The Enchantment (25 page)

Maybe if she hadn't worried so much about ending up like her father . . .

But she had worried about it. Every day and every night of her life she'd worried about needing someone so desperately that she couldn't survive without that person. The fear had kept her bound up so tightly, she'd never unfurled, never let herself even consider what she was missing.

Until Larence. With his simple declaration, It's okay to be afraid, he'd offered her a light. A way out of the darkness.

She thanked God she had taken it.

"Let's stop for lunch."

Emma groaned in relief. They'd been riding for hours. She pulled back on Tashee's reins and slid from the animal's back before the little burro had even stopped moving.

"I'll make something to eat in a second, Larence," she said, staggering over to a pinon tree and collapsing in the shade beneath its lowest branch. "Just give me a second to die."

She closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the thin trunk. A shower of greenish gray needles sprinkled her face and throat. The sharp, refreshing scent of pine surrounded her.

Absentmindedly she wiped the needles away. She'd just rest for a few short minutes, then she'd get up and pull her weight.

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"Lunch is ready."

She sat bolt-upright. Guilt made her wince. "I fell asleep?"

Larence studied her over the rim of his coffee cup. "It's okay," he said quietly, "I like watching you sleep."

Something hot and dry curled in Emma's throat. His eyes were like pools of promise, beckoning and calling to her. Holding her. Trust me, those eyes said. Smile with me.

She did. "What are we having?"

"Canned stew."

She groaned. "Again?"

He grinned. "Come on, it's not that bad. Besides, I was hoping that if I kept serving you canned beans, maybe one day I'd get lucky."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe you'll make real stew. I've got plenty of dried beef and beef extract—all you need is a few herbs and plants."

She ambled over to the fire and sat down beside him. "What do I look like, Molly the pioneer wife? I wouldn't know an edible herb from a lump of coal."

"There's a book in my saddlebag that'll tell you everything you need to know."

A picture of herself "herb-hunting" flashed through Emma's mind and made her smile. "I'd probably serve up a tasty batch of poisonous mushrooms and kill us both over coffee."

Twilight had turned the night sky a brilliant fusion of bright pink and canary yellow when Emma noticed the small cabin in the distance. "Look, Larence. Over there."

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Larence reined Diablo to a stop and started digging through his saddlebags for his map. Carefully unfolding the yellowed paper, he studied the landmark indications Dr. Stanton had made.

After a long moment, he shook his head. "I don't know. There isn't supposed to be anything here. I wonder if we're off course."

Emma groaned. They'd been riding for hours and hours. If they were riding the wrong way—

"No," he said more to himself than to her, "I know this is right."

"I hope so," she said.

He grinned down at her, and Emma couldn't help smiling back. "Let's go find out if anyone's home."

Half an hour later, they reached the cabin's front gate. By then the shadows had thickened to ankle-deep curls along the ground; the dwelling lay shrouded in shifting patterns of charcoal gray and midnight black.

The crude wooden structure, butted up close to a low, bloodred rimrock bench, looked lonely and deserted. No smoke spiraled up from the brick chimney; no welcoming light escaped the closed windows.

"Looks like no one's home," Larence said, and Emma could hear the disappointment in his voice.

Then she smelled the pungent scent of burning tobacco.

She sat up taller, sniffing, listening, looking.

Beside the west wall a shadow stirred; then came the barely heard crunching of tiny rocks.

Emma straightened. "Who's there?"

An old Indian man, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick, emerged from the darkness. Larence dismounted and limped eagerly to the man, his hand out-THE ENCHANTMENT

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stretched in greeting. "Hi there. I'm Dr. Larence Digby, and this is my associate, Emmaline Hatter."

The old man stared at Larence's hand for a long time, and then very slowly—and, Emma thought, reluctantly—slipped his own skeletal hand into Larence's palm. "Hai. I am Pa-lo-wah-ti," he said in a voice that sounded like the rusty turning of long-unused wheels. "There is not much food inside, but you may share what I have."

"Thanks, but—" Emma spoke quickly.

"We'd love to," Larence finished for her.

