Книга - Navajo Sunrise

Navajo Sunrise
Elizabeth Lane


Miranda Howell grieved for the Navajo and yearned to educate their children for the future they'd face, not the past they mourned. But her every effort was thwarted by a proud warrior who desired only to keep his people strong–and help Miranda free the passion in her soul.…Ahkeah knew his duty to his People, his daughter, his wife's memory. Yet he was unsure of how to treat an enemy who wore skirts and smelled of lilacs. Miranda Howell had come to the desert full of curiosity and compassion…and a tenderness that was slowly turning the wall that surrounded his heart to dust.







His black eyes flashed in warning,

but when he met her gaze, Miranda was overcome by the strange tenderness she saw there. Something moved inside her, warming, unfolding like the bud of a flower. Her lips parted as she struggled to break the silence with words that would not come.

“I know your heart is good, Miranda Howell,” Ahkeah said, “but your efforts to help the Dine will only make enemies for you—dangerous enemies, on both sides.”

“Including you?”

Time froze as he loomed above her, his eyes smoldering with unspoken secrets. His thin lips were sensually curved, his sharp bronze face much too close to her own.

“Including me?” His husky voice echoed her question as his gaze held her captive. “Make no mistake, bilagaana woman. You and I have been enemies from the first moment we set eyes on each other.”


Acclaim for Elizabeth Lane’s recent books

Bride on the Run

“Enjoyable and satisfying all around, BRIDE ON THE RUN is an excellent Western romance you won’t want to miss!”

—Romance Reviews Today (romrevtoday.com)

Shawnee Bride

“A fascinating, realistic story.”

—Rendezvous

Apache Fire

“Enemies, lovers, raw passion, taut sexual tension, murder and revenge—Indian romance fans are in for a treat with Elizabeth Lane’s sizzling tale of forbidden love that will hook you until the last moment.”

—Romantic Times

#607 HER DEAREST SIN

Gayle Wilson

#609 BRIDE OF THE ISLE

Margo Maguire

#610 CHASE WHEELER’S WOMAN

Charlene Sands




Navajo Sunrise

Elizabeth Lane





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and

ELIZABETH LANE

Wind River #28

Birds of Passage #92

Moonfire #150

MacKenna’s Promise #216

Lydia #302

Apache Fire #436

Shawnee Bride #492

Bride on the Run #546

My Lord Savage #569

Navajo Sunrise #608

Other works include:

Silhouette Romance

Hometown Wedding #1194

The Tycoon and the Townie #1250

Silhouette Special Edition

Wild Wings, Wild Heart #936




Author Note


Navajo culture is so rich and complex that an outsider, trying to describe it in a story, is bound to make mistakes. For any errors contained in this book, I ask the forgiveness of my readers and all those whom my words may have offended.

Navajo Sunrise is set against a background of real historical events, but the story itself is the product of my own imagination. Except for Barboncito, Manuelito, Theodore H. Dodd and General William Tecumseh Sherman, the characters are fictitious and bear no resemblance to actual persons, living or dead.

Elizabeth Lane




Contents


Prologue (#u68a34a05-ca88-517b-ba82-a9a82a8f837b)

Chapter One (#uf4567966-6fe4-58b2-b03a-abdd8ead4670)

Chapter Two (#ua3a007a9-8101-5f22-a9b9-ad39917efcec)

Chapter Three (#u2d2b35ca-6112-5ca0-bc06-a7302fe343e5)

Chapter Four (#u05736e2d-ba9c-5077-b256-e746710e647e)

Chapter Five (#u1ddaa51f-b194-56b3-914d-f76e78178deb)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


New Mexico

March, 1864

Ahkeah stood in the cold moonlight, staring down at the grave the bilagáana soldiers had forbidden him to dig. His hands were raw and bleeding, the nails worn to stubs from scraping away the half-frozen earth. His eyes and throat stung as if he had just walked through a forest fire.

Even now that the grave was finished, the top piled high with stones, he feared it might not be deep enough to protect his wife’s body from the marauding foxes and coyotes that would close in after he was gone. She had died that afternoon, on the fifth day of the long walk from Dinétah to the place the soldiers called Fort Sumner—died in agony, her body swollen with a child that would not have lived even if she’d had the strength to give it birth. The passing soldier who’d fired a bullet into her temple had probably done her a kindness. Even so, it had taken three of Ahkeah’s friends, gripping him from behind, to keep him from leaping on the blue-coat and tearing him apart with his bare hands.

At the time he had wanted the soldier to shoot him as well. He had wanted nothing more than to lie on the icy ground beside the body of his sweet young wife, free from the burdens of grief and shame and from the hunger that gnawed at his vitals. But even then reason had whispered that it was his duty to live. There were people who needed him—his small daughter, Nizhoni, whose name meant beauty, and his mother’s elder sister, who had watched her entire family die on the cliffs at Canyon de Chelly, and had not spoken since. And there were others—so many others who needed his strength and his voice.

The crescent moon that hung above the mesa cast ghostly shadows across the desolation of the high New Mexico desert. Through the darkness, the lonely wail of a coyote drifted to Ahkeah’s ears. The yelping cry was echoed by another, then another. At one time Ahkeah would have welcomed the calls of his wild brothers. Now they only chilled his blood, because he knew that the sharp-nosed creatures would be gathering around the bodies of the Diné who had fallen along the trail.

He had begun scraping out the grave as soon as he knew his wife was dead; but the soldiers, jabbing him with the points of their bayonets, had forced him to leave her and move on with the rest of his people. Only after the dismal procession had made camp for the night and settled into sleep was he able to slip past the sentries and race back along the trail to where she lay.

Now the grave was finished. The remains of his beloved were as secure as he could make them. But how many others lay unburied along this trail of tears and misery? How many bones would lie scattered on the sand because there was no one to dig the graves?

Turning in the darkness, he faced the direction of the four sacred mountains that marked the boundaries of Dinétah, the homeland of his people. There, the great headman Manuelito and the last of his followers were still holding out against the overwhelming forces of Kit Carson and his regulars. Ahkeah longed to be with them in the mountains, to fight and die as a free man.

But Manuelito himself, his handsome face creased with weariness, had asked him to join the trek to the new reservation at Bosque Redondo, the place the Diné called Hwéeldi—the fort. “Our people will need you, Ahkeah,” he had said. “You grew up as a slave among the bilagáana, and you speak as they do. Go now, and be the voice of the Diné in this evil time. Go and speak for us all.”

Speak for us all.

Swallowing his bitterness, Ahkeah turned away from the sacred mountains and started back the way he had come. What words could he speak that were not hateful and angry? At one time the Diné had been the lords of the earth, their herds, fields and orchards the envy of all the land. He himself had owned more cattle and horses than a man could count in half a day, and his beautiful wife had worn robes of soft wool from her own sheep and necklaces of the finest silver. Then the bilagáana had come, wanting their land, and everything had changed.

Be the voice of our people, Manuelito had told him. But the Diné needed more than a voice. They needed food in their bellies and clothes on their backs. They needed dignity, hope and pride—things the bilagáana had taken away and flung far beyond their reach.

Perhaps forever.

Ahkeah moved with care as he neared the sleeping camp, slipping from shadow to shadow in the moonlit darkness. Even at this hour the sentries would be on patrol. If they caught him outside the boundary…

His pulse lurched as a flock of wood doves exploded, squawking, from the spidery branches of a creosote bush. Had the startled birds alerted the sentries? Ahkeah froze where he stood, ears straining, hearing nothing but the sound of departing wings.

What if the soldiers had already missed him? What if they were waiting for him in camp, knowing he would return to his precious daughter? Some of the blue-coats were just following orders. But there were vicious brutes among them, men who would relish the chance to make an example of any Diné who broke the rules—especially one who spoke to them as a man, in their own language.

The wind peppered Ahkeah’s face with blowing sand as he crept along the fringe of the camp. The huddled forms of his people lay scattered on the cold ground where they had fallen. Here and there, where the soldiers slumbered in their warm blankets, the embers of dying campfires glowed in the night.

He had left Nizhoni with her old aunt in the lee of a sheltering rock, beyond the supply wagon. If he could manage to cross that last small distance without being seen…

But it was already too late. Ahkeah saw four soldiers, armed with clubs, step out from behind the wagon, and he knew they had been waiting for him. Glancing to one side, he saw others appear out of the shadows. Their pale eyes reflected glints of firelight as they encircled him, cutting off all hope of escape.

Cursing and whooping, they fell on him like a pack of hungry wolves.




Chapter One


Bosque Redondo, New Mexico

March, 1868

Miranda Howell hunched wearily on the seat of the U.S. Army buckboard, her slim body bundled into the folds of her thick woolen cape. The cold spring wind stung her cheeks and peppered her face with alkali dust. Two weeks from tomorrow would be Easter Sunday, but nothing about this desolate sweep of country made her feel like celebrating.

“I didn’t realize New Mexico would be so cold,” she murmured, her eyes scanning the treeless horizon. “It’ll be dark soon. How much longer before we reach the fort?”

“Not long. ’Bout an hour, I reckon.” The pimple-cheeked young corporal was one of nine soldiers who’d drawn the duty of escorting the major’s daughter the 175-mile distance from Santa Fe to Fort Sumner. The other eight rode guard on the wagon, four strung out in front and four bringing up the rear. Their rifles lay across their saddles, loaded and ready. For coyotes, they’d told her, exchanging furtive winks.

In the early hours of the journey, Miranda had made an effort to smile and be pleasant with them. But after four long days of travel she was too tired to be sociable. Her eyes stared across the desert landscape, which glowed like brimstone in the light of the setting sun. A lone crow screeched harshly as it passed overhead, then flapped down behind a clump of rocks, where, judging from the odor, some ill-fated creature lay dead.

What could have possessed any sane group of men to build a fort in such a dreary place? Miranda wondered. For that matter, what was she doing here? She could have chosen to spend the holiday with Phillip’s parents on Cape Cod. Their seashore estate would be beautiful this time of year, and they had made it clear that, as their future daughter-in-law, she would be more than welcome. Why had she chosen to spend the next two weeks a thousand miles from nowhere, with the rough and taciturn father she scarcely knew?

