"You have problems. I want to help you." She stopped walking and turned to him, placing her hand on his arm. "I'm a good listener."
Damn, the last thing he needed was a caring woman. The touch of her small hand on his arm sent off alarm bells through his entire system. Cyn was a sweet temptation, one he was finding harder and harder to resist. "Look, Brown Eyes, I'm trouble with a capital T." He pulled away from her tender touch. "I'm a cynical, uncaring bastard with nothing to offer a woman like you except a scarred body, an unfeeling heart and a past that's filled with blood and violence."
"Another man, a lot like you, came to this beach once. Centuries ago. He even stayed in your house." She saw the bewilderment in Nate's eyes, and knew he'd never heard the legend. "I'd love to see inside the old mission again."
"The old mission?" He racked his brain trying to remember what the realtor had said about a mission. Something about a part of his house being hundreds of years old, dating back to the late sixteenth century. "Who was the man?"
"Obviously, you haven't heard the ancient legend. I can't believe the realtor didn't use it as a selling point," Cyn said, starting to walk again, moving toward the dirt road that separated their homes.
"She said something about part of the house dating back several centuries. The old storerooms, I think." Nate followed Cyn across the road. "I don't remember her saying anything about a legend." But then, he hadn't heard much of what the realtor had said about the house's history. All that had interested him had been the isolated location.
"I haven't been inside since Miss Carstairs died." Cyn stopped just short of Nate's porch. "Let me show you inside the storage rooms and I'll tell you the legend."
Nate followed her along the arched porch until they reached the area in question. What was he doing? he wondered. All he'd intended was to talk to her and try to persuade her to leave Sweet Haven. Now, here she was at his home, telling him some farfetched tale of an ancient warrior she said was a lot like him. And he was following along behind her like some doting puppy.
"Do you have a key?" Cyn held out her hand as she stepped up to the outside metal door of the vine-covered room.
"It isn't locked," he said. "Nothing in there but a bunch of old junk. I think the former owner used it as a storage shed."
Cyn took hold of the heavy metal door handle. The hinges creaked loudly when she gave the door a gentle nudge. As she opened the door fully, sunlight poured into the darkness, and minuscule motes of glittering dust danced in the air.
"I haven't been in here since I was a teenager and used to come over and visit Miss Carstairs. She always kept this door locked." Cyn laughed, remembering the old woman who'd filled her head with stories of Florida's past, of numerous battles, countries fighting to claim this gloriously beautiful land as their own, of dark-skinned natives, of Spanish invaders—of a Timucuan maiden and a conquistador.
"Was she afraid someone would tote off some of this treasure?" Nate asked as he stepped inside the large co-quina room and looked around in the dreary gloom at moldy, cobweb-covered chairs, chests, crates, rotting boxes and a wooden bed.
"I don't think there was this much stuff in here back then, but Miss Carstairs wasn't worried about thieves. She was worried about ghosts. I never could understand how she thought a locked door would prevent spirits from entering if they wanted to."
Nate spied what looked like the remains of a meal, an aluminum drink can, a wrapper from a candy bar and the butt of a cigarette. "Looks like I've had company." Had Ryker sent a scout out ahead? One of Carranza's men? The thought that someone had been this close to him without his knowledge bothered Nate. Were his instincts that rusty? If they were, he was in big trouble.
Cyn spied the objects on the floor. "Probably just some vagrant taking shelter from the night. Or maybe even a runaway. I've found a couple of kids right over there on the beach."
Nate doubted that any of Ian Ryker's associates would have invaded this room and sat around eating candy and drinking a cola. More than likely Cyn's assessment was correct, and the vagrant or runaway was probably long gone by now. But there was always the possibility... "Who knows, maybe Miss Carstairs's ghosts like Hershey bars."
Cyn smiled at him, thinking what a marvelous sense of humor he had. "Did Spanish conquistadors eat Hershey bars?"
At the word conquistador, Nate flinched. Cyn noticed his reaction. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing." It had been years since anyone had called him that, not since he'd left the SEALs. Conquistador had been a nickname given in fun that had eventually become a hated symbol of everything from which Nate wanted to escape. "And no, I doubt the Spanish conquerors brought along any candy. Why did you ask? Was one of Miss Carstairs's ghosts a Spaniard?"
Cyn reached down, pulling a dusty box out from underneath a dilapidated chair. "Mm-mm. There are two ghosts," Cyn told him. "A man and a woman. He's a Spanish conquistador and she's a Timucuan Indian maiden."
"And how did Miss Carstairs know who her ghosts were?" Nate watched as Cyn rummaged around in the box, pulling out musty, moldy books. Already, he didn't like the sound of this old tale. Although the comparisons between himself and the ancient warrior were minuscule, the word conquistador was an undeniable bond. But he knew better than to tell Cyn about it.
Cyn stacked the books on the floor. "There's a legend about the ghosts who roam Sweet Haven's beach. Miss Carstairs told me she heard the legend when she was a child."
"Exactly what is the legend?" Nate asked, surprised that he was truly interested. It was this damned room, he thought. It piqued his curiosity.
"The maiden's and the conquistador's spirits are doomed to—" Suddenly and without warning, Cyn knew she had to escape. The feelings overwhelmed her. There was danger here in these rooms, danger and passion and death. The legend that had been so much a part of her life since childhood had now taken on a sinister aspect that frightened her.
She stood up, reached out and took Nate's hand. "Let's go back outside. You're right about this room. Nothing but junk here."
The warmth of her hand where it touched his spread through him like wildfire. He clasped her hand tightly and followed her outside into the daylight, away from the shadows, away from the panic that had claimed her. He knew fear when he saw it. It had been a part of his life for too many years for him not to recognize the signs. Cyn was scared, but he couldn't understand why. Was there something about the legend that seemed more real to her when she'd been in the storage rooms?
Pulling on his hand, Cyn began to run. He ran beside her. For some reason, she'd felt oddly chilled when she'd begun to tell him about the legend. It was as if an icy breeze had caressed her body. If those coquina walls could speak, she knew they would tell a story of great love and heartbreaking tragedy.
It was as if something or someone had been warning her. The fear she'd felt inside those cold ancient rooms had not been for the two long-dead lovers, but for Nate—and for herself. Nate was in danger, from something or someone who had the power to destroy him. She couldn't explain how she knew. She just did.
She slowed down near the cypress in the yard. Resting her back against the tree, she took a refreshing breath of ocean air, then smiled at him. How could she tell him about her fears without sounding like a complete idiot? Maybe she was. Maybe she'd let her imagination run amok. After all, she had convinced herself that there was a similarity between Nate and the conquistador who had died on this beach, his lover beside him.