Fire and Rain (8 page)

 Luke grimaced at Carla's mention of the other man. "In the bunkhouse, I imagine. Why? You need something?"

 "No. I was just wondering how Cosy's hand is doing."

 Luke took the gravy boat and began drowning potatoes. "What did Cosy do this time?"

 "He cut himself and wouldn't go to the doctor. I sewed it up as best I could, but I'm no surgeon."

 Gravy slopped heavily from the boat and ran down onto the clean table as Luke's head snapped toward Carla.

 "You
what?
" he asked.

 "I sewed Cosy up with the curved needle and silk thread I have in my camping kit. Cash taught me how to do it years ago. He's forever cutting his hands when he's out prospecting. Most of the time a butterfly bandage will get the job done, but Cosy wouldn't hear of anything that fancy. He said a plain old needle and thread was all he wanted. When I was finished he doused everything in the gentian violet solution I've been putting on the calf that cut itself on wire." She glanced aside at Luke's plate. "Your gravy is getting away."

 Luke looked down, scooped up runaway gravy on his finger and licked it off. He had to repeat the process several times before the problem was taken care of. At the same time he watched Carla while she set down the coffeepot, shifted the hot pads so that both hands were protected and poured him a mug of coffee. She maneuvered the awkward pot with unexpected grace. Nearly two months of working on the ranch had taught her how to handle the heavy kitchen equipment.

 "You do that real slick," Luke said.

 Carla looked up, startled. "What?"

 For a moment Luke forgot what he had been saying. Carla's eyes were close, clear, like blue-green river pools lit from within. Her lips were full and pink, their soft curves a silent invitation to a man's hungry mouth.

 "The coffeepot," Luke said, his voice deep. "You handle it like you've been doing it all your life."

 "Pain is a great teacher," Carla said dryly. "You don't have to get burned more than two or three times before you figure out that there's no future in hurting."

 Luke's eyes narrowed to glittering amber slits as her words sliced through him like razors.
Pain is a great teacher. There's no future in hurting.
He wondered if Ten had been right, if Carla had come back to the Rocking M to cure herself of the pain of wanting a man who didn't want her.

 But Luke did want her. He wanted her until he welcomed pain as a diversion from the agony gnawing in his guts whenever he looked at her and saw what he should not have. Even if she weren't innocent, she was still his best friend's kid sister; and even if she had been a complete stranger, there was still the grim truth about the Rocking M and women. The two didn't mix, as every MacKenzie man but one had found to his grief.

 And yet there Carla stood, watching Luke with hungry, haunted, haunting eyes, making his body harden in a single wild rush, forcing him to bite back a curse and a groan.

 
Stop looking at me
, he railed at Carla silently.
Stop wanting me. Can't you feel what you're doing to me? Is this revenge for what I did to you three years ago?

 The words went no farther than Luke's mind, for he had just discovered that the protective layer of anger he had wrapped around himself since Carla had arrived was gone, worn out by nearly eight weeks of use. Nothing came to him in his need except a bone-deep weariness and the understanding that Ten had been half-right – Luke had been beating a hog-tied pony.

 But the pony was himself, not Carla.

 Wearily Luke rubbed his neck with his right hand, trying to loosen his muscles. It wasn't the endless days of hard driving and hard riding that had tied him in knots; it was that he had run and run and run – and then looked up only to find himself in the same place where he had started, reflected in the eyes of Cash's kid sister.

 "Did the big storm catch you on the wrong side of Picture Wash?"

 Carla's soft question sank slowly into Luke's churning thoughts. All that hadn't been said sank in, as well her hesitation even to speak to him, her concern that he had been out in the open when thunder rolled down from the peaks and the earth shuddered, and her yearning simply to hear his voice answering her own.

 Luke knew just how painful that yearning was, for he had been haunted in exactly the same way. He had heard Carla's voice on the wind, in the darkness, in the silver veils of rain sliding over ancient cliffs. More than once he had awakened in the night, certain that he had only to reach out to feel her softness and warmth curled alongside his body; but his seeking hands had found only darkness and the cold, rust-colored earth of the remote canyon where he had camped.

