Chapter One

 

 

Present day Montana

 

The skull sat on the table challenging her to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

Clay in hand, Gabrielle Camden began the long, exciting procedure of reconstructing the face. To actually bring a find to life, to be able to look into that image and unlock a part of the past, made being a forensic artist all worthwhile.

Starting at the forehead, she carefully placed a piece of tan clay from the tissue marker on the left temple, to the parallel white peg on the right temple. With nimble fingers she smoothed and shaped the clay to fit perfectly, cutting off the extra pieces that weren't necessary to the contour of the skull. She continued in this manner until she had the entire facial line in place, then sat back and studied her work.

Tiny goose bumps pricked her arm. Just as before when she first discovered the skull. Nothing had prepared them-or her-for the likes of N-A-F, the acronym they gave their Native American Find. Or should she say her find?

There was something mysterious about that skull. Not that it looked any different from all the rest she had examined over the years. Yet, how else could she explain the way, it had seemed to call out to her from its grave beneath the ground?

On a whim, she had decided to stop by the dig site to see if anything new had been found. She’d come to the top of the hill overlooking the winding river, when the feeling had slammed into her like a giant wave. The pull so strong and intense, she'd known without a doubt if she followed her feet to the spot beside the river and dug beneath the entwined roots of the big cottonwood tree, NAF would be there waiting.

When they’d finally found it, seven feet below, she couldn't believe she was seeing correctly. When she’d managed to stop her hands from shaking and held the skull in her open palms, she had felt a connection to that skull the likes of which, she'd never known before.

A strange familiarity. Which, of course, was absurd.

Disturbed by her thoughts, Gabrielle picked up her caliper and measured the gum line for the depth of the teeth and size, then laid the fork-shaped instrument back down on the table.

She glanced up as George Stevens pushed aside the tent flap. Thirty-five years of age, her boss’ nephew, he had the IQ of a twelve-year-old, which made some of her coworkers uncomfortable. She wasn't one of them. A kind and considerate man, George followed the digs from site to site, doing odd jobs. He was a hard worker, and she liked having him around.

“George, hand me that long piece of clay.” She pointed to the end of the table.

He handed her a tan strip. She placed the narrow piece across and under the skull’s mouth, then used her fingers to mold and shape the area until satisfied with the lips she had created. A large square chunk and the front, left side, was smoothed down into place from the cheekbone marker to the marker on the jaw bone.

“There's someone outside waiting for you,” George announced.

“Could you just tell whoever it is that I’m not here?” She'd been interrupted four times and it wasn't even eleven o'clock. Why couldn’t she ever finish a project in peace? Working in a tent at the site was like being in the middle of a parade with a headache.

George hurried over to the tent flap and peeked through a slit in the opening. “It's that reporter, Roy Prescott,” he whispered loud enough to wake the dead.

“Oh, no. Not now.” Last time Prescott paid her a visit, it felt as though he was photographing her with his eyes, instead of the camera in his hand.

George leaned over her workbench and gave her a silly smirk. “He brings flowers.”

“You know that's just a bribe. You'd think he'd get the message that he's not wanted here,” Her brow furrowed. “Reporters aren't allowed near the site.” She had to admire his driving persistence though.

“He likes you,” George teased.

“You remember what happened last time, don't you?”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “You want me to get rid of him?”

Anticipation and aggravation churned in her stomach. “Yes.”

As George turned to leave, the phone rang. Exasperated, she flung up her hands, reached down and picked up the line. What she wouldn't give to be left alone.

“Hello? Mother? Hi. I can barely hear you. This cellular isn't working well.”

“Did you get the blouse I sent over to you?” her mother repeated.

“Yes, Mother. I got it. Thanks. It's beautiful.” Gabrielle glanced down at the fancy blue silk blouse she'd unwrapped earlier. Another birthday present never to be worn. She flicked the tissue paper over the shirt. They were never going to think alike. With both of them being in the same field of work you'd think they'd agree on something.

“What?” She drew her attention back to her mother's voice at the end of the line.

“I said, the color goes well with your eyes, doesn't it?”

