Fire and Rain

12

Carla’s small pickup truck bounced and slithered through one of the countless small washes that crossed the ragged dirt road. When she came to what could have been another ranch crossroad or simply one more "shortcut" leading to nowhere in particular, she stopped the truck and checked the map. Only the dashed, meandering line of the ranch road showed. No crossroads, no spurs, nothing but the single road heading generally southeast across the national forest land where the Rocking M had leased grazing rights. The tongue of national forest ended at the edge of a long line of broken cliffs that zigzagged over the countryside for mile after mile. The line of cliffs was deeply eroded by finger canyons and a few larger canyons where water flowed year-round.

One of those many creases in the countryside was September Canyon.

A swift check of the compass assured Carla that she was still heading in the right general direction. Out here, that was as good as it got; road signs simply didn’t exist. She got out of the pickup, stretched and assessed the weather. Scattered showers had been predicted for the Four Corners country, with a good chance of a real rain by sundown. At the moment clouds were sailing in fat armadas through the radiant sapphire sky. The clouds themselves ranged from brilliantly white to a brooding slate blue that spoke silently of coming rain.

The high peaks off to the north were already swathed in clouds as solitary rainstorms paid court to mountaintops rarely reached by man. To the south, cloud shadows swept over land broken by canyons and rocky ridges. Random, isolated thundershowers showed as thick columns of gray that were embedded in the earth at one end and crowned by seething white billows on the other.

Even as Carla appreciated the splendor of rainbows glittering among the racing storm cells, she was relieved to see that none of the isolated thundershowers had ganged up and settled in anywhere for a good cry. She had driven dirt roads long enough to know that she didn’t want to drive through mud if she could help it. Nor was she enthusiastic about the idea of fording washes that were hub-deep in roiling water. Fortunately it was only a few more miles to Picture Wash, and from there it was just under three miles to the mouth of September Canyon. Even if she had to walk, she would have no trouble making it before sunset.

Smiling at the excitement she felt rising in herself at the knowledge that she was finally within reach of the canyon that had haunted her for seven years, Carla got back in her little pickup and drove down the road, trailing a modest plume of dust behind.

The dust Luke raised heading for September Canyon could in no way be called modest. A great rooster tail of grit and small pebbles boiled up in the wake of his full-size pickup truck. He drove hard and fast, but never dangerously. He knew each rut, pothole and outcropping of rock in the road. Close to the ranch house he drove between barbed wire fences marking off pastures. Farther from the house he came to the open grazing land.

There was no gate to the open area. There was only a cattle guard made of parallel rows of pipes sunk into the road at a right angle. The pipes were spaced so that a cow would shy back from walking on them for fear of getting a hoof caught in the open spaces between the bars. The cattle guard offered no deterrent to vehicles beyond the startling noise caused by tires rattling and clattering over pipes.

Luke occupied his mind with the condition of the road or the look of the cattle grazing nearby or the number and kind of plants growing in roadside ditches. The road needed grading. The fences could have used tightening in a few places. The cattle were sleek and serene, grazing in good forage or lying beneath scattered trees to ruminate. The roadside plants were lush with water from a recent storm that had raced by, grooming the land with a wet, lightning-spiked tongue.

More rain threatened. Luke had outrun one thunderstorm, dodged another by taking a shortcut and had plowed through a third. The clouds overhead suggested that evasive maneuvers wouldn’t work much longer. He assessed the state of the sky with an anger he didn’t examine and pushed harder on the accelerator, picking up speed. If it kept raining off to the southwest, water would be running in Picture Wash before sunset and Carla might become isolated on the other side. There were no other roads into September Canyon. The only trail was one he had discovered seven years before, when he had been combing the Rocking M’s most distant canyons on horseback, looking for strays. In good weather the trail was harsh enough; in bad weather it would be hell.

I’lltake the trail, if it comes to that. Carla shouldn’t be out there by herself.

Why not? asked a sardonic corner of Luke’s mind. She’s safer out there alone than she is with me and I damned well know it.

Surely I can keep my hands off her until Cash gets here.

Yeah, that’s what he was gambling on, wasn’t it? And that’s why I called him a fool.

Luke’s mouth flattened into a grim line as the truck began to descend in a long series of switchbacks that would eventually lead to the lower elevations where Rocking M cattle grazed in winter and cottonwoods grew year-round, shading sand-bottom creeks with massive elegance.

