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Author's Note

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3

DEDICATION

First, to Mom and "Seumas an Arth" who've always believed in me. I can't tell you in person now, Mom, but I am sure you know. Also to my very special Outreach friends, most particularly the Compass Rose Ladies: Rosalie, Sabina and Antoinette, and Regina, my very first critique partner. Thank you all, for without your help, this story would never have been told. And most heartfelt thanks to the wonderful staff at Awe-Struck for helping make one of my dreams come true.

Author's Note

I have lived among the Native American people of Arizona most of my life, and have the greatest respect for their customs and beliefs. As I began to write Powerful Medicine, I soon realized that spiritual matters would play a significant role in the story. Rather than inadvertently offend by treading on sacred ground, I chose to create a tribal group and their ceremonial customs, loosely based on those of the Navajo (Dine) and various bands of Apaches instead of using a real tribe.

A hypothetical Native American tribe existing only in my imagination, the InDinay are visualized as an Athabascan people, sharing traits with both the Navajo (Dine) and Apache. They live in the northeastern quarter of Arizona and occupy lands actually held by the Navajo, Hopi and Apache. No offense to any of the real Native American peoples in the region is intended, although my interest in and sympathies for these people were a source of inspiration in writing this novel. The InDinay are not the Dine of Tony Hillerman or Aimee and David Thurlo; they are not the Yavapai, San Carlos or White Mountain Apache but akin to them all, dwelling in the same harsh, rugged but beautiful mountains and high desert of northeastern Arizona. The characters are not intended to portray any real persons, living or deceased, and they may not fit anyone's vision of "Indians" for they are not stereotypes but real and individual people who live in my mind and heart.

In penning this tale, fond memories of "Pow-wows" in Flagstaff and the colorful native dress worn in the days when members of the Navajo Nation still occasionally drove horses and buckboards to town are balanced with first hand knowledge of the struggles Native Americans of my generation and younger have suffered trying to bridge between the traditional and modern worlds. Wrongs done cannot be made right overnight, but I sincerely hope progress is being made and will accelerate as time goes by. If this story can bring the issue to the attention of a few more people, I shall be happy to have served the cause.

Thanks are due to my parents and several friends who taught in schools on or near the Navajo Reservation, and shared their insights with me. I also read a number of anthropological and sociological studies on the Native American problems in developing the background for this novel.

The title is not intended as any type of slur. It simply evolved out of the story itself and the significance of tribal ceremonial beliefs to the development of the plot. I find it unfortunate that English has no equivalent terms to use here, at least outside of anthropology and sociology texts. Since "medicine" has crept into the vernacular over the years and is generally understood as a reference to the spiritual and supernatural beliefs of the Native Americans, I have used it in that sense, with a profound feeling of respect and awe for all it represents.

The great Irish fantasist, Edward Plunkett, Lord Dunsany, said that the realm of magic or faire lies "just beyond the fields we know." This is the realm into which a writer goes to find the raw material for fiction. I think that somewhere, just a step beyond the world shown on the map, there exists an InDinay Reservation and the people you are about to meet. Share their world for awhile and learn, with Ben and Fran, that love is the most powerful medicine of all.

Chapter 1

Fran Jonas hesitated in the doorway. She looked up and down the corridor before she slipped from the private hospital room. With a glance at the 'No Visitors' sign on the door, she twitched her lips in a grim smile before she began creeping stiffly away. Neither sign nor privacy would keep her safe much longer, anyway.

Her heart fluttered, as if seeking release from the cramp of her tightly taped ribs. Sweat moistened her cold hands. Now I know how a prisoner feels, trying to escape.

Her skin shrank from contact with her clothes. The dirty, disheveled jeans and sweater still bore traces of grime and blood. Her blood. Given a choice, she would never have put them on again, but she had to. She had no other clothes and no one she dared call to bring her any.

Lying in that hospital bed for three days, recovering from the brutal beating, she'd realized she had no friends. Plenty of acquaintances, but no friends. True, as Francesca, often prefaced by 'super model,' she'd worked with other models and many photographers. She had an agent, several men who squired her to various events, and others she'd met in New York who she'd casually described as "friends." But not one of them was someone you'd call when you were in desperate need of help. That's what a real friend was -- and she didn't have a single one.

Mercy Hospital's evening visiting hours were nearly over. A few people still came and went, but the nurses hadn't yet begun their bedtime checks. If she could walk steadily enough, perhaps she'd draw no undue attention. Although she hadn't ventured as far as the lobby since her admission, she made it. Her legs felt wobblier than hospital Jello, but she made it.

A cab waited, right outside the door. Pure luck. She eased into the seat, breathing in careful little pants that didn't strain her bound ribs.

"Where to, Lady?"

After debating with herself a moment, Fran acknowledged she was too weak to walk any more. She'd have to risk going straight to her apartment. "River Front Towers, please."

"River Front and Seventy-Ninth, right?"

If the cabbie wondered why someone so unkempt wanted to go to that swank address, he didn't show it, didn't even look at her. He'd probably seen it all, she reasoned, and no longer cared.

"Yes. Make it the East door."

Trembling with strain and the exertion she hadn't healed enough to handle, Fran shut her eyes a moment and leaned her head back against the cracked vinyl seat. Even the cloying odor which permeated the cab, cigar smoke mixed with stale perfume, didn't rouse her. The trip took too little time.

"Here y'are. That'll be $7.75."

When the driver spoke, Fran's eyes snapped open. She didn't respond immediately. This time he turned around.

"Lady, are you all right?"

She gathered her wits by sheer dint of will. I can't let him get too curious. "Yes, I'm okay. I just visited a really sick friend." She struggled to force the words out.

Her hands shook as she drew out the oversized wallet, which had been jammed in one pocket of her jeans. Was that ten still hidden behind the note pad? It was.

After they roughed her up, Salvatore Gambruzzi's thugs had taken her obvious money, about $110.00 as she recalled, enough to make it look like a typical mugging and robbery. Was she the only person in the world who knew it wasn't? The evening news had reported the attack, said the police had no leads, and thankfully had not named the hospital to which she'd been taken. So at least the press had not descended in full force...yet.

She tugged out the bill, handed it to the cab driver. Although it felt awkward, she took pains to keep her head down, shadowing her face. At least they'd left her face alone.

"Keep the change." Her voice sounded raw, rough-edged, even to her. Her throat was still sore, too. An instant flashback of one thug's hands, tightening around her neck, made her gasp.

She scrambled from the cab, turning away as quickly as she could. The doorman glowered at her, doubt clear in his expression. After she showed her key, he let her in, but with clear reluctance. She felt sure he didn't recognized her. She seldom used that door, anyway, and never appeared in public less than perfectly groomed.

Some four hours later, near midnight, Fran slipped back out of the building. Again, she tried to be sure no one noticed her. Beneath a drab raincoat, she wore her oldest, faded jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt, but they were clean, at least. She'd twisted up her trademark, hip-length ebony hair, and carried only an old gym bag and her largest purse. Makeup, applied with artful clumsiness, made her look older and plainer.

She used a service door from the basement to emerge into the shadowed alley. If Sal did have a watch on the place, they wouldn't be likely to guard this out-of-the-way exit. Francesca would never use a service door. She limped painfully for two blocks before she dared hail another cab. By then she felt so shaky and weak she could barely stand unsupported, let alone continue walking.

If only neither cab driver would recall her, much less connected her with the mysterious disappearance of Francesca from Mercy Hospital. That event would no doubt make all the papers and newscasts tomorrow, but by then she'd be far away.

Adopting the slouch she'd forgotten years ago, she visualized herself simply another weary, anonymous woman, traveling alone. She took comfort in knowing that pale and drawn as she now was, she hardly resembled her glamorous alter-ego.

The cab left her at La Guardia. Before the hospital painkillers wore off completely, she made her way to the gate for the earliest departing flight.

Moments later, she dropped into seat 22-A on the red-eye to Atlanta. She released her breath in a ragged sigh as her aching, weary body seemed to sink through the upholstery. She wasn't sure where she'd get the strength, but from Atlanta, she'd take another plane to Des Moines or Baton Rouge or Houston. Then on to El Paso or Orange County or Salem, Oregon, and eventually home. For the first time in years, she thought of the InDinay Reservation in Arizona as home, a refuge rather than a miserable trap from which to flee.