“Yes, it matches perfectly.” She drummed her fingers on the table. Her neck and chest tensed.

“Are you coming to dinner Saturday? I'm inviting a few people over.

“Gee. No. Sorry, I can't.” Liar. Gabrielle sniffed with haughty denial. Somehow she never measured up to Mother's expectations. Willimina, the university's prized archeologist. Head of the department, top notch, best of the bunch, she’d always been too busy for the likes of her.

Gabrielle snapped open the book about the Battle of Little Big Horn that lay on the table. Not a single soldier had survived that day in 1876, including Jackson Wilfred, her great-great grandfather. A sadness overcame her. She would have liked to have met the strong looking man whose picture lay nestled between the pages of the family photo album.

“You didn't come last time either,” Willimina said.

Gabrielle exhaled. “Yes, mother, I know I missed the last dinner party.”

“So cancel your plans and come.”

“I can't. I've got way too much work.”

Scanning down the page she noticed the list of Native Americans killed was far shorter than the hundreds of cavalrymen killed that day. Approximately thirty-two Indian casualties. It seemed the Indians had fared better, but it could hardly be called a victory.

Her mother's voice still rang in her ear. “You really need to get out more. Date. Meet a nice guy.”

Gabrielle’s stomach contracted into a tight ball. “Mother, I’m not interested in dating.”

“Look, I’m not getting any younger.”

Here it comes. She rolled her gaze to the ceiling and mouthed her mother’s next words.

“I’d like to have a grandchild before I die.”

“Yes, I know.” A thousand times over. The paper beneath her fingertips crimped as she flicked to the next page. A picture of a Native American camp spanned the two pages. Life had to have been a lot less complicated then.

“So find a nice guy and settle down.” Her mother’s nasal voice pounded her brain.

Gabrielle pinched the bridge of her nose. Her temples began to throb. “How many times do we have to go over this?” She struggled to control her voice from quavering.

“Look. You’re not the first woman to be left at the altar. Granted the guy was a jerk, but, get on with your life. You’re not a little girl anymore.” Willimina’s patronizing tone brought a lump to her throat.

The pain of the day three years ago still hurt more than she cared to admit, and now, thanks to her mother, all the hurtful memories came pouring back. Gripping the phone with a tight fist, she swallowed dryly and took a deep calming breath. “Mother. I’ve got-”

“To get on with your life. I agree. So get a date and come over.”

Disappointment, resentment, burned her chest. The walls of her small tent seemed to close in, suffocating her. “I've got to hang up now. I have a lot of work still ahead of me.”

Dead silence.

“Well.” Her mother sighed. “I understand. Perhaps next time?”

“Next time.”

“Take care dear.”

“Bye.”

Funny, how retirement changed a person. With a twinge of guilt, Gabrielle hit the shut off button on her cellular. Now Mother had plenty of time.

Only thing was-she didn't.

What she wouldn't have given as a child just to have spent some time with her mother, play games, listen to stories like other children. Thank God for Jeffery. He’d been more than her tutor. He’d been her only friend; had filled a void in a lonely child's life. He’d made living from one site to another almost fun.

At the age of thirteen, when her father had left, had her mother taken the time to comfort her? No. And her wedding day, she had suffered alone in a brittle silence that had hardened her heart against men; all men, whose reaction when it came to their feelings was to run away.

An acute sense of loss weighted her shoulders. She straightened. Willimina wasn't going to make her feel-

George swung open the tent flap interrupting her thoughts. “Sorry.” He raised his hands in defeat. “No go. He won't leave until he talks to you. Go talk to him. He's nice.”

She sighed. “Doesn’t that guy ever give up?” Maybe it was her imagination, but he seemed to be hanging around a little more than usual.

George shrugged and held out his hand.

“Oh, all right.” She grabbed the flowers and marched outside.

Blond-haired, brown-eyed Roy Prescott possessed a ruggedness and vital power that seemed to reach out and grab her. His chiseled face, bronzed by the sun, held a certain sensuality. Immaculately dressed in tight new blue jeans and a crisp black shirt, he held his slender but strong physique tall with confidence.

