Misplaced

by SL Hulen

  Chapter Thirty-three Khara

  The barn door was open. Knowing she had closed and locked it the evening before, Khara’s first steps inside were cautious. Sunshine invaded tiny cracks between the wooden slats, so the tack room was not completely dark. When she paused in the doorway to let her eyes adjust, her nostrils filled with the sweet smells of hay and moist earth. After few more steps, the heady essence of horses reached her. She reached for a bridle that hung just inside the doorway, rubbing the leather strap between her fingers. In that moment, she was home again.

  A shuffling noise from the opposite end of the barn jolted her back to reality. “Who’s there?” she called. The only response was the strong, hollow breath of animals.

  An enormous bay stood quietly in a stall bearing his name. Khara remembered Chris’s stern warning about his undisciplined spirit; she should not, under any circumstances, get too close. Luminous eyes watched as she stood in front of his stall. They regarded each other without hurry.

  Like many things at the Square-4 Ranch, Almos seemed to languish in the absence of his master. Reaching out, Khara cupped a hand around his ear and gently rubbed the soft fur inside. Here, the hands of Celeste’s ticking watch were useless. She stopped petting and took a calculated step backward. When he moved forward, his heavy chest pushing against the stall door, she grinned and went to him. Placing her forehead against his, she stroked the side of his neck.

  “When I learn to use a saddle, will you show me the forest?”

  He snorted and stamped a hoof into the straw. “It’s been too long since I had my nose in a field of grass,” he told her.

  Soon her heart was beating with the same slow deliberation as his. Her hand ran from the hard flatness of his forehead to the velvet nose. Ages had passed since Khara had felt such peace.

  There was that shuffling noise again. At the back of the barn, she saw a figure lurking in the shadows of a dozen stacked bales of hay.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Someone who belongs here,” was the answer. “The question is, who are you?”

  A young man with black hair stepped out, arms folded across his chest approached, his head tilted to one side. It was not the familiarity of his earthy skin and dark hair that drew her in; Khara was lured by his calm assurance and the mischief in his eyes. Watching her, his smile grew, as did the dimples in his cheeks. He did not regard her as someone to grovel over or shower with false compliments. He knew nothing about her, and for this she was overjoyed.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Oliver. You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

  The sound of his voice made her remember the rushing of the Nile during flood season. He came closer, tucking his hair behind his ear and watching her expectantly. Oliver wore the look of a skeptic, his left eyebrow noticeably higher over eyes the color of damp earth. His lips made her feel suddenly thirsty.

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  “What?”

  “A woman with nothing to say.”

  She was confounded. “I came to see the horses.”

  He pointed to Almos. “His name means ‘The Dreamt One.’” The big bay tossed his head at the sight of the bag of oats slung over Oliver’s shoulder. “You must be a friend of Celeste’s,” he commented as he moved toward the stall, filling the bucket with oats while Khara admired how his presence seemed to comfort the horses.

  “I’m a friend of her niece’s. Do you know Bea?”

  Only by reputation. She’s the apple of her auntie’s eye.”

  She stroked the horse’s neck. “Chris is going to teach me to ride.”

  “I could show you,” he rushed to say, and then laughed nervously. “I mean, Chris is always so busy. We could go this morning, if you’d like. I promised Celeste I’d tidy the arena, but I can do it later. It’s a good morning for a ride.”

  “In Egypt, we do not ride horses,” she explained, looking sheepishly at the strong, curved backs of the animals and wondered how the idea had escaped them. Aware that Oliver was staring at her, she suddenly felt warm. “You look different from the others here.”

  “My mother is Mescalero Apache” he admitted, his face seeming to light from within. “My grandmother says I have my mother’s features and my father’s coloring. The only thing harder than being Native American is to be only half,” he told her, almost apologetic. “But it’s not like you have a choice in these things.”

  “The combination suits you. Very well, in fact.” She found it impossible to keep from staring into his eyes. “I am Khara.”

