[Montacroix Royal Family Series 03] - The Outlaw (13 page)

"Not for about seven hundred years." Once again, Wolfe found himself reluctantly enjoying the awe on her face. It matched his own feelings. A person could not live surrounded by so much living history and not feel connected to the people who had once lived between these great pink cliffs now claimed by the Dineh.

"The cliff dwellings were built by people we call the
Anasazi
," he said. "It's a Navajo word meaning the ancient ones. They lived here, in Canyon de Chelly, for about nine hundred years, until disappearing sometime in the thirteenth century."

"Where did they go?"

"There are several theories. Until the good people of Whiskey River decided to hang me, I was planning to write a book about one of the possibilities."

"You will write it," Noel said with absolute conviction. Looking down at the stone city again, she repeated the name of the canyon, pronouncing it as he had, Canyon
de shay
.

"It means, where the water comes out of the rock. Even in the driest of years, when the rest of our land is suffering drought, the springs flow in this canyon. That was, undoubtedly, the appeal to the Basketmakers, who were the first to arrive here before the birth of Christ."

"And to think that we Europeans smugly think America is a young country," she murmured.

"White European America is still in its fledgling stage. What too many historians chose to overlook is that there were indigenous people living here long before the first Pilgrim came ashore at Plymouth Rock."

And although the government had allowed his people to return to Dinetah, they were still not free. It was not right, Wolfe thought furiously, that the Dineh were unable to go wherever they wanted, to hunt, to raid or just to ride out onto the vastness of the high desert to converse with the gods. And to seek the comforting solitude that could be found beneath the wide sky.

"That's why you write your stories," she guessed. "To provide a balance to the historians."

He was uncomfortable with her understanding his motives so well. He'd learned early in life that the secret of survival was to keep everyone at arm's length, to hold them far enough away that they couldn't reach you. Couldn't touch you in the places that mattered most.

"I hate to disappoint you, Princess, but my reasons for writing are not all that noble. The truth is that my books have earned me a great deal of money and access to a world I never would have experienced if I'd stayed here in Canyon de Chelly and dedicated my life to growing corn and herding sheep."

"It may have earned you wealth. But I think you still feel like an outsider in that world."

Storm clouds moved across his face and darkened his indigo eyes. "It was once taboo to go beyond the four sacred mountains. It was believed that outside the land created by the Holy Ones, happiness is impossible."

He rubbed the back of his neck where his muscles were twisting themselves into painful knots. This was not exactly Wolfe's favorite subject. "There are also times when I feel like an outsider in my mother's world, as well," he said quietly, surprised and annoyed to hear himself admitting the secrets of his heart. "But at least I know that my clan will always be here for me."

It was something she understood. Perfectly. Her smile bloomed like the wild blue lupine beneath the soft spring mother rains. "I feel the same way about my family."

"Back in Montacroix."

She knew he still didn't quite believe her. "Yes."

He gave her another long frustrated look. Then, muttering a curse, dug his heels against his horse's flanks and began descending the twisting narrow trail to the canyon floor.

Their arrival garnered immediate attention. Dogs began a furious barking and people poured out of the beehive hogans. Children came running up to them, laughing and clapping their hands. Women, dad in velveteen blouses and full calico skirts followed, their expressions guarded as they viewed the obvious outsider Wolfe had brought into their midst. Bringing up the rear were the men. Although not as tall as Wolfe, they looked hard. Beneath the brims of their battered and sweat-stained felt Stetsons, their dark faces had been weathered to the consistency of boot leather.

Wolfe reined in his horse. "It would be best if you waited until I explain our situation."

Noel nodded her acquiescence, then watched as he dismounted and walked up to a woman she guessed to be in her mid-fifties. The mangy yellow dog waited with her.

The woman's expression was as serious as Wolfe's as they exchanged words. Twice, something he'd said caused the woman's midnight eyes to flick inscrutably over Noel, then she returned her attention to Wolfe. Finally, her broad face split into a huge smile and Noel watched the tension drain from Wolfe's tense shoulders. His answering smile was warmer and more intimate than any he'd bestowed upon her.

A man from the back of the crowd called out something. Wolfe answered, causing everyone to break into boisterous laughter. There were more questions. More answers.

And still Noel waited.

A lifetime of regal training, instilled in her from the cradle, kept her from squirming beneath the slanted looks and the comments she could not translate but knew were about her.

Finally, just when her nerves were stretched to the point of screaming, Wolfe turned toward her as if suddenly remembering her presence.

"It's not every day I bring a woman back with me from the outside," he said in explanation. And, she thought, in apology.

"Especially a white woman wearing a prostitute's red dress," she suggested mildly.

"There is that," Wolfe agreed. Although his tone was dry, rare laughter gleamed in his gaze.

"Do you come home often?" From the exuberant welcome he'd received, she suspected he was not a frequent visitor.

"Not as much as I'd like." Fame, Wolfe had discovered, had proven unreasonably time-consuming. "The last time was in February. When my brother was married."

"Your brother? I thought you were an only child."

"Being a matriarchal society, our maternal aunts are thought of as our second mothers, so we refer to the children of our mothers' sisters as our brothers and sisters."

"What about the children of your father's sisters?"

"They are thought of much as they are in your white world. As cousins. Children of a father's sister belong to his clan, while children of his brothers belong, of course, to the clan of their mother."

"Of course," she murmured, thoroughly confused.

