Death and Desire (15 page)

The three Navajo turned and silently strode away. Atsa joined them.

For once, I had no appetite. Yanaha broke the silence. “You'll make the right decision.”

He groaned. “As a Navajo or a cop?”

Yanaha said quietly to Trace, “You're both. Find the virtuous way. Seek with your heart and your head for the way that satisfies your need for justice.”

Trace nodded at his grandmother and gave her a halfhearted smile.

A few clumps of people were still eating, but the crowd had thinned out. Families were trudging through the loose sand to their vehicles, loading up kids and aluminum-wrapped dishes of leftovers. Ben's family was cleaning up the tables and trash.

I was ready to go when Yanaha clutched my hand. “The Singer is ready for our blessing.” She pointed to Gorman who moved quickly through the crowd toward us.

Al Gorman joined the three of us. The weight of the medicine pouch Yanaha had given me hung heavy between my breasts. Yanaha stood. I scrambled to my feet, hoping I didn't appear like a clueless Bilagaana to the Singer.

Gorman had a beatific smile that creased his whole face into a roadmap of lines. “Yanaha, Trace, I am so pleased to see you. He shook their hands. And this must be Ms. McWhorter.” He furrowed his brow and scrutinized me as he took my hand. A finger of unease tiptoed up my back.

He nodded his approval to Trace and gave me an endearing smile. I was relieved. There were several other Anglos at Ben's sing, but to my knowledge, I was the only one receiving his blessing.

He sat down, crossing one leg over the other. The three of us sat beside him making a small circle. He spoke to Yanaha in Navajo. She gestured to me and answered him. Gorman pointed to me. “You have seen a shapeshifter?”

“Y-y-yes,” I stammered, uncertain of what was expected of me. Trace put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

The Singer pulled a buckskin medicine bag from under his shirt. He took out a pinch of yellow corn pollen and raised it to the sky, then sprang to his feet, standing before Yanaha. He sprinkled the golden pollen on her bowed head. As he approached me, I lowered my own. Soft yellow dust filtered down on my jeans. Trace and Yanaha murmured responses to him in their language. Gorman finished with a blessing in English that I had heard Trace say, “Now I walk in beauty, beauty is before me, beauty is behind me, above and below me.”

He repeated the blessing four times, facing each of the cardinal directions. He lifted his arms to the sky. “Bind these four together with the power of the number four—Trace, Yanaha, Taylor, and corn pollen.”

Trace and Yanaha pulled their pouches out and held them up. I hesitated but then raised my suede bag. Trace cocked an eyebrow in surprise, but remained quiet.

Gorman motioned us to stand and extended his arm to Yanaha to help her up. The Singer touched each of us on the shoulder with his smudged fingers. “
Ya-ta-hey
.” He smudged each pouch.

“
Ya-ta-hey
,” Trace murmured to his disappearing back.

Yanaha patted my cheek and smiled with reassurance. “Go in peace.” She walked toward the group of Kedah women packaging the food.

“Did Yanaha give you the pouch?” Trace asked on the way to his truck.

I nodded. “Not long ago.”

“She likes you.” He smiled. “I've never known her to give an Anglo a medicine pouch.” He opened the truck door.

“Maybe she never met one who needed it as much as me.”

I kicked the sand off my boots on the running board before swinging my legs into Trace's truck. He slammed the passenger door. Movement to the right caught my eye. Tomas Reyes was climbing into the driver's side of an ancient pickup. I squinted to look through my side mirror. A woman scooted over beside him, and when he raised his head to look at her, she swooped in for a kiss. She threw back her head to laugh and I recognized Susan Etisitty.

Trace touched my arm. “What are you staring at?”

“Susan in that old pickup back there.”

Trace looked in the rearview mirror.

“She's nearly sitting in his lap,” I said, craning my neck for a better look.

“She's on her own time.” He put the truck in gear.

“Do you know that guy she's with?”

“Yeah, that's her newest conquest. He's Tomas Reyes with the border patrol. Officer Etisitty rarely lacks for male companionship,” he said drily as he pulled out on the narrow strip of road.

