"I'll gather some deadfall," he told her. "There's plenty in that little stand of woods."
"I'll get Scourge to help dig a trench. Let's keep it small, Wes." She looked up at him just before he turned away, and when their eyes met, something moved between them. A childlike excitement, a sense of adventure, something new. She smiled gently at him, and Wes's throat went dry. Then he turned and headed out in search of firewood.
And as he gathered branches and twigs from beneath gnarled, mystical-looking trees, Wes asked himself what the hell he was doing. He wasn't supposed to be playing Cub Scout with Doc McCoy; he was supposed to be convincing her the legend was real and then scaring her the hell away from here. But damn, when she flashed those big onyx eyes his way, it was tough to remember that. Okay, so he'd do the campfire thing. At this point it would look pretty suspicious if he didn't. But after that, it was back to the matter at hand. His best friend's life might very well depend on it.
* * *
Chapter 4
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Why she agreed to the idea of building a fire in the midst of the site, she couldn't have said. There was really no logical reason for it. Then again, there was no real reason not to do it. The location of the central fire had already been excavated, and with the pails of water Wes had hauled up from the pond, any risk of the fire spreading was eliminated.
Still she wasn't prone to mixing work with pleasure, and a campfire was that. Pleasure.
Such pleasure.
Wes took her by the hand, a casual gesture that really shouldn't have sent her pulse rate skittering. Then he knelt and patiently showed her just how to arrange the dried leaves and twigs he'd gathered up. He added large twigs in a tepee shape above the kindling. Then he took two stones from his pocket, pressing one of them into her hand.
"What is it?" she asked, mesmerized.
"Flint," he told her as she handed it back to him. "Watch." Bending low, he struck the stones together, holding them close to the edge of a dry leaf. They produced a spark with each strike, until finally the leaf began to smolder, and then to glow. Wes bent closer and blew gently on the newborn fire until tongues of flame came to life. Then he straightened, facing her. "That's the way our ancestors did it."
She averted her eyes, just a bit uncomfortable.
Then her hands were caught in his larger ones, and the stones gently enfolded in her palms. But his touch was lingering and warm. Like a lover's caress, and it made her shiver. "Keep them," he said. "You never know when you might need them."
He took his hands away slowly, as if he regretted doing so, looked up into her eyes with a slightly puzzled expression in his—as if his actions had surprised him as much as they had her. Then he gave himself a shake and sat down to enjoy the fire. And Taylor did, too.
How had she lived this long and never known how good it felt just to sit under the stars beside an open fire?
The firelight painted every face with dancing light and flickering shadow. Full darkness bathed the camp all around them, and Kelly seemed to be enjoying the fire as much as Taylor was. In fact, sitting cross-legged on the ground, the desert's chill rippling up and down her back, while the fire's warmth blanketed her front, she found it easy to imagine that the dark shapes of the dome tents around her were actually pointy-topped tepees. And that the people sitting around the fire wore animal hides instead of denim and flannel.
Scourge wasn't as enthusiastic. Not at first, anyway. He sat there glumly, as if he were only doing so under protest. The looks he sent Wes's way when Wes wasn't looking were less than friendly, bordering on suspicious, in fact.
Wes sat beside Taylor. And she wondered if he had a clue what sorts of things were going through her mind right now. And whether he'd planned it this way. Maybe he was in cahoots with old Turtle. Subtly steering her toward things she'd avoided until now. Of course, knowledge about Comanche ways had been a necessity before even beginning this job. But the things she'd let herself study were words in books. Clinical accounts of the past. This … this was different.
If she closed her eyes, and just let herself float away in sensation—the pungency of the wood smoke, the snap and crackle and hiss of the fire, the heat of it on her face—she could almost feel them all around her. A village filled with people. Her ancestors. And instead of chilling her, the sensation warmed her.
But the warmth made her wary. She found herself mistrusting it.
"Our ancestors told stories on nights like this," Wes said, his voice deep and slow, making her think he was feeling the same things she did. But that was impossible, of course.
