by Susan Wiggs
He advanced on her, anger blazing in his eyes, and braced a hand on the door behind her. “Maybe it’s time someone did say them. Your father’s death wasn’t about you.”
“And this race isn’t about me, either,” she retorted, glaring up at him, trying to tamp down her feelings of dread. “You’re doing this because you blew the deal with Anthony, right?”
Dan said nothing. She took it as an affirmation. “You know,” she said softly, “there’s a sort of crazy gallantry in what you did. But there’s nothing gallant about putting your life at risk.”
His jaw tightened dangerously. “Isabel, don’t do this. Don’t make me choose.”
“I can’t make you do a damned thing,” she said. “I never could.”
Nine
“Why are we stopping here?” Isabel asked, noting a string of triangular colored flags stretched across the road in Thelma. Yakima Suicide Race, the banner proclaimed.
Resting his hands on the steering wheel of the pickup truck, Gary Sohappy held in the clutch and looked back at the straw-lined crate in the bed of the pickup truck. “I was just trying to decide what would be the best place to let the bird go.”
“I don’t think it can fly yet.”
“Dan said it could.” Gary shifted gears and continued down the only paved road in town.
“Dan’s been wrong before.” She looked at her watch. After their quarrel, she had insisted on coming to town to call Anthony. He had groused a little about having to reschedule a meeting, but he had agreed to meet her in front of the fire hall and take her back to the city.
The prospect left her cold and empty.
Dan had prepared for the race in stony silence. Like a knight of old, he had strapped on armor of black leather, adding shin guards, pads at his knees and elbows and a helmet. He tried to kiss her goodbye; she turned away. Then she turned back in time to see him walking off with long, angry strides.
She opened her mouth to call to him, but no sound came out. He rode off on the motorcycle just as Gary arrived to take her to town, then to take the eagle into the wild and let it go.
One passenger into the wild, one back into her cage. The thought struck Isabel like a blow in the dark, and she gasped.
“Something wrong?” Gary asked.
Everything, she thought.
“Where does the race end?” she asked suddenly.
“Huh?”
“The race. I want to see the end of it.”
“Same place it does every year. But I thought you had to meet somebody.”
“Gary,” she said, “I need to see the race.”
He grinned. “Okay by me.”
Her hands, clutching the door handle, were like ice as the truck bounced off-road and uphill. When the terrain became impassable, Gary parked and they got out. Tall grass swished and sighed in the breeze. Gary went around to the bed of the truck and opened the eagle’s crate.
“Is she all right?” Isabel asked.
“I think so—ow! Her talons work just fine.” Gary set the eagle on a large rock. The bird perched there, looking haughty and fierce, the breeze ruffling her feathers. Slowly, her wings unfolded.
Isabel held her breath. Fly, she thought. Fly. You can do it.
The bird let the wind sift through her feathers, then folded her wings back up.
“Not ready,” Gary mumbled, clearly disappointed. “I brought my camera and everything.” He scooped up the bird and began to climb the hill. “We’ll have the best view of the race from Warrior Point,” he said over his shoulder.
The cold numbness froze her hands once again, and no matter how hard she tried to drive the dark memories out of her mind, they came at her, as steady and inevitable as the tide.
She knew exactly where Gary was heading.
Because she had stood there and watched her father die. Her memories were as sharp and clear as slides viewed through white light. Her father and his friends were drinking beer. Not a lot—just the usual amount for an afternoon. Her mother laughed with them when her father teased his wife about her concern for his safety.
He kissed them both goodbye, his wife on the lips, his daughter on the top of the head. Isabel saw mirth in his eyes, but something else, too, something too subtle for her to grasp. Now she realized it was a restless hunger. A deep dissatisfaction.
Her father had never held a steady job. Running off on dangerous adventures seemed to be a way of proving himself. Defining who he was—not some reservation idler, but a man.
She understood none of this when she was a girl. She understood only that she had seen her father die.
A group of observers had gone out to the point, Isabel and her mother included. Isabel was standing, holding hands with her mother. The riders appeared in an explosion of dust and thundering hooves, pouring down a near-vertical gully, leaping a narrow, deep chasm before swinging in a hairpin curve down the side of the mountain.
Only, instead of making the hairpin curve, her father went over a cliff. Isabel stood in disbelieving silence, staring down at his broken figure and the unmoving horse beside him. She remembered one other detail of that moment in time. Her mother—quite deliberately and quite without malicious intent—dropped Isabel’s hand.
Isabel’s mother completely shut down. She had moved to the city and willingly surrendered Isabel to a foster home.
From that moment onward, confused and angry, Isabel pretended that the past did not exist. She eradicated from her character all Native American values and sensibilities.
Until Dan.
The thought of him drew a gasp of anguish from her.
“We’re almost there,” Gary said over his shoulder.
“I know,” she muttered.
Dan had filled her with his passion and pride and vitality. She had been afraid of the tribal part of him, and perhaps she still was, but he had awakened her to the ancient songs and rhythms she had never quite been able to banish from her heart.
