by Jenna Kernan
Where was she?
“Mr. Strong. Mr. Tehauno,” called one. “You are early.”
“Where’s Morgan?” shouted Ray. He gripped his weapon but did not raise it. Ray nudged his horse forward. “What have you done with her?”
“Nothing but stay out of range of her rocks.” He pointed up to the cliff dwelling.
Ray saw an arm dangling over the ledge. He watched and saw no movement. He turned back to the men. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Carelessness. Mr. Journey no doubt failed to see her properly hydrated. She was red faced when we arrived but I see now she has gone pale.”
Dylan spoke up now. “If you’ve harmed her—”
“The heat has done that.” The man in the mask of the bear turned to look through small circular eye holes at Ray. “So you have a choice. You can try and stop us or you can save yon maiden in her tower from the fiery sun dragon.”
Ray sheathed his rifle. Then he was off his horse and running for the ladder cut from the pine trunk, water bottle in his hand. Dylan kept his rifle aimed as the two men set their mounts in motion. By the time Dylan joined him, Ray could see the two weaving up the steep grade that he knew led deeper into the box canyon.
“They’ll be trapped up there,” said Dylan.
The two men rode out of range as Ray reached the top of the ladder. There was a time when he might have thought twice about choosing not to stand his ground. But that was before a certain Apache woman had burrowed into his heart.
When he crested the top, holding the strap of the water bottle in his teeth, he found Morgan lying on her belly with her cheek on the hot stone cave floor. She wore a dirty powder-blue tank top and boy shorts that hugged her hips. Her legs sprawled out as if she had been bracing as she looked over the edge. Beside her was a pile of stones she had likely removed from the masonry of the dwelling walls for defense against the attack from below.
“Morgan!” She did not move or give any sign that she heard his cry.
He sank to his knees beside her and gripped her arm, finding it slack and hot. He rolled her limp form up off the hot stone and onto his lap. Her eyelids fluttered but her eyes rolled back in her head showing the whites. His panic swelled as he struggled to unscrew the wide black cap from the water bottle.
“Dylan! Bring all the water you can carry up here.”
His friend shouted an affirmation.
Ray’s hands trembled as he poured water over her head and ruffled her hair to be sure the water soaked her boiling head. Then he doused her shirt. Still she didn’t move. He stripped out of his shirt, leaving him in only his straw cowboy hat, jeans and boots. He soaked his shirt and laid it across her forehead, soaking her hair. Then he lifted her and ran her back into the recesses of the cliff dwelling. How had she gotten away?
Her shirt was already dry. He soaked it again and then soaked her shorts. Her face remained an unnatural gray. He checked her pulse and his panic rose when he found her heart beat as fast as a captured bird’s.
At the time of her birth Morgan would have been given a bead carved from an abalone shell. All Apache girls received such a bead, just as the boys received a similar one fashioned of turquoise. At the time of their death they would fly through the hole in the bead and to the world of spirits in less time than it took to blink an eye. Ray kept his bead in his medicine bundle. He did not know where a woman kept her bead, but he hoped it was now far, far away. He prayed aloud in the language of his ancestors for Morgan to linger here with him on earth. He made her promises that he knew she would not want him to keep, promises for a future together with a man who did not deserve her but loved her with his whole heart.
Dylan appeared wearing his saddlebags like a backpack and with a coil of rope over one arm.
“She’s too hot,” said Ray.
Dylan checked her by touching the back of his hand to Morgan’s cheek. “We have to get her off this ledge.”
“Cool her first. Take off your shirt. Soak it and put it on her legs.” Together they continued to douse her with water. Her eyes fluttered but she did not rouse.
Dylan looked at Ray with an expression of a man who has not given up hope but is considering it.
“Dylan, I can’t lose her, too.”
His friend sucked in a breath. But if anyone could understand, it was Dylan. His friend knew Ray had lost his parents and his best friend. And by saying, too, Ray had lifted Morgan into the circle of those closest and most dear to his heart. Dylan’s brow furrowed and he nodded.
“Soak her again,” said Dylan.
“It’s my fault,” said Ray. “Just like the last time.”
“That wasn’t your fault. Neither is this.”
Ray shook his head, feeling the moisture well in his eyes and knowing Morgan’s poor little body was too hot and too dry to even cry. “If I hadn’t deceived her, she wouldn’t have gone to the FBI. I would have been there when that creep came for her.”
“We got her, Ray. We’ll get her down and get her evac’d out.”
“If she dies...” He couldn’t say it because he didn’t know what he would do. What Lisa would do. He pressed one hand to his forehead and wept. “I love her. That’s why she’s going. Everyone I love...”
Dylan had him by the wrist and gave a jolting tug. Ray glanced at him. “We need to get her down. They’ll be here any minute. They have the four-wheelers. But we have to move.”
Ray stood, carrying Morgan in his arms.
