"Fear."

"Don't knock it. No animal would survive without it, including man." Ten held a shard up to the light, shrugged and tried it anyway. It fit. "Maybe the Anasazi were no longer actively involved in war. Maybe they just feared it to the point that they retreated to a hole in the cliffs and pulled the hole in after them." Ten looked up. "You can understand that kind of fear, can't you? It's what drew you to the Anasazi in the first place. Like you, they built a shell around themselves to wall out the world. And then they began to shrink and die inside that shell."

Diana concentrated on two shards that had no chance of fitting.

Ten waited a few moments, sighed and continued. "When you retreat to a stone cliff that's accessible only by one or two eyelash trails that a nine-year-old with a sharp stick could defend, it's probably because you don't have much more than nine-year-olds left to defend the village."

"But there's no hard evidence of repeated encounters with a warlike tribe," she said coolly.

"Isn't there? What does Anasazi mean?"

"It's a Navajo word meaning Ancient Ones, or Those Who Came Before."

Ten smiled thinly. "It also means Enemy Ancestor." He picked up an oddly shaped shard and stared at it without really seeing it. "I suspect that at the end of a long, hard period, during which they'd had to cope with war or drought or disease or all three, a kind of madness overtook the northern Anasazi."

The quality of Ten's voice, rippling with something unspoken, caught Diana's attention. "What do you mean?"

"I think a dark kind of shaman cult overtook them, using up everything the society had and demanding even more. Maybe the fears the shaman cult played on had some basis in reality, or maybe they lived only in the Anasazi's own nightmares." Ten shook his head. "Either way, fear ruled the society. The people retreated to the most impossible places they could reach and walled themselves in with rooms and held ceremonies in buried kivas. When they ran out of space in the alcoves, they built bigger and bigger kivas along the base of the cliff."

Ten's voice shifted, becoming subtly different, more resonant yet softer.

"Their rituals became more and more elaborate," he continued quietly, "more demanding of the people's mental and physical resources. Darker. It's possible for a culture to exist like that, but not for long. It goes against the deepest grain of survival to huddle in a stone crypt."

"Is that what you think happened? The Anasazi died in the city crypts they built for themselves?"

"Some did. Some escaped." The odd timbre of Ten's voice made the hair on Diana's scalp stir in primal response, the same stirring she had felt with Ten once before, when she had stood on a desolate mesa top and felt centuries like cards being shuffled, revealing glimpses of a time when reality had been very different, and so had she and Ten.

"How did they escape?" Diana asked, her voice strange even to her own ears.

For a long time there was only silence punctuated by the sounds of the wind sweeping over the ancient land. Just when Diana had decided that Ten wasn't going to say any more, he began speaking again.

"Another shaman came down from the north, an outlaw shaman with a vision that swept through the Anasazi, a vision that spoke of light as well as darkness, life as well as death." Ten looked up suddenly, catching and holding Diana with eyes as clear as rain. "The Anasazi who believed the outlaw shaman climbed down out of their beautiful, dangerous, futile cliff cities and never went back again."

10

Luke leaned toward little Logan, smiling, speaking in a deep, gentle voice to the baby who studied him so intently.

"Definitely your eyes, Carla," Luke said, running his fingertip over his wife's cheek.

"The mouth is yours, though," she said, smoothing her cheek over his hand.

"We're in trouble then. He'll have half the state mad at him as soon as he learns to talk."

Carla laughed softly, brushed her lips over Luke's palm and settled back against his chest. The nursing shawl slipped to one side, revealing the milk-swollen curve of her breast. With a slow caress Luke adjusted the shawl, then resumed the gentle back-and-forth motion of the big rocking chair he had made before Logan had been born.

Despite its size, the chair was still a snug fit for the three of them-Logan, Carla and Luke-but no one had any intention of giving it up for the couch. The quiet evenings when Carla nursed the baby while sitting in Luke's lap had become the highlight of the day for everyone involved.

"Hi," Carla said, looking up as Diana came from the kitchen into the living room. "Ten was asking about you a few minutes ago. Something about a box from 11-C?"

"More red shards. He hopes. He has this theory about where the rest of the red pot is. So far he has been right."

A night of broken sleep and restless dreams had convinced Diana that Ten had been right about more than the pot, but she didn't know how to reopen the subject with him, any more than she had known how to respond last night, when he had spoken about fear and the Anasazi and one Diana Saxton. Instead of speaking then, she had handed him another shard and the conversation had disintegrated into elliptical phrases describing pieces of broken pots.

"Is Ten in the bunkhouse?" Diana asked.

"He's in the barn checking on a lame horse."

Diana hid her feeling of disappointment. Whether in September Canyon or at the ranch headquarters, she looked forward to the evenings with Ten despite the tension that came from her increasing awareness of him as a man. She noticed him in ways that she had never noticed any man at all. The dense black of his eyelashes, the equally dense beard shadow that lay beneath his skin no matter how recently he had shaved, the springy thatch of hair that showed beneath his open collar, the endless flex and play of muscles beneath his skin, the easy stride of a man who was at home in and confident of his body.

But most of all, Diana noticed the frank masculinity of Ten, the male sensuality that was both subtle and pervasive. It compelled her senses in the same way that his intelligence compelled her mind.

"If you see Ten," Diana said to Carla, "tell him I've cleaned the calcium deposits from the 11-C shards, given them permanent labels, and they're ready for his magic touch."

"Sure. Want to stay for pie? We're having some as soon as we put our greedy son to bed."

"No thanks. Your cooking is straining the seams of my jeans as it is. It's getting indecent."

"Haven't heard any of the men complaining about the fit of your jeans," Luke drawled.

"Luke!" Carla said, laughing.

"Well, have you heard them complaining?" he asked innocently before switching his attention to Logan. "Hurry up, son. Your old man is ready for dessert."

Carla laughed and murmured something Diana couldn't hear. Silently she retreated from the living room doorway, heading for the kitchen. It wasn't that she felt unwelcome, for she knew that the opposite was the case. Carla and Luke loved to question Diana about the progress of the dig and the pots that Ten and she together had proven to be so adept at assembling from shards. It was just that she wasn't sure she could look at Luke and Carla and their baby without letting her own hunger show.

What a pity it takes a man to make a baby. It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred to Diana, but the strength of her yearning for a baby was growing. Tonight it had shaken her, making it hard for her to think.

But then, that wasn't new, either. Diana hadn't been thinking too well around Ten lately. A look from him, a phrase, a slight lift of the corner of his mouth, and she would begin thinking all over again about how gentle he had been with the kitten, how patient he was with the fragile, brittle shards, how easy and yet how exciting he was to be with.