Turtle was right behind him. "The wolf came to you. He spoke to you."
"Yeah," Wes said, eyeing the sun's alarming height in the sky. "I'm just not sure what he was telling me."
"Come. Clarity of mind is what you need now. You'll understand. If you let the understanding come on its own, rather than trying to force it." He clutched Wes's forearm and tugged him around behind the trailer to where the small stream ran shallow and fast.
Wes barely clung to his towel as he hurried along. His bare feet were not used to walking over pebbles and stones. But Turtle was ruthlessly dragging him along, and he stopped only when he reached a spot where the stream's flow had been partially blocked, resulting in a small pool of swirling, deeper water.
"Jump into the pool," Turtle instructed.
Wes slanted him a glance. "You're kidding, right? Turtle, do you have any idea how cold that water must be? It's still morning. And it's a fast-running stream, probably bubbling right out of some underground all but icy spring." Turtle crossed his arms over his chest and stared at him. "Turtle, I just spent half the night in hundred-degree heat. Now you want me to—hey!"
Too late. Turtle shoved Wes with one had, and snatched his towel away with the other. Wes hit the icy water hard, and went under. It felt as if his skin were being flash frozen. When he emerged again, Turtle was laughing out loud, but a second later the old man was splashing down beside him.
Wes shook his head and clambered out, reaching for his towel and wondering what sort of torture the old goat had in store for him next. Turtle came out, too. "Now your mind is clear," he said to Wes.
"Clear as ice water," he snapped. "Are we done with this little sadistic ritual of yours yet, pal?"
Turtle grinned, knotted his towel and nodded once. "For now," he said. "Now you must contemplate your vision. If you listen to the wolf, you will know what to do."
Wes shook his head, rubbed his arms and made his way around to the front lawn again to retrieve his clothes from the ground beside the tepee. "It'll take some thinking," he said.
"Then go and think," Turtle told him. "Time is short, you know."
Wes nodded. It was short, though he hadn't told Turtle that. He pulled on his clothes and headed to his truck. But the ideas were coming to him before he got a mile down the road.
When Taylor claimed to have seen Little Sparrow, she said it was like looking into a mirror. When Wes saw Little Sparrow, her image slowly changed into Taylor's beautiful face. Turtle said that Little Sparrow was Taylor's ancestor.
Now, following the same line of thinking, when Wes had seen what he thought was the ghost of Wolf Shadow, it had been … like looking into a mirror. He shivered, but continued following his train of thought. When he saw Wolf Shadow in the vision, that face had slowly changed into his own. Turtle said Taylor was to marry Wolf Shadow's descendant, and he refused to tell Wes who that man was. He'd even said it was something Wes had to learn for himself.
He jammed the brake pedal and came to a dusty stop in the middle of the dirt road.
For crying out loud. Was it him? Was Wes himself the last living relative of Wolf Shadow? Was he the one Turtle was so determined would marry Taylor?
He blinked in shock.
One way to find out. He gently eased up on the brake and drove, and decided that tomorrow he'd head into the town and the hall of records. They'd have something there. They must have. Why hadn't he ever checked this out sooner? It just hadn't occurred to him.
What if he was Wolf Shadow's descendant? What the hell would it mean?
Wes showed up at the site just as Taylor and the students were cleaning up the breakfast mess. And he looked … haunted. Pale and tired. Dark shadows ringed his eyes.
She stopped what she was doing and just looked at him. He'd stopped walking and stood there looking at her a little oddly. Taylor dropped the tin plate in her hands and went to him, touched his face. "You look exhausted."
"Haven't slept."
She narrowed her eyes, scanning his face. "Something happened last night … with Turtle."
He seemed to blink out of the state he was in then. "I can't … I can't talk about it, Doc. Not yet."
A prickle of suspicion danced up her spine and into her nape, but she shook it away. "Is Turtle all right?"
He nodded.
"Are you?" she asked him, because he really didn't look as if he was.
"Yeah. I just need some rest, is all."