Usually the creeks ran clear, as transparent as the raindrops that had spawned them. But by the time Luke reached Picture Wash, the water was a churning swath of brown. He stopped the truck, got out and guessed the height of the water over the dirt road by how much of the streamside vegetation was underwater. There was no doubt that Carla had crossed here – the narrow tires of her baby pickup had left a trail right into the water. The fact that she hadn’t bogged down proved that she had crossed earlier, before Picture Wash had filled with runoff water. The stream was double its normal volume now but still could be forded by a vehicle with four-wheel drive, good axle clearance and a skilled driver. But if Luke had been an hour later, he would have spent the night camped on the wrong side of the wash.

Luke drove the truck through the muddy water and accelerated up the rise on the far side. A passing thunderstorm had dampened the road enough to show tracks clearly but not enough to make driving tricky. The sight of the tread marks left by Carla’s ridiculous pickup acted as both goad and lure to Luke. He didn’t even pause to look at the outcropping of smooth, rust-colored rock that had given the wash its name. Ancient tribes and not-so-ancient cowboys had inscribed their marks in ageless stone, leaving behind stylized pictographs or impenetrable scrawls.

The road bent off to the right, following the base of the cliffs that paralleled Picture Wash. A few miles farther up, the road turned off into one of the many side canyons that emptied into the wide, sandy wash. There was nothing to mark this canyon as different from any other except the new tire tracks overlying a vague hint of older tracks – that and a discreetly placed cairn of stones telling anyone who could read trail signs to turn left there.

It was barely half an hour to sundown when Luke drove up next to Carla’s toy pickup and parked. He got out, took one look at the sky and pulled on a knee-length yellow slicker that was slit up the back to permit riding a horse. Within moments he was headed for the spot where a bend in September Creek had undercut the stone cliff. The creek had long since changed course, cutting a new bed on the far side of the canyon, a hundred yards away and thirty feet lower in elevation. The ancient streambed was now high and dry, protected by an overhang of massive stone that shed rain in long silver veils. Beneath the overhang it was dry except for a single, moss-lined seep no bigger than a hat. The water from the seep was clean and cool and sweet, as heady to a thirsty hiker as wine.

Like the experienced camper she was, Carla had set everything out before she went exploring. Two sleeping bags were stretched over individual strips of foam mattress. A campfire was laid out, ready to ignite with a single match. Cooking gear and firewood were stacked nearby. Someone who came in cold, wet and tired could be comfortable within a few minutes.

Luke turned his back on the overhang and went looking for Carla. Beyond the protection of the slanting stone, her tracks showed clearly against the countless dimples raindrops had left in the dust. Even though her tracks were obvious, Carla had left a small pile of stones that indicated the direction she had taken. Luke followed quickly, knowing that she would mark any changes in direction by another pile of stones.

Ten minutes later he climbed up the shoulder of a tongue of land that poked out into September Canyon. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the overhang where Carla had set up camp, but he could see three miles down the creek itself to the point where it joined Picture Wash. The view was wild, untouched, unchanged since man had first come to walk the land thousands upon thousands of years ago. Indigo storm clouds seethed in slow motion, impaled on shafts of pure light thrown off by the setting sun. Red cliffs wept streams of silver tears, fragile waterfalls whose lifespan could be measured in hours. There was no wind, no rain, no sound but that of silence itself, an immensity that embraced sky and untamed land alike.

And watching it all was Carla, standing at die very edge of the rise, a smile on her lips and serenity in every line of her body.

Slowly Luke walked toward Carla, watching her watch the land, hungry for her in ways he couldn’t name, savoring the fact that she so obviously loved the untouched vista of stone and sunlight, silence and cloud. She had had every excuse in the world to drive into Boulder’s concrete excitements and enticements, but instead she had headed even deeper into the uninhabited land.

But only for a few days, Luke told himself savagely. Remember that. She just came here for a few days of vacation. That’s a hell of a long way from being able to take a lifetime of isolation. No woman wants that, and no man has the right to ask for that kind of sacrifice.

And no matter how beautiful the Rocking M might be, it was isolated. There was no doubt about it, no finessing it, no forgetting it.

"You’re damn lucky it’s me rather than some stranger following your tracks up here," Luke said roughly.

