Ride the Rainbow Home (13 page)

After a morning spent on dusty desert roads, Meg felt ready for a little cold. "Sounds great," she said, stripping to her silky camisole. "Okay, now." She stepped under the spigot.

Jim shrugged, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Okay, but remember, you asked for it."

The first blast of water splashed over her, chilling Meg so quickly that it ripped the breath from her lungs. She hadn't imagined well water could be so cold. But it felt wonderful! She turned her head and gasped in air, then spread her arms and turned her face up to the fall of water, allowing it to splash into her mouth, down her throat, over her hair and face and neck, down her body—

"Have you had enough?" Jim hollered, yelling to be heard over the sound of the pump and the splashing.

Meg wanted to say no, that she'd love to stay a little longer, but she couldn't justify wasting water when there was obviously so little. Reluctantly she stepped out of the column of water and Jim cut the pump. "That was wonderful!" she declared, then shook her hair and turned to Jim, her eyes alight with pleasure. "Thank you."

The expression on his face left her breathless. He was staring at her with a look as tangible as a touch, and the heat between them returned. She was instantly aware of her thin camisole, of the droplets of crystal water that ran over her skin in silvery trails. "Oh, Jim," she said, her voice a whisper, and held her arms out to him.

Then he was there, crushing her against him, their embrace a blend of cold and heat, softness melting against rock-hard strength. Finally Jim broke away and drew a ragged breath, stroking her hair as he held her head against his chest. "Oh, Meggie, Meggie," he moaned, feathering her hair with kisses. "What have you done to me, love?"

"Jim," Meg said breathlessly. She hadn't known it could be like this, hadn't expected ever to feel this marvelous sensation of completeness and need, all wrapped into a single moment. "Kiss me again. Please?"

He obliged this time by lifting her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as his mouth sought and found hers. Then slowly he nibbled at her earlobe, feathered kisses across her temple and eyebrows, and dropped a playful peck at the end of her nose. She could feel her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

Meg ran her hands over his damp hair, drawing his head against her. In the small patch of grass that had sprung up where the water drained into the earth, Jim bent his knees and sank to the ground, still cradling Meg in his arms, then laid her against the soft carpet of lawn and leaned over her, caressing her face with loving fingers.

Then he stopped. Jim lifted his head, looked into her eyes with a sweetness almost like pain, and drew away. "Meggie, love, we have to stop now, before things go any farther."

"Stop?" Meg wondered if she'd heard him correctly. “Why?”

Jim turned her face so he could look into her eyes. "Listen to me, Meggie, I've never wanted anything so much in my entire life, all this beauty and joy and sweetness. I think I've wanted to hold you like that since the first time I saw you again." He sighed. "Oh, Meggie, we can't do this to each other!"

She wanted to shout that they'd been made for each other. Instead she drew his face toward hers again. "Talk to me, Jim. What's wrong?"

He moved away from her, almost as if her flesh was burning him. "We're going to have to cool it. We're like dynamite and flame. If we keep coming into close contact—" He paused and bit his lip. "The results will be explosive!"

Meg couldn't help smiling. "And how is this bad?"

He sat back with a sigh. "Think about it, Meg. I've thought about it a lot," he said, then ran his hand over his hair in frustration. "Lately I've thought about it instead of sleeping."

She stroked his face. "Me too."

"And what answers do you find? If we start something here, if we become more deeply involved, and then you go back to Walnut Creek, won't we just end up hurting each other? Is that what friends do—hurt each other?"

Hearing Jim voice the concerns that had troubled her from the beginning made Meg's hopes drop. "You're right," she said grimly. “Part of me longs to disagree with you. I think it could be so good between us—“

"Oh yeah,” he said, giving her another searing look that burned through to her toes. "It would be wonderful for a while, but what then? I've seen your little condo in Walnut Creek—"

"And I've seen you here. You belong here, Jim, and I don't. Not at all."

"I think you could." There was hope in his eyes.

"I never did." There was sorrow in hers.

"I know," he said, and looked away. "How long before you go back?"

"Three more weeks."

"Three weeks," he echoed, then stood and brushed the earth from his clothes. "Well, I think we'd better get going." He offered her his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet.

They started toward the truck, but the intimacy had given Meg the courage she needed to raise another issue. "Jim? I'm afraid I owe you an apology."

He turned to her, his expression skeptical. "Not for what just happened."

Meg flushed crimson. "No, never for that. I don't regret a thing that happened here." She tried to lighten the mood. “Right now I’m regretting some of the things that didn’t happen—“

“Stop,” he said. He stepped near her, touching her arm. "What, then? I mean, what do you regret?"

"For high school. For never coming out to the ranch, or getting to know your family. I—" Tears sprang into her eyes. "I've begun to realize I wasn't much of a friend to you after all."

"Oh, Peggy." He took her into his arms. It was the first time in two weeks he had used her old name. "Don't you know you and Sally were the only friends I had?"

"But I wasn't—"

"You were what I needed. Don't put yourself down for that."

' 'But you did all the giving, and I was so selfish—''

He stilled her words with a brief kiss. "Stop. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's hard to learn to give, especially when you don't have good examples of giving around you.You gave me all you could, and it was exactly what I needed."

She smiled through glittering tears. "You know you're a very nice man?"

"Thank you, friend," he said, “And you’re a very nice woman.” Then, despite the hunger burning in his eyes, he tenderly kissed her forehead.