She cast her eyes to the ground before her, keenly aware of her own dusty boots and soiled, creased shorts. Her stomach lurched. What was it about him that constantly made her feel like an adolescent schoolgirl with a crush? Damn. She glanced back up. Why did he have to be so good looking? And since when did his hair get long enough to tie back?

The sun glistened off a long silver feather hanging from his ear. Though the earring didn't quite fit her old image of him, it couldn’t detract from his overwhelming masculinity. And that smile. Her heart pounded foolishly. What the hell was the matter with her? Had she completely lost it? She wasn't interested in dating. Not him, not anyone. She pushed a strand of dark hair from her eye, squared her shoulders and handed him the bouquet.

“Here. I can't accept these. Thanks anyway.”

His stance solid, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, refusing the flowers. The set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak. He wasn’t going to give in too easily.

“Please. Take them.”

“Now Gabby, it's a peace offering. Surely you can't turn that down?” His attitude of self-command unnerved her.

“Mr. Prescott-”

Reluctantly, he grabbed the bouquet. “Don't you think we should be on a first name basis by now? After all, it's not like we just met. What is it, six months now that I’ve been hounding you?” He frowned. “Hell, I know more about you than I know about myself.” He lowered the flowers knee length. “You live alone with your cat. You love to read, know all the librarians by name, and you don’t cook.”

“See. That’s exactly the point. You hang around too much. I…” God. Six months. Has he really been around that long? Suddenly his words sank in. “You’ve been spying on me? That’s-” A claustrophobic sensation seemed to choke her. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”

His jaw clenched and he shifted his weight as though her words had disturbed him. “Don’t be offended. I’m a reporter. I make it my business to know my assignments.”

“And I do, too, like to cook.” She jerked her hands to her hips.

“That remains to be seen.” The smug grin and arched brow lit up his eyes.

Hard defined muscles under his black short sleeve shirt quickened her pulse, sent a flutter to her stomach-a disturbing emotion. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how muscular his arms were?

“You’re Frank Prescott’s son, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well don’t spread it around.” He clasped then unclasped his hand. “We all can’t choose our parents now, can we?”

His tone was light, but there was no doubt in her mind that he meant it.

“Didn’t I see an article in the paper last week about him?”

“It’s an ego thing. He just likes seeing his name in the paper.” Roy’s mouth crimped.

“Don’t you?”

“What?”

“Like seeing your name in the paper.”

For a moment, he regarded her quizzically. “That’s part of the job. Comes with the territory. Anyway, we were talking about you.”

“Changing the subject, are you?” Her brows rose. “How does it feel to have someone interrogate you?”

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Point taken.”

“Great. So stop following me around.”

“I will if you’re up front with me. Tell me what I want to know. Spend time with me out in the open.”

God. She’d love to get her hands on his face. She blushed. To sculpt, she reassured herself. “I can’t. After the last fiasco I could lose my job if anyone from the university staff sees us talking.” She glanced away.

“Oh, that ridiculous line again. That's water under the bridge. Old news. What are you working on this time?” He examined her face, waited for an explanation. His eyes were so chocolaty brown-and she loved chocolate.

Her stance straightened defensively. “Yeah, well, maybe it got you front page news, but the university was left with egg on its face and a year without funding for future projects. It was hell. Do you know what it's like to have everything you do approved and scrutinized? It's like living under a microscope.”

Roy shrugged. “Lighten up. It wasn't your fault. How were you supposed to know the information you gave me was falsified? Damn. I've never met anyone so uptight about their job. Come on, relax a little. I didn't mean to get you so riled up.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.

His warm palm sent a wave of tingling electricity through her. No. Don’t get involved. You’ll only get hurt again. Gabrielle stepped back, fighting the strong magnetic pull drawing her to him.

“You think I get to choose my own stories?” Roy stepped closer. The earthy scent of musk cologne wafted across her face.

“Hell, you gotta be on top for that.”

On top? Gabrielle’s heart pounded and she prayed her face wouldn’t give away her erotic thoughts.

With a deliberately casual movement, he leaned in. His face only inches from hers, Gabrielle’s breath caught. She stared at his perfectly formed lips.

