Books by Linda Conrad

by Conrad, Linda

  “That’s our cousin Ben Wauneka,” Lucas said softly. “He’s a medical doctor, a crystal gazer and one of the Brotherhood. He’s come to treat Hunter in the traditional way. We should wait with the family,” Lucas continued. When she hesitated, he tugged on her arm. “In the waiting room.”

  She let him drag her away from the large, open ICU suite and down the hall. The waiting room was crowded with people. There was no place left to sit and hardly any way to talk over the din.

  “Why don’t we ask my father to help get us a private waiting room?” she whispered.

  “These are Hunter’s family members. And this is a private waiting room just for us.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  Lucas reintroduced her to Audrey Long, Hunter’s mother, whom she hadn’t seen in eight years. Mrs. Long in turn introduced her sister, Louise Ayze, her brother-in-law and her fiancé, who were all sitting with her. Hunter’s brother, Kody, introduced his wife, Reagan, a pretty redhead holding their new baby boy in her arms.

  So much family. It was intimidating. But Mrs. Long was kind, and went out of her way to make Bailey feel as though she belonged. As though everyone knew and accepted that she was part of the group who loved Hunter.

  Another couple were standing off in a corner. Bailey recognized Michael Ayze, but not the beautiful blond woman with him. Lucas took her elbow and guided her over.

  “Bailey Howard, please meet Dr. Tory Wauneka. She is the wife of our cousin Ben, and is also the plant tender for the Brotherhood.”

  “Dr.? Uh…plant tender?”

  The blonde smiled. “Just call me Tory. It’s a long story. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it sometime. Maybe I’ll be able to fill you in while we wait for Hunter’s ceremony. That is, if you’re really interested.”

  Bailey turned to Lucas. “Hunter’s ceremony? What kind of ceremony?” All she could think of was that the man she loved must be dying and someone would be coming to say prayers over him.

  Lucas didn’t smile, but his expression softened. “It’s true our cousin the warrior is very ill, but he will survive. I have seen it.

  “But,” Lucas hedged, “he must be cleansed with an Enemy Way ceremony. Michael Ayze will perform it soon enough. The Brotherhood will not lose Hunter Long.”

  Bailey shifted to address Michael. “What’s an Enemy Way ceremony?”

  “Our ancestors were great warriors,” Michael began softly. “But it’s not part of our religion to kill—even in battle. So when a warrior has had to take a life, he must be cleansed of the deed in an Enemy Way ceremony. It’s one of our most ancient and least-used sings.

  “It doesn’t take days like most sings,” he added in an afterthought. “But it will take many hours. The hospital has granted us permission to hold the ceremony in the ICU. There aren’t any other patients at the moment. I’ll begin as soon as Ben has finished his examination.”

  “Hours?” She didn’t think she could stand not being able to see Hunter for hours.

  “The Brotherhood will be there with him,” Tory told her. “And Reagan and I will keep you company. We’ll be here for you.”

  “But…” The tears came out of nowhere and she had to swallow hard to fight them off. “That’s very kind of you.”

  She was really thinking she’d rather be with Hunter. What if he needed her? What if he was really dying?

  “Part of learning our ways is understanding patience,” Lucas told her. “If you expect to stay and be accepted, you must learn the traditions.”

  “Stay in Dinetah? Why would you say that? I haven’t even decided myself yet.”

  Lucas actually smiled this time. “The decision has been made in your heart. Have the patience to let your head catch up.”

  Yeah, okay. Lucas was a little weird. But no one else seemed to notice or be bothered by what he said.

  She would do as he’d suggested and practice having patience. Even if it killed her.

  “I can’t stand waiting,” Bailey said four hours later.

  Mrs. Long had taken her grandson and gone home with most of her family to get a little sleep. They would return right after dawn.

  Bailey had already heard Reagan’s story about coming to the reservation to find her father, and running into Skinwalker troubles. Tory had told the story of how she’d been sent to the reservation to pay off her medical school loans. And the tale of how she’d learned to be the plant tender from an amazing woman named Shirley Nez, who had then been killed in a Skinwalker battle.

