"That must have been incredible," Diana said, her voice throaty with longing.
"I doubt that Carla was in a mood to appreciate it. She had come here to say goodbye to everything she had ever wanted-the land, the ranch, and most of all the man."
"Luke?" Ten nodded.
"What changed her mind?"
"Luke. He finally got it through his hard head that Carla was the one woman in a million who could live on an isolated ranch and not go sour."
Diana's mouth turned down in a sad curve. "I was ranch-raised. It's not for everyone, man or woman."
"You didn't like it?"
"I loved it. No matter how bad things at home got, the land was always waiting, always beautiful, always there. I could walk away from the buildings and the land would…" Her voice shivered into silence as she realized what she had almost revealed.
"Heal you?" Ten suggested softly. Diana's eyes closed and a tiny shudder went through her. Ten was too perceptive. He saw things with dangerous clarity.
"The land was here long before a primate climbed down out of a tree and put a kink in his back trying to see over the grass," Ten said matter-of-factly.
"The land will be here long after we're gone. That frightens some people because it makes them feel small and worthless. But some people are made whole by touching something that's bigger than they are, something enduring, something that lives on a different time scale than man."
The words slid past Diana's defenses, making her realize that Ten was one of those who had come to the land to be healed.
"What hurt you?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The lines of Ten's face shifted, reminding Diana of the cold, deadly fighter who had come over the corral fence and flattened a larger, whip-wielding opponent in a matter of seconds.
"I'm sorry," Diana said quickly. "I had no right to ask."
Ten nodded curtly, either agreeing with her or accepting her apology, she wasn't certain which.
It was silent in the truck for a few moments before Ten said, "We're coming up on the base camp. It's beneath that big overhang on the left."
Diana heard more than the words; she heard what wasn't said, as well. Gone was the subtle emotion that had made Ten's voice like black velvet when he talked about the land. His tone was neither reserved nor outgoing, simply neutral. Polite.
Telling herself that Ten's withdrawal didn't matter, Diana looked beyond his handsome, unyielding profile to the smooth cliff wall rising above scattered pinons. The sandstone gleamed against the thunderheads that had consumed the sky. Something bright flickered at the edge of her vision. A few seconds later thunder pealed through the narrow canyon, shaking the ground. Spectral light flickered and danced again, and again thunder reverberated between stone walls.
Diana closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, savoring the pungent, suddenly cool wind. Soon it would begin to rain. She could feel it. She could smell it in the air, the unique blend of heat and dust rising upfrom the ground and countless water drops reaching down to caress the dry land.
Thunder belled again and then again. A gust of wind came through the open truck window, pouring over Diana. She laughed softly, wishing she were clone so that she could hold out her arms and embrace the wild summer storm.
The subdued music of Diana's laughter drew Ten's attention. He looked at her for only an instant, but it was enough. He knew he would never forget the picture she made with her head thrown back and her hair tousled as though by a lover's hands, her cheeks flushed with excitement and her lips parted as she gave herself to the storm wind.
The persistent male curiosity Ten had felt at his first sight of Diana retreating from the skirmish at the corral became a torrent of desire pouring through him, hardening him with a speed he hadn't known since he was a teenager. Cursing silently, he forced his attention away from his quickened body and onto the demands of the terrain. The last quarter of a mile to the ruins was tricky, because most of it was over greasy shale slopes studded with house-size boulders of sandstone that had fallen from the thick, cliff-forming layer of rock. The truck bucked and tires spun in protest at the slippery going as the vehicle groaned up the final hill.
"Wouldn't it have been better to walk from the base camp?" Diana asked, bracing herself against the dashboard.
"I was in a hurry."
"Why?" she asked, looking toward him as the truck bucked over the ridge and stopped abruptly.
"That's why."
The flat, predatory quality of Ten's voice froze Diana's breath. Slowly she followed his glance.
A dirty Range Rover was parked among the rubble at the base of the cliff. Beyond the vehicle, lightweight aluminum ladders extended up the twenty feet of massive sandstone that separated the ruins from the rubble below.
Ten reached over, unlocked the gun rack that hung over the rear window and chose the shotgun, leaving the rifle in place. He checked the shotgun's load, racked a shell into the chamber, then got out of the truck and closed the door before he turned to look at Diana through the open window.
"Stay here."
Thunder belled harshly, followed by a cannonade of rain sweeping in shining veils over the ground. Holding the shotgun muzzle down, Ten ignored the rain that quickly soaked through his clothing. There was a muffled shout from the ruins. He ignored that, too. The Range Rover was unlocked. He went through the vehicle quickly, finding and unloading a pistol and a rifle. A quick motion of his wrist sent bullets arcing out into the rain. The weapons he put way in the back of the Rover, next to a big carton. With one eye on the pothunters who were scrambling down the rain-slick ladders, Ten ripped open the box.
It was filled with Anasazi pots, their bold geometries and corrugated finish unmistakable in the watery light. Bits of turquoise and shell gleamed in the bottom of one bowl. Ten lifted the carton out, set it on the ground and returned to the interior of the Rover. It stank of cigarette smoke and gasoline that was evaporating from a five-gallon container with a faulty seal.
As the pothunters hit the bottom of the ladder and started running toward him, Ten opened the container and pushed it over inside the car. The stench of raw gas swirled up, overpowering.
"Hey!" hollered the first man. "Get the hell out of there! That car's private property!"
The Rover was between Ten and the pothunters. When he stepped out around the rear of the Rover, the men could see the shotgun held with professional ease in Ten's hands, muzzle slanted down, neither pointing toward nor away from the men.
The first man slowed his reckless pace to a wary walk. He was in his mid-twenties and carried himself as though he had spent time in the military. He was big, hard-shouldered, used to intimidating people with his sheer size.
"You're trespassing on Rocking M land," Ten said.
"I didn't see any signs."
The line of Ten's mouth lifted in a sardonic curl. "Too bad. Get in your Rover and drive out of here."
The other two men caught up with the first just as he shouted, "You'll be hearing from me, cowboy. You're threatening private citizens. We were just traveling around in the back country and made a wrong turn somewhere. It could have happened to anyone-and that's what I'll tell the sheriff when I file a complaint!"
"The only wrong turn you made was in thinking all you'd find out here were pots and a few grad students even younger than you."
"Think you're a big man with that shotgun, don't you?"
"You sure didn't learn much in the marines before they threw you out."