Speak to the Wind (3 page)

"How often do you come up?"

"Never often enough. Usually
only
two or three times a year."

"Well, that's more often than I make it."

Maria cocked her head. "Then you don't live around here?"

"No, I'm from California." Joe gazed at her with a straightforward, unreadable expression.

"I just assumed you lived here
because. .
." She felt foolish. She knew all Indians didn't live on reservations.
And all Apaches didn’t live here.
Her assumptions about this man were wrong so far and piqued her curiosity even more.

Joe picked up a Speechcraft brochure she'd lef
t on the ta
ble and scanned it. His thumb pointed out the majestic bald eagle drawing and slogan imprinted on the front. "Is that what you do, Maria? Teac
h people to rise above the ordi
nary?"

"I give them the tools. After that it's up to the individual." She paused with a modest little laugh. "You can see my High Meadow Lake influence. Can't help it, I guess. There's a huge bald eagle that feeds at the lake almost every morning. It's a ritual, like clockwork. I watch him and think he's absolutely
grand. He definitely rises above the ordinary, even among eagles."

Joe dropped the brochure to his kn
ee and gazed at her
with a slight smile
.
“
I’
ve
seen him. Early this morning, in fact. Uncle Will and I were fishing."

"You were in that boat on the lake?"

He nodded. "Where were you?"

"I took a walk.
Saw you from the shore.
"

For a few silent seconds, a
silken moment in time, they re
alized they had shared the morning, both the magnificent sight of the eagle's ritual and the awesome feeling that they had been privileged observers.

Finally Maria spoke, her tone hushed. "I often take a walk early in the morning when it's quiet. It's a good time to think."

She halted clumsily, fee
ling she was rapidly losing her privacy
in this simple conversation with a stranger. Yet she knew instinctively that there was no such thing as simple conversation with this intriguing man sitting across from her. She took a deep breath, fighting to remain at ease, to put into action the skills she taught.

"You're right," he agreed
quietly. "It's a special place. I’m not sure
those who
live here
appreciate it
as much as those of us coming from the rat race
." He paused, then deftly changed the subject. "I'm curious about what
you offer and what
kind of clients you have, Maria."

Maria launched into the c
omfortable territory of Speech
craft. "The seminars we do for corporations usually deal with basic communicati
ons skills and include business
relat
ed in
formation.
Sometimes w
e work with clients who've been suddenly thrown into a public situati
on and want a little help, espe
cially in dealing with the media. Or those
who are heading in that direction and
want the skills before they get there. My most recent clients were a group of rock stars."

"Are you kidding? Who?"

"Privileged information." She gave her head a quick shake. "They rose to stardom too
rapidly to adjust to their popu
larity. We should all have their problem,
right?
These kids had no concept how instant stardom would affect their lives. Suddenly they couldn't do anything without the world knowing."

"So what was your advice?"

"Of course they didn't need to learn public speaking per se. We worked on retaining so
me degree of privacy while keep
ing the fans and press happy. Fame and fortune aren't always as wonderful as they appear on the surface. There are lots of demands."

"I never stopped to consider it might be a problem." He drained his mug and set it down on the table. "Just curious. How did you manage all this without the press knowing about it?"

She smiled coyly. "It's ou
r business to be completely con
fidential. Most of our individual clients demand anonymity. In this case, I spent several weeks on the road with them and no one knew who I was. There are so many groupies
around these famous people
, it was easy
for
me
to blend in. It’s more difficult
if the client is a poli
tician with a family
, someone established in a more settled lifestyle
.
But we manage.
Recently I worked with a governor who is being groomed for
ah, higher office
in a few years. I wore a wig and pretended to be an additional secretary.
That
was kind of fun, actually
."

"Being groomed?" Joe
groaned. Was that what was hap
pening to him? "Sounds like a horse preparing for the big race. And you're the woman behind the success."

"Not really," she objected modestly. "I told you, it's up to the individual. In fact, I take cues from my clients. We set goals together according to what they want to achieve."

He grinned and waggled the brochure he still held. "You promise to help them rise above the ordinary."

Maria ducked her head and watched a bubble circle the amber liquid in her mug. "I
give them tools and
instill self-confidence."

"Sounds like we could all use a dose of that medicine. Can I keep this brochure?"

"Of course. If you know of anyone who might want any of our services, please pass it
on. We can always use the busi
ness."

"I will." He glanced out the window, then back. "How long are you staying here?"

"Just until the end of this week. I have to go back Sunday."

Joe nodded, then noticed headlights approaching in the darkness. "That's probab
ly my cousin now." With a reluc
tance he didn't even try to hide, he made
slow
motions to leave.

Maria rose, also feeling a curious reluctance to see him go.