I looked at his rugged profile as he jerked the steering wheel to miss a deep rut. “Thank you for bringing me to Ben's sing and for getting me the blessing.”

“I'm here to serve, ma'am.” He smiled and gave me a mock salute. “And I liked seeing you interact with the people who are important to me.” He tapped my knee. “So you heard from Gage?”

“I'm meeting him on Monday out near Wupatki. I hope he doesn't do a runner.”

“Might be safer if he did. I know you can manage your risks, but be careful and text me when you leave Wupatki.”

I
heard Trace's truck rumble into my drive Sunday evening for our dinner with Eric and Louis. When I opened the door, I cracked a huge grin. He was standing there in jeans and his black duster. “I brought a couple of bottles of wine. You want to walk over to Louis and Eric's? It's a beautiful night.”

“Sure.” I grabbed my jacket. “Mac, you stay.”

“He's not invited?”

“Mac and the Manx don't get along. Sends Eric into a frenzy of worry about Stumpy.”

Trace grinned. “I haven't seen a Manx who couldn't hold his own. Sorry, boy,” he said to Mac as he nudged him back inside and locked the door.

We strolled up the street to Louis and Eric's.

“There's a lot of privacy on these lots with the houses sited near the back of the properties.”

“Most people build at the back of their lots so their decks are out over the ravine that runs along the back perimeter of all our houses. In the spring, a little creek gushes down through the bottom.”

We negotiated Eric's garden of hanging baskets and potted flowers around the front door. Eric swung the door open before I knocked. “Hi there,” he said to Trace, extending his hand. “We've been looking forward to meeting you.” Eric gave Trace an exaggerated look over. “Good going, Taylor.” He winked at me and laughed. Stumpy sniffed Trace's boot, gave an unearthly screech, and held what tail he had high in the air as he gave us his backside.

Louis reached around Eric and took our jackets. “Don't mind Eric's damn cat. Guy has no manners. I've got the propane heater going out on the deck. I've had it on about twenty minutes so it's comfy. Come on back this way.”

The rise of a full moon dimmed the starlight. Pungent smoke from burning pinion wood in the chiminea scented the air.

I inhaled the lovely scent. “I want one of these for my deck.”

“Lowe's, gal, nothing you can't get at Lowe's.” Louis threw two more chunks of damp wood on the smoldering fire.

Eric brought out his signature bacon-wrapped scallops, a steaming crab dip, and water crackers.

“Smells good,” Trace said.

“It's bacon. Every guy loves bacon.” Eric put the tray down and fanned out napkins.

Louis uncorked the bottle of red wine Trace had brought, smelled the cork with gusto, and laughed. “A perfect red to pair with bacon.” He poured me a glass. “You learn anything at that Enemy Way you went to?”

“The bulldozer driver who died in the crash left a letter for his wife, claiming he was fired because he saw them robbing graves. She thinks her husband was killed.”

“You think that could be possible?” Louis asked Trace.

“We've taken the car out of impound and some good people are going over it again. They'll discover if it was tampered with.”

Eric excused himself to the kitchen and returned with a prime rib. He placed it in the center of the table and added a huge green salad, a bowl of potatoes, and a gravy boat. Louis leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Perfect. I'll carve.”

Eric looked at me. “I know how you feel about carbs, but a prime rib screams for mashed potatoes and au jus to a bunch of guys.”

“How did you two meet?” Trace asked.

Eric answered, motioning with his wineglass. “Here. I'd never live in the South. Can't get into that poke salad and grits thing they got going on down there. And good God, the humidity.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Eric moved here about fifteen years ago from Phoenix to escape the heat and put his new broker's license to work.”

Eric said, “Doesn't seem that long ago.”

“You know a good thing when you have it,” Louis teased. He looked at Trace. “We found this house and he's made it a home.”

Eric covered Louis's hand with his. “Good. It has been good,” he said softly.

