The Enchantment (18 page)

Her chin bobbed onto the wrinkled cotton of her collar and she fell asleep.

She came awake slowly. Blinking groggily, she glanced around. A red-cliff-bordered valley stared back at her. Silent, lonely, somehow watchful. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She had the unmistakable sense that they were being followed. Watched . . .

Something whirred in the air above her head. She looked up sharply.

A hawk banked left and swirled in a huge, effortless circle against the dark, cloud-thickened sky. Its keening screech split the silent air and echoed off the black-coned line of volcanoes in the distance. The bird did a last, spiraling dive toward them.

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Instinctively Emma ducked and closed her eyes. The impact never came. A shadow crossed her face, and she looked up. Beady black eyes blinked at her; whooshing air from the hawk's mighty wings brushed her face.

The bird cut through the air and sped away. Emma watched him become a little brown dot against the cloud-layered sky.

She shook her head, forcing a smile she didn't feel. She'd obviously been in the sun too long. Hawks didn't kill people, and no one was out here. She was a fool to think they were being watched or followed.

They couldn't be more alone. Since morning, they'd been steadily climbing; not a steep, breath-stealing rise, but rather a slow, even escalation. The windswept plain of Albuquerque had gradually given way to a rocky, cliff-rimmed plateau dotted with dormant volcanoes and low-lying mesas.

Overhead, clouds sped across the sky, creating a shifting kaleidoscope of shadowy patterns on the harsh, stone-covered ground.

The shadow play fascinated her. In the three days since they'd left Albuquerque, Emma hadn't seen more than four clouds in any given afternoon. But today the sky was darkening, boiling with countless gray-white clouds that gave welcome respite from the too-hot sun.

Diablo sped up unexpectedly. Emma grabbed hold of her saddle's makeshift horn just in time. Tashee followed her leader into a bone-jarring trot.

A sound, far away and strained, threaded the wind's sigh. Like the soft whimper of a woman giving birth, the sound began slowly, throatily, and gradually deepened into a mournful dirge. Wind danced low across the plain in a dozen swirling eddies, then gave a loud, THE ENCHANTMENT

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wolflike howl and trebled its speed. Dust flew upward, darkened the air.

She clung to the wooden X above Tashee's withers, bouncing like a sack of potatoes on the burro's bony back. Her parasol thumped hard against her shoulder.

Diablo came to a sudden stop. Tashee rammed into the horse's tail and immediately backed up.

Emma reached blindly for the wooden X, but it was too late. She fell like a ton of bricks.

Larence swiveled around to look at her. His gaze landed on the empty pack saddle and slid to the ground. "What are you doing down there?"

She glared at him, thankful—for once—for the mouthful of dust that made speech impossible.

"Something's up," he shouted. "We're going to make a run for that indentation in the cliff over there."

The word hit Emma like a blow. Run. They were going to run? As in gallop? She shook her head in denial.

"Get on Tashee."

She shook her head again. A creosote bush tumbled past her, its fingers splayed out like earthen tentacles.

"Don't make me come and get you, Emmaline."

She staggered to her feet and remounted. She had time for one quick, dust-infested breath before Larence yelled, "Whoopee!" and kicked Diablo into a trot.

They were five minutes too late. A fast-moving gust hit them like a steam-driven locomotive. Larence crammed his hat to his head and bent into the onslaught.

Emma curled her body into the wind and tucked her chin against her chest. For once, she was glad to be behind Larence. Hair snapped across her face, stung

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her eyes. Gritty wind whipped her face and wrenched the parasol out of her tired grip.

Instinctively she reached for it. Fists of wind-driven dust rammed like hot pokers into her eyes. A flood of warm, wet tears streaked across her temples and disappeared in the hair flapping against her face. The umbrella bounced end over end and lodged in a flattened cactus.

Thousands of glass-sharp particles stung her cheeks and forehead, stabbed her exposed throat. Dust clogged her eyes and nose. Blinded, she squinted into the darkened, fast-moving air, trying to see Larence. He was a huge, shadowy blur in front of her.

