Crossroads (Anna Strong Chronicles #7)

Crossroads (Anna Strong Chronicles #7) Page 17

FREY PUTS THE JEEP IN GEAR AND WE'RE BACK ON the road just as the sun makes its first appearance over the desert. Shafts of light flood the valley, painting inky silhouettes with shades of red. So far, I haven't seen any sign of human habitation. Or much of any habitation at all. A few ground squirrels and rodents. A hawk circling against an ever-brightening sky. Low-to-the-ground scrub brush and spindly yucca. A desolate but remarkable landscape.

After traveling for another thirty minutes, I ask Frey, "Where the hell does your son live?"

"Patience. We're almost there. The area we're traveling through is called Wildcat Trail. Not many people venture back here because this is private land. There are hogans and houses all around us, just so far off the trail, you won't see them unless you know where to look."

"Hogans?"

"Some Navajo still live as their ancestors did-in small, mud dwellings. They're called hogans."

A concept hard for me to grasp. I think of my own cottage. Could I give it up to live in a mud house? Even in this beautiful place? Could Frey? I think not. "Does your son live in a hogan?"

Frey laughs. "No. His mother is much too modern. She likes her creature comforts. She lived in Boston for a while. It's where we met."

His words trigger a memory. Frey lived in Boston before moving to San Diego. He was tracking a pedophile-the same one who abused my niece, Trish. It was how he and I met. How we learned to trust each other. Seems like a lifetime ago.

"You thinking about Trish?"

I blink over at him. "Can you read my mind again?"

"Not your mind. Your expression. You get a certain look when you're thinking of your family."

"Hmmmm." I refocus. "What was your ex doing in Boston?"

"She was spending the summer with a mutual friend. She went to Massachusetts to study at Amherst. Native American Studies. She's full-blood Navajo."

"Why did she move back to the reservation?"

Frey shifts in the seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. His reaction prompts me to ask, "Did she leave because she got pregnant?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. The answer shows on his face. Guilt. Regret. Longing.

"Why didn't you go after her?" I ask softly.

"I did. She sent me away. Only after our son was born did she let me back into her life. And then only for visits. Brief visits. I was an outsider in her world. She made it plain that I was unwelcome."

I want to keep Frey talking. This is the most information I've ever gotten from him about his past. But we're turning off the dirt road and heading for an outcropping of rocks in the distance. I don't know how Frey knew where to turn. There's not even a rutted trail to follow. He scans the terrain, searching for landmarks indistinguishable to me, but obviously as clear as street signs to him. He drives straight onward through hardscrabble dirt. I grab the sissy bar to keep from being bounced out of the Jeep. Clouds of dust billow in our wake like ragged coattails.

I don't disturb his concentration. For two reasons. I don't want to distract his driving and end up upside down in a heap. And secondly, I'm lost in my own head, filled with speculation about this woman who bore Frey's child. This woman . . . I can't believe I haven't thought to ask her name. No. If I'm honest, I know exactly why I haven't asked her name. A name takes her out of the realm of conjecture and makes her real.

The Jeep hits a deep rut, and I'm jerked back out of the fuzzy world of conjecture. Frey is pointing to the left. I follow his direction, and there in the distance, a trail of smoke like a white ribbon rises to the sky. It issues from what looks like a small, round dome. I feel an inexplicable thrill of anticipation.

"A hogan?"

He nods.

"It's so small."

"It doesn't need to be big. It's used mainly for shelter when the weather's bad and certain ceremonies. The Navajo spend most of their time outdoors."

"Where are the others?"

"Others?"

"Don't the Navajo live in villages?"

He shakes his head. "No villages. No towns."

"A lonely existence."

"Not if you're used to it. The Navajo have a special connection to the land."

