Speak to the Wind Read online

  Speak to the Wind

  By Mary Tate Engels

  Published by Mary Tate Engels, all rights reserved.

  Copyright 2011, Mary Tate Engels

  Cover by www.digitaldonna.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold or given away.

  The Ritual

  The only contact Maria Eden had with the outside world was the Apache language radio station. Before turning the radio on, she rested her hand on top and listened to the absolute quiet around the cabin. The solitude of the mountains spoke to her, filling her again with the necessary ingredients for carrying on her work, her life. That's the way it had been for many years, since she was a child.

  Of course, she didn't realize what the mountains did for her then, didn't know of their reviving magic. But now Maria was convinced that when she returned to Phoenix at the end of the week, she'd be rejuvenated. She could once again pursue her busy, noisy life, which was her business.

  Speechcraft, the company she had formed three years ago to teach corporate executives better communications skills, had grown rapidly as a result of her constant attention and workaholic practices. Her most popular seminars were ‘Speak Easy into the Microphone’ and Smile, Rise and Shine, both of which had been conceived right here in this cabin.

  Maria clicked on the radio and static crackled over the airwaves. Sometimes late at night she could pick up an English station from the nearest town of Show Low or even from far away Flagstaff. Most of the time though, she tuned in to the local station and tolerated its occasional static.

  She listened abstractedly, not understanding the Indian words but finding certain comfort in the rhythm and exotic sound of the Apache language. Maria sipped her cream-laced coffee to the harmony of the world news broadcast in a strange combination of English mingled with Apache. Then the station returned to its regular country music, and she slid into her coat.

  Maria's early-morning walks by the lake had become a habit, a glorious, refreshing ritual. She stepped out onto the porch and inhaled the cedar-scented air. The distinctive fragrance was as soothing to her senses as the sounds of the Apache language.

  A wild, high-pitched cry pierced the serenity, and Maria dashed off the porch to search the skies. There! He swooped from his nesting area high in the mountains, surveying his domain. Bold. Flying free. A rare, beautiful bald eagle.

  Her heart quickened at the sight, filling her with a combination of admiration and pride. He was truly grand, which was why she'd used him as her logo on her business cards and letterhead along with the inspirational phrase ‘Rise above the ordinary.’ He certainly did.

  The eagle's arrogant white head thrust toward the rising sun, his wingspan at least seven feet as he sailed across the pink-streaked dawn sky. Ebony wings whispered against the wind as he banked toward the lake, and Maria hurried along the road so that she could watch his ritual.

  Thin fog, filmy as angel's hair, hung low. The lake shimmered silver, reflecting the faint morning light off its flat surface. The slick, mirrored veneer was marred only by a single fishing boat bearing two dark-haired men, huddled against the crisp cold air.

  The boat rocked as the larger of the two men shifted for a better look at the splendid bird that circled them. "We've got a competitor for the next trout. Uncle Will. A bald. So massive. Do you know how long it's been since I've seen an eagle flying like that? So free."

  The older man lifted his bushy gray eyebrows curiously. "Don't they have eagles in California?"

  "Not where I live. Too populated."

  "Then how do you..." He halted, knowing the answer to his question before it was asked. He shook his head and looked away. "I'm afraid you've forgotten all the old ways, Joseph."

  "Not forgotten. Uncle Will. Just not practiced."

  "Then it's time, high time—" Will's heavily accented words were interrupted by the eagle's feral scream as he buzzed their boat, looking for fish or perhaps a duck.

  Joe shielded his eyes and continued to watch the sky, the fishing rod forgotten in his large hands. His voice lowered to a rumble. "Damn, he's magnificent."

  "He's a big one, all right. Eats too many fish," Will grumbled, then began fiddling with his fishing line, paying the bird little heed. "It's a sign. A sign that you are welcome here again." He jerked the rod, and then patiently reeled in a struggling lake trout.

  The eagle shrieked as if in protest.

