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Excerpt
Some say Native American activist Kole Kills Crow is an
outlaw; others say he’s a hero. To reporter Heather Reardon, he’s a must-have
story. Her friend Savannah, who’s married to Kole’s half-brother, Clay, can
vouch that Kole won’t hurt Heather, even though a brush with the law has turned
him into a fugitive.
When Heather locates Kole in an isolated Minnesota cabin,
she quickly learns that he’s a loner with no interest in sharing his side of
the story with the world. Yet neither
Kole nor Heather can resist the attraction that complicates their relationship,
along with Heather’s persuasive arguments. Years ago Kole gave up a daughter
for adoption because he couldn’t raise her on the run. His daughter is now seven and deserves to
know what kind of man her father really is.
Kathleen Eagle expertly mingles passion, suspense and Native
American political issues into an unforgettable story of love and healing.
Kathleen Eagle retired from a seventeen-year teaching
career on a North Dakota Indian reservation to become a full-time novelist. The
Lakota Sioux heritage of her husband and their three children has inspired many
of her stories. Among her honors, she has received a Career Achievement Award
from Romantic Times, the Midwest Fiction Writer of the Year Award, and Romance
Writers of America's prestigious RITA Award. Visit her atwww.kathleeneagle.com.
"Kole Kills Crow is a perfect romance hero.”—Publishers
Weekly
"Best-selling and award-winning
author Kathleen Eagle provides readers with an exciting ethnic romance . . . a
classy reading experience.” -- Harriet Klausner, AllReaders.com
"You always can tell that a Kathleen Eagle book is going to be an
enjoyable, intelligent read.” -- The Romance Reader
"Kathleen Eagle never fails
to enthrall.” – The Best Reviews
1
The man she wanted was sitting kitty-corner across
the bar, big as life.
Heather Reardon felt hot and damp all
over, her gut gone goosey, like a silly teenage groupie, but one with no friend
along to poke her and remind her not to stare. The tinny chords from a steel
guitar looped round and round her, while a dying bulb in a beer sign above the
door marked "Can” did a crazy dance.
Can, indeed, she thought
giddily. Can and did. Searched and found. She had followed her leads and her
instincts deep into the backwoods, nearly to the Canadian border, and found the
man she’d been looking for perched on a run-of-the-mill bar stool.
She wasn’t staring. She
didn’t have to. Heather Reardon was a professional. She had the eavesdropping
ear of an owl and the peripheral vision of a horse. Staring was no way to get
what she’d come to the Minnesota backwoods for, which was not so much the man
as his story. But the man—seeing him in the flesh, hearing his voice live,
remembering his public deeds as well as the personal stories she’d been
told—the man was something else.
His name was Kole Kills
Crow, and he was acting remarkably ordinary, minding a beer on the stained bar,
the sportscaster on the small screen above the fat bartender’s head, and the
occasional comment from the younger Indian man sitting two stools down on his
far side. He didn’t resemble any fugitive she’d ever encountered—and she’d met
a few—nor did he strike her as a martyr. He didn’t look like a rabble-rouser or
a terrorist or a messianic leader of Native people or a convict. He certainly
didn’t look like a murderer, but Heather had interviewed enough murderers to
know that you couldn’t tell by looking at them. And he knew she was watching
him. That much she could tell by the way he studiously ignored her.
She was fairly certain
that being the only woman in the Cheap Shot Saloon rendered her somewhat
noticeable. She was also the only Caucasian, although the bartender was
probably more white than Indian. He was the only person who’d said anything to
her so far—"What’ll it be?” and then "Never heard of it. You got a second
choice?” She’d ended up with red wine vinegar in a juice glass.
"How is it?” the
bartender asked her after he’d delivered a couple of beers at the other end of
the bar. "The wine.”
Heather looked down at
the glass. Not that she’d forgotten, but she couldn’t bring herself to look the
guy in the eye when she said, "Fine.”
"Didn’t know if it would
keep. Opened it up for a lady last month.”
"Last month?
Well...” She flashed a tight smile. "As long as you keep the
cap screwed on tight.”
"Lost the cap, so I
just—”
"Are you palming off
some of that stuff you make yourself, Mario?”
The bartender raised his
voice as he shot the younger man a scowl. "Put a cork in it.”
"Damn, we lose more
tourists that way.”
The exchange drew a
chuckle from the reticent Mr. Kills Crow as he set his beer down after taking a
sip.
"They come all this way
to soak up the flavor of, uh, the native...” The young guy
made a rolling gesture. "What do you call it, Kola?”
"Hooch,” Kole said.
"Not that. The
atmosphere. The whole cultural—”
"That ain’t hooch, hey.
That there’s genuine—” The bartender grabbed the bottle, checked the label,
then shoved it under the younger man’s nose. "Italian. It’s Italian wine.
Imported from Chicago. I got a cousin there.”
Heather slid Kills Crow
a quick glance. She had the edge. She knew who he was, knew from her reading
that kola was the Lakota word for "friend,” knew that they were both
visitors to the woodsy Northern Minnesota Blue Fish Indian Reservation that was
home, not to the Lakota, but to their traditional rivals, the Chippewa. He, on
the other hand, knew nothing about her.
Not that he was
interested. Clearly he meant to spare her no more than a glance as he lifted
his beer, but he stopped short of a sip and lowered the bottle. A spark flashed
in his dark eyes, like a secret smile. "You’re supposed to let the lady check
the cork, Mario,” he said.
He no longer wore his
hair in the braids he’d sported when he’d waved an assault rifle above his head
and defied the South Dakota National Guard with a chilling whoop that echoed
across the airwaves into living rooms across the country. Heather had only had
a passing interest at the time—much like the look he was giving her now—but
she’d since gathered every piece of news he’d made. His hair had been jet-black
then. It was shorter now and streaked with an abundance of silver for a forty-year-old
man. She could count the years in his tawny face, too, but he wore them well.
And his eyes promised a fascinating story.
"Ain’t nothin’ wrong
with the cork. See? Just a cork.” Mario snatched it out of the sink and thrust
it under each nose along the bar, as though he wanted them to sniff for
spoilage. "Damn, you guys,” Mario said, flicking the cork in the young man’s
face when he grimaced. "She said herself, it’s good wine. Right?”
"I said it was fine.”
She offered another tight smile to the bartender as she grabbed the glass, then
cast a quick glance at the man she’d come two thousand miles to find.
Dare ya, said his eyes with a
secret smile.
She drank, willing her
tongue to let the stuff pass quietly, finishing off by turning a sour pucker
into a savory lip smack, then a grin. "Mighty fine wine,” she declared.
The secret smile turned
public.
The younger man
applauded.
Bartender Mario looked
worried. "You’re the wine expert, Jack,” he said to the younger man. "How many
days does it have to age before it’s safe to drink?” He laughed at Heather’s
quick double-take. "Just kidding. You’re a good sport.”
"What is your sport?”
Kole’s friend, Jack, asked. "Hiking, fishing, canoeing? What brings you way out
here from way over...”—he gestured with a revolving index
finger— "... yonder?”
"East,” she said with a
nod as she lit a cigarette. "A little of each, along with the fact that I’ve
never seen this part of the country.”
"Do you know you’re on
an Indian reservation?”
"Yes, but it’s not
closed to non-Indians, is it?” She glanced at Kole through her smoke. "I
actually have a little Indian blood. Cherokee, I think.”
"That puts you in with
about ninety-nine percent of the population,” Jack said.
"I suppose that
sounds...” She waved her own claim away with cigarette smoke,
embarrassed to have made it to these people in this place. "Family fable, I
guess. Am I not allowed to be here? I’m staying at the lodge, which was
advertised on the Internet.”
"What kinda net?”
somebody beyond the bar put in.
"Internet,” Jack said.
"They use it to fish for tourists.”
"It’s legal,” Mario
reported with a grin. "No limits, no season.”
"Is it covered by
treaty?”
"Some white guy invented
it,” another voice reported, the conversation spreading like ripples from a
pebble plunk.
