Wild Desire

Who looked on him and smiled.

—JOHN NICHOLS

Stephanie quickly placed her hand over Runner’s before he had the chance to toss her camera to the ground. “Please don’t,” she said, her voice drawn. “If you do, that act alone will be a betrayal to what we shared only moments ago. You knew that I was a photographer. You knew that I had come to Arizona to take photographs.”

“I was foolish for having forgotten that,” Runner said. He still held the camera threateningly over his head, even though her hand was on his, persuading him to lower it.

“Runner, please listen to what I have to say, and then decide whether or not you want to destroy my camera,” Stephanie said softly. “If you destroy the camera without first listening to reason, then I fear our relationship will be just as quickly shattered.”

Wide-eyed and waiting, she held her breath.

Runner slowly lowered it to his side, and then slipped it back inside Stephanie’s saddlebag; tears of relief flooded her eyes. He had just proven his love for her. She could tell that he hated the sight of her camera and, in turn, what it represented; it was a further way to exploit his people.

Yet for her, he had decided not to destroy it.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She went to him and gazed up, daring to take one of his hands.

“Darling, please hear me out, and then if you want nothing more to do with me, I will ride away and never bother you again,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Say what you must,” Runner said, his eyes looking into hers. “I will listen.”

“Runner, I mean your people no harm.” She reached a hand to his cheek. “Darling, I have had time to think this through since my arrival to Arizona. I have decided to carefully show the American people, through my photographs, that the Navaho people are dignified, and that their men are proud warriors who have forever striven for heroic qualities and a sense of heritage. How could there be any harm in that?”

“Harm?” He took her hands and held them to his chest. “My people do not wish to be in pictures, no matter who takes them. But I will say this to you, my love. I will accompany you while you carry your camera from place to place, but it will only be used to photograph Arizona’s landscape, not its people. Nothing sacred will be captured by film. Do you understand? Can you live by those rules while in Navaho land? If so, I will assist you.”

Stephanie was at a loss for words. She had never expected him to allow her to follow through on taking any more photographs, much less say that he would help her.

She was filled with awe. She could never love him more than at this moment, for she saw that he was offering a great sacrifice on his part.

“You would do this for me?” she said, choking back a joyous sob.

“It is something my father will not approve of, but, yes, I will ride with you while you are taking your photographs,” Runner said. Deep within his heart he wanted to please her, yet knew that he was doing this mainly for his people. He would make sure that Stephanie stayed away from the Navaho. He would also make sure that she did not get near any of th

eir sacred rocks, places of prayer, or burial grounds. He saw his motives as selfish, but necessary.

“I don’t want to cause trouble between you and your father,” Stephanie said, searching his face eagerly with her eyes.

“My father’s business and my own do not always go hand in hand.” He smiled down at her. “If so, I would not be with you tonight. For you see, my pretty one, my father warned me against falling in love with you.”

“He did?” Stephanie said, her eyes widening.

“Remember the first day we met?” Runner said, wrapping his arms around her. “He saw then how I felt about you. It was then, on our way to our home, that he warned me.”

“I regret that he doesn’t approve of me,” Stephanie said.

“It is not so much you that he fears.” He placed a finger to her chin and lifted her eyes to meet his. “It is the future of his son, and the color of children who might be born to him.”

“What?” Stephanie said, gasping.

“He wishes for grandchildren with the skin, eyes, and hair of the Navaho,” Runner said softly. “But when he said this to me, I reminded him that I was white, and that it had never before seemed to matter to him.”

“I don’t see how it could,” Stephanie murmured. “Runner, you are so special. So very, very special.”

“It is good that you think that.” He wove his fingers through her hair and drew her lips to his mouth.

As wolves howled at the moon in the distant hills, Runner gave Stephanie a long, deep kiss.

Damon Stout rode slouched in his saddle as he traveled across his pasture land, mentally counting horses. He had found the broken pole fence and had suspected foul play.