Tears of the Shaman

by Rebecca Daniels

  “Like water running?”

  She turned to him. “Yes, that’s it. Water.”

  Graywolf continued stacking the kindling, getting the fire ready to light. “There’s a creek just over that bluff.”

  Mallory stood up, the hot wind making her sweat-soaked shirt feel clammy and uncomfortable. “A creek?”

  Graywolf searched through their supplies until he found the matches. “Yeah, it comes down from the high ground,” he said, motioning with his chin to the jagged canyon wall that soared up at the horizon. “Runs along the canyon just over there. They can get pretty swollen this time of year.”

  Mallory squinted in the direction he’d indicated, noting the richness of the vegetation. “Is it close enough... I mean, could I walk over?”

  Graywolf struck the match head against the sandpaper strip along the box. “What for? We’ve got plenty of water.”

  “I know,” she said, glancing down at him. “I just thought maybe I could, you know.” She shrugged, gesturing at her sweat-stained shirt. “Wash up a little.”

  The dry grass and kindling caught, and the campfire slowly began to come to life. “You know, the temperature’s going to start dropping as soon as the sun goes down,” he said.

  She glared at him and swiped at the perspiration on her forehead. “But it’s hot now.“

  He looked up. The annoyance in her voice was obvious. It had been a long day, and a blistering one, and for some reason he just couldn’t seem to stop acting like a bastard. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it,” he con-ceded, feeling just a little contrite. He watched as she turned and started toward the bluff. “Why don’t you grab that canteen? Might as well fill it up while you’re at it.”

  Mallory dutifully retrieved the round, insulated canteen from the back of the Jeep and slung it over her shoulder. She had taken only a few steps when he stopped her again.

  “It gets dark faster here in the canyons,” he pointed out, tossing a larger piece of wood onto the fire. “Better not be gone long.”

  “I won’t,” she said, starting out again. “Just a few minutes.”

  “Watch your footing,” he warned. “It’s rough along there.”

  She rolled her eyes and kept on walking. “I will.”

  “And don’t get lost.”

  She sighed heavily. “I won’t.”

  “And keep an eye open for snakes.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks. “Snakes?”

  He almost laughed at the look on her face. “Yeah, snakes.”

  “There are snakes around here?”

  He saw the doubtful expression. “There are snakes everywhere around here. Just be careful, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, eyeing the ground suspiciously.

  She followed the sound of the water, over the bluff, and across the canyon floor. Despite the long shadows and weakening sunlight, the air was stifling and sweat poured down her forehead and into her eyes. To her surprise, the creek turned out to be a fast-moving torrent, which twisted over its rocky bed, churning white and frothy. The water cut a path along the cliff, dropping down from a ridge in a short waterfall.

  Mallory hadn’t thought she’d seen anything so beautiful in her life. The water looked clear and inviting, and seemed to call out to her hot, tired body. Her intention had been to just dip a hand in, cool off her flushed face and sweaty arms, but all she could think about was the feel of the crisp, clean water against her overheated skin. A bath. She was almost ready to kill for one.

  She glanced around quickly, considering the idea. There certainly was no one around to see her—no one but Graywolf around for miles, in fact—and the thick, lush greenery along the bank provided a solid barrier between her and Graywolf back at camp. She had a clean T-shirt back in the Jeep—one of Marissa’s—and a spare pair of underwear.

  She looked around again. It probably wasn’t such a good idea, but the thought of a clean body and fresh clothes was too great a temptation. She squatted to the ground, and began to unlace her boots.

  * * *

  Graywolf paced back to the camp fire. His shadow stretched out long on the ground in front of him, extending over the rocks and the tumbleweeds in a crazy, disjointed form. He stopped, resting his hands on his hips and glancing up to the sky. Streaks of color marked the clouds—pink, rose and burgundy.

  “Damn woman,” he growled aloud, kicking at the small pile of firewood he’d gathered. Where the hell was she? It was getting late, and she’d been gone too long.