“We ought to be seein’ Navajos afore long,” the young driver said. “They got their diggins’ all over the flat.”

“Diggings? You mean to say they’re miners?” Miranda asked, trying to imagine what might lie beneath such barren, lime-encrusted earth.

“Miners? Them Injuns?” The young driver snorted contemptuously. “Shucks, no. They dig themselves holes in the ground to keep out of the weather—lessn’ they can find some old hides or sheets of tin to put up for a shack. Why should the lazy buggers mine or farm or even hunt when they can live on handouts from the good old United States Government?”

“You mean, they have no houses? No means of employment?” Miranda asked, horrified.

“Hell—” the young man swore, then broke off and began again. “’Scuse me, miss, but they’s Navajos. An’ Navajos got their own ways of doin’ things. General Carleton, afore he got his butt—’scuse me again, miss—afore he was dismissed from runnin’ this place, he got the idea of havin’ ’em build big adobe apartment houses like the Pueblos got. Right smart idea, if you ask me. But the Navajos, they wouldn’t have none of it. Wanted to live apart in their own kind of houses, little round huts they call hogans. Finally Carleton just threw up his hands and told ’em to go ahead! But did they build any hogans? Did they build anything a’tall? Look around you!”

The corporal worked his tobacco out of his cheek and spat over the edge of the wagon. “Only thing Navajos is any good at is forgin’ fake ration tokens so they can steal more supplies! Now that Carleton’s gone there’s been talk of movin’ ’em out, most likely to the Injun Territories in Oklahoma. Good riddance, I’d say. But nobody’s holdin’ their breath for that, I tell you, ’specially now that the Injun Bureau’s took ’em over from the army. Danged government bureaucrats won’t do much more’n hand out more flour and blankets.”

“But what a wretched way for people to live!” Miranda exclaimed in genuine horror. “No work, no homes, no dignity! Surely someone could help them, teach them—”

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but the Navajos brought their troubles on theirselves. They was raidin’ and murderin’ over half of Arizona afore Kit Carson and his boys brought ’em to heel an’ marched the lot of ’em here to Bosque Redondo.”

“Bosque Redondo?” Miranda frowned. “That means round grove in Spanish, doesn’t it? I certainly don’t see any grove in these parts!”

The corporal snorted with laughter. “Weren’t no more than a few trees to begin with, and the Navajos cut those down for firewood the first winter. Now there’s no shade in summer and nothin’ to burn when it gets cold. Never think past tomorrow, them murderin’ redskin fools. If you ask me, Carson shoulda killed ’em all while he had the chance!”

Miranda pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders, willing herself to ignore the young driver’s unsettling talk. It would not do for her to get caught up in this Navajo business, she lectured herself. She had come to New Mexico to spend the holidays with her father, the last time they would be together before her June wedding, perhaps the last time ever. Nothing could be allowed to spoil their time together.

“There. Told you we’d be seein’ ’em soon.” The corporal’s nasal twang cut into her thoughts. Miranda leaned forward on the wagon seat. She shaded her eyes and scanned the horizon, expecting mounted savages to come whooping over the next rise. Only when the corporal nudged her arm and pointed sharply to the left did she realize her first Navajo was little more than a stone’s throw away.

Miranda turned, looked—and felt her heart contract with pity.

The old Navajo woman stood in the dust at the roadside, her withered body outlined against the blazing vermilion sunset. The desert wind whipped her faded rags against her bones, and the imploring hands that stretched upward like the thin branches of a winter tree shook with age and cold.

“Stop!” Miranda seized the corporal’s arm. The outriders swiveled their heads at the sound of her voice. They slowed their mounts, but did not halt.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Miranda tightened her grip, demanding the corporal’s attention. “I said stop the wagon! We’ve got to do something!”

His washed-out eyes stared at her blankly. “Do somethin’? For her, you mean? Lawse sake, miss, what for? That ain’t nothin’ but a dirty old squaw.” He spat another stream of tobacco over the side of the still-moving wagon. “Anyhow, we got to get you to the fort afore nightfall, or your pa will be fixin’ to throw us all in the stockade!”

He lifted the reins to slap them down on the backs of the plodding mules, but Miranda, anticipating the move, lunged forward, snatched the leather lines from his grip and jerked the team to an abrupt halt.

“What the hell—” the corporal sputtered.

“She’s not just a dirty old squaw. She’s a human being, and she needs help!” Miranda declared. “As for you and your fellow soldiers, if you don’t want to get involved, the least you can do is stand back and allow me to do what I can!”

The outriders had stopped now, and turned their mounts. They watched with varying degrees of amusement as Miranda lifted the skirt of her gray serge traveling suit and clambered down, unassisted, from the buckboard. None of them, it appeared, had the manners to help her or the compassion to aid a fellow being in need.

Over the past four years Miranda had read newspaper articles about the Navajos and how they’d been rounded up and force-marched from their homeland to the bleakness of Fort Sumner. But only now, at her first sight of a real Navajo, did the words she’d read take on life and meaning. In one shriveled face and a pair of twisted, begging hands, she saw the misery of an entire people. It tore at her heart and fueled her sense of outrage to a fever pitch.

The wispy-haired crone was clad in the remnant of a coarse woolen shift, handwoven in a striped pattern that might once have been colorful but was now faded and dirty, showing patches of warp where the weave had worn away. She shrank into herself as Miranda approached, her bare arms folding inward like the legs of a frozen insect. The small mewling noises she made scarcely sounded human.

“It’s all right, I won’t hurt you,” Miranda murmured, edging closer. She could see terror in the raisin-black eyes, and something else—something so disturbing that her heart crept into her throat.

“Give me those leftover biscuits from lunch,” she said softly, glancing up at the corporal in the wagon. When he hesitated, her eyes narrowed so sharply that he lunged to do her bidding. As the daughter of his commanding officer, Miss Miranda Howell was not without power.

Seconds later the biscuits were in Miranda’s hands. “Here, take them.” She held the food at arm’s length, standing quietly as the old woman crept toward her like a frightened, starving animal. “It’s all right,” Miranda urged gently. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“I’d back off if I was you, miss.” One of the outriders spoke into the windy silence. “I know that old squaw. Crazy Sally, they call her. Hear tell she lit into a soldier one time and bit him on the arm. Tore him open so bad he needed stitches from the medic. No tellin’ what she might do to you.”

Miranda swallowed a knot of uneasiness as she chose to ignore the man’s warning. “It’s all right, Sally,” she coaxed, even more gently than before. “We don’t mean you any harm. Just take the food.”

Madness flashed in the ancient eyes as the old woman sidled closer. With a sudden move she snatched the biscuits away with her little clawed hands and scampered to the shelter of a dark sandstone outcrop. There she squatted on her haunches, glaring at Miranda while she stuffed the biscuits frantically into her near-toothless mouth. Saliva, mixed with soggy white crumbs, trickled down her chin. Miranda found herself wondering how Crazy Sally could have bitten anyone, let alone inflicted serious damage.

“All right, miss, you done it,” the wagon driver said. “You proved whatever you wanted to prove. Now let me give you a hand up and we’ll be headin’ on to the fort. You don’t want to be out here after dark.”

Miranda glanced up at him, still hesitant. The early spring wind, tasting of snow, plucked tendrils of her light brown hair and whipped at the folds of her woolen cloak as she turned back toward the old woman. Crazy Sally was still crouched against the rocks, her small black eyes narrowed to slits against the blowing dust.

“For the love of Pete, what is it now?” the wagon driver demanded.

Miranda’s eyes took in the old woman’s threadbare dress and exposed limbs. “We can’t just go off and leave her. There’s a storm blowing in. She’ll freeze before morning. Help me get her into the wagon. We’ve got to take her back to the fort.”

None of the soldiers moved.

Miranda’s gazed darted from one impassive face to the next. Some of the men averted their eyes, avoiding her furious gaze. Most of them did not bother. Had she pushed them too far this time?

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss.” The first outrider spoke up at last. “Ain’t none of us goin’ to lay a hand on that old squaw, let alone put her in the wagon.”

“If she ain’t got the sense to take shelter, let ’er freeze,” the corporal chimed in. “Good riddance to one more Navajo, that’s what I’d say. It’s what we’d all say.”

Miranda glared up at him in helpless rage. Phillip, her fiancé, had once accused her of being a flaming do-gooder who never knew when to leave well enough alone. He was undoubtedly right. Even so, she could not just walk away and leave a fellow human being to die.

“Very well.” She squared her shoulders and folded her arms across her chest. “If Sally stays here, then so do I. You can tell my father—”

“The major would hang us if we was to go off and leave you here,” the outrider interrupted. “We got orders to bring you safely back to Fort Sumner. With all due respect, miss, if we have to hogtie you and toss you in the wagon bed, that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

Miranda’s heart sank as she realized she had backed herself into an impossible corner. If she refused to get in the wagon, it would be an easy matter for nine men to move her by force. And, given the circumstances, her father would likely excuse their actions.

Her shoulders sagged in acquiescence. But there was one small victory yet to win, one last thing she could still do for poor old Sally, and this time, she vowed, no one was going to stop her.

Lifting her chin in defiance, she began unbuttoning the front of her long, hooded cloak. A birthday gift from Phillip’s family, the cloak had been woven in France from the finest blue merino wool and had likely cost a small fortune. Even now, the lush fabric caressed her fingers as she worked the buttons through their satin-bound holes. The wind was numbing in its chill. But she would be at the fort within the hour, Miranda reminded herself. And she could always buy another cloak, just as warm if not as elegant.

She waited for the soldiers to protest, but none of them spoke as she released the last button and slid the cloak off one shoulder. By now they probably thought she was as crazy as old Sally. Well, let them think whatever they wished. She would do the right thing, the moral thing, and the whole contemptuous lot of them could go to blazes.

The icy wind struck, penetrating to Miranda’s bones as the cloak slipped free of her body. She gasped with the sudden shock of it, then forcefully brought her reaction under control. This was no time to show weakness, she lectured herself. If old Sally could endure the cold, so could she.

