Authors: Kristin Hannah
"Shall we walk?" Larence's question interrupted her musings.
She took a shallow, close-mouthed breath. "How far?"
Bad question. With an eager grin, Larence plopped his duck valise on the ground, squatted beside it, and started burrowing through the cluttered bag.
"Here it is," he said, extracting a carefully folded piece of paper. Before Emma could utter a word, he'd opened the Rand McNally map of New Mexico to its full three-foot-by-three-foot size, and was poring over the spider-leg scrawls.
She peered over his shoulder. "How far?"
Pushing slowly to his feet, he began to refold the map.
"Larence?"
"The church isn't listed by name."
A terrifying question flitted through her mind. "It is in Albuquerque, though. ..."
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He nodded. "Yes, I'm sure of that. In the early seventeen hundreds, there was a priest named—"
"I believe you," she said quickly to forestall another scintillating historical monologue.
The loud, pealing jangle of a brass bell announced the arrival of a draft-horse-drawn streetcar. Emma almost buckled with relief when it came to a creaking halt in front of them.
She jabbed Larence in the side. "Ask him where the place is." And it damn well better be in Albuquerque and not Atlanta.
"Sir?" Larence inquired of the man perched on a three-legged stool in the thrusting lip of the streetcar. '
'Do you go to San Felipe de Neri?"
The man squinted up at them. "You in a hurry?"
"No—" "Yes—" They answered at once.
The driver laughed. "Well, if you ain't in a hurry, hop on. If you are, you'd best walk. Me an' Bullet here, we take our sweet time."
Larence grinned at the driver. "A man after my own heart," he said, offering Emma his arm.
Ignoring him, she grabbed her skirt and descended the wide, pale-colored stairs to the dusty, dirty strip of land that Albuquerqueans ambitiously called Railroad Avenue.
Naturally, with ten empty seats on the streetcar, Larence squeezed in beside her. She jabbed her parasol between them and rammed her satchel on her lap. Her gloved fingers curled around the smooth leather handle and didn't let go.
Emma stared forlornly at the town as it unfolded before her. The street was nothing more than a long, wide stretch of loose sand and dust. Buildings were crammed on either side of the street like a child's building blocks.
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All wood, all the same height, all false fronts, and all boring.
She pressed a hand over her mouth as a filter against the dust churned up by Bullet's huge, plodding hooves. Thank God she wouldn't be here long.
Larence edged forward on the streetcar's hard wooden seat and peered around Emmaline's stiff shoulders.
Albuquerque unfurled in front of his eyes like something out of one of Mayne Reid's dime novels.
His gaze darted up and down the street, greedily storing images to take out later and savor like fine pieces of chocolate. Horse-drawn wagons and ox-drawn car-retas churned down the street, creating a cloud of rolling dust.
They passed the White Elephant saloon, and Larence craned his neck for a better look. The saloon's front door was flung open in greeting, giving him an unobstructed view of the dark, smoke-filled interior.
Body-shaped shadows shifted and moved in the hazy half-light. The warbling strains of a poorly played accordion and the tinny clang of an old piano drifted into the dusty street.
It was exactly what he expected. Exactly. A dime novel hero's perfect haven. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the scene inside the saloon. Dozens of hard-bitten, hard-riding men sidling up to a massive wooden bar, swilling rotgut and laughing about the day's work. Pretty, scantily clad women sidling up to the men, laughing softly, propositioning.
Slowly the streetcar clanked on by. The warbling, hard-edged sounds of the saloon drifted on the air for a long, exquisite moment, and then drifted away.
Gradually the new part of town gave way to the old. The western frontier town became an age-old, much-THE ENCHANTMENT
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loved Spanish village. Pale adobe buildings squatted one after another along the wide street, their doors connected by a long, covered boardwalk. Across from the small plaza, a beautiful, white-picket-fenced park appeared like an oasis in the middle of the dusty street.
People drifted through the marketplace. Horses and mules and burros clomped up and down the hard-packed street, their heavy footfalls accompanied by the occasional snap of leather reins on a dusty hindquarter or the grinding squeak of tired wagon wheels.
