Chy Starhawk looked skeptical. “There is too much at stake,” he said. “Do we want the boy’s future and our tribe’s livelihood hanging on so thin a thread?”
“I think we could do it,” Honor said softly, more to herself than anyone else. Her thoughts began to race as she considered the possibilities. She didn’t question that what Johnny proposed was a huge risk, but she’d seen the flame leap in his eyes when he said her father’s name. Johnny Starhawk and Hale Bartholomew? A confrontation after so many years between the half-Apache kid and the man who had him banished? It was poetic justice, she realized.
She came out of her thoughts to the realization that everyone was looking at her, including Johnny. “I . . . I think we could do it,” she repeated. “I know my father. He’s been railing for years about the environmentalists and how they value trees over people. His motives aren’t always as pure as he pretends, but he does put great store in the family name and his own integrity. If we threatened public exposure—”
“What if it came to a court fight?” Johnny asked. “Would you testify against him? A character witness?”
“Testify?” Honor whispered the word. “Against my own father?” She stared at Johnny in disbelief. Did he know what he was asking? Her relationship with her father wasn’t a good one, but to publically take the stand against him? She could never do it. There was a bond. There would always be a bond.
She searched Johnny’s features, trying to understand what he was doing, why he was doing it. Her father had used her as a pawn all those years ago. He’d forced her to choose between him and Johnny. It horrified her to think that Johnny might be doing the same thing now. That would be carrying poetic justice to its cruelest extreme.
Her throat was dry and sore as she tried to speak. “Maybe it won’t come to a court fight.”
“If it did?” Johnny persisted.
Don’t do this, she thought, her anguish evident as she held his gaze. Please, don’t do this.
The silence stretched interminably, and finally Johnny exhaled heavily, his head lifting. He turned to his grandfather. “I’m ready to take Bartholomew on, with or without her. You decide.”
As Johnny turned and headed for the door, the assembled group made way for him. Honor felt as if she were drowning, going down for the third time, and Johnny had turned his back on her struggle. The door banged shut behind him, and she walked to the window of the headquarters, watching him stride to his Jeep.
“He’ll be back,” a man’s voice said reassuringly.
She turned to find Geoff Dias standing next to her.
“Johnny’s a moody S.O.B.,” Geoff said, his expression conveying sympathy for her plight. “But he’ll work through whatever’s eating him. Give him some time.”
Honor shook her head. Geoff obviously had no idea how serious the situation was. “It’s more than a mood,” she said despairingly. “Johnny can’t let go of the past, and he’s determined to punish me for it, one way or the other.”
Geoff moved around her and settled himself on the ledge of the window, looking up at her, studying her sadness. The light caught his sunswept hair and made a fiery halo out of it. He looked like one of Satan’s angels. Honor thought.
His voice was husky when he spoke. “I’ll tell you a little secret,” he said. “I’ve seen Johnny around lots of women, but I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t think punishing you is his problem. I think it’s loving you.”
Honor saw the bonfire as she was walking toward the river the town was named for. Blazing against the summer evening’s darkness, it seemed to be somewhere in the fairgrounds. She hurried in that direction, thinking that the fire might be another ceremonial ritual, perhaps in preparation for the confrontation with her father. If she was lucky, the person she needed to see would be there.
She approached the fairgrounds expecting the same crowds she’d seen at the gaan dance. Instead the area was deserted. There was only one man sitting cross-legged before the fire. Johnny’s grandfather rocked in a trancelike state, staring into the soul of the flames, chanting softly.
Honor hesitated a few feet away, not wanting to disturb him, but the shaman seemed to sense her presence and looked up. His eyes reflected the flames. They warmed and chilled her at the same time.
“You’re troubled,” he said.
“Very troubled,” she admitted.
“Do you know why?” he asked, beckoning her to sit down.
“Yes,” she said, speaking with conviction as she settled herself next to him on the ground. “It’s your grandson. I don’t understand him.”
“You aren’t alone. He doesn’t understand himself.”
