On the way back to the mesas, even though they did exactly as the government guide accompanying them directed, they got onto the wrong train and ended up in Tucson instead of Holbrook.
Riding their own horses, which they had transported both ways at government expense, they had left town early this morning, following the Salt River, which would lead to the Verde River that they would follow north. But Tuvi and the elders were ambushed at the confluence of the Verde and Salt rivers by an army patrol and killed. A captain, his bars gleaming in the sunlight, stood over her, holding the scouts back. She looked up at him and then, while she was waiting to die, looked at the soldier boots in the stirrups of the men behind him.
With Tuvi dead in her arms, she had wanted to die. Even now she was filled with rage at his loss. She could not believe that a holy man could be treated in this fashion. She had expected Tuvi to die of extreme old age and ascend to the heavens in a beam of light, carried by angels. That crude white men could shoot him down and leave his body to be eaten by vultures filled her with such frustration and rage, she wanted to tear her hair and scream.
She had not let Señor Sheridan lead her away until she’d dug a shallow grave for them all and piled rocks on it. To his credit, he’d used his rifle as a tool and helped her bury them.
Pain filled her body, but tears did not come. She tried to think of other things, but she kept wondering how they had become lost, ending up where the soldiers were.
It was possible their guide had led them the wrong way on purpose, but she could think of no reason why he would do that. She suspected him, but she would never know for certain.
A loud noise on the busy street below called her attention back to the present. Miners in dirty clothes yelled and laughed as they strode beneath her window.
The sun was setting. The señora was still in the livery stable with Señor Sheridan. In spite of her grief and rage about Tuvi and the elders, Elunami wished the señora had not gone into the barn with him.
Maybe wealthy white women did not have to worry so much about their reputations. She hoped not.
Chapter Five
Wrinkling her nose at the smells of hay, horses, and manure, Samantha followed Steve Sheridan into the dim livery stable. He walked slowly down the wide aisle separating the two rows of stalls until his horse stamped and snorted.
“Whoa, boy. Whoa,” Sheridan said, caressing the beautiful animal’s long nose. “Did you eat that grain?”
He picked up a brush lying on the ground beside the stall and opened the door, which creaked on rusty hinges. Samantha leaned against the stall and propped her chin on her hands, watching. As Sheridan brushed the horse’s silky coat from neck to hind quarters, she imagined his back muscles rippling with each long stroke of the brush.
“Beautiful horse,” she said. “What’s his name?”
“Calico.”
“Calico bugs have red, orange, and yellow dots on a black body. He’s gray and orange and yellow and black.”
“Named him after a cat I had as a boy. That cat would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down.”
“You should have named him Goat.”
“I don’t have such a good opinion of goats. I respected that cat, though.” Steve straightened up. “You know some fairly precise things about animals and insects. Do you teach school?”
“Because I know the color of one bug and one type of cat?” she chided, enjoying the chagrined look that quirked his mouth at her teasing. She relented. “I teach Nicholas. There’s no school in Picket Post. And…I sculpt animals.”
“Sold anything?”
“Well, yes. I guess most of them have sold. I have an agent in New York who has an arrangement with a couple of art galleries.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment,” he said seriously, his eyes filled with admiration.
“I do it for my own satisfaction. I’m glad they sell, though.”
Steve turned back to his horse and brushed in silence.
“I asked Elu—Tristera to come to the ranch and work for me. I think she will,” Samantha said.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Steve smiled his approval.
After he had combed every inch of his horse, he walked out of the stall, closed the door, and turned to face Samantha.
Heart pounding suddenly, she almost backed away from him. In the dim light streaming in the far window, his narrowed eyes unexpectedly evoked that feeling of warmth in her belly again. “I’ve been asking myself what you’re still doing here,” he said, his voice so low she could barely make out the words. Before she could move away, he reached out and drew her slowly toward him.
She smelled faintly of peppermint—a fragrance he especially liked. In the dim light of the barn her skin seemed to pick up every particle of luminescence and transform it into star shine to dazzle him. Her slim, white stem of a neck balanced a well-shaped head adorned by golden hair cut in parted bangs that she was continually tossing back with a thoroughly feminine gesture.
He took her by the waist and pulled her nearer to him, but not quite touching. Beneath his hands, her slender waist felt warm and trembling. At his touch she seemed to stop breathing, to wait—like a caught bird.
Holding her, passion surged up in him, swift and searing. Yet still he waited, content simply to breathe in the sweet, peppermint fragrance of her, to savor this keen anticipation, this fierce desire—and equally fierce tenderness—welling up inside.
He could feel the throb of her pulse beneath his thumb, which was pressing lightly into her waist. Her lashes were dark and fine and sweetly curved. Her breath smelled sweet and warm against his face. Finally, his own heart pounding, he lifted her chin and lowered his mouth to hers.
Samantha closed her eyes. His kiss felt tentative at first, but as her mouth opened to the nibbling caress of his lips and tongue, his lips insinuated themselves into her mouth, opening it wider. His heat came as a surprise that caused a sudden weakness in her. She’d never felt such fire in a man’s kiss before.
