“Look,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I came on a little strong. You can probably guess this isn’t my favorite thing to talk about.”
“I understand,” Mallory said, picking up a handful of pebbles by her feet and tossing them aimlessly toward the fire pit. “This thing with Marissa and me...it’s not something everyone understands, either.” She tossed a pebble toward the fire. It skipped off the rock and landed next to his boot. “People tend to look at me a little crazy when I try to explain. It’s just that I get these feelings.” She looked up at him. “Like the feeling I get about you.”
“Me?”
She nodded, smiling a little. “Believe it or not, I’m normally a pretty cautious person. I’m not usually in the habit of gallivanting off through the wilderness with someone I don’t know anything about.” She hesitated for a moment, feeling a little awkward. “But for some reason I...feel I can trust you. I feel you can help me find my sister.” She breathed out a small, embarrassed laugh. “Sounds pretty crazy, huh?”
He studied her in the firelight, a little surprised by her honesty. “No more crazy than a vision filled with the moon and the stars.”
“A vision,” she mused, tossing another pebble into the fire. “Is that why you agreed to help me? Because you’d had a vision, because it almost seemed that you were meant to help me?”
He shrugged. “Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Two thousand bucks.”
She laughed too, but after a moment the smile left her face. “Was it a vision that had you helping the kidnapped boy?”
“No,” he said, the smile fading from his lips too. “It had never happened to me like that before,” he said, watching as the pebbles she tossed bounced against the ashen wood and fell into the embers. “The kidnapping had been all over the papers for days. I’d read about it, but hadn’t gotten any particular...feelings about it or anything. Then one night I woke up and couldn’t breathe. I knew right then the boy was buried.”
“And you went to the police.”
He turned and stared out into the blackness, uneasy with having said so much. “I couldn’t have just ignored it. The kid would have died.”
“Do you think Marissa might die?”
He turned back. “You should know that better than I. Go with your instincts.”
“Is that what you do?”
He smiled a little, thinking it was instinct that had brought him into the desert with her. “I try.”
“And that’s what makes you think Marissa came this way, right?”
“Something like that,” he said. A gust of wind sent dust and ashes fluttering up around them. “I don’t know what happened back there on the highway. I can try and put two and two together, make an educated guess. But the road—there’s something that just feels right about it, something that makes me think we should follow it.”
For some reason, Mallory felt enormously better. She still felt an urgency to find Marissa, still felt uneasy and nervous for her sister’s safety, but at least she didn’t feel so afraid any more. He’d told her to go with her instincts, and her instincts were telling her Marissa was still alive and still safe, just like they were telling her that she could trust Benjamin Graywolf.
The yawn seemed to come out of nowhere, catching her by surprise and making her gasp for air. The fatigue of the long day settled around her like a dense cloud, causing her lids to grow heavy.
“You look beat,” Graywolf said, seeing how her eyes had turned the color of the night sky. “Why don’t you turn in.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” she said, shaking off the wave of sleepiness.
“What are you talking about?” Graywolf asked, puzzled. “What am I trying to do?”
She turned and dove for the carton of cans. “You just want the SpaghettiOs for yourself.”
* * *
Mallory heard the rumble of thunder from off in the distance, and felt the cold blast of wind gust against the nylon walls of the tent. The small shelter billowed with the draft, groaning meekly and swaying back and forth. She snuggled into the bedroll, trying not to think of the cold seeping up through the floor of the tent and into her tired, aching body.
After having finished her meal of canned pasta, she’d crawled into the small tent and fallen asleep almost immediately. The day had been long and emotional, and it had left her exhausted. But she was wide awake now, staring into the darkness and listening to the sounds of a thunderstorm as it made its way across the desert sky.
She had no idea what time it was, or how long she’d been asleep—and with the paralyzing cold and bitter wind, she wasn’t about to wrestle open her jacket and bedroll just to get a look at her watch. From the way her body ached and her muscles protested the solid mattress of the desert floor, she had a feeling a number of hours had passed.
It was still awfully dark, and the white nylon that covered the small tent’s domed top glowed eerily in the blackness. The thought of lying there, cold and uncomfortable, through the long hours to dawn made her restless, but options were limited at the moment. She shifted her weight, twisting in the sleeping bag in an effort to take the pressure off the painful spot on her hip where it dug into the hard ground. Her stiff muscles made her clumsy, and she collided with the sides of the tent, sending it swaying and swinging even more. Thank God she was alone in the small enclosure, or she’d never be able to move at all.
She thought of Graywolf, asleep outside on the ground beside the fire ring. She had to admit to being relieved when she realized the tent had been assembled for her benefit—relieved, and a little surprised at his thoughtfulness. He’d made such a point of telling her how rough and primitive the conditions would be.
She shifted again, moving her weight off what felt like a boulder in the middle of her back. And he hadn’t lied about that—no matter what kind of sleepingthese were definitely primitive conditions. Still, she’d already made up her mind she wasn’t going to complain—no matter what kind of sleeping arrangements he’d had in mind. She was just glad they’d worked out the way they had.