Clenching her jaw against the urge to shiver, she turned back to the old woman, opened the cloak and wrapped it around the ravaged body. The garment was far too large for the tiny Navajo crone. Its elegant folds pooled around her where she squatted on her bony haunches, the lining already gathering dust. In no time at all the beautiful cloak would be filthy. But at least Sally would be warm. Heaven willing, she would survive the cold night with its blowing wind and snow, and many more nights to come.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was not loud, but its deep resonance, coming from behind and above her, made Miranda gasp. She turned so sharply that she lost her balance and stumbled to one side, wrenching her ankle. She caught herself against a jutting boulder, just managing to avoid an all-out sprawl.

“I asked you what you thought you were doing.” The voice was laced with a fury so cold that it made the raw wind seem as gentle as a southern breeze. Still clinging to the rock, Miranda looked up to see a tall, mounted figure, starkly outlined against a sky that had deepened to the color of flowing blood.

The man was not a soldier—that much was clear at once. He was hatless and swathed in a long, fringed poncho that swirled around him in the stinging wind. Only when his horse snorted and turned, the new angle flooding his features with crimson light, did Miranda see the high, jutting cheekbones, the obsidian eyes, the long raven hair, bound with string into a knot at the back of his head. Only then did she realize he was Navajo.

And for all his angry tone, he had just spoken to her in very passable English.

“This woman was hungry and freezing!” She shouted above the wind in response to his question. “I did what any decent soul would do. I gave her something to eat and something to keep her warm.”

“And tomorrow she’ll be out here begging again!” he snapped. “She and a half dozen others who’ve seen what you gave her. Begging is not the way of my people! We may be poor, but we take care of our own!”

“So I see!” Miranda pushed herself fully erect, seething with indignation. “Is this how you take care of your helpless old people? By sending them out in the winter to starve or freeze?”

“My mother’s sister is not well. She wandered away from camp and I came looking for her.” He seemed somewhat taken aback by Miranda’s outburst, but only for an instant. Then his chiseled face darkened as he swung off his horse, seized the cloak and jerked it none too gently from around the old woman’s frail body.

“No!” Now it was Miranda’s turn to be indignant. “I gave her that cloak to save her life! You’ve no right to take it from her!”

The man’s thin upper lip curled in a grimace of contempt, showing a flash of white, even teeth. “You,” he snarled, dangling the garment from his long, brown fingers. “Teachers, missionaries, dogooders of every damned kind! You’re as bad as the army—no, worse! They only kill our bodies! You kill our spirits, our traditions, our pride!” The wind caught the cloak, swirling it high just before he flung it into the dust at Miranda’s feet.

“Pride?” She made no move to bend and pick it up, even though the cold was cutting like a knife through the thin serge of her suit jacket. “Will pride keep an old woman from freezing? Will pride keep a young child with an empty belly from crying in the night?”

For the space of a long, tense breath he glared at her. Then, without a word, he reached up and worked the opening of his own thick woolen poncho over his head. Bending down from his imposing six-foot height, he wrapped the poncho around the old woman’s shivering body. When he spoke to her in Navajo his voice was low, almost melodious. Miranda found herself straining her ears to catch the odd, birdlike tones of a language she was hearing for the first time. But he spoke only a few phrases. Then he lifted his head and glared at her with hate-filled eyes.

“We take care of our own,” he said in an icy voice, “and we would rather steal than beg. We don’t need your kind here. Get in that wagon and go back to where you came from, bilagáana woman! If you want to help us, write to your president in Washington and tell him to let the Diné go home to their own land!”

Miranda’s attention had been fixed on the old woman and the tall Navajo. She did not realize, until the first one spoke, that two of the outriders had dismounted and come up behind her.

“I’d watch my mouth if I was you, Ahkeah,” one of the men drawled. “This here ain’t no Bible-thumpin’ missionary lady. This is the major’s own daughter, come to pay her pa a visit.”

The revelation seemed to make no difference to the man the soldier had called Ahkeah. He stood his ground, the wind whipping his faded cotton tunic against his lean, hard body. Only by chance did Miranda notice that his hand had moved to rest protectively on old Sally’s humped shoulders.

“I say this uppity Injun ought to apologize to Miz Howell here and now.” The second outrider gripped his rifle, his swaggering stance challenging the unarmed Navajo to defy him. “Go ahead, Ahkeah, we’re all waitin’.”

Tension hung dark and leaden on the wintry air. In the wagon, the corporal slipped his rifle bolt into fully cocked position. The faint click splintered the icy silence, but no one else moved. Even the mules seemed to be watching, waiting, their white breath steaming from their distended nostrils.

Miranda had forgotten the cold wind that knifed through her clothing. She had almost forgotten to breathe. Her eyes were on Ahkeah. He had stepped in front of the old woman, shielding her with his body as he faced the soldiers. Under different circumstances his size and strength would have been more than a match for any two of them. But here and now the odds were nine against one, and all the cavalrymen were armed.

The Navajo’s flinty eyes narrowed like a puma’s as he measured his enemies. The man was proud, but no fool, Miranda surmised. He would choose his battles, and this was neither the time nor the place to take a stand. His throat rippled lightly as he swallowed, then spoke.

“My apologies, Miss Howell.” His voice dripped contempt. “In the future, kindly save your charity for those who appreciate it. Please enjoy your visit to this fair country.”

Without another word he turned a defiant back on the soldiers, and, shepherding the old woman before him, strode toward his emaciated horse.

“Not so fast!” the first outrider snapped. “If that was an apology, I’m the king of France, you smart-mouthed redskin bastard. Come on back here and say it like you mean it, or somebody’s gonna be pickin’ lead out of your backside!”

Ahkeah turned only when the second man cocked his rifle. His eyes glittered like black ice in the twilight. “I’m unarmed and here under treaty,” he said, his cold, flat voice implying that any soldier’s firing on a defenseless Navajo would raise a cry that would be heard all the way to Washington.

“Piss on the treaty,” the soldier growled. “I’ve shot plenty of your kind, Ahkeah. Too many for a piece of paper to make a dime’s worth of difference. Now, do you want to apologize to the lady again or do I pull this trigger and blow your stubborn head off?”

“This is ridiculous!” Miranda flung herself between the two antagonists. “No one is going to shoot anybody, Private. Now get back on your horse and let this man take his poor old aunt home.”

Distracted by her outburst, Ahkeah did not see what was coming next—nor did Miranda, until she heard the sickening thunk of a rifle butt against flesh and bone. The tall Navajo crumpled to the earth, felled by a third soldier, who had crept up behind him. He lay sprawled on his face, the blood seeping from his shattered temple onto the frozen ground.




Chapter Two


The old woman was first to reach the fallen Navajo. She crouched over him, pawing at his face with her hands and making the frightened little mewling noises. As Miranda approached, she scuttled backward and, still wearing the poncho he’d flung around her shoulders, vanished into the swirling darkness.

“Son of a bitch!” the private swore, jerking his rifle bolt back into safety position. “What’d you go and clobber him for, McCoy? That Ahkeah’s been nothin’ but trouble since the day he come in! Always stirrin’ things up! I coulda shot the bastard and been rid of him once and for all!”

“I did it to save your fool hide,” the other man retorted. “Pull the trigger on a Navajo, with so many government bigwigs snoopin’ ’round here, and your ass would be in a sling for the next twenty years! You’ll thank me for it once you simmer down.”

“Maybe.” The private wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Come on, let’s get outa here. With luck, the bastard won’t even remember what hit him when he wakes up.” He spun on his heel and strode back toward his horse.

“Wait!” Miranda had dropped to the ground beside Ahkeah. Her urgent fingers probed his neck, groping for signs of life. Beneath her touch the Navajo’s skin was as cool and smooth as ivory, stretching taut over ropy cords of muscle and sinew. Pressing deeper, she found his pulse. The beat was thready and erratic. She remembered the sound of the blow, the crack of bone. Dread tightened like a clenched fist around her heart.

She crouched lower, laying her ear against his back to catch the labored rise and fall of his breathing. The aroma of mesquite smoke rose from his threadbare tunic, lingering at the edge of her awareness. Why should she care about this man? she found herself wondering. He was a stranger, almost an enemy, and he had spoken to her as if she were a troublesome child.

The rifle butt had struck just above his temple. She fingered the wound, felt the swelling flesh and the wetness of blood. “We can’t leave him here,” she announced to the soldiers. “Help me get him into the wagon.”

None of the men moved. “He’s just an Injun, miss,” the wagon driver said. “Injuns got hard heads. Afore long, this ’un will wake up sore and stumble on home.”

“And what if he doesn’t wake up?” Miranda flared. “There’s a storm blowing in! If you refuse to take him and he freezes or dies of his injuries out here, I’ll hold every last one of you accountable! Every newspaper and congressman in the country will hear about how you struck down an unarmed Indian and left him to die!”

None of the men responded, but she could sense their minds working, weighing her threat. Her father was a powerful man, and her influence on him could make life uncomfortable for them all.

At last the senior outrider, a sergeant, cleared his throat and spat in the alkali dust. “Load him in the damned wagon. When we get to the fort, we can dump him off at the Injun hospital.” He glared irritably at two of the men. “You! Move!”

“Watch his head.” Miranda hovered anxiously as the two soldiers lifted the unconscious Navajo and carried him toward the buckboard. His length sagged between them, one limp hand dragging in the dust. They hefted him high and rolled him onto the bed like the carcass of a freshly killed buck.

Miranda stifled a little cry as his body struck the planks. She paused to snatch up her discarded cloak from the ground. Then, without waiting for assistance, she scrambled up beside him and gathered his battered head into her lap. “Go,” she said to the driver. “Hurry.”

The wagon jounced over the rutted road as the mules broke into a trot. Miranda covered Ahkeah’s chilled body with the cloak and cradled his head to lessen the jarring. Tending injured men was nothing new to her. Her maternal uncle, Dr. Andrew Cavanaugh, who’d taken her in when her mother died, had spent the Civil War stationed at a Boston military hospital. With so many wounded to tend, he’d had little choice except to press his young niece into service. There was little in the way of grief and misery that Miranda had not seen. Perhaps that was why, when the war ended and she was able to resume her schooling, she had chosen to train not as a nurse, but as a teacher.