"Then we’re safe. You’ve
got a home page, Mario?”
"They gave it to me free
with the Internet service.”
"You got a computer?”
"No, but I’m gonna get
one pretty soon.”
"He uses mine,” Jack
said.
"It’s the cheapest kind
of advertising you can get, and it works.” Mario jerked his chin in Heather’s
direction. "Reeled in a real nice one.”
"Without even mentioning
the fine wine,” Heather said.
"Mighty fine wine. Would
you care for another hit?”
With a quick hand she
covered the glass. "Oh, no, thanks, I’m fine.”
"Mighty fine.” Mario
winked at her, went to brace an arm on the bar and tipped over a bowl of
peanuts, which he quickly brushed onto the floor behind the bar. "What are you
fishing for?”
"Well...fish. Whatever bites.”
"You’ve got three or
four of us swimming around the hook here,” Jack said, grinning. "But Mario
can’t do any serious biting since his ol’ lady wired his jaws.”
Other baiters chimed in.
"Stuffed and mounted is
what he is.”
"When Mario has a few
beers, his ol’ lady does all the pissing. That’s how close they are.”
With lips rather than
fingers, Mario pointed past the bar. "What about you, Dogskin? You’re caught,
too.”
"But I’m about to be
released. She kicked me out two days ago.”
"I have a feeling I’m in
way over my head here,” Heather said with a laugh. "But I really do need a
guide.” As long as everyone seemed easy with her now, she slid Kole a dare
ya look of her own. "Would you be interested?”
"That’s not my line,” he
said quietly.
"Mario knows every trail
around here,” Jack said. "But if you’re looking for an outfitter, you probably
should have—”
"Is that what you’re
looking for?” Kole asked, his eyes telling her he knew better. "An outfitter?”
"Well, all right, maybe
I will have something in a sealed bottle,” she said with a pointed glance at
his beer.
Kole signaled the
bartender, who served her a bottle and a glass. The glass appeared to be
Mario’s special favor to her, since no one else had one. She figured the bottle
was safer, but she didn’t want to hurt any feelings or cause any offense, so
she poured, sipped, grimaced—she wasn’t a beer drinker—nodded, smiled, and
thanked them both. She was, she decided, making progress.
"I’m Heather Reardon,
from New York,” she told Kole. "I’m a writer, and I’m here for a much needed
getaway and a little of that ambiance you mentioned.”
"I mentioned?
That must be something you saw on the Internet, Heather Reardon from New York.”
Kole Kills Crow had a formidable scowl. "Did you advertise our ambiance, Mario?
Is that what we’re selling these days?”
"There’s plenty here,”
she said.
He laughed. "Yeah, but
you gotta pay for it. We’re not giving it away. Not even to the great-great-granddaughter
of a Cherokee princess.”
"I’ll pay.” She laughed,
too, because he couldn’t drive her away with a stick, not when his eyes kept
inviting her back. She stubbed out her cigarette in the black plastic ashtray.
"What would a dance cost me?”
"You want a guide or an
escort service?”
"Just a dance.”
He tipped his head to
one side, drew his mouth down, considering.
Jack slapped him on the
shoulder. "Where are your manners, Kola? The lady’s askin’ nice.”
Kole surprised her when
he slid from the stool. "I’ll risk it if you will. No charge.”
"The man is priceless,”
Jack said.
Not as a dancer, she
thought as their feet tried to agree on the steps. The honky-tonk rhythm was
foreign to her, but at least she had him to herself for about a minute and a half.
Somehow she had to parlay that into about a month and a half. Once he agreed to
work with her, she would need that much time to get to know him well enough for
the story to emerge. This would be more than an interview. She believed him to
be one of a rare breed, maybe even a dying breed of men. He was, unless she was
badly mistaken, a true champion of the people.
Breed was probably not the
best term under the circumstances, and she was using men in the
universal sense, of course, the gender-neutral sense. Except that his arm
around her, his hand riding her hip, his hard shoulder under her hand—these
were things she had thought about over the years, watching him in news clips
and listening to the musings and memories of her friend Savannah Stephens, who had
known Kole Kills Crow when he was a teenager. These things, once imagined, were
suddenly real and titillating, hardly gender-neutral. But they weren’t part of
the story.
"Did you come all the
way out here alone?”
Was he serious? She
glanced up, checking his expressive eyes for a clue. She found none.
"I get around pretty
well on my own,” she said, "as long as there are roads, and I have a map. When
I get lost, I’m smart enough to ask for directions, and when I run out of road,
I’m smart enough to look for a guide. Someone who’s
native...” She smiled. "To the area.”
"You’re barkin’ up the
wrong tree there. I may look native, but I’m not from this area.”
"Where are you
from... Kola?”
"All over.”
"Originally.”
"West of here. South and
west.”
"I’m pretty good with
geography. Mention a country, state, even a town, and I’ll probably know where
it is.”
"Indian country.”
"Are you the same Kola
who makes the flutes?” She knew he was. She’d already figured out that the
handmade flutes sold under the name Kola—Lakota for friend—were made by
Kole Kills Crow.
"Among other things. Are
you a musician?”
"I’m an avid listener.”
She smiled again. She’d cracked her share of tough nuts. "And a writer. I know
a little bit about a lot of things, but I’m always trying to learn more. Your
flutes are very much in demand.”
"I’m getting tired of
flutes. I make a lot of stuff. Workin’ on my first canoe now.” He looked her in
the eye and returned the smile. "What are you workin’ on?”
"I’ve got several things
in the works right now.”
"Fiction?”
"Not if I can help it.”
She was getting the hang of his two-step, beginning to relax a muscle or two.
"If I can find my way through the woods, I might write a travel piece. That would
be free advertising. Even cheaper than the Internet.”
"Talk to Mario. He’s the
one who needs the advertising.” He glanced toward the bar. "I don’t know if I’d
follow him into the woods, though.”
She followed the
direction of his glance and counted five pairs of eyes looking back. They were
the only show in the place.
"I think I’d rather
follow you,” she said. "I could do an artisan piece. Couldn’t you use the
advertising?”
"I can’t keep up with the
orders now. New Age musicians love Indian flutes. There’s also a big demand in
Europe.” He raised his brow. "But don’t let that stop you.”
"From writing about
you?”
"From following.”
"You’re available,
then?”
"Sure.” He tripped her
up with a quick turn, putting his back to their audience. "My place or yours?”
"I meant to take me, guideme on a...” Damn, where was her clever quip? She should
have been ready, undoubtedly would have been if he’d been anyone but Kole Kills
Crow.
"If you want me to lead,
try movin’ with me, okay?” He indulged her with a smile. "If you want me to
lead you, expect to encounter some temptation.”
"Where? On the garden
path?”
"Not around here. You’re
sojourning in the wilderness now. Or maybe the Garden of Eden.” The smile fell
away. "You wanna go someplace else?”
It was a natural
question, and she knew it, but she wished he hadn’t come out and asked. "I want
to go hiking, but seriously, I need a guide.”
"Like I said, that’s not
my line. Especially the serious part.” He drew away as the music ended, letting
her make the first move toward the bar. "Thanks for the dance,” he said to her
back. "It’s been a while.”
She turned, assured him
with a smile. "For me, too.”
"That’s what I meant.”
He gave a cocky wink. "Enjoy the ambiance, Heather.”
He said something to
Jack, still sitting at the bar, and then he left.
Stinging, she waited
only a moment before she left, too, just in time to catch sight of his pickup’s
taillights. The men in the bar would assume she was meeting him, but who cared
what they thought? She had come to this neck of the woods to find Kole Kills
Crow, who was about to disappear into its bowels, thinking he’d gotten in the
last and best word. The arrogant... like he was some kind of
Fred Astaire.
She followed him in the
four-wheel-drive mountain-man vehicle she’d rented at the Minneapolis airport
that morning. She hadn’t been able to pass up the opportunity to try one out,
in case she had to go "off-roading.” It was late September, and this was
northern Minnesota. Who knew when the first snow might fall, or what some of
these unpaved roads might be like when it rained? Heather was prepared to find
out.
