She understood him thoroughly, knew that his protests would drop to a murmured "No" that he'd repeat over and over as she pressed herself against him.
He'd gasp when her fingertips traced around his testicles, and found that sensitive place on the underside of the penis.
Lying here now, separated in the predawn darkness, she could see the expression in his eyes as they joined, the question within his soul struggling against the need of his manhood. Such a vision, as clear as if it had happened moments ago. A trick of the soul's longing. A perfect memory of what would never be, despite the warm aching in her loins.
If only you had asked me to stay, Ritshard.
At that moment, he smiled in his sleep, and mumbled. Mostlit sounded like gibberish, and then he said, "Laura . . . Laura .
The effect was like ice water dashed on a warm body. But then, the world was not a perfect place. Coyote had ensured that just after the Creation.
She said. "I can't be a fool any longer," and gently untangled her fingers from his. She slipped from her blankets and rolled them. Her packs lay where she'd left them, ready for the long journey ahead. One by one, she shouldered them for the short walk to the horses.
At the edge of the trees, she stopped, closed her eyes against the pain, and whispered, "Some canyons are too deep to cross, Ritshard. If our differences are too great even for us, how will your people and mine ever find peace?
"Torn Apo bless and keep you safe. May the spirits guide you on your journey back to your Laura, and this Boston."
Then she slipped into the trees, following the trail that led to the horse picket. Her mountains lay many days' ride to the west. Dangers would lurk on all sides, but she would manage to find her way. With any luck the way of the land would prove more kind than the way of the heart.
Like Ritshard, she was going home, to her native land and people. Once there, she would weave the loose strands of her life back together, the way the old stories taught.
She had reached out, and the misty white spirit dog had bitten her. He'd been Coyote after all. And perhaps, somewhere in her distant mountains, she would discover a way to heal this newest wound. After all, she was Dukurika, and, for a woman of the People, anything was possible.
In the distance, she could hear a chorus of coyotes as their wailing song rose and fell in the still morning air.
This time, she promised, they weren't singing for her.
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The Morning River Page 51