DESI'S RESCUE Read online

  Desi started talking. Tam heard parts of the story he knew—about her start with Claude and the land they bought and his eventual betrayals. But there were parts he'd not heard—the value of the land, for one thing, the betrayal of the judge who'd offered to marry her, but had done it to get the land. It made him furious.

  But that was nothing compared to his fury when two deputies entered the bar and said, "Desdemona Rousseau? You're under arrest for the murder of Claude Tsosie."

  She met Tam's eyes with an expression of panic. "I told you there would be trouble. Get my sister over there as fast as possible. Before the bail hearing." The deputy droned on with her Miranda rights, slapping handcuffs on her wrists, leading her out of the bar and into the street where a crowd gathered to watch Desi duck into a patrol car.

  They drove away as Tam was picking up the phone. Mick Reed said, "Now this is what I call a story."

  "Hang on," Tam said. "There's gonna be more."

  When Nordquist slapped the cold handcuffs around her wrists, Desi felt sick to her stomach. Everything in her protested instantly, deeply. She couldn't stand to go back to that jail!

  And yet, there wasn't anything else to do, was there? Feeling panicky, as if she'd awakened in her worst nightmare, she tried to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth. A roar blocked all the sound in her ears, but she did vaguely notice there were protesters in front of the pub as she came out.

  She was booked, once again. Fingerprinted. Again. Put in a holding cell while she waited for the bail hearing. Which probably wouldn't be quite as good this time, since she'd been officially charged.

  The room was cold and grim, lit with greenish light. There was a scent of old vomit and cigarettes in the walls, and she wondered again how long it would take for the smell of smoke to dissipate—smoking hadn't been allowed indoors in Mariposa for years. In one corner, a young woman with a black eye lay back on a bench, ignoring Desi.

  Which suited Desi just fine. She bent over her hands and spread them open, peering at the lines on her palms for clues to the future. Once, a gypsy at a carnival had told her she had the mark of destiny on her Mount of Venus, that she would do "great things." Desi ran her right index finger over the place where a multipointed star marked the fleshy pad beneath her left index finger. She hadn't had the heart to tell the gypsy that the mark was a scar. She'd fallen off her trike when she was five and landed just right on a little rock. It left a mark for all time.

  Destiny.

  Despair, black and thick as tar, closed in on her. How could she breathe in a prison cell for the rest of her life? How could she possibly face such a life, knowing everything she had lost out there?

  One of which was Tam.

  She had prayed so much and so often to so many deities now that she had no faith or words left. There was only one word.

  Please.

  * * *

  Tam frantically chased down Juliet and found her at work. When he told her what was happening, she first went white, then kicked back her chair. Smoothing her hair, she said, "How many reporters are in town?"

  He grinned. "Hey, Hollywood. I like the way you think."

  "Find every last one of them," she said. "They've been looking for a story. Let's give them one."

  So he went to the hotel and stopped in the pubs and sent Amy up the ski slopes to see if there were any others up there. They assembled at the Black Crown, and Juliet was absolutely comfortable as she took her place at the front of the group. "Thanks, all of you, for coming," she said. "I know you've all been hoping for a story, and I think you finally got it—but it's a lot more sensational than a little love triangle, even if it does involve one of the prettiest skiers to ever ski a slope."

  An appreciative laugh met her words.

  "The real story here is not about a woman who killed her husband, but a woman who is sitting on some of the most valuable land to be discovered since the gold rush. A woman who is being harassed and framed and vandalized." Juliet passed out a piece of paper with facts about the land values in Mariposa County, and about the plot of land Desi was sitting on in particular. The burly reporter from this morning whistled softly.

  The door burst open and three men came in. Tam recognized Bill Biloxi, a square-faced man with the red flush of someone about to have a heart attack any second, and Judge Alexander Yancy, a sixtysomething man with a grizzling of white hair. The third man was trim and well-to-do, but Tam was fairly sure he'd never seen him before.

  They listened as the reporters asked questions. A cop from the sheriff's office raised his hand and protested. "We're not trying to make an example out of her," he said. "There's a lot of evidence against her."