He turns his attention back to driving and I turn mine back to the scenery. It's as if we are the only two people on earth and for the first time in my life, I feel the force of nature. The wind, the sky, the sun on my face. The contrast of red sand and tall rock formations bathed in the newly minted gold of daybreak swamps my senses, and yet, I fight to take it all in. A thousand years-ten thousand-years ago, this land was as I see it now. A taste of eternitt l timelessness.

Of eternal life.

A tug of melancholy. This may be where I belong.

Here. With other ageless things.

Strands of early morning mist rise from the desert floor and twine around and through stone arches on their way to the clouds.

I follow with my eyes, watch as wisps break free, travel straight and sure to the heavens.

I wish my way were that clear.

A sound reaches us-haunting, melodic, rising and falling like feathers on the wind.

"Do you hear that, Frey?"

He just smiles and steers in the direction of the music.

The Jeep traverses around a series of low, flat outcroppings and there, ahead of us, a house rises as if born of the earth. A small, single story house made from logs the same color as the dirt and rocks with a roof of caramel-colored tile. A porch spans the front, facing due east, and on the porch steps sits a girl, a flute at her lips. The melody from the flute and the golden rays of a rising sun reflect off her like a halo, giving the scene a surreal quality.

Frey stops a few yards away and turns off the engine. The dust cloud that had been following us gusts away as if fanned by an invisible hand.

Frey makes no move to get out or greet the girl, neither does she acknowledge our presence. She continues to play, the sweet song poetic in its simplicity.

Her skin glows in the sun. Her black hair hangs shiny and straight over her shoulders, framing brows drawn in concentration. Her full-lipped mouth is pursed over the flute, an expression of pure joy on her face. It's impossible to tell her age, she has a face that seems at once youthful and mature. But my impression is that she's young.

I sneak a look over at Frey. How old was she when she got pregnant, you dog?

She is dressed in a long-sleeved full cotton shirt, a velvet skirt that covers her ankles, a pair of leather moccasins on her feet. She wears no jewelry but a belt that looks as if it is made of carved black onyx, small rectangles linked together by silver, cinches her waist.

The setting, the way she's dressed, the ethereal quality of the music, all seem to belong to another time. If it was a hogan instead of a house, I'd imagine her a Navajo princess paying tribute to the sun god with her playing. The idea makes gooseflesh race up my arms.

When she finishes the song, when she lowers the flute, only then does Frey open his door and jump out.

The girl flashes a huge grin, whoops, and runs to meet him. She wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She peppers his face with kisses. She's laughing and talking all at the same time, her bunched-up skirt showing a lot of leg.

I turn away in embarrassment. So much for the image of the stoic Native American. And so much for Frey's apprehension that she would not be happy to see him. If she were any happier, I'd have to cover my eyes.

Frey is laughing, too, though turning his face this way and that, as if trying to avoid those persistent lips. He is also making an attempt to set her back on her feet. An attempt she resists by tightening her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

The banging of a screen door behind us mamakee jump. I turn to see another woman standing on the porch steps.

"Mary Yellow Bird! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Her sharp voice brings the joyful reunion to an abrupt end. The girl sighs and releases her hold on Frey, jumping down and turning with a sweep of her long skirt.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch. I was just saying hello."

"I could see what you were saying," the newcomer snaps. "Get inside. Give John-John his breakfast."

The girl stomps by with a scowl and disappears into the house. Frey and the woman on the steps stare at each other. She has the same coloring as the other, the same sculpted facial lines, is a few inches taller, a few pounds heavier, several years older. Her hair is drawn back in a bun, a tricky configuration adorned with ribbons and beads. She is dressed in jeans and a Western shirt, a bandanna tied around her neck.

She crosses her arms over her chest and taps one booted foot. Rings of turquoise and silver adorn two fingers of both hands, flashing as they catch the sunlight. She is wearing earrings of turquoise, too, long strands that almost touch the collar of her shirt.

Her expression is in startling contrast to the exuberant greeting of the other.

This woman is not so happy to see Frey.

This must be Frey's ex.