time. People were streaming out of the saloon and she had to tell them Taylor was innocent and that these men had halfway killed him. It was one thing to have a fight, or even shoot at a man, but to do this, to gang up on someone and beat him so badly…
Meyer hauled back and hit her again with such force that she would’ve fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her. The world around her was whirling as Meyer tossed her over his shoulder. She tried to free herself, tried to protest, but his voice grated in her ears. “You want your boy to have a chance to live? Then shut up! You’re with me now, Rose. Ah, yes, Miss Rose, you’re with me. Think of the glory! We’re on to fight for Texas!”
He started to laugh.
For Texas…
She fought against his hold. She raised herself, clutching his shoulders, and for one moment, she saw the moon again. Or moons. Now there seemed to be ten of them swimming in the sky, still absurdly beautiful crescents.
Then the moons all disappeared. Yet as her world faded to black, Rose could feel the gem somehow burning against her skin through the tight knot of hair.
Meyer, these men, didn’t even know she had the diamond, but it had already destroyed her life.
Chapter One
San Antonio, Texas
April
Logan Raintree had just left his house and was walking toward his car when the massive black thing swept before him with a fury and might that seemed to fill the air. He stopped short, not knowing what the hell he was seeing at first.
Then he saw it. The thing was a bird, and he quickly noted that it was a massive bird, a peregrine falcon. Its wingspan must have been a good three feet.
It had taken down a pigeon.
The pigeon was far beyond help. The falcon had already ripped the left wing from the creature and, mercifully, had broken the smaller bird’s neck, as well.
As Logan stood there, the falcon stared at him. He stared back at the falcon.
He’d seen attacks by such birds before; they had the tenacity of jays and the power of a bobcat.
They also had the beaks and talons of their distant ancestors—the raptors, who’d once ravaged land and sea. This kind of bird could blind a man or, at the least, rip his face to shreds.
Logan stood dead still, maintaining his position as he continued to return the bird’s cold, speculative stare. There seemed to be something in its eyes. Something that might exist in the eyes of the most brutal general, the most ruthless ruler. Touch my kill, and you die! the bird seemed to warn.
Logan didn’t back away; he didn’t move at all.
He knew birds, as he knew the temperament of most animals. If he ran away, the bird would think he should be attacked, just to make sure he did get away from the kill. Come forward and, of course, the bird would fight to protect it. He had to stay still, calm, assured, and not give ground. The falcon would respect that stance, take its prey and leave.
But the bird didn’t leave. It watched Logan for another minute, then cast its head back and let out a shrieking cry. It took a step toward him.
Even feeling intimidated, Logan decided his best move was not to move… .
“I have no fight with you, brother,” he said quietly.
The bird let out another cry. It hopped back to the pigeon, looked at Logan and willfully ripped the second wing off, then spat it out and stared at Logan again.
This was ridiculous, he thought. He’d never seen a peregrine falcon so much as land in his driveway, much less pick a fight with him.
He reached with slow, nonthreatening movements for his gun belt and the Colt .45 holstered there; he had no desire to harm any creature, but neither would he be blinded by a bird that seemed to be harboring an overabundance of testosterone.
As if the bird had known what the gun was, it leaped back.
Logan had the gun aimed. “I don’t want to hurt you, brother bird,” he said. “But if you force my hand, I will.”
The bird seemed to understand him—and to know he meant his words. It gave yet another raucous cry, jumped on the pigeon and soared into flight, taking its prey. Logan watched as the bird disappeared into the western sky.
Curious about the encounter and very surprised by it, he shook his head and turned toward his car again.
He took one step and paused, frowning.
It suddenly looked as if he’d stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
The Birds.
They were everywhere. They covered the eaves of his house, the trees and the ground, everything around him. They sat on the hood and the roof of his car. Every bird native to the state of Texas seemed to be there, all of them just staring at him. Jays, doves, grackles, blackbirds, crows and even seabirds—a pelican stood in the center of his lawn.
It was bizarre. He was being watched…stalked…by birds!
None made a move toward him.
As he started to walk, a sparrow flapped its wings, moving aside. He continued to his car, wings fluttering around him as the smaller birds made way. When he reached his car door, he opened it slowly, carefully, and then sat behind the wheel, closing the door. He revved the engine and heard scratching noises as the birds atop his car took flight.
Logan eased out of the driveway. As he did so, a whir of black rose with a furious flapping of wings. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, they were gone.
Every last bird was gone.
He looked back at his old mission-style house, wondering if he’d somehow blacked out, had a vision, and yet managed to get into his car. But that was not the case. He didn’t black out. For him, visions were dreams. They occurred only when he slept, and he usually laughed them away. His father’s people believed that all dreams were omens, while his mother’s father—psychiatrist and philosopher William Douglas—believed that dreams or “visions” were arguments within the human psyche. In William’s view, fears and anxiety created alternate worlds seen only in the mind; their role was to help resolve emotional conflicts.
Whichever approach was correct didn’t matter much. He’d seen what he had seen. This hadn’t been a vision or a dream.
But it was odd that it had happened when he was on his way to meet with Jackson Crow, FBI agent and head of the mysterious Krewe of Hunters—a unit both infamous and renowned.
* * *
San Antonio. It was different, that was all. Different.
Kelsey O’Brien looked out the Longhorn Inn’s kitchen window. From here, she could see the walls of the old chapel at the Alamo. The city was bustling, pleasantly warm now that it was spring, and the people she’d met so far were friendly and welcoming.
She still felt like a fish out of water.