Weariness, pain and relief blended, leaving her feeling slightly giddy. This is like an absurd hopscotch game - but it's not fun and I don't dare step on the lines.

"Whadda ya mean she ain't here?" Sal Gambruzzi leaned forward, resting his bulk on the nurse's station counter. Behind it, the pale young nun cowered, clinging to a lower shelf as if for support.

Her lips moved for a moment before any sound emerged. "Ms. Jonas checked out - - er, last night. I mean she must have, but there's been a mix-up, the records...one of the doctors...I'm sorry, sir, but she's really not here."

"What kinda joint you runnin' here that people can just walk out? What about the bill?"

"I...you'll have to go to the financial office about that, sir. I can't access that information from this computer."

Sal swung around and stalked away, swearing to himself as he went. He wrinkled his brow, digesting what he had just heard. This couldn't be happening. Francie was too weak, too cowed to walk out on her own. She'd seen what they did to Margie, the cocktail waitress who got caught pulling change. Dumb broad oughta know she'd got off easy -- this time.

This half-assed hospital -- first they put up that damn 'No Visitors' sign and watched so he wasn't able to get in and talk to her and now they'd let her disappear. One of her pansy boyfriends must 'a come and got her. Well, they could be made to regret it, too. Damn, she couldn't be gone. Had to be a mistake, like maybe they moved her to a different room.

Twenty minutes later, Sal had to acknowledge the unpalatable truth. Francie Jonas -- Francesca -- whatever you chose to call her, was well and truly gone. She'd slipped out and even left the bill for him to pay. Stalking to the door, he glared up and down the parking lot.

There was his car, halfway down the lot. Why'd the stupid kid have to park a block away? Well, he wasn't about to walk. A man had to keep some dignity, and his had suffered enough for one day. Wait 'til he caught up with that sneaking bitch. This time he'd slap her around himself, for a start.

He whistled sharply. His driver, jumping guiltily at the sound, glanced around. The kid hastily backed the old Lincoln out and came around to where Sal waited. As Sal watched impassively, the younger man hopped out and held the door, clearly trying to ignore his boss's grim expression.

"Drive over to River Side," Sal growled, as the youth slid behind the wheel. "Maybe she just went home."

But she wasn't there either. A quick look through the apartment didn't tell him much. Her clothes still filled the closets. A purse sat on the marble-topped foyer table by the door, still jammed with her credit cards and makeup. What kind of crazy broad would leave all that behind?

A shiver passed through him. What if Lefty and Joe had gotten her first? They were trying to win favor with The Man, too. Had he bragged too much about how he was going to use her famous face and gorgeous body as his final step into the big time? A sick cramping pain bit at his gut.

He grabbed a delicate vase from the foyer table and slammed it to the floor. The porcelain shattered into a million bright slivers. He'd rather do that to her, damn bitch. Where had she gone?

A man held onto what was his. That was the code. No stupid slut could outsmart Sal Gambruzzi. He'd find her, and when he did, she'd be real sorry.

Pulling that virgin act on him, as if she was too good to sleep with the ward boss or the lieutenant over at Precinct Headquarters, like he wanted her to. Everybody knew models were no better than hookers, showing off their bodies for money, getting their pictures taken in next-to-nothing. If he hadn't helped things along for her, she'd never have gotten anywhere. She owed him more than she could ever repay and so did that wimp kid of Angela's. A sister married to a kike; what a thing to have to live down. And a pansy nephew. Angela's kid was dead now, but the girl wasn't, Francie. So she'd pay for it all, one way or another.

Some forty-plus hours later, Fran's sixth flight since leaving New York circled over the bright fingers of Anasazi Lake. The calm water reflected the parfait of sunset colors. Fran pressed her face to the small window, eager to see it all. Although she'd managed a few naps on the various planes, and grabbed an occasional coffee or a bite to eat, exhaustion and pain still dogged her. Yet the sight of so much forgotten beauty briefly energized her.

Along the lake's south shore, the town of Plateau straggled, a town much larger than the Plateau she recalled from childhood. Ten years could bring many changes.

The plane wove a route among the towering thunderheads to make its way down to the airport where it settled lightly to the ground. In a dim corner of her thoughts, Fran recognized the landing as the smoothest of her long journey.

The other six passengers were on their feet and shuffling impatiently as soon as the plane halted beside the terminal. Fran waited, too exhausted to jostle and rush. Finally, when everyone else had disappeared through the cabin door, she dragged herself to her feet and tottered up the short aisle.

The pilot and the flight attendant waited near the door. She glanced at them with a nod, barely registering the once- familiar cast of their InDinay features. At the top of the stairs, she paused.

Home! Awareness sang through her, momentarily eclipsing all else. Emerging from the sterile interior of the plane, she drew a deep breath of cool, damp air, redolent of juniper, sage and afternoon rain. Her gritty eyes absorbed the stark outlines of bluff and butte silhouetted against the blazing sky. In the comfortably familiar scene, she found a moment's respite from the drugging constancy of pain and fear.

She'd stayed away much too long. If any place in the world held safety and healing for her, she'd find them here, in the stark, harsh simplicity she had once so eagerly fled.

Before she could fully enjoy the sensations, she sensed someone approaching, coming up close behind her. Logic told her it had to be the pilot, but her weary mind succumbed to imagination. A chill danced along her spine as she hurried down the short stairs from the plane, but the tribal pride Grandma Jonas had instilled in her years ago still remained.

"You must never let the enemy see your fear," the old medicine woman always said. Now, as in the past, Fran trusted her grandmother's wisdom. Although she both wanted and dreaded to look back, she drew her tired body up straight and walked evenly. The other passengers had already vanished, leaving her alone in the deepening dusk. Except for the unseen someone behind her. She felt exposed and vulnerable, as if she stood out, radiating fear like a beacon, with 'victim' tattooed on her brow.

Although Ben Yazzie could no longer count the times he'd landed, everything from the first Piper Cub to the Harrier on the U.S.S. Contender, he never ceased to feel a thrill of accomplishment in a completed flight. To be not only a professional pilot but a founding partner of the fledgling Fifth Corner Airline still seemed a miracle. Now, if he could only make it grow, expand into a real regional airline, that would prove an Indian could be more than another drunken failure.

Twelve years ago, he'd graduated from Red Gap High School, a thin notch above the bottom of the class. At that point, no one would have voted him "most likely" to be anything but another drink-sodden bum lying in a Flagstaff or Gallup gutter. Still, after a tough drill instructor and a couple of good Marine officers pointed the way, he'd managed to fulfill the potential no one had previously recognized. His success amazed everyone, him most of all.

Deep in thought, Ben moved out of the cockpit, stooping to accommodate the low overhead. He paused, waiting as his passengers disembarked. Only seven today. Maybe that was why his attention settled on the last one.

The slender woman looked tall, not much under his own six foot one. Her faded jeans hung rather than clung, barely hinting at her well-shaped bottom. Her bulky sweater, in colors and patterns that brought to mind the traditional hand woven rugs his grandmother used to make, hid most of her body. Caught back in a silver clip, straight, thick hair fell past her waist. Hair blacker than a spill of oil on a clean hangar floor, with the same iridescent highlights.

At first glance, he saw little to distinguish her from the local girls who'd gone off to college. His second look hinted her story was different. She moved with wary caution. A furtive, fearful intensity molded her features -- like his uncle and other InDinay Marines who'd come home from Vietnam with key pieces of themselves missing. The wounds weren't always physical, but that didn't make them any less real.

She stopped just outside the plane at the top of the stairway. When she straightened her shoulders as she raised her head, her hair shifted and shimmered in the fading light. He saw something familiar in her profile, but full recognition teased and evaded him.

He waited and watched, appreciated, wondered. Her grace and striking, distinctive beauty contrasted with the wounded air surrounding her. Although he didn't want to notice or intend to care, something about her refused to be ignored. She presented him with a living paradox, an intriguing mystery.

When she moved on, he ducked out and followed her across the asphalt to the terminal. He stood aside to observe, driven by curiosity. Although she seemed naturally graceful, she moved as if every step pained her. Approaching the ticket clerk, she spoke with peculiar hesitancy.

"Excuse me. Can I catch a taxi here to go into town? I don't have a reservation, but I suppose there'll be some vacancies in the motels in the middle of the week, won't there?"

