Beautiful Dreamer with Bonus Material (24 page)

“Like I said, baby doll. I get what I want.”

“Have you ever wanted something that didn’t belong to someone else? Ever? Even once in your spoiled life?”

Turner’s only answer was the red flush crawling up his face.

“That’s what I thought,” she said coolly. “You’re still a baby. You’re buried in toys, but the only one you want is the one you see someone else holding. You’re obsessed with what you don’t have. Until you get it. Then you drop the new toy and look around to see what other people are playing with. You’ve never grown up.”

“Listen, you—”

“But that’s your problem,” she said, ignoring his attempt to talk over her. “It’s not mine. Not anymore. No matter what happens with the ranch, with Rio, with anything at all,
I will never be your whore.
”

With an ugly sound, Turner spun around and slammed out of the room. As much as he wanted to put his hands on her, there were too many witnesses in the bank.

And there was Rio.

Always.

Slowly the adrenaline seeped out of Hope, leaving her face pale and her muscles like sand. When her hands no longer trembled she picked up her purse and let herself out of the small office. Other than a few curious stares from tellers who knew her, no one seemed interested in what had happened in the tiny office.

A few miles out of town, she took a detour to a small house where a silversmith lived. There she picked up the presents she had had made for Mason and Rio. She couldn’t believe that Christmas was only a few days away.

She had never felt less like celebrating. There was too much to be done. Some of it was bitter and hard.

Yet it had to be done just the same.

“How was town?” Mason called from the porch.

Though Hope hadn’t said anything, he suspected that she had gone to ask for an extension on the second mortgage.

“Same as always.”

He heard the anger and weariness beneath her carefully neutral tone and sighed. “I’ll unload them supplies and go pick up Rio. You go talk to your black cows. They been mooing up a storm for you.”

Hope turned the truck over to Mason and went to the home pasture to check on her Angus. Sweetheart came walking over, radiating muscular health with every stride. Her eyes were clear and deep, like pools of liquid darkness shining out from the midnight sea of her winter-thickened coat.

“Sweetheart, you’re so beautiful you make me feel like a burlap bag,” she said.

Sweetheart sighed as though to say,
Of course I’m beautiful. I’m perfect.

Hope rubbed the cow lovingly, gave her a pan of grain, then shook the feed sack until the other Angus started ambling over. Quickly she poured out a long, thin line of grain. As the black cattle lined up for their treat, she watched their movements critically. None of them appeared lame now.

For a few moments she simply stood and looked at her cattle. They had a solid, earthy reality that renewed her belief in her dream of a thriving ranch. Without realizing it, she smiled, feeling better just for being with her healthy, handsome herd.

She was seeing more than beautiful animals when she looked at her Angus. She was seeing the future of the Valley of the Sun.

“Good night, Sweetheart,” she whispered. “And you, too, Sweet Dreams. Grow big and strong and gorgeous, just like your mom.”

When Mason and Rio drove into the yard, there was just enough time for Rio to shower before dinner. With steps that he felt in every bone in his body, Rio dragged himself up the stairs and let steaming water pour over him, washing away the dust and grit of another dry day.

But nothing could wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.

He pulled on clean clothes and went downstairs. The thought of Hope’s smile was as much a lure as the cooking scents that had his stomach growling impatiently.

“Come and get it or I’ll feed it to the pigs,” Hope said cheerfully when she heard Rio’s footsteps on the stairs.

It was her standard greeting at the end of the day. Usually he responded by grabbing her and kissing her soundly. This time he simply wrapped his arms around her, lowered his cheek to her hair, and held her as though she needed comfort.

Or he did.

“Long day?” she asked softly.

His arms tightened around her.

“Hit more stone,” he said at last. “Finally got through it.” Then, “It’s dry on the other side, too.”

Cold spread through Hope. She put her lips against his neck and counted the beats of his heart for a long, silent moment. Then she stirred and smiled up at him.

“Come on,” she said. “You’ll feel better after you eat.”

Gently Rio moved his thumbs over her cheekbones and lips. He started to speak, but instead kissed her with a tenderness that brought a sheen of tears to her eyes.

“There is no one like you,” he said simply.

