The Enchantment (20 page)

"Come on, Em, that's it. Lick my fingers." Her tongue darted out and tasted the cool wetness on his forefinger. A strange shiver sped through his body at the whisper-soft gliding of her moist tongue against the rough flesh of his finger.

When all the water was gone, a low, pained groan issued from her cracked lips. He pulled her into his arms and held her folded body, crooning to her as if she were a child. He talked softly of little, inconsequential things, anything that came to mind. The sun, the weather, Cibola.

After a few minutes, her tongue slid along the bumpy, chapped surface of her lips. Her throat bulged in a thick swallow.

Her eyes cracked open.

She immediately blinked at the harsh sunlight. Larence yanked his Stetson off and used it to shield her eyes from the bright light. "Hi, Em."

Her mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. Still, he could see the makings of his name. He nodded in understanding. "Of course it's me," he answered, stroking the side of her face. She closed her eyes and sank deeper into his arms. "Here," he said after a moment, "drink this." He held the canteen to her mouth.

Her eyes flipped open. She grabbed it in both hands and wrenched it out of his grasp. Tilting the canteen, she gulped the hot water greedily. Rivulets ran down her throat and along THE ENCHANTMENT

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the sides of her face, seeping into the coarse denim of his pants.

"Whoa, there, slow down," he urged, tugging the canteen away from her and setting it on the ground beside him.

She looked at him then. He saw in her eyes an aching, deep-seated despair. And more than a hint of defeat. It was a look he knew well. Too well. But seeing it in her eyes, in invincible Emmaline's eyes, was somehow worse than seeing it in his own. He had a strong, sudden urge to fill her eyes with laughter. To teach her to smile.

You came, she mouthed.

Invisible hands clutched his heart and squeezed. Had she really thought he'd just leave her out here to die?

"Of course I came." He wondered if she heard the thickness in his words.

She tried to smile and failed miserably. "Thanks." He forced himself not to answer. Tonight, when she was more relaxed, he'd begin his attack on the emotional barriers she'd obviously spent years erecting.

But not now, not when she was so close to breaking.

"De nada, " he answered lightly. "That's what Diamond Dick always says to his partner, One-Eyed John.

It means, 'Think nothing of it.' " Emmaline groaned and rolled her eyes. He grinned. Tightening his hold on her, he stood up. The small effort it took to hold her surprised him. His grandmother had been wrong: he could carry a woman up the stairs or across the threshold. Maybe even farther.

"Larence?"

Her face was so close, he could see the grains of sand still clinging to her pale brown eyelashes. Her blue eyes

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seemed huge against the sunburnt darkness of her skin. She stared at him without blinking, and for once, the shuttered look was gone. He felt as if he could see straight into her soul—and it was a frightened, vulnerable place like his own.

"I mean it," she said in a dry, brittle voice. "Thanks."

Some emotion he'd never felt before and couldn't

name made his heart slam against his rib cage. The

slow, warm patter of her breath brushed his cheek,

the even beating of her heart thudded against his

chest.

He searched for something light to say. "Well, if you're through here, how 'bout we make camp someplace a bit prettier?"

Amazingly, she smiled.

At the soft curving of her lips, Larence felt something inside him break free and float.

She licked her lips and said in a thick, cracked voice, "We'd better get going."

His smile turned into a grin. Leave it to Emmaline to come back from the brink of death issuing orders.

Setting her down, he limped over to Diablo. A feeling of camaraderie clung between them, something new and fragile, and Larence was loathe to let it go. So as he rearranged the supplies to make room for two riders, he said over his shoulder, "Next time you decide to rest a minute, Em, why don't you ask for the notebook. I sure would've appreciated a sketch of that greasewood over there."

A clot of dirt hit him in the back. There was a moment of stunned surprise, and then they both laughed.

Emma couldn't believe she'd laughed. Somehow the sound had tumbled out of her, unbidden and unwanted,

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and yet strangely necessary. As if it had been a substitute for screaming.