“Besides, it wasn't like I wasn't offered that story. You guys offered it to me. Remember?” His breath blew warm against her cheeks. “I print what I see.” He held his fingers up. “I quote, ‘sixteenth dynasty statue found. One of a kind. Said to belong to Egyptian king.’ End of quote.”

Those eyes. She could get lost in their dark depths. Her palms clammy, her breathing labored, she took an unsteady whiff of air.

“You had no way of knowing it was all a hoax planted by some overly desperate guy looking to keep his department open,” he said, his voice, seductively soft. His closeness made her head spin.

He was right, of course. Still, reporters were banned from all future projects until the staff was certain their finds were legit.

His breath mingled with hers and her pulse raced.

And, like him or not, she sure as hell wasn't going to jeopardize her job talking to him.

“Look.” She took a step back. “I don't have time to stand here and argue with you about past mistakes. I have to get back to work.” She started to turn.

He grabbed her wrist.

The muscles in his arm corded. His stance grew taut. Again her stomach quaked. His touch seemed oddly familiar, somehow comforting. It felt stronger than merely just two people who had met before and were somewhat attracted to each other. No, this underlying force of attraction seemed deeper, like she had known him well-loved him before.

She blinked, baffled. This was utterly insane. She twisted her hand from his grip.

“I’ve got to go.” She spun on her heel in dazed exasperation and headed back to the tent.

“I know my stuff. There's a story here, all right.” He skirted around her. “And by the way, I do know what it's like.” He stepped in front of her blocking her way.

His gaze traveled seductively over her face and searched her eyes.

“Not too proud, are you?” she asked.

“Just honest.” Again he stepped closer. Their eyes locked. An invisible force of electricity seemed to spark between them, drawing them closer and closer. Yearning radiated off his face like heat from a roaring fire. He was going to kiss her. The thought sent her heart into a panic. She blinked, then abruptly stepped aside.

Both gazes froze on one another. She had the feeling Roy was as stunned by the deep attraction surging between them as she was.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

He cleared his throat. “Now about that-”

“Please, don't ask,” she silenced him before he had a chance to finish his sentence. “I can't tell you anything.”

Grinning, he held out his hand. “At least keep the flowers.”

Damn. He had such straight white teeth. She hesitated. God, they’re only flowers, not a proposal. She took his peace offering, “Thanks.” Then backed away. “What's with the earring? Going for a new look?”

“Now, don't you go and start too.” He rolled his gaze to the sky and shook his head. “I'm still smarting from the jokes my coworkers ground into my hide.” He brought his hand to his ear, fingering the dangling turquoise and silver feather.

“I don't have the foggiest notion why I did it.” His brow crunched and his eyes held a look of puzzlement. “I was passing this store, went inside, and before I knew it I was letting some woman puncture my ear. I bought this too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a beaded neck band. “Not exactly me, is it?”

“Well, do you have a dog? You could use it as a collar.”

The huskiness of his laugh lingered in the air between them. “What are you, some kind of heyoka?” he asked.

“A what?”

A disturbed expression crept across his face as he stared at her in silence. “Clown. It's the Sioux word for clown

“Only…” He shook his head. “I don't know how I knew that.”

 

****

 

Roy stared at Gabrielle, studying her face for a reaction. She reminded him of the Ivory Soap commercials, the ones where the women always had that clean, fresh outdoorsy-looking aura. Even in those baggy shorts and T-shirt she couldn't hide that shapely figure, nor that drop-dead pair of legs. “I must have picked the word up somewhere. I probably read the translation from an article.” Boy, he was way overdue for a physical.

Gabrielle shrugged. “I guess.”

There was something in those baby blues of hers. Something he had never seen before. An intense lure, an abysmal connection that hit him squarely in the gut.”

Look. I’ve got to get back to work.” She turned.

“No. Wait.” God, her eyes were so clear he could swear he was looking into glass. A few strands of ebony hair fell to her cheek. She brushed the locks away, leaving a smudge of dirt on her face. What he wouldn't give to be able to wet his finger and wipe that mark away.