Now that she’d seen the
man, it would be handy to know exactly where he lived. She turned on her tape
recorder and talked herself down the road, referring often to the car’s
odometer and to the glow-in-the-dark compass that had been part of her gear
since she’d traveled into the Arkansas outback to interview the deposed leader
of the Aryan Nation. She’d gotten to him two weeks before he’d pitched over the
edge of a cliff and tumbled into a picturesque gorge. Time magazine had
already had her interview in the pipeline. Fortunately she’d been able to
attach a postscript.
But this north woods
reservation was even more remote than the Arkansas hill country. Scoping out
her subject’s digs was a wise move, if she could just keep those red taillights
in sight. The man drove like a demon, the road was a meandering moose trail,
and the forest was dark and deep—all of which she reported on tape as the two
red lights disappeared over a hill. When she topped the hill, the lights were
gone. She proceeded through the tunnel of low-hanging branches as the moose
trail turned into a rabbit path. The trees seemed to come alive, closing in on
both sides of the car and bending low to snatch at the door handles and snap
the antenna. She’d driven into her worst childhood nightmare. There wasn’t even
enough room to turn around, which suddenly seemed like a wise thing to do.
Wiser than scoping out any digs.
Heather threw the
Explorer into reverse and started to back out. She’d always had trouble driving
in reverse. She’d failed her first driver’s test because she was such a crooked
backer. "Just take it slow and easy,” she told the tape recorder. "Hold the
wheel steady. Can’t be more than a mile or two. Those two Indian chicks in thatSmoke Signals movie drove this way all the time.”
She laughed. She’d loved
that movie—Indian people enduring all kinds of adversity—and now it had her
smiling through her own dark moment. But her smile slid away when the
headlights flashed behind her. Thank God, another human being.
Oh God, let it be one of
the good ones.
She locked her doors and
waited. The lights shone through her back window, but no face appeared. She rolled
down her window and stuck her head out. "Am I trespassing? Forgive me, but I
seem to be...” Not lost. That was the last word you
ever want to say in a dark alley. "... in the
wrong...” Shifting shadows. Did somebody move? "I was just
trying to...” She shut up and listened to the rumbling
motors. "Hello?”
"Hello.”
"Kola?” It sounded like
his voice, but how could he have slipped behind her? "It is you. Isn’t
it?”
"If you want me to
forgive you your trespasses, you’ll have to confess.” Coming from the bright
light, it sounded more like the Great Oz.
"To what?” Heather
barked back. Be damned if she’d be the small and meek.
"Whatever it is you’re
up to, lady.”
"I seem to be up to
getting lost.”
"Told you I wasn’t much
of a guide.”
"You got me lost on
purpose.”
"If I did, you made it
possible. Step out of the truck, Heather.”
She rolled the window up
a few inches. "Come out where I can see you first.”
"Is that an order?”
Faceless, his laughter sounded sinister. "You’ve got guts, I’ll say that much
for you. Toniga. What you guys lack in sense you try to make up for with
brass.”
"Or maybe cold steel.
Maybe I’ve got a gun.”
"Maybe not. I’m a
bettin’ man, and I think I’ll bet not.”
"What do you mean,
‘guys’? What guys?”
"You’re right. If you
were a white guy, I might bet differently. You people.”
"I’m not you people.
I’m...” Her voice dropped when his silhouette finally
appeared in the headlights. "I’m not getting out of this vehicle. Once you get
out, you’re dead meat.”
"No. Once you get intothe vehicle, you’re dead meat. You’re a live one is what you are. But
foolish.” The tall, lean silhouette moved a step closer. "Now, get out of the
truck.”
"The doors are locked.”
"So I can’t get you?
What makes you think I want you? You had your chance.”
"And I’m sure I’ll
always wonder about the road not taken.”
"Which one is that? You
don’t even know which one you took.”
"If you’ll just let me
pass—”
"I won’t hurt you,” he
promised quietly as he approached. "People who do things backwards get special
consideration in Indian country. But we only let them go so far, and you’ve
reached your limit, so you might as well jump out.”
"And go where?”
"Guess we’re down to my
place. That’s what you’re lookin’ for, isn’t it?”
"Well, yes,” she
admitted as she stepped down from the sporty vehicle. She was trapped. She was
going to have to brazen her way through this showdown. "I thought I might stop
in during business hours and buy a flute.”
"You don’t need a flute,
honey. You’re blowin’ sunshine up my ass just fine.” He grabbed the door before
she could close it behind her. "I can tell you’re going to be a great source of
entertainment for me.”
"I don’t think so.”
"I’m easily entertained.
Been living in the woods a long time. Remember that crazy redneck bastard in Deliverance?I think I’ve become the redskin version,” he said as he scanned the
interior of her vehicle. "I prefer women, though, so I’d be inclined to let
Burt Reynolds and the boys float right on by.” He punched off the headlights,
turned off the engine, and took her keys. "Maybe you’re related to Burt. I
understand he’s part Cherokee, too.”
"Would it get me any
points?”
"No more than the
Cherokee thing gets you.”
"You’re saying I’m
pointless.” Not to mention brainless for not taking the keys herself.
"Not at all. You’ve put
a few points on your side of the board.” He chuckled as he pocketed her keys.
"Hell, you showed up. A woman walks into the Cheap Shot alone, she scores
without even batting an eye.”
"I’m not much of a
batter.”
"That’s good. You don’t
wanna blink during this next round.”
"Don’t you mean inning?
If you start mixing your metaphors, you’re liable to strike out.”
"You’re forgetting my
home field advantage. I get to make up the rules as we go along. You could be
in for some serious trouble.”
"Yes, I guess I could
be.” She gauged the distance to his pickup, which he’d left running.
"You play nice—tell me
who you really are, who you’re working for, and what you want from me—and maybe
in a couple of days I’ll send you back to your relatives, relatively unharmed.”
"You said you wouldn’t
hurt me.”
"I did, didn’t I?” He
reached into her vehicle again, muttering something about hurt, like everything
else, being relative.
As was stupidity, she
thought wildly as she bolted for his pickup. He tackled her from behind as she
sprinted headlong into the headlight beam, toppling her onto the hood. She was
pinned under his body.
"This is like playing
with a mouse,” he whispered close to her ear. "What are you up to, little
mouse? Who’d be dropping a pretty little white mouse down the back of my
shirt?”
"Nobody dropped me,” she
insisted, straining to keep her face off the pickup hood. "Let me get my purse.
I’ll show you.”
He let her up. She
squared her shoulders and marched back to the Explorer, quickly retrieving her
big leather purse from under the front seat. She shoved her wallet at him
first, as though he were holding her up at gunpoint, then supplied him with a
penlight, which she took back and clicked on for him.
"I told you who I really
am, and I told you what I want. I work for myself.” She speared a finger at her
New York driver’s license, her National Press Women’s Society membership card,
her platinum Visa and gold American Express cards, all in the name of Heather
Reardon. "Satisfied?”
"Not hardly. You white
girls all look alike to me, especially in the dark.” He shoved her wallet into
her hands as he reached into the car for something else that might answer his
questions—her tape recorder. He rewound the tape a bit, then played her travel
notes back to her.
"I wanted to make sure I
could find my way back.”
"After you located my
place?”
She nodded. "I’m doing a
travel piece. I’m interested in your work. I met a man who has three of your
flutes when I was doing a story on Native theater. Donald Yellow Earring?”
"No points for that
name, either. We don’t all know each other, you know.”
"He talked like he knew
you. Said you were the best—”
"People order my flutes
through an agent. I don’t know who they are, and they don’t know me.”
She folded her arms
around her purse. "Lena Murphy handles the orders.”
He slammed the Explorer
door. "Shit.”
"But she didn’t tell me
how to find you. I figured that out for myself.”
"Are you a cop?” he
demanded, grabbing her arm.
