by Rita Karnopp
"Did you see Sean or Lance in the dream?"
"No. I told you everything. It's the crazy dream of a tired man and nothing more. It seemed real and I acted without realizing what I was doing. Hell only knows why I'd dream about Indians. I apologize." He stormed out, more from embarrassment than anger. Hell, he wouldn't have believed a story like that, even if it were true.
He headed straight for the house, praying she wouldn't follow. He knocked, waited, and then knocked again. Impatient, he rushed to his new Dodge Ram. Sean would know to come home. He slid onto the leather seat and snapped the seat belt. He closed his eyes and released a long exasperated breath. He'd left his vet bag in the barn. He considered leaving it, but utensils needed cleaning and supplies needed replenishing.
Grudgingly, he shuffled toward the building. It took every ounce of his willpower to open the door and step inside. Willow's musical chanting held him spell-bound. She shook soft, rattle-like gourds in each hand, creating a beat with each movement. She danced around and between the buffalo, sweeping her long hair over them like a puff of smoke.
She spoke in the tongue of her ancestors. Several of the words were the same as those he'd heard in his dream. The shock of it hit him full force. He hated Indian mumbo-jumbo. He hated anything to do with those heathens. He hated Indians, drunks in particular.
"Someday you must come to terms with the fact you have Indian blood," Willow said, tossing her hair behind her shoulders.
He paused, startled by her comment. "What?" he asked under his breath. He looked into Willow's large, doe-like eyes.
"I believe you heard me. I understand your resistance. I even sympathize with your rejection of your heritage―"
"Get one thing straight. I will never acknowledge the part of me that was forced. It’s my dark side, and I can't allow it to surface. Don't ask me to, because it isn't going to happen," he said with forced emphasis and grabbed his bag.
"Never is a long time, Brett. I think you'd feel better if you faced all of you. Is it so bad to have Indian blood?"
"Yes!" He stomped toward the door. "You have no idea what you're asking," he said under his breath.
"Maybe you should find out who your father is. It wouldn't be easy, but anything is possible."
Brett turned on his heel. "Not in this lifetime! I don't want to know the bastard. You hear me? He could have stepped forward, they all could have. All those years, not one wanted to know if I was their son. A simple blood test would have been all the proof needed. Hell, they might have been too drunk to even remember attacking my mother. All I know is, he's been a nightmare my whole life. He destroyed me before I was even born."
"You're wrong." Her voice came smooth, but insistent. "You've allowed this to eat at you. You've allowed it to break down your self-esteem. You've allowed it to become your crutch in life. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, spoiled rich boy. Face the demon like a man."
Brett stared at her, unable to believe what she'd just said to him. The nerve . . . the God damned nerve! He seethed with anger and humiliation. He wanted to shake her until her teeth chattered, but he remained still. She didn't shrink under his scalding glare of barely controlled anger.
"You are the most irritating, annoying, mouthy woman I've ever met. I've had enough of you to last a lifetime. There's nothing we could ever agree on or discuss without it turning into a fight. Keep your distance, as we have in the past, it’s better that way." He drew in a long steady breath and walked from the building.
This time he went straight to his truck, started it, and stepped on the gas. His heart pounded hard and fast. How in hell could she be so incredibly beautiful and so completely infuriating?
"You should find your father," he mocked her words out loud. They haunted him as he spun the truck around, scattering a hail of gravel. Rain lashed at his windshield. The wipers snapped in angry response. He pressed the gas pedal, driving too fast down the dirt road. Rocks snapped and spewed from under his vehicle. He should have taken Sean home too, especially after demanding the boys be kept apart. But it was too late. Sean knew the way home from Willow's place only too well. Brett couldn't have stayed a second longer.
A mule deer ran out onto the road. Brett slammed on the brakes, taking the muddy shoulder. His truck slid down the steep embankment, then came to an abrupt stop, tossing him hard against the steering wheel. He felt the jarring impact and the stabbing pain of a badly bruised rib, a familiar injury from his bronco-riding days. It was no less painful from a steering wheel, he thought.