  Joe sighed heavily and gazed out over the lake. A sign from the mountain spirits? Did he really believe that? If the truth be known, this same eagle probably came here every morning for his breakfast. Then it wasn't a sign, but a habit. A ritual. A survival technique.

  Joe knew he had to change his way of thinking, change it to the Apache way if this was going to work. It wouldn't be easy for a man who'd been gone so long.

  He gazed at his uncle, whose copper –colored hands patiently baited the fishhook again and flicked the line into the water. Joe studied his own hands, also copper but not so worn. Still, they were Apache hands. Maybe he'd been gone too long, had changed too much.

  Or maybe—he watched the great bird dive for a fish swimming too close to the lake's surface—maybe the eagle was a good sign that it was time.

  The magnificent bald eagle flew away with his breakfast grasped in formidable curved talons, dark-feathered wings spangled with sunlight. His untamed call of pride lifted to the mountain peaks of central Arizona, home of the wind and of the mountain spirits.

  Chapter One

  Maria Eden's appearance in the Apache reservation grocery store often garnered attention from the Native Americans gathered there. It was more than her attractiveness, more than her tawny blond hair and chestnut-brown eyes. She had a casual self-confidence that invited women to exchange greetings with her and men to offer to carry out her groceries. There was no reason to expect today would be any different, but when she stepped inside Mounting Spirits Trading Post, no one looked her way. They had another interest.

  A small group of mostly men clustered around someone seated in the back of the store beyond the stack of Pendleton blankets. The voice was masculine, pleasant and low toned. Because of her interest in public speaking, it was a sound Maria couldn't ignore.

  Listening with growing curiosity, she picked out her supplies. When they were assembled on the counter next to the old-fashioned cash register, she glanced around for the checker. No one came to her service, so she moved toward the assembly in the rear.

  "Excuse me. Can someone check me out?"

  The group parted for a young woman who hurried toward Maria with an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

  For a moment all the Indian faces turned and stared at Maria.

  For a moment she stared back, not at them, but at the man seated in the center of their circle. He was Apache, though distinctive from those around him. Dressed in brown cords and an ecru turtleneck sweater, he was a large, broad-shouldered man whose presence dominated the group. His ebony gaze met hers, locked and stared steadily as if able for that brief moment to see inside her soul. Then the Indians congregated around the speaker again, and she lost sight of him.

  But she couldn't dismiss the feeling that contact with the man gave her. It wasn't the usual male's curious stare or the straightforward admiration she sometimes received from the locals. There was something singularly compelling about this man.

  Maria turned to the dark-haired girl behind the counter. "Hi Sally. Isn't Mrs. Berg here today?"

  "She went into town to see the doctor."

  "Is she ill?"

  "Her arthritis is acting up again."

  “Tell her I was here, will you? And that I hope she's feeling better soon." Maria counted out the cash for her purchases. “T
ell her I'll stop by to see her before I leave the mountains."

  Cradling her bag of groceries in one arm, Maria glanced back at the dark-haired assembly, subconsciously seeking another look at the mysterious man whose eyes did strange things to her. But he was hidden. She could hear him speaking, hear his audience commenting, hear him responding in his low, even-toned voice. She wanted to step closer, to know what he had to say that interested them so completely. But she wasn't included and to join them would have been rude.

  Maria drove away from the little settlement still wondering about the man and what attraction he had for the people gathered around him. She liked the gentle way he spoke to them and admired that natural ability to mesmerize a crowd. He had mesmerized her, too, in the brief moment when their eyes had met.

  As the road wound upward into the heart of the White Mountains, Maria was again filled with a growing exhilaration, a sensation that was still somewhat of a mystery to her. She eased back on the accelerator, reminding herself that she was in no hurry. This wasn't the fast lane; this was her escape to the mountains, to the cabin and its memories. She forgot about the Apache with the sonorous voice and the bewitching eyes.

  The journey to her cabin was like a step back in time, taking the traveler from air-polluted civilization to the frontier like High Meadow Apache Reservation in the heart of the White Mountains. And Maria loved it.