"Without a gun? Not
hardly,” she said, echoing him. "I’m not even a reporter. I’m just a freelance
journalist.”
"No matter what you’re
calling yourself, you smell like trouble to me.”
"I showered this
morning.”
"Trouble’s a scent that
don’t wash off, lady. I’ve been wearing it all my life.” He leaned down, dipped
his nose close to her hair, and inhaled audibly. "But I’ve got a feeling you
know all about that, having followed your freelance nose all the way to God’s
country.”
"I thought this was
Indian country.”
"One and the same. ’Bout
all the country God’s got left. The rest is all covered with cement.”
"Oh, that’s right.” She
tipped her head back and smiled. "Is that an original quote?”
"You tell me.”
"I think it’s been
attributed to Barry Wilson, the act—”
"I know who Barry Wilson
is,” he told her as he opened the Explorer door again and hit the automatic
lock. "Guess I must’ve stole it, then.”
"What are you doing?”
"You don’t wanna leave
the thing unlocked. Makes it just as easy to steal as words, and twice as
tempting.” He stepped back, eyeing the fancy vehicle. "Course it might get
stripped. I hope you took the insurance option on the rental contract.”
"I nev—what are you
doing?” Besides walking away with her keys?
"I’m going home.”
"You’re not going to leave
me out here!”
"That wouldn’t be very
nice, would it?” He became a silhouette in the headlight again as he turned to
her. "Tailing people isn’t very nice, either.”
"No, but
I...”
He was already climbing
into his pickup. The slamming of the door echoed down the road. The engine
roared, missing on one spark plug until he put it in gear and the pickup
crawled forward. Heather backed up against the door of the locked Explorer. The
pickup’s passenger side door swung open. She figured it was the only invitation
she was going to get.
She took it.
2
Kole neither spoke to
her nor glanced her way as he drove down the gravel road, deep into a dark
tunnel of trees. Heather had given up counting turns. She was already lost when
she’d climbed into his pickup truck. Taking his cue, she kept her eyes on the
road ahead and told herself it might be time to start worrying. Be afraid, she
and Savannah used to whisper to each other after a clumsy come-on from some
guy. Be very afraid.
But it was hard to fear
any man Heather’s best friend had vouched for as unstintingly as she had Kole
Kills Crow. Before becoming a leader in the American Indian
Movement—rabble-rouser to some, champion to others—he’d been Savannah’s
childhood hero. But she’d known him personally. Heather had only known of him.He was a man who championed his people, who believed in a cause. In a
country full of causes, his was one that had touched Heather’s idealistic soul
for as far back as she could remember.
And she had a memory
that, present predicament notwithstanding, rarely failed. Her father had taken
her to a powwow in Oklahoma when she was about five years old, and she
remembered the bold, swirling colors, the enticing smell of deep-fried yeast
dough, and the throbbing music, the night’s pulse beat. But mostly she
remembered her father’s rare attention.
Her mother had stayed
home, uninterested in watching the Indians dance, and Heather alone had been
her father’s companion. As young as she was, she had sensed a special bond with
her father that night, something that made her more like him. Something that
made him like her more. Whatever it was, it ran deep and true, and it was
rooted in that night.
She had not shared
another time with her father that was as memorable as that Oklahoma powwow. She
would have to admit that her mother had truly raised her, but her father’s
absence had not been his fault. He was a military man. Her mother often
said—sometimes angrily, other times wistfully or enviously or even
lovingly—that Heather favored him.
Heather didn’t know
about that. There was the obvious physical resemblance, but in the end, she
hadn’t known her father very well, and she doubted her mother had known him
much better. She only knew that she wished he could see how far she had come
and how close she was to achieving something of importance. A story.
Her father had been a
storyteller. She was a story seeker. She also told them—wrote and published
them—but for a journalist, the trick was finding the story that would mean
something to people. And her friend Savannah’s infamous friend, Kole, meant
something to his own people. It was Heather’s intention to see that he—and, by
extension, the cause of his people—would come to mean something to a broader
community. To a journalist, injustice that had once been denied, then
forgotten, was like an heirloom discovered in the closet. Unless Heather was
uncharacteristically mistaken, the time for Kole Kills Crow’s message had come.
Savannah would be pleased for the man. Heather was pleased for the message.
Nearly a dozen years ago
Heather had met Savannah Stephens in Manhattan, the Mecca for hungry writers
and hopeful models. The timing was perfect. They were both struggling with
tight budgets, loneliness, and the tired feet and sore knuckles that came from knocking
on too many doors.
Heather had been a
reporter for a small newspaper in Virginia and a stringer for a couple of
women’s magazines when she was in college, but she had her sights set on
starting out in New York. She’d landed a job as a copy editor for the Daily
News, and with it, the chance to fulfill her dream, which might have been
cut short by high rent and slave wages had she not met Savannah, a sister
dreamer. They’d first shared a cab, then an apartment, then peanut butter
sandwiches, subway tokens, stockings, and secrets.
Heather had assumed the
lead. She was, after all, the one with the more serious aspirations. Savannah
was too beautiful to be taken seriously, and she’d grown up in the back of
beyond.
"Is that the way they do
things in Wyoming?” Heather would tease, eliciting Savannah’s mystical,
slightly vulnerable smile. She’d mocked that western drawl, even though
Savannah soon learned to turn it on and off to suit the occasion. Heather came
to realize that Savannah’s "smarts” were different from her own, oddly more
down-to-earth, more practical.
Savannah knew exactly
who she was, where she was going, what she wanted to be. In her business,
appearances meant everything, and eventually she became a familiar face and
figure—if not a household name—on the pages of Lady Elizabeth’s Dreamwear
Catalog.
It seemed a good balance
after a time. Savannah’s face was her calling card, while Heather traded and
built on her name, her "people skills,” her instinct for getting to the heart
of the story, her talent for telling it well. Oddly—at least it seemed odd to
Heather—Savannah was more the realist. Heather would not have guessed they
shared a hero. The first time Savannah had shrieked his name when she’d seen
Kole in a news clip—God, he looked good in handcuffs—Heather had asked
enviously, "You know him?”
After he and his
sidekick, Barry Wilson, were arrested in South Dakota and charged with every
criminal act known to man, Savannah and Heather had subscribed to the Rapid
City Journal so they could follow the trial.
"He’ll beat this,”
Savannah had said. But Heather had known it didn’t look good from the moment
the change of venue had been denied. Vigils, protests, and
counter-demonstrations were held outside the courthouse. Savannah had just
landed her first print ad job and couldn’t get away, so Heather had taken the
bus to South Dakota. Night after night she’d stood in the crowd of mostly
Indian people and held her candle for the two men who were, she believed,
simply trying to reclaim what rightfully belonged to their people. She hadn’t
been surprised when Kills Crow was convicted. But Wilson had been acquitted,
and that was the shocker.
Heather stole a glance
at the man behind the wheel of the rattletrap pickup truck. Not only did her
most trusted friend once know him well, but she was also raising his child.
Being privy to that secret was Heather’s ace in the hole. She figured it made
her the next best thing to family. And Indians, from what she’d seen and heard,
were big on family. She was plunging deep into the woods with a man who’d been
arrested so often he’d once coached his arresting officer—a rookie made nervous
by the news cameras—on the proper procedure.
But Heather was no
rookie. She knew a hero from a hard case con. She knew how to get a great story
out of either one, and she had the National Press Awards to prove it. She would
have been totally on top of the story at hand—and getting the Kills Crow story
would be such a coup—which she, too, could count if she could check her
files—if only she had some idea where the hell she was.
Not to worry, she told
herself. If she could find her way to Kole Kills Crow’s world, she could find
her way back out when the time came.
The headlights suddenly
illuminated a small cabin. A head popped up from the scraggly grass, a pair of
feral eyes glowing back at them. "A wolf,” Heather whispered, leaning forward
to get a better look before the animal ran away. Surprisingly, it bounded into
the headlights.
