Authors: Kristin Hannah
Emma's breath caught. She surged toward the plant and dropped to her knees. Opening the book, she flipped to the page marked wild potatoes and studied the black line drawing of the plant and its tuber.
Then she looked at the plant huddled alongside the sandstone wall. It looked the same. . . .
She clawed furiously through the dry, red-hued dirt for the plant's root. Her fingers closed around something hard and egg-shaped. She let out a quick yelp of joy and wrenched the root free. It was as big as her palm!
She looked at the root, then at the plant, then at the book. It looked the same. Not identical, but as much THE ENCHANTMENT
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the same as a man-made ink drawing can look. She'd learned from Larence that it was impossible to capture every single nuance.
She'd found her wild potato. Her mouth watered in anticipation of something fresh. With a grin, she brushed the potato off, jammed it in her small leather pouch, and headed back to the campsite.
Emma peeled off the potato's harsh outer skin and cut the tuber into four equal pieces. Plopping the bits into the slowly boiling water, she added a generous dollop of beef extract, some salt and pepper, a few dried onions and a can of evaporated carrots, and the shepherd's purse leaves. Gradually the water began to darken, turn a rich, mouth-watering brown. She added a tablespoon or so of flour and stirred the stew until the broth thickened.
Beef-scented steam wafted her way, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation. Emma inhaled deeply, savoring the comforting smell of homemade stew.
Then she sat back on her heels and laid the spoon on the rock beside her. She glanced over at Larence, who was still pacing back and forth along the sandstone wall like an injured tiger who'd been caged.
Every now and then she heard him mutter, "It has to be here. It has to be . . ."
She let the stew simmer for two silent, nail-biting hours, then she called to him. "Supper's ready."
Larence turned slowly toward her, and the expression on his face made her heart wrench anew. His eyes, normally so full of life, were the dull, lifeless green of dying weeds. His face was pale, almost gray, and his mouth was drawn into a colorless line. He tossed the
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diary down, barely noticing where it landed in the grass, and rammed his hands into his pockets.
He tried to smile, and the effort almost broke Emma's heart. "Sure," he said. "I'm starving."
Emma got to her feet and met him halfway. She slipped her hand into his; they walked wordlessly to the small fire and sat down side by side. Emma spooned a healthy portion of stew into his tin bowl and handed it to him.
"Fresh stew," he whispered with a dry, near soundless laugh. "I guess I got lucky after all."
Emma couldn't believe that now, in the midst of his pain, he remembered.
He stirred his stew, staring silently at the tin fork as it swirled round and round. The dull, scratchy sound of tin on tin filled the air. Then, finally, he looked up again and met her gaze. "I let you down, Em. There's nothing for you here. ..."
She swallowed thickly. Tears stung her eyes. They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment.
Emma longed to say it didn't matter, that money didn't mean a damn thing to her. But she couldn't do it; the words would be a lie, and she couldn't lie to him. Not now, not after everything. He'd know, and the knowledge of her deception would hurt him more than the truth of her silence.
She wished she didn't care, wished it with all her heart. But the sad, sorry truth was that she did care.
She cared desperately. She had changed, grown on this trip, but not that much. She'd never change that much. The thought of being poor again made her almost sick to her stomach. She might change enough to allow love into her life, but she'd never put the need for money out of it. . . .
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"I'm sorry, Em."
"Me, too," she answered quietly. "Now, eat."
She broke eye contact first, then he looked away. Silently, staring into their bowls, they began to eat.
Emma took a small sip of the broth. It burned all the way down her throat and landed like a hot coal in her stomach. Then a foul, bitter aftertaste filled her mouth.
Frowning, she raised the spoon to her lips again and blew on it until the steam was gone. Then, hesitantly, she tried another bite. It burned as badly as the first; not a hot burn, a spicy one. She winced in pain, almost gagging as the bitter aftertaste flooded her mouth again.
Larence grimaced. "It tastes sort of . . ."
"I know." She took another bite, wincing at the sharp, burning taste of it. She hadn't put that much pepper in it. "Maybe it's the bitterroot."
Larence tried again. "Yeah. Maybe," he agreed doubtfully.