He cleared his throat, brought his mind back to the conversation. “Let me take you dancing sometimes.”

He'd trade a dozen of those phony plastic women he had met at his father's club, for just one of her.

Her gaze darted. A familiar emptiness, nibbled at his soul. She wasn't going to say yes. “Or, how about a cup of coffee?” It seemed his playboy, reputation preceded him. Past mistakes weren’t easily erased.

“A quick cup, nothing more.”

“I'm sorry,” she said softly.

Rejection punched his chest like a solid fist, mid-center. Hell, last thing he needed in his life was a complication. He straightened his shoulders. And she was an emotional minefield.

“I’m in the middle of a project. I can’t leave.”

“Thought you’d say that, so I took the liberty....”

Before she had a chance to argue he grabbed her hand.

“What?”

“Just come with me for a second.”

“Roy, I-”

“Don’t make me haul you over my shoulder,” he teased.

Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t!”

“Just walk over there.” He pointed to a tent a few yards from the one she’d been working in. “I’d like to show you something.”

She slipped her hand from his, hesitated, then moved in the indicated direction. Her steps slow, she seemed to ponder her decision.

Roy quickly stepped beside her and reached the tent before she did. He opened the flap, gestured her in and followed behind.

A soft gasp escaped her. “What in the world?” She stared at the set table and chairs in the middle of the tent. “China? Silver? I… I don’t know what to say.” Intense astonishment lit her luminous eyes. “I… How did you-”

“I bribed the guard at the gate and swore I was on an unofficial call. In fact, I had to give him my camera, which, I might add, is like giving up my right arm; so… what’ll you say?”

She bit her lip, debating. “You swear on your precious camera, no shop talk?”

“Cross my heart. No questions.”

“Well.” An uncertainty crept into her expression. She glanced to the table, then back at him. “You went through so much trouble… but only for a few minutes. I can’t-”

“I know, be seen with me. I understand.”

They walked over. He pulled out her chair and she sat.

He settled into the opposite seat. “So. Tell me about yourself.”

“What? You don’t know everything?” She smiled.

“Not the important things.” Roy picked up the coffee pot and poured. She teased him. That was a good sign. “Sugar?”

“Just milk. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Her spoon clinked the inside of her cup as she stirred.

Roy took a sip of coffee. He studied her face over the rim of his cup. No makeup, not a stitch. A natural beauty. This was the first time he’d ever been with a woman who hadn’t plastered herself with makeup. He liked it. Liked it a lot.

“Well mister reporter man, what do you want to know? Time’s ticking.” She tapped her watch. Though her tone was light, he sensed her unease.

Damn. She was beautiful. A hot wave of desire swept across his body. “Your family. What are they like?”

“I really don’t want to talk about them.” A shadow of annoyance puckered her lips. She picked up her cup, her gaze fixed on the coffee inside.

“I can understand that.” Seems they shared the same feelings. Last thing he’d want to do was spill his guts over a cup of coffee.

She glanced up. A flicker of relief crossed her face.

“Traveling. You’ve done a lot of traveling with your job.”

Her cup hit the saucer with a clink. “You promised no-”

“I was just going to ask what your favorite place was.”

“Oh.”

Was that a blush beneath that dark tan?

“Strawberry?” He held out the plate.

She took a berry...

“Egypt. India. Africa. It’s too hard to choose I guess.”

...took an erotic bite.

“Your childhood must have been amazing.” He placed the plate to the table.

Her lids dropped, as did her facial expression.

“What, did I say something wrong?”

Their gaze met and he swore he saw a sadness cloud those lovely blues.

“The same as any other girl.” She shrugged. “My life.” She fidgeted in her seat.

“No way. Camping out under the stars, campfires, living in the open. A- kid’s dream.”

“Maybe some. Not mine,” she said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way off.

“What was it like?”

“Lonely.”

He placed his hand on her’s. His heart hammered foolishly. A surge of blood shot to his groin.