Her low, soft-toned voice pleasantly tickled Ben's ears, although it carried a hint of an unfamiliar accent. He paused, waiting to see what would happen next. Kerry Begay, the clerk, didn't impress him as a good ambassador for either the airline or the area, but maybe she was learning.

Kerry looked up from her magazine. "Reservations for the Reservation, huh? That's a laugh. Yeah, there's rooms in town, but no taxi. Last one we had went outta business two months ago. Tourists usually rent a car in advance, and local folks have someone meet them. This is the Rez, you know, not Phoenix or Santa Fe."

"No taxi? Oh dear, that presents a problem."

"Well, there's the shuttle bus, but the last one left a few minutes ago, so it's walk or hitch, I 'spose. It's only a mile to town. I walk it all the time since my brother wrecked the truck." The clerk snapped her gum and closed the conversation by turning away.

Irritation flashed through Ben. He'd have to speak to the terminal manager about that girl. She had no call to be rude to customers, even if they weren't familiar with the local scene.

Dismay etching her face, the strange woman stared at the girl. "A mile? In...in the dark?" Her unsteady voice held shock, near horror.

Before he quite realized what he was going to do, Ben approached her. "I can give you a lift to town, ma'am."

She whirled around. When she came face to face with him, she backed sharply away. Her dark eyes widened. He could see the pulse pounding in her throat.

He smiled, trying to ease her obvious fear. "You trusted my flying. My pickup's no taxi, but the idea's the same. Can't you trust my driving?"

She drew a breath and let it out slowly, catching her full lower lip between even white teeth. He saw in her eyes the moment she recognized his uniform.

"Yeah," Kerry put in. "You hardly ever bite, do you, Mr. Yazzie?"

Ben darted a chastening glare at the pert girl, but didn't reply. Finally the woman nodded.

"I guess -- er -- of course. Thank you."

"Wait right here and I'll bring my truck around. Do you have any bags?"

She shook her head, hefting a gym bag in one hand. "Just this. I'm traveling light these days." Her attempt at flippancy sounded brittle. As he walked back outside, he felt her troubled gaze follow him.

She didn't step out of the flagged entry until he drove into the pool of light beyond the door. He jumped down and circled the truck, reaching to help her into the four- wheel drive's high cab, but she twisted away to scramble up unaided. When they started off, she pressed tightly against the passenger door, hands knotted in her lap.

Hoping to put her at ease, Ben tried to draw her into a conversation.

"You live around here?"

"No."

"Been away in school for awhile?"

"No."

Her single-syllable answers held no willingness to confide; no warmth, barely even courtesy.

"Maybe on vacation?"

"Not really."

With a glance, he took in her pale, drawn face and the weariness etched in every line of her body. He noted she still held herself defensively erect.

"Lady, what is your problem? Are you in some kind of trouble?" When a hint of irritation crept into his tone, he tried to soften his approach with humor. "Am I risking arrest for aiding a fugitive or something?"

She looked at him sharply, then shook her head, indignation lending brief animation to her face. "No, I'm not a fugitive! I haven't done anything wrong."

"Well, you could've fooled me. I'm usually pretty good at reading people." He took his attention off the road long enough to flash her another quick, intent glance. "Or is it that you need help?"

She shook her head even more vehemently. "No! Everything's fine. I just needed -- a break, a little time away."

Ben eased down on the brake. As the truck rolled to a stop at the junction of the airport road and the highway, the engine sputtered once and died. He turned the key twice but it wouldn't fire again. Great way to end the day. He muttered a curse under his breath. Perfect timing.

"It's that damn distributor. Cap's cracked. Knew I needed to change it, but thought it'd wait 'til tomorrow."

Sensing her tense up even more, Ben turned to his passenger. "No big deal -- I can change it in five minutes. Got the new one in the glove box."

He reached across, jabbing the button to open the box. While he pulled out a small cardboard box, a screwdriver, and a flashlight, she shrank back as if to insure he wouldn't touch her by accident.

"If you'd get out and hold the light, it'd help a lot."

She hesitated a moment, perhaps weighing her options. "All right," she said finally. She slid down and circled the truck to stand beside him, poised and wary. Before he raised the hood, he handed her the light. She took it in a wobbly hand, jerking back as if the touch of his fingers would burn her.

The wind picked up suddenly, whipping a few strands of her hair across his face. Hair that felt like silk, sending a streak of lightning-bright heat slashing through him. Even carrying the stale, recycled air and dust of her travels, it held a faint sweet floral scent. He brushed at the tickling wisps impatiently, but they clung like cobwebs, teasing him. For a moment, he visualized burying his face in that silky hair while he...

No! He wasn't going to fall prey to this spooky woman, even if she was undoubtedly gorgeous when she wasn't sick, tired or whatever was wrong. And sexy as hell. Women only brought him trouble, and the gorgeous, sexy ones were the worst.

Struggling with his irritation, he reached out and steadied her hand, directing the flashlight's beam where he needed it. When their shoulders brushed, he heard her gasp. Tamping down his temper, he tried to speak calmly. "I don't know how to convince you, but I swear I won't hurt you. My name's Ben Yazzie. I've lived here in Plateau for six years, since I left the Marines. Everyone knows I've got too much at stake to do anything as stupid as attack a woman I just met."

In the flashlight's reflected glow, he saw her turn slightly toward him. Her pale face still looked strangely familiar. She smiled slightly before she spoke, both actions catching him by surprise.

"I'm Fran, uh, Fran Jonas. Since I used to come here with relatives years ago, it seemed like a good place to come -- for a visit. I'm not really afraid, just tired. It's been a long trip, and I've been ill."

She spoke so softly he had to lean towards her to under-stand, but at least she spoke, something beyond monosyllables. That had to be progress.

"Cold? You're shaking like an aspen. The wind is kinda brisk. I'll have this fixed in a minute and we'll be on our way." He worked fast. Loosening the clips, he pulled the old cap off and set the new one in its place, inserting in order the wires from each of the eight spark plugs. She didn't flinch when he took the light back, and this time she let him help her into the truck. As he circled the vehicle to get in, he grinned.

"If the motel's out of your way, I'll be glad to pay you."

When Fran spoke, Ben jumped.

"No." His frustration slipped again, sharpening the one short word.

"No, it's not out of your way or no, you don't want my money?"

"No both. Out here we call it being neighborly, but it's not out of my way."

As he spoke, Ben turned off the highway and pulled in at the Lake View Motel, the newest and nicest in Plateau. A neon vacancy sign blinked beside the office door.

Ben glanced across at his passenger. She sat hunched and silent, withdrawn like a desert tortoise into its protective shell. Every instinct told him something was wrong, and he trusted his instincts completely. In spite of himself, he was still curious, more than casually interested. He could never resist a puzzle, and she was certainly that.

Her features and tall, slender build hinted at InDinay blood, but her voice and mannerisms denied it. The nagging sense of familiarity taunted him. Could she be someone he'd met, maybe in California? Surely, he'd remember.

She had fine, classic, Native American features, chiseled with perfect delicacy, high cheekbones, square jaw line, a narrow, high-bridged nose, almond shaped eyes of clear, dark amber with just a hint of 'tilt, and full but finely shaped lips. Her face, with its strange mixture of defiance and vulnerability, piqued his interest. No, he wouldn't have forgotten her.

In contrast to her appearance, her tension and clipped speech were all city, perhaps Boston or New York. He didn't know much about the eastern tribes. She might belong to one of them. Yet the desert seemed to enfold her comfortably, as if it recognized and accepted her.

He couldn't let this riddle alone. Who was she? What was she running from?

Chapter 2

Ben jumped down from the cab, but not quickly enough to help Fran alight. Why was she so determined to give him no excuse to touch her? He shrugged before he turned to lift her bag out. Carrying it, he followed her inside, a few steps behind her.

What a walk she had! Though scared, stiff, and tired, she moved as gracefully as a deer. "She walks in beauty..." The line from a poem he'd once read came to mind, a concept right out of InDinay philosophy. In the InDinay language, the word "beauty" described more than outward physical appearance. It also spoke of character and truth, a rightness and oneness with the environment, both seen and unseen. She had that too, although a shadow lay across her aura, like the taint of some evil power.

From Great Uncle Willie, as part of a medicine man's training, he'd been learning a special kind of sight, one which went beyond what the eyes alone could perceive. When he slipped into it for a moment, he learned the shadow was not her fault.