So she nodded. "You should go home."
"I'll tell you all of it, Taylor. As soon as I—" he shook his head "—figure out what it means." He touched her hair, searched her face and seemed to sense her doubts. "I'm not keeping secrets from you, Taylor. I just … I'm not really sure what the hell happened. I need some time … I have to—"
"It's okay. I understand. You'll tell me when you're ready." She hoped her words carried more conviction than she was feeling. But all she could think was that he was keeping something from her … again.
His eyes blinked slowly closed. He forced them open again.
"Go home," she told him. "Get some sleep."
"I'll get some sleep," he said. "But not at home." His tired eyes roamed her face for a moment. "I need to be near you."
She felt herself smile, and warmth pooled in the pit of her stomach. "My tent, then?"
He nodded, stroked her hair slowly, then turned and walked toward the tents. He ducked into her tent and let the flap fall closed behind him. She stared at the tent after he'd disappeared inside, and then she walked quietly closer and peered in at him.
He'd crawled into her bed, and was hugging her pillow to him with his face nestled in its folds.
I need to be near you.
Taylor backed away in silence, and blinked at the sudden burning in her eyes.
Wes still hadn't talked to her about his late-night ritual with Turtle. That bothered Taylor. And it shouldn't. She told herself that over and over as they drove together to Wes's ranch for the barn raising his sister had arranged. It had been a personal thing; something deep had happened to him. She could sense that. But his reluctance to discuss it still gnawed at her gut. Another secret between them. God, how she hated them.
But why? Why was she letting this come between them this way? He'd been as attentive as ever. Helping out at the site, taking her to dinner at the ranch each night as they worked side by side to put the house in some kind of order. He'd gone out and bought the exact light fixture she'd described to him, and installed it in the living-room ceiling, then took her over there to show her.
She glanced up at the wagon-wheel chandelier and felt herself get soft inside again. So many things he did made her feel that way. She should love this man. She should get past her stupid mistrust and let herself love him. He was almost perfect.
Almost. It was that damned almost that kept getting in the way. If only he'd open up, tell her the things he was keeping from her.
And if only he'd do it before she finished up on the site and had to make a decision. One more day. That was all she had left. One more day. And she hadn't found anything at all on that entire chunk of Comanche land that indicated it was some kind of sacred ground. Nor anything that would make the tribe prosperous as the legend had foretold. No reason in the world they shouldn't sell it to Hawthorne and collect the money they so desperately needed. Nothing.
Nothing except a niggling feeling in her gut. And the Comanche elders couldn't take that to the bank, or use it to repair their children's schools or send them to college. Or fix up their homes or … or anything at all.
One more day.
Wes pulled the truck to a stop and killed the engine. Then he just sat there blinking at what he saw. Taylor pulled herself out of her thoughts and looked ahead, and saw people. So many people there didn't seem room for two more. Milling around like ants, each seemingly intent on doing his or her part. Men and women worked with crowbars to pry bad lumber from the barn walls. Two men in hard hats were on a ladder, stringing an electrical cabl
e to the barn. Five or six were way up on that roof replacing the shingles. And a half dozen more were removing boards from inside the barn, carrying in fresh new lumber.
Taylor shook her head in wonder.
"I can't believe…" She looked at Wes when he stopped speaking, and saw his throat move as he swallowed hard.
"You're more well liked than you thought you were, I guess," Taylor told him.
Shaking his head, Wes opened the door and got out, and Taylor did likewise. The noise hit her at once, not unpleasant. But beautiful. The whir of circular saws, the steady thud of hammers, the loud grinding sound of the generator that provided electricity for the power tools, the ebb and flow of voices raised above the ruckus. One raised louder than the rest. One she recognized. She searched the crowd and spotted Jessi, hurrying from one group of workers to another, pointing and shouting directions above the din.
"That sister of yours should have been a drill sergeant."
