by Jeanne Rose
Like all Pueblos, the Kisi traced their roots back to the Anazasi, but since had mixed their blood with nomads like Comanches and Navajos, especially after the group had nearly been wiped out in the Pueblo Rebellion of 1691. Mara had read that a Spanish captain by the name of Francisco Castillo had been especially vicious with the Kisi, who’d managed to hold out for quite some time. The ensuing massacre was the reason other tribes said the Kisi were cursed.
A half hour later, she saw sad proof that the Indians still weren’t thriving when she drove up the thinly graveled road leading into the reservation. An old church and a cluster of small houses – mostly adobe, some of cinderblock – sat among juniper bushes and scraggly trees. When she honked her horn, a scrawny dog got out of the road and ran to hide behind an abandoned-looking pickup truck nearby.
Where did Naha live? Since there didn’t seem to be any names or numbers on any of the houses, she decided to ask directions at the general store. Pulling her car up in front of the one-story adobe building, Mara got out. The moment her foot touched soil, another thrill of cognition shot through her. But the sensation dissipated equally quickly. She went inside.
Two Indian men were involved in a heated discussion at the counter, the storekeeper slim and in his thirties, the customer heavyset, greasy-haired and probably a decade older.
“You haven’t paid your tab, Mahooty.” The storekeeper nervously pushed at his aviator glasses. “I can’t let you have anything else until you clear it up.”
“I want a carton of cigarettes.” The heavyset man pounded his fist on the counter. “And I want it now.”
“Hey, can’t you at least make a payment? I’m operating a business here.”
“I don’t have to make a payment. I run this reservation.”
“If I don’t get paid, I’ll have to close down.”
With a growl, Mahooty tore a bill from his pocket. “All right, here’s five bucks. Give me the cigarettes.”
The storekeeper scooped up the money and fetched the carton from a shelf behind him. Grabbing his purchase, Mahooty turned to leave, his eyes narrowing on Mara as he passed her.
She approached the counter. “Could you give me directions? I’m looking for Lucas Naha.”
“Hmm, Naha?” His eyes were bright and curious behind the aviators. “Are you an art collector?”
“I’m the manager at Sol Goldstein’s.”
Continuing to stare, the man smiled broadly and reached over the counter to shake Mara’s hand. “I’m an artist myself, a sculptor. Tom Chalas. Are you looking for new talent? I’d be happy to show you some of my work. I deal with metal mostly, cast and soldered bronze.”
If Chalas were a real possibility for an upscale gallery like Goldstein’s, an agent probably would have picked him up. But Mara believed talent existed in everyone and she had compassion for a person who struggled to make it in the competitive world of gallery art.
“We interview artists by appointment. For sculpture, slides and photos are required.” She handed him a card with a smile. “Put a portfolio together and give me a call.” There was no harm in giving the man a chance. “Now about Lucas Naha. Where does he live?”
The storekeeper gave her the directions.
Mara drove down a narrow branch that opened off the gravel road until she sighted a sprawling, comfortable-looking adobe house nestled behind a stand of cottonwoods. A dusty Jeep Comanche sat in the shade. Parking next to it and shutting off the engine, Mara stared at the house for a moment, thinking it looked nice but unexceptional.
Yet her pulse threaded unevenly. What on earth was the matter with her?
Taking a deep breath, she told herself to calm down, then got out to knock on the door.
Eventually, an attractive older woman, gently rounded in both face and figure, appeared. “Yes, can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Mara Fitzgerald . . . from the Goldstein Gallery in Santa Fe. I wondered if I could see Lucas Naha. Is he in?”
He should be. His agent had said that the artist rarely left the reservation.
The woman raised her brows. “Luke? Well, er . . . I have nothing to do with his business. I’m his mother . . . Onida Naha.” She swiped at one of the few strands of gray threading her black hair. “Luke is working out in the patio and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Working on his paintings?” That sounded promising, as well as fascinating. “I would really like to talk to him for a moment.”