Ben shook his head sharply, banishing his errant thoughts. He couldn't take on a stranger's problems. He had more than enough of his own, and he'd probably never see her again. In reality, she was merely a tourist. She might be Indian, but she was still a tourist, and they came and went every day.

She turned back to him, a bit less stiff and guarded in the brightly-lit, public lobby.

"Thank you so much. I appreciate your help. And I didn't intend an insult, offering to pay. Back East..."

Her voice trailed off. She made a helpless half-shrug, blinked once quickly, and then shook her head, just a tiny twitch. Her eyes held some of the hopeless dread he'd seen in those of a trapped animal. The look went through him, blade-keen. His sudden urge to protect her caught him off-guard. When had he started picking up strays?

"No problem. Welcome to Plateau, anyway. Enjoy your stay." He swung around and stomped out, irrationally irritated by the feelings she'd stirred, the thoughts and needs she'd awakened. Since Bonnie left, he'd worked hard to convince himself he didn't need a woman in his life. He'd managed to ignore the rest who'd crossed his path lately. Why was this one getting to him? It had to be the puzzle, the mystery of her behavior and identity.

But he was making no exceptions. He didn't need any more of the special kind of grief only women caused. He'd had more than his share of that -- nothing like an ex- wife to wise a man up.

After he dropped off his passenger, Ben drove on home through Plateau. Home was one of a nearly identical group of boxy little houses arranged in neat rows along carefully curved streets with fanciful names like Pocahontas Drive and Sacagawea Trail. He hated it, but he'd chosen the house for Bonnie. Though a poor imitation, it was the closest thing to her family home in La Jolla that Plateau could offer.

Two blocks short of his street, he pulled into a convenience store to pick up enough grub to last until his next flight out, tomorrow afternoon. Laden with frozen pizza, a six pack of sodas, a big bag of corn chips, a jar of salsa and a couple of submarine sandwiches, he took his place in the line. While he waited, juggling his selections, his gaze fell on a rack of magazines parallel to the check stand.

The photograph on the cover of a women's fashion magazine leaped out at him -- a woman with night-dark hair falling over one shoulder, bared by a daring scarlet sliver of a dress. No jewelry except massive silver earrings, gleaming against her tawny skin. Mysterious amber eyes held an expression both haughty and vulnerable. She appeared remote and utterly alone. The same woman? It couldn't be. But the resemblance was uncanny -- did she have a twin?

Ben edged forward to read the blurbs, hoping to find a name. "Super Model Francesca...the darling of haute couture tells ALL." Francesca? Fran Jonas? Somehow, he couldn't imagine either the woman in the picture or the one who'd ridden with him telling anything like "all." She'd been close-mouthed enough with him.

If he had a hand free to grab it, he'd buy the magazine -- just out of curiosity. Good thing his hands were full. The likes of Super Model Francesca were not for him. The last thing he needed was a woman used to living high and fast, one who had expensive tastes and a penchant for public adulation -- like Bonnie.

He'd met Bonnie Comstock while he was at El Toro. The quintessential California Girl, she'd been a perfect Top Gun groupie, but a poor wife for a pilot-partner of a struggling, shoestring airline in a remote corner of Arizona. Even being alone was better than the way they had fought those last few months. He didn't really miss her anymore, but he hated that empty house.

Ben paid for his provisions. Grabbing up the bag, he stalked out to his pickup. Damn women, anyway. First Bonnie and now her. Who was she to appear out of the blue, make him start questioning his choices? What did his choices have to do with her, anyway? She hadn't shown even a flicker of interest...

Once Fran secured the chain lock on the door of her room, she tried to relax. As she drew the drapes shut, she saw a restaurant across the street, a pleasant, bright, family-looking place. A needle of longing pierced her -- to be free to go wherever she chose, no longer afraid. But for now, even the thought of food made her vaguely ill.

While she brushed her teeth and washed off her makeup in the tiny, utilitarian bath, Fran studied her face in the wavy mirror. It looked both familiar and strange, neither the face of the top fashion model Francesca nor that of gawky, young Francie Jonas.

She saw a trace of each of them, but this face belonged to someone else. Haunted eyes of someone whose bubble had rudely burst, pain-taut mouth of one with anguished memories. But also strength belonging to a woman determined and desperate enough to leave everything behind, to disappear leaving scarcely a trace, perhaps her only way to survive.

It would take a skilled detective to track her down. The fact she'd come from Arizona before going to California and then New York was not well known. Sal Gambruzzi would hire the best PI he could afford, but he had misjudged her. Maybe before he did catch up with her, she'd find family, support and shelter. Did she still have cousins and clan who believed the InDinay must look after their own? If they cared, anymore. If her father was still alive...

If, if, if. Too many if's and maybe's. She spun away, leaving her toilet articles strewn on the counter and the light ablaze. Crawling into the cold, stone-hard, king-sized bed, she pulled the brightly printed bedspread up over her head.

The louvered window across the room was open a crack. A breeze rustled the curtain, bringing with it the homey hint of damp-desert pungency, the muted rumble of distant thunder.

At that moment, Ben Yazzie's handsome, tanned face flashed across her mind.

Tall and lean, but well built, he carried himself with an unconscious arrogance that was totally male. If it were not for the power of his dark eyes, his aquiline nose would dominate his face, but his features balanced, from his square jaw to the high cheekbones, the angular lips to the black slashes of his eyebrows. A few strands of straight black hair, slipping down across his forehead, gave him a boyish appeal. If her situation were different, wouldn't she find him interesting?

At first, there in the airport, she'd felt only reflexive fear, a need to back away. He was too powerfully masculine and much too close. Would she ever be comfortable with men again? She knew they were not all thugs, bent on violence and abuse, but something inside her had lost the will to trust.

Still, he'd tried to put her at ease, been courteous and not made a single move on her. He'd looked with frank male appreciation for a moment, but she was used to that, not truly threatened by it. It might be nice to see him again, even though she couldn't trust anybody. Not yet and maybe not ever. Mustn't tell anyone more than she absolutely had to until she could be sure... And that would take a very long time.

Safety was a relative thing, but at least she felt safer here than she would anywhere else. Tomorrow, she'd rent a car and follow a familiar dusty road into her past.

Fran finally awoke late in the morning. At least she'd slept away most of the exhaustion induced by her marathon of flights, criss-crossing the country before finally ending up here. Her naturally healthy body continued to heal quickly. This morning, she even felt hungry.

Perhaps it was childish, but she felt a defiant pleasure in the total break with routine. Francesca had kept a rigid schedule of exercise, five tiny meals a day, and endless visits from the virtual army of professionals who maintained every facet of her persona. All that would never be necessary again.

Francesca was no more, and Francie Jonas had vanished long ago. Fran had registered at Lake View Inn as Frances Johnson, a characterless name for a person without a past and perhaps also lacking a future.

So who was it who now stretched lazily, winced as sensitive muscles and healing tissue protested? Who threw back the Santa Fe-hued bedspread and slipped out of bed? Fran might no longer know who she really was, but she wouldn't worry about it yet. She sensed that was part of what she'd come home to find.

Renting a car and buying a few necessities took longer than she had intended. Not until shortly after noon, did she drive off in the tan compact sedan she'd rented.

Back on InDinay time. The thought came in a wry twist of humor as she headed east and south into the rocky red wilderness of the InDinay Reservation. At least the car didn't stand out. Completely unremarkable in both appearance and performance, it was definitely not a Francesca sort of automobile. Not that she had owned one, but if she had, it would have been sleek, sporty and red or mirror-bright black laquer. And fast, very fast. When she turned off the highway onto a gravel road she glanced back, but no vehicle followed. None were even in sight. Relief sifted through her. She'd done all she could to vanish cleanly, even leaving her credit cards and a substantial balance in Francesca's checking account. Thank goodness for the "mad money" she'd kept stashed in a jewelry box. She'd been surprised how much was there, almost four thousand dollars, saved over the years. Cash left no trail. Now, she could only pray her efforts had been enough.

The five street punks who attacked her hadn't said much, but she didn't need to be told who'd sent them. At first, she'd tried to pin it on chance, on the one semi-serious suitor she had rejected as gently as she could, even on an unknown stalker -- but try as she would, she kept coming back to Sal Gambruzzi. He didn't like to be told no, but she had endured acting as someone's property, as an object instead of a person for long enough. He might think he owned her, but...