“Just think of it!” she had exclaimed to her disappointed uncle. “If we can teach children kindness and tolerance before they’re grown, perhaps there’ll be no more need for war!”

Miranda’s own words came back to haunt her now as she nestled the fallen Navajo’s head between her knees. His head wound had stopped bleeding, but his eyes were closed and his breathing was ragged. His pulse fluttered like the wings of a dying bird beneath her fingertips.

She remembered the sight of him, standing in the twilight beside his horse. His gaze had pierced her like a blade, touching deep, secret places that had lain undisturbed for all the twenty-two years of her life. Even now that he lay helpless in her lap, the power of his presence left her shaken. No one had ever looked at her with such pure hatred—a hatred that had chilled Miranda to her bones. What chance did her own beliefs stand against such deeply bred hostility? Why hadn’t she stayed in the East, where little more was expected of her than to be sweet, pleasant, ladylike and studious?

One of the outriders had caught Ahkeah’s horse and tied it to the back of the buckboard. When the clouds swept clear of the moon, Miranda could see the barred shadow of its rib cage below the tattered saddle blanket. When they reached the fort she would order the poor creature stabled and fed, she resolved. An animal, at least, would not be too proud to accept a bit of human kindness.

Ahkeah’s head rolled in her lap. He moaned softly, but his eyes did not open. Miranda gazed down at his moon-chiseled features—the jutting ledges of his cheekbones, the fine, straight nose, the long jawbones that met in a prominent, stubborn chin. His eyes lay in deep pools of shadow within the sockets of his skull. There was nothing to his face but skin and bone, and little more to his rangy body. All the same this Navajo was a riveting figure of a man—a wild hawk, lying broken and wounded in her arms, exuding a savagery that burned behind the lids of his closed eyes, searing her senses.

His limbs twitched like a dreaming animal’s as he moaned again, struggling in the depths of his darkness. Miranda’s fingers brushed back a tendril of night-black hair from his forehead. His skin was like polished jade, the hair stiff with alkali dust.

She thought of Phillip, his blue eyes, his fine, pale hair and his gentle ways. Dear heaven, what she wouldn’t give to be with him now, away from this bleak desert and this frightening man.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, remembering that seemingly unconscious people had been known to hear what was said to them. “You’ve got a head injury—perhaps a serious one. We’re taking you to the hospital at the fort. You’ll be looked after properly there.”

Had she felt his body jerk? The slight, convulsive shudder passed like a ripple beneath the woolen cloak and was gone.

“Ahkeah?” Could he really have heard her speak? Bending closer, Miranda gazed at him intently, but he did not move. Only his ragged, shallow breathing and the elusive flutter of his pulse told her he was alive.

Why did you hit him so hard? she wanted to scream at the soldier who’d crashed the rifle butt into Ahkeah’s dark head. Was it hatred, fear or simple stupidity? Miranda kept her silence, knowing that it was too late for outrage—and knowing, too, that this man could not be lost to his people. Whatever it took, whatever influence she could wield, she would see that he got the best possible care.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss.” The driver’s twangy voice broke into her thoughts. “If there’s any chance that Injun can hear you, you’d best not say nothin’ ’bout the hospital.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda glanced at him sharply.

“Navajos got some odd beliefs. They don’t like to go where a body’s died, somethin’ about ghosts. Hell, I’ve seen ’em burn a place to the ground ’cause a body’s died there—and the whole family just standin’ round with no place to live. Sometimes, if they know ahead, they’ll haul the poor soul’s bed outside so’s he won’t have to die in the house.”

“And that’s why they don’t like the hospital? Because people die there?”

The corporal laughed, a raw, humorless sound. “We hafta drag ’em there at gunpoint. Ain’t no use tryin’ to do nothin’ for ’em, miss. Navajos ain’t got no more gratitude than they got sense!”

“I see.” Miranda sank back into her own silence. The stars had come out, diamond pinpoints spilling across a black velvet sky. So far away. So cold.

The road was straighter and more level here, as if it had been recently graded. Bare cottonwoods, their skeletal branches clawing skyward, lined the road on both sides. This, Miranda realized, would be the final approach to Fort Sumner.

Straining her eyes into the darkness ahead, she could make out glimmers of light, lower and brighter than the icy stars. Soon she and her weary escorts would be safe within the boundaries of the fort. Soon she would be greeting the tough, taciturn near stranger who was her father.

Major William Howell, known as Iron Bill to his troops, had already made it clear that he could not leave his post to travel East for Miranda’s June wedding. Dear Uncle Andrew would be the one to walk her down the aisle and give her to Phillip in marriage. All the same, Bill Howell was her father. Even though she had seen him less than half a dozen times in the fifteen years since her mother’s death, Miranda felt a need to close the tenuous circle that bound them together. With Phillip planning to take over the London office of the family shipping business, who could say whether she and her father would ever meet again?

The man in her lap stirred and moaned. His moon-silvered eyelids twitched as if he were dreaming, but his eyes remained closed in the shadowed pits of their sockets. Miranda studied the proud, sharp planes of his sleeping face. The proud Navajo was pure trouble, she knew. By all rules of common sense, she should let the soldiers deliver him to the Indian hospital. He was certainly in no condition to protest or even to be frightened.

In any case, Ahkeah and his people were none of her concern. She had come to Fort Sumner to see her father, not to aid the downtrodden. Two weeks from today she would be leaving by this very road. She would be going back to her own familiar world, to finish out her school year at Radcliffe and prepare for her marriage to Phillip. Two weeks—why, that was hardly any time at all, certainly not enough time to make a difference in this miserable place. She would be foolish to try, foolish to get involved.

Miranda squared her jaw, her decision made. She would instruct the men to leave Ahkeah at the hospital where he belonged. Then she would put the tall Navajo firmly and permanently out of her mind.

Ahkeah drifted below the brink of consciousness, struggling again and again toward the surface, only to tire and sink downward once more into the enfolding darkness. Images floated through his mind—faces from the past, scenes of misery, horror and unspeakable sadness. The broken bodies on the floor of Canyon de Chelly…wise old Ganado Mucho lying in his own blood…the rocky earth falling onto Ahkeah’s wife’s lovely, cold face….

Surrounding everything was the aura of pain, spreading outward in quivering rings from his temple, like ripples on still, black water. He moaned, struggling to break into the light, then spiraling helplessly downward once more.

The fragrant softness that surrounded his body was alien to his senses, yet strangely familiar. Even in his semiconscious state he felt the nearness of the young bilagáana woman, the lean firmness of her thighs supporting his head and shoulders, the touch of her fingers like warm snow on his face. She smelled faintly of lilacs—an aroma he remembered and hated. Now he was floating in a lilac sea, drifting in scented warmth, in and out of awareness, in and out of pain. The scent was repellant, and yet, somehow, so arousing that he felt his body respond with a deep, stirring heat.

He had never considered bilagáana women attractive. The ones he’d known had been stringy, washed-out creatures with eyes like sheep and voices like wild crows—women like Mrs. McCabe, whose husband had bought him as a small, terrified boy from a Mexican slave trader. The nine years he had spent in the McCabe household still gave him bad dreams—the whippings to “break” his spirit, the crushing labor, the stream of shrill tirades from Mrs. McCabe’s hatchet tongue when he failed to speak English perfectly. And every spring the cloying scent of the blooming bushes that ringed the McCabes’ front porch. The scent of lilacs.

Now Ahkeah floundered in the shallows of a lilac sea. His efforts to break the surface were exhausting, even though he sensed the reality that his body had not moved. His eyelids were leaden, his limbs like stone, able to feel the jarring motion beneath them but with no strength to obey his will. He was trapped in this scented dream where pain swirled and dipped like a dancer in a floating skirt. And something else was wrong—an awareness that lay like a sheet of ice beneath the dream’s liquid warmth. What was it? Some word, something the bilagáana woman had said—

The sudden chill penetrated to Ahkeah’s bones as he remembered. They were taking him to the hospital, to that place of terror and pain where the ghosts of the dead lingered and the Holy People would not go. His fears were pure superstition, the bilagáana would say. But he had visited friends who’d been taken there, and on every visit he had felt the evil in that place, and had sworn he would never allow himself or any of his family to be taken there.

Wildly now, he began to jerk and thrash, willing his limbs to move, his voice to cry out in protest. But the lilac dream held him fast. He felt the woman’s soft, cool hand stroking his forehead, heard her whispering voice as he fought his way upward, struggling into the cold night air.

The Navajo’s head jerked in Miranda’s arms. His body twitched, quivering agitatedly along its length in the wagon bed. He muttered random words—at least she supposed them to be words—in his strange language.

“It’s all right,” she repeated, soothingly, her hand brushing tendrils of coarse, black hair away from his forehead. “You’re hurt, but you’ll be well taken care of. We’re going to—”

Her words ended in a gasp as his eyes shot open.

Miranda’s heart seemed to stop as the full fury of his anthracite gaze struck her. It was as if a sleeping tiger had suddenly awakened in her arms.

“What happened?” His voice was thick, the words slurred.

“You were hit. Your head is injured, and you need to keep still.” The words tumbled out of her as the heart that had frozen an instant before broke into a frenzied gallop.

“Where am I?” he demanded. “What happened to the old woman?”

“Nothing. She ran away.” Miranda’s outrage flared at the distrust his question implied. “No one would have harmed her, Ahkeah. I would never have allowed that to happen.” Her gaze flickered away as his cold eyes reminded her that she hadn’t stopped the soldiers from harming him. “One of the men struck you down to keep you from being shot. But the blow was harder than he’d intended. It was an accident, truly….”

Good heavens, she sounded like a fool, stumbling around in the morass of her own silly words. She shook off the condemnation in his hard black eyes and forced herself to continue. “You’ll be well looked after. I can assure you of that.”

“In the hospital?” He uttered the last word with the vehemence of a curse. Then, without waiting for her to respond, he rolled off her lap into the wagon bed and pushed himself to a shaky sitting position.

The lights from the fort were much closer now. Miranda could make out the low, blocky outlines of buildings and see the flare of torchlight on adobe walls.