"Part wolf. We’re a pair
of mixed-bloods.” Kole cut the lights, then the engine. The pale gray animal
greeted him as soon as he opened the pickup door. "Yeah, yeah, I brought you
something to chew on.”
Heather hoped it wasn’t
her leg. She believed in keeping only small pets and viewing wildlife from
behind a fence, but she couldn’t view much of anything until her eyes adjusted
to the darkness.
"C’ mon out.” Kole
gestured to her with one hand while the other stroked the animal’s pale fur.
"He doesn’t eat until I give him the word. I’m the alpha male.”
"I suppose I’m chopped
liver,” Heather grumbled as she slid gingerly off the high seat on the driver’s
side, hanging on to the steering wheel until her feet touched the ground.
"What do you say, boy?”
Kole asked as the dog nosed Heather’s palm. She flinched when the animal
barked, but he immediately wagged his tail in truce and licked her fingers.
She hesitated to close
the pickup door quite yet, even though the dog seemed friendly enough. "What’s
his name?”
"He just told you.
Woof.”
"Wolf?”
"Woof. His tongue
doesn’t do L’s.”
"Woof, then.” She patted
the dog’s head, gave a small laugh. "I was afraid he was saying ‘Good’ and
thinking chicken.”
"If he smelled chicken,
he’d let me know.” He grabbed a small cardboard box out of the back of the
pickup. "Let’s go inside.”
"And do what?”
"I’d say ‘get to know
each other better,’ but you’re obviously way ahead of me. So I figure we’ll
spend our first night together kinda evening things up. I’m gonna get to know
you.”
"You wouldn’t hurt me.”
"You’re sure?”
"Absolutely. I’m not
afraid of you.”
"Then let’s go inside.”
He tucked the box under one arm, laid a hand on her shoulder, and directed her
toward the cabin.
"And you don’t have to
be afraid of me, either.” She spoke with more enthusiasm than her dragging
heels implied. "Because I would never hurt you. You have my word.”
"What if I want you to
hurt me? You know, a little pain for starters. You wanna start with your word,
fine.” He leaned close to her ear as he reached around her to open the door.
"Lie to me, baby.”
Oddly his warm breath
gave her a shiver. She stiffened her whole body against it. "I’m a journalist.
Truth is my stock-in-trade.”
"Yeah, right.” The door
creaked when he pushed it open. "Watch your step.”
"Yeah, right,” she
echoed softly in the dark as she used fingers and feet to find doorjamb and
threshold. "Is this your lake cabin or something? I’ve heard that all
Minnesotans have lake cabins.”
"Like I said, I ain’t
from around here.” He set the box down somewhere in the dark. "This is my
hideout.”
"It certainly is a good
one,” she said cheerfully, anchoring herself to the doorjamb. The door was
still open, but the dog was stationed on the step. Heather tried to imagine
leaping over him and taking off into the woods.
In the dark she heard a
ripping sound.
"Come and get it, pal.”
Woof trotted past her
and claimed his prize from a piece of butcher paper. "Better than bird’s legs,”
Kole told the dog, who brushed against the legs of Heather’s jeans as he headed
for the great outdoors.
"I don’t have bird’s
legs.”
"Who said anything about
you?” A match flared, briefly illuminating his angular face, full lips hinting
at a smirk. He lit a kerosene lamp, which cast a yellow glow when he fit the
glass chimney in place. Beside it on a small wooden table was the box he’d
brought in, sprouting the paper he’d ripped, a loaf of French bread, bottled
water.
Sustenance for his
prisoner, she decided.
He pulled a ladder-back
chair away from the table. "Have a seat.”
"So...
so this is where you live?” Wide-eyed in the dim light, she found the seat by
feel as she surveyed the rustic cabin, taking in the stone fireplace, the
wood-stove, the iron bedstead in the corner. She folded her arms around herself
against the chill, tucking her hands inside her camel-hair blazer. "Year
round?”
"I don’t get out much in
the winter.” He pulled two pieces of firewood from a box on the hearth and
started laying a fire. "Or summer, for that matter. Is this the kind of
ambiance you had in mind?”
"I would never have
found this on my own. You could take me back to the bar, and I certainly
wouldn’t be able to find my way here again. Never. I wouldn’t even try.”
"Is that so?” He eyed
her over his shoulder. "You seem pretty resourceful to me.”
"I probably seem pretty
reckless to you, too, but I’m really not. I was just trying to locate your,
um...”
"Hideout,” he supplied
again.
"Studio. Shop, or
whatever. I thought I had all the bases covered, and I didn’t intend to—”
"I don’t play games,
Heather.”
"You don’t play
baseball. Basketball was your game. Probably still is. I’ll bet you have a hoop
out here somewhere.”
He sat back on his
haunches, eyed her for a moment. Slowly he reached for another piece of firewood.
"Yeah, us Indians are real big on hoops and baskets.”
"I don’t know about us,
but—yikes!”
An orange cat had
dropped from the rafters into her lap.
Kole laughed as he
tucked the butcher paper into the firewood and set it aflame.
"How many animals do you
have here?”
"Just the three of us.”
He brushed his hands on the legs of his jeans as he stood. "And the reporter
makes four.”
"I’m not a reporter.”
He turned from the fire
to stare through her, implacably showing her how little her protests impressed
him. She stroked his cat and met his gaze, letting him see how little his
doubts disturbed her. She had her own upper hand. Knowledge was power.
"The privy’s out back,”
he told her finally. "And there’s plenty of water, but no electricity. Whatever
your story is, this is the perfect setting, right? Too bad you left your camera
behind.”
She smiled down at the
purring cat. "Maybe we’ll get it later, after we talk and you realize that I’m
not really that bad.”
"I can see that you’re
not half bad.” He stripped off his denim jacket and dropped it over the arm of
a tattered recliner near the hearth. "We don’t have to talk. After you tell me
what it is you want from me, the less you say, the better. All it takes is one
lie to set the mood.” He wagged a finger at her. "But make it a good one, worth
saving up for. I’ve been holed up so long I’ve started eyeing the cat.”
"I have a feeling you
wouldn’t hurt her, either.”
"I can’t get her to lie
to me. She’s too damn honest to please me.” He dragged another chair across the
plank floor—this one a kitchen chair with vinyl back and seat—spun it on one
leg, and straddled it, leaning over the back, his face inches from hers. "So,
who are you, Heather Reardon? That is your real name, isn’t it?”
"Yes.”
"I thought so. Doesn’t
do a thing for me, so it must be truth. What do you want from me?”
"A story.”
"Mmm, a little tingle.”
Smiling, he rubbed his chest, caressing the shoe logo on his T-shirt.
"Half-truth mostly leaves me cold, but there’s promise in the omission.” He
leaned closer. "Come on, honey, do me one better. Who sent you?”
"No one. I came on my
own. I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
"Why?”
"Because you don't want
to be found, and that makes your story even more interesting—the fact that you’re
not dying to tell it.” She offered a sympathetic smile. "I know who you are,
Kole.”
"Kola.”
"Kole.”
He lifted one eyebrow,
his dark eyes establishing his distance. "You haven’t done your homework as
well as you think. I’m already disappointed, Heather.”
"Kola means
friend.”
"Yeah, well, that’s me.
So how about a little exposure?” He pinned her to her seat with a cold stare as
he rose to his feet, still straddling his chair. Quickly he unbuckled his belt,
unbuttoned his jeans, and peeled them over his right hip. She glanced down. Kolawas tattooed over the ridge of his hipbone. "In case they find my body in a
ditch somewhere, they won’t have any excuse for cutting off my hands.”
She met his challenge
with her eyes. His mother, a founding member of the Indian movement, had
supposedly died of exposure somewhere out on the Plains. Claims that the
authorities had robbed the body of hands were widely denied, then muddied with
counterclaims. The general public had paid little attention, but Heather knew
about the incident from her research. Clearly he assumed that she knew, which
also clearly made her suspect. Anyone who knew about him and wasn’t with him
was surely against him. He assumed he knew all his friends.