The little car sped down the dusty road, a sandy red rooster tail billowing behind it. When had she last been down this road? Certainly before she started to drive, maybe around 1979. Everything looked familiar yet strange, a sort of deja-vu feeling, as if she'd spent a prior life here -- which was not so far from the truth. As she took a curve, the car fish-tailed. She let off on the gas and tapped the brake pedal twice before she fell back to reminiscing.

Dad came home from Vietnam early in 1971, and mom had left six months later. Fran could barely remember her face. Too many unhappy years later, she herself had left the Reservation, never to return until yesterday...

The road narrowed, became rougher and twisting, winding snake-like among wind- carved rose and rust buttes and through stony arroyos. Driving here demanded all Fran's attention.

Slowing to a safe speed, she glanced around with renewed awareness. Billowing clouds piled high. Thunderstorms had started to move across the plateau, away from the mountains where they originated. The sight triggered more memories, which came with razor-edged clarity. How sudden rains could turn the red dust into grease-slick mud in minutes. How quickly normally dry washes could become raging torrents of rusty- hued water.

You've been in the city too long, girl. Out here you can never afford to ignore the weather.

It hadn't been a good idea to leave Plateau so late, either. All she could do now was drive and hope she'd be lucky enough to outrun the storms. If need-be, she could probably spend the night in Chimahovi. Before she drove five more miles, rain began to fall. She must be fresh out of luck. Maybe getting away from New York in one piece had used up her life's supply.

Huge, heavy drops lashed the car, pounding like hailstones. Each one hit and splashed, sheeting the windshield with a blinding wash, which reflected every brilliant flare of lightning. The wipers barely dealt with the deluge. With the clouds making the landscape dark as twilight, visibility dwindled to near zero. Within moments, the pounding rain glazed the surface of the road, which she could barely see.

The contrast of the darkness with the reflected glare of constant lightning dazzled Fran's eyes. Even after she slowed the car to a crawl, she had to struggle to keep in the wheel tracks. Her sweat-slick hands began to ache with the strain. The buffeting wind seemed to come from every direction at once. Battered by the elements, the little car swam along, hardly heeding her efforts to steer it. Still she drove doggedly on, refusing to stop and wait until the storm passed. An illogical notion that everything would be all right if she could get to Chimahovi overrode her judgment.

Abruptly, the road tipped into one of the many unbridged arroyos. When Fran recognized the fact, it was too late to slow her downward slide. Rushing water scoured the parallel ruts, turning them into miniature canyons. The bottom of the car scraped on the ridge between them. She cringed at the harsh noise, praying the jolt had caused no serious damage.

She pumped the brake twice. Useless. On the slanting chute of a natural roller coaster, the car moved faster and faster. It bumped sharply, bounced forward. Then, in what seemed slow motion, the vehicle settled into the roiling stream. Impact with an invisible but immovable barrier forced a jarring halt.

Ben's afternoon flight to Flagstaff and back was short and routine. He lifted off from Plateau at two thirty with six passengers and landed just over an hour later. The return flight was briefly delayed while a thunderstorm passed, but he still had plenty of time to get back before dark.

The Plateau airport had one runway with lights, but this time of year, the wind didn't always cooperate with landing on it. Just to be safe, he'd rather be on the ground before dark. That way, he could land into the wind, whichever way it decided to blow.

These turbo-props were good little birds, but they didn't have the weight to handle a cross-wind or the extra power of the military aircraft to pull out of a risky situation. He might have been a Top Gun candidate, but with the lives of passengers at stake, Ben never tried risky maneuvers. One of his flight instructors always said, "It's better to be an old pilot than a bold one, and nobody can be both."

So far, no accidents marred Fifth Corner Airlines' excellent record. In three short years, they'd gone from a one plane, four man operation to a total of five birds, six pilots and a ground crew of ten, making scheduled flights to points in New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona. All the pilots and six of the ground crew were military trained, and ten of the sixteen were Native American. Ben knew he had every reason to be proud of his company and its achievements.

He landed just as the first gust of wind, moving ahead of a thunderstorm, began to rake across the airport on its mesa above town. After taxiing the plane in close to the terminal, he watched his eight passengers dash for the doors when the first icy drops pelted down.

At a more leisurely pace, he followed, welcoming the stinging chill as one more distraction from recurring thoughts of the woman he'd brought in from Albuquerque yesterday. Why couldn't he get her out of his mind?

He'd never been obsessed with Bonnie or any of the other women who'd passed through his life. Most of them had caused scarcely a ripple. Waiting on the coffee table at home was that blasted Fashionique magazine with her likeness on the cover -- the one he hadn't intended to buy. He swore, pungent Marine-learned profanity, full of venom and frustration.

As soon as he stepped into the house, he heard the buzz of his answering machine. He hated the blasted contraption, but with family scattered all over, he needed it. He stalked across the room and jabbed the buttons.

The emerging voice belonged to Maude Benally Smith, great uncle Willie's youngest daughter. Of course the old man refused to use such newfangled devilments as the telephone. In fact, Willie clung to the old ways with zealous fervor. Until recently, Ben had once found such traditionalism thoroughly irritating, but he didn't mind so much any more.

Since he'd left the Corps and come home, he'd begun an apprenticeship with the old man to learn the shaman's way. Once he memorized the ceremonies, he could keep them alive for at least one more generation. It didn't seem right for all the time- honored ways to disappear, vanishing as if they had never been.

Because he'd grown up off the Reservation, perhaps he valued tradition more than many of his contemporaries. They were leaving the old ways as fast as they could, trading ponies for pickups and herding for high-tech jobs.

He'd found unexpected satisfaction in working with Willie. Something wholly unanticipated happened when he sat in the sweat lodge or trailed colored sands into ancient, sacred patterns. It was like tapping a wellspring of energy and wisdom, stored by ancestors back to the dawn of time. He always came away feeling strengthened, cleansed and renewed.

He'd expected to be skeptical, embarrassed at practicing what he had thought of as fumbling magic or pseudo-psychic tricks, but it wasn't like that at all. He couldn't exactly say he believed, but going through the timeless ceremonies and memorizing the sacred rites now felt as natural to him as flying. Maybe it was possible to link both worlds, the red and white, the old and new. And if so, he might find a way to become a whole person.

Ben started. His wool-gathering had distracted him from hearing the message. He wound the tape back and replayed it.

"Ben, if you get this before Saturday morning and can get away, Dad's doing two ceremonies this weekend here at Chultova. He'd like you to be there. He knows you may have to fly, but he wanted to ask anyway. If you can't come, I'll make Jimmy help him, but his heart isn't in it. Well, you know that, so good-bye. I hope we see you Saturday."

Ben chuckled. Maude was clearly not too comfortable talking to the answering machine either, but at least she would use it. He reset the tape, then glanced at his watch. Almost seven thirty. If he left right away he could make Chultova shortly after midnight, in time to grab a good nap before sunrise.

When her car stopped, Fran jolted forward into the seat belt's cutting restraint. She squeaked in shock as she raised her hands to catch herself. For a moment, anger at the untimely interruption of her pilgrimage filled her.

Then, when the rain briefly eased, she looked through the streaked glass. Nothing but mud colored water. Everywhere. Roaring and grinding and rocking the car. She raised both hands to her face as if to ward off the sight and sound.

Oh, my God! Her heartbeat hesitated before lurching forward in an irregular gallop. With her recent investment in survival, life had become incredibly dear. Was she now doomed to lose it because of an error in judgment and a quirk of nature?

This big wash, feeding into Chimahovi Canyon, drained many square miles of plateau where rain had been falling for an hour or more. No telling how high the swelling stream would rise.

I've got to get out of here! She shifted into reverse and tried to back up. Under the hood, metal grated and the engine whined. The wheels spun briefly but the car did not move.

The torrent rose to splash over the hood. Water began to seep under the door on the upstream side. No longer a safe haven, the car would rapidly become a trap. Nature, embodied in the flash flood, made an enemy as dangerous as Sal Gambruzzi and his thugs.

At least the driver's side was downstream. Fran snatched up the light jacket she'd tossed into the car, and jammed her arms through the sleeves. She shoved the door open, clenched her teeth and stepped out into a world where everything seemed cold, gritty and very wet. Water surged to her knees, filled her boots and tugged relentlessly at her legs.