“Stop the wagon,” Ahkeah said, looking as if he were about to faint. “I’m getting out right here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Miranda snapped, reaching out to steady him. “You’re badly hurt. You need to be examined by a doctor.”

“I’ll be fine. If not, my own people can take care of me.” He shook off the clasp of her steadying hand. His jaw tightened as he gripped the side board of the bouncing wagon and struggled to stand. “I know my rights, Miss Howell. I’ve broken no rules, and you can’t force me to—”

The driver glanced back over his shoulder. “Everything all right back there, miss?”

“Yes. Fine.” Miranda’s upward glance confirmed that he wasn’t reaching for his rifle. “Just get us to the fort. Hurry!”

Spurred by the urgency in her voice, the young corporal slapped the reins down on the backs of the mules. “Ha!” The buckboard shot forward as the tired animals broke into a trot. Wheels bounced and flew along the rocky surface of the road as they pushed the outriders ahead of them.

When Miranda’s gaze returned to Ahkeah, she saw that he had gained his feet and was standing in a half crouch, his leather-clad legs braced apart to support him in the jouncing wagon. His face was ashen in the moonlight, his mouth a grim line of tightly controlled pain.

“Tell your driver to stop,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

“Don’t be a fool!” Miranda snapped, glaring up at him. “You need medical attention. You need—”

“Tell him to stop! Tell him now, damn it, or I jump out on the count of three!” The whites of his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “One…two…” His legs quivered unsteadily, and his eyes had taken on a glaze. “Three…” Ahkeah’s voice trailed off as he reeled and tumbled forward into Miranda’s arms.




Chapter Three


Miranda reacted instinctively, bracing herself against Ahkeah’s falling weight and reaching up to protect his head. Having cared for men with head injuries, she’d known what to expect when he tried to get up too soon. Ahkeah’s fainting had not surprised her.

Now, as the buckboard careened down the road, the tall Navajo lay across her lap, his head on her bosom, her arms supporting his chest and shoulders. His gaunt ribs were as distinct as the tines of a pitchfork through the thin cotton tunic. Wildness was in the feel of him, in the smoky scent of his hair, the sharpness of his bones and the wind-burned tautness of his skin. Miranda cradled his unconscious form gently, aware of his face pressing against her breast. She felt the tightness in her body, felt the liquid heat that pulsed from the deep core of her womanhood, stirring, strangely restless.

What was wrong with her? At the hospital, when she’d held injured youths in her arms to ease their pain, she had felt nothing but pity. And Phillip—yes, she had embraced him, kissed him ever so chastely on the lips and felt a safe, abiding sweetness that she judged to be love. But holding Ahkeah in her arms was like holding a broken eagle that, at any moment, might wake up and fly at her with its deadly beak and talons. The sense of danger shimmered like wine in her blood.

He stirred against her, moaning softly, his chin pressing her nipple through the thin serge of her jacket. Miranda’s lips parted in a little gasp as hot, tingling sensations flooded her body. Oh, this was wrong—she was engaged, almost married. And this man—he was a savage who’d likely pillaged and murdered and done heaven knows what. She had to put a stop to what was happening. But the exquisite pressure of his touch held her captive. She was powerless to move. Heat and color crept upward to flood her face. She struggled to breathe. A moment more, and—

“Say, looks like we got ourselves a welcomin’ party!” The corporal leaned to one side and spat over the side of the wagon. “Good thing we didn’t git you here any later, Miss Howell, or we woulda’ been strung up by our hocks like a passel o’ spring hams.”

Straining upward, Miranda peered past him over the seat of the buckboard. Her searching eyes caught the glint of moonlight on metal a quarter mile ahead, and then, as it materialized out of the night, a solid, moving black shape that she judged to be a close-riding troop of cavalry. As they came into full view she recognized the unmistakable tall-in-the-saddle frame and outsize Stetson of her father, Major Iron Bill Howell. He was riding at the head of the column, pushing his rangy buckskin mount to a gallop.

Miranda’s arms had frozen around Ahkeah’s inert body. As the outriders hailed the column, her first impulse was to roll the Navajo discreetly away from her, onto the planks. But the buckboard was bouncing crazily and the man was injured, she reminded herself. She could not risk his coming to further harm for the sake of appearances.

Carefully she eased his dark face away from her breast. Then, still supporting him in her arms, she steeled herself against the coming onslaught.

“What the hell took you so long?” Bill Howell’s voice boomed above the swirl of dust, wind and horses as the two groups mingled. “You were supposed to be back before nightfall! And where the devil is my daughter?”

“I’m here!” Miranda called out from the back of the wagon. “There’s nothing to be concerned about, Father. Everything is perfectly…fine.”

The all-too-familiar knot in Miranda’s stomach tightened as she saw him pushing his mount through the swarm of men and animals. As a child she had always been a little afraid of her father. He was so large and forceful, always looming above her like the giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Not once in her memory had he ever bent down to her eye level or lifted her up to his. He had been—and was—a tower of authority, gruff and unbending. Maybe that was part of the reason Miranda’s gentle mother had remained in the East, refusing to follow him to his remote postings as many officers’ wives did.

Someone had lit a torch. In its blazing yellow light she saw him looming above her once more—older now, by nearly four years, than when she’d last set eyes on him. The leathery creases around his eyes had deepened and the bristling sideburns that failed to hide his outsize ears were streaked with gray. But his penetrating granite eyes were exactly as Miranda remembered them.

Now those eyes were staring down at the man Miranda held in her arms—a man he undoubtedly knew and probably hated.

“What in blazes is going on here, Miranda?” he growled without so much as a nod of greeting. “What are you doing with this Indian?”

“He’s hurt.” Miranda forced herself to meet her father’s angry gaze. “If we’d left him by the road with a storm blowing in, he could have died of exposure.”

“Not the worst thing that could happen, by a long shot!” Iron Bill snapped. “If you ask me, the whole damned reservation, even the Navajos, would be better off without the troublemaking bastard!” Before Miranda could respond, he turned abruptly to the sergeant. “What happened, soldier? And who allowed my daughter to get involved with this vermin?”

The sergeant’s Adam’s apple quivered as he swallowed and spoke. “Ahkeah, here, insulted your daughter and refused to apologize, sir. Things were getting out of hand, and—”

“And just as your men were about to shoot him, someone crashed a rifle butt into his head!” Miranda interrupted. “The entire episode was completely uncalled-for, Father. If your soldiers had left well enough alone, Ahkeah would simply have ridden away without—”

“I can speak for myself.” The Navajo’s sharp voice sliced into the flow of her own words. Startled, Miranda glanced down into the jet-black pits of Ahkeah’s eyes.

“The sergeant was right,” he said, twisting away from her and pushing himself, with effort, to a sitting position in the wagon bed. “I did insult your daughter. She was meddling where she had no business. I told her as much, and when I was ordered a second time, I did refuse to apologize. Now, since the matter of blame is settled, I’ll be taking my leave.”

Miranda watched the pain ripple across his face as he flung the cloak aside and staggered to his feet, then turned to catch the reins of his horse, which had been tied to the back of the buckboard. A vehement protest sprang to her lips. The man was in no condition to ride. If he passed out again he could lie unconscious all night, exposed to the coming storm. But one glance at his stubbornly set face confirmed that arguing would do no good. Not with a man like Ahkeah.

Grimacing with effort, he brought the rack-ribbed animal alongside the wagon. No one made a move, either to assist him or to hinder him, as he eased one leg over its back and slid awkwardly into place. The wind whipped his raven hair as he swung away from the wagon and turned, for the space of a heartbeat, to lock his gaze with Miranda’s. His contemptuous eyes ignited sparks of black fire through a glaze of pain. Then, as lightning forked across the sky with an earsplitting crack, he wheeled his mount and galloped into the darkness.

The silence that hung over the small company lasted for the space of a long breath. Then another bolt of lightning ripped the gathering clouds, and the full fury of the storm burst out of the sky. Lashing sleet, driven almost sideways by the wind, pelted them like buckshot. Mules brayed. A horse screamed and reared. Galvanized to action, the cavalry and wagon formed a column and headed like an arrow for Fort Sumner.

Teeth chattering, Miranda gathered her dusty cloak from the wagon bed, flung its sheltering warmth around her head and shoulders and clambered onto the jouncing seat beside the driver. The thick, soft wool still carried the pungent wood smoke scent of Ahkeah’s body. As she closed her eyes against the stinging sleet, the aroma stole into her senses, evoking the memory of his obsidian eyes piercing her defenses, his sharp-boned features molding the shape of her breast.

She pictured him now, galloping his half-starved mount through the icy storm, his water-soaked clothes freezing to his skin. She imagined the horse stumbling, startled, perhaps, by a fleeing animal or a sudden clap of thunder. She saw the reins slip from the frozen bronze fingers…

Stop it! Miranda admonished herself. You can’t allow yourself to fret over the man! You’re not responsible for what happens to him! And yet she knew in her heart she was responsible. If she had not stopped to help a pathetic old woman, none of this ongoing debacle would have taken place. If Ahkeah came to further harm tonight, the blame would be squarely on her own shoulders. That awareness weighed on her, darkening her thoughts as the buckboard and its escort thundered through the flying sleet toward the shelter of the fort.

Miranda awoke the next morning to the cold, gray silence of the spare room in her father’s quarters. For a long moment she lay quietly beneath the flannel sheet and thick woolen army blankets, watching the play of light beams through a crack in the shuttered window. Her gaze wandered to the rough-timbered ceiling and down the plain adobe walls, bare, even, of whitewash. She inspected the peeling wardrobe, standing askew as if it had been hauled in from some dusty storage room for the purpose of her visit.

As her mind roused to full wakefulness, she remembered last night’s arrival—the flaring torchlight, the steaming breath of the mules as she dismounted stiffly from the buckboard. She remembered the strained, hasty supper of cold beans and bread in the officers’ mess, and her father’s brusque silence, which she’d tried to fill with chatter about her long trip. She’d wanted to ask him about Ahkeah, but had decided against it. Things were too unsettled between the two of them, too raw and confusing. Oh, why had she come here? Why had she placed so much importance on making peace with the man who’d fathered her, when it would have been so much easier to simply let go? Why had she allowed Iron Bill Howell to matter so much to her, when she clearly mattered so little to him?