Wes looked at Taylor, and she nodded toward Jessi. He spotted his sister and smiled. "I'll be…"
Elliot was up on the roof nailing shingles down. Garrett manned a saw, steadily cutting lumber on a pair of sawhorses. Lash took each cut board away, carrying it into the barn, while Ben was on Garrett's other side, hefting new lumber onto the horses to be sawed each time they were empty.
And there were others she recognized. The man from the little general store in town, manning several huge coffee urns on a picnic table. The bartender from that place with the funny name—La Cucaracha, wasn't it?—wielding a hammer. Three young men she thought must be brothers, tying bundles of shingles to a rope to be hauled up to the roof. Chelsea and several other women alternated between watching the children who played a few yards from the hub of activity, and working with the men.
Jessi spotted them standing there, and came rushing over. "Isn't this great?" she shouted above the noise. "Everyone in town is here. Paul Loomis dropped the boys off and headed back home. Said he had a vat of his special chili brewing to bring over later."
She was grinning ear to ear.
Wes just shook his head. Jessi tugged his arm. "Well, come on, brother, don't just stand there. They need you inside. Want to know how many stalls you want and how big the tack room should be and…" She dragged him a few steps, then turned. "You have some say in this, too, Taylor. Shake a leg, willya?"
Taylor met Wes's bemused gaze. And then he smiled at her, and she went to join him.
Trouble lights dangled from every possible appendage inside the barn, and the place smelled of sawdust. One man pulled Wes aside, and they leaned over a makeshift table made up of a stack of lumber, while the man pointed to some drawings on a large sheet of graph paper, and shouted questions.
Wes frowned at the designs, took the pencil, made a few scratches on the sheet, then turned and waved at her to come over. "What do you think?" he asked her. "These stalls could be smaller. We could get more in."
She blinked at him, and then saw in his eyes that he wanted her opinion. Valued it. That he felt she had a stake in this, just as his sister did. And she closed her eyes slowly, because he was assuming so much. Moving so fast. Acting as if this would be her place, as well as his, when she wasn't even sure…
"C'mon, Doc. I need you with me on this."
She met his eyes, went warm all over. Damn, he had that effect on her every time he glanced her way. Then he pushed the pencil into her hand, and she couldn't refuse him. She'd worry about later—later. She leaned over the drawings, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I think the bigger stalls are better," she said. Then she glanced up at the barn. "We can always add on later. Build a whole new section if we…"
She bit her lip. She'd said we. As if … as if … she'd already made up her mind.
But Wes was nodding hard. "She's right," he told the other man. "Forty stalls is plenty to start. It'll be years before we fill 'em all and need more."
Years. We.
She swallowed hard and tried to stop her heart from racing. He hadn't told her so, but Wes was making it pretty obvious he wanted her to be a part of his life … for a long time to come.
And yet … he was still keeping something from her. And she'd sensed he was even before his mysterious night with Turtle, so it had to be more than that. Would it always be this way? Her wondering what he had to hide? Her mistrusting him constantly? God, she couldn't live that way.
He smiled at her, and her heart tripped. "I'm going outside," she said. "The dust…" And she dropped the pencil atop the page and turned to leave him.
Since Wes was everywhere from the roof to the saw-horses, hopping from one project to another like a Mexican jumping bean, Taylor headed over to the area where Chelsea supervised the children. She couldn't be near him, couldn't listen to him asking how she wanted things in the barn, as if it were hers, too. Not yet. She wasn't ready for all this.
Chelsea sat on a blanket spread on the ground, where Jessi's little baby sat propped with pillows, gnawing a toy she held in her chubby hands. Little Ethan—Bubba to the Brands—ran and played with several other children, trying to catch grasshoppers. Chelsea patted a spot on the blanket beside her, and Taylor sat down.
Maria dimpled, crawled closer and climbed right into Taylor's lap.
"You look worried," Chelsea said. "Everything okay?"
Taylor stroked the baby's reddish hair, so like her mother's. It felt like corn silk against her palm. Maria leaned her head on Taylor's chest.
"I don't know," Taylor said. "I just…"
"He's moving too fast," Chelsea said.
