Wild Desire (3 page)

“My woman,” he whispered, giving her a lingering kiss now that he knew that his sons had left the hogan.

Then he eased her from his arms and walked on away from her. “Ready the blankets for us while I am gone,” he tossed absently over his shoulder. “Tonight we will warm them again with our bodies.”

Leonida wanted to allow herself to be lost in thoughts of passion, but knowing how Sage was so troubled by the Santa Fe train closing in on the Navaho land, she could only worry as he walked away from the hogan.

She hurried outside just as her three men rode off on their horses, silver ornaments on their stamped leather saddles flashing in the sun.

“Be careful,” she shouted, waving as one by one her three loved ones turned and gave her a smile over their shoulders.

Then she looked at Pure Blossom's hogan. She sighed with relief when she saw smoke spiraling from the chimney. Her daughter was surely busy at work, eating her own breakfast.

“I shan't bother her,” Leonida whispered to herself. “When she's ready to take a break from her beloved weaving, she'll come to me.”

She tried to shake the remembrance of another Pure Blossom of so many years ago from her mind, and how she had slowly faded away. Perhaps if it had not been for the prairie fever that had taken its final toll on her, Pure Blossom would have lived many more years, happy and content with her own special skills at weaving.

Turning, gathering the hem of her skirt into her arms, Leonida went back inside her own hogan. She glanced around, seeing the changes that had been brought to the far reaches of Navaho land by the white settlers. For days Sage and Runner had gone and watched ox teams draw up to various spots near springs and unload axes, saws, and nails. They had seen straight-walled houses being built of logs, with glass windows and iron hardware.

Sage and Runner had returned to the reservation and encouraged their people to begin making houses of thick, sawed logs, instead of poles covered with bark and earth. When they did, they had not kept to the four-sided style. They had laid their logs in six- or eight-sided shapes, so that the inside of the houses would still be circular and fit for Navaho ceremonies.

Leonida's house was filled with many more comforts of the white settlers, making life easier for her. She was proudest of her huge iron stove that she now used for cooking.

“Oh, Lord, please let Sage make the right decision,” she whispered. “What Runner said made so much sense. He's such a brilliant young man.”

Every day she thanked the Lord for having been blessed with the opportunity to have seen Runner grow from a young boy of five into a young man of twenty-three. She had to believe that his mother, Carole, was up there in the heavens somewhere, looking down at her son and smiling.

 

 

Runner rode his feisty black stallion beside his father's strawberry roan and gave Sage a quick glance. “I have to think that Damon Stout has some involvement in this railroad spur going on past Fort Defiance,” he said, his long, black hair fluttering in the breeze. “That rancher has been nothing but trouble since he settled on land that is part of the reservation. What are treaties for if the government hands out land as though it is candy to ranchers like Damon Stout?”

“The government has watched
us
cross the treaty boundaries as our sheep need more grazing land, so they see no harm in allowing white men to come onto land that by treaty is
ours
,” Sage said, frowning at Runner. “Yet what does the government do when our horses are stolen by the likes of this man called Damon? They look past the truth, ignoring it.”

“What are you going to do if our horses continue to be stolen?” Runner asked, his eyes filled with fire at the thought of someone coming under the cover of darkness to steal from the Navaho.

“In time, my son, the one responsible for the stealing will make a wrong move,” Sage said, nodding. “Then he will never steal from anyone again.” He tightened his hold on his reins. “Damon. Damon Stout.
He
will be caught redhanded one day. Pity him then.”

The small adobe schoolhouse came into view, the sun beating down upon its flat roof. Thunder Hawk emitted a groan, then broke away from Runner and Sage and rode in a hard gallop away from them, toward the school.

They drew a tight rein and stopped their horses. They watched Thunder Hawk tie his horse with the others at the hitching rail, then walk with slumped shoulders into the schoolhouse.

“He does not walk like a man,” Sage complained.

“That will come to him when his education is completed,” Runner said, reaching to clasp his father's shoulder. “Learning
is
best for him.”

Sage nodded, covered Runner's hand with his own, then drew his hand away and gripped the reins again. “
Ei-yei!
Let us ride, my son,” he shouted, sinking his moccasined heels into the flanks of his horse.

Before they had ridden far, they heard the shriek of a train whistle in the far distance. Great billows of black smoke rising into the sky drew their attention.

“The iron fiend,” Sage said, then urged his horse into an even harder gallop, Runner keeping steadfastly at his side.

Runner could not help but feel a strange, building excitement every time he watched a train traveling along on the gleaming tracks. Like something magical, on and on it would go, rumbling and flashing in the sun.

Chapter 3

The sun was pouring its heat from the sky, reflecting on the steel rails of the railroad tracks like white lightning. Runner rode at a gentle canter beside his father, squinting his eyes as he studied the new rails being laid, even now, by the work gangs. Although he felt a deep hatred for this invasion on the land of the Navaho, he was undeniably in awe of the power of the trains that rode these sorts of tracks. Distances were joined like magic.

