Honor Bound(23)

So she rode in stony silence until exhaustion overcame her and once again she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke up when the car was brought to a slow, gradual halt. Struggling to pull her aching, tired, sore and bruised body into a sitting position, she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and adjusted them to the dark.

Greywolf gave her no more than a cursory glance over his shoulder before opening the car door and getting out. He strode up an incline that led to a structure. She could barely distinguish its outline against the darkness, but she recognized it as a Navaho hogan. Aislinn doubted that the six-sided log dwelling would have been visible at all had it not been for the faint light coming through the rectangular doorway.

The hogan was nestled against the side of the mountain and was cloaked by its dark shadow. The slightly rounded, conical roof was left untouched by the silvery moonlight, which spilled down the mountain like mercury.

Curiosity, as much as the profound desire not to be left alone in such primitive, almost mystical, surroundings, motivated her to leave the car and follow him. She scrambled up the rocky path, trying to keep her eyes both on where she was going and on Greywolf's lean silhouette.

Before he reached the hogan, another silhouette, much smaller than his, was outlined in the patch of light in the doorway. It was that of a woman.

"Lucas!"

His name was uttered in a soft, glad cry before the petite figure left the doorway, ran down the path and launched herself against him. His arms locked around her, hugging her tight. His head and shoulders bent low, protectively, over her diminutive frame.

"Lucas, Lucas, why did you do it? We heard about your escape on the radio and saw your picture on TV."

"You know why I did it. How is he?"

He held the small woman away from him and peered down into her upturned face. She shook her head sadly. Without another word Greywolf took her arm and guided her back up the path and through the doorway.

Intrigued, Aislinn followed them. Never having been in a hogan before, she tentatively stepped inside. The single-room house was stifling hot. A low fire burned in the center. Smoke, seeming to lack the energy to make the climb, was emitted through a hole in the roof. Kerosene lamps provided the only other lighting. In the foreground was a rough square table with four crude chairs. A dented enamel coffeepot and several battered tin cups were on the table. There was a dry sink in the corner with a hand-crank water pump.

The floor was hard-packed dirt. On the floor, not far from where Aislinn was standing, someone had done a beautiful sand painting. The design was intricate and meticulously executed. She had no idea what it symbolized, but she knew that such sand paintings were used in ancient curing ceremonies.

Against the wall opposite the door was a low cot draped with Navaho blankets. Greywolf was kneeling beside it. Lying on the cot, beneath a blanket, was an elderly Indian man. Long, gray braids framed gaunt, jaundiced cheeks. Gnarled, callused hands fitfully plucked at the blanket. His eyes shone feverishly as they gazed up at the much younger man bending over him, speaking softly in a language Aislinn couldn't understand but knew was of the Na-dene group.

There were two other people in the room—the woman who had greeted Greywolf so intimately, and another man, surprisingly, an Anglo. He stood at the foot of the cot on which the old Indian lay. He was of average height and had thinning brown hair streaked attractively at the temples with gray. Aislinn placed his age at around fifty. He stared meditatively down at Greywolf and the old man.

For a multitude of unnamed and unacknowledged reasons, Aislinn had avoided looking at the woman. She did so now. She was very pretty. Indian. She had high cheekbones, raven-black hair styled in a soft, straight pageboy to just above her shoulders, and liquid dark eyes. Dressed like an Anglo, she wore a simple cotton dress, low-heeled shoes and inexpensive jewelry. The way she held her small head lent her an air of elegance. She was slender, but her figure was feminine and perfectly proportioned.

Greywolf pressed his forehead against the work-worn hands of the old man, then turned to speak to the man standing at the foot of the cot. "Hi, Doc."

"Lucas, you crazy fool."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Greywolf's austere features. "Some greeting."

"Some damned stunt. Escaping prison."

Greywolf shrugged and glanced back down at the old man. "He says he isn't in any pain."

"I've made him as comfortable as I can here," the man addressed as "Doc" said. "I urged him to go to the hospital—"

Greywolf was already shaking his head and interrupted the other man. "He wants to die here. It's important to him. How long?" he asked hoarsely.

"Morning. Maybe."

The woman shuddered, but didn't make a sound. Greywolf took the steps necessary to enfold her in an embrace. "Mother."

His mother! Aislinn thought, aghast. The woman looked so young, far too young to have a son as old as Lucas Greywolf.

He put his lips close to her ear and murmured words that Aislinn imagined to be consoling. She was awed that the cold, remote man she had been with for almost two days could show such compassion. His eyes were pinched shut. The stark contrast of light and shadow playing over his face made his anguished expression even more pronounced and testified to the depth of his emotion. When he finally opened the light-gray eyes, they happened to fall on her where she still hovered in the doorway.