Looking around, Brett saw he had a good five mile hike to his house, or a mere three back to Willow's haunting deep brown eyes.
He pushed open the door with great effort, then stood leaning against the vehicle, his breathing labored. It wasn't going to be easy to explain this one. He'd been driving too fast, something he'd been talking to Sean about. Driving was a responsibility. Speeding could never be justified. A distracted, drunken or show-off driver became a lethal weapon on the road. Brett realized he had all the right words and all the wrong actions.
Parenting wasn't all he'd thought it would be. He gripped his ribs, supporting them as he climbed up out of the ditch. No one teaches you how to walk the right walk or talk the right talk. Sometimes it seemed Sean knew more about his future than Brett did.
His son wanted to be an Olympic archer, a star basketball player, and a famous eye surgeon. The latest having been added since surgery on his eyes two years ago left him with perfect vision, and no more glasses for the kids to make fun of. Besides, a Stetson-clad cowboy looked ridiculous wearing glasses, so his childish mind thought.
Brett couldn’t help but smile when he thought of his son. Sean was the light of his life and had changed everything. Brett hadn't wanted anything to do with the ranch or his father, but Sean needed a foundation and that started with a home.
Brett pushed one foot in front of the other. Exhaustion claiming him, he sat on a boulder alongside the road to rest. He closed his eyes and listened to the stillness following the storm. Soon summer would be here in full swing, but right now that warmth hadn’t quite arrived. Branches of the cottonwoods bordering the nearby river bed snapped together in the increasing breeze. Brett shivered.
"You going to sit there and daydream all day or would you like a ride back to my place."
Brett bolted back to reality and gazed up into the dark eyes of Willow Howling Moon. She looked incredibly wild and desirable sitting in the saddle. Damn! She seemed to be everywhere. "You follow me, or what?"
"I happened to see your truck in the ditch from the ridge." She pointed off to the west. "Lucky for you I did, unless you like to hike when you're bone tired."
"I'd have made it," he responded, irritation lacing his words. "You don't need to rescue me; I can manage on my own.”
"You saying you want to walk? You don't want a ride?" Her lips puckered with annoyance.
How could he tell her he didn't want to walk one more step, but it might take less effort than sitting behind her on a horse? He stood, gripping his ribs.
"You're hurt?" She swung her leg over Whirlwind's back in an easy movement.
"Naw, just a bruised rib or two.Had plenty of them in the rodeo. Nothing too―" he paused, unable to speak while she moved her hands under his shirt, pressing along his rib cage. He could easily have stopped her, but he realized he didn't want to. He drew in the mystical scent of her. A tightening of his jeans reminded him of his dream.
"Take a breath."
"It's nothing, really." He wondered if he was trying to convince himself more than her. "Ow! Careful!"
"My, still testy I see.”
"You'd be testy too, if I pushed on your ribs that way," he stated with exaggerated sarcasm. He stood still, hoping she wasn't finished. When she pulled away, he felt disappointed somehow.
"You think you're up to riding or you want me to go back and get my pickup?"
"Hell, it's a bruise, not a damn . . . " He stopped in mid-sentence, knowing his tone and
lack of appreciation were out of line. "Sorry," he choked out in a half whisper.
"What? I don't believe I heard you." She bit down on her lower lip.
The gesture caused him considerable duress. "You heard me. Let's get moving before we talk this thing to death.”
She mounted. "Climb on that rock," she directed, slipping her foot from the stirrups.
He hated accepting her help. It was her fault he'd ended up in the ditch in the first place. Maneuvering up the boulder, he mounted behind Willow.
He gripped the back of the saddle with one hand and held his arm across his ribs with the other. He tried to keep a distance between them, but it became impossible. Her small, shapely behind pressed into him time and again. Her hair, caught by the growing breeze, snapped at his face.
"Mind grabbing that horse mane of yours? It has a bite worse than the wind."