She had loved the tender, whimsical side of him. But she had never understood the dark side, the danger-loving side, the part of him that hungered for tests of his strength, his endurance, his mortality.
She saw the point looming ahead. Little had changed. A line of evergreens grew along a ridge. The valley was a deep cleft formed by the two mountains, with a rushing stream in between, and by gazing across the velvety green gorge, she could see the course the race would follow. It was more like the bed of a waterfall than a path, steep and curving and littered with rocks. And of course, there was the cliff, brooding and sheer, too stark to grow anything but the most tenacious of plants.
She stood and watched. Gary set the bird on the ground. The day was bright and sharply clear. The sound of the wind filled the air. And then she heard it.
The animal rumble of motorcycle engines. The riders were approaching the last and most dangerous leg of the race.
A curious thing happened. The eagle grew restless, bowing out her wings and rushing into the wind; then the bird flung herself off the end of the point. Isabel gasped and Gary laughed in wonder and lifted his camera to his eye. At first, the bird appeared to be falling, helpless, a horrifying sight. Then an eddy of wind caught her beneath her wings. With a high-pitched cry, she was soaring, soaring across the valley that was already alive with the thunder of the race.
Dan felt a little silly wearing the windbreaker bearing the label of a Yakima Valley winery. It was white, and he never wore white, and besides, the zipper was faulty. But in return for their sponsorship, he got a few perks, including deep discounts on his supply of wine for the lodge.
Other riders were similarly garbed, their numbered windbreakers shouting ads for everything from motor oil to masa harina flour.
He knew he would win the race today. Number one, he needed the winnings. Number two, he was riding like the wind. There were simply days when this was true.
Smaller and more nimble than his Harley, the off-road motorcycle seemed an extension of his body, slanting and skating with ela
stic responsiveness beneath him. He could almost forget the look on Isabel’s face when he had tried to say goodbye, hoping she would wish him luck.
She hadn’t.
The flavor of danger filled his mouth with a sweetness that turned bitter when he remembered Isabel.
She seemed to think plunging into danger was his way of recoiling from intimacy, that after last night it was no coincidence that he was here today, putting his life on the line. She believed it was his way of avoiding emotional commitment.
He wanted to say she was wrong. But was she?
He set his jaw and prepared for the last and most treacherous part of the race. The windbreaker flew loose, the flimsy zipper breaking as he bolted down a rock-strewed ravine.
A movement caught his eye. He chanced a lightning glance upward and was amazed. A soaring eagle was circling the valley.
He wondered if it could be the eagle they’d rescued. If it was, that meant Isabel was here. Watching.
The loose jacket flapped madly. Dan swore under his breath and gritted his teeth, clearing his mind. He had to jump a gully and make a turn before he was in the clear.
He braced himself to soar across the gully. But then the unthinkable happened. The windbreaker caught a gust of wind and flew upward, obscuring his face, blinding him.
He never found a footing on the other side. He just kept going like a stone flung from a sling.
Ten
There was no hospital in Thelma, so Dan was taken to the tribal clinic across the road from the fire hall. There was no regular doctor, either, but an emergency-room physician from Olympia was on hand for the race.
Isabel did not even recall the frantic drive to town. The clinic personnel had barred her from seeing Dan; she had only glimpsed him as he was whisked past on a gurney. His eyes had been closed, his face pale.
They had promised to report back to her. With panic clawing at her insides, she paced the cool, antiseptic corridor, then finally stepped outside to lean against the cinder-block building.
She thought about praying, but no words would form. She thought about cursing, but that seemed so useless, like throwing stones at the moon. And so she covered her face with her hands and shuddered, wishing hard, wishing with all her might, that he would recover.
“Isabel?” A man’s voice penetrated the swirling panic.
Her eyes flew open. “Anthony.”
“Hey, I’ve been hanging around waiting for over an hour.” He did not look angry. She had never known Anthony to get angry. He looked pleasant and smooth and artlessly handsome as always.
“Are you about ready?” he asked.
“I…” Her mouth felt like sawdust. “I can’t go anywhere, Anthony. There’s been an accident.” She practically choked on the word. “I have to wait and see if—” She broke off and regarded him helplessly. “I can’t go with you.”
He raked a hand through his abundant dark hair. “Look, Isabel, this is getting ridiculous.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I know. You don’t deserve this. You go back to town, Anthony. Never mind about me.”
He held her lightly by the shoulders. “Babe, I’ll wait.”
Juanita Sohappy joined them, hurrying to Isabel. “Is there any news?”
“No,” Isabel said faintly. “Not yet.”
“I hope the white-eyes doctor knows what he’s doing,” Juanita said, using the language Isabel had never quite forgotten. She squeezed Isabel’s hand, then went inside the clinic.
Anthony stared after her for a moment. “A friend of yours?”
“Yes. We just met, but she reminds me of the past, of people I used to know.”
“This is really wild. People you used to know? Native Americans?”
She blinked. Her thoughts seethed and scattered like storm clouds. “I’m half-Indian,” she said simply.