He laughed as he helped her down from the back of the horse. "Now you know how the rest of the world feels when trying to unravel the intricacies of European royal intermarriages," he said. "Our language differentiates many more categories of relatives than white families because the Holy Ones prescribed ways of behaving toward relatives of different classes."

"As I said, what you might consider cousins, we believe to be sisters and brothers. And although familiarity is permitted during childhood, we are forbidden to marry within our own clan. Or that of our father. My clan is particularly conservative. The males are brought up to think of
all
female members of the clan as sisters."

"Gracious." She thought about that for a moment, thought about how, until reading Wolfe's book, she'd thought of Native Americans as simple people. "It's all quite complex."

"I suppose it is." He shrugged. "For an outsider."

With that single word, he'd yet again reminded her— reminded himself—that whatever grew out of this un-deniable attraction they'd shared could not be permanently rooted.

Knowing that he was right, Noel nevertheless found the idea more than a little depressing.

Although his hands had encircled her waist as he'd lifted her down to the ground, Wolfe carefully avoided any further physical contact as he led her through the crowd of children, who could not have stared at her with more fascination if she'd suddenly ridden down from the sky on one of those enormous puffy white clouds and landed in their midst.

He stopped before the woman Noel guessed to be his aunt.

"Second Mother," he addressed her formally, "this is Noel Giraudeau. She is the female who shot the man who shot me."

"So much trouble." The older woman surprised Noel by answering in English. Her eyes were friendly, but immeasurably sad. She reached into a skirt pocket and took out a small stone, which she held out to Noel. "Thank you for saving my son."

"Tradition holds that First Man and First Woman decorated Tsoodzil—the mountain marking the southern border of the sacred land—with turquoise," Wolfe explained. "It is from Tsoodzil that we get our soft female rains. But when we were making the trek back to Dinetah from exile, the mountain became a symbol of our freedom. Because it was when they first saw it, our people knew they'd returned home."

Noel realized that to Wolfe's aunt, this small piece of black-veined turquoise was more than a mere blue stone. It represented a time when Wolfe had been born. It was also, she suspected, symbolic of his having achieved freedom yet again due to Noel's intervention.

"Thank you," she said gravely as she closed her fingers around the stone that seemed to be warming her hand. "I will treasure this. Always."

As the two women exchanged a long look, Noel imagined she could view pity in Wolfe's aunt's gaze, making her wonder if her unruly feelings for this man were so obvious.

They were.

Others had crowded around him and the questions began coming fast and furious. Finally, he turned to Noel.

"This could go on for a very long time. Why don't I get you settled into Second Mother's hogan? You can wait there while I talk with my clan."

"Thank you." Unaccustomed to such blazing sunshine, she was beginning to feel a little light-headed.

They walked side by side, the dog following close behind, as if unwilling to let Noel out of its sight. "Were those real coins your aunt was wearing on her blouse?"

"Yes. Most Dineh wear their wealth. It's simpler that way since we don't have a great many banks on the reservation."

Not wanting to get into an argument, Noel decided to overlook the sarcasm in his voice.

From the outside, the dome-shaped six-sided hogan resembled a colorful earthen beehive. Pausing at the door, Noel ran her fingers over a piece of turquoise, much like the one she'd been given, that had been imbedded in the mud covering.

"The Holy People built the first hogans out of turquoise, white shell, jet and abalone shell," Wolfe said. "The colors also represent the four sacred mountains."

"You wrote in the 'Sweat Bath Song' that hogans are more than a place to eat and sleep. They're a gift from the gods."

"To the Dineh, the way we live is not merely tradition, it is
the
only way to live—we call it the Beautiful Rainbow Way. The hogan is always at the center of our world. The entire community gets together to construct a hogan and when it's completed, the
ha tathli—
what you Anglos call a medicine man—performs a Blessing Way rite, asking the Holy People to make this place happy."

If he'd been expecting her to scoff, he would have been disappointed. "I think that's lovely. My home has great sentimental value to my family, but of course, it's not quite the same."

"No. It's not."

He opened the door, which always faced east, he explained, so that the rising sun was the first thing the family saw in the morning.

Noel was surprised to find the inside of the hogan quite cozy, with juniper-log walls and ceiling. Sheepskin rugs had been spread over the earthen floor; pots, baskets and other personal belongings were hung on the wall. She decided that when you moved your home and all your worldly possessions on a routine basis, you undoubtedly learned to economize.

"Usually, women are on the south side, men on the north. But since you're a distinguished guest, Second Mother has instructed me to give you this place." He gestured to a rug against the west wall facing the doorway.

"Please thank her for me." After two days in the saddle, Noel was relieved to be able to sink onto the soft rug. She was even more gratified when Wolfe handed her the leather water canteen.

"Will we be staying here long?" she asked.

"What's the matter, Princess? Are the accommodations a bit rustic for you?" As soon as he heard the words escape his mouth, Wolfe realized that he'd spoken more harshly than the circumstances warranted.

"Not at all," she said, flashing him a sweet, totally feigned smile. "Princess Di and I took a trip together last year to the Australian outback. We spent one night in the bush in flimsy tents that blew over during a dust storm."

Once again, Wolfe found himself liking the way she stood up to him. Once again, he warned himself this was not a good sign.

"I suppose Princess Di is another member of your illustrious royal family?"

"Actually, she's a friend. Who's married to the Prince of Wales. Well, technically they're married. But they live apart."

"The Prince of Wales happens to be married to Princess Alexandra of Denmark." Wolfe knew this well because when his publisher had sent him to England, Edward had insisted on taking him to all the city's nightspots.