She nodded. "I don't know their stories nearly as well as you do, I'm sure," she said softly. Kelly was talking softly to Scourge, while he stared in silent contemplation of the flames. "I can recite facts and figures, tell you what they ate and how they cooked it. But the legends…" She sighed. "The People were later in developing a written form of their language than many other tribes. So much of what they believed in has been lost."
"Not as much as you think," Wes said, searching her face. "But what survived, survived because of nights like this one, and people gathered around a fire, sharing their tales, the old telling them to the young, generation after generation."
When he looked at her, the reflection of the flames danced in his black eyes. And she didn't say anything, so he went on. "Imagine what would have happened if the young refused to listen to those stories."
He was referring, of course, to her. She'd told him how she'd avoided studying the Comanche ways all her life. "Then the stories might have been lost."
"Not 'might have been.' Would have been," Wes said. "It's the oral tradition that's kept them alive. The stories, the history of a people."
She nodded, knew what he was getting at. She was doing a disservice to her ancestors and maybe to her descendants by refusing to listen, to know.
"For a long time I didn't think it made a difference. Maybe to them, you know. But not to me, personally." He paused there, waiting.
"And what changed your mind?" she asked. Kelly and Scourge had moved closer, abandoning their own conversation in favor of listening to hers and Wes's.
"I met an old man who liked to tell the stories. And I was either too polite or too dumb not to listen."
Taylor nodded slowly, watching his eyes. Seemed once a person looked into those dark eyes, it got unreasonably difficult to look away again. "And did it? Make a difference to you, personally?"
He dipped a hand into his jeans pocket, and pulled out a small woven pouch of black and bright red. The drawstring was knotted around one of his belt loops, she noticed. "Made a lot of difference," he said. "I know who I am now. Know where I come from."
She was mesmerized by the way his big hand cupped the small pouch. Long fingers stroking the weave. And maybe it was the firelight, or the night air … but it seemed sensual, somehow. And she forgot to breathe for a minute, staring at the way his fingers moved.
"Could you tell us some of those stories?" Kelly chirped, jarring Taylor right out of the spell the night—and Wes—had spun.
Wes didn't answer her. He was staring at Taylor. "They're nothing to be afraid of," he said, very softly, so softly she wasn't certain whether the other two could hear him, or if his words reached her ears alone.
"I'm not afraid of any tales of the past," she whispered, but as she said it, a shiver ran up her spine.
"Then ask, and I'll tell you. Say stop and I'll stop."
She bit her lip, glanced over the flames at Scourge, who seemed to be straining to hear the words they spoke softly to one another. At Kelly, practically bouncing on the ground in anticipation. At her tent, out of reach on the other side. But not really out of reach. She could get up, walk away, let him tell his stories to the kids and try hard not to hear, the way she did when Turtle came and insisted on talking of the past, and The People and the old ways.
She met Wes's eyes again, and there was warmth there, assurance. He wouldn't say anything that would hur
t her, his eyes seemed to promise. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Tell me," she said softly.
And he smiled. Taylor felt as if she'd overcome some kind of obstacle. It was one of those moments when you sensed your life—your world—was about to change. And a warm hand crept over hers where it rested on the cool ground, closed around it and squeezed. And when she looked up at Wes, he was looking away, as if he was deep in thought and totally unaware of the intimate gesture.
His hand moved away a second later, and he spoke in a voice that carried around the fire. "My friend, an old shaman, tells this one over and over again," he said. "I think it's his favorite."
Without thinking about it first, Taylor moved closer to him. She couldn't take her eyes from his face as he spoke. And he reached up, without warning, to gently remove her glasses, fold the arms and drop them into her shirt pocket.
"There was a woman, long ago, who had a vision. An eagle landed on the limb of a tall tree and spoke to her. And the things the eagle said frightened the woman to the core of her, but they brought her hope, as well. 'Hard times lay ahead for The People,' the eagle told her. 'And before your generation leaves this world, you will see such hardship and strife that very few of you will survive. Many of the ways of The People will be lost, forever.'"
