The Enchantment (27 page)

Kristin Hannah

curled them into white-knuckled fists and bolted them to his thighs.

Don't touch me, he thought desperately, inching away from her tempting lips. If you do, so help me God, I'll make a fool of myself. . . .

Behind them, a door creaked open. The long, whining screech of long-forgotten hinges sawed through the morning's quiet like a rusty blade through metal. Slow, deliberate footsteps shuffled through the rock-strewn dirt toward them. Tension made Emma's jaw clench, her spine stiffen. The electricity in the air vanished.

Larence called out, "Over here, Pa-lo-wah-ti—at the snubbing post."

Emma spun around. The old man ambled toward them in an unerring line. Dirt puffed up around his tan moccasins, clouded the thin, blue-veined shins that peeked through the slitted red cotton of his pants.

Overhead, a hawk spiraled in controlled, gliding circles.

He stopped beside Larence. "Hai. "

Larence frowned. "Are you okay, Pa-lo-wah-ti? You sound tired."

"Old men are often tired. It is the great Ka-ke's way."

"Perhaps we could stay another day and help you?"

"No." Tilting his chin, he looked up at Larence. A sadness that reminded Emma of defeat flitted through his sightless blue eyes. "Turn back, Larence. You cannot find what you seek. You are missing something—"

"A clue?" Emma asked sharply. "How do you know?"

An irritated frown puckered the old man's forehead, and Emma had the distinct impression that he was loathe to be reminded of her presence. Without bothering to

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look at her, he answered, "You might think it a 'clue.' "

Emma scowled. Because I obviously have the intelligence of an earthworm.

Larence laid a hand on the old man's shoulder, and Pa-lo-wah-ti smiled up at him. Smiled.

Emma couldn't help rolling her eyes. Beneath the softly rustling folds of her skirt, her toe picked up an impatient beat.

"Turn back, Larence," the old man said again, even more softly this time. "I feel . . . danger for you on this quest of your vision."

It seemed to Emma that Larence waited six weeks to answer. Her foot tapped faster. Dust spiraled up from her feet and obscured her hem.

"I can't," Larence said finally.

Pa-lo-wah-ti's eyes slid shut. "This, too, I know. It is meant that you search—but not that you find. Or keep. I am sorry."

"Oh, for God's sake, Larence, let's just go. He doesn't know any more about the damn city than you do.

And his mumbo jumbo is irritating me."

Pa-lo-wah-ti spun on her with an amazing speed. "You are meaningless on this journey of his. You cannot even hear the whispering of the dead and the murmuring of the gods, let alone listen to them. Go then, seek your golden treasure. And pay the price for your greed."

Before she could utter a word, the old man turned his back on her and clasped Larence's hands. "Stay together in the city," he whispered in an urgent voice. "Always."

Emma snorted in response and yanked Tashee's reins

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free of the fence post. Mounting up, she said, "Let's go, Larence. Now."

Pa-lo-wah-ti stepped back, releasing his hold on Larence's hands. "Yes. Go."

When Larence had mounted Diablo, he looked down at the old man. "I'll see you again, won't I?"

The barest of smiles touched the man's mouth. He nodded solemnly. "In thirty days."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Emma said sharply. "In thirty days we'll be in the city."

His muddy blue gaze impaled her. "Will youl Perhaps. But there is much danger, much danger."

"But how will we fi—"

"Do not worry, Larence, / will find you."

When they'd been riding about fifteen minutes, Emma turned to look back at Pa-lo-wah-ti's cabin.

She studied the small cabin intently. Something wasn't right, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

The place looked deserted, almost . . . hazy. She tented a hand against the brim of her hat and squinted into the rising sun.

What was it?

Finally she gave up. Whatever was wrong, or different, she couldn't discern it. And it didn't matter, anyway. Shrugging, she turned her attention back to the desert stretched out before them.

Later—and she was never quite sure how much later-she turned around again.

The cabin was gone.

She squinted, certain the sun was playing tricks on her.

But it wasn't; no matter how long or how hard she

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looked, there was no mistaking the truth: The cabin was gone.

Maybe she'd fallen asleep, she told herself.

