Dance in my Heart

by Jones, Marjorie

  Hawk removed the spent condom and made sure it landed in the lined garbage can in the bathroom. He grinned as he remembered the expression on Candice’s face when he’d taken off the first one.

  “Where did that come from?” she’d laughed.

  “It’s all in the timing,” he’d replied. And it was. In the few moments she’d spent descending from her first of many orgasms, he’d slipped it on.

  As often as he preached to the kids on the res about safe sex, he couldn’t very well break his own rules.

  He made his way back to the bed, where Candice lay in naked splendor, her lips swollen from his kisses. She finished a strawberry dipped in whipped cream and he grinned lazily at her. The things she could do with that tongue drove him mad with desire. Just thinking about it made his shaft twitch.

  “Come back to bed,” she purred.

  “We’re out of ummm... supplies, ozawahn weenessisee. If I come back to bed, it’ll be to sleep,” he replied, shaking his head. “Unfortunately.”

  He knew he could easily go again, even though he’d just tossed the last of a six-pack of Trojans into the wastebasket. She fueled him like no other woman ever had. Addictive, he couldn’t get enough of her.

  “Come to bed anyway. It’s late.”

  He slid between the sheets and she leaned into his chest. He ran a tendril of her hair through his fingers, until he finally lifted a thick strand to his nose and inhaled deeply her lush scent.

  Amazing woman.

  “So you’re the safe-sex guru, I guess,” she teased lightly as she found an empty condom wrapper among the sheets and set it on the bedside table.

  “I just like to set a good example. Too many kids having kids these days. The Native American population is no different. Maybe even worse.”

  “How so?” The compassion in her voice sounded genuine, and he lifted his head slightly to see her narrowed brows.

  “I guess when a person feels like no one cares, they’ll search for love anywhere they can find it.”

  “I suppose,” she whispered. The vague tone in her voice unsettled him. Was that what she was doing? He found it hard to believe a woman like her had trouble feeling loved. She probably had a boyfriend or husband back home, and he satisfied her urge to walk on the wild side. Lots of women, white women, came on to him for just that reason. For some reason he couldn’t place, the thought she did the same annoyed him. But something in her voice settled his angst. She sounded lost, as if she reached for something she felt she could never have.

  She yawned against his chest, her warm breath teasing him awake again. How could he possibly lie here and not take her again? It seemed impossible.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Hawk. What exactly do you keep calling me?”

  “Wanton. Beautiful. Vixen.” He lied with a lop-sided grin.

  She chuckled as sleep swept over her. “You called me that when we first met? Somehow, I think you’re pulling my leg.”

  He laughed. “Yellow Hair,” he confessed. “I’ve been calling you Yellow Hair. You have the beauty of the sun in you, Candy. I will feel its warmth for the rest of my life.”

  The even rhythm of her breaths told him she slept. A part of him was happy she hadn’t heard his last comment. If she did search for something... No, if she searched for love, he couldn’t give it to her. He was far too busy to complicate his life with a woman like her. A woman like her deserved attention, admiration, worship.

  He had none of those things to give her.

  ~* * *~

  Candice hovered on the edge of sleep. Her body ached from the intensity of Hawk’s attentions, and the unfamiliar mattress. As memories of the night before slid through her consciousness, her belly tightened. Reaching her arm over toward him, she grinned like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

  Her smile faded as her searching fingers met cold sheets. She opened her eyes to find Hawk’s pillow empty. She sat up and scanned the hotel room. No jacket on the floor where she’d dropped it. No jeans against the far wall. No motorcycle helmet in sight.

  “Hawk?” she called. Was he in the bathroom?

  No deep timbered voice answered her.

  What had she expected? Flowers? Harps? The heavens to open and rain perpetual love and commitment on her shoulders? She didn’t want any of that. She may be dissatisfied with her job at the moment, but she definitely liked most of her life exactly the way it was. She’d known going into it last night this was a one night stand. By Monday, she’d be on a plane home. Back to her real life, with some pretty amazing, gut-clenching memories.

  She threw back the covers and made her way to the shower. By the time she finished, she’d come to terms with what she’d done.

  “Just don’t make it a habit, little girl,” she censured herself.

  The phone rang and she dashed pick it up. Maybe it was Hawk?

  She shook her head and dismissed the thought.

  “Yeah, Lincoln here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Great. The dragon, himself. “It’s Sunday morning, Mark. What do you think I’m doing? I’m recovering from a sex marathon with a tribal dancer.”

  “Very funny,” came his humorless reply. He thought she was kidding. She nearly laughed aloud. “Listen, I’ve changed your flight to Wednesday. I need you to visit the reservation and get some more history on the tribe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I haven’t even submitted the story yet, Mark.”

  “I know. And I’m sure what you have is fine, but we lost a story and I need to fill the space. Go find out what you can about the history of the dance, where Joe Blow City can take lessons, that sort of thing.”

  She heaved a sigh. Man, he irritated her. First, he shoved this piece down her throat, now he expected her to drag it out.

  Still, she couldn’t be sorry. Not after her night with Hawk. “Fine. I’ll head out there Monday morning. See what I can dig up.”