Taylor nodded. "Smart eagle," she said softly. "He was all too right."
Wes looked serious as he went on. "This troubled the woman. But she remained where she was and bade the eagle go on. 'You,' he told her, 'will bear a daughter, who will bear a daughter, who will bear a daughter. And this child, the great-granddaughter of your heart, is destined to restore the past to The People to whom it belongs. For no tree can exist without all of its roots. And no people can flourish without all of its past.'"
Taylor almost winced at the way those words cut to the quick. She'd been trying to flourish without her roots, but all she felt was lost and alone. But her isolation was self-imposed. She didn't trust because she chose not to trust. It was easier—safer—than believing and being betrayed again.
"The woman asked the eagle how her great-granddaughter would accomplish such a thing, but the eagle only uttered the name of the young warrior the girl was to take as husband one day, a warrior not even born yet, and then he said no more. He spread his mighty wings and took flight.
"Part of what the eagle told the woman did indeed come to pass. She had a daughter. And her daughter had a daughter. And finally her granddaughter had a daughter.
"But the granddaughter died while her child was still young, and her relatives had no wealth to give to the child. Times were dire for The People then. Thinking they were doing what was best, they sent the young one away from her tribe and her people, and she was raised in the white man's world, learning only white men's ways."
Taylor shifted uncomfortably. "You're making this up for my benefit, aren't you?"
Wes frowned at her. "This is exactly the way it was told to me, I swear." Then he tilted his head. "Why do you think—?"
"Because it could easily be my story."
He held up both hands. "Hold on. Wait. I know, you think I'm making up a story around your life to guilt you into something you don't want to do. I know. I accused my old friend of the same thing when he told it to me."
She tilted her head, eyed him suspiciously.
"It could be my story, too, Taylor, with some very minor changes. I used to think that's why the old crock was so fond of telling it to me. I've decided otherwise, though. It's just one of a hundred tales he's told me over the past year."
She lowered her head, a little embarrassed at having accused him. And then lifted it again, because what he said was sinking in. If it could be his story, as well, then…
"So … we have one thing in common, you and I," she said.
"More than one thing." His eyes gripped hers for a moment, but then he lowered them. "Should I stop?"
It was just a story, she told herself. It couldn't hurt her. "No. Go on. What happened?"
She thought he might have sighed in relief, but she wasn't sure. When he looked up again, his eyes were distant, in the past, maybe. "The great-grandmother knew of the death of her granddaughter, and that the child was given to whites, for she saw these things in her dreams as she lay on her deathbed. Yet she didn't know where the child was taken, or how to reach her. She called the village shaman to her bedside, and she told him of all the eagle had said. And with her dying breath, she whispered the name of the young warrior her great-granddaughter was to marry, according to the words of the eagle. She begged the shaman to see to it that all would happen as the eagle had said it should, and he gave his word, that she might cross to the summerland in peace.
"But the shaman was afraid of the enormous task set upon his shoulders. To find this girl, and somehow bring her back to her homelands. To teach her the ways of her people, and convince her to take upon herself the task the eagle had said would be hers … much less to convince her to marry a young man she didn't know, one he might never be able to find … all of this seemed impossible."
Kelly was smiling and wide-eyed and rapt. Even Scourge was leaning forward a bit, listening.
"The shaman went on a vision quest on the night of the old woman's death. And he saw the Great Spirit, in the form of an eagle, just as the old woman had. The eagle spoke to him and said these words, 'You will not see death until you have fulfilled your vow.' To this day that shaman still lives. And still he seeks to complete his mission."
Wes fell silent, and sat staring into the flames. Taylor stared at his face for a long time, the shadows the fire created making him seem harder and more mysterious than before. When she finally looked away from him, it was to see the others around the fire, both staring at him exactly the way she'd been doing. Kelly looked as if she wanted to wrap up in his arms. Scourge seemed mesmerized.