She hunched forward, bowed her head, and clung to the wooden X on the front of her saddle. Her fingers curled, shaking and white, around the piece of wood.

Over and over again her mind taunted her with images of what it would mean to fall off right now.

Larence wouldn't know, wouldn't stop. She'd lie in some forgotten heap on the hard desert floor, tired, thirsty, in pain. And that wasn't the worst of it: This wind would reduce her to a pile of sun-bleached bones before Larence could find her. If, in fact, he ever could.

She forced her mind away from the gruesome images. Curling into as small a ball as she could on Tashee's back, she stared at the dirty, bloodless ridge of her knuckles until everything seeped out of her mind except for a comforting blankness. Time lost all meaning. Nothing mattered except hanging on.

She wasn't even aware that they'd stopped when Larence's arm curled around her waist and squeezed gently. At the warm, reassuring contact, a shudder sped through her limbs. She lifted her heavy head and stared up at him through dull, dispirited eyes.

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Wind howled around them, pulled at their hair and clothes and whipped across their faces.

"It's okay," he said, easing her off Tashee's back.

She let herself slide into his comforting embrace and didn't protest when he picked her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the dust-caked flannel of his shoulder.

He bent into the storm. Tightening his hold on her, he clamped his hat hard against her back and limped past a huge hump of sandstone that jutted out from the mesa's dun-colored wall. In the narrow, U-shaped indentation behind the sandstone barrier, he set her down gently. Then he threw his hat into a protected corner of the sanctuary, flung his arm across his eyes, and went back for the animals.

Emma almost grabbed him. Don't go, she wanted to say. Stay with me.

But of course, she said nothing. Just watched him limp past her and disappear.

Shaking, she leaned back against the rough sandstone wall and pulled her knees into her chest. The trembling in her arms and legs intensified, clattered through her aching bones. Tears scalded her eyes.

She slammed them shut and buried her face in her hands.

"You okay?"

She eased her hands from her face. Larence was sitting beside her. White teeth flashed in a dirt-dark face as he reached out and touched her. His hand, warm and solid, pressed against the hollow between her shoulder blades and began moving in a slow, comforting circle. "Some windstorm, huh?"

At his touch, she remembered how good it had felt to be in his arms.

Humiliation writhed in her stomach. God, she'd let

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him carry her as if she were a helpless child. Self-disgust swelled, made her feel sick.

And yet, even now the compassion and the caring in his eyes made her want to forget about silent strength and curl up beside him. . . .

Damn him, she thought. Damn the heat and the dust and the wind and the pain. But most of all, damn him. What was it about him that turned her into a weak-willed, simpering schoolgirl? Her emotional armor hadn't cracked more than three times in the fifteen years she'd worn it; and now, around Dr.

Dimwit, it seemed to splinter at every turn.

She wrenched away from him and staggered to her feet.

"Emmaline?"

Don't look at him. She stumbled to the sandstone lip that protected them from the driving wind. Hugging herself tightly, she stared at the storm's fury. Wind screamed past their hidden sanctuary. A howl like that of the hounds of hell echoed through the valley and bounced off the mesa's walls.

God, what a miserable place. Excruciating heat, never-ending dust, sweat, snakes, bugs, and now this—

wind that moved faster than a train and ripped up everything in its path.

But the real danger, she knew, wasn't the weather. It was Larence, always Larence, just waiting for her to break so he could pick up the pieces and put them back together.

If only she could be sure it wouldn't happen, then she could relax. Maybe even let down her guard enough to talk to him. But she couldn't. In this godforsaken hell of a land, she couldn't be sure of anything. Especially her own strength.

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At least she'd made it through today, she thought dully, staring at a creosote bush as it hurtled past the opening. And what could possibly be worse than a windstorm?

That was when the first raindrop hit.

Emma huddled against the cold rock. Her cheek was pressed to the damp, gritty sandstone. Rain hammered her head, thumped a hollow beat on the supplies piled alongside the animals. The hard-packed dirt floor had turned into a shallow pool of paste-thick mud. The odor of wet animal hair, horse droppings, and moist earth hung thick and heavy in the stone-rimmed enclosure.

