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  Her gaze shifted toward her feet. An iron foot rail graced the bottom of the bed, and rounded pine logs covered the room’s wall. Though her head moved as if it weighed six stones, she managed to turn it to the side. An old-fashioned dresser sat near a door slightly ajar. She pivoted her gaze across to the other side, where a handcrafted chair sat empty.

  Nothing in the room seemed familiar. Where the hell am I? Her mind churned, jumbling the chaos in her already cloudy head.

  Beyond the chair, a closet door stood open. She blinked her sleepy eyes and concentrated on the threads hanging inside the darkened space.

  The strange pounding noise came to an abrupt stop—beside her.

  Patience turned her aching head. If she hadn’t been so weak and exhausted, she would have screamed. Surprise flushed through her with the zing of an electric shock, shoving her heart into her throat.

  Wearing a tight black t-shirt and low-slung jeans, a giant of a man loomed over her. He set a tray with assorted food on the bedside table, his muscles rippling with every move. What’s with the pinched, sour look?

  “How are you feeling?” His rough voice lacked any polite manners.

  She opened her mouth to croak a reply. It sounded like a choking cat.

  Eyes closed, she swallowed, and tried again. A whisper broke through her lips, and turned into a breathy moan when a cool cloth soothed her forehead. She sucked air between her teeth, noting the contrast between pain and immediate cold relief.

  Patience sighed with gratitude. Her first impression of the gigantor was already changing. The log-lifter wasn’t friendly, but his nice touch made up for it.

  Questions buzzed inside her head like newly hatched spring flies. How did I get here? Where is here, and who are you?

  As though the man heard, he answered. “You were brought to my cabin unconscious last night. Do you remember anything?”

  She shook her head a microscopic inch.

  The bed dipped beside her, and the compress gently removed. She cracked her eyes open when an arm slid under her shoulder to lift her. He pressed a ceramic mug to her lips and she sipped a sweet tasting tea.

  She raised her gaze from the mug to the man of contradictions. His intense tawny eyes roved her face, examining her features. Slashed brows belied his tender actions. His hair, the color of aged oak, was pulled straight back and tied tight.

  By his expression, Patience figured she came up lacking. Between sips, she studied a raised scar crossing his cheek, which added to the overall don’t-mess-with-me appearance. Broad and tanned, his forehead balanced nicely with a square cut jaw.

  Ruggedly handsome, his scowl distracted her from further perusal. Something fo-shoviously bothered the man.

  Her scrutiny drifted down his thick neck as he lowered her to the bed. Light through the window reflected off a wide silver armband when he adjusted her pillow. Decorated with two engraved half circles, one inverted to hook the other, the cuff appeared to either choke his biceps or restrain his deltoid—depending on how you viewed it.

  “What’s your name?” His voice rumbled deep and comforting.

  She pushed her heavy eyelids up and sought his face. Her lips formed the word, but the sound wouldn’t come.

  “Try again.”

  The armband drifted closer when he planted strong arms on either side of her shoulders to lean in close, tilting an ear toward her mouth.

  She breathed deeply and caught his scent, and a whole lot more. Masculinity, spicy and rich, filled her head with promises of wicked pleasure. She and her friend Daisy often giggled over these naughty things.

  She pushed her name out on the exhale. “Patience.”

  “Huh?”

  If his scowl appeared terrible before, it grew positively black now. Was the guy in a perpetual bad mood, or what?

  “You want me to have patience?” His gaze flicked over her length. He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out between pursed lips. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you must have family in the area. So, if there’s someone . . . .”

  Deep resonations vibrated his tone. Despite his fierce façade, Patience found her caregiver’s voice downright soothing. She shouldn’t have gone down so easily in her latest encounter with the hunters. Fear only played a minute part of her current illnasty. In truth, she hadn’t felt good for months.

  Restorative sleep floated her away, allowing her to forget about running for her life, the pain of her missing sister, Serenity, and the angry man with brooding eyes.

  * * *

  Damn.