  “Good girl, cupcake. I knew I could count on you.”

  She hung up without saying good-bye. Cupcakes can’t talk. She stuck her tongue out at the phone and got dressed.

  The day seemed to loom before her, empty and long. She tried to write an opening to her story, but found her eyes falling on her camera and satchel repeatedly. She could find a photo supply shop and develop her pictures. She returned her eyes to the blank screen on her laptop. Sure was a better idea than sitting here making herself crazy.

  An hour and a half later, she screwed a red bulb into the hotel room bathroom light fixture. Her credit card weighed a few dollars more, but soon she’d be developing her film and looking into the image of dark eyes and smooth, muscled flesh.

  She felt the heat in her cheeks and the clenching in her belly at the mere thought of Hawk. She smiled like a fool. Hopeless. Yep. That’s her.

  Another hour passed before she hung the last of the first roll of film on the strings she’d mounted across her hotel room. She liked the black and whites the best, she decided. While the color shots were more detailed, the black and whites offered insight into the spirit of his movements. Just like him, they pretended to be out of some past time and place.

  She walked the length of the string, examining each photograph. As she did so, a tremor moved up her spine as if he still touched her.

  She nearly giggled at the warm sensations heating her blood. She felt sixteen again. Taking down a nearly dried photograph, she traced the plane of his rigid stomach, her finger hovering just above the surface of the print.

  She didn’t know his full name.

  The realization brought with it a void in the memories she had of him. Somehow, it didn’t seem right that she shouldn’t know him more. On the other hand, she knew everything she needed to know.

  She’d never see him again.

  Chapter Five

  The road loomed empty before her as Candice consulted her map for the third time to verify she traveled the correct road. She was so far off the beaten path, her GPS had completely tanked on her. She sw
erved enough to scare herself, and corrected her direction before putting the map aside. She’d driven nearly half a day, and if she didn’t find the Ojibwe reservation soon, she would be forced to turn back.

  A battered sign with bright red and yellow paint peeling from sun and water damaged boards approached on the right side of the car. “Welcome to Cedar Lake Summit U.S. Government Ojibwe Resettlement Camp.”

  She glanced around her. Nothing but grasslands as far as she could see. But satisfied she was at least heading in the right direction, she kept driving. A few minutes later, she pulled into a small market. The windows gleamed in the early afternoon light, even though the paint on the old clapboard building showed signs of wear.

  An elderly man sat in a misplaced restaurant booth which sat awkwardly outside the front door. He dragged on his pipe and tilted up his straw cowboy hat slightly at her arrival.

  Stepping from the car, she smiled at him. “Hello. Can you tell me if there is an office or where I can talk to someone in charge of the reservation?” she asked.

  He stared back at her without speaking. Either he didn’t understand her, or he couldn’t hear her, she decided finally, and continued into the store.

  “Anii aninishina,” a young Native American woman called from behind a scarred laminate counter. “What can I do for you today?”

  Candice walked to the counter and took off her sunglasses. “I’m wondering if there is a central office here on the reservation, or where I might find someone who can answer a few questions about hoop dancing?”

  “You a reporter?”

  She smiled. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “White people only come here for two reasons. One is to bring us charity – you know, books, blankets, things like that. Like we don’t have our own blankets,” she rolled her eyes. “The rest are reporters. You don’t have a bus of kids and a truck full of blankets, so you’re a reporter.”

  “Well, you’re right. So, who should I talk to?”

  “Michael Manone works in the main building. It’s a red brick job about six miles up the way you’re going. He can probably point you in the right direction. And he’s sort of like a manager. Takes care of lots of things for lots of people.”

  “Michael Manone, got it. Thanks a lot,” she turned to leave.

  The woman’s voice brought her back around. “You’re going to right a nice article, aren’t you?”

  “A nice article?” She felt her confusion play across her features.

  “Yeah. You’re not going to make us sound like were worthless and can’t do anything right, are you? Because if that’s the case, you can get back into your fancy car and drive straight back to your side of the line.”

  “I’m writing about the beauty and magic of hoop dancing,” she stated slowly, hoping she expressed the sincerity she felt.

  The woman smiled. “Good. Then welcome. Mike should be able to help you out.”

  It didn’t take her long to find the main building. A low brick structure with few windows, it reminded her of an old dentist’s office. She parked in front and entered through double glass doors on the North side.

  A bell sounded her entrance into the shadowed lobby. Avocado green shag carpet covered an uneven floor and appeared to have passed its prime years ago. The cheap paneling on the walls screamed nineteen-seventy-two. An older woman stood beside a desk behind a counter with cages resembling and old-western bank.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself. Be careful.”

  A muffled male voice came from out of sight behind the desk. “I know what I’m doing, Celeste.”

  “Just don’t electrocute yourself. I’ll be right back.”

  She came to the window and smiled at Candice. A heavy-set woman, she looked to be in her late fifties, with a small spattering of gray in her two long braids. She wore a bright red cotton dress and a necklace of multicolored beads. “Boozhoo,” she sighed. “I’m sorry you had to wait. We just got a new computer this morning, and we’re still setting everything up. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Michael Manone. A woman at the store out by the highway said I could find him here?”