Emma felt a giggle start. She tried to stifle it, knowing this was no time to laugh, but she couldn't help herself. It spilled out. "I ... I'm so ... rry," she managed between giggles. "But I told you I'd kill us if I tried to cook."
A reluctant smile tugged at Larence's lips and crept into his eyes. "I should have known you're never wrong."
She smiled back, then took a sip of coffee. The hot, familiar liquid slid down her throat with comforting ease, banishing the memory of the stew's aftertaste. She leaned lazily backward, resting on her elbows, and stared at the shadow-darkened mesas that ringed them.
After a moment or two, she noticed something odd. Her heart was beating too fast. A hot flush crept up her cheeks, leaving a fiery trail. She pressed a hand to her
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cheeks, relaxing for a moment at the cool feel of her own flesh.
A headache started. Slow, thudding, hitting behind her eyes and at the back of her skull with mallet-hard force. She winced at the sudden pain of it. She pressed two shaking fingers to her temples, wishing she had some Foley's Family pills.
She stared across the fire at Larence. He was frowning at her. Frowning. The unexpected expression made her heart pound even faster, made her headache intensify. She reached shakily for the coffeepot.
"Would you like so—" The word some turned thick and muddy. She swallowed—at least she tried to swallow. But it was a feeble attempt. Her mouth was as dry as cold ash.
A wave of nausea tickled her stomach, then punched it. She clamped a hand over her roiling midsection.
"Larence ... I ... feel thick, er—" she concentrated, trying to remember the right word, and then, once she'd remembered it, trying to force it off her huge, heavy tongue "—sick."
Her fingers started to shake. She stared at them in rising panic. The bowl fell into her lap, and hot stew splashed across her skirt. The gooey fabric stuck to her thighs and burned. "Owww ..."
Larence flung his bowl away. It landed with a thunk and a clang that vibrated in Emma's ears. She clamped her hands over her ears, but still the ringing persisted, grew louder. She heard the heavy, marching clang, clang, clang over and over again; the sound matched the rapid-fire beat of her heart, thudded in her ears.
The din was huge, crashing in on her from all sides. She screamed to be heard above it. "Larence!"
He tried to crawl toward her. She could see how hard
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he was working, see the concentration it took for him to move. Panting, wheezing breaths shot from his pursed lips and added to the cacophony of sounds battering Emma's ears. Each desperate, clawing movement of his hands gained less than a hair breadth of ground. He'd never reach her. Never.
Panic swelled up from the bowels of her soul, swamped her, pulled her into its black, whirling eddy. The world tilted, spun, became a foreign, frightening blur of brown and black and green. The stars overhead blurred, melted into the ebony-hued night sky and disappeared, plunging her into a lightless void.
A frightened cry lodged in her throat and vibrated there. She was losing control of everything, her mind, her body, her senses. . . .
She clasped her shaking hand to her throat and tried to focus on something. Anything. But the world was a shifting, dancing kaleidoscope of evil shadows and impossible movement. Mesas swayed in the twilight's thickening darkness and crept toward her. Trees whispered loudly among themselves and inched closer to the fire. Far away—or maybe right beside her—a hawk screeched loudly. Then came the sounds of a dozen nocturnal animals: the distant hoot of an owl, the whisper-soft whirring of bat wings, the hollow rattle of a snake's tail. For one crazy second, Emma even thought she could hear the padding of cat paws as a cougar crept through the grass toward them.
Suddenly a hand broke through the darkness. She stared at it with a mixture of horror and awe. It was a platter-sized blob of canary yellow. Each finger vibrated, swelled, throbbed to the rabbit-fast pattering of her heart.
"Emmaline ..." The word echoed through the long,
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dark tunnel of her mind and landed in her lap like a lifeline.
She reached for him. The hand turned into a trailing, violet haze and dissipated.
She screamed.
"Emmaline ..."
She concentrated, tried to think of a single word. None came. Her throat was closed up, her tongue a dead thing wedged in her mouth.
"It's okay ... Em ... don't fight it. . . ."
