Chapter One
San Anselmo Pueblo, New Mexico -- August, 2000
A sudden gust of wind raised dust. Ben Rush halted his hike atop Rainbow Mesa to wipe grit from his eyes. He ran his tongue over cracked lips as dry as the desert floor. With his backpack open on a flat rock, he made a scrabbling search for water.
When he glanced back up at the wind-scoured plain, a tall funnel of dust caught his attention. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted into the distance, a dry sea of clay soil dotted with green brush and the occasional crimson butte. A small line of people approached the mesa.
Strange. He rarely ran into anyone this far from the pueblo.
Through raised binoculars Ben watched the procession of men in white shirts and dark pants come closer. The gleam of sun on silver reflected from squash-blossom necklaces. The flash of red on foreheads indicated headbands. One member of the group stood out. Although the same height as the others, that individual was a boy, one of Ben’s senior students, Virgil Chavez. Others carried an object wrapped in a blanket. A body. No mistaking it. In the last month a handful of people had come down with what was described as the flu; two children had died from it. One was the Chavez child. A pity she had died so young, his heart hurt for Virgil and his family.
The group had reached a site directly below him when a maroon pickup truck careened toward them. It stopped nearby and a short, heavy-set man jumped out. Virgil’s dad, Albert, peeled away from the procession and strode up to the newcomer, striking a belligerent stance. The wind picked up murmurs, but even with voices amplified in anger, Ben couldn’t make out what was said. Albert Chavez’s scowl quickly turned into an expression of rage. He vehemently shook his head, then raised his fists. The other man lifted his arms in front of his face and, for a moment, it looked as if Albert would punch him.
Slowly Albert relaxed his fists, and the other man lowered his arms. Ben watched while the two men conversed, then released a long-held breath, relieved the confrontation was winding down. About to turn back to his hike, he saw Albert step forward and poke a finger into the other man’s chest, causing him to stumble. Before the man could recover, Albert shoved him. The stranger staggered, lost his balance, and fell. He slowly rose while the others watched. Ben fully expected him to return the attack. Instead, he dusted himself off and turned to leave, head down.
Ben’s stomach cramped. Disturbed by what he had witnessed, he waited until the stranger had trudged back to his truck before lowering the binoculars. What the hell was going on? People on the pueblo were typically cordial. Even upset or unhappy, they rarely said anything to your face. He didn’t, for one second, like what he saw. He had come to the pueblo to get away from trouble. He hoped it hadn’t followed him here.
A long ribbon of highway stretched as far as Sandy Jacobs could see. Low-lying scrub speckled sandy soil. Barren hills rose all around. She raced her Tercel along the highway, windows rolled down. The wind twisted and knotted long strands of her hair, blew them across her face. She repeatedly wiped them away with the back of her hand, along with the moisture that beaded her brow. She was heading into a vast empty unknown. Of landscape. Of life.
Anxiety and anticipation had become her twin companions the moment she crossed the state line into New Mexico. Unsure of how to locate her destination, which didn’t exactly put her at ease, she couldn’t imagine what she’d find when she arrived. Menacing dark cumulonimbus clouds accumulated on the horizon. Black sheets of rain fell on faraway hills.
Awesome, she thought at the unexpected sight. As quickly as that thought came, a second followed. Would her dreams, like the rain, always be off in the distance? Far beyond her reach.
