Immortal Mine (8 page)

I would like to hold Niahm’s hands, find out
what is really going on in that head of hers—but I can see well
enough how welcome that gesture would be. I can easily recognize
the bond that is being formed between us. I think she feels it
also, but she’s fighting it with all her might.

It’s not the first time I’ve felt a bond
with a mortal… but it’s definitely the strongest and fastest
forming I’ve experienced. I should have run as soon as I first
recognized it, the first day I saw her. After experiencing the
wrenching loss that comes with bonding, I’ve learned to avoid it as
much as possible. It’s been decades. Maybe that’s why this bond has
felt so different.

As soon as I return home, I question Shane
about it.

“Do you think you’re feeling a genuine bond
with this girl, or do you think you’re feeling a bond to her
name
?” is Shane’s first question after I explain my
dilemma.

I give his question serious consideration.
It’s a valid question. Finally, I shake my head.

“No, it’s her. I felt it before I even knew
her name.”

“Hum,” Shane responds. “I don’t know of
anyone else who’s had such a hard time getting a mortal to bond
with them in return.”

“Lucky me,” I mutter, sarcastically.

“Can you leave?” Shane questions.

I huff out a frustrated breath. I know what
he’s asking—one word and he would either drop everything and leave
with me, if I asked it of him, or stay and let me go, covering for
my disappearance.

“No,” I finally answer, misery in the word.
“Not unless she asks it of me.”

“Well, then,” Shane responds, standing up.
“I guess you better get to work charming that girl,” he chuckles.
But even though he’s trying to lighten the mood, make me feel
better, he pats my shoulder sympathetically, and in the weight of
his hand I divine the burden of the task.

It’s not an entire shock to me when it’s
decided that we will stay after school each day to begin planning
our production of
Grease—
that’s been happening since time
immemorial around here. What does shock me is my own reluctance to
be involved in the planning. The Senior Class production is almost
hallowed, and I’ve looked forward to it since I saw my first
production at age three. I try to think of excuses to get me out of
the meetings, but can’t come up with anything that would sound
true. Everyone knows everything about me, and they all know that
not only are my parents back in town—relieving me of some of my
chores—but that I have time to donate to the cause. So instead I
just refuse to participate in the planning, doodling in my notebook
as the others plan.

Now, I sit across from Sam, placed near one
another as we are the two leads. For the first time in my life that
I can recall, I wish I attended a large high school, where one
would have to try out for a part, rather than having it
assumed
upon them.

My feelings regarding my forced-upon-me
costar are a muddled mess. I’ll admit, between Stacy’s words and
what I witnessed in the paddock yesterday, I’m having a hard time
retaining my anger. I’m having a hard time really remembering why I
was that mad to begin with. But, in my typical stubbornness, I
refuse to admit to her—or myself—that she might have been just a
little bit right.

I steadfastly refuse to look at Sam, except
when he’s not looking, of course. Then I can’t help but look, as I
try to puzzle out my confusion. There’s definitely something
different about Sam from any other boy I’ve ever known. Not just
that he’s, you know, totally gorgeous. Not that his amazing
shade-of-red hair sweeps across his brow and curls lightly over his
ears and collar. Not his lips, full and wide. I think I actually
sigh looking at them. Not his perfectly masculine jaw or his eyes
that have…
crap!
... just lifted to look at me, auburn brows
drawn down in confusion at my intense perusal… and probably at his
hearing my sigh.

I can feel the flames fan my cheeks as I
quickly look away, trying to pay attention to the discussion.
Honestly, though, I have zero creativity concerning writing a
script or planning the stage props. I’m very creative in the
kitchen, but this kind of creativity is better left to those whose
input will actually be helpful. Put me on the stage and tell me
what to sing or say, and I can hold my own pretty well, but that’s
the end of my talent in that area. I begin to sigh again, then
realizing how it may sound to Sam, I try to suck it back in.

This, of course, causes me to choke. I begin
coughing violently, attracting the attention of every set of eyes
at the table. Yup… his, too. I stand and try to excuse myself
around gasping for air. No one really pays attention when they see
I’m not in mortal danger, so I make a quick exit.

In the hallway, I lean over, coughing and
holding my stomach. Just when I almost have it under control, I
hear, “You should get a drink of water.”

It’s not the words, but the source of the
words that causes me to gasp, and I begin choking anew. A set of
hands reach out and guide me to the drinking fountain. I lean over
and take a mouthful, swallowing it against my breath. I cough a few
more times, between a few more swallows of water, and soon I’m able
to control it.

“Thanks,” I croak, avoiding looking up at
Sam’s towering height. I swear he must be, like, six-six as my eyes
are right at chest level.

“No problem. Are you okay, now?”

Nervously, I realize his hand is still
lingering on my shoulder.

“How tall
are
you?” I blurt out. He
blinks in surprise, and it occurs to me that my tone sounds a
little accusatory, as if he’s been keeping it secret. I drop my
voice to a murmur, “Not that I, you know, wonder about it very
much, or anything.”

“I’m six-three,” he says. “How tall are
you?” I glance up at him, and quickly away, but not before I see
the grin and teasing glint in his eyes.

“About a foot shorter,” I say.

“
About
a foot?”

“Fine,
exactly
a foot, okay?” I know
I sound sullen, but I still haven’t decided whether I should be
nice to him or not—especially when I’m this confused about him.
I’ve never been confused about a boy before. It’s kind of
embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never even kissed a boy before.

“Should I call you shorty, or shrimp?” he
laughs.

I glare at his chest. “Should I call you
lanky or Lurch?” I shoot back. Yeah, I know. Lame. But he only
laughs more. Then he slips his hand from my shoulder and holds it
toward me.