Now laughter was the furthest thing from her mind. Seated on Diablo behind Larence, with her cheek pressed to the warm cotton of his serape, and her arms curled around his midsection, she wanted desperately to cry. It took every ounce of strength, every ounce of willpower she possessed, to keep the hated, humiliating tears from creeping down her cheeks.

She tried to force her mind away from what had happened, but couldn't. The image of herself lying alone and forgotten in the desert pounded through her mind, demanded a reaction.

Her teeth started a low, quiet chattering. She clamped her mouth shut, whether to stop the chattering or keep the scream bottled up, she no longer knew. No longer cared. All that mattered was hanging on to her last shred of dignity. All that mattered was not crying.

Tears burned. The need to shed them ached behind her eyes, gave her a pounding headache. She'd been so scared, so alone. And she hadn't thought he'd come. Not really.

But he had, she reminded herself firmly. So why did she want to cry? Why now, when it was all over and she was safe?

She didn't have an answer. All she had was a need, building with every heartbeat, to open the floodgate on her emotions and let herself fall apart. It swelled within her like a rising tide, slipping past every nook and cranny in her armor.

Larence would feel the wetness against his back. The

thought was like being hit with a bucket of cold water.

She couldn't take the humiliation. And what good

would it do, anyway? Crying was a useless waste of

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energy. Hadn't her father cried for days before he'd shot himself?

Fat lot of good the tears had done him . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting anger at her father's death consume her fear. Almost instantly, the trembling in her body subsided, the rapid pumping of her heart slowed. Her tears dried into a hard, aching lump in her chest. Control returned.

Emma sighed and almost smiled.

She'd beaten it again.

Not too far away, on a mesa to the east, a hawk screeched loudly, then flapped its huge brown wings and settled onto the uppermost branch of the tree. The limb shook; green needles shuddered and dropped to the sandy soil.

Ka-Neek gave the bird a respectful nod, then turned his attention back to the two gray-haired men sitting cross-legged by the smokeless fire. "How much longer shall we wait? They are close. Too close. The secret—"

"Enough." The word was spoken quietly, with no emphasis but for the slow raising of a gnarled, sun-darkened hand. In the silence that followed, the leader took a long, whistling drag of his pipe.

Ka-Neek jerked away from the tree and started pacing. Dust spiraled up from the worn leather soles of his moccasins. The haliotis-shell necklace he wore clacked with each of his angry steps. "I cannot stand by and watch the cursed white men destroy what this family has protected for five hundred years. I say—"

"We know well what you say, son," Me-lik broke in harshly. "But it is not you that matters, is it?" He turned to look at the old man beside him. "What say

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you, Father? It cannot be denied that they draw near to the Forbidden Place. Perhaps too near."

The ancient one let out a last, lingering curl of gray-white smoke, then set down his pipe. Picking up a stick, he poked its sharpened end into the fire. Sparks hissed loudly and fluttered upward like a thousand freed fireflies.

The bright orange flames reflected in his eyes. Shadows twisted across the chiseled, wrinkled hollows of his cheeks. With great care, he eased a limp lock of ash-hued hair out of his face, curled it behind his ear.

"Ka-Neek is right," he said at last, reluctantly. "It is time."

Larence stood at the riverbank, breathing deeply of the resin-scented air.

The stream, a braid of silvery water cutting through the dun-colored dirt, reflected the now-darkening sky. Shadows curled along its bank and clung to the whispering leaves of the cottonwoods overhead.

Water lapped lazily against the bank and rustled the rushes.

Fingers of wind trailed Larence's cheek. Cool air ruffled his hair. He glanced up at the early evening sky, mesmerized by the beauty of it. The sun had changed from a burning, eye-searing star to a pale yellow layer of lingering light. Billowing gold and blue clouds crowned the steel rim of mountains in the distance.

It was so incredibly lovely. Emmaline should be seeing this. . . .

He turned around, and what he saw stole the smile from his face. Emmaline sat perfectly still, her gaze riveted to the fire, her fingers curled tightly around a long-cold cup of coffee. Her back was knife-blade-stiff, as if she was afraid to let herself uncoil even a fraction. In the black dress, with her skirts puddled around her, she reminded him of a bereaved widow sitting at her husband's freshly dug grave. The only thing missing from the picture was tears.