Joe
paused
. "I'm probably going to be moving back here for a while and I..."

She waited for him to finish
, but he hesitated. “
To the res
ervation?" she encouraged, then admonished herself for violating her own pet peeve about rushing the speaker or finishing
his
statement.
She considered i
t rude and overanxious.
One of
the
tools
she taught
was
empathic
listen
ing
,
to
understand
the
speaker w
ithout forming a
ready
response.
Now she wouldn’t know what he was really considering.

"Yes
, back here
." He stroked his chi
n with his thumb. "
Maybe
I
. . .
could
use a
lesson
or two that you offer.
We all could, probably.
"

"
It can be arranged
." Her heart pounded.
Was that what he was stumbling around?
He wanted a
speaking
course from her?

"But I'll call. I have your number on the brochure, don't I?" He extended his hand. "Tha
nk you, Maria. It's been a plea
sure. And interesting. Very interesting, indeed."

Her hand rested in his, now warm. "Nice meeting you, too, Joe."

He released her and t
urned toward the door. The head
lights had stopped on the road in front of her cabin. Joe
looked back at her just before he left. "
Thanks for the cider.
I hope we
’
ll meet again
soon
."

"Me too."

Maria stood at the door
and watched the car lights dis
appear into the night. She turned back to the fireplace and studied the flames as they leaped around the darkened logs, devouring them with blue-white heat.

It was easy to imagine that the brief encounter with Joe Quintero had been a dream. He'd been here such a short time, and now he was gone. There were other things she wanted to say to him, wanted to ask. Maria felt strangely attracted to this man but couldn't avoid the guilt that crept into those feelings. There had been no other man since Wayne, no other attraction.

But this man was different. Joe Quintero was almost an enigma, a woman's fantas
y. Maria thought of Joe's expan
sive shoulders and strong arms, his warm hands and how they'd felt grasping hers in a firm handshake... how they might feel touching her; his voice and square jaw and high cheekbones... and how it might feel to have his lips close to hers; his muscular body stretched alongside hers... making love.

She snapped back to the immediate.
W
hat
the hell
was wrong with her? She was thinking... dreaming about a man who was a virtual stranger.

Maria turned away from the fire, and her gaze fell on the mug he'd left on the table. There was the proof. Joe Quintero wasn't a figment of her imagination. He had been here in this room. And his memory stayed with her.

Joe Quintero
heaved himself into the car
with no expression on his dark face.
He
made a comment about the stalled truck and how they’d get it fixed tomorrow.
Inside his broad chest, though,
hi
s heart pounded with hope. Or was it raw desire? He felt as though he had to see this woman again. He was compelled, caught in the golden spell of her natural beauty, her self-confidence.

Yet he was also acutely aware that he was too busy to become involved with another woman right now. He had a more noble cause to consider, greater challenges to meet, a destiny beyond his own exist
e
nce. And he sure as hell didn't need the complication
s
of a woman. Unless. . . unless she could help him meet those challenges.

T
he next morning Maria was awakened by the sound
s
of a
diesel
truck. She stumbled to the window in time to see a tow truck hauling away the stalled
truck. . . evidence of
Joe
Quintero
's
presence in her mountain world
.

Near noon a knock on the door aroused Maria's hopes that the visitor might be Joe. Just in case, she'd dressed in a red sweater and put on a little makeup. She flung open the door with an expectant smile.

There stood a skinny Indi
an boy of about seven with jet-
black eyes and hair to match. He held out a small package.

"Uncle Joe said to give this to you. And to say thanks for helping him last night." The boy ran away to a car waiting for him on the road.

"What? Wait a minute," she called.

Maria stepped o
nto the front porch, expecting—
hoping—to see Joe in the car. But the driver was a woman, probably the boy's mother. She waved, a faint smile on her dark face, and drove away. Maria stood there, holding the palm-size box, staring curiously at it.

A gift from Joe. More proof of his existence. Quickly she tore open the box.

Inside, wrapped in plain
white tissue paper, was a minia
ture Apache burden basket, a collector's item
hand-woven
of leather and decorative silver cones. The miniatures had become popular because the large
authentic ones were rare and ex
pensive.

Tucked inside the tiny basket was a note.

Thanks for the use of your phone last ni
ght and for giv
ing me the spur to rise above the ordinary. You are an
intrigu
ing lady, Maria Eden.

Sincerely, Joe
.

Maria smiled wistfully and pressed the note to her heart. It was so sudden, this yearning, this attraction that she was sure he felt, also. At odd times during the day she picked up the tiny Apache basket and thought of Joe Quintero. She wondered if she'd see him again. Last night he'd seemed sure that it would happen.