The Enchantment (41 page)

There would be no years from now. There would be no love or laughter. No wife. No son. No daughter.

He curled his dirty, aching hands into fists and pounded his knees. It was so goddamned unfair. He'd been a good man, lived a good life. He'd never sought more than his share, never complained about having been crippled, never hurt another human being.

He hadn't even asked for much from life. Just someone to be with, and someone to love. He had so much of it to give. So very much . . .

If you loved her so damned much, why didn 't you compromise? He thumped his head back against the cold stone and closed his eyes, letting his breath out in a sharp, angry sigh. Why? he demanded of himself again. He'd known how much the money meant to her, so why hadn't he done something—anything—to make her stay?

But he knew why. He'd been so hurt, so angry. He'd wanted—just once—to be chosen. And he'd thought there would be time to correct their mistakes. Time to mend their fences . . .

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Time . . .

He cracked the back of his head against the wall. Pain exploded in his skull, but he hardly noticed. It was nothing compared to the agony in his soul.

He slammed his fists onto the cold, dark ground and screamed her name. "Emmaaaaa ..."

The word clung to the shadows for a long, vibrating moment, then disappeared.

Pa-lo-wah-ti stopped at the crest of a small hill. The hawk glided in one last circle overhead and came to a whirring, flapping perch on the nearest tree.

"The white man's fort," he said, nodding toward the cluster of wooden buildings spread out below them in a red sandstone valley.

Emma stared at the small encampment through tired eyes. Reaching down, she ripped another piece of cotton from her hem and tied the small scrap around the nearest tree. Pale blue fabric fluttered in the noontime breeze, marking the trail. The sharp, tangy scents of juniper, pinon, and cedar filled her nostrils.

Beside her, Pa-lo-wah-ti gave a weary sigh. "You remember the night you were taken by Ka-Neek?"

She shot him a sharp glance. He hadn't been there that night. So, how had he-She looked warily at the hawk. The beady black eyes were fixed on her face. "How do you know about that?"

For once, his sightless eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "We meant you no harm. It was to frighten you so you would give up your search. We watched your every move, tracked your every thought."

"But—"

"We are the guardians of the sacred city. The Keo-ye-mo-shi. For generations we have sworn our blood to

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protect the secrets of our ancestors. For two hundred seasons I have been chief, and never once in all that time have I been . . . confused. ..."

Emma felt a surge of tangled emotions at the bittersweet remembrance. "Until Larence?"

"He saw the city so clearly. With such fire and passion. How could I stop a quest of vision? I am a man only, not a god. Such decisions cannot be mine."

He sighed heavily, shaking his head. The haliotis shells around his neck chinked together. "When I became chief, God took my eyes and taught me to see with my heart." His bony hand touched his chest for emphasis. "Your man was easy to read; his soul was as clear as a mountain stream. He was ke-hi, a friend of the spirits.

"So I was confused. I was to stop white thieves; but was I to stop a ke-hi? Many nights I wrestled with questions, many nights I lay awake, seeking guidance from the gods. But they were silent.

"My heart saw the truth clearly, but my mind, and my son's son, Ka-Neek, called my heart a liar. I lost much sleep.

"Finally I listened to my heart, as I should have from the beginning. Your man had been called here. He was meant to seek. And so I waited."

Listened to my heart. A sick, sinking feeling weighed down Emma's stomach. Shame made her look away. "I-I ..." she stammered.

"It is not about you, Emmaline. You think it is—you are used to thinking only about yourself—but this is about something . . . greater."

"Larence and I made a deal," she protested weakly. "Half the gold is mine."

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He looked at her with infinite sadness. "You would destroy it, then?"

"I'm not destroying it. I'm moving it. Larence will still have his museum." But even to her own ears, the words sounded weak and feeble.

Pa-lo-wah-ti bowed his head. "You have already made a fatal mistake. Do not make another."

She stilled. "Is that a threat?"

He turned to look at her, and the sorrow in his eyes made her stomach knot. "Remember, Emmaline, it takes much gold to fill an empty soul. And only a drop of magic."

Emma reined Tashee to a halt outside the fort's tall, skinned-log gate. She only had a moment to worry about her ragged appearance before a uniformed guard pushed through a door hidden in the spiked wall and headed her way.