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He limped over to the fire and dropped to his knees across from her. She didn't even bat an eye at his arrival. She just sat there, as stiff and silent as a marble statue.

He didn't know what to do, how to reach her. With each mile traveled today, he'd seen her fortify the wall of icy indifference she'd erected around herself, seen her retreat further and further inside herself.

She snapped her head up suddenly. "Quit staring at me."

"Why?"

She gave an irritated sigh. "Don't you have some unpacking to do so I can start dinner?"

"Worried about the animals' welfare, Emmaline?" he teased.

"Leave me alone."

His half smile faded, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "I can't do that, Em. Not this time."

Their gazes locked. The color seeped out of her face. She opened her mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again and yanked her gaze back to the fire. The cup in her hand began to shake.

Larence studied her downcast face. She was hanging on to her self-control by a fingernail; trying pathetically hard to be invincible. But he could see past her facade even if she couldn't. And the scared, lonely woman inside tore at his heart, reminded him of a little boy curled on a hard, cold bed, trying not to cry. Fear and the painful loneliness of battling it alone was something he understood.

He knew the signs. Throughout his youth he'd hidden his pain and anger, tried to pretend they didn't exist; that he was stronger than any emotion. But it had never worked for long. Sooner or later the emotions always

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broke through the barriers he'd constructed to contain them.

She was afraid of the emotions, just as he'd been. Unfortunately, the only way she'd realize her own strength would be to hit rock bottom and realize she could survive it.

An almost aching tenderness unfolded within him. The need to reach out, to thread his fingers through hers, rose like a wave in him. He wanted to take her in his arms, without words, without even a whisper.

To let her know it was okay to break down, okay to be human, and that, for once, she wasn't alone.

"Em ..." Her name, spoken so gently, hung between them.

Slowly she lifted her gaze to his. In her eyes he saw a faint, hesitant stirring of hope.

Her beauty nearly took his breath away. His heart thudded against his chest and crept into his throat.

"You're so . . ." The words congealed in his throat. Why would someone like Emmaline care that he thought her lovely? Better men than he had undoubtably told her that a thousand times. If she had an answer at all, it would be a laugh.

He said the next thing that came to mind: "—tired. Would you like to go to bed?"

A wan smile touched the edges of her mouth. One eyebrow arched mockingly upward. "Propositioning me, Larence?"

Yes. Maybe I am. The realization stunned him into momentary speechlessness. He stared at her, trying to think of something—anything—to say. Something clever, worldly, something that would sweep her off her feet. But nothing came to him except the same amazing,

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unexpected words, over and over again: Yes, maybe I am. . . .

"Don't bother answering." She gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "I know how you feel about me."

"It's not—"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Don't bother. You go feed and unpack the animals. I'll start dinner."

"You don't have to cook tonight."

"I want to help. It's time. And besides, I owe you for coming back for me."

Larence felt like he'd been punched. "It wasn't a business transaction, Em," he said quietly.

She paled. "It's . . . easier for me to think otherwise. Business I understand; debts and payoffs make sense to me." Their gazes locked. "Anything else ..." She shrugged, forcing another lackluster smile, and let her sentence dangle.

Larence felt a surge of hope. It was the most—hell, it was the only—personal thing she'd ever told him.

He leaned forward, knowing his eagerness was obvious, but unable and unwilling to mask it. "Emmaline, I—" Something cracked into the back of his head with a sickening thud. Pain exploded behind his eyes.

He wobbled. Emma's sharply indrawn breath echoed in his ears.

Everything slowed to a crawl. He felt as if he were being sucked down a long, lightless tunnel. Through a distant, fuzzy part of his brain, he heard a woman scream, heard the high-pitched screech of a large bird and the whisper-soft shuffle of feet.

He had one cogent thought: Emmaline. He grasped desperately for consciousness. It crumbled at his touch,