  Pulling into the familiar driveway, she paused to listen to the wind whispering in the pines and to inhale the fresh, cedar-scented air. Grabbing her groceries, she mounted the porch steps and intruded on the strong silence of the rooms. The floor creaked as she headed for the kitchen and began storing her food.

  Memories dominated the place. Everything seemed to ignite still vivid recollections of her father. He had built the place when she and her brother, Rob, were young. It was exciting to have a cabin located on the Apache Indian reservation where the fields and woods provided wilderness settings for their childish games.

  Their parents, along with several Phoenix friends, had signed long term land leases with the High Meadow Apaches and built a cabin on the lake. The place had become a refuge from the stifling summer heat and a snow covered winter playground for her family.

  "Everyone will benefit," her father had reasoned. "We want the vacation spot and are willing to pay for it. The Apaches want the rent. It makes for good business and good relations between the two cultures."

  Maria had never questioned his wisdom. Still didn't. She knew how much fun it was to vacation in the White Mountains and believed him to be right. Her parents even talked of retiring here. But Alan Richey had died of a sudden heart attack long before retirement age.

  The cabin remained as a tribute of Alan's love for his family. Over the past four years since his untimely death they had all enjoyed it. Now, though, only Maria came to the mountains. Their mother, Francine, was too busy with a new career in real estate and a social life that included a suitor. Rob's wife got carsick traveling the winding mountain roads, so they seldom came.

  Maria was grateful for this gift from her father, especially now. It gave her a quiet thinking place. On many of her long walks by the lake she was thrilled by the wildlife—deer, rabbits, elk. Red-tailed hawks frequently circled above the pine tops. She knew that black bear also thrived in these mountains, and sometimes one would come lumbering around, looking for any food left outside. Late at night Maria could hear the yip-yip of roaming coyotes or the plaintive cry of a prowling cougar. But above it all, the wildlife in the ponderosa forests and the people who settled there, soared the majestic bald eagles. That’s what took her breath away, every time. So it was only natural for her to take the eagle as her business symbol.

  Usually it took her about twenty-four hours to unwind after arriving. She would take long, meditative walks and relish the great silence. Eventually Maria would start thinking about work, just a little. Tonight she rekindled the fire and took her supper into the living room to eat in front of the huge stone fireplace that covered one wall. Between bites of Chicken Colorado wrapped in a tortilla, she studied the layout for a new business brochure. Occasionally she'd stop to stoke the fire or fix another cup of spiced cider.

  She heard the coyotes, then another noise—the slamming of a car door—drew her attention. Maria sat very still, listening. The coyotes hushed. She heard footsteps in the gravel driveway, then boots clattered on the wooden front porch.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly ten. Who would be in this area at this hour? When she heard a knock, Maria rose and put her ear to the solid oak door. With a forced calmness she called, "Who's there?"

  A man answered, but his voice was muffled. She heard, "... car trouble... no cell connection... need to make a call..."

  Although she couldn't hear it clearly, something about the voice was familiar, something compelling and reassuring. Maria flipped on the porch light and opened the door a small crack. The stranger on her porch loomed dark and bold and massive shouldered. An Indian, she quickly decided. A closer look revealed deep brown eyes that she'd seen before, intense eyes that could almost see inside your soul. He was the man who had held the Apaches' interest in Mounting Spirits Post today.

  She opened the door wider, and a gust of cold air rushed inside. Even though it was only September, night temperatures approached freezing. "What's your name again?"

  His intense eyes flickered recognition as she became visible. Their slightly almond shape hinted of some distant Oriental ancestry as he squinted at the light in her room. His angular face was shadowed and intriguing; his lips were open but not quite smiling. His exotic coppery skin took on a mahogany glow from the firelight. "Joseph Quintero."

  Quintero, she thought. The name sounded familiar, but she'd never met this man, just seen him in the store.