She collected the black mass, pulled it forward, twisted it and tucked the long end down the front of her blouse. Damn, his imagination went on overload and he found the gesture nearly too much to take.
She rode with her back straight and her chin raised. Her silence wore on his nerves.
"Don't think I've ever heard you quiet. Something I said? You might as well tell me what's ailing you. No need to hold back, you never have in the past."
"You are one annoying piece of work. Would it hurt you, just once, to feel a twinge of gratitude? Must you always have the upper hand? Is your male ego so damn fragile that you can't manage one simple thank you?" she asked, pulling Whirlwind to a stop alongside the barn.
Brett slid his foot into the stirrup and managed to reach the ground without too much pain. He reached up and eased her down in front of him, ignoring the stabbing electrical shocks it caused his bruised ribs. "Thank you," he muttered near her ear. It amazed him how small her waist felt beneath his palms. His brain told him to let go and step back, but his body froze in place.
"If you're smart, you'll go see a doctor," she answered.
He stared into dark pools, their mystery drawing him in closer. He leaned forward, bringing his lips a breath away. He held still . . . so did she. If only she'd give a sign of permission or encouragement. She didn't. He stepped back, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. How he wanted to do that.
"It was nice of you to give me a ride," he admitted. His way-with-women vanished when it came to Willow. He gathered a handful of her hair in his palm and retrieved it from her neckline. Silken strands slipped through his fingers. He lifted several stragglers, slowing pulling them from her blouse. He couldn't suppress the heated affect it had on him. Subconsciously he thought he heard a soft gasp from her lips.
"It's the least I could do after you saved Thunder and her babies. I think the boys were impressed, too," she said.
"You were impressed?" he asked, brushing the backside of his fingers across her jaw line.
"You should pursue your goals. You have what it takes to be a fine vet."
"I thought that at one time. Maybe I still do. Sean needs me now. I can't be off on calls all hours of the day and night. Besides, Mother needs me too.”
"Get married," she blurted.
He stared at her. "That's all I need, another city lover to make my life miserable. No thank you," he said, turning away." I’ll let the boys sleep in and get Sean later when I come and check on my patients." He didn't wait for an answer or further discussion on his married status. That conversation was off limits. He stomped over to her beat-up Ford. "Mind if I borrow it?"
"Keys are in the ignition, help yourself," she answered.
Brett tore his gaze from her tight-fitting Levis. He needed some sleep and a cold shower, not necessarily in that order, he decided, revving the engine. In the rear view mirror he caught a glimpse of blowing hair and swaying hips. Damn, how had he never noticed before?
* * *
Willow worried about how Brett made her feel. He had a reputation for chasing anything in skirts—and doing anything they'd let him get away with. That kind of guy never interested her, especially one as outspoken and spoiled as Brett Turner. She'd learned more about this man the past twenty-four hours than she had in the past ten years.
She'd always sensed his dislike for Indians and her husband. Gordon didn't make friends easily, but this difficulty seemed intensified with Brett. Their relationship had always overlapped on her. Brett treated her with the same hostility he felt for Gordon. Brett had long since been her first suspect when they found Gordon's body.
Someone went to an awful lot of trouble trying to make his death look like an accident. The coroner admitted the faked wolf feeding was a clumsy attempt to hide three gunshot wounds.
Was Brett Turner capable of cold-blooded murder? She'd thought so at one time, but now, she had her doubts.
But, then who? Who would murder Gordon? Why would anyone want him dead? She'd asked herself those questions, so many times, but came up empty every time.
Now her prime suspect lit a fire that smoldered deep. It'd been too long since she'd thought about needing or wanting a man. No man had left her longing as Brett did now. She’d decided long ago they were feelings that only came true in fairy tales. Feelings she could easily do without. She didn't need the love of a man. Besides she had Lance to care about. Her son's smile and loving hugs were enough . . . or were they?
Chapter Four
A blaring car horn woke Willow with a start. She sat on the couch, confused, struggling to get her bearings. A repeated blast made her realize what had awakened her to begin with.