"Whoa, Bullet."
The streetcar came to a stop. The driver twisted around on his perch to look at them. "Here yah are, folks. Old Town."
"And the other part was 'new'?" Emmaline said under her breath. She shot a disgusted glance at the flesh-tone adobe buildings, and wrinkled her nose.
Larence started to frown, then stopped himself. No, he thought ferociously. I won't let her dourness affect me. It was too bad she couldn't see the beauty around her, but if she couldn't, it was her problem.
Not his.
Emma lurched to her feet. Jamming her parasol and bag under one arm, she pushed past him into the aisle. "Let's go."
Her boot heels clicked rapid-fire along the floor, then thudded onto the dirt street.
Larence sighed wearily. Forcing a smile he should have felt but didn't, he grabbed his valise and followed her out.
"Hurry up!" she hollered.
He stared after her in awe. She was about ten feet in front of him, and she was moving. Fast. Her back ramrod-straight, her nose in the air, her feet and skirt hem obliterated by a cloud of dust, she looked like a
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general headed onto the battlefield. There was no hint that she was uncomfortable—and she had to be downright sweaty under all those layers of wool.
Suddenly she stumbled, clutched her side. The parasol wedged beneath her arm wobbled precariously, tilted.
"Emma!" He surged forward as fast as his bad leg allowed. He wasn't fast enough. Before he could reach her, she was off again, striding hell-bent toward the walkway's meager shade.
He hurried along behind her, listening to the rasping, broken tenor of her breathing. At the covered sidewalk, she bent in half like a broken doll, clutching her sides. Her satchel thunked to the ground.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of running, Lar-ence finally reached her. ' 'Are you all right?"
She took another gasping, wheezing breath, then slowly grabbed her bag and drew herself erect. She looked up at him, and there was spiritless blue fire in her eyes that chilled him to the bone. "Let's go."
She rejammed her parasol under her arm and forced a path through the other shoppers. He watched her barrel through the makeshift marketplace and felt a sharp stab of sadness for her. Nothing caught her attention. In fact, he doubted if she even noticed the people she was plowing through to get to her destination.
Oh, well, he thought with a shrug. He couldn't change her.
But she wouldn't change him, either. This was his adventure, and he was going to enjoy it.
On that cheerful thought, he shoved his free hand in his pocket. Whistling softly, happily, he ambled lazily down the wide, shady pathway.
"Larence ..." His name, buried in an impatient
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huff, was followed by the unmistakable tapping of her foot. Larence listened to the ra-ta-ta-tat and smiled, casting a surreptitious glance to where she was standing. Her foot tapped ceaselessly, creating a cloud of dust around her high-buttoned walking boots and black skirt.
Whistling a bit louder, he squatted down beside an old Indian woman and admired her handiwork.
Emma stopped tapping and started stomping. "I'd like to find Stanton sometime this century," she grumbled.
Larence handed the woman a coin and pushed to a stand. When he reached Emma, he flashed her an innocent smile and offered her his arm. She took it with obvious reluctance, and together, they started across the street.
His smile turned into an eager grin as he gazed at the adobe church that had presided over this square for nearly two hundred years. White crosses glinted in the warm April sun. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he stepped up his pace. Beside him, he was dimly aware of Emmaline wheezing and hacking at the dust his feet churned up. He knew he should slow down, make it easier on her, but he didn't want to. Not this time. Just this once, he wanted—needed—to be selfish.
With each step, his excitement grew. Any minute, Stanton would come around that corner, and the adventure would really and truly begin. Any minute—
I'll get my money back. It was that thought—and that thought alone—which kept Emmaline from complaining about Larence's world-record pace. Head down, fingers curled tightly around his forearm, she struggled to match him step for dust-billowing step.
Her feet caught in her skirt and she stumbled. Only
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her ironclad grip on Larence's forearm saved her from falling. He slowed for a millisecond, then reacceler-ated. Her hold tightened. She leaned almost imperceptibly toward him. For once, she didn't care if she looked weak. She was. Weak as a kitten.
