Colton's Folly (Native American contemporary romance) (22 page)

As she swam back and forth across the pond she was unaware of Cat’s presence. He watched her cutting through the water with clean, smooth strokes. She was beautiful to see. She dove beneath the surface, and he held his breath until he saw her come up once more near the waterfall that hid the cave where he’d first come to grips with his feelings about her.

She lifted herself out of the water and slipped behind the tumbling cascade that glistened in the sunlight like shimmering crystal beads that bathed her naked body in an unearthly glow. There she stood for a moment, then raised her arms like an ancient priestess presenting herself as an offering to the gods.

Finally she moved out from behind the waterfall and spotted him. She stopped in surprise for a moment, then circled the pond to where he waited. He watched with an unbearable ache as she walked toward him, knowing he was seeing her this way for the last time. Tall, broad shouldered and slim hipped, with firm, taut breasts and a small waist, she moved easily on her long legs, making her way from one rock to another and across a stretch of open shoreline.

Dear God, he thought. How can I give her up? He turned away, bracing his outstretched arms against the trunk of an ancient oak. Never to lie with her beside me, never again to know the sweetness of her body...

He felt her arms slip around his waist, felt her breasts burn against his bare back as she whispered, “I’m glad you came. I hope it’s a good sign.”

He turned, and her lips closed on his. Unable to resist, he wound his arms around her, pressing her body along the length of his. Her skin was smooth beneath his hands, and warmly vibrant. He wanted the moment to last forever, but he knew it couldn’t. With a small groan he raised his mouth from hers and pulled apart the hands that were clasped tightly around his neck.

“Put your clothes on. We have to talk.”

She smiled impishly. “Why can’t we talk this way?”

“Because it’s too damned distracting, and you know it
and I’ve got something important to say.”

Her smile faded, and the warmth left her eyes. He turned his back on her until she spoke. “Okay, you can turn around now.”

She was wearing the briefest shorts and the thinnest T- shirt he’d ever seen. He looked at her with a grimace. “That’s not much better.”

“What is it you have to say?”

He recognized the cool distance in her voice and hated the defenses he’d forced her to erect. He walked down to the water’s edge and, with his back to her, crouched on his haunches, staring at the still surface of the pond. He tried to put his thoughts in order, to do the thing he had to, and to do it right. He felt her hand on his shoulder as she sat down on a rock near him.

“Just say it straight out.”

“Two years ago, just before my uncle died, I promised him I’d dedicate my life to Twin Buttes and its people. I didn’t make that promise lightly, Abby. I knew that I would never live like other men, that I would never have the material things other men had, that I might not have a woman of my own, or kids to carry on my name and give me comfort in my old age.

“But my uncle always told me that I had a special mission, that because I was part of two worlds, I could give our people what no one else could. Because I could see into the white man’s soul and know what he was thinking, I could protect our people from him. He said that it was my duty to protect our people from him, above everything else. That I must guard the land, uphold our traditions and protect our children. I took a sacred vow, and I intend to carry it out the best way I know how.” He looked at her briefly, saw no expression on her face, and looked away again.

“I won’t deny that I’ve been tempted to give all that up and forget my responsibilities in your arms. You’re a compelling woman, and you could easily satisfy any fantasy I’ve ever had. But I’ve done a lot of thinking since we were together, and I’ve come to the decision, finally, that there’s no chance for us. In my mind there’s too much against it, things I can’t forget or rationalize away, that I just can’t live with.”

“Look at me, Cat.”

He turned to face her again, relieved that she’d found her voice.

“Do you love me?”

“No.”

“Not at all? Don’t you care, even a little?”

“I want you, I told you that, more than I’ve ever wanted any woman. And given a choice I’d take you to bed anytime--or any place for that matter--but I’ll never marry you.”

“Those ‘things’ you mentioned, do they have anything to do with my being white?”

He turned away from her, strangely reluctant to say the words that would destroy her love for him. She spun him around in a move of surprising strength and growled angrily, “Answer me, damn it! Is it because I’m white?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed in cold fury, and her hands balled into fists. “If you can see into the white man’s soul, why can’t you see into mine? Why can’t you find the love and the caring that’s there for your people? Why can’t you trust that I would never hurt them, or betray them? Why can’t you for once look beyond the color of my skin and just see me?”

She looked at him, but nothing she’d said had stirred him. Nothing had gotten through, not the months of work, not whatever successes had been achieved, not the times they’d been together, when he’d taken her love but apparently seen it only as a sexual adventure, and, certainly, nothing she had said.

She rose and waded into the water again and out to where she could no longer stand. Then she began to swim, her mind a blank. She felt nothing, not the water as it flowed about her feverish body, or the movement of her arms and legs as she cut through the liquid cold. She ached all over with an inexpressible weariness, but she barely noticed even that.

Why did he bring me close only to push me away?
She wondered. Why did I let myself be open to him? Why didn’t I just stay away? She groaned and felt the tears start, hot tears of anger and disappointment that flowed down her cheeks and mingled with the cold water of the pond.

She took a long breath, then another, and dove deep, separating herself from all that waited at the surface and on shore. A picture flashed through her mind of herself, years from now, living alone and unable to give her love to the one man who mattered to her in all the world. She envisioned herself watching him pass along the edge of that world, distant, unfeeling, never touching, a stranger for all time. She wanted to die. It occurred to her that it would be so simple just to give up, to give in to the water, stop stroking and sink to the bottom.