  “That’s a somber name for such a beautiful girl. Are you serious about taking your first riding lesson?”

  She nodded, and Oliver grinned and led the bay out of the stall. Grabbing a blanket, he tossed it over Almos’s back, and then slowly ran his rough hands up and down each of the horse’s legs in a manner that filled Khara with unspeakable envy. With a slow, calm voice he quieted the animal and lowered the heavy saddle onto its back.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve taken him out, so we’ll let him feel the weight of the saddle on his back and get used to us. Apache don’t use saddles,” he said of the wonderful-smelling leather contraption.

  Oliver showed her that two fingers were used to measure if the saddle had been pulled tight enough, and how she must always approach from the left. He swung himself into the saddle to show her how to get up.

  “I wish to try,” she insisted.

  “Not on this bad boy. I don’t want to think what Celeste would do if anything happened to you,” he admitted, looking down as color flooded his cheeks. “Are you staying long?”

  “A few days, perhaps.”

  “Too bad,” he said quietly. “I’ll saddle Lucy up and we’ll be on our way.”

  When Oliver went to another stall, Khara battled the sudden urge to follow him. Instead, she moved outside the barn to imprint forever on her mind the penetrating green of the trees, the oculus of blue they formed overhead.

  On that first ride, she learned he was studying to be a veterinarian, which is what they called a physician to animals. He told her the story of the Native Americans, how they had come from poverty, alcoholism, and brink of destruction to regain some measure of influence through games of chance. Casinos, he called them. The tribe had sent him to the university after he’d promised that he would practice in the area after he graduated.

  “Someday,” he said with a conviction she understood only too well, “I will be the tribal leader.”

  Walt had befriended him when he was still a boy on the reservation, and encouraged him to study and use his gift with animals. He had even insisted that Oliver come to live with him.

  “He’s been like a father to me. Personally, I think he considers Celeste more than a friend. Every few days, he makes up some excuse to be here, though he denies it with every breath.”

  “Are you always in the barn so early in the morning?”

  “I do odd jobs when I can—feed and exercise the horses, clean out the barn.”

  They rode along a trail that climbed high on the mountain. Khara laid her head on Lucy’s shoulder, listening to the animal’s labored breath as they picked their way over the rocks and fallen trees cluttering the trail. Sometimes Oliver took her off the narrow path and into fields of bluebonnets or larkspurs. He showed her where the elk scraped the bark off the trees, and the tracks of a bear.

  When they stopped to let the horses feast on the tall grass, he leapt to the ground, and she dismounted to find him standing too close. Smelling of pine, leather, and maleness, his arched eyebrow implied some carnal mystery. He asked her why she wore a golden band around one boot.

  “It was given to me. For protection.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “Where I come from, things are very different.”

  “In what way?”

  “In all ways. Perhaps I can explain another time, but now I must get back.”

  “Let me sh
ow you something first,” he said, taking her hand. They let the horses graze and followed a wide trail strewn with large boulders. Soon Oliver stopped and pushed back the branches.

  They had left the world far below them. It seemed that if she stood on her toes, she could touch the clouds. Oliver pointed out the tiny patch that Khara could hardly believe was Celeste’s farm. The air felt crisp. Only her hand in his felt warm and of this earth.

  “My people once worshipped in this very spot; they thought of this place as the top of the world. On a day like today, you can see for more than a hundred miles.”

  He was right. Khara followed an ocean of green, watching it fade into spotty terrain and eventually into barren desert. She even saw the remnants of the sea of white sand where Nandor had appeared. She followed the direction his sweeping arm had taken that night. Pointing to a parched-looking expanse of grey— brown, she asked, “What lies there?”

  “I’ve brought you to the most beautiful place I know, and you’re interested in that chunk of wasteland?” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “There,” he said, pointing to the basin of white sand, “is the Tularosa Basin. It’s bordered by the Malpais, an ancient lava bed where nothing good has ever, or will ever, happen.” He stepped close behind her, his warm breath wilting her concentration. “And beyond, that flat stretch of waterless land is the Jornado del Muerto.”