“You can call me anything you want if you’ll
agree to a truce.”

I glance at his hand, at him, then back to
his hand, suspiciously. “A truce?”

He shrugs. “We got off on a really bad foot,
and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry for offending you. But we have
to figure out a way to co-exist peacefully, and I’d really like to
be your friend.”

I scrunch my eyebrows. “You sound like my
dad,” I grumble. Then I relent and place my hand in his, tired of
being angry all the time. His long fingers close over mine, strong
and warm. Then he’s shaking my hand, as if we’d just met. I glance
up into his smiling face, my gaze immediately sliding away,
embarrassed.

“Hi, my name is Sam. It’s nice to meet
you.”

I can’t help but smile back at the silly
charade.

“Niahm,” I say.

“Hmm… Niahm. That’s an unusual name.”

I shrug. “I have unusual parents.”

He gives my hand a squeeze and releases
it.

“Should we go back in and help with the
planning?” he asks.

I look toward the door. I can hear voices
from within. Somehow, I doubt they’ll miss me.

“No, I think I’m going to cut out for today.
I should go home, anyway, and—”

“Feed the chickens?” he interrupts.

“Something like that,” I smile.

“Mind if I go with you?”

“You want to feed my chickens?” I ask,
perplexed.

He grins. “No, I want to work the horses.”
Oh,
duh.
“And I’d like to meet your unusual parents.”

I shrug. “Okay, just remember you asked for
it.”

We leave without telling anyone that we’re
going. I’m not sure of Sam’s reasons for this, but mine are clear.
I don’t want Stacy giving me that told-you-so look because this
isn’t
what she thinks. This is just deciding to be nice to
Sam, nothing more.

“So, what transportation did you use to get
to school? Livestock or thumb throttle?”

“Ha, ha,” I mock. “Except when it’s snowing,
my only transport is my feet.”

“I live a little further, so I drove. Want
to ride with me back to your place?”

“Uh…” His question stumps me. It shouldn’t.
I’ve caught rides with any number of people in town, and never
thought twice about it. But this whole being nice to Sam thing is
new, and instinct makes me want to say no. Thinking it feels a
little too friendly also makes me want to say no. Being in a
confined space so close to Sam makes me want to say no. Not wanting
to explain any of that to him makes me finally mumble, “Okay.”

He looks at me oddly. “I’m a pretty good
driver. I promise to get you there in one piece.”

“Oh, yeah, no… I know that. I mean, I
don’t
know that, but…”

“But?”

But I’m feeling flustered by you right now.
Why is that?

“No but, just… okay.”

He narrows his eyes in confusion, but
doesn’t press the issue. He leads me to his truck—the same one he
brought the horses to the stable in—and opens my door. Like that
doesn’t make me even more uncomfortable, as if we were on a date or
something. What can I do, though, but climb in and let him close
the door behind me.



“I’m
not
rushing through my chores so
that I can get out to the pasture to watch Sam with the Irish. I’m
hurrying because… okay, maybe that’s the reason a little bit. It
has
nothing
to do with Sam. I just want to watch the horse.
He’s so beautiful. All six-foot-three, red-headed—” I gasp and
break off, glaring at Bob as if he caused me to say that. He’s
trying to be a good friend, sitting at my feet, glancing at me as
much as he possibly can while I ramble—not an easy task with the
chickens in front of him, egging him on just by existing.

“I
so
did not mean that,” his head,
which had been inching back in the direction of the source of his
divided attention, jerks toward me at my harsh tone. I smack my
forehead with the palm of my hand—and grimace as I feel the grind
of the chicken feed, which is now rolling down my face. I angrily
brush the feed from my hand using the front of my jeans, then brush
it from my face, as Bob tries to catch the miniscule falling
pieces, pretty much just snapping air between his jaws—which makes
me laugh.

I back out of the pen, calling Bob with me.
His head hangs dejectedly as a result of my cutting into his
chicken chasing time with my conversation, but once the gate closes
behind us, he perks up and bounds off. I walk into the horse barn,
peeking in on Sheila, my mare. She stands happily in her clean
stall, eating fresh hay next to her full water trough. I know I
should be happy my parents are back and that they’ve done some of
my more time consuming chores, like cleaning Sheila’s stall and
feeding and watering all the horses.

I grunt and turn toward the sounds I can
hear coming from outside in the paddock. I give in to the urge and
follow the sounds out.

Sam is working the Irish in the same manner
as the previous time. This time, I climb up on the top rung of the
fence and watch more closely. Bob jumps up on his hind legs, paws
at me once and whines, as if upset that I didn’t bring him up to
sit with me. I push a palm toward him and he backs down, settling
for sticking his nose through the bottom rung.

The Irish continues his wild defiance,
though not quite so harshly as previously. Sam just keeps on
clucking and soothing, and while they are both covered in sweat
once again, neither is breathing quite as hard once the stallion
gives in. Sam grins at me, walks closer to the horse, shortening
the line as he goes, continuing to talk in monosyllables as he
nears. The Irish tosses his head and snorts, but allows the
nearness. Sam urges the horse forward, walking next to him.

“What do you think, Niahm? Thinks he’s ready
for the saddle?”

It takes me a few seconds to grasp the
question, since he delivers it in the same soothing voice, just
slightly louder than his other words.

“I think that would be cruel,” I say. “Look
at the poor beast, he’s sweating and exhausted.”

“Best time to try it,” he says.

“I think you’d do better to give him a
name.”

He grins at me again, and I look away,
Stacy’s words ringing in my mind again.