  With an exasperated sigh, he checked his watch again. Twenty-seven minutes. It felt more like hours, but it was still longer than he was comfortable with. He’d told her it would be getting dark, he’d told her to watch her step, and he’d told her to come right back. He’d told her.... But apparently she hadn’t heard a thing. Where was she?

  He turned and stalked back toward the Jeep. It would serve her right if something happened, if she’d gotten lost and couldn’t find her way back. He should let her wander around the darkness for a while and see how she liked it. See how anxious she’d be to go out wandering on her own again.

  He glanced in the direction of the bluff, hearing the sound of the water and feeling the muscles in his stomach tighten. He’d known small creeks to swell rapidly in the spring, and their swift currents could be treacherous at times. He’d never thought to ask her if she could swim—he’d just assumed...but he should know better than to assume anything when it came to the whites. Growing up on the reservation kids learned quick to swim and climb and take care of themselves.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of ten-year-old Mallory and her twin sister. What kind of world had they grown up in? What kinds of games had they played, what kinds of dreams did they dream?

  He stared at Mallory’s smiling face, and then at her sister’s. There was no need for special insight or divining skill to know they had known nothing but the best in life. Never would they have known a day without a full belly and a warm bed. There always would have been clothes on their backs and shoes that fit their feet. There would have been none of the hardships and difficulties, none of the despair and hopelessness, that had marred too many lives of children on the reservation.

  Was that what fascinated him so? Is that what he saw in her—all the hopes and dreams that he’d had to put on hold, all the chances and possibilities that had been lost to a world of poverty and neglect?

  He slipped the picture back into his pocket, staring out across the bluff again. He didn’t want to think about all that now. All he wanted was her back here—now!

  He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Where was she? What was she doing? Had she fallen down? Stumbled over a rock? Twisted her ankle? Had she been frightened by something—a field mouse, a coyote, a...snake.

  He started for the bluff at a run. He was through waiting. It was getting cooler, and the milder temperatures would bring out the snakes. He was no baby-sitter, but like it or not he had an obligation to keep the woman safe. He was going to find her and bring her back to camp—Seven if that meant he had to drag her back kicking and screaming.

  Chapter 7

  He could only stand there and stare. She was more than just a woman, more than a vision, more than beauty. She was perfection.

  The breath left his lungs in a long, slow sigh. He hadn’t been prepared for this—not the sight of her beneath the pulsating spray of the waterfall. Sprinting down the shallow bluff from their campsite, he’d half expected to find her wandering around—lost and confused. It wouldn’t even have surprised him to have found her injured, or hurt. But this...in a million years he hadn’t expected this.

  He knew he should look away, knew he should divert his eyes, turn around, walk away, leave her to the privacy she thought she had. But he couldn’t seem to do that. He couldn’t move, he could barely breathe. And so he stood there, hidden in the tangled overgrowth, and watched her.

  Her skin was the color of honey—rich, golden and flawless. In her clothes she looke
d tall and slender—without them she was beautifully rounded. Her hair streamed down her back, made dark from the water. It looked like wet silk, slick and glossy. The water coursed over her, leaving droplets in its wake and making him thirsty to drink its dew from her skin.

  His body roared to life. It didn’t matter that he disliked and distrusted her. It didn’t matter than she wasn’t Navajo, that she was everything he’d come to loathe, everything he held in contempt. She was a woman, and as a man he couldn’t deny that he wanted her.

  A gust of wind blew, beating against his hot skin and sending dust circles dancing. Almost in a trance, he watched as she closed her eyes, letting the water flow over her, sending tiny rivulets streaming down her soft, pink breasts, and felt his mouth go dry. He wanted to close the distance between them, wanted to gather her cool, clean body next to his. He wanted to touch her, to taste the honey of her skin, to bury himself in the sweet valley of her breasts and coax their soft, pink centers to harden and turn dark. He wanted her to reach for him as she had in the dream, plead to him to come to her.