  A rancher spoke up. "Then give her a damned trial and let a jury of her peers decide. That girl didn't kill Claude Tsosie, and everybody in this room damned well knows it."

  A dark-haired woman—Tam thought it might be Alice Turner—said, "I don't know that. She was evil to her husband."

  "Give her a trial or leave her alone!" someone else cried.

  Noise rose and swelled, shouts and protests and even feet stomping. Juliet let it rise and rise, then held up a hand. "The reporters have more questions," she said.

  "Is it true, Judge Yancy, that you hired a henchman to torch the wolf center?"

  "Don't be ridiculous!" the judge blustered, but the noise level rose even higher.

  Tam crossed his arms. "What about asking her to marry you, Judge?" he called out. "And I hear she turned you down. How about that?"

  The judge shook his head, pretending dignity, but everyone in the room knew the story was won. And finally, Desi would be out of jail within hours. She might not even, if they were lucky, have to stand trial.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^

  The night was bright and cold, with a moon shining hard into the clearing by the hot springs. The women gathered by the fire that had been built earlier this afternoon and kept very hot so the stones could be heated in the coals.

  Desi would stand trial for the murder of Claude Tsosie, which was why they had gathered here tonight. Desi kept her hands crossed over her chest, ready to make peace with all that had happened and empty herself so she could face whatever might be next. There had not been any new evidence, so Juliet was optimistic any jury of her peers would throw the case out, but one never knew.

  Despite a great deal of pressure, there had also been no evidence to connect the judge or Biloxi to the vandalism and arson and attacks at the wolf center. With resignation, Desi had hired more guards and intended to stay with it as long as necessary.

  The others gave her space, seeming to understand that she could not bear one more platitude, one more well-meant condolence.

  There were seven women tonight, both Anglo and Indian. Helene, who was their teacher, stood before the lodge with a fan of eagle feathers in her hands. Next to her was a short, round woman with long silver braids called Desmary, and her daughter, Margaret, and her sister in law, Paula, who was cousin to Alex and Josh and Glory, so technically, an almost relative to Juliet, who stood next to Desi, shivering. The final member of the group, Kelly, was tall and lean and solemn. It was she who built and tended the fire and the stones for the sweat lodge.

  Helene opened the ceremony and they entered the lodge one at a time, quietly taking their places in the dark. Then Kelly brought in stones and piled them in a little hollow in the middle of the sweat lodge, and their heat filled the small, low room quickly. Kelly scooted back in and pulled the flap behind her. Helene sprinkled sweetgrass over the glowing hot stones, and tiny sparks burst in the unbroken darkness.

  Desi breathed in the familiar, ancient scent and something within her unfurled. Here in the darkness, she could rest with spirits of the directions, the spirits of her ancestors, and the animals' spirits and mother earth. Nothing had to be decided. Nothing had to be tended. Here she could release everything.

  Then came the steam and the songs and the stories, the praye
rs and petitions and offerings. Desi let the familiar rituals soothe her, knowing she would eventually come to whatever she was meant to do, too.

  Next to her, the ritual proved cleansing for Juliet, who'd been trying to let go of terrible memories about a rape. Desi felt her sister weeping with relief and release, a healing and powerful sound. She did not touch her, did not interfere. The spirits did what they did. On Juliet's other side was Zara, the widow Tam had taken under his wing. She was wide-eyed and quiet, but Desi knew it was a good step.

  When it was Desi's turn, she knew suddenly that it was her marriage she was to surrender, in all its illusion and beauty, foolishness and honor, peace and anger. For a long, long moment she sat in the dark and smelled sweetgrass and steam and sweat, and all of it filled her. Conflicting images of joy and despair. Making love and making a home and laughing. Fighting furiously, hurting each other, weeping.

  The memories seemed to almost take the shape of a body, and Desi closed her eyes and embraced it, the whole marriage, the whole of her time with Claude. Then, consciously, she lowered her arms and mentally said, "Thank you. You may go."

  The body stood and leaped into the air and flew away.

  Desi bent her head and wept.

  And when she was done, she felt ten thousand times lighter. Wiser. Better. Now she could go forward.

  Funny how it was very clear what direction she should go.

