Authors: Kristin Hannah
"Good. For a moment there, I thought you were questioning me."
"I was."
"Emmaline," Larence said in a low, warning voice.
Emma didn't even spare him a sideways glance. "Let's see what you've used my money for, Dr. Stan-ton.
Shall we?" She stepped around him and peered into the nearest crate. A rifle stuck butt-first out of the closest box, and she stifled a quick shudder at the thought of Dr. Dimwit with a weapon. One by one, she studied the boxes, cataloging in her mind the contents. Tent, sleeping bags, canteens, ropes . . .
At the last crate, relief swamped her. Henry couldn't possibly justify the expenditure of ten thousand dollars. She turned around, her smile held firmly in check by years of practice. "How can that be ten thousand dollars worth?"
"It's not."
Her heart soared. She slapped her palm out in front of Henry. "Then give me what's left."
"There's nothing left."
"Nothing? Three crates full of—" she bent over and yanked out a five-pound bag of sugar "—foodstuffs, and there's nothing left?"
"Actually, I had to spend fifteen of my own dollars.
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Larence and I figured the expenses on the tightest budget possible."
Emma dropped her bag of sugar. It landed with a dusty plop. "What 'expenses'?"
Henry pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket, opened it, and extracted a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he began to read: "Sugar, flour, corn meal, rolled oats, evaporated potatoes, evaporated onions, beef extract—"
"Try and find something that costs more than five dollars," she cut in impatiently. I have a train to catch tomorrow morning.
"Diablo cost two hundred fifty." "Aha!" It was all she could do not to clap her hands in glee. "That's more than Eugene paid for his blooded carriage horse."
"True," he said, "but it takes a special horse for this job, and 'special' translates to expensive."
Emma cast a speculative glance at the big red horse. "He doesn't look too 'special' to me."
"He is. Anyone can ride him. Even someone who's never ridden before, like Larence. Around here, a calm desert horse is worth more than some scatterbrained thoroughbred."
Emma's smile fell flat. How could she argue with the law of supply and demand? "Fine," she said, running a sweaty, gloved finger inside her damp collar. "The horse was a legitimate purchase. Let's move on."
Henry consulted his list. "The pack mule—" "How much?" "Twenty dollars."
"Look, Henry, let's not make a production out of this. I have a simple question; I expect a simple answer.
You spent a few thousand dollars on supplies—I under-
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stand that. All I want to know is, where is the rest of my ten thousand dollars?"
Her question hung in the hot, dry air. She felt the ticking of each second as an almost tangible tightening around her neck. Please God, all I need is—
"The church," Henry said at last.
Emma stared at him blankly. "Excuse me?"
"To get control of Esteban's diary, I had to 'donate' eight thousand dollars to the Mexican priests who found it."
She gasped. Metal stays stabbed her skin at the sudden intake of breath. "Eight—" The word lodged like tar in her throat. "Eight thousand dollars for a book?"
"77iebook."
"Eight . . . nonrefundable thousand?"
Henry frowned. "Of course. Why would Larence want the money back?"
Hope hit the dust at Emma's feet. Desperation twisted her stomach into a hard knot.
It had all been for nothing. The terrible train trip across the country, selling her last possession, putting up with Larence's bumbling good humor, wearing the same clothes for almost a week . . .
All for nothing. She'd return to New York City as poor as she'd left it.
No. She refused to even contemplate a defeated return to New York. She'd been poor once, and she refused to fall into that soul-less hole again. She'd do anything—anything—to remake her fortune. And once she had it, by God, nothing on earth would pry it from her fingers.
Think, damn it, that's what you 're good at.
She couldn't get her money back; that much was painfully obvious. So, what now?
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The treasure. The thought plunged into her mind with blinding force, and she grabbed at it desperately.
The treasure. Of course. Without the money, it was her only hope.
And it all depended on Larence.
Her heart sank into her stomach. God only knew how long it would take Dr. Dimwit to find the treasure.
And time was the one thing she didn't have. The fifty dollars she'd gotten for the watch wouldn't last long.