How different he was
from his former partner in protest, the now semi-famous Barry Wilson. How
contrary were their circumstances. She had to be careful how she presented
herself, for Kole had every reason to suspect anyone who had any interest in
the man he had been ten years ago.
But he laughed as he buttoned
his pants. "How long have you been in the news business, Heather? Seems like
you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to track down a story that’s missing the key
elements of mass appeal. No corpse, no celebrity, no big money and no sex.” He
sat down again, smiling. "Yet.”
"You have a story, and I
want to tell it.”
"I don’t think your
world’s going to be too interested in the story of a reclusive Indian flute
maker, which is who I am. But go ahead and report on me. Debunk, demystify, and
otherwise do me down and dirty. Whatever juices you up, lady.”
"Kole Kills Crow has a
story.”
"Kole Kills Crow has
been dead for years.”
"And I’m not out to
expose him or do anything to hurt him.”
"I’m sure he’d be
relieved to hear that. I’ll send him a smoke signal, soon as you tell me
exactly who it is he wouldn’t have to worry about if he was still in a position
to give a damn.”
She gave a tight smile.
"So you know him.”
"Knew him,” he
amended as he pushed himself off the chair. A step back gave him refuge in
shadows. "Knew him as well as anybody knew him. I was with him at the end.”
"When his wife died?”
Her question only gave him slight pause as he turned his attention to a wall
shelf. She dropped her tone a notch. "Or when he gave his baby away.”
"Both. I was there both
times.” He came away from the shelf with a carving knife, eyed her for a
moment, then snatched the loaf of French bread from the box on the table. "What
do you know about the baby?”
She drew a deep breath
as the cat leaped from her lap to the table. Her connection to Savannah was her
calling card, but it had to be the closest possible connection. It had to be
above reproach.
"She’s a beautiful
little girl,” Heather said. "Almost seven years old. The man she calls Daddy is
really her uncle Clay, Savannah’s new husband.” She looked for some change in
his expression, but he seemed completely intent on slicing bread. Quietly she
added, "She looks just like her real daddy.”
He flashed her a smile
as the cat crept close to investigate another butcher paper package in the
grocery box. "I hope you like it here, Heather. You might be stuck here for a
while.”
"How long is a while?”
"How long does it take
for a seven-year-old to grow up? I promised Kole I’d never let anyone bother
that little girl.” He took out the package that interested the cat, tore into
it, let the cat sniff the chunk of yellow cheese. "You want some of this, you
little sneak?”
"I’m her godmother.”
"What the hell is a godmother?”
He sliced into the cheese, gave the cat a piece, then shooed it off the table.
"God gave her a mother, and then He took her mother away. So I gave her a
different mother.”
"A wonderful—”
"I gave her a mother who
was so far removed from my world that no one would ever link her back to Kole
Kills Crow. I gave her to a woman I trusted.”
"I know. She’s—"
He wagged his head as he
continued with his slicing. "I can’t believe she’d tell somebody like you.”
"What do you mean,
‘somebody like me’? You don’t know anything about me. And you’re not going to
know anything as long as you refuse to listen.”
"I’m listening.” He set
the knife on the far side of the table, reclaimed his seat, looked her in the
eye. "The part of me that isn’t eyes and nose is all ears.”
"Claudia is my godchild.
Savannah is my best friend.”
"Then obviously she’s no
longer my friend.”
"She didn’t tell me
where you are.” When the stony look in his eyes didn’t waver, she pleaded, "How
could she? She doesn’t know. And if she did know, she would never tell me. She
would never tell anyone. You know that’s true.”
"Because you say so?”
"You trusted her with a
life you value more than your own.”
"That ain’t sayin’ much,
though, is it? I have no life.”
"Then let me tell your
story posthumously.”
Even his smile had
turned cold. "Make it a novel. Then you can say anything you want.”
"I’m a journalist,” she
insisted. "I don’t write fiction.”
"Beautiful. Perfectly
deadpan. You’ll do well in Indian country with that kind of humor.” He snapped
his fingers. "Damn. I’ll bet you left your paper and pencil behind in the car.”
"I brought a laptop,
along with an extra battery.”
"That sounds kinky. Like
I said, whatever turns you on. You keep pushing the right buttons, honey, I’ll
give you plenty to write about.” He lifted one corner of his mouth, his eyes
suddenly flashing unexpected delight. "The kind of stuff that really sells.”
"I believe in the
truth.”
"I’ll just bet you do.”
He slapped a slice of cheese on a slice of bread. "Help yourself here. I
believe in sharing. How did you find me?”
"I followed a trail you
didn’t know you left. Savannah had very little to do with it. The clues she
gave were given unwittingly.”
"Because she trusted
you?” he asked, eyeing her as he brought the food to his mouth.
"I didn’t
exactly...” She hadn’t asked about Kole straight out, but
she’d noticed a postmark on an envelope that had come to Savannah through the
art dealer who handled Kola’s work. "She trusts me because she knows me well.
And I didn’t track you down on a whim. I’ve been interested in you for a long
time. Since before you went to prison.”
"You must’ve been about
twelve then.”
"I’m older than
Savannah,” she claimed, but his dubious look prompted her to add, "a little
bit. But I was interested in you before I met her. I’ve always been fascinated
with the American Indian Movement and all its offshoots.” She watched him tear
off a hearty bite of crusty bread. "And so little has been written about it.”
"What are you talkin’
about?” He had to chew a bit before he could go on, gesticulating with his free
hand. "People like you keep getting the scoop from the ones who’ve suddenly
developed a need to run bare-assed through every bookstore in the country. I’m
waiting for Wilson to take a shot at it.”
"I’ve already
interviewed Barry Wilson.” Oh yes, she had the upper hand, but the captive could
ill afford to sound too smug. She tried for an artless shrug. "Interesting
man.”
"He is that.”
"He talks about Kole
Kills Crow the same way you do. As though he was dead.”
"Must be true, then.” He
swallowed hard. "When did you talk to him?”
"I flew out to
California a couple of weeks ago. He’s got a part in a new movie with Viggo
Mortensen, so I got to go on the set.” She smiled as she eyed the bread and
cheese he’d sliced, but she kept her hands tucked in at her sides. "I
interviewed Viggo, too. Very nice man. Very funny.”
"Good actor, too, just
like my buddy Barry.” He reached for more bread. "You need something to wash
this down with?”
Heather had still made
no move toward the food, and now the cat had jumped back into her lap. She
stroked her new ally into settling down and showing Kole how likable his guest
was.
"I didn’t tell Wilson
this, but you’re the real reason I interviewed him. I’m very good at finding a
worthwhile story and then getting to the heart of it. You’re the heart of this
story. What makes it exciting to me is that very few people know that.” She
smiled. He was reaching for the bottled water, looking at her as though she’d
just turned down steak in favor of hamburger. "Maybe nobody else knows.”
"Maybe nobody else gives
a damn.”
"Maybe not. Which gives
me a purpose, doesn’t it? It’s up to me to write the story in a way that
persuades people to give a damn.”
He lifted the bottle in
salute to her. "Baby, you were born too late.”
"I don’t think so. I’ve
made quite a name for myself writing stories that speak to the American social
conscience. Granted, it’s not as easy a sell as celebrity crime, but that just
doesn’t—how did you put it? Juice me up?” She watched his Adam’s apple bob as
he drained half the bottle in long, slow gulps. "By the way, I don’t answer to
‘baby.’”
He tried to swallow
reaction and water at once and nearly choked. His eyes blamed her for it as he
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You will if you get hungry enough,”
he said after his throat was clear. "You sure you don’t want any of this? You
never know when you might get fed around here.”
"Your cat looks pretty
well fed,” she said, stroking affectionately.
"She’s an excellent
hunter.”
"So am I.” Heather
looked up from her ardent stroking to find Kole leaning over the back of his
chair, his face closer to hers than she’d anticipated. "I found you, didn’t I?”