She clutched the door as the smooth leather soles of her boots slid on wet rock, treacherous sand. Toes curling with effort, she finally found stable footing. The car deflected part of the stream's force, the only thing keeping her from being swept away. She inched her way back alongside it, and up the steepening slope, finally winning free of the water. Only then did she release her death grip on the molding along the edge of the car's roof.

The muddy track was slicker than cold cream, but she dug in and climbed. At last she gained the top where the road leveled off. She paused there, pressed a fist into the stitch in her side, and gulped deep breaths of cool, wet air. She trembled with the effort, the chill and delayed reaction to the scare. Even above the noise of the rain and thunder, the water roared by like a fast freight train.

Finally, the rain tapered off as the center of the storm moved past, but that gave small comfort. Soaked to the skin, Fran felt the wind snatch heat from her body faster than she could generate it. When the storm hit, the temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees, and the wind chill made her feel bitterly cold.

Where was help when you really needed it? Again, Fran pictured Ben Yazzie's face, but he was far away, probably flying, certainly not thinking of her.

Almost worthless, the nylon shell of her soaked jacket hardly dulled the wind's keen bite. What now? She looked around, trying to get her bearings. Miles from anywhere, much too far to walk for help, and there would be little traffic. On this remote track, no one might pass by for the rest of the day.

Fran's legs ached. It seemed an impossible effort to lift a foot in her sodden boots. She sank down on a rounded boulder beside the road, turned her back to the wind, and huddled into the inadequate protection of her jacket. Her dripping hair added still more water to her soaked garments. She gathered the tangled strands and wrung them out as best she could, shaped a rough plait to keep the wet hair off her face.

Finally the clouds parted to let a wan sun shine through. Why was it so low? Could it really be that late? She had totally lost track of time. The roar of the water had now diminished considerably. Maybe she could start the car and go on. She stood stiffly and slid her way back into the wash.

When she saw the log she had hit, Fran shook her head. Should she bless or curse the obstacle? Had it not been there, the flood might have stopped her in the middle instead of at the edge. But she might have made it across, too.

The waterlogged car refused to start. The motor only made a few grating sounds before falling silent. Again, she debated the wisdom of trying to walk for help. No, it was too far, too late in the day to risk. At least the car provided shelter, and would be easier to see than a lone person afoot.

The chill air drove Fran back into the car. Her wet clothes intensified the smoky odor until it seemed stifling. Finally she rolled down the window. The outside air smelled wonderful, clean, fresh washed, scented with wet creosote and sage. Illogical though it seemed, it felt good to be back. After all the years, her heart still named this desert home.

The water had declined to a mere trickle now, making a soft, musical tinkle flowing across the stones and debris. Fran heard no other sound save the slight sigh of the breeze around the car. Overhead, the clouds cleared away as the sky darkened to a velvet black-blue, sequined with stars. Somewhere across the wash, a coyote called. A more distant yap and whine answered the melancholy yodel before silence fell again.

Fran leaned her crossed arms on the edge of the open window. Though the chill metal grounded her, she still felt power in the coming of night.

Nature might be an implacable enemy, but it was honest and open in its attacks, without subterfuge or pretense. New York's troubles were far, far away. In an effort to keep calm, Fran pondered the differences, ignored the nibbling hunger pangs, the stiff discomfort of her drying clothes, and the utter solitude. She was back on InDinay time with a vengeance, but sooner or later someone would come by.

Chapter 3

Ben pulled away from the FastMart with a full tank of gas, a thermos of hot coffee, and a couple of beef burritos to eat as he drove. The clock in the dash said seven forty- five. Once out of town, he relaxed and let the hum of the big V-8 engine lull away his lingering stress.

The rains had passed on to the east leaving the black-velvet sky ablaze with stars. Beyond his headlights, the road stretched away into the distance. Buttes made shadowy hulks against the marginally lighter sky, each one named and known to the InDinay, revered as the abodes of guardian spirits. No other lights marred the scene. Almost as good as flying.

When he reached the area where it had rained heavily, Ben slowed down and shifted into four-wheel drive. The road was still slick in spots and unpredictable. Must be about ten now. He shoved a tape home in the player on the dash and the voice of Garth Brooks kept him company as he drove.

Approaching Lost Horse Canyon, just before the turnoff to Chimahovi, he saw signs of even heavier rain. The road had washed into ruts, while every low spot held a puddle. He slowed down some more, thinking ahead. Must have been a real sheep-soaker. Might still be water in Lost Horse.

Ben downshifted and eased off into the canyon, peering through the darkness for the betraying shine of water. Nothing. It must already have gone down. The big truck moved surely, tires gripping through the glaze of mud to find traction.

As he made the final turn before leveling off to cross the canyon floor, his headlights reflected off something shiny. Something sparkled for a moment, bright, like metal or glass. Closing on it, he saw a car sitting, nearly blocking the road, right where the track leveled off at the bottom.

Some fool had tried to cross. Lucky for them they didn't get caught in the middle. He pulled up alongside the car, his truck canted sideways with the left wheels tipped up on the bank. Someone was in the car. He leaned across and rolled down the window.

"Need help?"

"My car won't start. It was too late to start walking, so I just stayed here." The answering feminine voice sounded oddly familiar.

Ben got out, took his flashlight, and walked around to the front of the vehicle. He saw the problem at once and recognized what had happened. Anger flared through him. The incident could have ended much worse than it had.

"Don't you know better than to try to cross a flooded wash? You're lucky that log stopped you. If you'd been caught in the middle, you'd be miles down the canyon now."

The woman had gotten out. Now she stood beside him. "I know. I really wasn't trying to cross. It was raining so hard I couldn't see, and once the car started down, I couldn't stop."

He grunted, stooping to get a better look at the front wheels. They didn't seem to be mired too deeply. Then he saw the bumper had been pushed back, taking the grill with it and shoving the radiator into the fan. This car wasn't going anywhere soon, at least not under its own power.

"It won't start," the woman was saying. "Something must have gotten wet."

Ben snorted. "Yeah, but the main problem is this." He gestured with the light as he explained. Only when he turned to see if she understood did he recognize the woman. It was the same woman, the same damned woman. What was she doing clear out here?

"What were you doing clear out here? It's a bad idea to travel alone, 'specially if you aren't familiar with the country and the weather." Ben heard the reflected irritation in his voice. He couldn't believe it. He'd finally put her out of his mind and then, here she was. Now he was going to be stuck with her -- again. For hours.

"I was on my way to Chimahovi. I lived there once, years ago and I thought some of my relatives might still be there." She sounded so apologetic, his lack of charity and patience embarrassed him. Her mishap was an accident, one which could have happened to anyone. He couldn't fairly blame her for it.

"So you are InDinay."

"Yes, at least my father was...is. I've been away a long time." When she answered, he realized he'd spoken the thought aloud. At her hesitant tone, he felt even more ashamed of his harsh thoughts and brusque words. He made an effort to keep his voice neutral and dampen his temper.

"You missed the turnoff to Chimahovi about two miles back. We can't leave the car blocking the road this way. Somebody's liable to hit it." Ben started back toward his truck. "I'll get my tow cable and see if I can drag it back up to the top."

Thirty minutes later, the muddy, battered little car sat on top of the ridge, clear of the road. Ben got out to unhook the cable and scowled at Fran, standing forlornly to one side.

He'd lost an hour he could have used sleeping, and he was going to have to take her to Chultova. There wasn't time now to go back to Plateau and still get there before daybreak. He had to be there before sunrise to go into the sweat lodge for purification, or he wouldn't be able to help Willie.

But the woman wasn't going like that. Chultova was way out on the Reservation, a long way from anywhere. It would be at least tomorrow afternoon before she could get back to Plateau.

Ben coiled the cable slowly, trying to form his words before he spoke. "I can't go back to Plateau tonight because I've got to get to Chultova before sunrise. I'll have to take you with me. You should get a ride back some time tomorrow."

"I hate to be a bother. I can just stay here. Somebody else will be along in awhile."

Ben could feel her watching him, although her face was just a pale blur in the darkness. When he heard the slight quaver in her voice that revealed her fear, he couldn't leave her here alone.

"Not likely -- it's past eleven. I can't leave you here. Come on, at least the truck is warm."

He sensed she was shivering and probably still wet. He also remembered how wary she'd been, and guessed she didn't want to go with him, but she really had no alternative.