  Her long, brown lashes drifted down and rested on peach colored cheeks. Her breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. She didn’t eat anything, but she had drunk all the white tea he’d given her. With luck, she’d sleep a few more hours and allow him time to deliver remedies he’d mixed the night before.

  He placed the washcloth with curative healing agents back on her forehead. For the hundredth time, Rhy wished for an apprentice he could stand to be around, someone to help gather precious herbs, perform check-ups on patients, and free up his time to work on other projects.

  Like how to get rid of a stick-figured pixie who told him to have patience, of all things.

  Argh!

  He deposited the tray in the kitchen before heading out to run errands and collect a few wild herbs in the nearby meadows.

  Outside, his footsteps crunched over a faint walking trail weaving through the Centaur kingdom. Low-lying mist blanketed the moss-draped forest. Deadfall branches protruded upward in eerie intervals, as if Wood Nymph warriors from centuries ago were rising from the dead.

  Thoughts of lifeless Nymphs ushered in a remembrance of territory rivalries, greedy opposing rulers, racial prejudice, and war. He tightened his fists in an attempt to squeeze the pictures from his head. Early morning quiet and the peculiar scenery brought this on, he reminded himself. While his head understood this, his gut compressed regardless.

  Rhy doubted the Nymph in his cabin had even germinated during that gruesome historic time.

  After delivering prescriptions for backaches, fever, and thrush to his patients, he arrived an hour later at the meadow where many of his herbs bloomed. He set about harvesting with ecological standards, never taking more than two-thirds from a single plant, thus allowing time for re-growth.

  Studying the application of herbal remedies never ceased to amaze him. Hundreds of medicinal uses might come from a single plant, and there were a thousand other plants of therapeutic value just like it.

  Since before the Great War, he had devoted his life to discovery in the world of healing, and explored restorative organisms. Research broke remedies down to their organic basics, keeping him centered on what was important in life.

  The sun climbed higher and Rhy finished packing the last of his harvested Echinacea. Warmed from the sun’s bright rays, he wished for his long tail to chase off the pesky gnats.

  If only it were that easy to swish away bothersome Nymphs. Privacy at home would be nil while she remained.

  I need alone time. Solitude and peace.

  Stretching his arms overhead, he worked the kinks out of his back. As a human, he didn’t ask for much in life. As the Royal Remedy Maker, he had his duties. Then there’s my whole Centaur thing. How’s the pixie going to react to that?

  And why did he even care?

  Being alone had its perks. One could argue a point without the counter feedback. He didn’t want her distraction in his solitary bachelor house, but the healer in him wouldn’t kick her out until he saw her strength returned.

  Heavy footfalls from the path leading deeper into the woods caused an explosion of multicolored wings to escape into the temperate air. Rhy knelt on one knee and waited, rather than stand exposed in the field with no defensive cover.

  Mere seconds passed before Dryas, a Centaur Regency Guard, broke into the clearing, his four legs moving fast in the direction of the cabin. He was heavily armed with cross braces of weaponry, a traditional quiver of arrows
and bow slung over his shoulder, along with an arsenal of swords, daggers, and various throwing stars.

  This didn’t look like a social visit, for which Rhy was grateful.

  A dozen yards away, Rhycious rose from his crouched position and faced the passing guard. “Are you looking for me?”

  Dryas whipped his head in Rhy’s direction, back hooves skidding to a halt. His gloved hand gripped a gray-hued sword and his breath came heavy. Square shaped designs engraved on the flat blade shone in the daylight, sparkling off the hilt inlaid with blue colored gems.

  “Kempor Aleksander has bid you come at once. Queen Savella has taken ill.”

  Savella . . . ill? The queen had the constitution of a warhorse. If they were sending for the Remedy Maker, her illness must be severe.

  Hoping for nothing worse than a classic case of indigestion, Rhy nodded. He picked up his backpack from off the ground, and shrugged it on. A great leader, the Centaur queen was rarely—if ever—sick.

  Thankful that he’d finished gathering the herbs, his mind sped to what awaited him. “I’ll need my remedy bag from home first. What are Her Majesty’s symptoms?” Soft grass crushed under his boots as he approached Dryas. The tender blades absorbed his weight, springing upright to cover his tracks.