As she turned onto her side, she saw her leather trunk, standing open as she’d left it last night after rummaging for a clean nightgown. She had fallen into bed, too tired even to brush her hair or wash her face. Now she felt rumpled and gritty-eyed, her hair damp and coarse with alkali dust. What she wouldn’t give for a bath! But this was no time for self-indulgence. It was time to get up, pull herself together and face whatever the day might bring.

Tossing back the covers, Miranda swung her legs out of bed. Her serge traveling suit lay damp, dirty and hopelessly rumpled where she’d spread it on the single wooden chair last night. She took a moment to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles and rearrange the folds. Then she selected another gown from the chest, a simple, dark brown twill, its severity softened by a white lace collar. Hastily she dressed, then splashed her face at the washstand and twisted up her hair.

The silence from the other two rooms told her, even before she opened the door, that her father had already risen and left. His bedroom stood open, the simple bunk made up with military precision. There was no fire in the potbellied stove, and the rudimentary cooking facilities looked as if they had never been used. A quick inspection of the cupboard revealed nothing but a few dishes and not so much as a crumb of food. Clearly Iron Bill took his meals in the mess hall and expected his daughter to do the same—if indeed he’d given any thought to the matter.

Miranda’s blue cloak hung neatly on a rack beside the door. As she lifted it down, she saw that it had been brushed free of dust; but even now the faint aroma of wood smoke clung to it, whispering of Ahkeah. The scent enfolded her as she slipped the cloak over her shoulders, worked a single button through its satin-bound hole and opened the door.

The morning breeze was chilly, but not really cold. Once the sun was high, she realized, the cloak would be too warm. Stepping back into the room, she replaced it on the hook and selected a cashmere shawl—another of Phillip’s gifts—from her trunk. With the shawl’s airy warmth wrapped around her shoulders, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

Miranda had glimpsed the lay of the fort last night in the darkness. Now the vista of open desert and low-slung adobe buildings spread before her, not enclosed by walls, as she might have expected a fort to be, but sprawling over acres of barren land, unconstrained by factors of space and safety. Clearly the small military unit that remained here to keep order and protect the Indian Agency had little to fear from their captives or from outside attack. Her eyes picked out what she guessed to be barracks, stables and offices, and one large building that resembled a warehouse—some kind of commissary, she surmised. The ground was still glazed with a thin coating of sleet. Bare earth steamed and glittered in the morning sunlight. There was little or no grass, and the few trees she could see were stunted and bare. How did her father stand this desolate place?

Lifting her skirts above the frozen mud, Miranda strode across the empty square of land that passed for a parade ground toward what she remembered to be the mess hall. The few soldiers who were loitering outside the door straightened to a semblance of attention, tipping their hats as she passed. One of them, a quiet young man who’d been part of her escort from Santa Fe, smiled shyly and held open the door. With a nod of thanks she stepped over the threshold.

Her heart sank as she surveyed the long mess hall with its sea of empty tables and benches and the more genteel officers’ section at the far end. Where was her father? Couldn’t he at least have waited for her to join him for breakfast? Did he think she’d traveled all this distance to wander around this desolate place alone?

“So here you are, my dear.”

Startled by the sound of a feminine voice, Miranda turned to see a plump, birdlike woman hurrying toward her from the direction of the kitchen. She was well into middle age, her badly dyed brown hair sculpted into rigidly upswept curls. Her wine-colored gown was elaborately ruffled at the neck, sleeves and hem, giving her the look of a drooping garden peony.

At closer range Miranda saw that the woman’s childlike face was webbed with lines, but traces of faded beauty lingered in her molasses-brown eyes. Those eyes sparkled as she seized Miranda’s fingers in her small, lace-mitted hand. “Your father had pressing duties this morning and couldn’t be here. I offered to wait and show you around—after you’ve had breakfast, of course. My name is Violet Marsden. My husband is quartermaster here at the fort, and I…” She caught her breath, as if the very effort of speaking had strained her. “I can’t tell you how very pleased I am to welcome you here!”

Still a bit dazed, Miranda allowed the woman to lead her to a table in a corner of the deserted officers’ mess. It was cheerlessly set with a threadbare linen cloth, chipped but serviceable white porcelain and heavy silver plate that bore a patina of long use. But someone had placed a sprig of tiny yellow spring wildflowers in a spare cup. Who had it been? Her father? This woman, perhaps?

“I’ve just been to the kitchen to make sure the cook saved you some porridge.” Violet Marsden settled herself across the table, adjusting her gown like a preening sparrow. An undertone in her fragile voice spoke of cotton fields and magnolias and the gracious manners of a time forever gone. What was she doing here in this barren place that seemed to have had every trace of gentility parched, burned, starved and frozen out of it?

“Did you have a difficult journey?” she asked, lifting the china teapot and pouring a cup for Miranda, then one for herself. There was no sugar or cream on the table, but the tea was fresh, its warmth curling pleasantly in Miranda’s stomach.

“The trip wasn’t bad,” she replied, dismissing what she remembered of last night’s arrival. “But I do have a question. Am I just imagining things, or is my father avoiding me?”

“Avoiding you?” Violet glanced up, her eyes wide with surprise. “How on earth could you imagine such a thing? Of course Major Howell isn’t avoiding you!”

“Then where is he? We’ve barely exchanged a dozen words since I arrived last night!”

“But, my dear, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for that,” Violet protested. “Last night you were exhausted and needed your rest.”

“And this morning?”

“Why, it’s simply the usual Saturday. He needed to be at the issue house early to make certain there’s no trouble with the Navajos!”

“Trouble with the Navajos?” Miranda asked, dimly aware that she sounded like a trained parrot.

“Why, bless you, this is the day they come in to get their rations. Thousands of them! The line goes all the way from the issue house to the road and beyond. With so many Indians about the place, a strong military presence is needed.”

Miranda glanced down at the bowl of gluey oatmeal laced with canned milk that had appeared on the table before her. “And my father couldn’t be spared for a single morning?” she asked, stirring the grayish mess with her spoon.

“The commanding officer of the fort is required to be in attendance.” Violet dabbed at her little rouged mouth with her napkin. “With the care of the Navajos passing from the army to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, this fort has come under a good deal of public scrutiny, my dear. If there’s trouble and some impulsive young soldier fires at unarmed Indians, it could make the army look very bad. Do you understand?”

“I do.” Miranda remembered the rifle butt crunching into Ahkeah’s skull. Evidently it was all right to hit Navajos but not to shoot them.

“It’s the major’s responsibility to make sure nothing happens that would open the army to criticism,” Violet said, brushing away an imaginary crumb from the lace edging on her bodice. “That’s why your father couldn’t delegate the job to anyone else, not even to be with you.”

“I see.” Miranda forced herself to eat, knowing she would be hungry later. Questions about the Navajos—and the disturbing man she had held in her arms last night—milled in her mind, clamoring for answers, but she cautioned herself to hold her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to trigger unpleasant gossip by showing too much interest in a man she had no business knowing.

“Will I be allowed to go to the issue house and watch?” she asked casually.

“I suppose so.” Violet’s patrician nose crinkled with distaste. “But don’t expect to like what you see. The Navajos are a filthy, treacherous lot, far worse than the slaves on my daddy’s plantation ever were. Their young girls hang around the fort and offer themselves to the soldiers for a few crusts of bread! Some of our boys have caught the most dreadful diseases from them! A gentlewoman isn’t supposed to know about such things, but one can’t help hearing talk!”

She frowned, then brightened as her eyes fell on Miranda’s empty teacup. “Would you like me to read your fortune, dear? My old mammy back in Louisiana taught me how, and I’m really quite good at it! I read for all the officers’ wives before they left.”

“Then, by all means, go ahead.” Miranda set little store by fortune-telling, but she had no wish to be rude. She watched skeptically as the small woman took the cup and stared intently into it, studying the pattern of the tea leaves in the bottom.

“Please don’t tell me I’m going to fall in love with a tall, dark stranger,” Miranda said, striving to keep things in the spirit of fun. “I’m getting married in June, and my fiancé is neither dark nor particularly—”

“Hush!” Violet whispered urgently. “Something’s coming to me!” She lifted the cup closer to her face, knitting her brows and pursing her small mouth. “It’s not terribly clear,” she said, “but I see a great change coming into your life.”

“Of course,” Miranda said with a little smile. “As I told you, I’m getting married, and after that Phillip and I will be living in London.”

“No.” Violet’s fragile voice rasped with conviction. “The change I see is one you’re not expecting and can’t prepare for. This change will shake your very soul. It will challenge all the things you’ve ever believed in!”

Miranda forced a good-natured laugh. This was all nonsense, she reminded herself. No one could look into a scattering of soggy tea leaves and read the future.

“And how will I deal with such a change?” she asked, humoring the woman. “Do the leaves tell you that?”

Violet’s eyes seemed to darken. Then she sighed and shook her head. “No. But be careful, my dear. I see danger in the leaves…and death—the death of someone close to you, perhaps, or even your own!”

“Oh, come now, my future can’t be as bleak as all that!” Miranda crumpled her napkin, tossed it down beside the half-finished bowl of porridge, and rose to her feet. “Look through the window. The sun’s come out. It’s going to be a fine morning, and I want to see the Navajos!”

“Very well, my dear.” Violet set the cup on the table, stood up, then bent to straighten her ruffled skirts and snatch up the parasol she’d left propped against a chair. “But don’t forget what I told you. When my old mammy read tea leaves, she was never wrong. She even foretold that one day I’d elope with a Yankee and be disowned by the whole family, right down to the Georgia cousins! I didn’t believe her at the time, but two years later her prediction came true!”

Miranda’s gaze lingered on the sad little figure as they crossed the mess hall and walked toward the door. Yes, the puzzle of Violet Marsden was slowly coming together. Had her marriage been worth the pain of losing her family? Glancing at the woman’s careworn face, Miranda could only wonder.

Sunlight dazzled her eyes, warming her face as they stepped onto the porch. Violet opened her parasol, frowning as she noticed that Miranda had not brought a parasol for herself.