  * * *

  Tam had received an invitation to go to dinner at Desi's cabin via her sister, who brought the card in an envelope. "Please come to dinner on Friday, March 13," it read. "A jacket and tie would not be out of place."

  With some amusement, Tam scoured his closet for a suit, and found a brown one with dusty shoulders in the very, very back. He couldn't even remember when he'd worn it last. Maybe for Roger's funeral. He hated to wear something with such unpleasant memories to what promised to be a festive occasion, but there wasn't anything else. He jazzed it up with a purple tie, and bought some daffodils at the grocery store, a nice bunch of spring flowers to carry up the mountain.

  The dogs went crazy inside the cabin, and as Tam stepped out of the truck, he smelled the heady aroma of roasting meat. He saw Desi's head in the window and the warm lamplight spilling out. For one moment he paused, his chest aching at the homey sight. He was so ready to settle down, and not just for the sake of it, but because he'd searched the world over, like Magellan, for the secret of life and had found it in Desdemona Rousseau. He'd probably known the instant he first saw her, weeping over a wolf she couldn't save.

  He knocked on the door and she opened it with a grin. "Come in, Tamati," she said. "Oh, the flowers are lovely!"

  But for a minute he couldn't move. She was dressed in a—well, a dress. A blue cotton dress with a full skirt and a belt at the waist, very sixties suburban unless he missed his guess. On her feet were high heels and her legs were spectacular. "Wow. Great legs, babe."

  "Thanks. Won't you come in?"

  He followed her in, noting more little oddities. The table was set with matching plates and silver, and her hair was swept up into some doodad on the back of her head. Some kind of bun or something. And— "Are those pearls around your neck?" he asked.

  Desi spun around like a game-show girl. "Yes. What do you think?"

  He peered at her. "I think I might be in the wrong house."

  She grinned, and he saw in the impish expression the Desi he knew. "Why, Tamati," she said with mocking severity. "I'm only connecting with my own culture. Please, sit down. I've made roast beef."

  He took a chair and let her serve him, trying to keep his lips from forming a smile. She served perfectly sliced beef, a side of mashed potatoes with brown gravy, peas that had come from a can, brown-and-serve rolls and butter. With Kool-Aid.

  Her eyes dancing, she sat down with him and put her napkin in her lap. "In my culture," she said, "this is what women do to win the heart of a man. I read it in all the magazines." She sampled the meat and urged him to do the same. "Isn't it delicious, dear?"

  He tasted it and had to agree. But he couldn't relax until he figured out what—

  "I suppose," she said, "it does depend on what magazine you read."

  "Yeah?"

  She nodded, serious. "Some say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach." She flipped up her fluffy skirt and wiggled an eyebrow. "Some say it's through something else—and just in case, I'm not wearing any underwear."

  "Now you're talking my language," he said. He put down his fork. "What about the heart method, Desdemona? Are there magazines that talk about that?"

  "Not really," she said. "In my culture, it isn't thought that men have hearts."

  "I see." He met her eyes. "What if I want to marry you, Desi?"

  She bit her lip. "I told you, I can't marry you until we know whether I'm going to jail or not. But in the meantime, I'm willing to be your adoring girlfriend."

  His heart pinched. "Girlfriend?"

  "Yes." Her eyes sparkled. "And maybe … the mother of your child?"

  He went still. "What?"

  Her grin was as wide as the mountain sky. "Yep. Confirmed, my dear. You said you were going to get me pregnant, and you did."

  Tam gaped.

  Desi took a bite of her roast beef. "Lucky for me I found a man with a heart."

  With a roar of happiness, Tam jumped up and took her in his arms and kissed her. Her lips. Her face. Her neck. "This makes me happy, Desi. Very happy."

  "Me, too, Tam. Whatever happens we'll have done this one thing."

  He buried his face in her neck. She would not go to jail. He would never allow it. Never. "I love you," he whispered. "I had to search the wide, wide world for you, and I'm not giving you up, you hear me?"

  "I'm glad you searched, Tam. And I love you," she said, gripping him in return with her strong arms. "How lucky for me to have found a man with a heart."

  He hugged her close, his strapping love, who filled up his arms and filled up his heart and filled up his life.

  He was home.

  * * * * *