“Maybe. My people have an old song that is good for calming animals.”
“Anything is worth a try.” Tess remembered how Ruben’s mother, Juanita, had sung to Val to help with a bout of depression. Maybe it had been the power of suggestion, but the singing, which had taken all night, had made a difference.
“Can you sing your song for Quicksand?” she asked.
“It would be better with a shaman,” Ruben said. “But I can try. It will take much of the night.”
“Could I stay with you while you sing?” Tess asked. “Maybe if the song works, Quicksand will be less afraid of me.”
“All right.” Ruben stretched his tired limbs. “Meet me back here in an hour.”
Tess took care of her needs and left the dog in the enclosed patio with food, water, and an old quilt to sleep on. By the time she returned to the place outside the pen, wearing a warm jacket, the stars were out. Ruben had made a fire from crackling sap wood. More kindling was piled nearby to feed the small blaze.
He had carried a lawn chair from the porch for Tess. A wool blanket, folded on the ground, marked the spot where he would sit. Next to the blanket was a skin drum with a stick and an unlit bundle of white sage.
“It will be your job to keep the fire burning,” he said. “You can keep the sage burning, too. When I light it, you will see how.”
“Thank you for doing this, Ruben,” Tess said. “I only hope the change in Quicksand will be worth the effort.”
“The best I can do is help him to be calm. The rest—the fierceness—must come from his heart.”
“I understand. But the fierceness is there. I’ve seen it.”
The pen was confining enough to keep Quicksand within a few feet of his captors. He stood against the rails on the far side, eyes rolling nervously. The lightning-shaped blaze down his face flashed reflected firelight.
Sitting cross-legged on the blanket, Ruben held the end of the sage bundle to the fire long enough to get it smoldering. As he waved it gently, pungent white smoke curled from the glowing leaves and stems. As the aroma reached him, Quicksand snorted and tossed his head.
Ruben laid the smoldering sage on a flat rock and reached for the drum. Tess added a stick of sapwood to the fire.
The mournful howl of a coyote echoed down from the ridge. She watched Quicksand, expecting a reaction, but he paid no attention. He would have heard coyote calls on Brock’s ranch, she surmised. But he might not have connected the sound with the pack that had terrorized him.
Taking up the stick, Ruben began a low, throbbing beat on the drum—growing stronger with the first few repetitions but never changing its rhythm. As it became hypnotic, Tess found herself breathing in time. Even Quicksand had paused in his nervous shifting and head shaking.
Ruben began to sing in a reedy voice that was like the whisper of wind. It was nothing like his low, flat speaking voice. Tess was startled, then drawn into the sound and the way it shaped the words of the song. Ruben had implied that he wasn’t a shaman, but the effect of his singing was as magical as anything she had ever experienced. She could only hope it would make a difference for her troubled bull.
As the time passed, her eyelids began to droop. She had to remind herself to feed the fire and perfume the air with sage smoke. But as she fought off sleep, the song went on and on. Through the steel rails, she could see Quicksand’s hulking form against the darkness. He was standing still, his lowered head tilted with the weight of the single horn. Maybe he was falling asleep, too.
By the time Ruben’s song ended, the waning moon had crossed the heavens to the western sky. The sapwood was gone, the fire burned down to glowing coals. The stub of the sage bundle remained, its smoke lingering in the air.
Quicksand was still on his feet, but his massive head hung low. His breathing was deep and even.
Ruben stood and stretched his limbs. Gathering up the blanket and the drum, he cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “I’ve done what I could. In the morning we will know if it was enough. No, leave the sage where it is,hija.The smoke will help keep him calm.”
Tess folded the chair to carry back to the porch. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Ruben,” she said. “Now let’s get some rest.”
Tess was skeptical by nature. She’d never been religious or believed in what she called New Age mumbo jumbo. The crystals, bells, incense, beads, and statuary that lured tourists to the shops of Sedona held no appeal for her. But tonight, she had experienced something old and real, something beyond ordinary belief. The sense of wonder clung to her as she fell into bed and lay sleepless, gazing up into the dark.
* * *
In the bedroom down the hall, Casey lay awake with Val curled lightly against his side. Their lovemaking had been strained tonight. Afterward, she’d been silent, her face turned away from him until, lulled by the muted cadence of Ruben’s drumbeats outside, she’d eased into slumber.
But even as she slept, he’d sensed the silent resistance in her. It was as if she could tell that he was hiding something from her.
That morning he’d received a text from the detective he’d hired to track down his boy.
Found location of stored adoption record and person who will copy for $5,000. Send money or if not let me know.
Casey lay still, listening to the feathery sound of Val’s breathing. He ached with love for her. Once he’d thought that being with her, close and intimate like this, was all he would ever want out of life. But that was before she’d told him about the baby that she’d given up for adoption.