Apparently she realized it, too. "All right. Looks like I'm going to be in your debt yet again." She gave a brittle little laugh. "I'm sorry. I didn't plan it this way."

Ben didn't try to answer. When he turned toward the truck, she followed him. He opened the passenger door for her and then caught her arm to help her up when her legs wobbled, leaving her unable to accomplish the long step to the cab. She didn't flinch, as he half-expected, but her arm felt fragile and slight, as insubstantial as a songbird's wing.

"You are the pilot, aren't you? Ben Yazzie? I thought I recognized the truck when you drove up." He could hear a jumble of emotions in her voice -- hope, fear, doubt and embarrassment.

"Yeah. That's me, all right. Ben Yazzie, former Marine and present airbus driver. But who are you -- really?" He could kick himself then, knowing he'd made the question too blunt, but he felt an urgent need to know.

"My name's Fran Jonas, just like I said. Sometimes I use Johnson, but Jonas was my father's name. You wouldn't know Randy Jonas would you? I'm hoping to find him."

"I don't think so, but Jonas is a pretty common name here on the Rez. I know a Cody Jonas in Plateau. He's running for Tribal Chairman in the September election."

He hesitated, glancing across at her and then back at the road. Oh hell, I'll just ask. "I saw a magazine, right after I dropped you off the other night. If the picture on the cover wasn't you, it must be your twin."

He had to know. Was he dealing with some sort of eccentric celebrity or just an ordinary woman, one with a problem? She drew a breath, release it in a sibilant sigh. He could almost hear her thinking.

"It was me. I've been a model. I guess it seems useless, doesn't it? Standing around like a Barbie Doll getting your picture taken in elegant clothes. Never helping anyone...I just began to realize that."

"Super Model Francesca." It came out sounding like an insult, a curse, the ugliest, filthy name he knew. He hadn't meant that at all, but models made him think of Bonnie and all the things she wanted that he couldn't provide. The kind of fame implied by Super Model made him feel insecure, uncomfortable and awkward. As if he was still the dumb Reservation kid who'd struggled through school and Boot Camp.

"Not anymore," she said, very quietly. "Not anymore and not ever again." Though her voice was low, it held an iron-hard finality. "I'm just plain Fran Jonas now."

"I see." Ben knew he didn't, but her tone hinted further questions would be futile. For awhile they drove along in silence. He played the Garth Brooks tape again and regretted briefly that he'd neglected to bring any others.

The peaceful comfort of the drive was marred, but it wasn't as bad as he'd feared it would be. The woman's quiet and calmness puzzled him. He hadn't read her that way before. Since he couldn't drive and use the medicine sight at the same time, he couldn't tell whether anything about her had really changed or not. But she hadn't thrown a tantrum or pouted when he said he couldn't take her back to Plateau. That alone was better than anything he'd expected.

Maybe she really was InDinay inside, at least a little bit. A person learned something out here. A special brand of patience or an acceptance of what couldn't be changed. She seemed to have it, and it wasn't likely to come from city life. He'd been in cities, East and West, and few people there were like that.

When the silence got too heavy, Ben started talking about the rain, and after that they went on to other things. Mostly they talked about being kids.

He'd started it. "I didn't grow up on the Rez, not until I was twelve. My dad worked construction and we traveled all over, but then he got killed, and all Mom could do was come back. I hated it. As soon as I got through school, I took off. Couldn't find a job, so I enlisted. Talk about a rude awakening -- that was Boot Camp. But eventually I learned enough to make it. Took a Drill Instructor and a couple of tough Marine officers, but they finally pounded some sense through this Indian boy's thick skull."

Fran laughed. "It was the opposite with me. I was born here, in Kaibona, I think. But Dad went off to Vietnam and came home all screwed up -- a severe case of Post Traumatic Shock Disorder, but nobody understood it back then. About the same time, Mom got tired of playing Indian. She'd come as a student, grandma said, and I guess it was a hippie thing."

"A hippie thing?"

"You know, the back-to-nature bit and the 'noble savages' and all. Anyway, six months after Dad got back, she went home. I think it was to Minnesota or maybe Michigan. I can't remember, if I ever really knew. I think I was five. But she was white, not InDinay, and she went home. After that, Grandma Jonas raised me. She was old fashioned, made rugs and delivered babies, a sort of healer and medicine woman. That's not too common, is it?"

"I don't know," Ben answered honestly. "There's so much I don't know about my own people. Until I left the Corps and came back, I didn't even want to find out."

"Grandma Jonas and I traveled together, all over the Reservation. But then, when I was eleven, she died and Aunt Sadie took me to Little Goats. She taught school there, and she was as Anglo as a full blooded InDinay woman could possibly be. It was such a change. I hated it. So, like you, I took the first chance I could to leave."

"Two deaths and we both had our lives turned inside out, huh?" Ben mulled the strange parallels for a moment. Just coincidences, maybe. "It's hard, isn't it? Not being quite sure which world you belonged in, the red one or the white."

"I'm just starting to realize that," Fran admitted. "Until recently, I'd all but forgotten the InDinay part of myself. But it feels right, coming back. I guess we all have to leave, and then some of us have to come back."

Hearing sadness in her tone, he wondered if it was for the leaving or the return or both. Too bad he didn't know her well enough to ask, for he realized he'd like to know. But she wasn't a person who encouraged too many questions. He was surprised she'd talked as much as she had. Probably a result of the scare she'd had, trapped in the flood and all.

They fell into silence then, but it wasn't stiff and uncomfortable any more. It surprised Ben to find the thread of commonality, the similarities. He hadn't imagined he could have anything in common with Super Model Francesca, or even someone who used to be anything that glamorous. Finally, he saw she'd fallen asleep, and he let her doze the last half-hour.

When they reached Chultova a little after two a.m., he realized they'd talked for at least a couple of hours. He still didn't know too much about her, a bit of her childhood and the fact her father's name was Randy Jonas. That did sound dimly familiar. When he could, he'd check around for her.

He pulled up in front of Maude's neat little house and stopped. Not a hogan but a regular house, sturdy and plain, it faced east as all true InDinay homes should. Right now, it was dark and silent. Well, he hadn't expected them to wait up for him. They had no way to know he was coming since the only phone in the village was in the Trading Post. If it weren't for his passenger, it wouldn't matter. He'd just crawl up in the camper-shell and nap until daybreak.

Fran came awake when he turned off the motor. "Are we there?" Her sleep-husky voice sent a shiver from his ears right down his spine. It stirred something within him, a flash of intense sensation. He'd like to hear that voice first thing every morning. She'd be beautiful, even without makeup, with her hair tumbled from...He brought the thought to a skidding halt before it got totally out of hand. Not smart, Yaz.

"Yeah." He spoke gruffly, dismayed by the flood of unwelcome images. "But everyone's asleep."

"That's all right. I'll be fine right here." She used that apologetic, hesitant tone again. Damn, but it got to him.

"You can use the bed in the camper. I'll go in and lie on the couch until my cousin gets up. She's an early riser."

"No, you've already been put out enough on account of me. I can just curl up right here. I'm warm and dry now."

Her voice was still husky. The tension she caused in him built to a peak. She hadn't said or done a single suggestive thing, but if he didn't get out of the truck right now, he was going to do something terminally stupid like grab her and kiss her silly.

"Suit yourself," he growled as he climbed out. "I'm going in. The camper's unlocked if you want to use it." He closed the truck door harder than he intended. The sound echoed, painfully loud in the quiet darkness. A dog barked and then another and a third one.

He waited until they shut up before he went into the house. Let her do whatever she wanted. It didn't matter to him at all, and he could damn well do without that kiss...

After Ben went inside and closed the door, Fran tried to relax, but she couldn't get comfortable. The darkness surrounding her seemed full of unseen terrors. When the spate of barking lapsed into silence, it was even worse. After ten years of city life, the empty stillness felt horribly alien. New fears and childhood bugbears merged, taunting her.

The seat felt hard and bumpy. The night air chilled her. She could neither stretch out nor curl up in the available space. Weariness weighted her body and mind, but sleep would not come. Finally in her turning and twisting, she found a pile-lined denim jacket stuffed behind the seat. Though stiff and heavy as a home-cured sheep-skin, it still smelled pleasantly of dust, sage and juniper smoke.

