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“Sometimes they are necessary,” Pure Blossom said softly. “At least, for a short while.”
“I will think about it,” Runner said, then nodded a farewell to Stephanie and urged his horse off in a soft trot. “Come, little sister. Today I will help you sneak into your hogan without being seen. I am not sure about tomorrow, though.”
Pure Blossom drew up next to Runner. “Uke-he, thank you,” she said, her eyes smiling.
Adam and Stephanie stared at one another for a moment, then Adam took her into his arms. “Thank you for not voicing an opinion,” he said, stroking her hair. “I could see it in your eyes that you did not approve of what I’m up to.”
“What are you up to, Adam?” Stephanie said, taking a step away from him. “Are you truly in love with Pure Blossom?”
“With all of my heart,” Adam said, then turned to walk away from her, toward his private car.
“But that isn’t always enough, is it, Adam?”
Adam turned and gave her a steady stare, then continued on.
“Good Lord,” Stephanie said to herself, growing cold inside, “he’s not going to marry her.”
She slowly shook her head. Her brother was playing a dangerous game, but she could only wait and see how he played it out. She silently prayed that somehow he might change his mind and be true to Pure Blossom after all.
Love sometimes conquered all—even greedy, conniving brothers.
Chapter 18
Love, to endure life’s sorrow,
and earth’s woes,
Needs friendships’ solid
masonwork below.
—ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
By noon, Stephanie and Runner were together again. She followed his lead, taking advantage of whatever he allowed her to photograph, thankful for at least that. Adam had caused enough problems for Runner and his family; she wanted to continue being the peacemaker. Most certainly she did not want to be labeled the antagonist.
Today she had followed Runner on frightening climbs, zigzagging upward, across saguaro-studded slopes and along barren ridges sparsely dotted with cedar. She had seen tarantulas the size of saucers scuttling slowly across the land. She had been horrified at the sight of rattlesnakes sunning themselves on rocks. She had seen all sorts of colorful lizards.
Riding in a slow lope across sand dotted with various cactus plants, Stephanie edged her horse over closer to Runner’s stallion.
“Runner, I’ve heard of a place called Canyon del Muerto, where there was a Spanish massacre of Navaho people in 1805,” she said. She winced when she saw an angry fire light his eyes.
Yet she proceeded to ask about it. “It is called the Antelope House Ruins, is it not?” she prodded. “I read that a large number of Navaho women and children were killed there. Would you take me to see it?”
“It is a place where if you stand among the ruins, you will still hear the wails of those mothers long ago as they stoo
d watching their children being slain by the Spaniards,” Runner said, giving Stephanie a tight-jawed look. “Canyon del Muerto forks off to the east from Canyon de Chelley. I will not escort you to either place.”
“Canyon de Chelley,” Stephanie said, nodding. “I read many accounts of that, also. I had hoped that you and I could go there. I so badly want to see it.”
“If you went there, you would be tempted too much to photograph it; it is a place of sheer beauty,” Runner said, nudging his horse into a faster pace.
Stephanie did the same and caught up with him. “I hear that it is breathtakingly beautiful,” she said. “I read all about it before coming here. The cliff walls are full of ancient dwelling places, and there are mysterious carvings and wall paintings all over the canyon.”
The more she talked about what she had learned while studying the Arizona Territory, the more intrigued she became over Canyon de Chelley. And she feared that Runner was wise not to escort her there. She would most certainly be tempted to take photographs of it. Those particular photographs would be all that the Santa Fe Railroad would need to lure passengers to travel to a mystical land scarcely seen by tourists.
“This sacred place, which lies at the heart of the Navaho Indian reservation, has more than beauty that touches one’s soul,” Runner said, giving Stephanie a pensive look. “To the Navaho it is the rift in the earth where the gods entered our world long ago to teach the Navaho. Sometimes when I go there, I seem to hear their voices echoing off the canyon walls. It is not only the home of the Navaho gods, but of the ancient ones who inhabited this land before us. The Anasazi. They are the ones who left behind the ancient drawings. This is why the place must be treated with reverence.”
“I understand,” Stephanie said sullenly. “I won’t ask you again to take me there.” Then her eyes brightened. “Perhaps we can go to a place that is called Spider Rock? I would love to photograph it. I hear that it rises eight hundred feet from a canyon floor. What a sight it must be!”