That night Rio told her again, differently, wordlessly, taking her and being taken in turn, giving himself to the endless passion and shattering release that only Hope had ever called from him. He no longer questioned the urgent upwelling of her need and his own, the hot perfection of their fused bodies, the sense of rightness he felt all the way to his soul when he held her asleep in his arms.

There were times when he wished that he could drill for water in Wind Canyon forever, finding nothing but the unbelievable joys of this one woman’s love.

Yet Rio knew he must find water, ending this dream and beginning another, Hope’s dream of a Valley of the Sun that lived again. He had to find water, and find it soon. The longer he stayed, the more he would hurt her when he left.

And the thought of hurting her was like hot metal drilling through his flesh and bone to his soul.

“I’m going to start drilling around-the-clock,” Rio told Hope the next morning. “We’re running out of time. The well has to be in by January fifteenth. Otherwise you’ll never get the bank to extend your loan.”

The darkness in his eyes was more than she could bear.

“No,” she said calmly. “I can pay off the second mortgage. There’s no need for you to kill yourself working double and triple shifts. We have as much time as you need.”

Rio gave her a look that shook Hope to her soul, as though he sensed that she was talking about more than the well being drilled through layers of rock and time into an undiscovered past and an even more mysterious future.

“One of Mason’s grandnephews is coming in after Christmas,” Rio said. “I’ll start around-the-clock drilling then.”

She wanted to argue but didn’t. He was right. Whether it was time or money or both, it didn’t matter.

They didn’t have enough of either.

Twenty-four

H
OPE
, R
IO, AND
M
ASON
spent Christmas Eve out at the well site. She decorated the derrick with colored lights and piñon boughs, hung popcorn and cranberry strings over nearby sagebrush, and cooked turkey over a spit that Rio and Mason had rigged. They sang all the old carols, Hope’s true alto mixing with Rio’s bass while Mason played a scarred harmonica with surprising skill.

Tears ran down both Hope’s and Mason’s cheeks as the music brought back people and Christmases past, Hope’s parents and Mason’s beloved wife, memories of laughter and holiday surprises.

When there were no more carols to sing, they toasted Christmas and the well and one another with cut-crystal glasses of rye that caught and multiplied every colorful light Hope had strung from the derrick. For a time they sipped potent whiskey, savoring the silence and the wind and the special peace that came with the season.

Finally Mason stood, stretched, and went to the truck. He returned quickly, carrying two presents.

“Here you go,” he said to Rio.

Surprised, Rio took the package and slowly pulled off the wrapping that Mason had taped until there was almost no paper showing. When Rio finally managed to open the long, flat box, he made a sound of amusement and pleasure.

A handmade snakeskin hatband gleamed up at him from the box, reflecting firelight from the pale, diamond-patterned scales. The size of the scales told him that the rattlesnake had been a big one.

“Don’t I recognize this hide?” he asked wryly.

“Sure do,” Mason said with satisfaction. “That’s a chunk of the big son that thought he could live near Hope’s Angus herd. I showed him otherwise.”

“He’s a beauty,” Rio said, running his fingertips down the supple hatband.

“He’ll look a damn sight better on your head than he did under the rocks by the trough.”

Rio laughed.

Grinning, Mason gave Hope another package. She opened it and found a strip of the foolish snake made into a belt.

“Same for you, gal,” Mason said, smiling. “The snake will look right pretty wrapped around your waist.”

“Thank you,” she said huskily. “I wondered what you were doing in the barn workshop all those early mornings. Now I know.”

The thought of how the cold must have bitten into his hands as he worked on the gifts made her want to smile and cry at the same time. She settled for giving him a big hug and a kiss on his scratchy cheek.

“This isn’t as fancy as rattlesnake,” Rio warned, handing a soft package to Mason.

Eager as a kid, Mason tore into the wrapping and found a new pair of leather work gloves. He pulled them on and admired them. They were tough and yet flexible enough not to bind knuckles that were swollen and sore from arthritis.

While Mason thanked Rio, Hope went to the box of kitchen supplies that she had brought up from the ranch for dinner. Inside, buried beneath the potato sack, she had hidden two small presents. She gave Mason his package first.

He opened the little box and his breath went out with a whoosh. “Damn, honey, I can’t say when I seen something so pretty.”