* * * *

"Jim!" The woman who came to the pickup seemed delighted. She was tiny, and Jim towered over her as he stepped from the cab and enfolded her in a bear hug. She spoke a few Navajo words, and then looked at Meg. Jim answered her in Navajo and then said, "Meg, meet Clara Begay." Meg's eyes widened as she took in the wizened old woman in her velvet skirt and satin blouse, her white hair in a Navajo bun. The tiny government house outside Many Farms wasn't the sort of place Meg had expected to find a world-class artisan, and this small, bent woman wasn't what she'd expected either. "
The
Clara Begay?" she asked. "The one whose rug brought half a million at Sotheby's?"

"The very one," Jim said with pride, "but I call her ‘
ama-sani
, grandmother. She's Ruth Nakai's mom, and I learned to think of her as family during summers as a kid."

"Does your grandmother speak English?"

"Not more than a word or two."

"Then will you translate for me and tell her how much I admire her art?"

Jim spoke rapidly and Clara ducked her head in shy response. "She thanks you and invites us both to share her evening meal," Jim translated. "Let's go in."

The meal was already prepared when they entered, as if Clara had been expecting them. Jim reminded Meg that word traveled fast on the reservation and she'd probably known they were coming since yesterday. He showed Meg where to find the bathroom—Meg gratefully welcomed the indoor plumbing—then Clara seated them at a wooden table with mismatched chairs and spread tin plates around. She served roast lamb and ears of corn plus a squash dish with fresh onions and small green chilies. Meg found it all delicious.

Even better was the conversation. Meg learned that Jim had been riding before he could walk, that he had once owned a sorrel pony he adored, that he loved to go skinny-dipping in runoff washes, and had once caught a fish with his bare hands. She discovered that he could identify desert wildflowers and knew which were useful for animal feed or herbs. She imagined him as a towheaded boy with skinned knees, his face eager as he presented wilted sage flowers and mustard blossoms to his mother and his
'ama- sani
.

After the meal, Meg helped with cleanup. Though Clara had running water, she was as careful as Opal had been not to use more than she needed. Meg was beginning to recognize how much she had been taking for granted that was not a regular part of these people’s lives. When they had finished clean-up, Clara led them both into the spare bedroom where she worked her craft. Meg watched as Jim conferred with Clara over her loom, each of them touching the strings in the weave and shaping with their hands the patterns that would develop as Clara worked. Again she was impressed by the depth of Jim's knowledge and the quality of Clara's artistry.

The sun was low on the horizon when Jim finished his talk with Clara. "Would you like to take a walk, Meg?" he asked. "Share the sunset?" Meg nodded and Jim took her hand. "Clara expects us to stay tonight," he said without preamble. "She has a cot in her workroom for you and I'll roll out my sleeping bag on the couch."

"Okay," Meg agreed, thinking it was better than the hogan. The sun dipped beneath the bluff and shot a panoply of color across the sky. "Help me understand something," Meg asked as they walked. "If Clara's worth half a million dollars, why does she live this way? I mean, why the small house and sparse furnishings?"

Jim grinned. "You think this is bad? Until last year, she lived in a hogan. The family had to do a lot of talking to get her into the government house, and she still complains about it. She says it's too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and unhealthy to have the privy where she eats and sleeps."

Meg chuckled dryly. "I can imagine her saying that. But what happened to the money?"

"She gave some to relatives. The way Navajo clans work, you're related to almost everybody, and if you’re not, your relatives are.” He grinned. “But most of it went to buy land near Lukachukai."

"Sally mentioned that, but I don't understand it."

"Most Anglos don't," Jim answered. "The Navajo tie to the land is so different from anything we know." He paused, apparently pondering how to explain. After a moment, he spoke again. “Imagine that somebody bought the church you grew up in and turned it into a restaurant. If you had the money to buy it back and turn it back into a church again, wouldn't you?"

Meg hesitated, nodding. "Maybe. I guess, but –“

"The land Clara bought had once belonged to her people in the Towering House clan. It was available for sale and she had the money, so... "

“All right, all right. I'm beginning to see. But I've seen Clara's loom. She’s involved in a patient, time-consuming craft. All that work, and she didn't want anything for herself?"

"All that work is right. Clara is faster than any weaver I know and it can still take more than two hours to finish half an inch of a four-foot rug. That's after she's raised the sheep, sheared them, cleaned and carded the wool, spun yarn, gathered flowers and herbs to make natural dyes, and spent several days dyeing the wool. It takes another day or two to set up the loom, and she's probably been designing her new pattern since she finished the last one." He shook his head. "It still amazes me."

"But if she doesn't keep the money, or use it for herself, what motivates it all?"

"Love, I suppose. A gift to the grandfathers. The artisans I know are all working to preserve what little remains of their ancestors' way of life."

"I think I’m beginning to get it." The desert around them was softening its rich colors, the reds dimming to pink, orange to coral. A reverent feeling crept over Meg. "Look, Jim! A blossom!" The single crimson flower seemed destined to be there, like a sign from heaven. Meg ran toward it, then froze at the sound of a dry, distinct rattle.

"Meg, stop!" Jim cried at the same moment.

The warning was unnecessary. Meg couldn't have moved if her life depended on it. She stayed as she was, one hand extended in midair as it had been when she'd reached toward the bloom, her eyes wide, her face white, her heart fluttering like a bird in her chest. "Where is it?" she whispered, barely daring to speak.

"To your left," Jim answered. "Stay still. I'm coming up behind you."

Meg shifted her eyes to the left and saw the snake, coiled and ready to strike, its rattles poised, its neck arched, its head drawn back. The sight chilled her; she felt faint. As she stood looking toward it, its tongue darted forward and it rattled again.

"I'm behind you," Jim said quietly. "I'm going to touch you now."

She was glad he'd warned her. She would have come apart if anyone or anything had touched her unexpectedly, but it was a comfort to feel Jim's strong arms go around her. She slowly relaxed her arm. "Is it close enough to reach us?" she asked.