Her breath quickened. She slipped her fingers away. “You must have had a great childhood, private jet, yacht, all those big fancy parties and galas one reads about in the gossip column. Like I said, I just read that your father donated a large sum of money to a relief fund for some flood victims. Paper portrayed him as quite a hero.”

The speed of her voice-the nervous flutter of her hand-he was getting to her. “One shouldn’t believe what one reads in the paper,” he said, keeping his tone light, though the very mention of his father was pushing the pleasure of this moment away.

She grinned. “And this from a reporter?”

Her smile more intoxicating than a bottle of Dom Perignon, he felt a tug, a tightening sensation of arousal. He shifted his weight, making himself more comfortable.

“I would have given anything to live in a big fancy house...”

Staring at her luscious lips, it was getting difficult to concentrate on her words.

“... live under any roof for a long period.” She took a sip of coffee.

“And I would have given anything to get out from under it.” The words slipped from his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

An awkward silence hung between them.

“Boring. My childhood was boring.” Damn. Had he just said that? His mouth, felt dry, like old brittle paper. He reached for his cup and took a drink.

“Oh.”

Again the silence.

She glanced away, then back at him. “Make believe.”

Said so softly, her words were barely audible. “What?”

“After my parents would dig up some ancient relic, I used to fantasize about living in that time period. I’d image whose hands crafted the vase or statue, imagine what it would be like to travel back in time. Silly, huh?”

“No.” Even her blush was an erotic turn on. “We all have our own way of escaping. Seems we have more in common than you thought. What are you working on now?”

She frowned. “You promised.”

“For fun. What kind of piece are you sculpting-working on in your leisure.”

“How did you know I-”

He grinned. “I haven’t been peeping through your window, if that’s what you’re thinking. I happened to be doing some research in the library last week and overheard you talking with the librarian.”

“A little boy. I’m working on a little boy and his dog.”

Lightly he touched her fingers. “Maybe sometime you could show me.”

The air grew thicker with palpable tension.

“Maybe.” She pushed back her chair. “Look this has been nice, but I’ve got to get-”

“Back. I know.” He stood and they walked in silence toward the opening.

“You’re not hiding the Abominable Snowman or some frozen caveman back in your tent are you?” Hell, he had to say something to lighten the mood.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever gave you that idea?”

Bingo! Her eyes darted from his for just a second. Maybe he’d hit on something.

“This was lovely.”

Yes, you are. He took her hand. Squeezed her fingers lightly. “Promise me I wouldn’t have to wait another six months to get a little of your time. OK?”

“Thanks for the coffee… the talk. I’ve really-”

“Go.” He let go of her hand and flipped up the tent flap. “I gotta get my camera anyway. I’m starting to feel a little lost without it.”

Gabrielle stepped outside. She turned back, glanced at him and the sunlight hit her face, reminding him of the dream he’d had last night. Indians. He'd dreamt of Indians. Long hair flowing past their shoulders, chests and faces painted in blacks and grays, they were engaged in some kind of battle. And there, standing in the middle of all the commotion, stood Gabrielle. Dressed in a white beaded leather dress and moccasins, she looked angelic, a contrast to the devastation and ugliness around her. Then it was snowing; yet he got the feeling that it was summer.

 

****

 

Gabrielle whipped open the tent flap and came within inches of whipping George in the face. Obviously, he had been spying on her. Again she realized how much she hated having no privacy.

“I see you dumped the newspaper man.”

“I didn't dump him,” she said sharply. She chewed the inside of her lip. Sitting there sipping coffee, eating strawberries, feeling the intense attraction pulling at her, she had to restrain herself from bolting from the table. Why did he have to be so nice? Irritable, restless, she turned away not waiting for a response.

George followed behind her as she stepped around her workbench, dropped the flowers to the table, then plopped into the chair, facing him.

Men were emotional disasters. No matter how cute. A gamut of perplexing emotions pummeling her mind, she stared absent-mindedly at the tent’s opening. Why in the world did I agree to have coffee with him? She rubbed her forehead. Tension throbbed beneath her fingertips. It had always been a professional relationship between them uncluttered with emotional garbage. Clean. Cut. She kept her distance. He did his job. So, why now? Why was her heart acting so foolishly? She didn’t have the time-or the need-or the want, for that matter, for this foolishness.