  "Sorry to bother you at this hour," he said in a low, pleasant tone. "But my car's stalled by the lake. Actually, it's my cousin's car. Maybe you know him. John Yates?" He gestured toward the dirt road that edged High Meadow Lake.

  "Yates?" Maria shook her head. "I don't think so."

  "Look, I know it's late and this is inconvenient, but if you'd just make a call for me, I'd appreciate it. No cell phone connection out here, which you probably know." His warm breath vaporized in the cold air and dark eyes darted past her shoulder to the blazing fireplace.

  Maria evaluated the situation and decided she could trust him. "Why don't you come on in and use my phone yourself? It's freezing cold out there."

  "You're sure you don't mind?"

  She stepped back to admit him. "Come on."

  They both knew the Indian community was on the other side of the lake, a good three miles away. This side, where Maria lived, was inhabited mostly by non-Indian families, people like her who came up for vacations. Part of its appeal was that the area was basically crime free. Anyway, in remote areas like this, people helped each other out of jams. Trust was understood.

  He eased into the warm living room, taking up a fair amount of space with his bulk. "You were the one in Mounting Spirits Post today, weren't you?"

  "Yes." She felt surprised but pleased that he remembered her from that fleeting glance. "And you were there holding court."

  He shrugged and his large shoulders moved inside his gray brushed twill jacket. "Not really. Just talking." The meeting had been much more than that, though, and Joe was still considering the problems discussed by the concerned group.

  His compelling gaze again captured hers until she broke the contact by moving to shut the door. Maria tried to remain calm in this man's presence. But she felt his power and his masculine attraction. She hadn't been so affected by a man in years.

  He rubbed his ungloved hands together briskly. 'I would shake hands, but these mitts are like ice."

  "I'm Maria Eden. Nice to meet you, Joseph." She extended her hand. "And I'm used to cold hands." Her business training stressed the importance of shaking hands, of establishing equality and openness. The gesture someti
mes bridged gaps between strangers.

  The big man reached out, his large hand engulfing hers. "Joe. Call me Joe; everybody does. I'm glad you're home. Yours is the only house with a light on in this whole stretch of road, so I had quite a walk ahead."

  For a man with cold hands, Joe Quintero emitted certain warmth that radiated from his palm to hers, then rushed throughout her body. His hand was large, his grip strong. The man also possessed a hefty natural dose of charisma. Something special.

  When he released her hand, Maria felt a jolt of emptiness. She told herself it was relief. "Your name sounds familiar, Joe. Any relation to Will Quintero?" She knew Will Quintero as a member of the Apache Tribal Council who had been in charge of collecting rent on the cabin's land lease for many years.

  Joe smiled and his eyes crinkled warmly at the corners. "Will's my uncle. I hoped you'd recognize my last name. Figured if you had spent any time around here, you would."

  “I’ve been coming here since I was a child." She pushed her blond hair behind one ear, then pointed to the kitchen. "The phone's in there."

  With a grace surprising in a man so large he moved into the kitchen and picked up the phone receiver.

  Maria stood by the fireplace sipping her cider and trying not to eavesdrop on his conversation. But she couldn't help listening. It was simple and to the point. He had a nice masculine resonance to his tone; she liked listening to him. She noted that he didn't have the usual accent of most of the Indians in the area. It was part of her business to notice those things.

  He walked back into the living room, rubbing his hands together. "Thanks. My rescue party is on the way."

  "Do they live far?"

  "Naw, only a few miles away." He took her measure in the flickering firelight. She looked thin in worn Levi's and a baggy purple sweater. He liked the way she wore her blond hair, casually parted on one side and barely reaching her shoulders. Her brown eyes were bold, revealing an innate self-confidence.

  Instinctively his eyes went to her hands, which were wrapped around a heavy pottery mug. A simple gold band circled the ring finger on her right hand. It looked like a wedding band, but it was on the wrong hand. He could only assume she wasn't married, for there was no ring on her left.