She hadn’t meant to whisper, but that was how it came out.
"Let the feeding frenzy
begin,” he whispered back as he braced his left elbow on the back of the chair
and cupped her face in his right hand.
His eyes were hard,
hungry, resolute. She saw his kiss coming, but those eyes mesmerized her. She
didn’t close hers until his lips covered her mouth, stealing her breath along
with her senses. Good Lord, he was as demanding and as deft and as delicious as
she’d imagined when she was a green girl watching him make news. His tongue
tasted of beer and bread, but better, bolder, spiced with the zest of his
masculinity. She sampled it with wonder, even as she stanched the urge to reach
for him and take more than a sample. She kept her hands on the cat.
Kole came up smiling.
"Your lyin’ lips taste very sweet.”
"I haven’t lied to you,”
she said in a voice that was remarkably steady, considering she didn’t know
where her next breath would be coming from.
"You said you weren’t
hungry?”
"You’re misquoting me.”
She met his amused gaze. "Something I promise never to do to you.”
"Promises don’t faze me,
honey. I inherited a pretty good immunity to promises.”
"And I’m allergic to
‘honey.’”
He drew back with a
laugh. "Reporters always did bring out the smart-ass in me.”
"Not always,” she
recalled. "But that was the role you generally played, wasn’t it? You were the
tough guy. Wilson was the philosopher. Still, you let your guard down once in a
while, and so did he. When that happened, it was pretty clear that you believed
in the cause, while Barry Wilson believed in Barry Wilson.”
"How’d you come up with
that?”
"Short of searching a
subject’s closets and drawers, I really do do my homework.”
"Good girl. If I had a
red pencil, I’d give you an A.” He pushed himself off the chair and turned to
clean up the bread and cheese. "But you won’t be taking your report card home
for a while.”
"I’ve been looking for
you for a long time. Why would I want to go home now?” She reached for a slice
of cheese, again politely shaking off his added offer of bread. "I wouldn’t
mind going back to the lodge, though. I don’t see an extra bed here.”
"No closets, either, and
you can search me all you want for drawers. What you see is exactly what I’ve
got. Do you prefer one side over the other?”
"I prefer,
um...” She shared her cheese with the cat as she glanced from
the bed to the recliner to the door.
"Exactly what I’ve got.”
She assessed him with a
frank look. "If I decide to leave, you’re not going to stop me.”
"Who says?”
"I know you. Savannah
and I were roommates for several years. We followed you in the news. That time
you took over the post office, she said there was nothing to worry about
because you would not harm those people.”
He twirled the bread in
its plastic sack, tied off the end, then speared it into the box and walked
away from her, putting his back between her and the stone hearth. Hands low on
his hips, he watched the crackling fire. When he finally spoke, she had to
strain to hear him.
"We occupied a store.
Just because they had a few mailboxes and sold stamps, they call it a post office.”
"But you let the people
go.”
"Yeah, well, we held
them for a while.”
"That’s not what most of
them said,” she recalled. "In their initial statements they said they were free
to go, but they were more afraid of the police outside than the protesters
inside. Later one of them changed her story.”
"Terrorists.” He grabbed
an iron poker and used it to reposition the burning logs. "The governor of
South Dakota called us terrorists. I think that’s the preferred term nowadays.”
"Misapplied in this
instance.” Drawn to the fire, the cat bounded to the floor. Heather felt the
same pull, but she remained in the chair, a soft, sympathetic voice in the
shadows. "The woman only changed her story after hours of questioning.”
"Poor, simple Verna was
in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
"Were the hostages
volunteers?”
He gave a dry chuckle,
glancing over his shoulder before he set the poker aside. "Is that what you
are? A volunteer?”
"I’m not afraid of you.
According to Savannah, you wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
"See, now that’s how
much she knows about me,” he said lightly as he added more wood to the fire. "I
know exactly how long it takes to smother a fly under a cup. I know how many
appendages you can rip off a fly before it dies. You spend some time behind bars,
you learn these things.” He stepped to one side, rubbing his hands over the
side seams of his jeans. Firelight burnished his strong profile, flames dancing
in his eye. "Savannah remembers a boy she knew once,” he reflected absently.
"What about your brother,
Clay?”
"My half-brother.” He
retraced his steps, boot heels scraping the plank floor, then he straddled the
other chair and confronted her across its tattered back, nose to nose. "What
about him? You were roommates with him, too?”
"No, but I’ve met him.
He’s another one who thinks you’re innocent.”
"I pled not guilty. I
never said I was innocent.” Gripping the backrest he started out of the chair,
then sat back down again, suddenly agitated. "When did you last see Clay?”
"A couple of months
ago.” She smiled. "They’re all fine. Clay and Savannah and little
Claudia—they’re all doing just fine.”
"I didn’t ask.”
"For the record, you
didn’t ask. Not with words, anyway.”
"You know what?
Sometimes when I trap a fly, the buzzing starts to annoy me. Then I’m liable to
squash the damn thing.”
"Okay, so you’re a big
fly killer.”
"They say that’s not
all.”
She met his challenging
gaze with a nod. "Did you know him? The man who was killed in prison?”
"Sure, I knew him. First
thing you learn is there’s some security in numbers, and you mainly stick with
your own kind.”
"He was Absaroka.”
"Very good,” he
acknowledged with a nod. "More popularly known as Crow, enemy of the Sioux.
Nice little piece of irony there.”
"That your name is Kills
Crow,” she said. "No one really believes you killed him.”
"Really.” He smiled as
though he were indulging a roseate child. "Outside Indian country or the state
of South Dakota, you can probably count on one hand the number of people who’ve
formed any kind of opinion on the matter.”
"You only had a few
months left to serve,” she reminded him. "Your escape is what they point to as
proof of your guilt.”
"I was standing two feet
away from Daryl when they did him. They never found the gun, but they know damn
well he wasn’t shot at close range. There were plenty of witnesses, but they’re
all cons.” He lifted one shoulder. "They hit the wrong man. That was the
scuttlebutt.”
"Someone was trying to
kill you?”
The answer in his
haunted eyes chilled her.
"Why?” she asked.
"Who the hell knows?”
Abruptly he quit the chair. "Are you sure you’re not hungry? I don’t want you
saying I made you go to bed hungry.”
It seemed foolish to
think she could hurt his feelings by refusing his food, but it was a sweet
notion all the same. She reached into the grocery box. "Do you have any butter
for the bread?”
He laughed. "I would
have to kidnap a fussy eater.”
He found her a jar of
peanut butter. She slathered it on the bread, remarking that it reminded her of
late-night snacks in the dorm kitchen in college. "My personal favorite was
peanut butter and jelly on Ritz crackers.”
He folded his arms and
watched her eat. She had the feeling she wasn’t supposed to waste anything.
"Your mother was
involved with the movement, too, wasn’t she?”
His bemused look turned
into a hard glare.
"Okay, you start. What
would you like to talk about?” She sucked peanut butter from her thumb. "It’s
just the two of us in this little cabin. We have to talk about something.”
"You can give me a small
break anytime now.”
She noticed another
table, tucked in the corner between a window and the fireplace. His workbench.
"How about your flutes?” She moved toward the table as she finished off her
bread. "Flute making. I’d love to know what goes into the making of such a
beautiful...” Four of the wooden instruments lay side by side
in a cloth-lined tray. She touched the open beak of the one that was carved in
the shape of a long, slender bird. "May I?”
He nodded, watching her
closely as she fit the wooden tube to her lips. It took her several tries to
get a sound out of it. "So I skipped a lot of music lessons when I was a kid,”
she confessed as she experimented with finger placements on the holes.
"What did you play?”
"Violin. I wanted to
play the drums, but according to my mother, real ladies don’t drum.”
"She’s right,” he said,
moving behind her. "Drumming is a man thing.”
She caught his eye over
her shoulder as his arms came around her. "Do ladies play the flute?”