“Well, I won’t slam a door in someone’s face, no matter how much Luke insists on keeping to himself.”
Onida motioned for Mara to come inside, then headed down a hallway leading off on one side. Surprised, thinking she’d be told to wait while Naha was fetched, Mara followed the woman. Her eager gaze flicked over the furnishings they passed.
The successful artist didn’t surround himself with luxury, though his home had large rooms and solidly built walls. A few small paintings hung here and there; a feathered kachina and a Catholic saint stood side-by-side in a niche. In the kitchen, Onida opened the back door that led out onto a tiled patio and a grassy area enclosed by an adobe wall.
The moment Mara spotted the painter working in the dappled shade of a cottonwood tree, she stopped dead in her tracks. Again, the weird sense of cognition made her anxious.
“Luke?” Onida called, sounding timid.
The tall man continued to work intently, tubes of paint scattered around his feet. He either hadn’t noticed the two women or wasn’t paying any attention to them.
“Please don’t disturb him,” Mara told Onida before the woman could call to her son again. “I’ll wait until he takes a break.”
By then she would have drawn her thoughts together. They seemed to have scattered like the wind.
Onida nodded and went back inside.
Mara took a couple of steps forward, skirting an outdoor patio table. The painter was slashing a striking line of white into the azure background of the large canvas. Luke. The shortened version of his name was as strong as he appeared to be. His wide shoulders flexed beneath his dark t-shirt. His slim hips and hard thighs were encased in paint-spattered jeans. He had strong hands and long black hair tied back with a cord.
Oddly removed from the immediacy of the situation, Mara imagined herself untying the cord, running her fingers through the thick mane of hair. She could imagine it happening . . . almost as if it were a memory. The emotions pouring through her stunned Mara. She shuddered and wrapped her arms around her body to chase away a sudden chill.
Just as sudden, she met Naha’s gaze when he whipped around, his dark eyes piercing, his lips set in a straight line. He came toward her. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”
Unable to stop herself, Mara took a step backward. His tone was accusatory and his expression decidedly unfriendly. A thrill of fear pierced her even as she took in Luke’s high cheekbones, straight nose curved at the tip, strong jaw, blue-black hair, and lean, muscular body. She’d expected an aura of personal power, but she’d thought the artist would be older, not a virile man in his mid-thirties.
His eyes bored into hers and he raised his voice. “I said who are you?”
“I’m Mara Fitzgerald.” His intonation oddly reminded her of the same demand made in the weird dream. She felt as if she were dreaming now. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m the new manager of Goldstein’s.”
“The gallery?” He threw his paintbrush aside and stepped toward her, his manner threatening. “You’re supposed to deal with my agent. That’s what I’m paying him for.”
Heart beating a bit too swiftly, she said, “I realize that.” He halted mere inches away, so she had to stare up into his hard bronzed face. Instinct made her want to back up farther, but she forced herself to stand her ground. No matter that she told herself she wasn’t afraid of him, the flesh along her arms responded. She sensed this man could be a truly fierce and dangerous enemy . . . or lover.
“What are you trying to prov
e?” he demanded, taking over her space. “Do you think you can force me to finish the paintings faster?”
Mara had to force an answer. “Not exactly.” Then took a deep breath.
She doubted that anyone could force this man to do anything against his will. He possessed a truly fierce presence. A hard-bitten pioneer of the previous century would have turned tail and run if faced down by an Indian like Lucas Naha armed with so much as a butter knife.
“I’ll be done when I’m done,” Luke went on. “Gilbert Armijo should have told you that.”
“He did.” Though she wasn’t about to let this man think she was intimidated. She straightened her shoulders and stared him in the eye. “I realize I’m overstepping my boundaries a bit here.” How could she ask what she really wanted to – where did his inspiration come from, did his own imagery obsess him? “Um, I want you know how important your work is to the gallery. Your paintings present a unique vision of the Southwest.”