Or maybe it was behind the mesa. . . .

But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself, or how doggedly she tried to ignore it, a thought returned.

Or maybe it never existed at all.

\

Emma slumped in the saddle, letting her chin droop forward. Warm sweat slid through the damp hair plastered to her cheeks and drizzled down the valley between her breasts. She sopped the moisture from her shoulders and throat with the crumpled white shirtwaist she'd ripped in half at lunch.

Her tired gaze lifted to the immense, twisting river of rock-hard black lava laid out before her. Here and there, clumps of hardy green grass grew in the cracks and crevices, but otherwise, the land between these sand-hued mesas was desolate and dead.

Only Esteban and Diego remembered this place. They had forged a path through the wasteland and found water along the way. And from the grave, they'd pointed the way.

"Look!" Larence said suddenly.

Emma squinted into the brilliant yellow sunlight. The cracked, lifeless landscape shimmied before her eyes, waved like a length of black silk in a light breeze. On her right the huge mesa called Cebollita weaved side to side.

Damn mirages. She rubbed her sweat-clogged eyes and tried again to focus.

The Cebollita mesa anchored, became once again an 250

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immobile, timeless wall of stone. The shimmering curtain of heat in the distance stilled. One by one, other colors crept along the horizon; yellow, nutmeg red, green. No more black!

Relief rushed through her, bringing a trembling thankful smile to her lips. "Oh God ..." was all she could think of to say.

She realized then that she'd thought they'd die out here, all alone in the land called the Malpais, the badlands.

Larence smiled down at her, but it wasn't his usual boyish grin. For once, she could see the tiny network of lines that fanned out from his eyes and the furrow that creased his brow. He'd been uneasy about their chances, too.

"We made it," she breathed.

He reached down. The hard, callused tip of his forefinger grazed the sweat-slicked hollow of her cheek, and the unexpected touch sent a hot shiver through her body.

"Of course we did. Together we can do anything."

Together.

Emma was still thinking about that simple word as she crouched by the small pool, washing the dinner dishes.

Together.

She dunked a pan in the pool, reveling in the soothing coolness of the water as it wrapped around her aching fingers. Overhead, clouds scuttled out of the moon's path, and tenuous strands of blue-white light crept across the puddle's mirrored surface. The metal pot in her hand glimmered like sterling silver in the moon-252

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light. Scattered clumps of cholla jutted fistlike from the ankle-deep shadows.

Together. She closed her eyes, thinking about that single word and his unexpected use of it. Together.

You and I.

She didn't hear Larence approach, but suddenly he was there, beside her, hunkering down. "Hand me the kettle. I'll dry."

A few days ago she would have denied him on principle, but tonight the thought didn't even cross her mind. Wordlessly she passed him the pot.

Their fingers brushed, and at the contact the full import of what they were doing hit Emma. Washing the dishes together was somehow so personal. It was one of those day-to-day things she'd never done with another person. Before she'd made her fortune and been able to afford a housekeeper, she'd done her dishes by herself, silently and alone. Always alone.

Her parents had always done chores together. Every night after dinner, they'd stood at the rusted, dented washbasin on the tenement's sagging porch and washed dishes. Mum washed; Da dried. Their quiet, mingled laughter had often floated to Emma's corner of the room, keeping her awake. Curled up on her narrow cot, beneath the tattered remnants of a hand-me-down blanket, she'd watched them. The love, the joy of their union, had wrapped her in comfort and been her lullaby. She'd gone to sleep a thousand nights dreaming about the man who would one day love her as much as her da loved her mum.

Her throat constricted. Tears scorched her eyes. When had she stopped believing that such a man, such a love, existed for her?

But of course, she knew; she knew the minute, the

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second, the hour her dreams had ended. Eight-thirty Christmas morning. A Tuesday . . .

From that day on, she'd been as hard and cold and uncaring as she knew how to be. No one had ever filled the void left by her parents' deaths; she'd never let anyone get close enough to even realize there was a void.

But Larence had snuck up on her. Somehow, when she wasn't looking, he'd wormed his way past her defenses and made her realize she'd missed something in life. Something important and special and worth fighting for. Because he believed in her, she began to believe in herself.