  “She has been nauseas and vomiting, with intermittent abdominal pain. We give thanks to Pan this happened while in her human form.” Dryas’ agitation drew twin furrows between his russet brows. Hair of the same rust color hung long over the leather padding covering his shoulders and vulnerable neck. One hand akimbo, the other palmed his sword hilt.

  “Who’s with her now?”

  “Hippy and Templar Khristos.”

  Kempor Hippolyte, the inner sanctum guard, would sacrifice her own life for the queen without a second thought. Savella remained well guarded in her defenseless condition. The High Priest would be in the way, of course, pissing-off Hippy.

  “I’ll be right back, and meet you here.” Not waiting for an answer, Rhycious spun on his heel and took off.

  He used the two-mile jog to the cabin to mentally write an herbal list of ingredients to bring with him. It was a pity that modern pharmaceuticals weren’t effective on his people. His abilities as Remedy Maker would be so much easier.

  Pan, the god of healing, plants, and medicines, made certain only holistic and natural practices were applied to mythologicals. To honor the mythic god in all in his glory, the upcoming Festival of the Trees, better known as the Spring Equinox, was held as a yearly celebration.

  Templar Khristos would be praying to Bacchus for regeneration right about now. As a god, Bacchus was easier to deal with. He ruled over pleasure, ecstasy, and total abandon.

  The cabin came into sight and Rhy remembered an important item.

  “Ah, crap!” The toe of his boot hooked the bottom step and he crashed to his hands and knees, sprawling on the porch. What would he do with his little Nymph guest? Not his—the. “Shit!”

  Picking himself up, he glanced at the tiny brown slivers burning his palms. Rhy’s neck and shoulders tensed. Anger and frustration radiated outward. The palace required him. His patients needed him. Then this whole business with her . . . in his bed.

  He pushed the mental image of the provocative beauty out of his head. Was it too much to ask to be left the hell alone? Resentment clawed in his belly, roaring to be let loose. He fought it down with practiced self-control.

  “Gamóto.” Damn it. He hurled his backpack against the front door.

  “Knapsack upset you again?”

  Fists curled and teeth grinding, Rhycious turned around.

  “Sorry to barge in on you. I came by to check on your girlfriend.” Samuel grinned.

  Sam must have parked his buggy around back somewhere, or walked. The man’s wide smile grated Rhy’s irritated nerves. Good thing he hadn’t tried to climb the stairs, Rhy would have hated to knock his friend back down them.

  Along with the guy’s teeth.

  Utilizing his de-stressing technique, Rhycious unclenched his hands and released negative energy with deep breaths. “She’s not my girlfriend. So shut-up before I convince you to take her home with you.”

  That wiped the smile off his smug Amish face.

  “Is she better? Did she say what happened to her?”

  Rhy shook his head and motioned Samuel inside. “She was still asleep when I left this morning, but I managed to get some tea into her.”

  He set his pack on the stool next to the apothecary table. With a few quick strides, he stopped at the bedroom door and checked on his in-house patient. Still asleep. This caused him concern, but not enough to hang around.

  Grabbing up an old-fashioned black doctor’s duffle, he moved to the worktable and placed bagged herbs inside.

  “I have to head out. And for the love of the gods, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been summoned to the queen’s side—what the hell am I supposed to do with her?” He jerked a thumb toward the room.

  Samuel removed his hat and rubbed the back of his neck. “For sure and for certain, you’re in a pickle.” He replaced the hat and took a step toward the open front door. “I’ll just leave you be and let you figure it all out.”

  “Wait a minute.” Rhy stabbed a finger in Samuel’s direction. “You’re not going anywhere.” He resumed pouring a detoxifying brew into an aluminum bottle, glancing at Sam every so often. “You brought her here, you take care of her.”

  “What?” Sam’s jaw worked up and down, like a puppet with manipulated strings in motion.

  Probably apoplectic. Rhy cranked his nonexistent tail, wanting the conversation finished.