“Do you see how the land is being destroyed by those men?” Sage said, as he edged his strawberry roan closer to Sage's stallion. “The earth is Mother and is to be revered. Not to be made ugly by steel rails.”

Runner nodded, his eyes shifting to the men who had stopped their labors and were now leaning on their pickaxes staring at him and his father. These men, who performed the labor for the Santa Fe Railroad Line, were quiet, self-effacing men. They worked by day, and drank and played by night in the saloons and bawdy houses in Gallup. It was this sort of men who were not welcomed in these parts. The threat of them corrupting the young of the Navaho was too severe.

Runner rode onward with his father. They left the work gang behind and inched their way alongside the rails that had already been installed. Runner looked over his shoulder. “There are but a few rails left to be laid before it reaches Fort Defiance,” he said, mentally counting those that lay strewn along the ground. “Then perhaps the laborers will leave.”

“But today, even now, the iron fiend and its carloads of white people come to invade our land, freedom, and privacy,” Sage said, his dark eyes angry. “This Navaho has always searched for ways to keep peace with the whites. But now? Now I feel that I was wrong to have given in so easily to their demands. See where it has taken us? To a time and place of more invasions of the whites.”

“It is not something that can be changed, Father,” Runner said somberly. “Unless—”

“Unless we rip these tracks up, and all of the others as they are being laid from day to day,” Sage said, casting Runner a heated glance.

“That would bring the white pony soldiers to our village,” Runner said, his eyes locking with his father's. “I have known you long, Father, and I know that you do not want this.”

“Nor do I want to flee again, as I did when Kit Carson brought heartache to our people,” Sage said, in his mind's eye remembering the day that he had been forced from his stronghold by flames lit by the white man.

“Then let us wait and see how all this truly affects our people,” Runner said, reining in his horse beside Sage's. He reached a comforting hand to his father's shoulder. “This son means no disrespect by saying his mind.”

A smile quavered on Sage's lips. He reached up and patted Runner's hand. “It is always good to hear you call yourself my son,” he said. “You are not of my blood, but you are even more my son than if you had been. Your thoughts often match my own, so do not despair when occasionally we disagree on how things should be.”

“It is not that I disagree,” Runner corrected. “It is . . .”

His words were stolen away and he dropped his hand from his father's shoulder when the long screaming whistle from a train drew his quick attention. He turned from Sage. His spine stiffened and his gaze was drawn to the sky, where again he watched billows of black trailing along in the wake of the approaching train's belches.

His jaw tightened when another loud, long shriek came from the train. He was now able to see the black engine coming into sight, black smoke pouring from its smokestack that was shaped like a great kettle.

“Is it not an ugly monster?” Sage said in a grumble. “And listen to it. Hear how it snorts, puffs, and screams?”

“That is so, Father,” Runner said, yet the white side of him could not stop the fluttering of his heart as he watched the train's approach. When he was a child, he had heard rumors of trains. The thought mystified him no less now than then.

And here he was, a grown man, coming face-to-face with such an invention.

If he could but only see that it was true progress for his Navaho people, as he knew that it was for his white heritage.

But everything pointed to it being
hogay-gah
, bad, for the Navaho. Bad, ugly, and a disgraceful thing to happen to the land of his Navaho loved ones.

He fought off feelings that were wrong and accepted that he must hate this train as much as his Navaho father. Yet their hate seemed as bad as the train itself.

Hating anything meant trouble.

They rode on until they met the train, then began riding alongside it as it approached the end of the private spur that had been laid thus far.

“There is only one cattle car and there are no cattle, but instead only a few horses,” Runner said, forking an eyebrow. “And there are only two passenger cars.

“I can see enough through the windows to see that there are only two passengers,” Runner said, exchanging quick glances with his father when they both saw two people staring intently at them from one of the passenger cars. “Have we been wrong to think that the trains on these tracks will bring scores of white people to our land?”

“Do you think they would spend so many white man's dollars to lay such tracks for only two people?” Sage scoffed. “Son, they are only the beginning of our people's total ruin and unhappiness. There will be others. Many, many others will follow.”

“I am sure you are right,” Runner said, tightening his hold on the reins and holding his knees tightly to the sides of his steed when the train shrieked again.

Runner and Sage rode away from the train, stopping a few feet from the end of the line. Ignoring the glares from the work gang, they sat quietly and sternly, waiting to see more clearly these two invaders of their land.

Adam leaned closer to the window of the train. “Come and see, Stephanie,” he said, motioning to her with a hand. “Our welcoming party has arrived.”

“Welcoming party? I didn't know we were going to be met by anyone,” Stephanie said, scampering to her feet. She lifted the hem of her skirt and scooted onto the seat opposite Adam. “Why, it's Indians, Adam. Two Indians. Are they Navaho?”

Adam's past was coming back to him in flashes. “Yes, they are Navaho,” he said, his heart beating anxiously. “And by God, Stephanie, one of them is Sage. You know, the chief that I've so often talked about.”

“Truly?” Stephanie said, her eyes widening. “Which one? The older one, no doubt.”

“Yes, the older one,” Adam said, grabbing for the seat back when the train came to a sudden, rumbling halt. “The one who has his hair clubbed and wrapped with strands of white wool.”