“But why is he doing this?” she persisted. “Why is he asking me to testify against my own father?”
“Perhaps because he wants to win the case, and he knows you would be an important witness.”
She sighed and shook her head. “If I could believe that was all there was to it—”
The fire snapped loudly, showering sparks. Several of them hit Honor’s sweatshirt, and as she hastened to pat them out, she noticed the shaman’s bare arm. It was covered with red-hot cinders, which he made no move to extinguish. The cinders turned to ash, and as she met the old man’s eyes, she saw herself there, reflected in the fire’s flames. The vision transfixed her for a moment, as though there were some secret truth hidden in his gaze.
“You mistrust Johnny’s motives?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I think it’s a test. If I pass it, maybe he’ll forgive me. Or maybe there’ll be another test.”
The shaman smiled. “You are becoming a wise woman.”
Her pleasure at the compliment flared and was gone, like the sparks. “Then you think it’s a test too?”
“Does it matter? If it is, you couldn’t pass it. You already know that, so you might as well search your heart and look for guidance there.”
Search her heart? Wasn’t that exactly what she’d been doing? “You told me I would learn something on the trip to White Mountain, and yet I came back feeling more confused than ever.”
“And now? You’re still confused? You feel helpless, a leaf in the wind?”
“Yes . . .” How did he know?
“And perhaps you feel Johnny is that wind? A stormy gust, battering at you?” As she nodded, he asked, “Do you know the wind’s purpose?”
“To rip the leaf from the tree, to destroy it.”
“Ah, but is the leaf destroyed when it’s ripped from the tree? Or is it taken on a great ride, a great adventure? Some leaves might see the wind as an opportunity to travel.”
He laughed softly at that thought and regarded her with curiosity. “What do you want from the wind, little leaf?”
Honor smiled despite herself. “I’d like a trip with less turbulence, thank you.”
“So you want a gentle wind, a loving wind?”
She nodded, stirred by bittersweet feelings. Gentleness, love—she longed for those things. She longed for Johnny’s love.
“Have you told him how you feel?” the shaman asked.
Honor glanced up, startled. The fire turned to liquid gold through the haze of her tears. “No, I’d be afraid to tell him,” she admitted softly. “Everything I do seems to hurt and enrage him. He can’t let himself forget, or forgive, what I did.”
“Yes, I see that,” the shaman said gently. “But perhaps it isn’t Johnny’s pain you need to be concerned with. And perhaps it isn’t Johnny’s forgiveness you need.”
Honor stared into his eyes, into the flames, and saw herself there, waiting, hoping, fearful, a leaf about to be torn from the tree. The suffering in her own gaze mesmerized her. It spoke to her heart. “It’s myself I must forgive?” she asked after a moment.
“Yes, leaf, forgive yourself, for everything. That is the only way you will ever be free to go where the wind takes you. That is how you become the wind.”
Eleven
JOHNNY STOOD IN THE open doorway of the smal
l roadside tavern, leaning against the doorframe and looking out at nothing in particular, a longneck bottle of beer in his hand. Flashes of light from down the road and the thunder of an approaching motorcycle told him that his already lousy evening had just taken a turn for the worst. Trouble was headed his way.
The Harley Low Rider that roared up to the tavern entrance and stopped inches from Johnny’s feet was one of the toughest, sexiest machines he’d ever seen. The bike had more custom chrome and iron than a Grand Prix Ferrari race car. Johnny couldn’t help but appreciate the cycle. Its rider was another matter. He wanted no part of Geoff Dias at the moment.
Geoff rolled the bike back from the entrance, hit the kickstand, and swung off. “Hardly recognized you with your clothes on,” he said, tossing off the wisecrack as he brushed past Johnny and entered the tavern.
A moment later he came back through the doorway with a can of beer and an inquisitive expression that was trying to pretend it wasn’t a smart-ass grin. Settling himself opposite Johnny, he leaned against the tavern’s log-cabin exterior and propped a booted foot on the wall behind him. “You okay?” he asked, taking a deep swig from the can.