A smile touched her lips. Eugene had been right; she had spent a lifetime being cold. Uncaring. And it had cost her more than she'd thought possible. The self-imposed solitude had chilled her soul, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but ice.

She'd always wanted to reach out. God, how she'd wanted to. But she'd been so desperately, desperately afraid that she was like her father. That deep inside, too deep to see or touch and just barely deep enough to feel, she was weak enough to someday kill herself. Ever since the day she'd found him, slumped and bleeding and dead at the kitchen table, she'd seen the seeds in herself. Seen the possibility.

And so she'd run. From herself and everyone else.

Then she'd hit Albuquerque, and there'd been nowhere to run. And then, finally, with Larence beside her, there'd been no reason to run. Okay to be afraid . . .

"The plate can't get any cleaner, Em," Larence said with a chuckle.

Smiling, she leaned against him and handed him the

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plate. Together they held each other upright. Both supporting; both seeking support. It felt so good being near him. So right.

She stared at the plate in her hand but didn't really see it. Her mind was filled with images of her and Lar-ence as they'd been in the last few days. Laughing, joking, caring.

Together.

Afterward, Emma sat by the cheerful, crackling fire, sipping a cup of cinnamon-laced tea. And watching Larence.

She couldn't help herself. Time and again her gaze was drawn to him, almost against her will. She was half-afraid that if she turned her back—for even a heartbeat—she'd find that it had all been a lie. That Larence and the friendship he gave her was nothing but an illusion created by a lonely heart.

The friendship he gave her.

She sat up straighter. Certainly he'd given her his friendship, there was no doubt about that. In a thousand tiny ways. But had she been reciprocal? Had she given the same immeasurable gift in return? Or had she merely been her old self—taking and taking and never giving?

"Aah!" Larence groaned again and staggered sideways. The canvas tent bag he was carrying slipped. He cried out, reached for it, but the bag hit the dirt with a thud.

"Larence!" She was on her feet in an instant, running fast. She reached him just as he collapsed.

She dropped to her knees beside him and instinctively reached out. Then stopped. Her hand hovered for a heartbeat; uncertainty made her gnaw at her lower lip.

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Don't be a coward, not this time. Let him know how much you care. . . .

She touched him.

He jerked at her touch, then stilled. In the night's silence, his rapid breathing sounded like the fall of a hammer against hardwood. She felt the trembling in his body beneath her palm.

He kept his head down. "Go away."

It might have been a total stranger speaking. His voice was thick, tortured. The ragged sound of it tore at her heart.

A feeling of uselessness welled up in her. What could she do—or say—to help him?

She had no idea. She hadn't given comfort since her father died—and obviously she'd done a damn poor job of it then or he wouldn't have killed himself.

She pushed away the familiar doubt and focused instead on her instincts. Her feelings.

Swallowing thickly, she began to rub his back in soothing circles. Words, she thought desperately, talk to him. Let him know he's not alone. Only one sentence came to mind: "It's okay to be . . ." She stopped.

Heat crawled up her throat.

Fool. Idiot. You couldn't comfort someone in canned, copied language.

He looked up unexpectedly. Their eyes met. Pain clouded his, drew little lines in his forehead and tightened his mouth. And yet, even in the midst of his own pain, there was an empathy in his eyes, an understanding of her frustration. He mumbled something.

She leaned closer. The soft, soapy scent of his hair mingled with the coffee and woodsmoke smell of his clothing and surrounded her, wrapped her in familiar warmth. She threaded her fingers through the brown 256

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hair that fell over his eye and pushed the curly lock out of the way. ' 'What did you say?"

Tension etched in lines around his mouth; shame darkened his eyes. A soft night breeze slid through his hair, making it flutter against the sides of his face and rustle against her fingers. "It ... embarrasses me to be seen like this ... by you."

Emma felt as if a huge hand were squeezing her heart. Tears stung her eyes, blurred her vision. "Oh, Larence ..." Her voice thickened, cracked. "You saw me at my worst—and helped me. Let me do the same for you. Please."