If she didn't do something, and fast, she'd soon be selling wilted flowers in the Bowery and living in Rosare Court.
She had to make sure Larence hurried, and there was only one way to do that. She swallowed hard, forcing down her disgust at what she had to do. There was no choice. She was going to Cibola with Larence.
"Let's get started," Henry said. What do you want to do first? Meet the men I hired to accompany you on the expedition?"
Emma frowned. Men? Men? They had hired people to go with them? On a treasure hunt?
She shook her head in disbelief. How could anyone— even these two muddleheads—be so stupid?
Hadn't they ever heard of robbery, for God's sake?
Well, one thing was certain: No one was going with her and Larence to the secret city. She'd make damn sure of that. It was her treasure hunt as much as it was his, and she couldn't afford to lose a single gold doubloon to some backstabbing hired hand. Larence might see the world as a fairy-tale place where dreams came true and people were kind, but she didn't. She knew better; the world was a dog-eat-dog arena where people killed for a dollar, much less a fortune.
Her lips thinned into a grim, determined line. She was just about to lay down the law when she heard a THE ENCHANTMENT
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mocking. Threatening.
Realization struck. And struck hard. The men I've hired to accompany you Chapter Eight
Emma turned. The tall, bare-chested Indian was still staring at her. At her glance, his laughter dwindled.
The air thickened in sudden silence.
Dark, deep-set eyes held her captive, stealing the breath from her lungs and making her heart thump like a rabbit's. Thick lips which hinted at an intense, silent pride were drawn into a taut, disapproving line.
A chill mingled with the perspiration itching along her spine, but she forced herself to stare right back at the man. She wouldn't let him see her fear. Not him or anyone.
/ won't be afraid. I won't be afraid. . . . With each repetition of the words, she felt stronger. More in control. She wouldn't allow this man to frighten her. Frightened women were weak women, and Emma was far from weak.
She strode over to Henry and Larence, who were burrowing through the crate of foodstuffs. "No," she said firmly.
Both men turned to look at her. "What?" they said in unison.
"I won't travel with those men."
Henry offered her a smile that made her stomach turn. Emma could almost feel him patting her head. "I un-108
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derstand," he said in one of those disgusting I-know-what's-best-for-you male voices. "Most gentlewomen are afraid of Indians, but you needn't be. Really. I know almost every man in that group, and I'd trust my life— or my wife's—with any one of them."
"It has nothing to do with their race. Nothing at all. I just think—Wait a minute, what do you mean you know almost all of the men?"
"Ka-Neek over there—you see the big man without a shirt?—he's the only one I don't know."
"I'm sure all the men will be great, Henry," Larence said quickly, smiling.
Emma would have laughed if it hadn't been so damned serious. Didn't they know anything about the real world, for God's sake? Half those men looked like thieves, and the other half looked like rapists. And the man called Ka-Neek looked like both.
She squared her shoulders for battle. "They aren't going." "What?"
"I refuse to spend the next two weeks worrying about being killed or robbed or—" she lowered her voice "—worse."
"Every man over there is honorable," Henry said with a deepening frown.
"They also look poor. You can trust them all you want, Henry; I don't have to. And I don't have to travel with them."
"Larence, talk some sense into her. You two can't
go into the desert alone."
"Why not?" she demanded.
Henry stuttered for a moment, as if at a loss as to where to begin. "You'll get lost."
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Emma turned to Larence. "Can you or can you not read a compass?"
"I can."
"Can you follow the map and find us water?"
He nodded.
She shot Henry a triumphant look. "The issue is settled. We're going alone."
She was just congratulating herself on how well she'd handled the unpleasant situation when Larence took her by the arm and led her to a private spot a few feet away from the wagon.
"Henry has worked very hard on this expedition, Emmaline."
"I'm not going with them."
His penetrating gaze focused on her face. She dropped her chin and stared at her toes. She didn't want him to see her irrational, humiliating fear of Ka-Neek.
"What is it, Emmaline?" His voice was quiet. Compelling.