She stiffened. Her fingers tightened nervously around the reins. She fought the urge to run a quick hand through the leaf- and twig-entangled mass of her hair.

"Can I help yah, miss?"

She ran her tongue along the chapped surface of her lower lip. "I'm Emmaline Hatter of New York."

The young man's tanned face broke into a bemused smile. He pushed the military hat higher on his head and scratched his pale brow. "I'm Private Henry Snort of Saint Louis. Now that we got that outta the way, what can I do for yah?"

' 'I 'd like to see your commanding officer."

Private Snort didn't bother hiding his surprise. Frowning slightly, he cocked his head and studied her disheveled appearance. It was a slow, take-your-time sort of look that made Emma wish fervently for the THE ENCHANTMENT

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petticoat she'd left at the skeleton and the chemise jammed in her saddlebag.

"I dunno, miss," he said, scratching his sweaty forehead, "Cap'n MacEwan's a married man, and I don't think he'd take to no ..." His words trailed off.

Emma felt a moment of embarrassment, then a flash of anger. "I am a lady, sir. A very famous, very wealthy lady who has just had a rather . . . unbelievable experience in the desert. So quit gawking like a thirteen-year-old and take me to your captain."

Ten minutes later she was seated on a comfortable leather chair, sipping a cup of tea. The chair felt indescribably wonderful after so many jarring hours on Tashee, and the tea slid through her blood like laudanum.

Suddenly the door banged open. Emma turned. A tall, broad-shouldered bear of a man stood silhouetted in the open doorway. Hot yellow sunlight streamed behind him, but even in the half-light she could see the unruly mushroom of rust red hair that wreathed his head.

He moved purposefully into the dimly lit room, and Emma's first impression was that everything about him was big and red—his hair, his skin, his nose. The floorboards rattled and shook as he walked past her and settled himself behind his desk. Beneath his weight, the leather chair's tired springs twanged. He plopped his elbows on the oaken desk with an audible thunk of bone on wood, then steepled his sausage-thick fingers and studied her through bright, intelligently blue eyes. "So ye say ye're Emmaline Hatter from New York."

"lam."

Thick, stiff-haired red eyebrows drew into a deep, imposing vee. "I dinna believe ye."

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Emma was caught off guard. "Why not?"

"I keep up on me readin', ye know. Emmaline Hatter's a famous woman. Call 'er the 'Mad Hatter.' I dinna think a steel-hard, rich-as-God lady'd be dressed like a Mexican whore and wanderin' alone in the desert."

She didn't even flinch at his rudeness. In fact, it relaxed her. She liked people who dealt from positions of strength and didn't pussyfoot around. "Captain MacEwan, you may wire Smitherton Guaranty and Trust.

Eugene Cummin, the president, will verify that Emmaline Hatter did indeed travel to New Mexico in search of the legendary Lost City of Cibola."

Captain MacEwan sucked in his breath. It made a sharp, wheezing sound in the quiet office. His ruddy face paled. " Tis a big source o' gossip, that. We been speculatin' about it fer years."

Emma considered her next sentence carefully. She had no choice but to tell the captain the truth; it was the only way she'd get his help. Slowly she leaned forward. "Can you keep a secret?"

His blue eyes shone with a firelike intensity as he nodded. "Aye."

"I found it."

He rocked back in his chair. ' 'Holy Mother o' God ..."

She leaned back, taking a sip of tea. The meeting had just turned around. Now she was in the position she'd always enjoyed, always sought at all costs: the position of ultimate power.

She frowned at the thought, her lips resting against the cup's hot metal rim. Today she felt no joy in the victory. No pleasure or pride. All she felt was a sharp sense of loss.

She pushed the foolish emotion aside and set her cup

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down on his desk. "I need a few—two or three—honest, reliable men to accompany me to the city to retrieve the gold."

"Is there a lot of it?" he breathed.

"Wagons full. I'll need men in good shape, willing to walk and crawl through the passageway. I'll pay them, and you, very well."

He grinned. "I think we can help ye, Miss Hatter."

A strange sorrow kept her from smiling. It was as if some part of her, deep down and squashed by common sense, had wanted to be thwarted. "Yes, Captain MacEwan, I thought perhaps you could."

As he stood to leave, Emma thought of something. It was nothing, really, but for some odd reason, she found herself saying, "Oh, and Captain, what day is it?"