  Their accounts had been filled with Skinwalker terror, but they were also stories about finding love. Both women had managed to keep Bailey from hysterics, but she’d never once stopped thinking about Hunter.

  Reagan put an arm around her. “The waiting gets easier after a year or so. Are you hungry? Want a chocolate bar from the machine?”

  “No, thanks.” Whoa. Refusing chocolate? What a stunner. The addiction must be releasing its terrible grip on her body. Or else her brain had been fried with the worry about Hunter.

  Reagan spoke to Tory over Bailey’s head. “Kody said he’s located a special satellite phone system for the Brotherhood to use—finally. I’ve been nagging him about it for months. To think that they’ve been relying on old-fashioned cell technology all this time—well, it’s just beyond imagining. He’s with the FBI, for pity’s sake. He should know better.”

  Bailey knew the change of topic was meant to help her focus on other things. It was a nice thought, and she only wished she could.

  Though in the back of Bailey’s mind, right beside the worry about Hunter, a new thought began to emerge. These two new wives had both found ways of helping the Brotherhood. There must be something she could do, too.

  But that idea would have to wait. Right now, all she wanted was to have Hunter healthy and back on his feet.

  15

  Bailey leaned forward in her chair, easing toward Hunter’s sleeping form. She gingerly picked up his hand, but he didn’t stir in his hospital bed.

  She couldn’t help herself. Needing to touch him, needing to make a connection, she squeezed his fingers gently.

  It had already been forty-eight hours since his operation, and this morning they’d moved him out of ICU. The many tubes in his arms were gone, but he still had a cuff attached, monitoring his blood pressure.

  Hunter’s body was healing, but Bailey’s health was in question. She hadn’t slept for over two hours at a time since they’d been brought to the hospital.

  She’d tried. But until Hunter was on his feet, she didn’t feel comfortable getting off of hers.

  He looked so vulnerable like this, sleeping the day away. She understood that he’d lost a lot of blood and needed his rest. But she also knew there hadn’t been any other internal injuries besides the broken ribs and the punctured lung. Thank heaven.

  She would give anything if only he would wake up and talk to her. Talk to her about how much he loved her. Talk to her about a future.

  An Anglo nurse bustled into the room. “There you are, Ms. Howard. I need to take your blood pressure and temperature. The doctors are concerned about you developing an infection. That arm wound isn’t healing properly.”

  “Later, please,” she whispered as she stood and moved away from the bed.

  The nurse shook her head. “It won’t do Special Investigator Long any good for you to make yourself sicker. You need your rest. Your body is straining to keep on running without a break. You have a room near here,” the nurse added. “Why don’t you use it?”

  “I’m not leaving him unless he tells me to go.”

  Bailey relented enough to let the woman do her job and take her vital signs. However, she had no intention of moving far from Hunter’s bedside.

  With her immediate chores accomplished, the nurse tried one more time to convince Bailey to get some sleep. When that didn’t work, the woman shrugged and left the room.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” Hunter asked in a low, raspy voice. “Still refusing to
take the pain medication because of your addiction, slick?”

  “Oh, Hunter. You’re awake.” She took three steps forward and picked up his hand again. Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. “How are you feeling?”

  When his gaze cleared enough to focus on her, what Hunter saw threw him. Bailey’s face was pale, her eyes sunken in her head. Under them were deep purple smudges. She’d never looked so haggard, not even in their worst moments after the shaft fire.

  His gut wrenched at the sight of her. Raising his head and inching his shoulders higher on the pillow, he patted the bed beside him.

  “I’ve been better,” he said, and managed a grin despite the sharp pain in his ribs. “But I’ve also been worse. Come talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She seemed hesitant to sit down. “You sure I won’t hurt you?”

  He held out his hand, but didn’t answer. “Are you in pain? Is the cut on your arm bothering you?”