“And the younger Indian?” Stephanie said, her gaze taking in the handsome man, realizing that he was not altogether Navaho. It was only in his attire, and how he wore his hair, that she saw him as Navaho. His clothes were colorful. He was dressed in a shirt of handwoven, woolen cloth with a vee-neck, and dyed buckskin trousers that had silver buttons down the sides and tied with woven garters. The bandanna knotted about his head was of red crimson silk, holding back his long, flowing black hair. Otherwise, she saw his white skin, burned dark by the desert sun and wind, not by heritage.

“Good Lord, Stephanie,” Adam said, staring even more intensely at Runner. “You wanted to know about the White Indian? I believe you're looking at him.”

“Runner?” Stephanie gasped, still staring at him. His features were sculpted. His eyes flashed with dark intensity. “Is that truly Runner?”

“There's only one way to find out,” Adam said, rising from his seat.

Stephanie turned quickly to Adam, who was already at the door. “Where are you going?” she blurted.

Adam ignored Stephanie. He stepped out into the heat of the day and ran to the cattle car. He slammed open the door and placed a plank from the car to the ground, leading his horse down it.

Stephanie bunched the hem of her skirt into her hands and ran after Adam. “Wait for me,” she shouted. “Adam, I want to go with you.”

Adam still ignored her. He was too anxious to resume ties with his old friend, and not only for friendship's sake, but hoping to find an ally in this friend who was, by birth, white. He mounted his brown mare bareback and rode hard toward the two waiting Navaho.

As hell-bent on meeting the Navaho as Adam, Stephanie also bridled her horse in the cattle car, then led the chestnut stallion out and mounted him bareback. Gripping the reins with sure hands, she rode after Adam.

When she finally reached her stepbrother, he had already drawn up beside Runner.

Runner raised an eyebrow as Adam sidled his horse closer to his stallion, seeing something familiar about the man, but could not place him. His gaze shifted when Stephanie came and drew rein beside the white man.

Memories rushed over him of white women of his past: his true mother and her friends. He had been young when he had been living among the white community, but he could recall seeing such lovely women as this, with their ivory skin, supple and slender figures, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and full, ripe mouths.

Even this far from the woman he could smell a sweet perfume wafting toward him, reminding him of the perfumes his mother had worn.

But even though he could recall those women long ago, and seeing Leonida every day now, and thinking them all so beautiful, this woman was even more than his wildest dreams could conjure up. She was more lovely than any that he had ever seen before.

She had an entrancingly curved mouth. Her eyes were as smoky gray as the spring sage on the mountain slopes. Her feathery dark lashes flared widely so that they cast shadows on the pale skin beneath, and her hair was a magnificent torch of copper.

She was a picture of feminine daintiness, the snug fit of the bodice of her traveling suit emphasizing a tiny waist and high bosom.

The more he looked at her, the more she caused him to realize that he had been without someone to share his nights with him for far too long. Her mere presence was setting little fires throughout his body. And he could not allow such feelings.

In a sense, this woman was an enemy, an enemy of the Navaho.

“Trevor?”

Hearing the name of his youth being spoken by the white man made Runner jerk his eyes back to the man. Only people of his past knew the name that he had been given on the day of his birth.

He looked at the white man more closely and began seeing something familiar about him. This close, he could see the features of his boyhood friend—Adam.

“Adam?” Runner said, his voice low and measured.

“Runner, it
is
you,” Adam said, reaching over to give Runner a fierce, manly hug. “It's really you.”

Runner returned the embrace, feeling awkward. He saw the woman as an enemy; he could feel no less for Adam. It was obvious that Adam was involved with the expansion of the railroad, or he would not have been there.

Across Adam's shoulder, Runner looked at Stephanie again, finding it hard to continue labeling her as the enemy. He silently studied the gentle loveliness of her face and the breathtaking color of her hair and eyes.

Remembering again the differences in their beliefs where the railroad was concerned, he quickly shifted his eyes away from her and eased away from Adam.

“And Sage?” Adam said, leaning so that he could look around Runner. “It's so good to see you again.”

Sage's lips were pursed tightly. He refused to give this man of his past a greeting that would be the same as speaking with a forked tongue. Although he was happy to see the boy of his past now turned into a young man, he would not allow his happiness to show. Adam was bringing trouble to the Navaho. His presence on the train made that fact evident.

Adam's eyes wavered. He looked clumsily over at Runner, then at Stephanie. “I would like to introduce my stepsister to you,” he said, motioning for Stephanie to move into view.

When she did, Adam took her hand. “This is Stephanie. Stephanie, you have heard me mention Runner and Sage to you often.” He motioned with his free hand first to Runner and then to Sage. “I am sure they are pleased to meet you.”

Runner nodded in acquiescence.

Sage sat stolidly quiet, offering no comment.

“I'm pleased to meet you both,” Stephanie murmured, blushing somewhat beneath Runner's steady stare.

Sage moved his horse forward, then stopped. He looked over at Adam. “Your mother Sally,” he said. “She is well?”