I looked at Trace to see if he was uncomfortable with the display of male affection. He seemed perfectly at ease. “You're a great cook,” Trace told Eric.

“Is there dessert?” I asked hopefully.

“Is there dessert?” Eric mimicked. “You bet. Chocolate cheesecake with raspberry sauce.”

“Don't get any ideas,” I said to Trace. “Unless you can catch cooking like a cold, it isn't ever going to happen with me.”

He smiled serenely. “You have other talents.”

Eric and Louis laughed uproariously and Louis clapped Trace on the back. We stacked the dishes, and Eric shooed us out of his kitchen.

The moon cast golden shadows on the street as Trace and I walked hand in hand to my house. Trace took my keys and opened my front door. Mac bounded into the entryway looking for treats. We oohed and ahhed over his prowess, and he sauntered off when I gave him his favorite biscuit.

“Would you like a little night cap?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Beer or bourbon?”

“Bourbon neat.”

“I don't need a recipe for that one.” I handed him the drink and a napkin.

I mixed a half a jigger of vodka in orange juice with a splash of peach schnapps for myself and relaxed on the sofa, folding one leg under me. “I think you passed muster with Louis and Eric.” I kissed him on the cheek.

“I'm relieved.” He took my hand and kissed the palm. “I can see how important you are to each other.”

We sipped our drinks, heavy with the satisfaction of a great dinner.

“How are those two young boys who were arrested?” I asked quietly.

“They got off light.”

“Disappointed?”

“Absolutely not. They made a hell of a mistake, but these boys can turn out all right. They were released to their parents' supervision and are in outpatient rehab. What they won't do is finger whoever hired them to move the meth.”

“Wait. I thought they were selling pottery for meth?”

“They were. They were also distributing meth for someone and sampling the goods. I did draw out of the boys that they were also trading pottery for meth to start their own little distribution business. And it probably really pissed off the guy they were working for.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Not yet.”

I couldn't tell if he knew and was being evasive, or he really didn't know.

“The judge gave them an unusual community service,” Trace continued. “He required them to sit in on a Navajo history and culture class over at the community college.”

“Good for him. The boys should know their heritage,” I said, taking a sip. “They're vulnerable if their former employer thinks they might talk.”

“I agree.” He effectively changed the topic. “I have real misgivings about you and Louis poking around in this story.”

“Louis was a military brat who served two tours in the army. Re-upped after his first tour. He's good. We'll be fine.”

“You're vulnerable,” Trace corrected.

I cupped his cheek with my hand. “It feels good to be cared for, especially from you. This is my job and I'm good at. So is Louis. He and I make a good team and we're careful. I'll deal with the downside.”

He squeezed my hand and gave me a wry smile. “I can't help myself. I'm a cop and I want you safe.”

“I—”

He held up one hand and interrupted me. “And I trust you to manage your risks.”

I kissed him and whispered, “Thank you. You're perfect.”

He grinned, deepening the dimple on his left check. “Yeah, I know.”

We sat in the peaceful silence of two people who didn't have to fill the air with mindless chatter.

I rose to freshen my drink. “Did you like it out in Virginia when you were at Quantico?”

“I liked that it was different. The people, the food, even the smells were different. I met a woman out there.”

“Special?”

“You could say that,” he answered. He gulped the last of his bourbon and placed a hand over his glass when I went to refill it. “I was briefly married.”

I jerked my head back in surprise.

“Mary Elizabeth Wainwright.” He pushed on. “From an old Richmond family. I think she was intrigued by me because I was nothing like any man she had been with.”

I gave him space to continue with no questions from me.

“We had a son.” He searched my face for my response.

“Had? Oh, Trace, I'm sorry.”

“He only lived a few days. He was premature, had Hyaline membrane disease.”

I clutched his hand. “I'm so sorry. I'm repeating myself, but how painful for both of you.”

“He took these rasping, stingy little breaths, slower and slower, and then he just went limp. I held him when he died.”

“Oh, Trace.” I felt uncomfortable, not able to ease his burden of loss.