  But a harsh sound from above broke the spell, bringing reality crashing down around him. A hawk circling high in the sky above the creek shrieked loudly, causing a jackrabbit to dart wildly from a bush on the far side of the stream. Graywolf jumped, wrenched violently from his daydream by the sudden intrusion. Mallory, too, had heard the disturbance. With hands crossed over her breasts, she ran for the bank and reached for her clothes.

  Graywolf dropped his gaze, slowly stepping back into the shadows. He was disgusted. What was he doing, standing there watching her like some kind of pervert? What had he been thinking? He had no right being there, no right watching her, no right wanting her.

  He turned and soundlessly made his way back to camp. He cursed himself, shame tasting dark and bitter on his tongue. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more—his behavior, or the realization that he wanted the white woman. His behavior was inexcusable, but wanting her was out of the question.

  He’d had no right to invade her privacy, to intrude on her solitude. It wasn’t as though she’d been careless or bold. She’d chosen an isolated spot, had been justified in believing herself to be safe from observation. And although he was convinced she’d had no idea he’d been there, no clue that he had seen her, he felt guilty and ashamed. It hadn’t been like the dream where she’d enticed him to come to her, or lured him into watching. He could have quietly backed away, could have turned away and no one would have been the wiser. And if he had, maybe he would have spared himself a lot of grief.

  But the fact is he hadn’t. He’d stood there in the bushes and watched, rendered motionless—and nearly witless—by the sight of her. He’d stood there and felt his body’s reaction, felt a desire inside him he didn’t welcome, and wanted no part of.

  The small camp fire had burned low, and Graywolf reached for several pieces of the firewood he’d gathered. The sun was setting, and as he’d predicted, the wind had taken a turn toward cooler. He tossed the wood onto the embers and stoked them until the flames burned bright. She would want the fire’s warmth by the time she returned. She would be cold—and wet.

  He thought again of her beneath the spray of the falls, of her softly curved body and delicate white skin, and closed his eyes to the surge of emotion that assailed him. Somehow he had to find a way to forget, find a way to ignore the desire pounding inside him. This wasn’t the woman for him—no white woman was—and it was up to him to remember that.

  “You’re right.”

  Graywolf bolted violently at the sound of her voice. He looked up from the fire, finding her searching through her backpack near the Jeep. “What?”

  “I said you were right,” she repeated, gathering up a few pieces of fresh clothing and heading for the tent. “It is turning cool.”

  He just nodded as she disappeared inside the tent. But she was out again in a few minutes, sporting a clean, dry T-shirt.

  “Your hair’s wet,” he said, feeling awkward with the playacting. He knew exactly how it had gotten that way.

  Mallory’s hand went to her hair, and she smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it is. I sort of ended up with more of a shower than just washing up,” she confessed. “The stream was really quite large, and there was a waterfall. I was so sticky and hot, I just couldn’t resist.” She rubbed a hand over the opposite arm. “I feel a hundred percent better now.”

  Graywolf glanced back to the fire, trying not to notice the outline of her breasts against the T-shirt. It was too easy to remember how they had looked beneath the water’s spray with their soft fullness and dusky centers.

  He shook his head and cleared his throat loudly. “You should probably stay close to the fire now, though,” he said, poking at the flames with a stick. “So you won’t catch a chill.”

  “It feels good,” she said, sitting across the fire from him and warming her hands. “Have you eaten yet?”

  Graywolf shook his head. “No. Would you like something?”

  Mallory smiled and nodded. “Actually, I’m starving.”

  Graywolf turned and reached for the box of canned goods that Hosteen Johnny had packed. “What do you feel like tonight—beans, fruit cocktail, hash or...” He picked up the last can and shrugged. “Or more beans?”

  “No more SpaghettiOs?”

  He held the smile. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged, tossing a small twig into the fire. “You decide, then. What can I do to help?”