Then she remembered his name. "La ... re ... nee ..." The word seeped past her huge lips in near soundless pants of breath. His fingers threaded hers and closed tight, giving her an anchor in the lurching world. A great, heaving sob of relief burst up from her chest. She clung to him desperately, crying. Each tear felt like a trail of fire down her cheek. The taste of salt was thick on her tongue.
He sidled up beside her, took her in his arms. "It's . . . okay." His voice sounded far away and pained.
His breath came in racking, wheezing pants. "There was . . . something ... in the stew."
Laughter swelled and died in her bone-dry throat. No kidding.
"Datura root . . . jimsonweed . . . looks like . . . wild potato." He held her close and helped her to her feet, tucking her protectively under his arm. Together they stood up. Alone against the crazy, illogical world around them. "Relax . . . enjoy . . . adventure . . . ancient . . . Indian . . . ritual."
They clung to each other. Overhead, the stars reappeared, danced. Streaks of colorful light shot up from the swaying treetops, flittered across the shadowy night sky.
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Then Emma saw them: the cobras. Huge, terrifying, they rose up, hooded. Dozens of lidless black eyes focused on her. Forked tongues spit through reptilian mouths. Hissing filled the quiet air. The cobras swayed left and right with the wind, then slid inexorably toward them. The hissing grew louder.
A scream swelled in Emma's chest, writhing in the pit of her stomach like the deadly snakes gliding toward her. She opened her mouth and set it free. The high, shrill sound bounded off the sandstone walls, echoed through the canyon.
"Hang on, Em." Larence's words filtered through the shriek, reached her pounding ears. "You're . . .
hallucinating."
Hallucinating. Yes. She clung to the word that made the unreal real. Her teeth came together with an audible click.
She glared at the snakes. "You're not real. "
They disappeared, leaving in their stead an army of silent, swaying trees.
She started to shake again. Her headache intensified, brought a stab of nausea so sharp, she staggered from the force of it. Clinging to Larence like a drowning woman, more frightened than she'd ever been in her life, she said the words over and over again like a litany. "It's not real. None of this is real. ..."
She didn't know how long she stood there with him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her face buried in the soft cotton of his shirt. But it seemed like forever. Longer.
Gradually her headache diminished. The rapid beating of her heart subsided. Even the shaking in her fingers melted away.
"Emma?"
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She looked up into his comforting green eyes and felt an overwhelming surge of relief. They'd made it through; whatever she'd done to them, they'd survived it. Together.
Her hands slid up the warmed, bumpy fabric of his shirt and anchored around his neck. He pulled her close, his laced fingers settling possessively in the hollow at the base of her spine.
He leaned down. She pressed up onto her tiptoes and met him more than halfway for a kiss. Slowly, reluctantly, they pulled apart.
A soft night breeze whistled through the treetops above their heads, and the small fire crackled and hissed, as if in celebration of their victory. Sparks fluttered upward from the fire and gilded the darkness.
Moonlight broke through the thick, charcoal-hued clouds and shone down on them like the finest Water-ford chandelier. Shards of sparkling light touched their faces.
Larence took her face in his hands, holding her as if she were wrought from the finest Sevres china. She blinked up into his eyes and saw something she hadn't seen in years. Something she'd long ago stopped believing in. Love.
Something hot and iron-strong coiled around her throat and squeezed. She felt a surge of something light and wonderful and pure. An emotion so huge, so magical, she was afraid to name it.
"Emmaline, I love you."
She watched his mouth move. The slow, sensual opening and closing of his lips sent a vibration through the private regions of her body. It took a moment for his words to register, and when they did, her mouth fell open in shock.
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Her? He loved her, Emmaline Hatter?
She shook her head in denial and opened her mouth to correct him. To tell him it was the drug speaking, or the passion. No one loved her. "I—"
A loud crack split the silence. The grass shuddered and the earth beneath their feet rumbled. A sound like the grinding together of rusty gears echoed through the box canyon.
"Oh, God," Emma cried, "not again ..."
"No," Larence said quickly. "This is real."
They spun toward the sound. As they did, a blue-white lightning bolt snaked out of the midnight black sky and struck the sandstone wall. Sparks flew everywhere. A giant schism zigzagged down the rock face, splitting the stone. The smell of smoke was strong.