Taylor lifted her head in surprise. How could she know…?
"He's my brother-in-law. I know him. He doesn't have a patient bone in his body, Taylor."
Taylor shook her head. "He's trying. Told me to take my time, that he wouldn't rush me. But then he keeps talking about this place in terms of 'we' and 'us' and it—"
"It's just a Freudian slip," Chelsea told her. "It's how he hopes it will be. It's on his mind, so it comes out in what he says, especially when he's not thinking. It's normal. Don't take it as pressure."
Taylor lowered her head. "How can I not? Chelsea, I don't want to hurt him, but—"
"But you're scared. And you're uncertain. And you're not ready to make a commitment to a man you still aren't sure you can trust."
Sighing, relieved to have it said so plainly for her, Taylor nodded. "Exactly."
"Wes is a big boy, Taylor. He can handle being hurt. It's yourself you have to think about now."
"That feels so selfish."
"Then be selfish. Look, you can't love Wes the way he wants you to until you take care of those old hurts you're still nursing inside. So by thinking of yourself, you're doing what's best for both of you."
That made perfect sense. So why did it feel so wrong? "I want to love him," she whispered.
"I have a news flash for you," Chelsea said softly. And Taylor looked up, met her eyes. "You already do."
"I—"
"I've seen the way you look at him, the way you two are together. God, to look at the two of you, I'd think you'd already been together for a hundred years."
Taylor licked her lips. "Sometimes … it feels like we have."
"Take it slow, Taylor. Take your time. Wait until you're sure, and then—"
"But I don't have time." Taylor blurted it, and saw the alarm in Chelsea's eyes. She closed her own. "I have to pack up and leave the site tomorrow. Time's up, Chelsea, and I have to decide what to do. I can't just hang around here waiting for the clouds to part and tell me. And I can't just leave Wes with the vague promise that I might come back someday. I can't do that to him."
Chelsea's soft hand closed around Taylor's and squeezed. "Then maybe it's time you stopped thinking, and let yourself feel. I think your answer is in your heart, Taylor. Maybe you should listen to what it's telling you."
Trust herself, in other words. And trust Wes. She bit her lip and wished to God that was as easy to do as it was to think.
Chapter 15
« ^ »
Wes's frustration ate at him all day. Even through the thrill he felt at seeing his barn being converted into the stable of his dreams. And the even bigger rush of seeing nearly everyone in town pitching in to help him the way they were.
There had been nothing to find in the hall of records. And then he'd checked with the tribal elders, but they'd had no information for him, either.
He barely saw Taylor through the morning. The work kept him so busy he couldn't get away to search for her. But at noon, when people started hauling coolers full of food out of their vehicles, and Paul Loomis arrived with a kettle of chili that outdid the sawdust for aroma, he found her.
And she smiled and put on a very nice show for him, but he saw through it. She was thinking about leaving him. And he couldn't lose her. He couldn't lose her now.
He started toward her, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. And he turned to see his brother Ben, looking as worried as Wes felt.
"Did you do what I told you?"
Wes blinked and drew a blank. "What did you tell me?"
"Little brother, you can be dense as solid granite. What did I tell you?" He shook his shaggy head. "That if you want her to trust you, you have to show her that you trust her. Completely. Implicitly. Prove it to her beyond any doubt. Now, dammit, it doesn't look to me like you've done that, have you?"
Wes lowered his head, shook it slowly. "No. I guess I haven't."
"And why the hell not?"
"Look, Ben, if I thought it was that simple, I'd—"
"It is that simple. Damn, Wes, you gonna let her walk away? She's the best thing that ever happened to you, and you know it."
Glancing at Taylor again, Wes nodded. "I know it."
"Something's eating at her, Wes. You gotta chase those shadows of doubt out of her eyes once and for all. No matter what it takes, you have to do it."
"But—"
"No buts."
"Ben, it's not that easy. If I tell her—"
Maggie Shayne - Badland's Bad Boy Page 19