"I don’t know much about
ladies. I know you don’t play the flute.” He placed the index and middle
fingers of her left hand over the first two holes. "Flute playing is a man
thing, too, but women have gotten pushy with it, like everything else.” He
covered her right hand with his, placing three fingers on the remaining three
holes, then lifting the middle one. "Now blow.”
She lipped the
bullet-shaped mouthpiece as though she planned to suck on it.
"Whoa, let’s try a
little subtlety, woman. This is sensitive equipment. Curl your lips back a
little bit, like you’ve never done it before, and you’re not sure you want to.
Look at me.” He demonstrated, drawing his lips around his teeth. "Only not that
much. Like maybe you’d sip through a straw.”
"Do I have to swallow?”
"Damn, you’re sassy.”
Delight danced in his eyes. "You can’t slobber too much. This one’s already
sold. We’re just breakin’ it in gently. Try it now.”
He lifted her fingers,
pressed them down, and she blew until she thought she was probably blue in the
face. She managed to produce a dolorous tweedle.
"You’re trying too
hard.” He laughed when she gave up, gasping. "You’re allowed to breathe.”
She turned the
instrument over to him for a real demonstration. "What do women get to play?”
"Heartstrings.”
"Can I quote you?”
"Hell, no, you’ll ruin
my business. I sell these to women all the time. I figure they’re buying them
as gifts. Or hints.” He played a quick scale. "They’re used for courting. The
music is seductive.”
He played a slow, soft,
drifting melody that reminded her of a birdsong in a canyon, a warm breeze, the
taste of an unexpected kiss. When he was finished, the music lingered. She
could barely move, barely breathe, even though she was allowed. She dreaded
breaking the spell, hesitated to lift her gaze from the magic fingers, which
were still now, blunt tips resting lightly over the five holes. The lower hand
stirred, stroked the length of the instrument from its stops to its carved
head.
He smiled when she
finally looked up. "You hear that sound around the camp at night, you know
there’s some guy out there who’s feeling a little horny.”
"It’s a haunting sound.”
"It’s a haunted
feeling.”
Slow down, she told her galloping
heart as she stepped away, looking for something safe, anything innocent.
Seizing upon the peanut butter, she spun the cap off, scooped, licked her
finger. She’d taken some foolish chances before, but emotionally she always, alwayshad the upper hand. She could feel him watching her, sense his amusement.
"What are you going to
do with me now? I mean, you can’t just...” She shrugged, took
another casual lick. "You really should take me back to the lodge. I’m sorry
for following you. It was foolish. It was downright rude.” Another lick, a
sheepish smile. "I didn’t come here to make trouble for you. You really should
let me go.”
"There’s the door.”
"And the darkness
beyond, and the woods, and the unmarked trails that pass for roads. Wolves,
bears, snakes.” She stood her ground as he approached her, a wolfish gleam in
his eyes. "But am I any safer with you?”
"You know me. I wouldn’t
hurt a fly.” He closed his hand around hers, drew her buttery finger into his
mouth and slowly sucked it clean. His breath cooled her wet finger as he
finished off the underside with his tongue. She knew then what a flute must
feel like on the inside as his electrifying breath rushed through it, end to
end.
He smiled into her eyes.
"But neither would I let one go when she’s such a great source of
entertainment.”
"I’m not going to sleep
with you,” she blurted out.
His laughter hit her in
the face, the backwash of her own foolishness. He walked away. "I’m not going
to stay awake with you,” he told her as he flipped open the lid of an old
steamer trunk. "I generally sleep in the middle, but I’m willing to compromise
since you’re more or less a guest.”
"I’ll take the chair.”
"Suit yourself.” He
tossed her an army blanket. "You wanna go outside first, or should I?”
"Outside?” She caught
the flashlight he tossed her. "Oh, that’s right, outside. Is the wolf, um,
dog—”
"Interested in your ass?
I don’t think so.” He caught her scowl, pitched her a grin. "You need help?”
She pushed the door
open, stepped outside, then stuck her head back in. "Is it directly
behind... ?”
"Directlybehind.”
"Well, it’s dark out
here.”
"You’re a big girl, now,
you’ll find it. Just reach back.”
She slammed the door. It
wasn’t so much the dark that worried her as the wildlife. She’d run into a
rattlesnake in a gas station restroom in Arizona and a black bear in Glacier.
She had a healthy respect for a wild animal’s survival instincts.
She nearly jumped out of
her skin when her light flashed on a pair of glowing eyes.
"W-woof?”
The dog answered.
Relief. Nice dog. Good dog. It wasn’t every dog that could say his own name. He
escorted her to the privy, stood guard while she used it, then shepherded her
back again. Very considerate dog.
At the cabin door she
called out, "Can Woof come inside?”
"You wanna clean up
after him?”
"Sorry, boy,” she
whispered. "You’re such a gentleman, I naturally assumed...”
Kole appeared at the
door. "The advantage to an outhouse is that people don’t usually take so long,”
he grumbled as they crossed paths over the threshold.
"Well, excuse me, but I
couldn’t see my watch.”
It surprised her to
discover a basin of clean water, a towel, and soap on the table where moments
ago the grocery box had been. Put there for her use, she decided. Even more
surprising, the water was warm. She looked up to find a cast iron kettle on the
hearth and something white draped over the back of the recliner. A nightgown?
He had put out a nightgown for her?
Close. It was a long
thermal shirt, which was preferable to sleeping in her clothes. She changed
quickly and made her bed in the chair in front of the fire, which would have
been fine if it actually reclined. All it did was tip back a little. The seat
sagged. The springs were sprung.
"You gonna be all right
there?” Kole asked when he returned.
"Fine, yes.”
She watched the fire and
listened to the water trickle into the basin, the boots fall to the floor,
followed by the belt buckle. The light dimmed, and still she stared at the
fire. Her feet were cold. Sleep would not come easily in this lumpy chair. She
wondered if her breathing sounded as loud as his did. She wondered if he
snored.
She wondered if she snored.
It was a small cabin,
and he wasn’t far away. Hissing. No, that was the fire. Grinding his teeth. No,
that was outside, probably the dog.
The fire popped. Her
feet were getting hot.
The chair groaned with
the slightest shift of her body, as though she weighed a ton. The bed squealed.
The chair squawked. The two pieces of furniture carried on this conversation
until Kole threw off his blankets.
"You take the bed.
You’re making so damn much noise, I can’t get to sleep.”
Heather jackknifed in
the chair. "I haven’t made a peep, not one peep, even though it’s impossible to
get comfortable in this chair.”
"Peep is about the only sound
you haven’t made. I’m gonna call you Wheezie.” He started up. "Get over here.”
"Stay there,” she
ordered as she padded across the floor, dragging her blanket like a
three-year-old. "I’ll share the bed with you. It’s not that I’m being prudish
or anything. I’m used to having a bed to myself, and I toss and turn a lot, and
I just don’t want to punch you in my sleep.”
"Damn right you don’t,
because I’m liable to retaliate in my sleep.” He gave her his only
pillow as they tucked themselves in quite separately, back to back. "You shut
up, settle down, stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine, and we’ll get along
fine.”
"In our sleep.” She
speared her arm beneath the pillow, plumped it up, and rested her head. She had
the fireside view. That was nice. So was his bare chest, she recalled. Strong,
smooth, firm. Was that a bare butt just behind hers? Behind her behind? She
smiled in the dark. He’d given her his pillow. He wasn’t half as tough as he
made out. She was going to get her story for sure.
She sighed. "What are we
going to do tomorrow?”
He vaulted out of bed.
She went still, thinking he’d be back momentarily. When that didn’t happen, she
sat up. He’d thrown a shirt on, and he was already pulling on his boots. And
his butt was not bare. Before she could form a question, he was out the door.
By the time her feet hit the floor, he was revving up his truck. When she got
to the door, the headlights arced across her face.
"Was it something I
said?” she called out to his red taillights. "Don’t leave me alone out here in
the middle of...”
The engine’s roar
dwindled to a distant hum.
She looked down to find
Woof sitting at her feet. "... God’s country.”