She glanced at her watch; she'd slept barely an hour. Fatigue claimed her body, protesting as she went out the front door. "Ever think of coming to the house and ringing the doorbell?" She hoped Wyatt would one day grasp she hated his oafish manners.
"Aw, Willa, darling, you love every minute of attention I give you, don't you?" he asked, drawling his words.
"How many times do I have to ask you to speak like a Montanan and not with that idiot, fake Texan drawl? I don't mind a tall man from Dallas speaking in his manly twang, but you sound like a burping jackass." She knew she sounded rude and impatient, but she didn't have the time of day for Wyatt, and especially not now.
"What's got you in such a mood? Is that Brett's truck up the road a piece? Ran into the ditch, I see. Drunk I suppose."
"From what I hear, Brett Turner doesn't drink. What would make you say that?" she asked, in the right mood for a hot fight. He squirmed, and she wondered what she'd said to make him appear that uneasy.
"Was meant in jest, Willa. How about offering me some coffee?"
She drew in a long breath and closed her eyes for a second. "Not today, Wyatt. I’ve been up most the night with Thunder. She had twin calves. It's been a long night, and I'm not much for company."
He walked around his fancy black Mustang, and stopped mere inches in front of her.
Willow drew back, desperate to put space between them. "I'm serious, Wyatt. I just want to get some sleep before Lance gets home from school."
"Where are your folks?" He glanced around, playing with his thin, straggly mustache.
"They left with Aunt Liz Hunting Bees to visit family in Browning for a few weeks."
"You're here all alone?" he asked.
She didn't like the way he boldly looked her over. "I guess you could say that."
"Where's your pickup?" he asked.
She hated his third degree. She’d never had much patience for Wyatt and today she had none. "Brett borrowed it―"
"Brett Turner came here and borrowed your truck?"
She shook her head, amazed at his outburst. "It's the least I could do since he helped me with Thunder's calving last night."
"Boy, things are getting cozy around here. I wouldn't have figured Brett would ever have balls ta spend a night at Arrowhead. Old Gordon must be turnin’ over in his grave."
"You have a dirty mind and an undisciplined tongue. I didn't say anything about Brett spending the night. He helped me with the
animals." She watched Wyatt raise a brow in accusing disbelief. The gesture unraveled her twisted, tense nerves. "You can go to hell, Wyatt Anderson! At least go home!" She stormed into the house and slammed the door behind her.
She drew in several deep breaths, struggling to calm her nerves. That man not only aggravated her, she couldn't stand his skinny hands and gaunt appearance. His smile was more of a leer, and his eyes had the warmth of a rattlesnake.
"Didn't mean to make you mad, Willow."
She whirled around, exasperated he'd followed her and hating his tight-lipped smile. "Please leave. I'm tired and not in the best mood, in case you haven't noticed.”
"Let's have a cup of coffee and talk," he suggested. "There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you."
"Please, Wyatt, not today."
"It has to do with Gordon's death."
Willow felt the blood drain from her face. She slowly went into the kitchen. The clicking of boot heels on the hardwood floor told her Wyatt followed.
She busied herself filling a coffee carafe with water. "What about Gordon's death? You know something, Wyatt?"
"I heard some talk, now it's only talk mind you, but many times there's a grain of truth in talk and―"
"Wyatt! Good God, get on with it," she interrupted.
"I heard Brett was seen fighting with Gordon at the J-Bar T the day they figured he died. It had something to do with him and Lorraine Turner."
"What about Gordon and Lorraine? You must have heard more than that," she prompted, shakily pouring a scoop of grounds into the filter.
"Nope. That's all I heard. You think old Gordon and Lorraine had a thing going on?"
Willow jerked, dropping the scoop. She tightened her fist, turned, and punched Wyatt in the eye with every ounce left in her. He teetered backward and dropped to the floor. She'd never hit anyone before, but it felt damn good to put Wyatt in his place.
"God damn, Willow, that hurt," he shouted, getting to his feet. "Like it rough, do you?" He took a step toward her.