 "No," Luke said softly. "I was back in one of those side canyons where the cliffs make an overhang that keeps out the rain."

 "Like September Canyon?"

 "Yes. Did Cash tell you about that place?"

 "No. You did, when I was fourteen and you gave me a fragment of Anasazi pottery you had found along September Creek. I still have the shard. It's my … talisman, I guess. It reminds me of all that once was and all that might yet be."

 Carla looked past Luke and the ranch house walls, seeing the canyon whose existence had haunted her almost as much as Luke. Both the canyon and the man were aloof, distant, compelling. Both of them fascinated her.

 Luke's breath came in and stayed, for there was such yearning in Carla's voice and face that it made his throat close.

 "Cash promised to take me to September Canyon when he comes in August," she continued. "I'll taste the rain winds and hear water rushing over stone, and I'll see in every shadow a culture that was old before Columbus set sail for India and found the New World."

 "I never found any ruins," Luke said finally. "I know they're there, probably way up September Creek or Picture Wash or maybe even Black Springs…" His eyes took on a faraway look in the moments before he shrugged and returned to eating. "The ranch takes too much time for me to have much left over for chasing legends."

 "I'm surprised Cash hasn't found any Indian ruins. He must have crawled over every square inch of the Rocking M."

 Luke shook his head. "Not a chance. There are parts of this ranch that no one has ever walked, white or Indian. Besides, Cash has been poking around hard rock country. He's a granite and quartz man. Most ruins are found way up washes or creeks that wind between sandstone walls. No gold to be found there. Beautiful country, though. Wild as an eagle and damned near as hard to get to."

 "The Anasazi and their natural fortresses…" Carla focused on Luke with intense, blue-green eyes, grateful to have found a neutral subject that interested both of them. "Have you ever wondered what frightened the Anasazi so much that they withdrew to those isolated canyons?"

 "Other men, what else? You don't go to all the trouble of building your towns halfway up the face of a sheer cliff, risking the life of every man, woman, and child as they climb up and down to tend the crops or draw water, for any animal less dangerous than man."

 "In the end running and hiding didn't do the Anasazi any good. The ruins remain. The people are long gone."

 "Maybe," Luke said softly. "And maybe it's like mourning the passing of the Celts. They didn't die so much as they became something else. I think some of the Anasazi came down out of their fortresses and changed into something else. I'll bet Anasazi blood flows in Ute and Apache, Navaho and Zuni and Hopi. Especially the Hopi."

 Carla looked at Luke curiously. "You sound like you've studied the Anasazi."

 "Self-defense." He looked up at her and grinned. "You asked me so many questions after I gave you that piece of pottery, I had to dig pretty deep for answers. Cash must have mailed me most of the university library."

 She laughed, then shook her head. "Poor Luke. I must have pestered you half to death. You were incredibly patient with me."

 "I didn't mind the questions. When it was too dark or wet or frozen to work, I'd sit and thumb through those books, looking for answers and finding more questions than even you had."

 Luke's long fingers caressed his coffee cup absently as he remembered the long, quiet evenings. Carla watched his hand with unconscious longing.

 "When the snow piled up in the canyons," he continued, "I'd sit and think about people who lived and died speaking a language I've never heard and never will, worshipping unknown gods, building stone fortresses with such care that no mortar was needed, block after block of raw stone resting seamlessly next to its mates. However else the Anasazi succeeded or failed as a people, they were craftsmen of the kind this earth seldom sees. That's a good thing to be remembered by."

 Luke lifted his coffee cup in a silent salute to Carla. "So you see, your curiosity about that little piece of pottery I gave you opened up a whole new piece of history for me. I call it a fair trade."

 "More than fair," she said, her voice husky with memories. "You gave me a world at the very time my own had been jerked out from under my feet."

 Luke frowned, remembering the unhappy, fragile fourteen-year-old whose eyes had held more darkness than light. Not for the first time, he cursed the fate that took from a girl her mother and her father in one single instant along an icy mountain road.

 "Cash gave you the world," Luke said quietly. "I just sort of came along for the ride."