She breathed in sharply. Now he wants more- more than I can give. Her chest felt as though it would burst and the need to run.- to get away from her mother, Roy, her own remembered past, seemed to be stretching her nerves to a frazzled, thinning cord.

“Hey,” George pointed at something behind her. “Why'd ya make that face to look like you?”

“What?” Gabrielle spun around and stared at the skull. He had to be imagining things. Or was he? She took a closer look. The blood drained from her face. My God, it did resemble her!

A claustrophobic panic rioted within her. She dug her fingers in the table’s edge, blinked, and stared harder. Except for the nose, which was straight and fuller than her own, the damn thing looked too much like her. Why hadn't she seen that before?

The first thing that flashed through her head was a picture of her boss pacing. She could hear it now. He'd be rambling nonstop. “How could you have done such a stupid thing? Your own image? What am I supposed to think?” In fact, he'd be yelling, “What is the board going to think? How is this going to look for the university?”

Her breathing shallow, quick, she raked her fingers through her hair. She could take off the clay, change it, but deep in her heart, she knew it would be wrong. She bolted from her chair. Fired. That was going to be her boss's next line.

The room began to spin. George was mouthing something, but all she could see was that face-her face staring back at her. “I've got to get some air,” she mumbled, pushing past him.

“Miss Gabby, are you all right?”

She halted in mid-stride and turned. “Nobody's going to believe I didn't do that on purpose.”

“So?”

“George.” She paused. He wouldn't understand she felt like she had lost her objectivity. “It's kind of hard to explain.” That for some unknown reason that skull had a strange effect on her, made her blood rush, her heart pound. What could she say?

“Your Unc--my--” Anxiety, a volcanic erupting sensation pulsated her throat. “My boss isn't going to be happy with me.”

George looked a little confused.

“He's going to worry about the press, the--” She waved her hand in the air. “Roy… the newspaper. There'll be a field day.” She was gonna lose her job! God, she needed her job.

“Field day?” Nervous, George wrung his hands together. His face twisted in distress.

Gabrielle pressed her fingers against her throbbing temple. “George, listen to me.” She took a deep calm breath, then exhaled slowly. “Don't show anybody the skull. OK?” She tried to keep her voice light so as not to upset him further. Skirting past her table, she hurried to the back of the tent, picked up a small wooden crate and wound her way back to the table. With great care she placed NAF inside.

“I'm going to lock her up in this box. If anyone asks you where the skull is, tell them I have it. Tell them I took it over to the Reservation to do some research.” She had to get out, leave, now before Roy-before her boss-someone saw her.

“I'll be gone for a few days.” Where, she didn’t know. Anyway, far away where she could think. Where no one could find her. Where she could be alone.

“Then why-?” He looked perplexed.

“I'm not really taking NAF with me.” She hammered a small nail in each corner of the lid and quickly slid the box in the back of the tent between two other boxes. Finished, she spun back around to George. “I'm afraid to move her. She's not finished and well, I don't want to… break her.” How could she explain? She was in enough hot water. She couldn't take the thing with her. First of all, it was too delicate. Second, it wasn't her property. God forbid something happened to it. No. NAF would be safe in here. No one would even be looking for her - she hoped.

 

Why she went back to the site by the river was beyond her. Gabrielle stared at the slow flowing water. She lifted her gaze and glanced beyond the river's narrow bank, across the barren prairie grassland where olive green and brown blades of grass swayed gently in the warm breeze and toward the steep bluff where Custer and the Seventh Calvary had fought. Where so many had died.

The hair on her arm rose.

She felt it-the eeriness of the place. Even stronger then before, it caressed her, ran its prickly fingers up and down her body. She shivered and hugged her middle.

“It’s just my imagination.” Concentrate. There’s got to be an explanation. That skull did look like her. God. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. She couldn't lose her job. It was in her blood. It was all she had-all she ever knew. What could she tell her boss?

She bit her lip, controlling the sob welling in her throat, straightened, and glanced around the grounds hoping to find an answer.