  He handed her a small skillet, then pulled out a can of corned beef hash and a can of fruit cocktail and began opening them with his knife. He handed her the hash, and while she scooped it into the skillet, he found the beef jerky and pulled out several large strips. He offered one of the strips to Mallory, and she hungrily gnawed off a piece.

  “This is delicious jerky,” she said, savoring the salty-spicy flavor. “This has got to be homemade. Do you make it yourself?”

  “You’re just hungry.” Graywolf took the skillet back from her and set it over the embers. He wasn’t in the mood for her schoolgirl manners or her friendly chitchat. He found them condescending and irritating. Why the incessant need to talk? The Navajo liked silence, understood it, were comfortable with it. Why couldn’t she just shut up?

  “Well, you’re right about that,” Mallory agreed with a friendly shrug. “But I’m serious, this is great. I haven’t had jerky like this in a long time. Where do you get it?”

  “They sell little packages of the stuff in every convenience store in the country,” he said sarcastically, sure now that she was patronizing him. “Even in D.C.”

  If Mallory noticed his sarcasm, she ignored it. Instead, she made a face. “Yuck, you call that stuff jerky?”

  He looked up at her. “You don’t, I take it.”

  She shook her head. “My Grampa used to make jerky when we were kids. He used to let Marissa and me help. I gotta tell you, I hated having to slice that meat. Grampa would say, ‘Thinner, make it thinner,’” she said, mocking his voice and mannerisms. She laughed then, biting off another mouthful of dried meat and gazing into the fire. “He would work for days getting his special marinade just right—all the spices and seasonings. I can still remember the smell.” She held up the piece of jerky in her hand. “This is the best I’ve had since then.”

  Graywolf took a wooden spoon from his small cache of supplies and stirred the frying hash in the skillet. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to know about her life and her background. He didn’t want her to be any more real to him than she was right now. “My grandfather makes it.”

  Mallory reached for a plastic spoon from a paper bag and took a scoop of fruit from the can. “See? I knew it. You can’t get jerky like this out of a package.” She took another bite, her jaws working hard to chew. “Randy hated jerky. I could never understand that.”

  “Randy?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she finished chewing and swallowed. “Randy, my husband.”

  Graywolf’s
heart lurched in his chest. “You’re married. I...didn’t know.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, setting the rest of her jerky aside. Suddenly she didn’t feel so hungry anymore. “Not any longer.”

  The wave of pain passed so quickly across her face he would have missed it completely if he hadn’t been looking right at her. “You’re divorced I take it?”

  “Divorced,” she mumbled, squeezing her lids closed tight and rubbing them. “Have you ever thought about what an ugly word that is?”

  He studied her carefully, remembering how the water had flowed over her rich, honeyed skin. What kind of a man would walk away from beauty like that? “I guess that depends on whether you were the one who wanted it or not.”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “No it doesn’t. It’s an ugly word no matter what the circumstances. I mean divorce. Can you think of a more sanitary term? Why don’t we just call it what—a failure, a screw-up, a huge mistake. We’re always trying to anaesthetize the end of a marriage, trying to make it sound more palatable. Divorce.” She made a quiet, snorting laugh. “It’s really just a dressed up way of saying loser.”

  The anger in her voice surprised him, and he wasn’t sure if it was insight or foresight that made him understand she used the harsh, bitter words to cover a very deep hurt. “I take it that it wasn’t an amicable split?”

  She sat back, surprised. “Oh no, it was amicable. I mean, I think Randy and I both realized it had been a mistake, that we really weren’t what the other needed.”

  He eased the pan of hash away from the flames. “Then what’s the problem?”

  Her eyes narrowed defensively. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s obvious you have some regrets,” he said flippantly, feeling unreasonably antagonistic. Why did the thought of her married to another man make him so uncomfortable? “If you both agreed it wasn’t working, what’s the problem?”