Instead she drove herself to the surface with one enormous surge of power. The numbness was gone, replaced by a great, consuming, rending pain that filled her chest and burned its way down the length of her belly. She felt as if she were breaking apart from the inside. Relentlessly she forced her arms to pump and her legs to kick as she swam the length of the pond and back again, two, three times, driving the pain from her body and mind by sheer effort of will, silencing the scream that ached to escape. And then, finally, gratefully, she was calm.

It was over. He didn’t love her, didn’t need her in his life. Then so be it. Her life contained many elements, only one of which was this new love for Cat. She had her work, her friends, old and new, and enough faith in herself to know that she could make it without him. But, oh, the pain of it...

Cat saw her emerge from the water. Even at a distance he could see that despite the blow she would survive. He saw it in the way she held her head and in the set of her shoulders. He knew she had dug deep and found what she needed to go on with her life, just as she had before.

Damn her, he thought with an emptiness he hadn’t expected. She’ll probably get along better without me than I will without her.

Chapter 11

The following week Martha came to visit. When Abby answered her knock, she handed the young woman a loaf of home-baked bread, some fresh-cut flowers and a crock of honey, newly gathered from a neighbor’s hives.

“Glad you’re on your feet again,” she said, marching directly into the living room. “Why have you stayed away so long?”

Abby bustled about the kitchen, storing the bread and honey, filling a vase for the flowers, all the while wondering how to answer. Finally, unable to avoid Martha’s question any longer, she returned to the living room and lowered herself into the chair facing her friend.

“Well?” Martha prodded.

Abby stared down at her hands. “I fell in love with your son, and that was a mistake. It’s true that we were--are-- attracted to each other, but it was never meant to be any more than that. I knew he couldn’t let himself love me. I should have protected myself. It’s a bit late, but I’m protecting myself now by staying away.”

“And you’re not going to fight for him?”

“No.”

“You got any plans for the day?”

“Nothing special.”

“Come with me. I want you to meet someone.”

They walked together to a house designed like a pueblo dwelling of the Southwest and set off by itself on a large plot of land.

“This is an unusual house for this area. Why was it built this way?”

“The woman who lives here is Hopi. She’s been here almost fifty years. She’s the one who does the pottery.”

They stepped through the open doorway, and Martha called out, “Star Blanket? You here?”

A woman came toward them from the dimness. “I’m here.”

“I have a young friend I want to meet you.”

“Always glad to know someone new.”

As Martha made the introductions Abby looked at Star Blanket and recognized her as the woman in the painting in the teacher’s house. Her hair was almost white now, and pulled back from her face, emphasizing her wide, high cheekbones and her round, dark eyes, which seemed kind and filled with sad wisdom. Abby knew the woman was old, yet her face was smooth, with only laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her body, in its dark green velvet blouse and traditional long, full skirt, was solid, and her back and shoulders were straight and proud. Silver-and-turquoise jewelry in her ears caught and reflected the sunlight behind Abby, and bangles clinked on her wrist as she put out a hand in friendship.

“I’m honored to meet the new teacher. I hear many good things about you.”

Abby took her hand and smiled. “Thank you. I’ve seen some of your pottery. It’s wonderful.”

The woman nodded and ushered them farther inside. They sat on a rug covering the hard-packed earthen floor; light from an enormous window shone in on them, warming their shoulders and setting Star Blanket’s hair aglow.

Martha spoke. “This child has become like a daughter to me. I see that she will be hurt, and that makes me sad. Tell her your story, and maybe she can learn from you.”

The woman nodded, and Martha left them alone.

“If she wishes me to tell you about my life it must be that you have loved a man you cannot have. Yes?” Abby nodded. “Now I understand the sadness in your eyes. It is much like mine.

“I lived in a small pueblo called Santa Ynez. My family lived there for generations, since before the Spanish came and gave it that name. We were pottery makers, and when I was young I watched my elders and ran and fetched and carried for them, and eventually my grandmother sat me down next to her and handed me a ball of clay and taught me to do what she did. Of course, I could not copy her shapes and designs but worked according to my own vision. As I grew I tried hard to make my pieces pleasing to the eye and to have them be true symbols of the world around us.

“We discouraged strangers from coming to our village because we were afraid of outside influences. This was easy to do, because the pueblo was built on a high mesa, and most people were put off by the long climb. Then, in the thirties, the depression sent travelers drifting across the desert. The depression didn’t touch us otherwise. We had been poor all along and had nothing to lose. We simply lived as we always had, but the condition of these drifters disturbed us. So the elders built a small place at the foot of the mesa
and planted corn so the travelers would have shelter and food. And we continued in the protection of our isolation from the world below.

“One day a man made the climb. His name was Friedrich Rimmler, and he was leading a donkey laden with bundles and oddly shaped packages and asked permission to stay. He was a painter, and the bundles were his canvases and paints. When he showed his work to the leaders they realized he could keep our ways alive with his pictures. There were places he could not go and sacred things he could not paint, but otherwise he was free to come and go as he pleased.

“He stayed for a long time, and we became close. He wanted us to marry, but I could not violate our customs, so after a while he became discouraged and went away. But it was very sad to be parted. We both cried, and tears stained the letters that went back and forth between us.

“My family urged me to take a husband, but if I could not have him, I wanted no one. As they became more insistent, I became more stubborn, until I realized that I would have no peace as long as I stayed in Santa Ynez. So I packed a pony with my belongings and took a horse to ride, and I came here. Some Navajo we traded with had told me about this place. I thought the Twin Buttes people might take me in, and if they did, they would not care that I was a woman alone.