Three rules governed Joe Littlehawk's existence as a Sacred Guardian: never interfere, never let them see you, and NEVER touch. Before he watched over Alena, he'd never broken any…
Young single mother Alena Morgan has no time for anything remotely paranormal. Yet when she suffers an accidental overdose of powerful migraine medication, she can’t deny the glorious Native American dude who appears and saves her. She tries to write it off as a near-death hallucination, but she has no explanation for the Voice that only she can hear and the flowering of her heart as she lets this otherworldly Being into her life. When Joe enters Alena’s dreams where they can touch one another, neither of them realizes the deadly consequences of their love.
“Do you want to have sex with him?”
Alena looked at the table and took a long swallow of her coffee. “If he were alive. Maybe.” She shrugged. “But if he were alive, he’d be pretty much out of my age range.”
“What, hundreds of years old?”
“Nah, probably more like sixty-five or so.”
Deb’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not dead very long, then.”
“Nope, only, let’s see, 1968…about forty years. Does it make a difference?”
Deb leaned in, her eyes widened. “You mean he told you exactly when?”
“Yeah. I brought his record, here.” She unfolded the copy of Joe’s record from the Vietnam Wall site.
Deb pulled out her reading glasses and scanned it. “Holy shit.”
“You said the S word!”
“So sue me. Can I keep this?”
“Sure, I have other copies.” She’d made ten, just to be sure she wouldn’t forget. As if she would. Ever.
“I’ll take this to John, but Lena, be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
Deb shook her head, removing her glasses and nibbling on the end of one earpiece. “There’s something to what you told me; it reminds me of some case I’d read about, but I just can’t remember what it is.”
“It’s not a good something?”
“I don’t know, but it may be. Not good, that is. Anyway, just be careful, okay? Don’t spend all your time with this, ah…”
“Is that what you call him?” At least the twinkle was back in Deb’s eyes.
“No,” she said, looking directly into Deb’s eyes. “I don’t.” She reached behind for her coat and purse. “I call him Joe.”