He shoved his foot down hard onto the clutch, and reached for the gearshift knob. He told himself he would deal with that when the time came, deal with the betrayal and the disappointment, but it wouldn’t be easy. Mallory Wakefield wasn’t like Susan. There had been something perversely...honest in Susan’s betrayal. He’d known from the first that she was a spoiled little rich girl. He didn’t like it that she’d sold him out, but it hadn’t surprised him, either. He’d sensed an honor in Mallory, a decency, that would make a betrayal all the more hurtful.
He yanked the car into first, grinding the gears noisily, but as he started to pull forward, something caught his eye. A shaft of sunlight glinted off something on the floor mat, momentarily blinding him. Reaching down, he fumbled around until he felt something. Catching it up in his fist, he straightened up.
Even before he opened his hand, he saw the picture in his head. Curled against the roughened texture of his skin was Mallory’s necklace—the delicate chain holding a crescent moon.
* * *
Mallory stood braced against the cool tile, letting the water cascade over her aching body. She’d long ago scrubbed the desert grime from her skin and hair, but the tepid spray felt soothing, and the drone of the water broke the sullen silence that seemed to surround her. It was late, and she was exhausted, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Marissa’s little house was deathly still, and the quiet was driving her crazy.
It had been a hectic day, to say the least. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d woken up beside Graywolf to see that helicopter hovering above them, and yet it was only this morning. One day, and her whole life had changed.
The break to Marissa’s ankle had been serious. They’d been airlifted to a hospital in Flagstaff where she’d been examined and X-rayed. She’d been fitted with a temporary cast, but the doctors had insisted that she stay the night for observation, and so they could fit her with a permanent walking cast in the morning. Ruth and the baby had been examined and released—her anxious husband was at the hospital waiting for his family with open arms.
Mallory smiled, remembering the look on the young man’s face when he saw his son for the first time. There hadn’t been a dry eye in the house. He then bundled his family into his aging station wagon and headed back to the reservation. Mallory pictured them in her mind, sitting before a warm fire in their tiny hogan. True wealth had nothing to do with bank accounts and creature comforts, she mused as the water flooding over her slowly began to grow cold, but rather the quality of the love that was shared.
Which, she thought as she reached for the faucet and shut off the spray, just left her. Despite her protests, the medical staff at the hospital had insisted on giving her a thorough examination. As she’d predicted, they’d found nothing wrong, and she was released with a clean bill of health. With Sam Begay’s help, she’d made her report to the Arizona State Police, then accepted the offer from their office to drive her to Marissa’s house.
She opened the shower door and reached for a towel, patting herself dry. She slipped into Marissa’s short cotton nightshirt, and combed out her long, wet hair.
She regarded herself in the mirror, looking at the spot around her neck where the pendant once hung. Oddly enough, the fact that it was gone didn’t bother her so much any longer. She had her sister back, that’s what was important. The necklace had been a pretty keepsake, a memento left over from a time when she thought anything was possible.
She knew better now. There would be no moon and stars for her, no happily-ever-after. She was a thirty-three-year-old divorcée in love with a Navajo shaman who didn’t even like her. Hardly the fairy-tale ending she’d expected when she’d graduated from Jackson High School fifteen years ago. For the girl voted most likely to become a millionaire, she’d failed miserably.
With her hair dry now, she flipped off the light and headed back into the bedroom, feeling the fatigue of the long day in every move she made. The moonlight was bright, streaming through the narrow slits of the miniblinds and creating a precise pattern of white light across the bedspread.
She glanced at the clock-radio beside the bed. Nearly midnight. She’d told Marissa she’d be back at the hospital in Flagstaff before noon to pick her up. That wouldn’t leave much time for sleeping in.
Still, standing just above the bed, she hesitated. The house was so silent, so still, it unnerved her a little. She stood in the darkness, listening for a moment. The neat, tidy house on the cozy, little street had its own curious sounds, and she couldn’t help thinking how refined and decidedly urban they were in comparison to the wild, uncivilized music of the desert at night.
She thought of Graywolf, of their makeshift campsites and roaring open fires. In the darkness they had sat and listened to the cries of coyote, the hooting of owls, even the howl of a wolf. Graywolf had teased her with stories of skinwalkers—demons and evil spirits—and the Navajo Wolf. He had cautioned her about the chindi, spirits of the dead who searched out and preyed upon the living. And in the vastness of the desert, in the darkness of night, beneath a blanket of a thousand stars, she had found herself almost believing. She almost believed he was magic, that he could change shape, become the Wolf.
She thought of him, picturing his tall frame in her mind. It had almost been real. She could almost believe that she’d been bewitched, captivated by the shaman’s magic, charmed by the ways of the Old Ones.
The sound of tapping on the window of the front door had her mind snapping back to reality. She glanced at the clock beside the bed again and felt an icy chill run the length of her spine. It was after midnight. Who would be coming to the door at this hour?
Feeling suddenly more alone and more vulnerable than she had when she was in the middle of the desert, she tiptoed out of the bedroom. Moving soundlessly through the living room, she peeked around the corner, through the little foyer to the beveled glass front door.