He kissed her until she couldn’t think. By the time he finally raised his head, her arms were trembling around his neck. He led her backward until she found herself against the stall, sandwiched between the rough wood at her back and Steve Sheridan’s body. He smoothed his hands up her arms and leaned down to kiss her again.
“Now what, Samantha Forrester?” he whispered, his voice rough—and so close to her ear, it sent a chill down her spine. She loved the way he said her name—with such intensity and gruffness. She felt more alive than she had in years.
She wanted to say something to show him that this wasn’t the way it looked. She wasn’t the least taken with him. It was just that her body, which longed almost constantly for Lance, was in a weakened condition today, suffering from passions awakened this morning in a dream she’d wanted desperately to finish.
She wanted to tell Steve Sheridan that her reaction had nothing to do with him, but his mouth brushed her lips lightly, slipped down to her throat, and a spear of heat plunged to the depths of her. Moaning, she groped until she found his lips with her own. He kissed her again, this time like a man accustomed to taking charge, a passionate, demanding man who would have whatever he wanted.
His lips evoked responses from every part of her body. Her head started to spin. She felt suddenly like a twig caught in a tornado. Although she knew it was only the closeness of the barn—and the extreme demands of a long and trying day—that made her feel so out of control, panic rose in her. Gasping for air, she broke free of his lips.
Rough hands gripped her shoulders; he held her away from him. “What are you trying to do, woman?” he said, panting, his voice gruff with desire.
“I’m—I’m”—Samantha blinked and opened her eyes with difficulty—“trying to keep you here so you’ll build my house,” she said, knowing that she was lying and exerting all of her strength to keep from moving back into his embrace.
“I’m not a house cat, Samantha Forrester.”
“I c
an see that.”
He just looked at her for a moment. “Well, don’t give up so easy,” he whispered, pulling her back into his arms.
Samantha laughed in spite of herself. “You could wire the man in Waco and tell him you’ve been detained…”
“Once I take a job, I do it.”
“Too bad…” Samantha’s heart pounded. “That was a good-bye kiss to remember, Steve Sheri—” Her voice broke and she gave up trying to appear nonchalant.
His eyes glittered with amusement or frustration, she couldn’t be sure. Slowly his hands released her shoulders.
“Yes, it was, Samantha Forrester.”
Samantha found Elunami sitting in a daze at the window, apparently too dispirited to move away. At her urging, the girl undressed and put on the extra nightgown she’d purchased that afternoon.
“I’ve told everyone your name is Tristera,” Samantha warned her. “I think your safety depends on our not forgetting that.”
“Sí, I am used to having many names.”
Nicholas had napped, eaten, and gotten sleepy again. In his pajamas, lying on Samantha’s bed, he looked too thin for the size of his handsome head. His face seemed to glow with spirit and self-possession, as if he’d been born knowing everything he needed to know. Samantha could see a little of herself in Nicholas. He had her hairline and chin, and some said her intelligence and determination. But she had the terrible feeling that of the two of them, he was the wiser, too smart to accept life on anyone else’s terms.
Fear stirred in her at the thought; she swooped down to hug him fiercely. “Mama, you’re hurting me,” he whined.
“Sorry,” she said, letting go. Tears blurred her vision and she turned away. “Good night, Nicholas.”
“Good night, Mama.”
Elunami followed Samantha into the other bedroom.
“He is very wise,” Elunami said, with an odd, gentle smile that seemed too mature for such a young face.
Samantha wiped her eyes. One in seven people died of consumption. It was the most feared and dreaded disease in America. “You may be right. Good night…Tristera.”
“Good night, señora.”
Samantha closed the connecting door and stepped back into her room. She needed sleep, but intense fear welled up in her and she lay down beside Nicholas and felt his head. His fever seemed higher tonight.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she expelled a heavy breath, remembering how terrified she’d been when Nicholas had first been diagnosed. When Jared had died, she’d sensed her son’s deep pain and bewilderment, his basic reluctance to live. This had persisted, until now she was afraid that if he did not acquire the determination to beat his disease—and soon—he would certainly die. What terrified her most was that none of it was conscious in him. It could not be fought directly.
Samantha pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs. She aspired to faith, to believe that whatever happened to her son would be God’s will and for the best, but in reality she loved Nicholas too deeply. She was too attached to let go and trust anyone else to keep him safe, even God. And yet she knew there was no other way…
Please, God, she prayed, if I’m supposed to let him go, then help me do it. Help me to trust that you really do love him even more than I do. She repeated the words over and over, like a litany. Please help me to trust…
Suddenly Samantha’s eyes flew open and she sat up. She must have fallen asleep. The room was dark, and in the distance she could hear the sounds of a tinny piano. She turned over and checked Nicholas. He felt cooler now. Relieved, she lay there a while but couldn’t go back to sleep. She thought she heard Elunami moving around in the next room.
She slipped out of bed, walked to the door connecting her room to the girl’s, and opened it. Elunami’s room was quiet, but something alarmed her. Then she saw what it was: Elunami was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the light of the moon. The air around the girl seemed to shimmer, as if it had become visible. Then Elunami turned her head…and the sensation passed.
“What are you doing?” Samantha asked.