Carla spun around, her eyes wide with surprise. "Luke! My God, you scared me sneaking up like that!"

"Sneaking?" Luke looked at his cowboy boots.

"Schoolgirl, I couldn’t sneak up on a corpse wearing these."

"Maybe not, but you crept up on me just fine. What are you doing here?"

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"I’m taking a vacation, just like I planned."

"Not quite," Luke said tightly. "Last I heard, Cash was still in Boulder."

"Only until the Jeep gets fixed."

"And meanwhile you expected me to let you stay out here alone?"

"Why not? You do several times a year. Cash has more than once."

"That’s different."

"It sure is," Carla agreed. "Neither one of you can cook worth a damn. It’s a wonder you haven’t starved to death. I won’t have that problem. I can cook."

"Carla, damn it – " Luke took off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"What?" she asked calmly.

He hung on to his temper. Barely. "Listen, schoolgirl, this may be a joke to you but it isn’t to me. What would you do if you got injured while you were all alone up here?"

"The same thing you or Cash would," Carla said matter-of-factly. "I’d treat myself as best I could and then drive out. If I couldn’t drive, I’d make the best shelter I could and wait for someone to miss me, follow my trail markers and help me."

"What if we weren’t in time?"

"What if there were a blizzard and I froze to death?" she countered.

"In August?"

Carla laughed. "That’s exactly what I said to Cash when he dragged up a blizzard as an excuse for me not to come here alone."

Luke snapped his Stetson against his thigh in taut anger. He closed the distance between himself and Carla, not stopping until he was only inches from her.

"What if some man found you here alone?" Luke demanded in a low, hard voice.

"That’s less likely to be a problem here than in so-called civilization," Carla pointed out, warily measuring Luke’s anger. "In cities women are mugged, beaten or worse. Having other people around is no guarantee a woman is safe from a man."

The sudden wariness in Carla’s eyes cost Luke what small hold he had on his tongue. For an instant all he could see was the Carla of three years ago, a girl scared and trembling as his fingers bit into her resilient hips, pulling her close, dragging her up against his hardened body.

"Don’t get scared and bolt, schoolgirl," he said coldly. "I won’t attack you."

Carla’s head came up proudly. "I never thought you would."

"You must have thought it once," he shot back, "because you ran like hell and stayed away for three years."

With a tight motion of her body, Carla turned away, looking back over the land once more.

"That was humiliation, not fear," she said finally. "I was naive enough to believe I had something to offer you. You pointed out my foolishness in very unmistakable terms. I was mortified, but you had every right to say what you did and I knew it. That’s why I was so ashamed."

Luke looked at Carla for a long moment. His mouth flattened in a line of anger and pain. When he spoke, his voice was resonant with restrained emotion.

"I’ve regretted that night like I’ve regretted nothing else in my life."

Carla turned back toward Luke, a wondering kind of surprise showing clearly in her blue-green eyes. He was looking at the sky, not at her.

"Rain coming on," he said, replacing his Stetson with a smooth motion. "We’d better get back to camp."

Her thoughts in turmoil, Carla followed Luke back to camp. There was little conversation while she cooked dinner and even less talk while Luke helped her wash dishes. She poured coffee while he added wood to the campfire, increasing the delicate, searing dance of flames. When she handed him a cup of coffee, he thanked her with a nod and then turned his back to the fire and to her, concentrating on the view of September Canyon.

During supper, the last of the red light had drained from the sky, leaving a luminous indigo twilight. Isolated clouds had expanded, flowed outward and joined with others of their kind in a slow embrace. In the darkness soft rain began to condense.

There was no dazzling flare of nearby lightning or fanfare of thunder, simply the gentle persistence of water drops materializing from the night and free-falling through darkness until they caressed the rugged body of the land. Gradually the vast silence became alive with the whispers and sighs and fragmented murmurings of tiny waterfalls gliding over massive stone cliffs.

Carla sat cross-legged near the campfire, looking across the flames at Luke. His yellow slicker had been cast aside beneath the protective overhang. His open-necked shirt, worn jeans and boots were first revealed and then concealed by the languid rise and fall of flames. The metal camp cup he held in his large hand gleamed like quicksilver. He reminded her of the land itself, enduring and powerful, full of unexpected beauty and deep silences.

