This Side of Heaven

Beverly Barton This Side of Heaven

To Linda Howard Okay, so you were right—again!

Prologue

They walked together along the isolated beach, the small Timucuan maiden and her big Spanish conquistador. Each knew the other's thoughts and could feel the other's pain, but they could not touch in a physical way, for their mortal bodies had long since returned to the earth's soil.

They knew the time was near. The fulfillment of the an­cient legend's prophecy was at hand. Soon a troubled war­rior and the woman who could give him sanctuary within her heart and body would come to their beach, would abide within the walls of the old mission, and discover a passion known only by a precious few.

The maiden and her conquistador had known such pas­sion, but had lost their lives in the hatred and destruction wrought by mankind's greed for wealth and power. For centuries the two lovers had roamed this Florida beach waiting for the heirs of their love to arrive and set them free.

'Soon,' she whispered. 'Soon, they will come.'

'Yes,' he said. 'They will share the same eternal love that we do.'

'And when their lives are united as ours could never be, we will be allowed to go.'

'Yes, querida.'

And they continued their nightly stroll along the surf-kissed sand, waiting here, this side of heaven—waiting for the day they could enter paradise.

Chapter 1

He heard the blood-curdling scream. Tremors racked his body. He knew he couldn't save her. With a moan of an­guished pain and animalistic rage, he cursed the powers of heaven and earth.

Nate Hodges opened his eyes. His harsh, erratic breath­ing gradually slowed as he lay on his sweat- dampened bed. He looked around the dark bedroom, seeking reassurances in the familiar, reassurance that the agony he had just en­dured had, indeed, been a dream. No, not a dream—a nightmare. The same gut-wrenching nightmare that had tormented his sleep for the past few weeks.

Even though he knew why the dreams had begun again after all these years, he didn't understand why this dream was so different from the old nightmares, those cursed sou­venirs of the war. Until two months ago when he had moved into the ancient coquina house by the ocean, he'd never ex­perienced this particular dream. Unlike the ones that had plagued him after Vietnam, this one didn't involve the war.

He had not been overcome by the sickening smell of rot­ting flesh. He hadn't felt the splattering of a friend's blood on his face, or heard the moans of a teenager dying in his arms. He hadn't seen piles of pulverized bodies lying on the deck of an incoming boat. Those had been the old dreams, the substance of long-ago nightmares.

Only two things had been the same. Ryker had been there, his one icy blue eye staring triumphantly at Nate, his thin lips curved into a smile of psychotic pleasure. And she had been there. In the past, the woman had been his salva­tion—the calm voice, the soothing hand, his sanctuary from the madness from which he could not escape.

But in these recent dreams, she had cried out for him, and he had not been able to save her. His only hope for peace-destroyed by an old enemy.

Nate eased out of bed, the feel of the cold stone against his feet chilling his feverish body. He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as he took several deep breaths. Reaching down to the cane-seated chair beside the bed, he picked up his jeans and pulled them on over his naked body. He re­trieved the K-Bar knife that lay beneath his pillow, slid it into its sheath and attached it to his belt that hung loosely through the loopholes in his jeans. It had been almost five years since he'd worn a knife—since he'd felt the need for constant protection.

But for the last five years he'd thought Ryker was dead.

Nate slipped into a pair of leather sandals, then, as an afterthought, he grabbed his shirt and threw it over his shoulder.

Opening the heavy wooden door, he walked out into the long narrow hallway and, moving slowly, made his way to his den. The room lay in darkness, except for the shadowy glow of moonlight.

Looking through the wide, open-shuttered windows, Nate noticed the nearly full moon, its silvery yellow light illumi­nating the patio, the unkept gardens, the rock walkway leading from the back of the house to the gravel road. He opened the huge, arched wooden door and stepped out­side. The salty, airy smell of the ocean filled his nostrils, mingling with the thick, heavy aroma of verdant Florida vegetation.

The cool night breeze caressed his bare chest, shoulders and arms. He slipped into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Slowly, cautiously, he walked along the patio, through the high arched openings that ran the length of the L-shaped porch that extended from the back to the side of the house.

He'd done little to improve the shabby conditions of his new home since he'd moved in the last of January. But he hadn't purchased this place for its beauty or with any desire to redecorate or restore. This sturdy, solid fortress of a house had been purchased because of its isolated location. Except for the lone cottage across the road right on the beach, the nearest neighbors were a mile away at the state park. The realtor had assured him that the owners of the cottage seldom used the place except in summer. And that was good. Nate didn't want anyone else around when he had to confront Ryker. That was why he'd left St. Augustine, left his business—to protect his friend and partner John Mason, and John's family. Even with his departure, Nate wasn't sure the Masons were safe from a man as diaboli­cally bent on revenge as Ryker, who would use anyone and anything to settle an old score.

Nate knew the final battle would be over long before summer. Ryker had been spotted in South America three months ago. It was only a matter of time until that mad dog would make his way to the States, find out where Nate was, and come after him.

Nate walked across the road, leaned against a massive cypress tree dripping with thick Spanish moss, and looked out at the ocean. So peaceful. So serene. Comforting—like the woman in his dreams. If there was one thing on earth Nate wanted, it was peace, blessed sanctuary from the scars of a war long ended, the savage memories of a lifetime spent as a navy SEAL, the bitter regrets of a childhood he could never change.

He had given up any hope of love or happiness so many years ago he could barely remember thinking such emo­tions existed. In childhood, he'd learned that he could count on no one except himself. As a protective mechanism, he'd closed his heart to love, and over the years, he'd found no woman capable of teaching him to entrust his life to an­other.

His years in the special services had only reinforced his negative attitudes. He had seen the ugly side of life more times than he cared to remember. He'd thought he could find the peace his soul craved when he left the navy nearly five years ago. But that had been when he'd thought Ryker was dead.

Nate rested his head against the tree, closed his eyes and remembered tonight's dream. He hadn't known where he was. He'd been lost in a dark, gloomy room filled with dirt and cobwebs, the smell of rotting wood and damp musti-ness everywhere. He had realized he was in terrible danger. Ryker was there. Close. Yet out of reach. And she was there. What the hell was she doing with Ryker?

Nate opened his eyes suddenly, not wanting to see. But with his eyes wide open, he saw her lifeless body in Ryker's arms. The pain ripped through him hotter and more deadly than any blade could have. No. No. She couldn't be dead. She was his lifeline. She was his sanctuary. And Ryker had killed her for revenge. To get even with him.

Restless with a need he could not explain, Nate started walking toward the beach. He felt like a fool. The woman in his dreams had no name, no face. All he ever remem­bered afterward were her eyes—rich, warm brown—and her body. When she'd given herself to him in his dreams, he'd found a sanctuary for his heart and his soul in her arms.

The first time he'd dreamed of her, he'd been eighteen and a newly trained SEAL in Nam. He hadn't dreamed about her in at least a dozen years, not until—until he'd moved to Sweet Haven, to the secluded house where he waited for a man who was as ruthless and dangerous as he was himself.

Suddenly, Nate stopped dead still. His trained instincts told him he wasn't alone. Then he saw her. In a long, flow­ing dress—white and shimmering in the moonlight—she walked along the beach, at the very edge of the ocean. For one split second he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. Was it her, the woman from his dreams? He shook his head, then looked again. She was still there. She was real. No dream. No