“I didn’t know you cared,” Johnny said dryly. “I feel as though I’ve been hung head down over a slow fire and roasted for days on end. Other than that, I’m great.”
Geoff gave out a low whistle of sympathy. “How’d you get yourself into this mess?”
“I think you got a pretty good look at the reason, you slimy bastard—Honor Bartholomew, star of my teenage fantasies and bane of my entire existence. That’s how I got into this mess.”
“Does the bane of your existence know you’re nuts about her?”
Johnny drained the bottle. “She knows I’m nuts.”
Geoff’s handsome features were uncharacteristically serious as he rested the back of his head against the log cabin, then glanced around at Johnny. “Why do you want to hurt her, man? What’s that going to prove?”
Johnny stared at the empty beer bottle, wishing he could smash it against something just for the pleasure of seeing it explode. “I don’t want to hurt her. Not anymore. I want it over, that’s all. I just want it over.”
“You may be about to get your wish.”
“Get my wish? Why?” Johnny pushed away from the door and scrutinized his ex-partner as if Geoff had announced that Honor were terminally ill and about to depart the planet. “Did she say something? Is she leaving? Where is she?”
“You’re really pathetic, man,” Geoff said, his voice husky with pained male laughter. “You’ve got it bad.”
Johnny tapped the empty bottle against the palm of his hand, fighting off the desire to use Geoff’s skull for target practice. The crazy Indian’s got it bad, he thought. Might as well hire a skywriter instead of trying to keep that fact under wraps. “I need a drink,” he said, turning to go into the bar.
“You don’t need a drink,” Geoff said forcefully. He pushed off the wall and confronted Johnny, apparently prepared to knock heads if that’s what it took. “You need to grow up, buddy. You saved my butt when those rebels ambushed me in Peru, and I never thought I’d hear myself calling you a coward. But I’m awful close to it now. If you love her, Starhawk, if you want the woman, then stop jacking around and do something about it.”
Johnny stared at his friend incredulously. “You just made a couple of big mistakes, Dias,” he said softly. “The first one is getting in my face. You oughta know better than that. The second is being right. I hate it when you’re right.”
Johnny spotted her the moment he came out of the Sunrise Motel the next morning. Honor was leaning against his Jeep Cherokee, looking squarely at him, her arms folded casually, her hair bleached to white in the dazzling sunlight. At first glance she looked like one of those visions that came to a man in his hour of need, an angel of mercy or a genie materializing out of a bottle.
At second glance she looked like a woman who had something serious in mind. The blue blazer, skirt, and blouse she wore were all business, and the set of her lovely jaw bespoke determination.
Johnny dug his car keys from the pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ve got business,” he said by way of explanation. It was true, but it was also a convenient way to postpone whatever kind of confrontation she had on her mind.
“I know,” she said, remaining where she was, blocking the driver’s side of the car.
“My business is with your father.”
“You have an appointment?”
“Not exactly. His secretary referred me to his attorneys, but that’s never stopped me before. I’m pretty good at crashing gates.”
“That’s why I’m here,” she informed him. “I’m going with you. At least my being there will ensure that he sees you.”
“Honor, you don’t have to—”
She cut him off with a toss of her head. “I’m not doing it for you, Starhawk, and I don’t need your permission one way or the other, is that clear?”
“Abundantly,” he said softly as he stared at her sparkling eyes and expressive mouth. “Starhawk? You’ve never called me that before.”
“Be glad I did,” she said. “The other names I had in mind aren’t nearly as polite.”
Against his better judgment, Johnny realized he was fascinated. He’d always thought her fair complexion and her genteel shyness were what gave her her unique quality of beauty, but she seemed to be operating from a completely different energy source now. She was lighting up the motel’s dingy parking lot with her heat and flash.
Once, caught in the throes of his own insanity and frustration, he’d heard a word shaking on his lips when he’d been about to kiss her. He’d called her a bitch, but his fury had been mixed with awe even then. She gave new meaning to that pejorative term now. She was fabulous.