  Shaking her head, she wrapped her arms around her waist in a gesture that said her pain was coming from a wounded spirit, not a wounded body.

  He left his arm stretched toward her. “Sit down and tell me about what happened after I was shot.”

  “Don’t you remember?” Bailey finally eased down beside him.

  “It isn’t clear. I want to hear it from you.”

  “Well…I was so scared. I thought…I thought you were dying. I shoved a wad of material under your shirt against the wound and ran for the phone. It was—”

  “Before that.” There was something she was avoiding. Something she needed to say.

  “You mean when the knife cut my arm? I didn’t have time to think about it.” She let a pensive silence linger between them for a few moments.

  “Slick, I think there’s something else. What about when I killed that goon with my knife? Did that bother you?”

  “The guy deserved it. He tried to kill me,” she said with a tilt of her chin. “You should’ve killed Mr. Smelly, too. He was even worse. He tried to kill you.”

  “What happened to him?

  She actually smiled, but it was a vacant smile that didn’t suit her face. “When the FBI arrived, our old buddy was sniveling and whimpering incoherently. He wasn’t physically injured so much as he was out of his mind. They tied him to a stretcher, to wait for a second medevac helicopter. But when those medics finally arrived,” she continued, “they found him dead.”

  “Dead? What happened?”

  Bailey shrugged a shoulder. “No one knew until they had an autopsy done yesterday in Farmington. Apparently he’d been bitten by some poisonous insect.”

  “Skinwalkers.” The word popped out of his mouth. It wasn’t a question.

  “I guess.” She raised her chin, looking much like a defeated warrior who refused to give up until beaten into the ground. But her eyes burned with some still-unspoken horror. He wished she would let him take her in his arms and make whatever it was go away. She was holding back, however, and that made him even more concerned about the welfare of her spirit.

  “Bailey,” he whispered. “What happened to the director?”

  Before he’d even finished the question, she was shaking her head, begging him with her eyes not to ask.

  “I…He…” At last her shoulders slumped, her face crumpled and tears welled up, cascading down her cheeks. “I shot him,” she said through huge gulps. “Oh, Hunter, I actually killed a man.”

  For a moment he felt a blast of pure panic. What could he say? She needed a curing sing. But it would take time to set one up. How could he help her right now?

  Then he looked into her tear-streaked face and knew immediately what she was in need of first. Pulling a few tissues from the box on the nightstand with his good hand, he helped her wipe her nose.

  “Why don’t you lean back here beside me for a moment,” he said as gently as possible. “It’s okay to cry it out, slick. No one will know.” Ignoring his complaining ribs, he inched over in the bed a little to give her room.

  He used his good arm again to tug her closer. She slowly complied, lying down and curling up in a tight ball next to him.

  “Listen to me, Bailey,” he whispered into her hair. “You didn’t kill a man. The director was a Skinwalker. They’ve taken the path away from humanity. Away from their clans and everything it means to be Navajo.”

  Her sobs slowed, and he relaxed, nestling closer to her body. The warmth and the sweet smell of her felt so right that his own tension began to dissolve.

  “Remember, it was either our lives or a monster’s existence,” he murmured. “You did what you had to. You did the right thing.”

  She didn’t move and seemed to be quieting down, so he buried his nose in her hair and closed his eyes. Understanding what she was going through helped him to know what she needed the most. Many times he’d been exactly where she was.

  “Rest, slick,” he said in the quietest whisper imaginable. “Go to sleep and let it go. I’m here. And I’m not going anyplace.”

  For six straight hours, he fought off nurses and hospital administrators so she could sleep in his bed. Her doctor finally relented and allowed it, because she’d needed the rest so badly. And through all the negotiations, Bailey never even stirred.

  The next day, however, she was awake and stirring magnificently—and in his opinion, most annoyingly, too.

  “Just do it for me,” he muttered through tight lips. “It’s important for you to find balance again.”