Refund. Refund. Refund. The word was her mantra, her salvation. It slammed through her brain with every crunch of her heel, reminded her time and again of why she was here. Any minute now, she'd meet Dr. Stanton, prove to the doddering coot how poorly he'd spent her money, and demand enough of a refund to start over.
Refund. Just thinking about it made her feel stronger, better. "Stanton!"
Larence's voice reached her dust-clogged ears. She dragged her chin up and squinted into the vicious sun, trying to make out the dark shadow waving at them from across the street.
God help me, another windmill. She blinked. The stoop-shouldered old man shuffled toward them, his right hand already outstretched in greeting. "Lar-ence, my boy, it's good to see you."
"Good to see you, too, Henry," he said, shaking his mentor's hand. "I'd like you to meet Emmaline Hatter."
Henry cocked his head at her. "The financier?"
"Of course," she answered.
He looked back at Larence. One bushy white eyebrow lifted questioningly. "Interesting development."
"Isn't it great? She's fascinated by Cibola."
"Fascinated," she murmured sarcastically. "Look, Henry, I'd like to speak with you about—"
"First things first," he said, and promptly turned his back on her.
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Emma's teeth came together with a snap. What sort of man turned his back on a woman while she was speaking? The answer came to her immediately: the sort of man who left a woman's bags piled on a station bench.
Professors, she thought with disgust.
Shaking her head, she plucked up her skirts and followed Tweedledee and Tweedledum across the street.
Halfway to the supply wagon, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Someone was watching her.
She looked around. Not more than ten feet away from the wagon was a group of Indians. The serape-ed men were standing together in a half circle, laughing softly and talking among themselves.
Nothing unusual about men talking, Emma told herself firmly. Then she saw him.
A tall Indian man stood out from the crowd of short, squat men like a hundred-year oak in a grove of alder. He wore no hat and no shirt, and his bronzed, barrel-chested torso glinted copper in the bright sunlight. The only adornment on his body was a thick green band that encircled the largest part of his bicep. He was staring right at her.
Emma felt a flicker of unreasonable fear. Her fingers tightened nervously around her gripsack's leather handle. He inclined his head at her almost imperceptibly. Slowly, as if he were trying to frighten her, he crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels to study her. Narrowed eyes stared at her, followed her every move. She felt a thick, almost tangible sense of malice emanating from him.
Nothing wrong with a man looking at you, Em. Calm down. She was letting her imagination run riot. With a
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snap of her chin, Emma broke eye contact, and the moment she did, she felt better. There was no sense in worrying about something that didn't concern her. That man was nothing to her. Nothing.
"Here's your horse, Larence," Henry said as Emma reached the men. "His name's Diablo. He wasn't cheap, but he's worth every cent."
Cheap. The word was like a gift from God. Emma stepped forward. "Now, that's just what I wanted to talk to you about, I—"
"He's a beautiful animal, Henry. Thanks." Emma tapped Henry's shoulder. "About what you spent—"
"My pleasure."
Emma gritted her teeth. They were acting as if she weren't even here. As if she weren't important.
She squeezed her eyes shut and counted silently to ten. She didn't want to alienate Henry. Without his help, she wouldn't retrieve a dime of her money. When she'd calmed down, she tried again, "Dr. Stanton, I'm anxious to—"
Larence curled an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. Emmaline stiffened instinctively.
"She's as anxious as I am to get going, Henry. How long till we get started?"
"You'll leave at dawn tomorrow. I've made reservations for you at the Armijo House. We'll unload the supplies now, and then go have dinner."
Emma almost sighed with relief as Henry began unloading the wagon. Finally they were getting somewhere. All she had to do now was figure out where to save money.
Henry yanked three slatted crates from the back of the wagon and dropped them to the ground.
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"There it is, Larence. Your supplies."
Emma snorted. "Three little crates of food cost ten thousand dollars?"
Henry frowned. "Is there a problem, Miss Hatter?"
Larence chuckled. "With her, there's always a problem, Henry."
She shot him a quelling stare. "Not at all, Dr. Stan-ton. As long as your expenditures are . . . reasonable, there shouldn't be a problem in the world."