“Trying to pat me on the head?” Luke interrupted. “Real tactful, but it’s not going to get you squat.”
She bridled. “It’s not empty praise. I’m being honest. And I’m not the only person who admires your work. You have a loyal following.” She tried to ignore the way he was looming over her, the way she was having trouble breathing normally, the dribble of sweat wending a path down her spine. “Collectors are so inspired by your art that they believe the figures in your paintings are mystically alive and move around.”
His expression suddenly went from threatening to surprised. “Figures moving around?”
“I was told they change position from time to time.” Relaxing a bit now that she’d seemed to have some effect on him, Mara pointed out, “You have a mythos built around your art work, an aura of mystery.”
But Luke’s scowl was descending again. “Save the fancy words,” he cut in, making her uptight all over again. “I don’t give a damn what people believe about my paintings.” He added, “And I want you out of here . . . right now.”
So much for honesty and tact.
Before she could object, he grasped her arm and marched her none-too-gently toward a gate in the adobe fence. She couldn’t believe he was actually manhandling her.
“Let go!” Pure anger burned away other, less heroic sensibilities. She tried to shake off his warm grasp. Which, even in this tense situation, gave her goose bumps that had nothing to do with fear. A sense of shared intimacy and a disappointment that she couldn’t explain made her even angrier. “How dare you!”
He did release her when they reached the gate. “How dare you? I didn’t invite you to my home.” He gestured. “Your car’s out there and the highway is right over the rise. I assume you can find your way back to Santa Fe.”
She didn’t bother to answer, merely started to stride away, her back stiff.
Luke wasn’t finished. “Hey, aren’t you going to warn me about a lawsuit, a breech of contract?”
Mara stopped short and turned. “Do you want me to threaten you?”
“I’d like to hear some real honesty.”
Obviously he didn’t believe anyone could possibly be pleasant or sincere. She stepped closer, daringly gazing into his eyes, trying not to get caught by the power she recognized. “You deserve to be taken to court unless you meet the terms of your contract.” Telling herself that he couldn’t affect her if she refused to allow it.
“Yeah?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “And are you worried about losing your job, maybe? Is that why you made the drive up here?”
Now she was too uncomfortable to mention her real reasons. Not that he would believe them.
“I don’t think you care about me or why I came here,” she said tightly. “Not any more than you care about your many admirers, the people who collect your art. And you should. If you don’t have enough output to keep collectors interested, they’ll buy someone else.”
“I paint for myself, not the money.” Uncrossing his arms, he came closer, looming once more, making her aware of his disturbing maleness. “I don’t give a damn about collectors.”
Perhaps not. Swallowing hard, Mara glanced at the comfortable, if unassuming-looking house that was far nicer than anything else she’d seen around here. “If you don’t care about the money for yourself, how about some for the other people of the pueblo? You could send several kids to college, help them find a positive path in life.”
His bronzed skin darkened. “My family and people are none of your business.”
Again, he reached out and took hold of her arm. Though his touch was less harsh, different this time. Surprised, Mara gazed up into his face, suddenly mesmerized by their closeness. The dark pupils of Luke Naha’s eyes held mysteries she could lose herself in. Each one of his fingers seemed to burn into her flesh. As his warm expulsion of breath feathered her hair, her heart raced with an invisible connection that was raw and potent and as striking as a vivid memory . . .
She desired Luke Naha and he also wanted her.
She knew that to the depths of her core.
Both of them could have been frozen in place. Eons seemed to pass before either of them could speak or act, could overcome the charged atmosphere that surrounded them. Finally an odd expression touched his features and he released her as abruptly as if he’d touched hot metal.
“Take your bleeding-heart back to Santa Fe,” he growled, stepping away.
Flustered, confused, a little stunned, Mara struggled to regain her wits. And control of her body. Tingling sensations continued to spread along her limbs even though Luke was no longer touching her. Stomach churning with a combination of unwanted desire and justified hostility, she spun about to take hold of the gate handle.