The moonlight through the window painted a familiar silhouette on the glass, and Mallory’s heart leapt to her throat. She hesitated for a second, dizzily wondering if this was real, or if it was a dream. Was this actually happening, or was it just a result of some mystic incarnation?
But the hesitation was only momentary. Why should she care what was fantasy and what was fact? Was an illusion any less real if it gave her what she wanted?
Without further hesitation, she ran to the door, flinging it open and hurling herself into Graywolf’s waiting arms.
Chapter 12
Graywolf stood at the door, staring into the dark house and asking himself what the hell he was doing there. His heart beat like thunder in his chest, and his lungs seemed starved for oxygen. It was late—too late to be knocking, too late to be chasing around the countryside for dreams that were impossible to have. She was going to think he was crazy, out of his mind, mad—and she would be right.
In his hand he clutched the gold necklace, that tiny bit of precious metal that had caused him so many sleepless nights. He could have just mailed it to her, dropped it into an envelope, slapped a stamp on it and been done with it. Instead, he’d come after her as if he were carrying an organ for a life-saving transplant. Without even being aware of it, he’d been looking for an excuse, and he’d grabbed at the first one he could find.
What was the matter with him? Fate had handed him a perfect opportunity. He could have walked away from her, unscathed and unharmed—no battle scars, no injuries. He would have been let off scot-free.
And yet there he stood, like a beggar in the night.
There was still time, he told himself. Still time to turn around, climb back into the Jeep and get the hell out of there, and no one need ever be the wiser. She’d never have to know how close he’d come, how much he’d needed her, and how very desperate he was.
He looked at the necklace in his hand. He remembered how it had shone against her smooth, creamy skin. He remembered the feel of her against him, the soft texture of her lips, the taste of her in his mouth.
With
a muffled curse, he squeezed closed his fist and tapped gently on the window. He waited, holding his breath. The silence around him was alive with sounds, and yet he heard nothing from inside the house. There was no response, no stirring around, no voice or inquiry.
They’d told him at the hospital in Flagstaff that Mallory Wakefield had been released, and the war-weary nurse at the emergency desk remembered hearing her accept a ride back to Sedona from a state policeman.
He glanced at her rental car parked in the same spot in the drive where it had been on the morning he’d picked her up to start their search. So the fact that it was here now meant nothing. There were other cars for her to rent. He turned and peered through the window into the dark house. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe she wasn’t here at all, but in a motel somewhere in Flagstaff, instead.
He pushed the breath out of his lungs in one long, uninterrupted sigh. He’d been saved again. Fate seemed to have handed him one more opportunity, had managed to prevent him from making a big mistake—and even in a shaman’s world, that kind of deliverance twice in a lifetime was rare. He did what he could to put the disappointment aside by telling himself it had all worked out for the best, that he’d saved himself a lot of heartache and embarrassment. He realized as he stood there now that he’d had no idea what he’d planned to say to her, no idea why he came or what he’d intended to do.
Then he heard the noise—feet on carpet, the sound of running. But before he had time to think, before he could compute and conclude, the door had been flung open and Mallory was in his arms.
The shock was electric, sending feelings and sensations racing through like brilliant bolts of lightning. Her mouth on his was frantic—wild and demanding—and for a moment all he could do was stand there and accept.
“Oh, God, Graywolf,” she groaned against his lips. “I prayed you would come, I prayed you would come.”
She kissed him again, fervid and reckless. Her tongue dove deep, bold and uninhibited. Her arms were like ivy twisting around his neck, and her slim body pressed into him so tight he staggered back a step with the impact.
Graywolf’s head was spinning, and his mind seemed to have forgotten how to think. But at that moment, with this woman in his arms, her mouth doing unbelievable things to his, thinking wasn’t something he was interested in doing. He reached for her, his hands moving over soft curves and her womanly form.
The thin nightshirt felt as diaphanous and sheer to his hungry hands as fine silk against her skin, hiding nothing but inciting his senses to an almost unbearable degree. He wasn’t thinking of white or red, of taboo or tradition. There was only the woman in his arms, and the knowledge that she wanted him with a desperation and desire he’d never known.
“I love you,” she whispered, sinking her hands into his long, straight hair. “Graywolf, I love you.”
Yes, she did. He felt her love, felt the power and the force, felt the frankness and the commitment...and the hopelessness of it. The words were like arrows through his heart—piercing and painful.
“No,” he murmured, pulling his mouth from hers. He set her away from him, seeing the need in her eyes and feeling himself die just a little. “No love. There can be nothing more—no strings, no commitment, no future. Just this. Just tonight.”
She looked into his dark eyes. There was no need for special gifts or second sight to read what was in them—the raw vulnerability, the distrust, the suspicion. She couldn’t force him to trust her any more than she could force him to love her, and all the begging and pleading would do nothing to change his mind. If this was it—if this one night was all he could give her, all he had to offer, she would take it with no question. There would be time later to worry about why and how, to cope with the loss, and to grieve.
“Just tonight,” she agreed, stepping close and encircling his neck with her arms. She pulled his lips close. Negotiations had ended, policy had been set, and ground rules established. This night would be theirs, and she was determined to take from it all that she could. She ran her hands up his back, over his broad shoulders, and let them tangle in his long hair. Maybe there would be only one night, but there would be no holding back.