Large enough for Ben's wide shoulders, it almost wrapped around her twice. She huddled into it, pulling one corner up over her face to keep out the empty darkness. Then she twisted around to slide behind the steering wheel, her back to the locked door. Her body relaxed at last into a comfortable, sprawling heap. The garment enfolded her like an embrace, secure and warm.

In a last hazy thought before sleep claimed her, she realized no one besides Ben had the slightest idea where she was. Who would think of looking for her here, almost at the end of the world? Even Sal's best private eyes could have no way of connecting her to Chultova, Arizona. She wouldn't even have looked here for herself! Tension slipped out in a last, long sigh and she slept.

Inside, Ben couldn't sleep. Finally he gave it up for a lost cause, stoked a fire in the wood burning side of Maude's old fashioned half-gas and half-wood range, and started a pot of coffee. He'd almost finished his second cup when Maude emerged from her room about five-thirty.

"You came! When did you get here? I stayed up 'til after eleven." She bustled around, poured herself a cup of coffee and began to gather the makings for breakfast.

"I was running late, but I made it. You aren't planning to make fry bread, are you?"

"Of course I am! Do you think I'd forget it's one of your favorites? Dad likes it, too. He needs a good meal to keep his strength for tonight."

Ben noted the subtle creases of worry in Maude's face. Although she was a nurturer, always giving care, if she was concerned, he wanted to know why.

"How is Willie?"

"Well..." Maude hesitated, kneaded the dough a moment before she answered. "He's all right. It's just that he's seventy-nine years old. These all-night ceremonies take a lot out of a person, even a young man like you."

Ben nodded. "I know. I'll do all I can to ease his burden, but there's still so much he won't let me do."

This time Maude nodded, flashing him a quick smile over her shoulder. "I know, Ben. I know how he is. But he'll trust you with more than he would Jimmy. At least your heart's in it. It's just chores to Jimmy, darn kid."

With a punctuating slap, she patted a ball of dough flat and dropped it into an iron skillet on the stove. When it crackled in the hot oil, Ben's mouth watered in anticipation.

Jimmy was Maude's youngest son, about as lacking in interest in his heritage as anyone could possibly be. She encouraged him to work with his grandfather in hopes he'd gain some respect for Tribal traditions, but it wasn't working. Maybe at eighteen, the boy was just too young.

Ben reflected on that a moment. At eighteen, would he even have tried? No, at eighteen, all he'd been interested in was sports and girls. Girls...Fran!

"Oh yeah, for a minute there, I forgot. There's a lady sleeping in my truck..."

Maude stared at him in wide-eyed dismay. "Well, for Pete's sake, go get her! What in the world is she doing out there? You should have woke me up. I could at least have made up a bed for her. Poor thing, I expect she needs some coffee, anyway. Go get her!"

"She's visiting in Plateau, got caught in a flood in Lost Horse Canyon and her car was disabled. I knew I couldn't get here before sunrise if I took her back to Plateau, so I just brought her along. Do you think you can get her a ride back today?"

"I can try -- after breakfast. Go get her, like I said."

Finding Fran still in the cab did not surprise Ben. She'd discovered his jacket and used it as a blanket. He chuckled. The idea of a top fashion model wrapped up in his grungy old jeans jacket was too ironic. He tapped on the glass lightly.

She peeked out, caution in every slow movement, holding the jacket across her face. When she saw him, she let it drop, smiled a little and then stretched. Her face mirrored the protests of muscles, cramped from sleeping in the confines of the cab.

"Get out and come in," Ben invited. "Maude's up and there's hot coffee. She's all over my case for not taking you inside last night and getting her out of bed."

"I'll tell her it wasn't your fault. I couldn't be so pushy! Gosh, I hate to meet anyone looking like this." Fran cast a rueful glance down over her slacks and blouse, wrinkled from being soaked, drying in place, and then being slept in. She patted futilely at her hair, straggling out of her clumsy braid.

Ben grinned inwardly. She didn't look like a super model this morning, but to him she still looked good, maybe even better.

"You're all right. Maude won't notice anyway. She'll be too busy trying to take care of you. And there's nobody else to see except Willie and Jimmy, Maude's youngest boy. He's eighteen, too self-centered to see anything, really. I won't tell them who you are...or were."

Whether or not he'd reassured her, she got out and followed him obediently into the house. But he thought he heard her mutter "You'd better not!" as she closed the truck door. He grinned again.

When they stepped into the front room, he tried to see it through a stranger's eyes. He couldn't, really, but he did notice things he ordinarily ignored.

By Reservation standards, it was a nice place, but certainly not by New York uptown standards. Where the walls were not cluttered with pictures and knick-knacks, the paint had faded to a dull gray-tan. Little of the furniture matched, and the scattered rugs couldn't hide all the cracks and breaks in the linoleum. It was clean, but everything was worn, old, and well-used.

Well, damned if he'd be ashamed of anything just because it might not meet her standards. He stalked on into the kitchen, ahead of her. Maude turned from the stove when they entered the room. For a moment, her face registered shock.

"Oh! You didn't tell me your rescued lady was InDinay! You are, aren't you?" Then, as she mastered her start, Maude switched to their language and greeted Fran in the traditional words, bidding her welcome to the hospitality of an InDinay home. She poured a mug of coffee and carried it over to the battered table, urging Fran to take a chair there.

Ben watched as Fran hesitated and finally managed to answer properly in InDinay before she sat. Ben felt an illogical surge of pride. In Maude, in Fran or in both? He wasn't sure and didn't really want to analyze it.

Just then, Willie came in through the back door. He swept a keen glance over the three with jet-black eyes, nested deep in the wrinkles of his leathered face. Small and wiry, he was hunched but still spry.

Willie looked back over Fran a second time, but addressed Ben, speaking in InDinay. "The sun will be rising soon. Are you ready? I have prepared the lodge. The fire is already lit."

Ben nodded. He took the fresh piece of fry-bread Maude offered and bit through its crisp crust to the chewy center. He saw Fran had settled at the little dinette table, sipping her coffee. Good. Maude would take care of her now.

That meant he could turn his full attention to Willie and their preparations for the ceremony. He'd have little time for distractions or errant thoughts from here on. When Willie took his fry-bread and headed back outside, Ben followed close behind him.

Fran turned, following Ben with her gaze as he walked out without so much as a glance at her, or a word of good bye. She couldn't believe it! Was he just going to vanish, dumping her off on people she didn't even know? She turned slowly back when Maude sat down opposite her.

Maude spoke softly, her voice gentled with patience and nonjudgmental kindness. "Since Ben didn't get around to introducing us, I'm Maude Smith. Ben's mother is my niece. Don't mind Ben. He doesn't intend to be rude. They have to be in the sweat lodge before the sun rises, which will happen any minute now. If all the preparations are not done properly, the ceremony will have no power."

Fran struggled to hide her shock. How did Maude know what she was thinking? She wasn't used to having her unspoken thoughts addressed like that. Then, she recalled her manners.

"I'm Fran, Fran Jonas. Do you always do that, answer questions people haven't even asked? My grandmother did it too. It seemed so uncanny."

Waiting for the older woman to reply, Fran tried to understand and accept. So Ben had a reason for deserting her, but it still seemed cold and impolite. At least the jolt had wrenched her free of the moment's self pity. Ben Yazzie meant nothing to her. He'd simply provided a convenient ride on two occasions, like a taxi. She didn't expect cabbies to show her any special courtesy, so she wouldn't expect it of him, either.

The older woman smiled at her, dark eyes bright but gentle. "Not always," Maude replied slowly. "I don't try to, but I do pay attention. Sometimes I may see what's worrying a person and speak of it. Who was your grandmother?"

Fran hesitated. Could she trust Maude? Yes, she had to trust someone, and the older woman's gentle manner encouraged her. "She went by Nellie Jonas, but her InDinay name was Sees-Through-Dark. She was born to the Black Mountain people and born for the Hidden Spring clan. She di...er, she went away many years ago, when I was eleven."

Fran shivered minutely. She had nearly made a bad error. You never mentioned death directly, at least to the older, traditional InDinay. If you must discuss a loved one who had died, you always said they went away. So many things to remember, custom and taboo, habit and superstition.

Maude nodded, looking thoughtful. "Nellie Jonas. Yes, I know of her, although we never met. It is said Sees-Through-Dark was a woman of great wisdom and power. You do not sound or act like one of the Reservation InDinay. Do you follow her way?"

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