Speak to the Wind

by Mary Tate Engels

  She reminded him of a delicate, fragile crystal goblet of champagne. He couldn't take his eyes off her and felt slightly intoxicated with her beauty. She carried herself well, with confidence. But there was something about her expression, her darkly serious eyes that issued vulnerability, perhaps even pain. And Joe was immediately curious about her.

  Her down-to-earth beauty appealed to him. She was refreshing and lively, not entirely innocent. Her hair framed her oval face like strands of silk. The firelight seemed to turn it golden, and he flexed his large hands to quell the urge to touch it.

  Joe stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorframe, trying to appear casual. "You say you've been coming to the mountains since you were a child? Are you here vacationing with your family?"

  "No, I..." Maria hesitated to tell this stranger that she was alone. “I’m taking a few days off from work."

  "Then you must be from Phoenix or Tucson."

  "Phoenix." Maria lifted the mug to her lips, then lowered it before taking a drink. "Excuse me for not asking sooner. Would you like something hot to drink? I'm having warm cider, but I could fix you coffee."

  He gave her a grateful smile. "Cider sounds fine."

  She edged past him on her way into the kitchen, and he caught a whiff of her delicate floral perfume. In that split second Joe thought of wildflowers on a hillside, of sprinkling them over her, over her bare skin. And he wanted to bury his face in her hair, to inhale her sweetness. Struggling with his willpower, Joe tinned in the doorway so that they could continue to talk. "Where do you work, Maria?"

  "I travel quite a bit making presentations, but my home base is Phoenix."

  "What kind of presentations?"

  "I'm a business communications consultant, and the presentations usually contain an overall view of my firm."

  "Okay, I’ll bite," he conceded, folding his arms across his expansive chest. "What do communications consultants do?"

  "Among other things, we teach people how to speak in public."

  He looked at her curiously. "How to make speeches, huh?"

  With a little smile she gave him her rehearsed business spiel. "At Speechcraft we instruct our clients in all phases of verbal and nonverbal communication techniques, including body language, written memos and reports and media events. We specialize in public speaking with ease and confidence. Like right now, I can tell you’re skeptical."

  He shifted and moved his arms to a neutral position and followed her into the kitchen. "Sounds interesting. You mean you can teach someone how to conduct a news conference?"

  "Of course. There are learnable skills to that, just as in any other craft." She reached into the cabinet for another clay mug. "Politicians, or political candidates, frequently take our courses, especially now with so much news media emphasis."

  "Oh?" His eyebrows shot up at the word "politicians." But she couldn't possibly know about his intentions. It was still a carefully guarded secret.

  She poured steaming cider into the mug and handed it to him. "Here you go. Let’s wait for your ride by the fireplace."

  "Thanks. This smells great." He followed her into the living room and took a seat in the chair opposite her. "I haven't had cider in ages."

  "To be honest, I only drink it when I come up here. Too warm in Phoenix. Maybe it's the chilly air or the atmosphere that invites curling up by the fire with a cup of something hot in your hands."

  "How often do you come up?"

  "Never often enough. Usually only two or three times a year."

  "Well, that's more often than I make it."

  Maria cocked her head. "Then you don't live around here?"

  "No, I'm from California." Joe gazed at her with a straightforward, unreadable expression.

  "I just assumed you lived here because. . ." She felt foolish. She knew all Indians didn't live on reservations. And all Apaches didn’t live here. Her assumptions about this man were wrong so far and piqued her curiosity even more.

  Joe picked up a Speechcraft brochure she'd left on the table and scanned it. His thumb pointed out the majestic bald eagle drawing and slogan imprinted on the front. "Is that what you do, Maria? Teach people to rise above the ordinary?"

  "I give them the tools. After that it's up to the individual." She paused with a modest little laugh. "You can see my High Meadow Lake influence. Can't help it, I guess. There's a huge bald eagle that feeds at the lake almost every morning. It's a ritual, like clockwork. I watch him and think he's absolutely grand. He definitely rises above the ordinary, even among eagles."