Something in Graywolf freed itself, something that had been holding him back, keeping his feelings at bay. He’d been honest with her, and he was free now to take from her what he could. Steal away as much of her love as he could in the time they had left, and hope it was enough to last him the rest of his life. She understood what he could give her, and she’d been willing to accept. For them there would be no tomorrow, and yet, she had pulled him into her arms and kissed him as though tomorrow would never come.
Graywolf felt the world tilt off its axis, felt the ground beneath his feet quake and tremble. Dizzily he thought of the First People beneath the surface of the earth, spirits of his ancestors clamoring for the outside. But no ancient epic was responsible for the pitch and sway. It was the wild, erratic beating of his heart, and the desperate desire for the woman in his arms.
He pulled her close, his hand moving over her in a silent, reverent worship. She was the embodiment of everything he’d ever dreamed of, he’d ever hoped to have. She was his woman—he’d laid claim to her long before she’d ever walked into his hogan. She’d been a part of him from the beginning, part of the life he’d lived, part of the air he’d breathed, part of the dreams he’d dreamed, and she would stay with him long after the giant bird had carried her back to the land of the Round Eyes.
His hands traveled down, over the gentle swell of her bottom. He pressed her into him, his body so hungry for hers he thought he might die on the spot.
“Mallory,” he murmured against her lips. He picked her up in his arms, carrying her through the dark house to the small bedroom. Marissa Wakefield’s conservative furnishings were nothing like those of her youth. There might not have been a white iron bed, no fancy pink comforter or frilly pillows, but fantasy had become reality nonetheless. Mallory was in his arms—hungry for him—and it was more than he’d ever hoped for.
Mallory felt the mattress against her back, felt his hands moving over her, restless and urgent. He caressed her legs, her lips, her breasts, his hands leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Need arose in her like a swell moving through a calm sea, building potency and force, searching for the shoreline where it could erupt chaotic and strong. She’d never felt like this before, had never thought herself capable. This was more than passion, more than desire. The strange, exotic potion coursing through her veins bordered on obsession. She’d become a stranger to herself—an alien creature, desperate and hungry for the man who’d become the center of her life, the gate to her soul.
She reached for him, wanting to feel the massive body against her, wanting to assuage the terrible ache inside her, but he stepped just out of reach. She stared up at him, his white T-shirt glowing translucent in the moonlight. In one smooth motion, it was gone, leaving his mahogany chest open to her hungry gaze. Sitting up, she reached for her nightshirt, slipping it from her body with no thought to modesty or reserve. She was beyond that now—beyond the point of no return.
Graywolf stared at the sight of her before him. His mouth had gone dry, the gnawing in his gut changing the hunger in him to near craving. He murmured a prayer, an ancient chant, in silent plea that the vision of her was real.
Her body was perfect—more perfect than he remembered, more perfect than he could have imagined. In the moonlight she was almost dreamlike—her skin as white as snow, as perfect and as flawless as the finest rendering of an artist’s brush or sculpture’s hand. She was a goddess, his ideal of perfection and excellence. He was awed by such beauty, humbled that she offered it to him.
“Graywolf,” she whispered, rising to her knees. She lifted her arms to him, beckoning him to come.
“So beautiful,” he murmured almost absently. He was hesitant, half afraid that if he were to reach out, she would disappear. But then her hands were on him, pulling him close, moving over him and dri
ving him mad. “I want you so much.”
“I want you, too,” Mallory sighed as his arms snaked around her and crushed her to him. “I always will.”
Graywolf savaged her mouth, pushing her soft lips apart and plunging deep with his tongue. The taste of her incited him, heating his blood, invading his system like some kind of exotic drug. He was propelled by forces beyond himself, beyond tangible thought and reasonable demands. He felt empowered, imbued with superhuman strength, supernatural sight, as though he’d chewed the forbidden peyote bean and entered a magical realm of altered awareness and mystic perception. She was his destiny, his fate, and he surrendered completely.
Mallory accepted the almost brutal kiss, reveling in the raw, wild nature of it, and the man in her arms. His hands moved over her—bold and seeking, causing the ache in her to become a delicious agony. She slid her hands down his powerful torso, finding the buttoned fly of his jeans and yanking it open. Inside, she surrounded him with her hands and felt a tremor rumble through his body.
The feel of her hands on him had the breath catching in Graywolf’s throat. Something snapped in him, some slender thread of restraint, some thin strand of control. He pressed her onto the bed, her hair spreading out against the mattress like a halo of white light around her. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, the line of her chin. With hands and mouth he honored her breasts, reveling in their fullness and masterfully bringing their soft, pink centers to firm tautness.
He wanted to know all of her, he wanted to touch and taste every texture, every characteristic. He wanted to worship and revere, to revel and enjoy, but the longing in him was becoming unbearable. Forces were building in him—primal and basic—and even his iron strength couldn’t keep them at bay. She made him feel like a god, but he was, after all, merely a man, and the need for her threatened his soul, his sanity, his senses.
Tears of the Shaman Page 16