“Too dangerous to climb. We need to lower her down.” Dylan released the ties that held the bedroll from his back. They wrapped Morgan and soaked her and the blanket with the last of the water. Then they tied the rope around her. Ray stood back to brace himself as he wrapped the rope around his back. Dylan eased Morgan over the edge and gradually released the rope, allowing Ray to take her weight. Ray kept the rope around his back and used one gloved hand to slow Morgan’s descent by pressing the rope down and around the inside of his thigh. Gradually he let the rope slide through his hands. Dylan called out her progress. When he slid halfway down, Ray pictured Morgan there, wrapped in a brightly colored Pendleton blanket, twisting between heaven and earth. It was a good place for a soul to slip free and that thought made him want to hurry her down, but he forced himself to go slowly, letting the rope go inch by inch.
“I’m going down. I’ll tug when I have her.” Dylan disappeared over the edge leaving him with his fears and the diminishing coil of rope.
He looked at the unforgiving sky and watched the hot-air balloons floating peacefully past on the currents of hot air. He could even see some of their passengers looking down at the life-and-death struggle visible beneath their baskets. Then he looked higher. There above the tops of a colorful collection of balloons and beneath the burning sun soared an eagle. Where once the eagle had helped him see far and true. Now all he could see was Morgan’s hot face and his dreams of a future with her floating away on the currents of hot air.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ray felt the tug on the rope that told him Morgan was safely in Dylan’s arms. He eased off the tension and then moved to the edge to look to the canyon floor.
“She’s hot again. And her clothing is already dry.”
They needed to get her back to the spring some three hundred yards down the canyon. Ray dropped the rope and hurried down using the niches that angled through the V that formed the last few feet of the climb to the cliff dwelling. As he went he pictured the ancient ones, men, children and women with baskets upon their heads, carrying loads to their sky home. When he lost his grip with one toe, he found himself hanging from his arms only. Ray regained his footing and forced himself to slow down. If he fell, Dylan would be forced into making some tough choices.
He heard the whirring motor of a drone. The flying camera appeared a moment later, looking like a
mechanical dragonfly. He did not pause as he continued down the wooden log ladder. The drone hovered, tilted, sank. Then it swooped close to the man that the riflemen shot in the head. Ray did not know if the drone had a microphone but Dylan was speaking to it and using gestures that Jack could interpret and that Agent Forrest likely could, as well. Those gestures had been the way to communicate with other tribes in the southwest when they did not share a common language. Ray’s education had included learning these signs and now he was grateful for that. Dylan explained that they needed medical assistance and that the man at the foot of the cliff had been killed by the armed men. He pointed up the canyon and told the heartless flying eye which way they went. The drone lifted and zipped up the canyon disappearing from sight as Ray reached the canyon floor.
“Help should be close,” said Dylan.
Ray knelt beside Morgan. Her red face frightened him. The color of her cheeks reminded him of the candy apples sold at fairs and rodeos. Was it better that her skin was no longer gray?
“That’s the last of my water,” said Dylan. “Are you going to make a travois and carry her or wait for Jack?”
“We aren’t waiting,” said Ray, scooping Morgan up in his arms and heading for his horse. “Cinch him for me. Will you?”
Dylan readied his horse.
“Your body heat will just make her hotter,” he warned.
He knew that. But he’d be damned if he’d let her go. He let Dylan lead and then cursed at the slow pace Dylan set. Always the perfectionist, Dylan chose the safest, but not the fastest, route to the spring. At last Ray spotted the lush green of the grasses and reeds that benefitted from year-round water. He handed Morgan down to Dylan but caught up with him before he reached the spring and relieved him of his precious cargo.
“I won’t drop her,” Dylan promised.
Ray needed to get Morgan cooled. He splashed into the gurgling water muddying the hole. The horses did not care. They had followed and were now pawing at the mud before drinking as horses did. A survival reflex, perhaps to see the area clear of snakes. Ray sat in the water supporting Morgan. Her arms floated out and her dark hair billowed up around her head. He kept her down so that only her face and hands broke the surface. There he waited, keeping an eye on her.
Thank God this canyon had a spring. Most were dry and he knew what would have happened then. Morgan’s blood would have grown thicker and thicker as the dry air stole more moisture from her skin and lungs. Then her organs would fail. First her kidneys and liver and finally her heart. That beautiful, kind and willing heart.
“Morgan, darling,” he whispered. “Come back to me. Come back, sweetheart. I love you. Let me have just one chance to prove it to you.”
Dylan stood with the horses, watching Ray hold the weightless woman who floated like a water spirit.
“Stay,” he whispered. “For Lisa and for me. We need you.”
Her fingers moved, curling and then extending. Her limp body regained a more natural muscle tone. His breathing was fast now, nearly as fast as hers. Morgan’s eyelids fluttered and this time he saw her beautiful brown eyes as she gazed up at the sky.
“Ahh,” she said and lifted an index finger.
He followed the direction of her gaze and saw a hot air balloon with a blue, yellow and red chevron pattern followed by one that was shaped like a gigantic butterfly and a third that resembled the head of the blue Cheshire cat.
She smiled, following the floating parade with only her eyes. Her hand dropped back into the spring water.
“Morgan? Sweetheart?” Ray kept one hand on the middle of her back and swept the hair from her forehead. “Can you hear me?”