  “I don’t want to leave you until you’re on your feet.”

  He gave her a furious glare. “I’m up, damn it. See?”

  Maybe he was bent over like an eighty-year-old, but he was out of bed and walking around, finally. And as soon as he could manage to escape the nurses, he would be long gone from this place. He’d had enough of being prodded and poked. His body would heal just fine outside.

  “You need the curing ceremony as soon as possible, slick,” he argued. “Michael Ayze has agreed to stop everything else so you can be cured of your demons. He’s one of the best singers in Dinetah. And I’ll try to get there later for support. But you need to start right away.”

  “I don’t know. Where is my sing supposed to take place?” She looked unsure, and the expression on her face was so not like the Bailey he knew.

  Hunter was more certain than ever that she needed to be cured. And soon.

  “Your father has arranged to hold the sing out at your grandmother’s ceremonial hogan. Family support is a big part of what it takes to be cured. But you’ll also have the Brotherhood and my mother there to see you through the ceremony. It’ll be fine, slick. Really. You need this so you can go on with your life—your future.”

  “But what will I have to do? I don’t know anything about sings.”

  “Just let it happen. Pay attention to Michael. He’ll help you.”

  “Well, all right. But what about you? Will you be okay if I go?”

  His heart squeezed in his chest. He’d been preparing himself for her to go almost since the minute he’d seen her again. He knew her leaving was the right way. The only way. But is was also the worst thing he could possibly imagine.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said as he turned his back to her. He couldn’t bear to see her walk away, but he knew it was for the best.

  “Hunter…?”

  “I need to take a shower. My hair still smells like smoke and I want to clean up,” he told her, trying his best to sound as though it meant nothing to him. “You go on. I’ll catch up to you tonight.”

  He began shuffling off toward the bathroom and heard her turn to leave. Holding his breath, he waited until he heard the door softly close behind her.

  Bent double by the powerful aching in his chest, he folded his arms tightly around his middle. He could swear it felt as if his heart had walked right out that door with her. And there was nothing he could do. No medicine or sing that could cure him.

  Bailey waited for Michael Ayze to finish speaking to her fath
er. She absently stared at her fingertips and suddenly realized how chipped and broken her nails had become.

  Her feet were callused. Her hair would need an all-day salon treatment before she could get a comb through it again. She hadn’t shaved her legs in two weeks, and there were purple or yellow bruises on every inch of her body.

  And it was only when she stopped to concentrate like this that she even remembered to care.

  “Are you about ready, Bailey?” Michael took her elbow and began leading her toward the empty ceremonial hogan.

  “What are you going to do? How does this sing work?”

  Michael stopped and studied her face in the low light of dusk. “You and I will be alone in the hogan, with only the fire for lighting. There are many chants and herbs I’ll be using, but you just sit quietly and pay attention. Your friends and family will be out here, standing by if you need them. But you’ll have to trust me completely.

  “The most complicated part of the ceremony is when I draw sacred paintings in the sand. They can take days to complete.”

  He watched her expression as she gave him her most skeptical look. “I’ll try to speed it up some for you,” he told her with a low chuckle. “And we’ll stop to take a break in the middle.”

  “If the sand paintings take so long, what do you do with them when the ceremony is over?” she asked. “If you’re such an artist, will you sell them?”

  Shaking his head, Michael began moving toward the hogan again. “That would be sacrilegious. The paintings must be destroyed for the cure to be complete.”

  “Oh.” She stopped before entering the formidable-looking, eight-sided building. “I guess I don’t really understand this whole balance thing. I suppose Anali’s lessons when I was a kid didn’t stick with me.”

  Michael stopped just short of the doorway and placed his hands on her shoulders. “To live a life of beauty and balance is what all Navajos strive for. The core concept is about one being present in this world. It’s about having a sense of community, of belonging somewhere. And about knowing, without considering your bank accounts, that you have worth. That whoever you are, whatever your talents, you are a needed and wanted member of the Dine.”