Luke didn’t notice the intensity of Carla’s regard. Standing with his back to the flames, he watched the veils of raindrops glittering with reflected fire against the limitless backdrop of night. From time to time he sipped coffee from his cup. Other than that, he made no movement. He neither spoke to nor looked at Carla, yet the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, merely an extension of the shared silences they often enjoyed while he ate a late dinner or helped her clean the big coffeepot and measure out coffee for the following morning.

"Why?" Carla asked without warning, as though only seconds had intervened since Luke had stood with her and looked out over the late afternoon on the promontory half a mile up September Canyon.

Not turning around, Luke answered in the same way. "Why did I grab you three years ago?" He laughed roughly. "Hell, schoolgirl, you’re not that naive."

"And I’m not a schoolgirl anymore. Didn’t Cash tell you? I went to college year-round so I could graduate in three years."

Luke said nothing.

Carla persisted, unable to help herself, needing to know about the night that had changed her life, the night that apparently had scarred Luke, too. "Why do you regret what happened so much?"

For a long time there was only silence and the sinuous dance of fire and rain.

"It was the sweetest offer I’ve ever had," Luke said finally. "You deserved better for it than I gave you. You deserved slow dancing and candlelight kisses and candy wrapped in fancy foil. You deserved a gentle refusal or a gentle lover, and you got… me."

Carla was too surprised to speak. She watched.

Luke’s shoulders move in what could have been a shrug or the unconscious motion of a man readjusting a heavy burden.

"There was nothing gentle or civilized in me that night. I wanted you until I shook with it I’d wanted you like that for years. When you seemed to want me, I lost my head."

Luke turned, snapped his wrist and sent the dregs of his coffee hissing into the fire.

"It’s just as well," he continued. "Once I was sober I’d have hated myself for taking you. You were so damned innocent. It was better mat some other man got to be your first lover. At least he didn’t hurt you."

"What?"

Again Luke laughed roughly as he bent over the coffeepot, refilling his cup while he talked. "If your lover had hurt you, it would have made the front pages – ‘Cash McQueen Avenges Kid Sister.’ But there weren’t any headlines."

"Not surprising. There wasn’t any lover, either."

Luke’s head snapped up. For the first time since they had come to camp he looked directly at Carla. Firelight outlined his shocked expression.

"Are you saying that you’re… that you haven’t…?"

"You needn’t look at me like I just fell out of a passing UFO," Carla said uncomfortably. "Has it ever occurred to you that all the studies saying half or two-thirds of girls have lovers before they’re married also means that between one-third and one-half of the girls don’t? What’s so shocking about that?"

"One-third of you are saving yourselves for marriage, is that it?" Luke asked as he set aside the coffeepot and straightened up again.

Carla shrugged, but Luke didn’t notice. He had turned his back to the fire again – and to her.

"1 don’t know what their reason for waiting is," Carla said. "I only know mine."

Silence, a sip of coffee, then Luke asked slowly, "What’s your reason?"

"The flame isn’t worth the candle."

"What?"

"More pain than gain," Carla said succinctly. "You see, the older I get, the more I realize that I don’t like men being close to me. Not like that. Breathing their breath. Tasting them. Not able to move without touching them. Close."

Slowly, as though pulled against his will, Luke turned around to face Carla again. He looked at her for a long, taut moment before he said, "You had a funny way of showing it that night in the dining room when you gave me the sweetest dessert a man ever had."

The memory of those few, incredible moments in Luke’s arms went through Carla like lightning. She tried to speak but was afraid to trust her voice. She licked her lips, looked away from him and tried again to talk.

"It’s different with you," she said huskily. "It always has been. I can’t…help it That’s just how it is."

Although Carla tried to speak casually, her voice trembled. The honesty of her words hadn’t come without cost; but then, neither had Luke’s confession that it had been desire rather than contempt for her that had driven him three years ago.

Abruptly Luke turned away and began prowling the perimeter of the overhang as though he were a cougar measuring the dimensions of its captivity. Half a creature of fire, half a creature of night, wrapped in the elemental rhythms of rain, Luke was a figure born from Carla’s dreams. Unable to look away from his lithe, powerful, restless movements, she simply sat and watched him with a soul-deep hunger she couldn’t disguise.

And then he turned and looked at her with a hunger as deep as her own.