His hands dropped from her shoulders. He stared at her as if she had just sprouted antlers.
“Is that a problem?” she asked.
“Of course not.” But his voice was taut, strained. “The problem is that you never told me.”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“Why in the world—” He made a fist and pressed it against the gray cinder-block wall. “What is it, Isabel? Did you think I’d find you weird or something?”
“I guess I didn’t think much at all. I never told anyone.”
“This is insane. We’re supposed to be married Saturday. And here I am finding out things—important things—about you that you should’ve told me months ago. What else haven’t you told me?”
Ah, so much, she thought sadly. About her father, her mother, all the things that had turned her into what she was when she had first met him—a bashful woman frightened of her past, intimidated by passion, seeking a way to belong.
And she wondered—she made herself wonder—if it was fair to expect Anthony to answer all those needs.
And that, after all, was the key. Neither Anthony nor Dan nor anyone could give her happiness. How naive she had been to think they could.
“Anthony,” she said, her voice more steady than she could have wished. “I’m sorry. After I hear about…” Her voice broke. “About Dan, we’ll talk.”
“I’m not sure we need to.” His lips thinned, and she could tell he was annoyed, but to the core of his being, Anthony Cossa was a kind and patient man. Kinder and more patient than she deserved.
A moment later, Juanita pushed open the clinic door. She did not say a word. She did not have to. The expression on her face said it all.
His grandfather would have called it a “true dream.” Wispy images and sensations in Dan’s head pulsed with vivid color. Drumbeats sounded in his ears, and he felt the heavy thud at the base of his neck.
Right where it hurt the most.
A coldness seized him, and he tried to dive back into the dream, into the colorful oblivion behind his eyes. But he could not will himself to slip away again. A horde of thoughts and regrets battered at him. He thought about asking for more of the painkiller that had gotten him this far, but that would only postpone the inevitable.
He had to open his eyes and face what had happened to him.
Correction, he told himself. What he had done to himself.
Minor lacerations, the doctor had reported. A few cracked ribs. It was a good thing he had been wearing a high-quality helmet. Too bad none of his safety precautions could protect his spine.
Possible nerve damage, the doctor had said with a look on his face that chilled Dan to the center of his chest. The physician claimed he could not render a prognosis until Dan was transported to a major hospital for extensive neurological evaluation.
But the doctor’s expression, so studiously bland and gentle, said, Sorry, buddy. You’ll never walk again.
Dan insisted on two things. That the doctor keep his condition strictly confidential. And that Dan receive the largest legal dose of painkiller the doctor could, in good conscience, administer.
The physician agreed to both requests without hesitation.
But now, Dan was emerging from his narcotic fog, and he had some decisions to make. First, the lodge. The tribal council would help him. Maybe the winery would keep things afloat until the guests started coming. And hell, if it came to that, Dan still had his voice. He could record something new, though he’d look pretty ridiculous singing flat on his back.
And then there was Isabel… The pain lanced like lightning through him. He barely had time to compose his thoughts before she stepped into the room.
He hated himself for putting that expression on her face—that look of terror and pity and shattering grief. Her skin was pale and looked tautly drawn across her cheekbones. Her hair was mussed as if she had passed her fingers through it repeatedly in agitation. Her narrow hands were held clasped in front of her.
“Hi,” he said. “I just woke up.”
She nodded and stood at the foot of the bed, her gaze moving slowly over the apparatus that held him immobile. He wa
s reminded of a time when their roles had been reversed, when she had been the patient. That was the beginning of the end for them the first time. Now, once again, their parting would take place in a hospital room.
“I would’ve waited all night if I had to,” she said. “Would’ve waited a lifetime.”
Dan let out a slow sigh. The bitter irony of it all ate at him. He had brought her here to make her see that they still loved each other, that they could make it together. And she had realized it, but the revelation had come too late. He knew she would stick by him through whatever ordeals he had to face in the coming months.
But he would never let her shackle herself to him now.
“I guess I deserve an ‘I told you so,’” he said.
“I’d never say that.” She moistened her lips.
The thought of never again tasting that beautiful, kissable mouth nearly drew a roar of anguish from him.
“How are you?” she asked, as he knew she would. “No one will tell me a thing. Exactly what’s hurt? What’s broken?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” he lied. “Next year at this time, I’ll be back in the race.”
“You can’t mean you’d do it again.”
“Sure I would.” He troweled on more lies, saying anything—anything—to drive her away, to save her from loving a broken man. “I never should have come to see you again. You were right all along. I can’t change. I’ll always be wild and reckless. I’d drive you crazy.”
She looked stricken. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You’re making me crazy now. I came to tell you I’d stay with you—”
“It’s no good. It didn’t work for us the first time, and it won’t work now. It was stupid of me to think it would.”
“But—”
“Go back home, Isabel,” he said in a hard-edged voice. “There’s nothing for you here.”
She stepped back from the bed, clutching her stomach as if he had struck her. She swept him with a horrified gaze, taking in the huge iron device holding his head, the stiff cage around his middle. “I’m not leaving you,” she whispered.