  “Well, you can when he’s not crawling around under my desk. I don’t have an appointment listed for him. What did you need?”

  “I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping he could answer a few questions for me.”

  “Celeste, I need you to hand me those other cords,” the voice from the desk boomed.

  She turned and shouted back. “I’m talking with someone, Mike. Take a break and get your behind up here. She wants you.” Celeste turned back to face Candice with an exasperated look on her face. “Kids. They can’t do nothing for themselves these days.”

  The love shining in her black eyes lightened her features, despite the words. Candice felt herself smiling. Obviously, these two people shared a bond.

  “I’ll be right there,” the voice grumbled.

  Two legs encased in black denim and tipped with cowboy boots backed out from behind the desk. From her position on the opposite side of the cages, Candice had only a narrow view of the floor, but she could see Michael Manone’s form scoot from behind the old office furniture. A neat pony-tail of rich black hair rested on his back. Then he stood up and faced her.

  Hawk.

  Candice’s heart stopped beating. At least, she felt like it did. Her breath whooshed out of her chest and her pulse froze.

  “Candice?” He looked uncomfortable as he hurried around two unoccupied desks and opened a swinging door in the counter. He stopped several feet from her in the lobby. “What are you doing here? How did you...”

  “I had no idea I’d find you here,” she cut him off. Well, at least now she knew exactly where she stood with him. If Saturday night had meant nothing to him, she certainly didn’t need him thinking she’d tracked him down for happily-ever-after time. “I’m working. My editor wanted me to find out some history and background on hoop dancing, and since I neglected to gather the information... before... I thought this would be a good place to start.”

  “You two know each other?” Celeste asked.

  “We met at the Pow Wow,” he answered Celeste a little too swiftly. What did he think? That she would go into some sordid Penthouse explanation of their relationship?

  “I’m a reporter,” she offered, handing Celeste her business card.

  Mike shifted awkwardly before he mumbled, “Come on into my office. I have some books and things you can take a look at.”

  She followed him through the maze of desks to a small, sparsely furnished office in the rear of the building. He offered her a chair in front of his desk, while he took the seat behind.

  He never once met her eyes. Instead, he rummaged through a bookshelf behind his desk and brought out five worn paperback texts. “This should answer all your questions. Glance through them and I can get you photocopies of whatever parts you think might help.”

  She picked up the first book and ran the pages off her fingers absently. “Are you okay?”

  “What?” His head snapped up and finally, she could see the dark orbs set deeply into his face. How she loved his eyes.

  “I said, ‘Are you okay’?”

  Hawk couldn’t believe she sat in the chair across from his desk. He’d thought he’d never see her again. All day yesterday, her image had haunted him, shaming him for what he’d done. She deserved better.

  And now she wanted to know if he was okay? If he was okay? He’d treated her badly, running out in the middle of the night like a boy afraid of himself. Well, not the middle of the night. They’d spent the middle of the night exploring each other’s bodies and learning the intimate desires they shared. He’d left at dawn. As she slept soundly against him in the early morning rays of the run, he’d slipped from under her relaxed cheek and arms, and left without even waking her.

  He heaved a sigh. He should be shot. “No, I’m not.”

  She tilted her head, sending cascades of yellow curls over
her shoulder. “No?”

  He shook his head. “No. I owe you an apology.”

  “You do?”

  “Eya’. Yes, I do. For the way I left. That was... wrong.”

  “Oh.” Her brows came together as if he’d confused her. “What should you have done?”

  Stunned by her question, he thought for a moment. “Said goodbye?”

  She set the book down on the desk and leaned back in the chair. “Listen, Hawk. We had a good time. I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself. If I’d had half my wits about me, I would have taken care of these details that night, and you’d never have to see me again.”

  Except every night when he closed his eyes.

  “Then you don’t hate me?”

  She waved her slender hand and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course not. How could I possibly hate Mr. Stud?”

  He studied her. Regardless of her relaxed posture, her structured movements and her words, he saw her pain reflected in the watered blue of her eyes. No, he’d hurt her. What good would come from calling her bluff? Nothing, he decided, so he let her have her way.

  Celeste came into the office, just in time to break the tension. He breathed a little easier. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there are three boys out front who need to talk to you. It sounds important. One of them is Jeremy Littlefeather.”

  “I’m sorry, Candy. I have to see them. Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No,” she replied.

  Against his better judgment, he continued, “Why don’t you wait outside and when I’m finished with the kids, I’ll take you to a little place I know in town.”

  “Sure,” she answered with a hint of hesitation.

  He stood and walked her to the door. Her eyes fell on the gold nameplate glued to the wood.

  “Michael Irontree. Tribal Social Worker,” she read aloud. “That’s you?”

  “Eya’. Manone means Irontree. Actually it means Ironwood Tree, but the university I attended screwed it up, and it stuck.”

  She scanned him from his eyes, to his boots and back again. He felt the blood rush to his loins and settle there with passionate vengeance. “It fits.”