“And no bonnet, either!” she clucked disapprovingly. “You really must take care of your skin in this desert climate, my dear girl, or the sun and wind will shrivel you like a raisin!”

But Miranda scarcely heard the well-meant advice. Her gaze was already leaping across the parade ground to the long, dark line that was forming up outside the doors of the issue house. Deny it though she might, she knew she was searching—first casually, then urgently—for a single tall, proud figure. She needed to know that he had survived the terrible night and that her interference had done him no permanent harm.

With growing desperation she scanned the line. Where was he?

Where was he?




Chapter Four


Miranda was halfway across the parade ground, holding back her stride to keep pace with Violet’s mincing steps, when she caught sight of him.

He was standing near the front of the line, his height towering a full head above the Navajos around him. A strip of crimson cloth bound his temple, more like a badge of defiance than the dressing for a wound.

Had he seen her? Miranda’s pulse skipped erratically at the thought of that sharp obsidian gaze following her across the open ground. But what did it matter? she berated herself. Last night’s encounter had been humiliating for them both. He would not welcome the sight of her—no more than she should welcome the sight of him.

“Violet, where are the other officers’ wives?” she asked in an effort to make polite conversation. “I thought we might be meeting some of them this morning.”

“Why, bless you, they’re gone. What few there were could not abide this place. They transferred out with their husbands when the garrison was cut back here. Now there’s only me. And, frankly, my dear, I’m counting the days until those filthy Navajos are shipped off to the Oklahoma Territory so Mr. Marsden and I can leave, as well.”

“And when’s that to happen?” Miranda asked, her interest suddenly roused.

“Who knows?” Violet shrugged daintily. “The rumors have been flying for months, dear, ever since General Carleton left. No one believes it’s possible to keep the Navajos here another season, not when their crops have failed three years’ running. The poor wretches are starving here, and the Indian Bureau can’t afford to keep feeding so many thousands of them! Something’s got to change, and soon, or they’ll all be dead!”

We take care of our own!

Ahkeah’s defiant words echoed in Miranda’s memory as she recalled his proud refusal to accept her cloak for his elderly aunt. What was it costing his pride to stand in line, as he was standing now, waiting with his people for his handout from the U.S. Government?

Miranda’s gaze wandered down the wretched line of people. Many of the Navajos lacked coats or blankets to protect them from the biting desert wind. The children were thin and ragged, the old men and women little more than hollow-eyed human wrecks with barely enough strength to walk. The sight of them tore at her heart.

“What are you looking at, Miranda?” Violet’s childlike voice broke into her thoughts. “Your father’s over there, at the end of the table. Do you see him?”

“Yes.” Miranda had already spotted Iron Bill, seated at the long plank table set up in front of the issue house. Behind him a platoon of blue-clad soldiers stood at rest, carbines ready in case trouble should break out and their commander gave the order to fire.

Other figures, as well, milled about the table. A bespectacled clerk was spreading pens, inkwells and a huge ledger in his allotted space. Navajo youths, pressed into service as helpers, scurried back and forth fetching chairs and supplies.

A cynical-looking man in a houndstooth check jacket stood to one side, scribbling with a pencil in an open notebook. Miranda had seen plenty of newspaper reporters during the war, and she bore them no liking. They were like hyenas, slinking along the sidelines of history, watching for the strong to fall so they could swarm in for the kill. What would a reporter be doing in a place like this? What was he waiting to see?

“We can sit just inside the door,” Violet said. “That way we’ll be out of the sun and wind. I’ll have one of Mr. Marsden’s assistants get us some chairs.”

“Thank you.” Miranda’s awareness bristled as she followed the plump figure toward the door of the vast adobe building. Her decision to come here and watch the Navajos get their rations had been a reckless impulse. Now, too late, she realized she was guilty of the same insensitivity she had so long despised in others. She should never have come here. But trying to leave now would only make matters more awkward. She had little choice except to sit and watch the humiliation of a proud man and his people. Ahkeah would hate her for it, but that was his choice, something she could not change.

Feeling his gaze on her, she raised her chin and strode toward the open doorway of the issue house.

Ahkeah’s eyes narrowed as he watched Big Hat’s daughter cross the parade ground. He should have known she would come to watch—to see the grim spectacle of eight thousand people lined up for food. Well, let her watch! She was bored here, most likely, and this was the only entertainment in fifty miles!

He watched her follow the small, plump sparrow woman to the issue house and disappear inside. He hated ration days, hated the shame of seeing his people lined up like so many sheep, swallowing their pride for the sake of their children and old ones, who would starve without these weekly handouts from the government storehouse.

Most days the quantity of food they had was barely enough to keep a dog alive. That it be wholesome and appetizing as well was far too much to ask. Lately, more often than not, there was nothing but moldy flour, which the Diné had difficulty cooking because they had so little firewood. They had been given flour for the first time just before the start of the Long Walk. Never having seen it before, they had made it into gruel, like the familiar ground corn it resembled. The gluey mess, which they’d had no choice except to eat, had sickened them so severely with cramps and diarrhea that many had died or been shot by the soldiers because they were too sick to march.

Even now, the memory of those hellish days caused Ahkeah’s jaw to tighten, triggering a throbbing pain in his injured temple. He would have been better off resting, he knew. But duty compelled him to be here.

Glancing toward the issue house, he saw that the two women had settled their chairs in the shadow of the doorway, where the desert sun would not burn their delicate skins. They were chatting animatedly, as if eager to watch the sad spectacle. His gaze lingered on the major’s silver-eyed daughter, as prim as a preacher-lady in her dark dress and white lace collar. Go ahead and watch, bilagáana woman, he thought. See us for what we are and for what your people have made us!

He was still struggling with his anger when he felt a light tugging at his sleeve. Something tightened around his heart as he glanced down into the liquid eyes of his six-year-old daughter. She did not speak, but her small fingers crept into his palm, seeking reassurance.

“Nizhoni.” He murmured her name as his hand tightened around hers. Nizhoni was too young to remember their life before the Long Walk; too young, even, to remember her mother’s smile and the sound of her voice. This white man’s purgatory was the only life that she, and so many other Diné children, knew.

What would Nizhoni’s life be like if the Diné were sent to the Oklahoma reservation? Would she ever know the joy of standing between the four sacred mountains and watching the morning sunlight steal over the peach-colored walls of Canyon de Chelly? Would she celebrate the dawn of her womanhood by blessing her people as Changing Woman?

Or would she go to the white soldiers, as so many had done, and offer her young body in exchange for a meal and a warm bed?

Instinctively he drew his little girl closer, as if to shield her from sight. She was only six, little more than a baby. But the years would fly, and before he knew it she would be a beautiful young woman. How long would he be able to keep her safe?

“Ahkeah!” Someone near the front of the line had hailed him. Trouble already, and, as usual, he was being called upon to straighten it out. The new Navajo agent, Theodore Dodd, was the first decent administrator to serve at the fort, but Dodd was a white man and, for all his good intentions, he was no miracle worker. For the Diné, little had changed. The problems continued as always.

“Ahkeah!”

“Here.” He thrust Nizhoni toward his aunt, then broke from the line and hurried forward.

Miranda edged her chair back into the shadows as Ahkeah strode toward the table. She had seen some kind of argument break out between the first Navajo in line and the small, efficient-looking man in civilian clothes who was seated at the table and appeared to be in charge. Clearly, there was a problem, but the two of them could not speak enough of each other’s language to make themselves understood.

“The man at the table is Theodore Dodd, the new Indian agent,” Violet whispered. “The Navajos call him Little Gopher. You can certainly see why, can’t you?”

Miranda nodded, straining to hear what was going on at the table.

“They have their own names for many of us,” Violet continued. “Your father is Big Hat. My husband is Lame Bear because he has a bad knee. Even I have a name. They call me Sparrow Woman.”

Again Miranda nodded, her attention on the dispute. The elderly Navajo was arguing vehemently, pointing to the burlap sack into which one of the soldiers had just dumped a measure of flour from a large barrel. More than a hundred similar barrels were stacked outside the issue house. How many would it take to feed all these people, Miranda wondered, even for a few days?

“Blast it, I’m aware of the problem, but this is what they sent us! It’s all we could get!” Dodd looked up in relief as Ahkeah broke through the crowd of Navajos and made his way to the table. “Tell him, Ahkeah. Tell them all! I’ve sent scores of wires to the bureau! They promised us beans and corn, but, blast them all to hell, this is what they sent!”

Dodd was interrupted by an outburst from the man with the sack, who then turned his outpouring of anger on Ahkeah. Ahkeah listened calmly, then turned back toward the agent. “Are you aware that this flour is full of worms?” he asked.

Dodd swore under his breath. “It wouldn’t make any difference if I had been aware. There’s nothing I could have done. I’m sorry, Ahkeah, but your people will just have to clean the flour as best they can. Now tell your friend to take his family’s share and move on.”

Ahkeah did not move. “Do the soldiers at the fort have to pick the worms out of their flour?” he demanded. “Or do the bilagáana think themselves too fine to eat what they provide for us?”

Dodd looked pained. The Navajo who’d first complained turned around and began talking to others in the line. The soldiers behind the table shifted nervously, fingering their carbines.

Miranda felt her throat tighten in apprehension. Ahkeah, she knew, was using this incident to make a statement of pride. But pride would not feed eight thousand starving people. If the Navajos didn’t accept the flour, they would go hungry. Was that what Ahkeah wanted? To trigger an incident for the benefit of that sleazy reporter—an incident that would call public attention to the plight of his people? Or was he merely a troublemaker, a reckless firebrand with more pride than common sense?

“You, Major.” He wheeled suddenly to face Miranda’s father. “You have a daughter. So do I. How can you ask me to feed my daughter what you would not feed your own?”

The silence that followed was broken only by the raucous call of a passing crow. Miranda saw Iron Bill’s neck and ears redden, a sure sign of rising impatience.

“I asked you a question, Major.” Ahkeah’s voice was as flat and as cold as the blade of a knife. “I’ve met your daughter, and I know her to be a fine and proper lady. Would you expect her to eat bread made from this flour?”

Miranda could sense her father’s anger welling. She could see it in the bristling eyebrows and in the clenched fist that rested on the table. She could feel her own tension building as she waited for the explosion…

The explosion that would be exactly what Ahkeah wanted.