Pa-lo-wah-ti picked up a lantern. Striking a match, he lit the wick, and was immediately bathed in light.

The first thing Emma noticed was his eyes. She swallowed hard, fighting the shiver of fear that trailed down her back at the sight of them. They were blue and yet not blue. The color of pale seawater muddied by foam. Pale, pale.

Blind, she realized suddenly. He was blind.

Emma finally tore her gaze away from his eerie, sightless eyes and noticed his strange attire. He was bareheaded, his stringy gray hair cut in a no-nonsense shelf across his eyebrows and drawn in a tight knot at the base of his neck. Two thick locks swung freely on either side of his hollowed face, just brushing his shoulders. He wore a black shirt and red cotton pantalets, slitted from the knee down to expose pencil-thin legs and moccasined feet. A dozen or so strands of beads coiled around his neck, seeming to drag his head down with their weight.

Without a word, he turned and disappeared into the cabin.

It wasn't until much, much later that Emma thought

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to wonder how the blind man had known to shake Lar-ence's hand.

Larence couldn't believe their luck.

He turned the animals loose in the small corral out back, then followed Pa-lo-wah-ti into the cabin.

Lantern light brightened the room, casting fingers of warmth across the scarred, lopsided table and the rusted iron stove. Burlap sacks of corn hung from the thick rafters, giving ofFa sweet, homey scent. Pale moonlight turned the window into a perfect square of tarnished silver.

Pa-lo-wah-ti pointed to one of the rawhide-covered chairs. "Sit."

Larence did. Emmaline didn't. She stood at the doorway, her hands clasped nervously together. She looked hesitant to enter the dwelling.

Larence turned in his chair, pinning an implacable, uncompromising stare on her. "Sit down. Pa-lo-wah-ti has offered to share a meal with us." He waited for her to move. When she didn't, he added, "It's an honor. Now, sit down."

Reluctantly she crossed the room, her skirts swirling atop the planked floor and sending up spirals of pale gray dust. At the table, she lowered herself to the rickety chair. The rusted wires screeched in agony at her weight. She sat stiffly, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Pa-lo-wah-ti served thick strips of a colorless meat wrapped in wafer-thin cornmeal tortillas. Larence couldn't help grinning. Here he was, on the road to Cibola, having dinner with a man who could well be a direct descendant of the first true Americans, and eating his first real Indian meal.

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He felt something jab him in the side. Distractedly Larence glanced up from the steaming food on his plate.

Emma was staring at him. The first thing he noticed was the lack of color in her cheeks. The second thing was the way her lips were drawn into that tense Wall Street grimace.

He frowned. "Are you all right?"

Pa-lo-wah-ti looked up from his plate. "Yes."

Emma threw the old man an exasperated look. Then she turned her full attention on Larence. Her gaze shot down to the food, then cut back to his face. Her eyes bulged in silent question.

"What?" he asked.

She leaned closer. "What is it?" she hissed under her breath.

Larence shrugged. "Who cares? It's great."

Emma sighed impatiently. "/ care. I'm not about to—"

"Snake," came Pa-lo-wah-ti's time- and tobacco-graveled voice from across the table.

"Snake?" Emma's fork hit the table with a clang.

"Really?" Larence took another bite, marveling at the chickenlike taste. "You ought to try it, Em. It's really good."

"I'm sure it is," she said, pushing her plate toward the center of the table. "Reptile meat has always been a favorite of mine."

After that, no one said a word. A few times Larence tried to start a conversation, but the Indian seemed more inclined to stare at him and Emmaline than he did to speak. Finally Larence accepted that the man was a loner, and simply shut up.

After the meal was eaten and the few tin dishes

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washed, Pa-lo-wah-ti said, "There is but one sleeping room. You will sleep outside."

"Certainly," Larence said. "Is there somewhere we can wash up? We've been on the road a long time and we're pretty dirty."

"There is a shower outside by the snubbing post. You may use that."

With quick thanks, Larence grabbed his saddlebags and headed outside.

Emma was left alone with the old man. Repeatedly she told herself it was foolish to be afraid of an old blind man. There was nothing wrong with him; certainly he wasn't evil or mean or dangerous.