He laid his hands on her shoulders. Warmth seeped through the hot, damp fabric of her jacket and tingled along her skin.
"Em?" The sound of his voice was soft, gentle, and it sparked a sudden, unexpected wave of longing within her breast. She'd waited a lifetime to hear someone say her name like that.
She pulled away, struggling to maintain at least a facade of control. "Are you deaf? I'm not going with those men, and that's that."
He swallowed the distance between them in a single step. Emma felt the cool of his shadow fall across her face. She quickly looked at the ground.
His forefinger slid beneath her chin. She felt its hard
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warmth like a brand against her skin. Slowly he tilted
her face up.
The concern in his eyes almost did her in. She squeezed her eyes shut in a feeble attempt to maintain her composure. Don't let him see your weakness. Don't give him that power over you. . . .
"Open your eyes, Em." When she didn't budge, he added, "I'll wait all day."
He probably would. Reluctantly she did as he asked— and found that he had leaned toward her. His nose was nearly touching her own. She felt the feather-soft caress of his breath against her cheek. His knowing eyes imprisoned her, made the breath stumble in her throat. "That's better. Now, tell me the truth. What are you
so afraid of?"
Resentment surged to the forefront of her mind. She hadn't revealed her fear, and yet somehow he'd seen it. Those damn eyes of his had done it again.
Now there was no choice left but to tell Larence the truth and hope he didn't use it against her.
"Please ... I ..." The confession stuck in her throat. She looked at Larence helplessly, shaking her head.
She couldn't tell him; too many years of training and self-imposed solitude made it impossible for her to admit to fear. She'd spent a lifetime building an emotional barrier to the world, and the walls just wouldn't come down so easily.
Her nervous gaze cut to Ka-Neek to see if the man was still staring at her. He was.
Larence's gaze followed hers. Turning, he stared long and hard at Ka-Neek, and then, slowly, he brought his gaze back to her face.
She held her breath. Please . . .
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"Okay. We'll go alone. It'll be more of an adventure that way, anyway."
Emma's breath came out in a rush. Thank you, God . . . and Larence.
With a concerted effort, she stilled the trembling in her fingers and limbs. She was being a fool, she knew it, but somehow the knowledge didn't help much. She'd been afraid there for a moment, really afraid, and it left her feeling shaken and weak.
"Let's tell Henry," she said, forcing strength back into her voice.
"Emmaline?"
She didn't look at him. She couldn't. Not yet; not while relief and fear still lurked in her eyes. It was bad enough that he'd seen her weakness and acted upon it; she didn't want him to know just how relieved she was. If he knew that, he'd know how truly afraid she'd been, and she'd learned a long time ago that it was never smart to give out information about yourself. It gave people a power over you, a way to hurt you.
She'd given Larence enough of a weapon. She'd be damned if she'd give him any more. As it was, she'd have to spend the rest of the trip wondering when he'd use it against her.
Without sparing Larence a glance, she grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the wagon. Henry looked at them expectantly.
"We won't be needing the Indians," Larence said.
"But the two of you can't go alone. It wouldn't be safe."
"Safer than going with them," Emma responded.
"And it wouldn't be proper," Henry added with a pointed, fatherly look.
"Now, that's something I care about," Emma said.
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"But the curse—"
"What curse?" she demanded.
Henry shot an uneasy glance at the Indians, then lowered his voice. "There's supposed to be a curse on seekers of the lost city. Over the years, many have tried to find Cibola; all have failed, most have died—"
"Rubbish. Larence and I don't believe in any silly local superstitions, do we?"
"Nope."
Henry sighed dramatically and threw his hands up in the air. "All right, I'll send them home. They won't mind getting paid for doing nothing, but I can't recommend—"
"Paid? Paid?" Emma parroted. "They won't be getting paid, Doctor."
"Now, see here, Miss Hatter—"
"No, Doctor. You see here. They're not going; they're not getting paid."
"Yes, they are." The voice was soft, so soft, and yet it was rock-hard. Emma blinked in surprise.
Larence— Larence—had disagreed with her. It was like having Santa slap your hand.