  Joe dropped the brochure to his knee and gazed at her with a slight smile. “I’ve seen him. Early this morning, in fact. Uncle Will and I were fishing."

  "You were in that boat on the lake?"

  He nodded. "Where were you?"

  "I took a walk. Saw you from the shore."

  For a few silent seconds, a silken moment in time, they realized they had shared the morning, both the magnificent sight of the eagle's ritual and the awesome feeling that they had been privileged observers.

  Finally Maria spoke, her tone hushed. "I often take a walk early in the morning when it's quiet. It's a good time to think."

  She halted clumsily, feeling she was rapidly losing her privacy in this simple conversation with a stranger. Yet she knew instinctively that there was no such thing as simple conversation with this intriguing man sitting across from her. She took a deep breath, fighting to remain at ease, to put into action the skills she taught.

  "You're right," he agreed quietly. "It's a special place. I’m not sure those who live here appreciate it as much as those of us coming from the rat race." He paused, then deftly changed the subject. "I'm curious about what you offer and what kind of clients you have, Maria."

  Maria launched into the comfortable territory of Speechcraft. "The seminars we do for corporations usually deal with basic communications skills and include business related information. Sometimes we work with clients who've been suddenly thrown into a public situation and want a little help, especially in dealing with the media. Or those who are heading in that direction and want the skills before they get there. My most recent clients were a group of rock stars."

  "Are you kidding? Who?"

  "Privileged information." She gave her head a quick shake. "They rose to stardom too rapidly to adjust to their popularity. We should all have their problem, right? These kids had no concept how instant stardom would affect their lives. Suddenly they couldn't do anything without the world knowing."

  "So what was your advice?"

  "Of course they didn't need to learn public speaking per se. We worked on retaining some degree of privacy while keeping the fans and press happy. Fame and fortune aren't always as wonderful as they appear on the surface. There are lots of demands."

  "I never stopped to consider it might be a problem." He drained his mug and set it down on the table. "Just curious. How did you manage all this without the press knowing about it?"

  She smiled coyly. "It's our business to be completely confidential. Most of our individual clients demand anonymity. In this case, I spent several weeks on the road with them and no one knew who I was. There are so many groupies around these famous people, it was easy for me to blend in. It’s more difficult if the client is a politician with a family, someone established in a more settled lifestyle. But we manage. Recently I worked with a governor who is being groomed for ah, higher office in a few years. I wore a wig and pretended to be an additional secretary. That was kind of fun, actually."

  "Being groomed?" Joe groaned. Was that what was happening to him? "Sounds like a horse preparing for the big race. And you're the woman behind the success."

  "Not really," she objected modestly. "I told you, it's up to the individual. In fact, I take cues from my clients. We set goals together according to what they want to achieve."

  He grinned and waggled the brochure he still held. "You promise to help them rise above the ordinary."

  Mar
ia ducked her head and watched a bubble circle the amber liquid in her mug. "I give them tools and instill self-confidence."

  "Sounds like we could all use a dose of that medicine. Can I keep this brochure?"

  "Of course. If you know of anyone who might want any of our services, please pass it on. We can always use the business."

  "I will." He glanced out the window, then back. "How long are you staying here?"

  "Just until the end of this week. I have to go back Sunday."

  Joe nodded, then noticed headlights approaching in the darkness. "That's probably my cousin now." With a reluctance he didn't even try to hide, he made slow motions to leave.

  Maria rose, also feeling a curious reluctance to see him go.

  Joe paused. "I'm probably going to be moving back here for a while and I..."

  She waited for him to finish, but he hesitated. “To the reservation?" she encouraged, then admonished herself for violating her own pet peeve about rushing the speaker or finishing his statement. She considered it rude and overanxious. One of the tools she taught was empathic listening, to understand the speaker without forming a ready response. Now she wouldn’t know what he was really considering.