“Wait! Luke, your grandmother would like your guest to stay.”
Once more Mara halted, glancing over her shoulder to see Onida waving and hurrying across the patio.
“What?” The artist turned a questioning frown on his mother. “She’s not my guest and she doesn’t want to stay.”
Obviously flustered, Onida slid her gaze from Mara to her son, then back again. “But I’ve made some tea. We can have refreshments out on the patio.”
Mara was surprised by the new development. She started to make her own excuses in the uncomfortable situation when she noted the frail-looking, white-haired woman easing herself down into one of the patio chairs.
“She must stay, Luke,” said the elderly woman, her strong, authoritative voice carrying.
Once more, Mara was filled with a strange sense of familiarity . . . and a compulsion to accept the invitation to tea that was every bit as strong as had been the urge to drive out here in the first place.
CHAPTER TWO
AS SHE HELPED HERSELF to homemade pinon, or pine-nut fritters, Mara focused on Luke’s grandmother, wondering why the woman had wanted her to stay. Isabel Joshevama was blind, she realized, noting that the woman’s eyes always seemed directed on some faraway inner scene. Dignified and handsome in spite of her years, she had obviously bequeathed her proud posture and elegant bone structure to her grandson.
“Luke, would you pass the pinon cakes?” Isabel asked.
“I’ll put them on your plate, Grandmother. One or two?”
Mara nearly did a double take at such politeness. Considering he was of Pueblo heritage, however, born to a group that honored age, she shouldn’t be surprised that he treated his elders with respect. Luke pulled up a chair but remained silent, brooding and a bit disconcerting. Mara didn’t know what to expect of him . . . or from herself.
No one had ever gotten to her as quickly or as deeply as Luke Naha had. It was more than his being a difficult artist. More than her being angry at his rude behavior. This was far more personal. More disturbing. She couldn’t explain it. Her reaction to him was far too intense . . . and, at the same time, hauntingly familiar.
His mother smiled and poured tea while chatting about Spanish and Indian cooking. Onida seemed to possess a much sunnier, open personali
ty than her mother and son but lacked their strong presence.
“Have you been here before?” Isabel suddenly asked Mara.
“To the reservation? No.”
“I meant this part of the country.”
Feeling as if Luke were staring right through her, Mara centered her gaze on his grandmother. Perhaps if she concentrated, she could ignore the effect he had on her. “This is the first time I’ve visited this area.”
Which didn’t seem to satisfy Isabel. Her brooding expression made her resemble her grandson even more. Mara felt as if she were being sized up in a not-so-subtle way.
“What do you think of Luke’s newest painting?” Isabel asked.
Luke’s artwork. The reason she’d come.
Pulse thrumming, Mara glanced at the easel some yards away. “The one he’s working on? Like his other paintings, it’s stunning . . . mysterious, haunting . . . the type one dreams about.”
Isabel frowned. “Dreams?”
Expression unreadable, Luke turned his full attention on Mara. “Now my paintings make people dream? I thought you said the mystery about them was that the figures moved around when nobody was looking.”
“According to my assistant at the gallery.”
Both Luke and Isabel seemed alert. The atmosphere was suddenly crackling with renewed tension.
Seemingly oblivious, Onida smiled and told her son, “I always think each painting is more beautiful than the last, Luke. I wouldn’t know which to keep and which to give away if it was up to me. I’m glad you make those decisions.” To Mara, she said, “I visit Goldstein’s whenever he has a new collection. It’s been awhile . . . but, of course, he’s been busy with the murals at the community center.”
“Murals?” Mara echoed.
“He’s trying to make the reservation a nicer place.”
”Never mind about the murals,” Luke cut in. “No excuses. If she wants to sue me for breech of contract, she can.”
“Breech of contract?” Onida’s hands fluttered nervously. “Oh, my.”
“Actually, I’m not suing anybody, at least not yet,” muttered Mara, wanting to get back to the paintings and the dreams.