White Wolf. Lindsay McKenna
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the perseverance, the utter commitment to find her hogan, to find her. In fact most of her patients over the last ten years had been women. Only two men had made it to her home and asked for help. And they were Navajo, not white men, thank goodness.
She smiled a little as the flock moved energetically along the rutted track vehicles had followed to her hogan. The sheep seemed almost elated and moved quickly—which was unlike them. Sheep foraged slowly. They didn’t go trotting briskly down the road, ignoring sparse yellowed strands of grass here and there.
Mystified, Erin picked up her pace to follow the herd, which suddenly seemed to know exactly where it was going. Of course, Maiisoh had already run down this way, because she could see his huge, wide paw prints embedded in the thick, gooey clay. She hurried to keep up.
The tracks led around a small, round hill and then continued to wind around other hills of varying sizes and shapes. Erin knew that a good two miles away, the road dipped down into a wash where many a vehicle had become stuck—but good—after a rain. Keying her hearing, she thought she heard the faint sounds of a car engine in the distance.
He is coming.
The sheep were trotting now, heading straight for the wash. Erin had to trot herself to keep up with her flock. She never allowed them to range out here alone, for fear of coyotes grabbing one of them. There were wild dogs, too, which were more of a danger. The dogs often came from the reservation. Because the Navajo didn’t have money to feed them, the animals took off looking for food. Other disowned dogs would find them, and the animals would band together. Erin knew from sad experience that a pack of dogs starving to death would easily claim one of her vulnerable sheep and kill it without a thought. Wild, hungry dogs were a greater problem than the coyotes that owned this land.
He is coming.
Erin heard the grinding gears of a car now. Slightly winded, she saw her flock, as if guided by an invisible hand, continue to trot knowingly along the faint track, which had been washed out during the recent rainstorm. With a shake of her head, she acknowledged the invisible powers that surrounded her. Off in the distance, she saw Maiisoh standing on a hill that overlooked the wash far below. His tail was wagging expectantly and she knew Maiisoh saw the man who was trying to find her.
Well, she might as well surrender to the Great Spirit’s demand. Men were not her strong suit, never had been, but if that was what was decreed by the greatest, most loving force in her universe, then she would bow to it and move toward her destiny. That did not mean Erin wasn’t afraid. She was. The Great Spirit knew the fear that rested in her heart. Her deep, dark secret of the past still lay open and continued to ooze grief and loss. She had never tended that wound within herself, hoping to cover it, hoping to forget it with time.
He is coming.
“Great Spirit, guide me with this man who comes looking for help. Give me the words, the wisdom, the vision of my heart to see him clearly, so that a healing can take place within him.”
How many times had she spoken that reverent prayer with all her soul? Erin had lost count, but she meant each word with every cell in her body as she continued down the slight incline. Less than a mile away was the wash. She knew without even seeing it yet that the man who looked for her was stuck there with his vehicle.
He is coming.
“Damn it!” Dain shouted at the dawn sky as he stood in the wash, his clothes damp with perspiration because the fever was attacking him again, his lips curled away from his teeth. He was ankle deep in red mud, his expensive shoes ruined, his tan chino pants permanently stained. The four-wheel-drive truck he’d bought in Gallup was stuck up to its axles in clay. The owner of the car dealership had sworn this vehicle would make it through anything.
“Screw everything,” Dain muttered violently, wiping his stained hands against his pants. He’d tried to dig the slimy red mud from the tires of the vehicle, but with every shovelful he’d felt weakness eating at him. He no longer had that magnificent strength that weight training had given him. His legs trembled. His arms felt like so much jelly.
With disgust, Dain threw the shovel into the wash. Sweat beaded along his brow. Damp strands of hair were plastered against his skull. Damn this place. Damn Sarah. Damn the Yazzies. Oh, hell, damn his whole, rotten life! He breathed unsteadily through his mouth, falling back against the vehicle. The walls of the wash were made of sand and clay and rose ten feet on either side of him. The stupid wheel ruts led right through the wash. Why the hell didn’t the Navajo build bridges across things like this, as normal human beings would?
Disgust made him snort violently as his gaze ranged across the wash. Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Lifting his hand, he ruefully rubbed the area. Tiny, cold shivers ran down his spine—a sensation he’d never experienced before. He wondered if it was another lousy symptom of his brain tumor growing and affecting some new nerve response in his body.
No, this was different. Scowling, Dain began to look around him. This sensation felt like some forewarning of danger. He laughed harshly, the sound muffled by the sand around him. He remembered now—he’d had this sensation as a kid in the orphanage, back when Mr. Gordon was stalking him, the old son of a bitch. Gordon did that to his “favorites.” And God knew, Dain had been on the top of the list when it came to Gordon’s badgering, beating and name-calling. Yeah, Dain knew this sensation, this feeling. It was one of pure, unadulterated danger. Something was stalking him.
Well, old Gordon was dead and gone now, so it couldn’t be him. Pushing away from the truck, Dain carefully lifted his foot out of the sucking red clay. He braced himself against the vehicle to keep from falling flat on his face as he moved around to the front of the truck and looked up.
His heart slammed violently into his ribs, his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in terror. No! No, it couldn’t be! Dain was positive he was seeing things. He must be! Without thinking, he rubbed his eyes, smearing red clay across his face.
There, up on a red-colored hill above the wash, stood a white animal. From where Dain was standing, it looked like the white wolf from his nightmares. Dain’s heart pounded savagely in his chest, underscoring the terror he felt and tasted. The hill was a good half mile away, and he couldn’t see the animal clearly enough to say whether it might be a white German shepherd, or maybe a husky. Maybe he was just going slowly insane, and this was indeed the white wolf who haunted him nightly.
Dain’s mouth grew dry and his limbs froze. The same old terror, the same fear, washed through him. Somewhere within him, on some deep, unconscious level, he knew it was the white wolf—even if he wanted it to be anything but.
In the forbidding silence of the dawn, he could hear his heart beating. He could feel it thumping wildly in his chest, in response to the white wolf on the hill, watching him. Watching him.
Where did reality begin and nightmares end? As he stood there, he threw out his hand to regain his balance and it struck the hood of the vehicle. The feel of the cold metal beneath his muddy fingers grounded him momentarily. Blinking rapidly, he tried to make the white wolf go away. But it didn’t work. The beast stood like a statue on that bloody red hill, watching him, just watching him. Dain found himself gasping for breath. Was the wolf going to chase him, as he always chased him in the nightmare?
He realized that there was nowhere to run. The only way he could escape the wolf’s lethal jaws was by climbing back into the safety of the truck. And then what? How the hell was he going to get this thing unstuck and make his way back to Many Farms, the closest community and a good twenty miles south across this damnable desert?
A sound in the distance caught his attention. Dain wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he heard a woman’s low, husky laughter wafting toward him in the silence that surrounded him. Where did it come from? Was it in his overactive imagination? He was barely able to tear his attention from the white wolf on the hill, but he did.
Just as the sun’s strong, golden rays flowed silently across the land, caressing the Navajo desert like a lover’s sleek arms, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Was it magic? A ghost? Or was it real? Dain suddenly felt his knees tremble violently. He felt as