Everything around her was peaceful. Birds chirped. Yellow wild flowers basked under the sunny summer rays, and the river gurgled along its path. Nothing indicated the battle of all battles, the one that had sealed the fate of all Native Americans, had taken place there. White stone markers and a tall monument stood like silent soldiers commemorating the men who had died in the Battle of Little Big Horn. Somehow it wasn't enough. There should have been some big black hole in the ground. Something that said good men died here. Good men on both sides. Those fighting to save a way of life; those trying to build a new one. Instead, only a vague, anonymous void stood between the past and present; a present that seemed to reach out and strangle her.

She chewed her lip; wrung her hands. How could she hope to find the answer to her dilemma, when historians couldn't find the answers to what had happened that day?

A sudden flash, a reflection off the sun caught her attention. She stared down into the deep grave, trying to make out what it was. What had the crew overlooked? Her curiosity getting the best of her, she dropped to the ground, threw her legs over NAF's burial site and jumped into the hole. The glint came from a camera lens.

“Damn. Prescott has been snooping around. Great.” She frowned. He hadn’t just dropped by for a friendly chat. Having seen the large hole, he had to know more than he’d let on. Men! Bending over she picked up the lens. She’d been right all along. Deceiving thuds. They break your heart, then leave you alone to pick up the pieces. She never should have agreed to talk to him. The glass cut into her palm.

A shadow suddenly veiled her vision. She glanced up. A giant black cloud billowed overhead. Electricity crackled through the air, sounding like live wires hissing in a bucket of water. Quickly she scanned the dirt for anything she’d overlooked. The wind lifted, making a tremendous swishing sound. Standing, she shielded her eyes from the whirling sand and torrid, rising winds. God, she hated storms. Ever since that time in the cave…

Thunder rumbled, growing in severity, its deafening explosion booming. She shivered.

“It’s definitely time to leave.” She reached for the grass overhead and began to hoist herself to ground level when suddenly, the earth beneath her shifted. Her heart leapt. Sinking fast she hurled her arms up, in an effort to steady herself, but clasped nothing but air. Her first thought: quicksand. But that was impossible. There was no quicksand in Montana. Angry winds swirled around her. The pressure so strong, like a giant vacuum, she felt sucked up in its intensity.

Dirt slammed in her face, making it difficult to see. Furiously she gulped in the air. Her arms flailed in an attempt to grab onto anything solid. A sound like pebbles pelting against a tile roof encompassed her. Thick oozing mud glued her feet to the shifting ground. Her body shook. Then suddenly the earth beneath her opened like a trapdoor…

Gabrielle fell, sliding into an endless pit, spiraling around and around, tossed about like in the center of a tornado. Hands clenched in a ball by her side, her hair flying above her head, she fell still deeper.

What was happening? A storm, even one like she'd just witnessed, couldn't bury a person alive. Could it? Her mind, a tangled web of confusion, felt unhinged. The sensation of falling, of whirling in circles, seemed even stronger then before.

In the darkness, a multitude of colors blurred before her. Reds, oranges, yellows and greens, it felt as though she were looking through a prism.

Stark vivid fear seized her body like a cold fist closing over her heart.

Then, in this perpetual hole of nothingness, a cacophony of sounds assaulted her senses. She heard a blast of gunfire; voices; music without any particular tune. Revolving like on a merry-go-round, with hundreds of voices all talking at the same time. Nausea rose in her throat. She closed her eyes.

And continued to fall.

Her anguished cry echoed. With trembling hands, she covered her face. She was dying. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her throat swelled with misery. She didn't want to die, not yet. There were so many things she wanted to do. Maybe, she reasoned, when she opened her eyes, she'd wake up.

She didn't.

Further and further she fell. The darkness reached around her and squeezed. The air, no longer a stifling wave of heavy molasses, cooled to a pleasant breeze, only to dissipate as rapidly as a shooting star, leaving in its wake a slap of cold air that sent waves of goose bumps up and down her entire body.

She wondered if she'd ever hit bottom. You never hit bottom when you were dreaming. She did, just as the jaws of darkness opened up and swallowed.