“You had a dream,” Elunami said softly.
Image fragments returned briefly to shimmer on the edge of Samantha’s mind. “It was about—about…” She struggled to remember. Saw herself kneeling inside a circle of entrapping swords, her hands up to fend off her doom. Outside the ring of swords and to her left stood a stern, angry man. To his right crouched three women, robed in black, with white, ugly faces, snake hair, and leathery bat wings. In the distance, menacing clouds hung over mountain peaks. One of the women beckoned her to slip through the ring of swords, but Samantha shook her head. The woman pushed aside the swords, so Samantha could leave without hurting herself, but Samantha motioned the woman away. The memory of it left her trembling.
“How did you know about my dream?” she asked.
“There is a power in me sometimes that knows things that I do not know. It is best not to question it.”
“What do you know about my dream?”
“It is one you have had before.”
Samantha nodded. It was one she’d had many times before. It glittered on the edge of her consciousness. Sometimes after this nightmare, she dreamed Lance came, saw her and her ranch in all its glory, and left his wife to be with her.
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Do you know what the dream means?”
Elunami felt despair suffocating her, dragging her down. If the señora knew that she, Elunami, had lost her own way, she would not ask for guidance.
“What should I do?” the señora asked again, softly. Elunami struggled up, out of herself. Outside the window, the eastern sky was gray. In a few hours the morning sun would eat the stars and stand up.
“It is not good to lose hope,” she whispered, bowing her head.
Samantha felt tears well in her eyes. She yearned so for what she could not have—the health of her son, the warmth and closeness of a life with her beloved. Her soul ached for Lance in a way it never could for another man. Her love for him was nobler, truer, purer. What she could feel for a man like Steve Sheridan was nothing compared to that.
Elunami appeared to have psychic powers. If they became friends, perhaps the girl would bring Lance back to her.
Joy quickened in Samantha. It is not good to lose hope. Someday, my beloved. Someday…
When at last the kind señora went back to bed, Elunami closed her eyes to meditate once more. Her soul had not been pulled up for a very long time, and now she felt almost desperate for it to happen. She needed some sign that the Great Mystery had received Tuvi’s soul, that it had not gone astray…
Chila woke at midnight and dressed in the dark. Usually if she had to get up at this hour after falling asleep, she’d be groggy, but not tonight. Remembering that Denny was in town energized her, gave her the strength to do whatever needed doing.
She was a foot shorter than Joe; his pants were almost too tight for her. A roll of flesh spilled out over the waistline. But she got them buttoned.
Dressed, she carefully loaded the .45 and slipped it into her pocket. It would not be easy getting around without being seen, but with her hair up under a man’s hat and her face half hidden by the shadows, she didn’t expect to be recognized.
Feet up on the windowsill, Steve leaned back and listened to sounds of men reveling in the saloons below. The piano played for a while, then became silent. Frogs and crickets sounded an incessant harmony. Every now and then a bird sang.
Samantha Forrester’s lovely face glowed on the surface of his mind, dazzling it the way her presence had earlier. As much as he might toy with the idea of staying, he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was afraid. He knew from past experiences with women that Samantha Forrester had the power to entangle him in emotional bonds and present him with nothing but maddening choices.
He couldn’t stay—no matter how lovely Samantha’s face looked when she strained up to kiss him. She was a beautiful woman, and his heart
beat with a heavy stroke at the memory of her—soft, sweet, and trembling in his arms—but such a woman would expect a man to marry and settle down and take care of her. There were things he couldn’t do in a little backwater camp like Picket Post.
Still, his soul stirred, reached out to her. He could feel part of himself trying to encircle her, to bind her to him, to bind himself to her. It was a part of him that had caused trouble before, caught him for a time—but only for a time.
Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe being raised by the Papago had turned him into a misfit among normal white people. Part of him still sought the simplicity of that old, placid life.
He didn’t remember his own parents. He remembered walking away from his home, knowing he didn’t intend to go back. But he couldn’t remember why. A time or two he’d tried to remember, but his mind always thwarted him. Whatever his secrets, they were well hidden.
He didn’t need to delve into all that, whatever it was. He was considered successful now. He and his partners had a waiting list of people who wanted houses built. Some of their customers were among the wealthiest in America.
Success was nice, but he never forgot that he hadn’t always been secure. At six, living among the desert Indians, contemptuously called the bean eaters by white men, he had already known he was unacceptable to most of the white people in the world, but he wasn’t exactly sure why. Then one day Crows Walking had bought him a suit of clothes like the white boys wore. One of the women had washed his hair and scrubbed him until he felt raw.
They had gone to a white funeral, that of a man who had occasionally hired Crows Walking’s brother. Afterward one of the white men gave Steve a penny. He ran to the general store. The owner’s wife, who had never had a kind word for him when he was dressed in rags, practically fawned over him.
Well, what have we here? she’d asked, putting aside her magazine and heaving her fleshy body from her chair. She had actually smiled at him while he decided between the licorice stick and the candy cane. Usually she didn’t get up until she had someone else to wait on. Then, grudgingly she would ask him what he wanted, reach into the big glass jar, and hold on to the candy until he gave her his penny.
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