“Let’s get going,” he said. “I’m driving.”
Triumph shimmered in her smile. “If you insist.”
The trip to Phoenix, where Hale Bartholomew’s corporate offices were located, was made in deafening silence, interrupted by occasional uneasy attempts at conversation on Johnny’s part. He’d never been more aware of Honor’s presence than in the enforced confinement of the rented Jeep. He was aware of her hips as she moved in the bucket seat, of her hands clasped in her lap, and especially of her legs rustling around in the skirt she wore. What was it about a short skirt and silk stockings that made a woman’s legs look sleek and never-ending? His thoughts veered irresistibly to the night he’d opened those sleek legs.
A blaring car horn brought him out of his fantasy, but not quickly enough to stop the surge of energy in his loins. “Sorry,” he muttered, bringing the Jeep back into the lane he’d veered out of.
“Is there a problem?” Honor asked, surprised at the heated glance he gave her. She was equally aware of their tight quarters and of Johnny’s presence. Though his hair was tied back in a ponytail, it did little to subdue the animal magnetism he exuded, and neither did the business suit he wore. It astonished her that a pair of men’s linen slacks could be so blatantly sexy. And it annoyed her that she couldn’t keep her eyes off his hand as he worked the car’s stick shift!
“Hell, yes, there’s a problem,” he said huskily, gearing down as a car pulled in front of them. “Isn’t there always?”
Honor swayed toward him, her leg colliding with the very hand she’d been watching. The friction of silk sliding along bare skin created sparks of static that traveled up her thigh like an electrical charge. She jerked back and returned his heated glance, determined not to respond to him. But her mind had other ideas. It flashed X-rated images of a man sliding his hand up a woman’s skirt, of steamy sex in parked cars.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, his smile darkly ironic as he echoed her words.
As they approached the outskirts of Phoenix, Honor forced her thoughts to the ordeal that lay ahead of them, the confrontation with her father. She’d sent Christmas and birthday cards, but other than that she’d had no contact with H
ale Bartholomew in over a decade, and she was terribly nervous. He was a powerful man. He was intelligent, articulate, ruthless—all those qualities she’d seen in Johnny the first time she’d watched him argue a case. But her father had the hometown advantage of having friends in high places. He also believed passionately in his principles, however misguided others might think they were. She wasn’t sure even Johnny could win against such a man.
“What’s your plan for dealing with my father?” she asked as they pulled into the parking lot of the Bartholomew Building.
“I’m going to play it by ear, look for his weakest link. The public-exposure angle could work.”
“That was my idea,” she said, surprised.
He acknowledged her with a faint smile. “Yes, I know.”
Moments later, having maneuvered their way past the ground-floor security, Honor and Johnny stepped off the executive elevator and faced their second hurdle, the receptionist.
“She couldn’t be any worse than your receptionist,” Honor told Johnny under her breath as they approached the woman’s desk. “Hello, I’m Honor Bartholomew,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Mr. Bartholomew’s daughter.”
The young woman looked startled. “His daughter? Do you have an appointment?”
Honor ignored the question. “Is he alone?” she asked, glancing at the vaultlike double doors.
The receptionist rose protectively. “Yes, but he’s busy. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Not necessary,” Honor said breezily, waving Johnny along with her. “We want to surprise him.”
The double doors led to a hallway of executive offices. Carried along by her own boldness and ignoring the receptionist’s calls to stop, Honor moved swiftly toward her father’s suite at the end of the hall. Fortunately she remembered the way.
Hale Bartholomew hung up the telephone as she and Johnny entered. “Honor?” he said, rising. “What are you doing here?”
Honor hadn’t realized how hard her heart was thumping until she stopped and caught her breath. All the starch and stiffness seemed to drain out of her as she came face-to-face with her tall, distinguished father. He looked even more aged and gaunt than he had on television. “Can we talk to you, Father?” she asked.
The Stealth Commandos Trilogy Page 33