“We couldn't hold the marriage together after he died. We tried, but just couldn't. My boy was named after me and her dad, Trace Adkins Yazzie. I didn't want my son embalmed. I wanted his little body flown to Flag to be buried on the reservation.”

“She didn't want that?” I asked gently.

“Oh God, no. Her family went nuts. My son is buried under a soaring marble angel in the Wainwright family plot in Richmond. My son,” he repeated softly.

“I'm sorry. I can't imagine the pain.” I sounded lame to myself, but without experience—and I couldn't imagine losing a child—I was at a loss. I held him, hoping my touch would soothe the painful memories.

He absently stroked my hair. “I loved her, but I knew she would never fit in Arizona, not on the Nation, or with my people. She was an exotic Southern creature who could only thrive in Richmond. She fit like a glove there, and she couldn't fathom any other place to live. If our son had lived, he would have had to straddle two vastly different worlds or chosen one.”

“You would have been a great father to him.”

“When we lost him, Elizabeth and I lost our fragile connection to each other.”

“Do you miss her?”

“You can't miss what you never had. Elizabeth was very composed and rigid. I kept scaling the wall between us and she kept adding bricks to the top.”

He poured a finger of bourbon in his glass. “You ever been married ?”

“No.” I hesitated. An intimate revelation spurs you to respond in kind, and I wanted to do this my way. “I've loved and I've been loved, but I've not yet created the relationship I want with a man.”

“You missing any of them?”

“No.”

“No what?” He probed.

“I don't miss any of them and I harbor few regrets.” I sipped my drink, stalling and marshalling my strength. “I believe people love you the best they can, but sometimes their loving doesn't fit your need.” I hooked one leg under the other and turned to face him. “Then you have to let go of what you have and search for what you want, or settle and always long for the loving you want. I don't settle. I kept seeing the same image playing though my head when I dated. I was standing in a long hallway lined with half-open doors. Behind each door was an experience, an adventure to be savored. Out of some came wafts of the sea and Caribbean reggae. From others, the sirens and sounds of crowds bustling in a city or the
crunch
of snow under boots. I wanted to relish what was behind each door. But at the end of the corridor, my guy was beckoning me to join him, and with every wave of his hand, another door closed, and soon all my opportunities were gone.”

Trace sat quietly, absently rubbing his big thumb across my hand. I couldn't read anything from his immobile face. I cringed, worrying about what he might think. He put his finger under my chin and tilted my head up. “The best gift you can give to someone is to accept them as they are—no little tweaking here and there to create what you want and need, but just enjoy them as they are. I can give you that and more. I want to stand
beside
you in the hallway and walk through the doors to adventures we choose.” He bent his head and kissed me. “Loving me won't shut any doors, and I don't want you to shut me out.”

Relief washed over me. I was heady with his response.

He stroked his hand down my hair. “Can you accept me as I am?”

I tensed. Could I? Did I have enough discernment to see into his secret corners, and enough courage to accept him?

He watched me patiently. “Take all the time you need.”

“Yes.” I saw the word in black on white in my mind before it sprang from my lips. “I can, cowboy, and it will be a ride.” I threw back my head and laughed joyously.

“Then I expect we better seal the deal,” he drawled. He took my hands and began to nibble my palm. “As I remember, this gets things going. Do I need to put on the duster?”

“Take your clothes off first. Then put the duster on.” He did a slow strip that heated my blood. No hip grinding, no quirky smile, just a straight
here's what you get, ma'am
, and what I was getting was a lot of man. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his powerful chest and chiseled abs. The pulse beating in the hollow of his throat drew me like a moth to flame. He toed off his boots and reached for his belt, then deftly loosed the silver buckle. Dropping his jeans to the floor, he never took his eyes from my face. After he slid off his socks, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his black silk boxers and stripped them from his hips. He strode naked to the door where he had left his duster, grabbed it, and thrust his hands through the sleeves. The duster swung out from his bare legs as he moved lithely back to me, fully erect and jutting out from the coat.