stay alive." He paused, and his next words came out quiet and strained. "I love you."

The simple words almost shattered her. She had been too alone; too many months had passed since she had heard them. She gripped the receiver so tightly her knuckles turned white, and the plastic creaked under the strain.

She couldn’t blow off his youthful devotion as an adolescent crush; he deserved more respect than that. "Thank you," she whispered. "I love you, too. You’re a wonderful person." Then she gently hung up, and pressed her forehead against the wall.

Beside her, the trucker was saying his own good-byes, more "I loveyous " and "I’ll becarefuls ." He hung up and glanced at her.

A meaty paw patted her shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Don’t cry, little bit," he said comfortingly. "You’ll get used to it. How long you been on the road?"

He thought she was a truck driver. Amazement chased away all other emotion. Did shelook like a truck driver? Her, the poster girl for academia?

She looked down. He wore boots; she wore boots. He had on jeans; she bad on jeans. Baseball caps topped their heads.

She looked like a truck driver. She was so tired she was giddy, and nothing seemed quite real. For the first time in eight months, her lips quivered with amusement. She didn’t laugh, but she was astonished at the impulse. Quelling it, she cleared her throat and looked up at Paul Bunyan. "Eight months. I’ve been driving for eight months."

He gave her another pat. "Well, give it a little more time. It’s tough, being away from your family so much, but the freight has to move and some body’s gonna get paid for hauling it. Might as well be us, huh?"

"Might as well," she echoed. She nodded to him and escaped out to her truck. She hoped he didn’t see her driving off in an ordinary pickup, instead of one of the snoozing behemoths; she didn’t want to destroy his illusions about her.

The snow was falling faster, and more trucks were leaving the interstate, rumbling up the exit ramp to take overnight refuge at the truck stop. There was a small, ratty-looking motel next door, and its "Vacancy" sign was lit. Grace decided not to chance driving any farther, and to take a room before the new arrivals got them all.

The room was just as ratty-looking as the exterior. The carpet was worn and stained, the walls were brown, the bedspreads were brown, the lavatory bowl was brown-and it wasn’t supposed to be. But the heating unit worked, and so did everything in the bathroom; good enough.

She stuck the pistol in the waistband of her jeans and dragged out the computer case, and a change of clothes for the next day. If the rest of her clothes weren’t safe in the truck overnight, well, she hoped the thief was small enough to wear them, because she didn’t have the energy to cart everything inside.

She undressed, then reloaded the pistol. Her hands trembled, and she fumbled the bullets. She thrust the gun under her pillow, then climbed into the lumpy bed and was unconscious even before her head hit the pillow.

She dreamed.

"And so came Grace to Creag Dhu." Niall wrote the words, the pen scratching across the page. He signed it, dated it, then turned to face her. "Aye, lass, that will bring ye to me." His intent black gaze moved over her, starting at her feet and lingering at hips and breasts before reaching her face. She drew a deep breath, knowing what that look meant. He was the most intensely sexual man she had ever met, and the challenge of that burning appetite only fed her own sensuality. She could feel her body readying itself for him, growing warm, softening, her nipples standing upright and her cheeks flushing. Excited desire began coiling deep in her belly.

He knew it, saw it. His hard mouth took on a sensual curve and he dropped the quill onto the table, turning on the high wooden stool to face her. He held out his hand. "Dinna wait near seven hundredbluidy years," he said softly. "I want yenow."

Grace took the five steps that carried her to him, her hands lifting to sift through the thick black silk of his hair. He bent his head, and his mouth covered hers. No one else kissed like Niall, she thought dazedly. His taste was as potent as fiery whisky, his kiss was both dominating and seductive, taking what he wanted but giving pleasure in return.