She thought of him—of his coal black eyes with their thick lashes and dark brows. She remembered how the sun had streaked across his face, accentuating the high cheekbones and rugged chin, how it had shone brilliantly against the black strands of hair, gleaming dark and rich. She thought of his hands, strong and smooth on the steering wheel. She thought of what it would be like to have them touch her—to feel their strength and power, to have them move over her—searching, probing.
She thought again of that first day, that day at his hogan when he’d surprised her from behind. She hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t been prepared for what she’d found.
A small shiver traveled through her as she thought of how he’d looked—tall, strong, powerful. He’d looked every bit the savage—his black hair falling loose, his shoulders broad and straight, his chest bare and hard. What would it be like to feel that kind of strength, to touch those hard muscles and have them touch her?
She remembered the bar, remembered how he’d ground his hard body against hers. She’d been too frightened then to think at the time, too overwhelmed by the crowd and the circumstance, but she wasn’t frightened now. She remembered with crystal clarity how it felt and how it made her feel.
She imagined them together, his dark skin against her pale complexion, his black hair falling, mingling with her long, platinum strands, the weight of him against her, the feel...
She shuddered again, violently this time, and sprang up in the bedroll. Sitting up, she covered her face with her hands. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind?
She forgot about the cold, about the gusting wind and the stony ground. Suddenly it was too warm in the tent, it was too small and too uncomfortable. She felt closed in, breathless and claustrophobic.
She blinked her eyes furiously, struggling to see despite the thick darkness. What could
she have been thinking of? How could she be fantasizing at a time like this, at a time when she should be concentrating only on finding her sister? And how could she be fantasizing about Benjamin Graywolf? He was a stranger, from a different world, a different culture. He had nothing but contempt for her world, he could barely be civil to her. To think of the two of them together...it was ridiculous, lunacy, insanity.
She sank back into the bedroll, wishing she could just fall asleep, start all over and forget about her foolish fantasies. Thunder rumbled again, sounding closer and more ominous. She thought of Graywolf, unprotected beneath the stars. She knew the tired old stereotypes about Indians weren’t true, but there was something about him—something feral and untamed. As a reporter she could understand why the press had gone after him with such relish—he had a mystery about him, a presence. He would have been a dream come true to a journalist hungry for a story, an easy prey—he had a mystery about himripe for exploitation.
There was another rumble of thunder, low and foreboding, and it took her a moment to realize the tapping sounds against the tent were actually raindrops falling. She sat up again, unzipping the tent flap and peering through the darkness at Graywolf’s shadowy form lying a few feet away. He seemed oblivious to the thunder, and the drops that splashed against the dry ground. She considered getting up, climbing out of the tent and awakening him, inviting him into the protection of her small shelter. But remembering her fantasies, and how uncomfortable they had made her, she decided against it.
She closed the flap, lying back against the hard ground, thinking. The fantasies really shouldn’t upset her. At least they were a healthy sign—a sign that she was still living, still alive. There was a time there when she wasn’t so sure, when she thought that part of her life was over—put to rest forever.
Growing up in rustic Jackson, in the heart of California’s gold country, had been just about perfect. The Wakefield family had been part of the mother lode since the rush of 1849, and everyone in town had known the Wakefield twins. Marissa had been the quiet, studious one—captain of the debating team, president of the honor society and class president. Mallory had been the popular one—cheerleader, prom queen and the student voted most likely to become a millionaire.
Millionaire, she thought darkly, twisting in the sleeping bag and shifting her weight heavily to one side. How foolish it was to think money could make up for anything. The Wellingtons had been millionaires all right—many times over, but their son Randy had been one of the neediest people she’d ever met.
Mallory had known from the moment they’d met at freshman orientation at the University of Maryland that Randy was troubled, but his uncertainties and defenselessness were what had drawn her to him in the first place. Maybe things had always come too easy for her—schoolwork, friends, relationships, opportunities—or maybe she hadn’t understood how deeply rooted Randy’s problems really were. She’d liked being needed by him, liked having him depend on her. And she’d honestly thought she could help him sort through his troubled relationship with his family, help him conquer his struggle against alcohol and drugs as easily as she’d conquered everything else in her life.
But she’d been living in a dreamworld. Randy hadn’t needed a cheerleader, hadn’t needed someone to champion his cause and root him on. He’d needed someone to help him face his problems head on, not through violent outbursts or drunken hazes, and it was there where she’d failed him miserably. She hadn’t realized until it was too late that Randy first had to admit he needed help before anything was ever going to change.
Mallory didn’t suppose a broken marriage was ever easy, but for her it had been devastating—not just because she’d loved Randy and hadn’t been able to help him, but because she’d screwed up. She’d failed, and it had been a rude awakening. The most popular girl in school, the perfect cheerleader with the perfect twin sister and the perfect life had finally received her comeuppance.