“Why don’t you ask me that question?” The words burst out as Miranda rose to her feet. All eyes were suddenly on her—Ahkeah’s eyes, coldly challenging; her father’s eyes, startled and outraged; the reporter’s eyes, narrowing as he flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.

“Miss Howell?” Ahkeah’s voice dripped ice.

“Ask me your question,” she said. “I can answer for myself.”

“As you like.” His contemptuous gaze measured her, testing her mettle. “Would you eat this?” He filled a scoop from the open flour barrel and thrust it under her nose. Miranda fought the urge to recoil as the surface of the flour stirred slightly and a small, tan insect fluttered upward, past her face.

“If I were starving and there was nothing else, yes, I would eat this flour!” Miranda declared. “And if I had hungry children, yes, I would give it to them! I would give them anything to keep them alive!”

“Very passionately spoken.” Ahkeah glanced at the circle of listeners, playing to them with the skill of a politician. “But you aren’t starving, are you, Miss Howell? I saw you come directly here from the mess hall. Is this what you had for breakfast?”

“No.” Miranda remembered the gluey, tasteless oatmeal. Ahkeah, she knew, was intent on using her. He would take advantage of her natural squeamishness to make fools of Agent Dodd, her father and the U.S. Government. There was just one way to stop him—a way that lay before her now in a scoopful of weevil-infested flour.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his cold eyes. “If I show you that I’m not too proud to eat this flour, will that satisfy you, Ahkeah? Will you then be still and allow your people to get their rations without shame?”

A spark flickered in the depths of Ahkeah’s obsidian eyes, but his face remained as impassive as granite. “You, a bilagáana, would dare such a thing?”

Without answering him she turned to one of the soldiers. “Take a cup of this flour to the kitchen and ask the cook to make one flapjack—”

“No,” Ahkeah interrupted sharply. “We will do the cooking right here, where all the people can see.” Turning to the openmouthed private, he ordered firewood, an iron skillet, salt, baking powder, a spoon and a measure of lard. Spurred by the authority in his voice, the young soldier scurried to do his bidding.

Miranda glanced toward her father. Iron Bill’s rigid face was flushed like an overheated stove. His lips were pressed tightly together as if to hold back an outburst of ill-timed rage. He would not be so foolish as to speak out, nor would Agent Dodd, who was staring at Miranda as if she’d just sprouted wings and a tail. The news reporter was waiting, pencil poised to scribble down every reckless word, giving Ahkeah just the ammunition he needed for his publicized incident—an incident that would cause a whole nation of men, women and children to go hungry for the sake of pride.

By the time the ingredients and utensils arrived from the kitchen, Ahkeah had started a small, crackling fire in a shallow pit. Miranda watched in grim silence as he measured the flour, salt and baking powder into the bowl. She had hoped he would take time to sift the weevils out of the flour, but she should have known better. He would not make this easy for her.

Glancing up, he added a splash of water and a scoop of lard and began to knead the fist-size mass with his fingers. “This is how we make our bread,” he said. “With no yeast and no ovens. If the flour is fresh it isn’t so bad. But with this…”

Letting the words trail off, he dropped the rest of the lard into the skillet. As it melted, he made a flat circle of the dough, as broad as his hand was long, and dropped it into the sizzling fat.

“Don’t worry about the worms, Miss Howell,” he said, “the heat will kill anything living in that flour. Besides, you look as if you could use a little meat in your diet.”

The flat bread browned swiftly. Ahkeah turned it with his knife, then used the point to lift it free and hold it in the cool air for a moment.

“Here you are.” He thrust the bread toward Miranda with a mocking flourish.

Miranda accepted it gingerly between her fingertips. The fried bread was hot, but not hot enough to burn. She forced her eyes to blur so she would not have to look at it too closely. It would not be so bad, she reassured herself. She had surely done more distasteful things than this in her lifetime. And if she felt anything crunch between her teeth she would simply pretend it was a nut or a raisin.

Struggling to appear nonchalant, she sank her teeth into the warm, crisp dough. Every eye was on her as she moved her jaws in a semblance of chewing, then swallowed the small wad of dough in a single gulp.

“All of it,” Ahkeah growled, close to her ear. “You’re to eat every last crumb.”

Miranda tore off another small bite, meeting his gaze as she forced herself to swallow. His eyes held hers so intently that she could see her own reflection in the depths of his jet-black pupils. She could understand now why her father hated this man and why the soldier had been on the verge of shooting him last night.

Now he was waiting for her to slip—to gag, to choke or to fling the bread to the ground in disgust. But no, she would not let him win. Pride was one thing. Letting children go hungry was quite another.

Bit by bit she finished the bread, swallowing each piece as an act of sheer will. She avoided biting down or even touching the dough with her tongue. If she were to find a weevil in her mouth, her hard-won control would be lost. Ahkeah watched her every move, his eyes smoldering, his mouth twisted in a thin, humorless smile.

A gasp of relief broke over the assembly as the last bit of bread disappeared into her mouth. Miranda forced it down her convulsing throat. Done.

Flashing Ahkeah a defiant look, she glanced around frantically for water. It was Ahkeah himself who passed her a canteen. “Right from the Pecos River,” he murmured. “Just like the water we drink. Well done, Miss Howell. You’ve proved your point.”

He jerked his head in an affirming nod, and the Navajos at the front of the line spread out along the stations at the table, sacks open to receive their ration of tainted flour. Miranda gulped the brackish water, her stomach churning as people milled around her. Had she done the right thing, or should she have allowed a stubborn man his pride? Never mind, what was done was done. And suddenly she wanted nothing more than to get as far as she could from this miserable place.

“Miss Howell?” The reporter shouldered his way into her path as she turned to leave. His eyes were a watery blue, and a splintered hickory toothpick jutted from between his thin lips. “My name is Hyrum Blount, Miss Howell. Your quick action prevented an incident that could have turned very ugly. What do you have to say to readers of the Denver Post?”

Bile rose in Miranda’s throat as she turned on him. “Are you disappointed, Mr. Blount?” she flared. “Would you rather have seen a hunger strike, or better yet, a bloodbath? Would that have made a more sensational story to wire home to your paper?”

The reporter’s startled face blurred in Miranda’s vision as she felt the greasy bread and alkaline water welling up into her throat.

“Miss Howell, are you all right?”

Shoving the man aside, she stumbled around the end of the table and bolted for the back side of the issue house.

A ghost of a smile teased Ahkeah’s lips as he watched her go. It did not surprise him that Miranda Howell was sick. But his amazement at her boldness and tenacity warmed to a grudging admiration. For a bilagáana, the woman had courage.

Would he have pushed a confrontation over the flour if she had not come forward? He shrugged—a white man’s gesture that he had never quite managed to lose. His people had eaten far worse than infested flour in their four years at the fort. Perhaps it was just as well that nothing more had happened. At least their bellies would not be empty this week.

He stood at the corner of the long table, aching as his gaze wandered down the long, sad lines of his people. Even the great warriors, Manuelito and Barboncito, were here. They had surrendered with their starved little bands only a few moons after the main body of the Diné had reached the fort. Now they stood gripping their ration sacks with the others, the cold spring wind whipping their threadbare clothes against their bones.

On ration day, all the Diné at the fort were required to come in and be counted, to make sure none had slipped away. Not that the bureau had any reason to worry. Of the few families who’d attempted to leave, all had either returned, starving, on their own or been hauled back on a wagon bed, their frozen bodies stacked like cordwood.

Would life be like this in the Oklahoma Territories, or would conditions be even worse? The only thing the Diné knew for certain was that they would be even farther from their four sacred mountains—so far that the Holy People would never bless them again.

Shaking off his gloom, Ahkeah scanned the line for his own small family. He glimpsed his aunt, standing where he’d left her, bundled in the woolen poncho he’d placed around her shoulders the night before. She looked lost and weary. Maybe it was time he found someone else to help care for Nizhoni. The old woman was growing too frail to keep up with an active little girl.

Glancing around, he concluded that there would be no more trouble with the rationing. The major’s strong-willed daughter had seen to that. It would be safe to relieve the old woman of Nizhoni and walk the little girl around the fort. She loved seeing the horses in their corrals and the colorful American flag fluttering from its pole on the parade ground. There was so little color in her own drab life—no blooming wildflowers against warm russet sand, no flash of silver jewelry, no bright ribbons in her long black hair. He had no heart to deny his child the little pleasure she found in this dismal place.

Pushing other concerns aside, Ahkeah shouldered his way through the milling crowd toward the place where his aunt stood. Nizhoni would be close by, probably clinging to the trailing poncho. Like most Diné children his daughter tended to be shy in the presence of strangers. He’d never had to worry about her wandering off on her own.

All the same, a shadow of foreboding crossed his mind as he approached his aunt. She was huddled in the line, her wizened face staring straight ahead, eyes focused on some inner vision that only she could see. This trancelike state seemed to be coming upon her more and more of late.

No, he acknowledged sadly, he could not trust her to care for Nizhoni any longer. It was time he took someone else into his household—perhaps his recently widowed cousin Naahooyéí, and her two young sons. They could use his protection, and he could use their help. He would begin digging another dugout for them as soon as—

Ahkeah’s thoughts scattered as the line shifted, suddenly giving him full view of his aunt, from her scraggly head to the worn remnants of her dusty moccasins. Only then did the realization hit him like a blow—the old woman stood alone, her hands dangling listlessly at her sides.

Nizhoni was nowhere to be seen.




Chapter Five


White-faced and quivering, Miranda pressed her forehead against the cold adobe wall. The fried bread had come up so fast that she’d barely made it around the back of the commissary before the retching heaves had struck. Now the worst of the nausea had passed, but she still felt weak and shaky. Never again, she vowed, gagging on the vile aftertaste; not for any cause on earth would she let herself be bullied into eating such revolting food!

The brackish water in the canteen Ahkeah had passed her had only made matters worse. Straight from the Pecos, he’d said. Good heavens, was that all the Navajos had to drink? Had he offered it to prove yet another of his wretched points? Oh, what she wanted to say to that arrogant, insufferable—





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