The Man From Forever. Dawn Flindt

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СКАЧАТЬ of the way. If the heat kept increasing, she’d have to change to shorts before going out again. She should have brought her camera this morning; she wouldn’t make that same mistake again because—

      Biting the inside of her mouth, she stopped the errant thought. She’d been about to tell herself that a camera was absolutely necessary if she was going to prove the existence of a ghostly warrior for all concerned when there was no such thing.

      By effort of will, she forced her thoughts on nothing more complicated than the best place to search for ground squirrels and other scurrying creatures. Looking around, she became aware of her isolation in a way she hadn’t been last night. True, she could see the faint jet trail left behind by a plane, and it was a simple matter to get in touch with someone via the walkie-talkie at the cabin, but she doubted that anyone would hear if she screamed.

      Scream? Why would she do that? Hadn’t she asked for the remote cabin because she wanted a little time with her own company, a welcome change of pace from the hectic meetings and yet more meetings?

      After unlocking her door, she stepped inside the single room. She’d left her small duffel bag on the couch because there didn’t seem to be much purpose in settling in if she was only going to be here two nights. Thinking to change into shorts, she started rummaging through her belongings. She stopped when she came across the folder filled with newspaper clippings. Although her own role in the Alsea project was essentially a supportive one, she’d been quoted numerous times and had had her picture taken on more than one occasion. Dr. Grossnickle teased her that she was robbing him of top billing, but that wasn’t true and they both knew it. Still—

      Frowning, she opened the folder and studied the most recent articles. Not only was she photographed alongside Dr. Grossnickle, but two paragraphs of the accompanying article were about her successful effort to discredit the Oregon Indian Council’s claim that they alone had the right to excavate and record. Not only was the article one of the most accurate ones that had been written about the project, it had appeared on the front page of a recent Oregonian newspaper. If Fenton James had read the article and seen her name on the guest register and decided—

      Decided what? To convince a high-profile anthropologist that something unexplained lurked around the lava beds? Taking the argument as far as it would go, he had struck up a conversation with her and immediately introduced the subject of ghosts or spirits or whatever he wanted to call them.

      But he’d also told her straight out that he was trying to come up with a way to capitalize on people’s overactive imaginations and mine them for the park’s financial benefit. There’d been nothing veiled about his intentions.

      Warned by the threat of a headache, she turned her thoughts to the less weighty question of whether to stay with boots or change into more comfortable shoes for her next trek into the wilderness. When she started unlacing her boots, she told herself it was not because she could run faster in tennis shoes.

      It was dark by the time Tory returned to her cabin, and she needed to use a flashlight to find her way home. Throughout a long and eventful day, she’d gone through three rolls of film while documenting the park’s wildlife and had eaten both lunch and dinner with vacationers who’d insisted she share burgers and hot dogs with them. True, she hadn’t put up much of an argument when the invitations were offered. It wasn’t that she was a great fan of stale buns and wilted lettuce, but being around people kept her from thinking about that morning. And if there’d been times, like when she was trying to get close enough to capture a small herd of antelope in her telephoto lens, when she felt as if she were being watched, she’d chalked it up to that overactive imagination of hers.

      At least she tried to; only now, surrounded by night and alone with her thoughts, she couldn’t shake the suspicion—all right, the conviction—that something, or someone, had had his eye on her.

      Warrior. Although she barely whispered the word, it took on a life of its own, existed beside her in the small, kerosene-lit cabin, floated just beyond the two windows.

      Warrior—a man willing to give up his life for freedom.

      Unexpected emotion touched her, but she didn’t try to argue it away with twentieth-century logic. Once, men who answered to no name except “warrior” had roamed this land; that evocative word had spoken of what lived in their hearts.

      She’d seen their land today, at least what had once been theirs. The past year of her life had been taken up with one legal and political maneuver after another, all of it aimed at unlocking the key to a way of life that no longer existed. Consumed by those documents and studies and strategies and jockeying for position, she’d forgotten to take the time to focus on the actual people who had once lived the life she was so determined to record.

      But here at The Land Of Burned Out Fires not enough had changed. Although the wolves and grizzlies were gone, the deer and antelope that once sustained the Modocs still roamed free. The eagles they had turned to for guidance continued to soar through an unspoiled sky. And because ancient volcanoes had rendered it inhospitable to so-called progress, most of the land remained as it had always been. Only the Modocs had left.

      Feeling a little overwhelmed, she turned on the battery-controlled radio and chose an all-news station. While she did what cleaning up she could, she caught up on the outside world. By the time she changed to an easy-listening station, she’d gotten back in touch with what she’d long believed herself to be—an up-and-coming cultural anthropologist with more than thirty years of productivity ahead of her. Sentiment didn’t get the job done.

      She’d intended to do a little reading, fiction for a change of pace, but had read no more than five pages before hours of walking and fresh air caught up with her. She turned off the radio and climbed into the double bed with its sagging mattress. An owl kept hooting. She heard what seemed like a thousand crickets, and if she listened carefully, she caught what must be a few frogs somewhere in the sound. Just before she fell asleep, she asked herself when she’d last heard nothing except the sounds of nature. She couldn’t remember.

      He came into her dream, a whispering presence, heat and weight. She was standing in the middle of a ring of rocks, but this time there were no weeds obscuring the dance area. A sound that was part crickets and owls and frogs and part something else spread over the night breeze like music from an ageless source. Bare toes digging into the sparse soil, she lifted her head so she could pull the incredibly clean air deep into her lungs. She felt her hair sliding over her shoulders and realized with no sense of shock that she was naked.

      He walked toward her. This man, this warrior, wore no more than she did, and yet there was nothing vulnerable about his body. He strode out of the desert as if pride were as vital a part of him as the blood coursing through his veins. His mouth, firm and yet strangely gentle, briefly held her attention and kept her from losing her sanity in the rest of what he was. If he hated her for intruding on his land and his ancestors’ land, his mouth gave nothing of that away. Although her need to take in his entire body and commit it to memory was all but overpowering, she deliberately turned her attention to his eyes.

      His fathomless eyes.

      She felt herself begin to shake, knew her reaction had nothing to do with cold. The moon emerged in the space of a heartbeat. It bathed the warrior with white-silver rays, feathers of light that slowly and sensually revealed muscle and bone, strength and power. Still, she couldn’t stop staring into his eyes.

      They were black. More than black, they seemed to have been alive forever and born at the earth’s core. She wondered if he had his grandfather’s eyes, maybe the eyes of the first Modoc to walk this land. In them she saw generations of a proud and resourceful people who understood the seasons and land and sky in a way that had been lost. His mind СКАЧАТЬ