  Sam’s eyes bugged out and he waved an arm in the diminutive weed’s direction. “Naett. I’m not taking care of her. I have chores that need tending at my house. Chicken eggs to gather. Laundry to fold.” He backed a few steps away. “I have to wash my hair.”

  Rhy rolled his eyes. “A friend in need is a friend indeed. You’re staying put until I get back.”

  “And when will that be, may I ask?” Samuel’s words came a bit muffled, pushed through clenched teeth.

  Rhy ran both hands through his hair, uncaring if it stood on end. “I don’t know. If you have to leave by morning, I understand.” He glanced at his wristwatch—not quite noon. If things went smoothly, he would make it back before midnight.

  He unloaded a good portion of the gathered plants from the backpack, stuffed his favorite Raiders sweatshirt on top of the remaining herbs, and hefted it onto his shoulder. The black medical bag closed with a magnetic click.

  “When she wakes up, she might be hungry. There’s food in the cold box, help yourself.” He paused in the entryway and glanced at Samuel, whose face etched with worry. “You’ll be fine. If she wants to leave, let her. Then you can go home, too.”

  Rhycious turned and cleared the porch stairs in one jump. Grinning, he couldn’t help one last parting shot as he walked backward toward the forest. “Be a good boy, and don’t do anything improper, Samuel Beiler.”

  “Scheissdrek.”

  “And shit to you too, my friend.” He continued to laugh down the path, and heard the front door slam.

  His good humor didn’t last long; the drip of reality entered his mind. The palace would be bustling with dignitaries, emissaries, and perhaps a few ambassadors. This meant more people, maybe crowds, all gathered for the upcoming festivities. He pictured the pushing hands, bumping legs, knocked shoulders.

  Strange people brushing against him. Touching him.

  A sudden squeeze around his chest gripped tight. The pressure caused him to gasp, his breath became shallow, and his heart rate sped up. Recognizing another oncoming attack, he stopped on the trail to take deliberate, cleansing breaths.

  He’d spent many quiet evenings in the glider rocker Samuel handcrafted for him, studying the cause and effects of posttraumatic stress disorder, and how to treat the condition in a holistic manner. While there may not be a cure for what his mind reverted to, there were
remedies and techniques to combat the effect.

  The pinch against his sternum eased and Rhy took a full, unaffected breath. Perspiration made his spine itch where the backpack lay heavy, rubbing against his shirt. He concentrated on the minor discomfort while he picked up the pace to meet Dryas.

  Hell, he’d even think about what Samuel would do when the hot little siren woke up.

  Anything to keep his mind off the path ahead.

  Three

  They made their way to the palace grounds with few words spoken between them. The fact Rhycious had a view of Dryas’s ass the entire journey might account for the headache and irritation he experienced.

  Being in excellent physical condition, he didn’t mind the jog. Treatment for his PTSD included regular aerobic exercise, which made jogging a favorite activity. After the twenty-mile run through hills and valleys, Dryas slowed to a walk.

  The thick forest edge grew steadily thinner until they stepped out into a clearing. A blue-sky background with puffy white clouds set off the tops of huge hemlock trees to perfection.

  Perhaps to a wandering human with no knowledge of their surroundings, the scenery wouldn’t appear out of the ordinary. Rhy picked the faux settings out, one after the other. Hell, he’d helped build some of them himself. Tree lines were cleared back hundreds of feet from the sheer rock wall towering in front of them. Small clusters of aspen remained in select areas, strategically placed like something you would find in a scenic park, landscaped to look natural.

  One only needed to look up with an eagle eye into the granite wall. Hidden in the shadowed alcoves between bits of scrub brush, sentry guards stood their posts. From a tower elevation, each guard surveyed the forest with a one hundred and eighty degree view. No doubt, he and Dryas were spotted advancing the last twenty minutes or so, winking in and out through the trees.

  Hundreds of years ago, this clearing had been the battleground for one of the bloodiest fights between Centaurs and Wood Nymphs. He’d been there, on the front lines, defending the palace gate in hand-to-hand combat. How many Nymph soldiers were sent to their graves that day? Sweat prickled his forehead and he fought to stave off the savage images.