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Adam interrupted her. “The Navaho do not measure their wealth by material things,” he said, moving back to his seat. “As for Sage, he said often that he measured his wealth in the respect his people gave him.”
The train lurched, shuddered, and slowly began picking up speed as the tracks were cleared. Stephanie settled back down onto her seat and started to lower the window, but she had waited too long. Billows of smoke wafted inside, bringing with it sprinklings of
stinging soot as it settled onto her face.
Coughing and spewing, Stephanie finally got the window down. A low, teasing laugh drew her eyes around. She glared at Adam while he chuckled at her appearance.
Taking a mirror from her purse, she gazed at herself and moaned. Muttering beneath her breath as the train continued huffing and puffing along, she began wiping her face clean with a handkerchief. She was glad that she was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit: the soot blended in well enough with the fabric.
Adam turned his thoughts from his stepsister and gazed from the window at the rugged, lovely landscape. He wanted like hell to be a part of this setting and would fight fire with fire if he was forced to, to achieve his final dream. The chore of convincing the Navaho that what he wanted to do would not cause them any harm would not be easy. He would be asking to take more reservation land from them, for his own private purposes. There was already more than one white ranch on land allotted to the Navaho.
Adam knew one rancher in particular—Damon Stout. Adam had wired Damon that he was coming. If Runner refused to help him, Damon Stout was known for his skills with ropes, horses, and guns.
Adam lacked in all three.
He looked over at Stephanie, who was still fussing with her face. “Ah, leave the soot on,” he teased. “You’ll blend in with the Navaho.”
He laughed raucously as Stephanie glared over at him.
Chapter 2
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood faith.
—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
Leonida stepped out of her hogan. Stretching about her in all directions was shadowy grassland. Above her, the sky was filled with fading, glimmering stars.
She walked a few steps toward the pole corral at the back of her house and sprinkled an arc of cornmeal in the air. This was an offering to the gods, who she believed would rise with the sun and pass over her hogan and her family.
She silently prayed for a blessing, then went back inside and joined her family.
“Now I walk with Talking God,” Sage said, beginning the Navaho prayer that he sometimes used before the morning meal.
He shoved another piece of wood in the fireplace of his hogan. He then settled down again beside the fire on a white sheepskin, along with his loved ones, his precious family. There was only one of them missing—his daughter, Pure Blossom.
Sage understood that she enjoyed weaving in the earlier hours of the day. And most mornings she awakened with inspirations for new designs for her blankets. She had recently moved into her own hogan so that she could have more room for her looms and other various instruments used for making her breathtaking woven, woolen coverings.
Leonida gave Sage a soft smile as she poured coffee in an earthenware mug. She inhaled deeply as the aroma of the coffee wafted upward, smelling as good as it tasted. She was glad that the Navaho, as a whole, had adopted this drink as their preferred nonalcoholic beverage. She had always loved it and had missed it when she had first joined the Navaho to become as one with them, as Sage’s wife.
“That prayer is always such a lovely way to start the day,” she murmured, handing Sage the steaming cup. She gazed lovingly at her husband. He was still a powerful leader, revered by the Dine, the Navaho people. He was as handsome as the day she had met him. His eyes were intense and dark, his shoulders broad, his hips lean, handsome with his bronzed, sculpted features.
She looked past him at Runner. It was hard to tell by looking at him that he was not Navaho by birth. He dressed in the Navaho tradition, sometimes in fringed buckskin, other times in bright velveteen breeches and shirts, his moccasins fancied up with shining, silver buttons.
He had spent so much time in the sun that his skin was bronzed almost as dark as his adopted Navaho father and brother. His black hair had been allowed to grow to waist length. He took much care in grooming it, brushing it until it glistened like a raven’s wing.
Handsome was the only word that anyone could use to describe Runner.
And his eyes.
Leonida did not know how it was possible, but Runner’s eyes were even more intense and dark than his adopted father’s.
She looked over at Thunder Hawk. He was her youngest son, and her most defiant. He was the image of his father in all ways, but he had weaknesses that troubled Leonida. He disobeyed his parents far too often.