Gently he lifted out the silver buckle. It was a hammered oval with a running horse made of mother-of-pearl painstakingly inlaid in the center. He held the buckle in his gloved, gnarled hands, admiring the play of firelight across the silver and pearl surface.

“Can’t wait to put it on,” he said, winking at her.

He walked quickly over to the bright work light in the shed on the far side of the derrick, pulled off his belt, and began replacing his old brass buckle with the new silver.

While he worked, Hope handed Rio his present. He looked at her for a long moment, holding the small package in his hands before he began unwrapping it. Inside the box, nested within layers of tissue paper, lay a heavy bracelet made of a single piece of cast silver. There was just enough of a gap in the oval form to allow it to fit over a man’s wrist.

Rio whistled softly.

The curved surface of the bracelet was inlaid with pieces of polished turquoise in a rippling wave pattern that was a common Native American symbol for Rio’s name.

The cool perfection of the silver caressed his fingertips. Then he felt an irregularity on the inner side and tilted the bracelet so that he could see the hidden surface. Inscribed on the thick silver were the words:
For as long as the water flows.

Emotion wrenched through him, pleasure and pain at once.

With a smooth twist of his right hand, he fitted the bracelet on his left arm. The silver glowed against his dark skin. The wavy lines of the river symbol seemed to flow with each shift of wind and firelight.

When Rio looked at Hope, light and emotion gleamed in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time that someone had given him a present, much less one that was so perfectly suited to him. He eased her down into his lap and kissed her gently, repeatedly, as though he was afraid that she would slide through his fingers like the wind if he tried to hold her too tightly.

“Thank you,” he said almost roughly. “It’s like you. Unexpected. Beautiful.” He opened his collar and reached inside his shirt. “There’s no fancy wrapping on your gift. I wanted to give it to you the same way I got it long ago, warm with the giver’s own life.”

She watched as he lifted a Southwest Indian necklace from around his neck.

“This was my great-grandmother’s, my grandmother’s, and my mother’s,” he said quietly. “Mother gave it to me when she left me with my grandfather and went back to the city.”

The necklace shimmering in Rio’s hands was in a traditional squash-blossom pattern, but instead of hammered-silver crescents and turquoise stones, the blossoms were made from dimes more than a century old. It was a compelling blend of white and Indian cultures. Its stately beauty and history made chills move over her skin.

“Rio, I can’t take—”

He kissed her until she forgot what she had been trying to say. While he kissed her, his fingers unbuttoned her blouse until his hands could circle her neck freely.

She felt the smooth, oddly reassuring weight of the necklace against her breasts. The silver was like a caress, radiating back the heat it had absorbed from his body.

Helplessly she whispered his name.

He kissed her again. Then he lifted his head and looked at her with eyes darker than the night, deeper.

“My grandmother told me that one day I would find the right woman to wear this necklace,” he said. “I never believed her until I saw you by Turner’s well with laughter in your eyes and water running like liquid silver from your cupped hands.”

Hope blinked against the tears that burned her eyelids.

“Maybe, someday,” he said, brushing his lips over hers, “your daughter will wear this necklace and you’ll tell her about the man who gave it to you. I can’t think of any better gift than that this silver be warmed by a child born of your body.”

“What about your children?” she asked, her throat aching.

His gentle smile was like a knife turning in Hope.

It was just as painful for him.

“Once, I wanted a woman to have my baby. It was in the city, before I accepted that I was what my grandfather had named me. Brother-to-the-wind. The woman loved me, but she was pure white. She didn’t want to have mixed children.”

“Then she didn’t love you,” Hope said starkly.

He shook his head. “No, dreamer. She was just being honest. I’ve always been grateful to her for that. Another kind of woman wouldn’t have told me until we were married. It happened to one of my cousins.”

“I’m not like that,” Hope said, her voice shaking. “I want—”

But Rio was still speaking, refusing to hear her, and his words were talons sinking deeply into her, making her soul bleed. “I’ll never again ask a woman to bear my child.”

Hearing Rio’s lifetime of isolation summarized in his gentle, relentless words almost destroyed Hope. She tried to speak, to tell him that she would have given even the Valley of the Sun if she could have his love and his children. But she couldn’t speak. Words and emotions clogged her throat, defeating her.