  "Yes, back here." He stroked his chin with his thumb. "Maybe I. . . could use a lesson or two that you offer. We all could, probably."

  "It can be arranged." Her heart pounded. Was that what he was stumbling around? He wanted a speaking course from her?

  "But I'll call. I have your number on the brochure, don't I?" He extended his hand. "Thank you, Maria. It's been a pleasure. And interesting. Very interesting, indeed."

  Her hand rested in his, now warm. "Nice meeting you, too, Joe."

  He released her and turned toward the door. The headlights had stopped on the road in front of her cabin. Joe looked back at her just before he left. "Thanks for the cider. I hope we’ll meet again soon."

  "Me too."

  Maria stood at the door and watched the car lights disappear into the night. She turned back to the fireplace and studied the flames as they leaped around the darkened logs, devouring them with blue-white heat.

  It was easy to imagine that the brief encounter with Joe Quintero had been a dream. He'd been here such a short time, and now he was gone. There were other things she wanted to say to him, wanted to ask. Maria felt strangely attracted to this man but couldn't avoid the guilt that crept into those feelings. There had been no other man since Wayne, no other attraction.

  But this man was different. Joe Quintero was almost an enigma, a woman's fantasy. Maria thought of Joe's expansive shoulders and strong arms, his warm hands and how they'd felt grasping hers in a firm handshake... how they might feel touching her; his voice and square jaw and high cheekbones... and how it might feel to have his lips close to hers; his muscular body stretched alongside hers... making love.

  She snapped back to the immediate. What the hell was wrong with her? She was thinking... dreaming about a man who was a virtual stranger.

  Maria turned away from the fire, and her gaze fell on the mug he'd left on the table. There was the proof. Joe Quintero wasn't a figment of her imagination. He had been here in this room. And his memory stayed with her.

  Joe Quintero heaved himself into the car with no expression on his dark face. He made a comment about the stalled truck and how they’d get it fixed tomorrow. Inside his broad chest, though, his heart pounded with hope. Or was it raw desire? He felt as though he had to see this woman again. He was compelled, caught in the golden spell of her natural beauty, her self-confidence.

  Yet he was also acutely aware that he was too busy to become involved with another woman right now. He had a more noble cause to consider, greater challenges to meet, a destiny beyond his own existence. And he sure as hell didn't need the complications of a woman. Unless. . . unless she could help him meet those challenges.

  The next morning Maria was awakened by the sounds of a diesel truck. She stumbled to the window in time to see a tow truck hauling away the stalled truck. . . evidence of Joe Quintero's presence in her mountain world.

  Near noon a knock on the door aroused Maria's hopes that the visitor might be Joe. Just in case, she'd dressed in a red sweater and put on a little makeup. She flung open the door with an expectant smile.

  There stood a skinny Indian boy of about seven with jet-black eyes and hair to match. He held out a small package.

  "Uncle Joe said to give this to you. And to say thanks for helping him last night." The boy ran away to a car waiting for him on the road.

  "What? Wait a minute," she called.

  Maria stepped onto the front porch, expecting—hoping—to see Joe in the car. But the driver was a woman, probably the boy's mother. She waved, a faint smile on her dark face, and drove away. Maria stood there, holding the palm-size box, staring curiously at it.

  A gift from Joe. More proof of his existence. Quickly she tore open the box.

  Inside, wrapped in plain white tissue paper, was a miniature Apache burden basket, a collector's item hand-woven of leather and decorative silver cones. The miniatures had become popular because the large authentic ones were rare and expensive.

  Tucked inside the tiny basket was a note.

  Thanks for the use of your phone last night and for giving me the spur to rise above the ordinary. You are an intriguing lady, Maria Eden.

  Sincerely, Joe.

  Maria smiled wistfully and pressed the note to her heart. It was so sudden, this yearning, this attraction that she was sure he felt, also. At odd times during the day she picked up the tiny Apache basket and thought of Joe Quintero. She wondered if she'd see him again. Last night he'd seemed sure that it would happen.