A particularly large droplet landed in Emma's left eye. She winced and swiped at it with her saturated sleeve. She should have taken Larence's hat when he'd offered it. Stupid pride.

She moved slightly, eased her cheek away from the wet sandstone. A sharp thunk of released suction accompanied the movement. Lifting her face just a fraction, she saw Larence, who sat about five feet away from her against the other wall.

He was a blur of yellow and white stripes. She blinked to dispel the water streaming into her eyes. When that didn't work, she wiped the rain with the back of her hand and tented her eyes with her sleeve.

Like her, he was curled up against the wall. Unlike her, he looked relatively comfortable and considerably drier. His knees were drawn against his chest, and that ridiculous-looking serape covered his entire body, from

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throat to toes. Water skidded down the thick, oil-treated cotton and puddled on the ground around him.

His hat, pulled low on his brow, protected his face and eyes from the onslaught. Rainwater streamed in a thick, silver line from the brim, plunking in a splashing pool between his boots.

She should have taken the serape when he'd offered it. Now it didn't look so ridiculous; it looked . . .

practical. Sighing at her own stupidity, she rested her head against the wall again.

God, she was tired. Bone-melting, blood-draining tired.

So why couldn't she sleep? She cast an envious glance at Larence. It wasn't right that he should be snoozing away while she was wide-awake, wet, and miserable.

In the distance, an animal howled.

Fear brought Emma's head up again. Adrenaline coursed through her body, made her breathing speed up. She sat as stiff as a new pin, her whole body poised and shaking, her blurred gaze pinned to the opening.

The animal howled again. Emma imagined she saw a pair of feral eyes gleaming gold against the darkness beyond the pack animals.

"Calm down, Em," she said through chattering teeth. "There's nothing there." She forced her eyes shut and tried to blank everything out of her mind. Concentrating on each harsh, rasping breath, she felt some control return.

She was so focused on herself that it took her a moment to realize the change. It was quiet.

Cautiously she opened one eye, then the other. It was true! The rain had stopped. Relaxation slid through her blood like a warm, magical elixir. Her cheek plopped back against the harsh stone wall, but this time she

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didn't notice the minuscule grains of sand that scraped her skin. She closed her eyes and was asleep within moments.

Half an hour later, she came awake with a start. At first she thought she'd been dreaming about ants crawling all over her body, then she realized the truth.

Damp wool clung to her flesh. As it dried, tiny strands poked through her thin undergarments and stabbed her skin in a thousand itchy sparks.

A low, miserable moan escaped her lips. The need to scratch was almost overwhelming. Her fingers tingled with the temptation, but she knew that if she scratched, even once, she'd be scratching until the sun came up.

She curled her fingers into shaking, white-knuckled fists.

One thing was certain: She wouldn't sleep tonight.

"Look at that—over to the east—it's a red-tailed hawk. . . ."

As usual, Emma didn't listen. She couldn't; it was all she could do to stay awake and erect on Tashee's back. She leaned forward slightly, clinging to her makeshift saddlehorn as her mount lurched up the rocky embankment. Scrubby bushes decorated with razor-sharp thorns clawed at her skirt, poked the raw, cotton-clad columns of her legs.

She closed her eyes and hung on tight. When they'd cleared the arroyo and were back on the plain, Emma let herself relax again.

The two days since the storm had been the longest, most uncomfortable forty-eight hours of her life.

Whether on Tashee's back or sitting cross-legged beside the campfire, she'd alternately sweated and scratched

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and tried to keep from screaming. The days were interminable; hotter than hell and drier than dust. And the nights were worse. In the lonely hours between dinner's end and bedtime, silence curled around her like a musty velvet cloak, smothering her until sometimes the need to speak, to make contact with another living soul— even Larence—was so strong, she actually opened her mouth.

Fortunately, nothing ever came out. She hadn't uttered a single word to Larence in days. Not one.

Two days ago it had been stubborn pride that had compelled her to keep her mouth shut. Now it was self-preservation. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth—even once—she'd scream like a coward facing the gallows, and she wouldn't be able to stop.