“Rio, I—”

“Let it go, dreamer,” he said against her lips. “My beautiful dreamer. Accept it. I have.”

Head bowed, she fought the tears that were choking her.

And she wondered if she might be carrying Rio’s baby now, if after he was gone she would one day give a warm silver necklace to a child he had never known.

The wind keened down the canyon, covering the small sounds Hope made as she struggled for self-control. Rio’s hand moved slowly, repeatedly, over her hair, and with each motion the silver band on his wrist shimmered with unearthly light. Yet even more brilliant than hammered silver were the cascading stars and the glittering, ghostly river of the Milky Way overhead.

Mason returned to the campfire proudly wearing his new buckle. If he saw the gleam of tears on Hope’s face, he didn’t mention it. He just joined the intimate silence by the fire until only embers remained.

Coyotes began singing their own carols. Ancient harmonies shivered through the darkness with an eerie beauty that made it easy to believe in spirits and gods walking across the face of the night.

“My Zuni grandfather loved Christmas,” Rio said quietly.

Hope turned her head against his shoulder and looked at his profile outlined by stars.

“He told me Christmas was the only time that the white-eyes gathered in family clans and sang the songs of power with their souls in their voices. He said he could feel the Great Spirit flowing through the churches like a rain-bearing wind, sweeping away the dust of the previous year.”

“Then why didn’t he become a Christian?” Hope asked softly.

“He did.”

“I thought he was a shaman.”

“He was.”

She looked over her shoulder at Rio. Smiling, he pulled her even closer between his knees, brushed his lips over her sage-scented hair, and tried to explain.

“My grandfather knew there were other gods, but he was convinced that the white man’s God was stronger. For my ancestors, the proof of power was in day-to-day living. His children spoke a European language, learned European history, and worshipped a European God. That was power.”

Rio hesitated, then added softly, “But the coyotes still sing harmonies older than man, the rain still can be called from a cloudless sky, and the wind still is brother to a few men. For Grandfather, that, too, was power.”

Soft laughter breathed into Hope’s hair, Rio’s laughter as he remembered.

“But he had a hell of a time convincing Grandmother that there were other spirits as valid as the Holy Ghost. She prayed for his half-heathen soul until the day she died.”

Hope ran her hand caressingly over Rio’s arm. She lingered to feel the silver bracelet, already warm with his life. His hand closed over hers, holding her between silver and his palm.

“Is your grandfather still alive?” she asked.

“Yes.” Rio brushed his lips over her hair. “He’s part of the coyote’s song and the long cry of the wind. He’s a phrase from a white man’s carol and a breath of the power pouring through a Christmas church. There was room in his soul for all of them. I like to think there’s room for him now in all of them.”

Mason’s soft “amen” came from across the campfire.

The wind gusted, sending a shower of sparks upward in an incandescent spiral.

After a moment Mason stretched and stood up. “Well, I’m gonna take these old bones back to a soft bed.”

“I’ll bring Hope to the ranch in a while,” Rio said.

“Suit yourself. I’m too old to need baby-sitting.”

Mason walked beyond the range of the campfire’s wavering light and climbed stiffly into Hope’s truck. The engine turned over, the headlights swept across the sky, and the tires grumbled over the makeshift road.

“What about you?” she asked when it was quiet again. “Aren’t you going to stay at the house?”

“I brought up a bedroll and mattress earlier.”

Turning, she slid her fingers beneath his denim jacket until she found the warm flesh between the snaps on his shirt. “Is it big enough for two?”

His whole body tightened at her touch, as though her fingers were molten silver instead of flesh. Without a word he stood, pulling her with him, and led her to his bed behind a big clump of sage.

Then he made exquisite, consuming love to her. Like a passionate wind he whispered her beauty and her sensuality, sang of his own need to fill every hollow of her, and then he came to her and moved within her, telling her with his touch those secrets only the wind knew. Again and again he brought her to shivering completion, knowing her with an intimacy that was greater with each touch, each instant, each movement of his powerful body over hers.

When she wept his name in her ecstasy, he gave himself to her and to the silver rains he had called from the desert of his own need.

Long before dawn the drill was turning again, chewing down through solid rock, dragging a long steel straw behind, drilling down to the point where dreams came true or died.