  With a longing she hadn't felt in years, Maria hoped it would.

  Chapter Two

  The fragrance was distant but close enough to sting her nostrils as Maria drove to the post for supplies a few days later. The forest service called them controlled burns, but she knew how fast the flames could get out of control. It had happened several years earlier when a neighboring cabin had burned to the ground before help could arrive. Today the stark chimney still pointed skyward, a lonely sentinel serving as a reminder of the runaway fire every time she passed the site.

  She could see a huge cloud funneling skyward like a smoky genie swirling lighter and lighter against the vivid blue sky, eventually disappearing as a pale gray wisp. There was an ominous power inherent in the dark smoke that invoked a certain fear in her.

  Maria pulled her Honda to a stop in front of Mounting Spirits Post, a combination grocery store and trading post located at the edge of the High Meadow Apache Reservation. It was a gathering place for the Indians and for Maria, easier to get supplies there than to travel into the nearest town of Show Low. Mrs. Berg, now a widow, was an old friend who had operated the post as long as Maria could remember.

  She approached the sturdy log building and nodded a greeting to a pair of Indian women who were leaving the store. The women's almond-shaped brown eyes and solemn expressions reminded Maria of the exotic appearance of the man she hadn't been able to forget all week. Joe Quintero.

  As Maria entered the country store, she instinctively looked beyond the stack of Pendleton blankets to where Joe had been the last time she was here. Of course he wasn't there, and she hid her disappointment with a smile. "Hi, Mrs. Berg. How are you feeling today?"

  "Hello, Maria. Nice to see you again. Sally said you were here asking about me. My arthritis is acting up again. I predict we'll have rain sometime in the next twenty-four hours."

  "Maybe that's why the forest service is burning today. They expect rain soon. Did they check with you to see what the weather would do?"

  "No. I'd charge them for the information if they did, though," Mrs. Berg said with a laugh. "These old hands are worth a lot."

  "They are if they can predict the weather."

  Just the rain, I'm afraid." Mrs. Berg perched on a stool behind the counter. "How long are you staying with us this time,
Maria?"

  "Until tomorrow. I need a couple of things to keep me going," Maria said as she placed a can of coffee on the counter. "Let's see. What else?"

  "So when will you be back to our woods?"

  "As soon as I get another break. Can't stay away for long. You know that."

  Mrs. Berg gestured toward the window. "Where're they burning today?"

  "Up near the lake." Maria added a can of chili to her small pile on the counter. "I always worry about it going wild. Remember the time McManns' cabin burned?"

  "Oh, yes. But I think the forest rangers have learned to control it better now. The McManns sued and won a sizable amount, more than enough to rebuild their cabin elsewhere. I'm sure the government won't let that happen again."

  "I hope so...."

  "You sound like the folks here." Mrs. Berg started totaling Maria's items and placing them in a bag. "When it comes to control burns, the Indians don't trust the forest service, either. Course, they've seen accidents, too. Is that all you need today, dear?"

  Maria nodded and counted out the money. "Unfortunately these accidents could cost us our homes. So we're wary."

  "Did you know the fire department in Show Low has a new fire truck? One of the most recent models, too. It's a beauty."

  "Still, it would take them so long to get around to my side of the lake that the damage would be done." Maria picked up her bag of groceries, then paused, contemplating. If anyone would know about Joe, Mrs. Berg would. She set the bag back on the counter. "Mrs. Berg, do you know a man named Joe Quintero? He's apparently a High Meadow Apache."

  "Joe Quintero? I’ll say." The gray-haired lady shook her head wistfully, and her blue eyes sparkled with the memory. "Joe and his brother, Josh, were the stuff of legends a few years ago. They were just little fellows when their parents were killed in an awful wreck out near Gallup. The boys were sent to Indian boarding school in Phoenix. I think one of the teachers adopted them. An Anglo family, if I remember correctly."