But she couldn't quite believe it. Whenever those muddy, sightless blue eyes landed on her, a chill splashed down her stiffened spine. Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, forcibly unwinding the bloodless ball of her fingers. "Is there something I can do to help ..."

"Leave." The word came unexpectedly, jarring Emma to sit up straighter.

"Leave? You want us—"

He turned suddenly. His narrowed eyes hit on her face with an accuracy that made Emma's stomach lurch.

A slow smile spread through the brown wrinkles. But it was a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I am making a joke, of course. You will forgive a senile old man for speaking out of turn. I am happy to have you and your man here."

Before Emma could say he's not my man, Pa-lo-wah-ti shuffled across the room and entered his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him.

Emma stared at the closed door. Senile? she thought with a grim tightening of her mouth. Hardly. The old THE ENCHANTMENT

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man might be many things, but senile wasn't one of them.

He wanted them to leave. He hadn't meant to say it, perhaps, but he meant it.

The question was, did he want them to leave his home—or New Mexico?

Emma stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind her. The balmy night wrapped her in velvety warmth. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest and let her head loll back against the splintery door, reveling in the wind's soft caress against her cheeks. The thin fabric of her underskirt fluttered in the breeze, lapped against her legs.

"Hi, Em."

Larence's voice mingled with the sounds of the night and made her smile. Forgetting her ridiculous fear of the old man, she glanced up and started to wave. Her hand froze in midair. The reciprocal greeting jammed in her throat and fractured.

He was standing near a structure that looked like a small women's dressing room with a wooden barrel suspended above it. Behind him, the corral was a collection of slow-moving shadows. The slivered moon hung high in the night-dark sky, a scythe of the purest gold.

Pale lantern light haloed his half-naked body. He stood tall, proud, his long legs sheathed in tight, dripping-wet jeans.

Emma's gaze snagged at the top button of his pants. It was open. Invitingly open. She swallowed hard and forced her eyes up. Her gaze skidded up the wet, hair-darkened muscles of his chest and landed on his face.

Grinning, he ran a hand through his wet hair and shook his head. Water dripped down the side of his face 236

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and plopped onto his shoulder. Light reflected off the drops of water, turning them into diamond chips.

Mesmerized, she watched a single droplet zigzag down his chest, through the soft matting of hair that veed his collarbone. Like a streak of sterling, it glided down his flat stomach and disappeared into the slack, open waistband of his Levi's.

Something irritatingly akin to desire made her breathing speed up. She brought a shaking hand to her throat. "Come on over. The water's great." Her feet turned to stone. She stood there for what seemed like hours, her hand plastered protectively to her throat, her gaze pinned on his eyes. Only his eyes. He flashed her a challenging smile. "You want me to come and get you?"

"No!" Setting her chin at a defiant tilt, she plucked up her skirt and headed across the backyard. With each step, it seemed he grew taller. More naked. Her confident step faltered.

When she reached him, Larence slung a still damp towel around his neck and hung on to both ends. "It's a shower—can you believe it? No Motts' Needle Shower, maybe, but a shower."

Another droplet plopped onto his chest—right next to his nipple. It bumped over the puckered brown circle and glided downward. Emma swallowed hard and bolted into the shower, banging the door shut behind her. Safe now, she gave a shaky sigh and leaned her forehead against the door's cool, damp wood.

She was having a physical reaction to Larence. Unbelievable.

She closed her eyes and tried to slow the rabbit-fast patter of her heart. They were friends, for God's sake. Not lovers.

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It was celibacy, she realized. She'd been too long without a man in her bed. Eyeing the rain barrel suspended overhead, she smiled. Yes, a cold shower was precisely what she needed.

She stripped off her shirtwaist and skirt and slung them over the side. At the removal of the dreaded corset, she let her breath out in a long, appreciative sigh of freedom. The torture device fell to a heap at her feet.

As she unbuttoned the top button of her chemise, she noticed the small brown package sitting on the bench beside her. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. "Larence, you left something in here," she yelled.