  Khara could scarcely believe her ears. Hadn’t Nandor’s instructions that night in the desert been to begin with the journey of death? What if he had been pointing to a location? This possibility had never occurred to her. Perhaps, she thought with a slow smile, it was nothing more than a riddle, and her death was not required.

  Oliver interrupted her racing thoughts. “It was given that name to commemorate the settlers who died of thirst trying to cross it. And if that didn’t finish them off, the Apache often did.”

  Was this the reason Nandor had accustomed her to long treks over menacing deserts? “To make you ready” had been his only explanation. Ready for what, she’d always wondered. The bare expanse in the distance took her breath away. “If I were to follow this Journey of Death, where would it take me?”

  “There.” He pointed with his arm reaching over her shoulder, his cheek almost touching hers. “The trail leads to the Camino Real—the Royal Road. It ends in Santa Fe. You’re doing an impressive job of pretending to be interested.”

  “Am I?” She leaned closer and closed her eyes.

  “We could stay a while.”

  With a sudden rush of guilt, she pulled away. “Victoria will be worried.”

  They lingered at the summit long enough to observe a bald eagle riding the wind. Surely it was Horus himself, come to remind her that she must not forget herself with a man from a different world, a different time.

  It took every bit of her resolve to leave Oliver standing alone at the top of the world, looking bewildered. She hurried toward the waiting horses.

  “Hey, wait up!” he called after her. She quickened her step, stopping only to swing onto Lucy’s back and urge the mare forward.

  A somber mood gained force on the long ride back to the farm, with every step away from that sacred place. As though he understood her need for silence, Oliver said almost nothing.

  “I’m sorry if I was out of line,” he muttered.

  She turned away before he could see regret in her eyes. “Your apology is not necessary.”

  Several times she caught him watching her. Khara stared at the hands of the watch, wishing they would stop. But they marched cursedly toward the inevitable moment when she must leave this refuge and return home. Someday, she thought, surprised at the depth of sadness that fell over her to think that his face would soon be only a memory. When Oliver looked into her eyes, he laid bare her soul.

  When they’d reached the barn, Khara insisted on helping him put the horses away. Shoveling filth from the stalls and filling buckets of water lifted her sadness. As she and Oliver brushed and watered the animals, she wondered what her father would think if he saw her.

  As she set fresh straw down, Almos’s immense head nudged her shoulder. She combed her fingers through the lock of hair above his eyes, and the two of them watched Oliver put the saddles away. When not another chore could be found, he paused in front of the door.

  “Come tomorrow.” He could not hide the desperation in his voice. “We can ride, clean the stalls. I don’t care what we do, just be here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m late for class!” Her eyes followed him until he disappeared, and then she looked for Victoria. Khara found her at the main house, dancing between the pantry and the stove.

  Wiping a strand of floured hair from her forehead, Victoria grinned. “Where’ve you been, girlfriend?”

  She smiled. “I went riding with Oliver.”

  Victoria’s brows knitted tightly. “I thought you were going with Chris. Who the heck is Oliver?” she asked worriedly. “Did you tell him why we’re here?”

  “Of course not. Have I suddenly become an idiot?”

  “No, but you seem more than a little distracted.”

  “Oliver is Walt’s student. One day he will lead the Apache nation.”

  “Impressive. Where did you meet him?”

  “In the barn.” Victoria looked at her. Hands on hips, Khara employed a tactic learned from her father. “You wish to say something?”

  “Only that Celeste and her stack of books have been waiting for you in there,” Victoria informed her as she nodded toward the front room. “But before you go, taste this,” she said and offered a spoon filled with dark stew.

  Khara’s mouth blazed. “What is it?”

  “Chili con carne, New Mexican style.”

  “I think you’ve found your true vocation.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject with compliments.” Victoria marshaled her from the kitchen and out to Celeste, who waited by the fire. “Poor General,” she said sadly of the orange cat, ragged and missing a good-sized piece of his left ear. “He’s getting too old to do much except sleep. Come, child, and sit with us.”