He frowned for a moment. "About the beginnin' o' June."

Emma felt herself go pale. Pa-lo-wah-ti had been right. They'd been in Cibola a month.

The fort bustled with activity. After so many days of restful quiet, Emma felt a little breathless by the hustle and bustle going on around her. Sounds buffeted her ears: boot heels thumping in the hard-packed dirt, squeaking wagon wheels, braying mules and barking dogs, the clanging ring of a blacksmith at work, the muffled chatter of a dozen conversations, and, overhead, the snapping of an American flag in the noontime breeze.

Captain MacEwan led Emma across the dusty mid-section of the camp to a small house. The grayish brown wooden structure looked like all the other buildings clustered inside the protective walls, except for the

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flowers growing in pots beneath the shuttered windows. Bright spots of pink and green and yellow gave the tiny dwelling a homey, cozy look.

He bounded up the house's low wooden steps. The planks sagged and groaned at each step, then bounced back into place behind him. "Moll, me love," he yelled as he opened the door. "Come 'ere!"

Emma heard the patter of hurrying feet. Selfconsciously she straightened the thin cotton camisa, wishing—again—that it could be coaxed into covering her sunburnt shoulders.

"What is it, Francis? Is somethin' amiss?" came a bright, happy-sounding voice from behind the door.

Laughter rumbled from his mighty chest. "Nae. Quite the opp'site, in point o' fact. There's a lady here from New York, a Miss Emmaline Hatter. I thought ye might get her a sweet or somethin' whilst I ready her things."

"A lady? Why, ye big oaf, get away from the door and let 'er in!"

MacEwan turned around and offered Emma an easy grin. " 'Tis lonely for female companionship, she be.

There's only a few women crazy—"

"In love enough, ye mean," laughed the unseen woman.

"Crazy enough to follow a husband to the middle o' nowhere."

Emma swallowed thickly, took a step backward. Suddenly she didn't want to go in, didn't want to see any couple so much in love. "Perhaps, if she's too busy—"

"Nonsense," he answered, holding the door open.

Nervously Emma plucked up her thin cotton skirt and made her way up the stairs. The room she entered was exactly as the flowers promised: cozy and homey.

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Honey-colored wood paneled the floor, walls, and ceiling, its uniform color broken by several multicolored braided rugs and crisp white cotton curtains. A blue and white gingham sofa faced the fireplace and cut the room in half. Overturned orange crates flanked either end of the couch, their slatted tops cluttered with pictures and knickknacks. Beside the fireplace was an old, well-used rocking chair with a tired bit of lace draped carefully across its high, curved back.

A sound crept into Emma's subconscious: the whining creak of a rocker as it moved back and forth across a hardwood floor. It was a moment before she recognized the sound as a memory—one she'd long ago suppressed. But now she remembered. Her mother had often held her closely and crooned to her, soft, now bittersweet songs of love designed to help a child sleep.

Emma was surprised to feel the sting of tears. She yanked her gaze to the other side of the room. The only furniture was the dinner table, its round oaken surface brightened by a lard bucket full of fresh spring blossoms. Beside one of the chairs stood a tall, plainly dressed woman, a baby plopped on one hip and a small, redheaded toddler clinging to her hand.

"This is me wife, Molly," MacEwan said. "Moll, this is Emmaline Hatter. Why don't ye have a bit o' tea?

I'll be back in about half an' hour."

The door closed behind the captain, and Molly flashed Emma a conspiratorial grin. "Don't ye hate it when they tell ye what to do?"

Emma couldn't help smiling. The woman's easy intimacy and friendly smile made her feel immediately welcome. Molly led Emma to the table and gestured for her to sit down. Then she disappeared into the 386

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kitchen for a few moments and returned with a pot of tea and a tin plate layered with homemade tarts.

The two women sat at the dining room table, sipping tea and talking. Molly's two-year-old son, Willie, lay stretched out on the floor beside them, intently stacking and restacking a brightly colored pile of blocks, and the baby, Susan, slept in her mother's arms.

As they talked quietly, Emma watched the gentle swirling motion of Molly's hand on the baby's back, and her heart twisted into a tight, aching knot. The flesh on the back of her hand tingled with the memory of Lar-ence's hand forming to hers. / want a baby, too. . . .