"It's a beautiful story," Taylor whispered.
"It's intense," Scourge said. "Mr. Brand, you said a shaman told you this tale."
Wes blinked and looked up, as if he'd been lost in thought. Then he nodded. "Yeah. There aren't that many Comanche shamans left now, but I believe this one's genuine."
Scourge bit his lip. Wes frowned across the flames at him. "I can see there's something on your mind, kid. Spit it out."
Nodding fast, Scourge said, "I've read accounts claiming that the … er … the magic practiced by Native American shamans is … well, uh … beyond explanation." He shrugged. "It makes a person wonder, is all. Have you seen anything that … would make you … you know, wonder?"
Wes glanced sideways at Taylor, and she realized she hadn't taken her eyes off him, and wondered if she looked as moonstruck as poor lovesick Kelly did. There was a question in his eyes.
"I'd like to know, too," she told him.
Wes drew a breath. "You asked for it. But the first one of you who so much as chuckles, gets staked out in the desert for the night. Understood?"
Kelly shifted nervously. Scourge licked his lips and swallowed hard, but nodded.
Wes glanced at Taylor, as if he were speaking only to her, but his voice carried to everyone as it had before. "I was a skeptic. Never believed in anything I couldn't see. So when this shaman friend of mine started talking about magic, I just smiled and nodded. Figured I'd humor him. Turtle is an old man after all, and I—"
"Turtle?" Taylor blinked in surprise. "Turtle is this shaman you're talking about?"
Wes frowned, tilting his head and searching her face. "You know Turtle?"
"I've met him, yes. He just showed up here a few times for no apparent reason. I never did figure out what he wanted. He seemed harmless enough, and he was friendly, so I didn't mind."
Wes seemed thoroughly surprised by her revelation.
"I'm sorry," she said, and she reached out, impulsively, touching his hand, covering it with her own. It was such a natural act, she did it without thinking, as if she'd been touching him this way for years. And when she did it, he looked down at her h
and on his and blinked. Taylor felt her face heat, and drew her hand away.
Something was happening here. Something … potent. And totally unexpected. What was this?
"I didn't mean to distract you," she said, but her voice was coarse and unsteady. "Please, go on. You said you were skeptical when he talked about magic."
"Magic," he repeated, still staring at her hand. Then he blinked and seemed to shake himself. "Right, magic. When Turtle talked about magic, I didn't argue, but I didn't buy it, either. I hadn't figured out yet that he could see right through me. So, one night when I was visiting him, I noticed he'd let the campfire burn down to nothing but a heap of cherry red coals. I reached for a log to toss on, but he stopped me. And he told me to sit and be quiet."
Wes paused, looked around. When he did, Taylor did, too. Kelly and Scourge were rapt. Wes picked up a stray length of wood, stretched out his arm and poked at a nest of glowing coals beneath the fire. "They were like these, those embers," he said softly. "Red-hot." He stared at the coals for a moment, then shook his head. "So I sat and waited. And Turtle, he stood looking at that bed of heat for a minute or two. I thought he was meditating or something. Then he closed his eyes. And then he just … he just stepped forward … into the hot coals. And I realized then that he was barefoot."
Kelly squeaked in alarm. Even Scourge's jaw dropped.
"I thought my heart stopped when I saw that," Wes said. "It turned my stomach over, and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelling out loud and startling him into falling flat on his face or something. I jumped to my feet, reached for him, but he just held up a hand, and gave me this serene look. And for some reason I stood still. And old Turtle … he just walked across those coals like he was walking barefoot through the cool green grass."
Scourge swore. Kelly elbowed him. Taylor had fallen into some kind of a trance. "Go on," she whispered, and this time her hand closed tight around his, as if by holding on to him she could hold on to the magic he was casting around her. It was the third time their hands had joined almost of their own volition tonight, but this time he turned his, threaded his fingers with hers, held on gently, before she could pull her hand away.
Maggie Shayne - Badland's Bad Boy Page 5