  The afternoon passed with a grand depiction of the Renaissance. Khara’s attention occasionally wandered to thoughts of Oliver, and particularly of his dimples. Sunlight streamed through the windows, onto the flowered sofa and needlepoint pillows, and the air smelled wonderfully of garlic and burning piñon. Khara removed her riding boots and sat on the rug near the fire.

  “So, you see, most of the superb architecture and magnificent works of art would never have come about in the absence of a single invention.”

  “The printing press accomplished all of this?

  “Not directly, but within a fairly short time knowledge became accessible to the masses.”

  “Why would the rulers knowingly allow this?”

  “Because it led to higher education and that, my dear led to better lives for the masses. So much of what we enjoy now is a result of that time.”

  Khara mulled over this for some time. “Leonardo da Vinci’s intelligence must surely have been a divine gift, and yet the science he gave the world is at least partially responsible for religion being swept into the wind.”

  “Another excellent, if not slightly confusing, observation,” mused Celeste. “Tell me,” Khara began, as though it were a great secret, “have there been women rulers to rival Napoleon?”

  Celeste moved so her face was quite close to Khara’s. She smelled of the flowers in her garden. “Do not take that lesson back with you. You need look no further for a strong woman,” she confided, pointing into the kitchen. “Our hands,” she pronounced as she took Khara’s hand and placed it over her own heart so Khara understood she meant the hands of all women, “must not be the hands of violence.”

  Her words made Khara want to fall to her knees. This was not Nandor’s message of war to which she had become so accustomed, or her father’s unremitting wisdom, which seemed so far from her grasp. These were words she understood in
stinctively; as soon as she heard them, they became her own. When Celeste saw tears welling, she brushed Khara’s cheek. “Too many revelations for one day?” she asked quietly.

  Khara nodded and laid her head on the chair’s padded arm. Cool fingers traced a soothing path across her forehead.

  Part of her couldn’t wait to tell Victoria about the Jornada del Muerto, and yet she wanted time with Oliver, whom her heart had recognized instantly. Like her, he seemed trapped between two worlds. And what would be the harm of a few more lazy afternoons for Victoria to stir her troubles away in the kitchen?

  That evening, Lila and Chris went into town for dinner, something they rarely did. After a hearty meal of chili and cornbread, Victoria casually said that she and Khara had surely worn out their welcome and should be on their way.

  Celeste held up her hand. “Nonsense. Besides, I’ve ordered a telescope; Khara’s going to see the constellations up close and personal. And on Friday, we’re getting satellite TV.” Celeste winked at Victoria. “You didn’t think I’d do a half-assed job, did you?”

  With full bellies and contented hearts, the decision to stay was no decision at all. They would return to El Paso and make travel plans for Egypt soon enough. In the meantime, Victoria would continue to use the library to check on her work, and Khara would spend tomorrow morning with Oliver.

  Just as they had at the apartment, she and Victoria fell into a schedule that suited everyone. Each morning, after a cup of coffee sweetened by her shameless eagerness to get to the barn, they went their separate ways. Nestled among the bales of hay, Khara shared Celeste’s lessons with Oliver. She struggled to keep her terrible secret, though there were times when wrapped in each other’s arms, their noses touching, she could easily have confided how Menefra had murdered their father. What she never considered admitting was her travel through time or her true identity. On this, Victoria’s cautionary warning could not be faulted. Besides, she had given her word. Perhaps her desire to reveal everything to him was a substitute for her growing desire to lie with him. Wanting him so badly was to blame for her loose tongue.

  Sometimes, they would stop talking, and Oliver would pull her to him. She would drink in the smell of hay and sink her lips onto his. By then, the musky warmth of his skin had rendered her senses useless. He would laugh, take her hand, and rest it on his heart while they cooled off. “Shameless girl,” he teased. Her fingers stroked the crevices between his ribs, the knotted muscles of his stomach.