Chapter Two
The three Winds were instantly on their feet and thundering toward the sound of the shriek.
“Guys, wait!” Peter said, holding them back just as they’d reached the door.
“What?” Micky bounced on his heels. “Let us by, someone could be hurt—”
“No one’s hurt,” Peter said quietly. He looked outside, where Mike and Kate were engaged in what looked to be a furious argument. Watching them, Davy gave a soft snort. “Yeah, she’s a Nesmith all right. Look at those hands move!”
“What are they fighting about? The tattoo?” Micky asked, wishing not for the first time that he could read lips.
“Looks like it,” Davy sighed. “Whoo, he must’ve made a good point.” Kate’s hands flew up in the air again in pure exasperation. Finally Mike turned and stormed toward the house, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Kate moved toward the barn, hands clenched in identical fists.
Peter pushed Davy and Micky back against the wall as Mike stomped into the house, slamming the door behind him. He followed. “Mike?”
“She thinks we’re in a cult, Peter,” Mike said, his voice laden with equal parts amusement and scorn.
“A cu—” Peter couldn’t help it. He started laughing so hard he had to hold his sides.
“Yeah. We’re into all that ‘eastern mumbo jumbo’ and because we practice the martial arts we’re just wacky cultists now.”
Peter snickered as he shook his head. “That’s far out, man . . . way far out!”
Mike’s tone softened. “And I tried to explain it, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Are all of you Nesmiths so stubborn?” Peter’s gentle smile took the sting out of the barb.
“Pretty much,” Lucy said, setting bowls out. “You’d better go get her, Michael. Supper’s ready.”
Mike found her mucking out a stall, taking out her frustrations on the shovel. “Aunt Kate, dinner’s ready,” he said, as if there had been no argument.
“What is it?” she snarled. “Brown rice and macrobiotic garbage?”
“No, Aunt Kate—we eat hamburgers and scrambled eggs and peanut butter just like normal people. I drink more tea than I used to, but that’s about it.”
She gave a heaving sigh and moved to the pump to wash her hands.
“This isn’t my fault,” Mike said. “I didn’t ask for this—none of us did.”
“You expect me to believe you let someone tattoo that on you and give you skills on the sly? I didn’t fall off the cabbage truck yesterday, Michael!”
“I told you the truth,” Mike rumbled. “We were given these . . . abilities without us knowin’ it—took us almost a month to figure out what happened.”
“Uh-huh,” she growled as they walked toward the house.
“Fine, don’t believe me,” Mike said. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“There was that time with Elizabeth Connelly and the wellhouse.”
“I mean important stuff!” Mike said, trying not to smile.
She thought. “Well . . . you did steal your Uncle Leroy’s car once.”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. But I’m an adult now. If I’d gone off and just gotten a tattoo I wouldn’t lie about it. But it’s not just a tattoo.” He walked past Kate, then turned, the lights from the house casting his face into shadow. “It’s who I am now.”
“You’re some martial arts wacko?”
“No, Kate. I’m the South Wind.” With that he turned and walked into the house.
Reflexively, her face turned toward the south—where a wind had indeed begun to blow.
~~~~~
After a tense, silent dinner during which not even Micky could get anyone to crack a smile, Mike headed outside to take out his frustration on the woodpile near the barn.
“She must have said something really harsh,” Micky said to Peter after a particularly loud thwack.
Peter nodded. “I’ll go talk to the rock, you go find the hard place and talk to her.”
“Man, why do I always get the hard jobs?” Micky grumbled as he went back inside.
Mike brought the ax down with another satisfying whack, watching the two pieces tumble to either side and the wedge hit the block with a clang.
“Preparing to burn someone at the stake?” Peter said, leaning on the edge of the barn.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Who we burning?”
“Whoever the hell twisted Aunt Kate around.”
“So, tell me. I’m still not a mind reader, Mike.”
He took a deep breath. “She thinks all things Eastern are evil. Including us now. And, according to her—” he flung the ax onto the block, where it sank in almost an inch. “We sold our souls to Satan when we drank that tea.” Suddenly spent, he leaned against the barn wall. “And I don’t know how to change her mind.”
“It’s easy,” Peter said. “All we have to do is show here that we’re not Satan’s minions.”
“Where do we even begin?”
Peter’s smile was only partially teasing. “I don’t have all the answers, now do I?”
Mike snorted and shot him a grin. “I’m goin’ for a walk.”
“Want some company? In case Black Bart’s out there?”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. “I need to sort things out.”
Peter touched Mike’s shoulder. “Okay. I’ll be at the house making sure Micky doesn’t get skewered by your aunt.”
Mike snorted. “Good luck. She’s got skewers a mile long.”
Peter laughed and headed back to the house, turning to look over his shoulder at Mike one last time. Mike walked over to the car and took out his staff, using it as a walking stick. The night was peaceful and quiet as he set off down the road, breathing in the stillness and dark of a Texas night.
“Well, well . . . what have we here?” came a voice from the darkness.
Mike turned, his night-adjusted eyes spotting a dark silhouette behind some nearby trees. “Just goin’ for a walk,” Mike said.
“Is that so? Where to?”
“Out,” Mike said, his tone indicating that he would not elaborate. “Not that it’s any of your business. Unless you’re the police.”
“We’re the law round these parts.”
“Is that so?” Mike said. “According to who?”
“Black Bart.”
Mike stiffened. So this is Black Bart. “Well, Black Bart . . . I don’t acknowledge you, so you can just turn on around and scram.” The vague notion that this was a foolhardy move struck him, but it was pushed aside by the anger that swelled up in its place.
Laughter. “Bart isn’t here.”
“Good. All the more reason to leave me alone.” Mike turned and headed on his way.
“You’re a Nesmith, ain’t you?” said another voice.
“Yes I am,” Mike growled. “And you’re on my land, too.”
“Your land!” Laughter burst out from what sounded like ten voices. Mike rolled his eyes and kept walking. They weren’t worth his time. “Oooh, lookee, he’s got himself a stick!”
“And I know how to use it, too!” he said, his voice deepening.
More laughter. Shadows moved, shifted. Mike shortened his stride, lowering his head and watching the movements out of the corners of his eyes.
Then they were on him.
He slashed with his staff, hooking the ankles of one of his attackers. Palms hit his shoulders, sending him face first into the dirt. The staff was wrenched from his hands and he heard it smack as it was passed from one set of hands to another.
“Hey, this’ll fix him up good!” Water splattered his back and head, turning the dirt underneath him to mud. He squirmed, trying to get some purchase to get himself back up.
“Pin him down, pin him down!” someone yelled.
Gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath, he tucked his body in, suppressing a groan as mud smeared across his face and into his collar. The quick move surprised the ones holding him—their grips loosened up enough for him to roll onto his feet.
The mud clogged his eyes and mouth, making breathing difficult and seeing impossible. He relaxed, using his ears to focus. Fortunately the men surrounding him were heavy breathers and moved like oxen, allowing Mike to home in on them as efficiently as if he could see them. When one of them moved close he struck, kicking out to the side. His foot connected with a body and he heard a satisfying “oof!”
He moved in slow, even circles, keeping his fists out in front of him to ward off any attacks. Every time something brushed him he lashed out, finally seizing hold of an arm. He yanked downwards, hearing a thud and a grunt as the man hit the ground.
“Who is this guy?” one of them muttered.
“C’mon, let’s go! Bart’s waiting!” one of the others shouted. There was the scramble of booted feet and Mike grunted as his staff smacked him across the shoulders. As soon as he was alone he wiped the mud from his eyes and looked around, growling softly at the quiet, still night.
On to Chapter Three
Back to Chapter One
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