She listened to the droplets of rain as they hit the top of the tent. They made a sad, bleak sound as they splashed against the thin nylon—like tears spilling down from the sky. She thought of how foolish she had been, how naive. It had been three years since the divorce, and yet she still felt its effects. Randy was doing great now, and she was happy about that. Their failed relationship had done nothing to dampen his spirit to want to try again. He’d married someone he’d met in rehab, and they had two sons now.
She, on the other hand, still felt as though something were dead inside her. She’d shied away from involvements, preferring instead to let time heal the wounds. There had been no one special in her life, but that had been the way she’d wanted it. And even though she’d convinced herself her reluctance to begin a new relationship wasn’t because she was afraid to try again, she had to admit there were doubts that hadn’t been there before.
She thought again of Graywolf—of his dark eyes and broad shoulders, and of the scenes she’d fantasized in her head. A warm, weak feeling spread through her arms and legs, making her twist uncomfortably in the sleeping bag. It was as though life had finally returned to her body in one glorious burst. Perhaps her healing had been completed, perhaps it was time for her to get on with her life.
But with Benjamin Graywolf? What was it about him that had gotten to her? What was it about this strange, brooding man that had reached out to her, and had her emotions roaring back to life?
She thought of the way he had looked at her, thought of his dark, probing eyes, and the way they seemed to see and know more than she was comfortable with. He said he was no mind reader, and she hoped that was the truth. How embarrassed she would be if he knew what she was thinking when she looked at him.
* * *
He reached for her, but her hand was just out of reach. And yet she beckoned to him—please come, please come. Her eyes pleaded with him—implored, entreated. She needed him...needed him. Her arms begged, outstretched.
He reached out again, wanting nothing more than to catch her up into his arms, to hurl her across the chasm and press her to him. Her blue eyes were clear and radiant, the color of the sea in the morning. Her long hair looked almost white, like streaks of moonlight through the clouds.
He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life. She belonged to him, and he wanted to reach out and claim what was his.
But something was happening, something had gone wrong. She was crying, her huge blue eyes spilling over with tears. They were falling down on him, tasting wet and salty. She was slipping away, falling back—just out of touch, just out of reach. He grasped for her again, struggling desperately, but something was holding him back, something confined and restricted his movements. He watched helplessly as she slipped away, struggling, struggling....
It was only when his shoulder made painful contact with one of the hard rocks of the fire ring did Graywolf realize he was dreaming. Confused and disoriented, he struggled to sit up, trying to blink away the darkness. Perspiration poured from him, and his heart thundered in his chest. His lungs gasped for air, and drew it in huge, deep breaths.
He’d thrashed around in his sleep, tossing and turning, and succeeded in tangling himself in the bedroll. With the dream still skirting the edges of his consciousness, he tried his best to clear his mind and concentrate on disengaging himself from the confines of the sleeping bag.
He turned, glancing back at the small pup tent behind him. Apparently he hadn’t disturbed the biligaana woman. The small enclosure was still and silent, little more than a black shadow in the darkness.
With the bedroll straight, he lay back down. A sudden splash of water against his face made him jump, making him aware it was drizzling. Only then did he realize his face was wet, and the sleeping bag damp. Still, he made no move to dry himself or take cover. It was barely more than a mist, and the coolness of the rain felt good against his heated skin. The droplets had a soothing, rhythmic feel against his face.
He lay there, staring into the darkness, forcing himself to concen
trate on what stars were visible, forcing himself to think about the rain and the desert, and not about the dream, or the woman in it. But it was impossible. It would seep into his thoughts, permeate his consciousness and bring her into the forefront of his mind. He could see her, how she had looked in the dream—her lips red and full, her eyes dark and pleading, her arms reaching and inviting. With each drop of rain that pelted his face, he thought of her, and of the tears she had shed.
He had dreamed about her. Mallory Wakefield—a woman whose prim, proper name was as much a part of the white man’s world as her long, golden hair. She had invaded his subconscious, his private sanctum, a place she’d had no right being. She had called out to him, had beckoned to him. She had held out her arms to him and invited him in. How dare she?
Thinking about it made him angry—furious, in fact. It was an unforgivable, inexcusable, egregious sin she had committed. He blamed her for creeping into his brain, for disturbing his peace. He blamed her for having the kind of beauty that haunted a man, and made her impossible to forget.
But the worst part—the very worst part of it all—was remembering how desperate he’d been to get to her, how urgently he had struggled to gain the comfort of her embrace. He couldn’t blame that on her. That was something he had to take full responsibility for, and he hated himself for it.
His visions of the moon and the stars, of the woman with hair of sunshine and eyes the color of the sea, had become familiar during the last few weeks. But this had been no vision, no calling out from that cryptic, secret enigmatic voice crying from somewhere beyond the boundaries of his mind. This had been a dream—a real honest-to-God, ordinary dream—something born of his own desires, rooted in his own longing. And that was what made it so unforgivable.
He didn’t want her, he couldn’t. She wasn’t Navajo, wasn’t a part of his world, and never could be. There was a time when he thought the gap between their two worlds could be bridged, but he knew better now.
Tears of the Shaman Page 7