Her gaze shifted to him and a line formed between her brows. Confusion or disappointment? He was not certain but she continued to stare.
“Ray?”
“Yes!” He laughed. He had been so afraid the heat would damage her brain, sending her into that spiral from which there was no return.
“Lisa?” She struggled now to get her feet under her with clumsy, weak thrashing.
“Lie still. Lisa is safe. She’s with the FBI. Remember?”
“The men.” She continued to struggle, so Ray eased her up, dragging her onto his lap.
Dylan left him and the horses who continued to suck up the water in noisy slurps. Ray listened and heard the four-wheelers but the reeds and high green grass blocked his view of their approach. He heard them pause and heard Dylan speaking but could not make out what was said over the engine noise.
“They’re gone,” said Ray. “The man who took you is gone, too.”
“Dead,” she said and pinched her eyes closed. She pressed a hand to her forehead. “They said you...worked for them.”
He scowled. He wasn’t working for the ones the FBI were chasing. Was this some delusion her confused mind had created?
The motors revved and the four-wheelers moved on. Dylan reappeared.
“Didn’t you tell them we need help?” asked Ray.
Dylan gave him a certain look that Ray read as annoyance.
“I did but they barely slowed down. Seems catching those men is a higher priority.”
Ray seethed. Morgan had put her faith in those agents and they had failed to keep her safe, had endangered her life, been too slow to get to her and now they left her here when just one of those four-wheelers could bring her into town in less than an hour.
“I’m glad I didn’t take the test,” said Dylan.
“What test?”
“They recruited me after I left the service. And a few times after that.”
“You never told me that,” said Ray.
Morgan lifted her hands to brush back her short crop of hair. She looked so different with her bangs swept back to reveal her high forehead and widow’s peak.
“How do you feel?”
“Dizzy. Nauseous. I’m trying not to puke.”
Her color had changed from hot pink to a greenish gray. Ray had seen enough in Iraq to recognize a person who was at risk of going into shock. He wanted to give her water, but was afraid. He knew she needed to be conscious and the shock dictated against letting her drink.
“Horses,” said Dylan. His friend disappeared through the grass.
Ray leaned in and kissed Morgan’s cheek. “You have to stick with me. You’re strong. Stay awake.”
“Vision is funny...like looking down a hole.”
Tunnel vision. Her body began to grow slack again as she slipped into the swoon.
“Morgan!” He shook her. Her head lolled forward and against his chest. He had to get her to a hospital. Ray stood, still holding her in his arms, and charged out of the spring to find three horsemen: Jack, tribal police chief Tinnin and Jack’s younger brother, Kurt Bear Den. Kurt was a paramedic for the air ambulance, and Ray had never been so glad to see a person in his life.
Kurt was already off his horse and reaching for his bag.
“Put her there,” Kurt ordered, motioning to the shady side of the canyon.
Within short order, Kurt had Morgan’s arm sterilized and an IV inserted. Ray didn’t know what was in the clear sack of fluid that Kurt ordered him to hold in the air. All that mattered was that it was moving from the transparent bag and into Morgan’s body. Ray lifted his head to the sky and began to sing a prayer for the return of Morgan’s spirit to him.
Above, the messenger to the creator circled on the currents of air.
The golden eagle was back, soaring with his prayers.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Morgan woke in the ambulance and again as they loaded her into the helicopter. Later on, she recalled the emergency room with the blinding white lights and the headache that shot pain behind her eyes.
“I’m her husband.”
She knew that voice. But she did n
ot have a husband. Ray. Of course. He was so good at lying she almost believed him. Almost believed he cared. Almost believed she would have married him. Almost.
Somehow her past and the deceptions of Lisa’s father had taught her nothing.
Her legs cramped and the pain made her cry out. Someone gripped her hand.
“I’m here, Morgan.”
Her body ached as if she had the flu. This time when the dizziness came she welcomed it, throwing herself into the darkness to escape the torment of her body.
When she woke again she was lying as still as a corpse with her hands carefully placed on either side of her body, which was draped in a white bedsheet. Above her head a muted light shone down on her. Her body felt cold and something moved beneath her, like water.
For a moment she thought she was on a slab in the morgue.
The sounds flooded in next, followed by the beep of the machine that recorded her heartbeat and the noise from the corridor outside her room. She breathed out her relief.
She had been in a hospital bed once before, after Lisa was born. She had delivered her child herself, alone, in the studio apartment in Tucson. Then called the ambulance because she was afraid for Lisa. Her last visit to the hospital had been the final time she had seen her father. What would he say if he knew what his deed had caused?
The tears slid down her cheeks and she smiled. She could cry again. That meant she was no longer dry as the desiccated bodies of those who venture into the arid wilds without enough water.
Now she heard the sound of a pump and then the sensation of movement beneath her again. Some kind of cooling pad, she decided and closed her eyes. She moved just her arms, bending them to lace her fingers over her middle and the machine beside her started to wail.
She glanced at the upright IV. She shifted and felt the tug that told her she had both a catheter and something else down there beneath the clean white sheets. She winced and something like a growl escaped her.