 Carla shook her head slowly but said nothing. She had already embarrassed herself once telling Luke of her love for him; there was no need to repeat the painful lesson. She had been only fourteen when she had looked into his tawny eyes and had seen her future.

 It had taken her seven years to realize that she hadn't seen his future, as well.

 "Sit down and have some coffee," Luke said. "You look tired."

 Carla hesitated, then smiled. "All right. I'd like that. I'll get a mug."

 "We can share mine," he said carelessly. "I'll even put up with cream and sugar, if you like."

 "No need. I taught myself to like coffee black." What Carla didn't say was that she had learned to like black coffee because that was the way Luke drank it. Even after the disaster three years before, she had sat in her college apartment sipping the bitter brew and pretending Luke was sitting across from her, drinking coffee and talking about the Rocking M, the mountains and the men, the cottonwood-lined washes and stands of piñon and juniper, and the sleek, stubborn cattle.

 When Carla put her hand on the back of a chair that was several seats away from Luke's, he stood and pulled out the chair next to his. After only an instant of hesitation, she went and sat in the chair he had chosen for her.

 "Thank you," she said in a low voice.

 Behind Carla, Luke's nostrils flared as he once again drank in the scent of her, flowers and warmth and elemental promises she shouldn't keep. Not with him.

 Yet he wanted her the way he wanted life itself, and he had no more anger with which to keep her at bay. He had only the truth, more bitter than the blackest coffee. With a downward curl to his mouth, he poured more of the black brew into his mug and handed it to her.

 "Settle in, sunshine. I think it's time you learned the history of the Rocking M."

~8~

"This land wasn't settled as fast as the flatlands of Texas or the High Plains of Wyoming," Luke said. "Too much of the Four Corners country stands on end. Hard on men, harder on cattle and hell on women. The Indians were no bargain, either. The Navaho were peaceable enough, but roving Ute bands kept things real lively for whites and other Indians. It wasn't until Black Hawk was finished off after the Civil War that whites came here to stay, and most of them weren't what you would call fine, upstanding citizens."

 Carla smiled over the rim of the coffee mug. "Didn't the Outlaw Trail run through here?"

"Close enough," admitted Luke. "One of my great-great-greats supposedly was riding through at a hell of a pace, saw the land, liked it and came back as soon as he shook off the folks who were following him."

 "Folks? As in posse?"

 "Depends on who you talk to. If you talk to the MacKenzie wing of the family, they say Case MacKenzie was just trying to return that gold to its rightful owner. If you talk to other folks, they swear that Case MacKenzie was the one who cleaned out a bank and hit the trail with sixty pounds of gold in his saddlebags, a full-blooded Virginia horse under him and a posse red hot on his trail.

 "Who do you believe?"

 "Well, I leaned toward the outlaw theory until I showed your brother the MacKenzie gold."

 "You still have it?"

 "About a handful. Enough that Cash could see right away that it wasn't placer gold. He went back and checked old newspapers. Seems the bank had been taking deposits from the Hard Luck, Shin Splint and Moss Creek strikes. Placer gold, all of it. Smoothed off by water into nuggets or ground down to dust in granite streambeds. The gold my ancestor carried was sharp, bright, running through quartz like sunlight through springwater. Your brother took one look at it and started hunting for Mad Jack's mine."

 "Cash never told me about that."

 "I asked him not to tell anyone, even you. Last thing I need is a bunch of weekend warriors digging holes in my land."

 "You're serious, aren't you? The gold you have really came from Mad Jack's mythical mine?"

 "The mine might or might not be myth," Luke said dryly. "The gold was real, and so was old Mad Jack Turner."

 "What makes Cash think the gold came from your ranch?"

 "The gold that was passed down through the family looks a lot like the gold from other mines in the area – same proportion of tin or silver or lead or copper or whatever. And then there's our family history backing up the assay. Case had a brother who married a girl he'd found running wild in mustang country. She was Mad Jack's friend. The country she ran in was just south of here. Since Mad Jack went everywhere on foot, it stands to reason that his mine is somewhere nearby. At least, that's what Cash figured seven years ago. He's been hunting that mine ever since, every chance he gets."