“No!” Logic, reason and fury finally tamed the wanton, instinctive physical response. Pushing the slender fingers that had risen to entangle in his black hair against him, Whitney echoed the choked scream. Eagle acquiesced—at his own speed, releasing her slowly. Whitney met the sardonic amusement in his eyes with desperate venom. She was dangerously close to tears she would never allow him to see her shed.
“Get out of my car—now!”
“I’m going.” He sounded infuriatingly unperturbed, as well he should. He had controlled the kiss from the beginning. Had he chosen, Whitney thought with horror, he could have easily overridden her feeble objection. “I think,” he said concisely, exiting the BMW with his fluid motion, “that I have proved my point.”
Whitney watched in stunned immobility as he walked across the parking lot, tall, sinewed and exceedingly masculine in the perfectly tailored jacket that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his hips and long legs. Then a white-hot flash of heat invaded her with renewed fury. She stormed from the BMW after him, catching up with him just as he entered the driver’s seat of his own car, a quiet gray Mercedes.
Clutching the windowsill with white-knuckled hands, Whitney rushed into scathing speech. “You haven’t proved a thing, Mr. Stewart,” she declared vehemently. “You play tricks and take people unaware. That is all. I happen to know that I am right. That land is right where it should be—accessible! To your people. I intend to show them the benefits, and I intend to bring you into a court of law, where your devious ways will be ripped to shreds. I, Mr. Stewart, am giving you fair warning. Take some time yourself and go out and find yourself a good lawyer!”
A deadly grin stretched Eagle’s grim lips.
“My dear Miss Latham, I am a lawyer. You just don’t ever seem to have the pertinent facts, do you? I’m even considered to be a good lawyer. That’s why I—an outsider—am representing the Indians.”
The volcano was about to spew forth. Whitney spun on her heels just as the Mercedes roared into action.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS A TERRIBLE thing to suspect you might be wrong, Whitney thought as she shifted in her lawn chair before the pool and tossed her towel over her burning face. Terrible, when you wanted so desperately to be right!
Almost a week had passed since her luncheon encounter with Eagle. Hate and anger had sustained her through the first few days; then uncertainty had set in. Was she so bent on vengeance that she had become blind? T and C had supported her ultimatum that they take the matter to court, but now she was doubting her own single-minded vision. A woman scorned, she thought bitterly. Well, her tantrums with Eagle could hardly be called mature.
“Aha! I’ve found you! Believe it or not, old man that I am, I would recognize that body anywhere!”
Whitney ripped the towel from her face and stared incredulously at the crinkling blue eyes of a smiling Jonathan L. Stewart. He was clad today in tan leisure slacks and a beige tennis shirt, and as he stood above her, his hands idly in his pockets, Whitney was again struck by the resemblance between father and son. Unwittingly she smiled. There was little else to do when met with the dazzling, genteel gaze of the senior Stewart.
“I hear you’re on the outs with my son,” Stewart said cheerfully, drawing another lawn chair next to Whitney’s. “I hope you won’t hold that against the father.”
Whitney grinned sheepishly. “No, sir.”
“Call me Jon,” he suggested. “All my friends do.”
“No, Jon,” Whitney said. “I hold nothing against you.” She frowned and grimaced suddenly and reached for her dark sunglasses in a pretense of blinking from the heat of the sun. He must know everything now! she thought in a rash of embarrassment. Well, not everything, but enough to allow his imagination to do the rest.
“Did your son send you here?” she asked suspiciously.
Jon chuckled. “You must be kidding, Miss Latham. My son is as stubborn—if not more so—as you are. I think he would stand his ground until the next Ice Age overtook it.”
“Oh.” She didn’t voice the question, but it was in the air: Then why are you here?
“I’d like to see if you’d be willing to humor a senior citizen and spend an afternoon with me. I’ll promise the reward of a excellent dinner in exchange for any boredom you have to endure,” Jon said solemnly.
“Is this an appeal to my better nature?”
“Yes, frankly it is. If I know my son, if he became irritated, he never would get around to explaining things fully.”
He didn’t, Whitney thought silently. I didn’t give him much of a chance.
“I shall be delighted to spend the afternoon with you, Jon.”
“Good! Oh … uh … we won’t mention this to anyone, if that’s agreeable.”
Whitney rose and stretched, chuckling. “I certainly won’t say anything! Where are we going and what should I wear?”
Thirty minutes later they were back along a lonely stretch of Alligator Alley. A natural, comfortable friendship had grown between them, and they had discussed everything from world politics to the atrocious cost of meat in the supermarkets. Jon hadn’t brought up his son’s name. Neither had Whitney.
Jon’s eyes slid from the road to Whitney. “Know where we are yet?”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Whitney replied, “from the maps I’ve seen, we’re close to ‘the’ land.”
“Precisely.”
Whitney stared into the marsh. There wasn’t a thing about the area of swampland that could remotely be termed special. As if reading her mind, Jon curled his lips. “You won’t see anything,” he told her. “Not until we park.”
“Park?” Having been away from the crude environ of the Glades, Whitney shivered involuntarily.
“Trust me!” Jon said with a laugh, and Whitney smiled feebly. Hadn’t the son said much the same thing?
They turned onto a path that remained hard and solid for several miles. Eventually it wound around to bring them to a small hammock.
“This is part of the land parcel,” Stewart said amiably. With a friendly arm around her shoulder, he led Whitney down a pretty, overgrown trail of flower-strewn pines. A moment later he stopped.
At first Whitney didn’t see anything unusual. That was because all the earth tones blended in the scenery. Then she realized that there was a box ahead in a small clearing, resting upon a squat structure of logs. Alongside the six-foot box were strewn tattered and half-buried remnants of pottery, utensils and fabric. Years of exposure to the elements had made the entire picture part of the landscape, but as Whitney swallowed a lump in her throat, she could slowly discern bits and pieces of a human life. From ashes to ashes; dust to dust. She didn’t need to ask where she was.
“The land is a burial ground,” she whispered weakly.
“Yes,” Stewart said softly.
An eerie feeling of pain seemed to transmit itself from the elderly man to Whitney, and she was suddenly sure of something else. They hadn’t just stumbled upon any grave.
“This is your wife’s—Eagle’s mother’s—grave.”
“Yes,” Stewart said again simply. He made no move to go closer to the coffin but stood in silent meditation for a moment. Then he squeezed Whitney’s shoulders and led her back along the trail. They were in the car again before either of them spoke.
“Are there others?” Whitney asked softly.
“Many,” Jon Stewart replied. “The government has begun to offer interment in special plots, but the grave site you’ve just seen is the way of the Miccosukees. For countless years they have taken their dead into remote spots in the swamp. Civilization has been closing in, but the swamp is vast. My wife, as I believe Katie told you, was half white, yet she was raised as a Miccosukee. It was her wish to die as one.”
“What was she like?”
The wistful question was out before Whitney realized she had voiced it. Stewart didn’t seem to mind. A tender smile filtered onto his lips with beautiful poignancy.
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“She was everything to me—the sun, the moon, the stars. Lovely, soft, gentle. She had a way with her … even wounded animals found their way to her doorstep, whether we were in the woodland or in my town house in the city. Katie is much like her mother.”
“What—what happened?” Whitney asked thickly.
Jon shrugged. “A stray bullet from an out-of-season poacher.”
“Oh, God!” Whitney’s whisper was half gasp and half sob. “I’m really so very sorry.”
Jon Stewart lifted a hand from the wheel to pat hers briefly. “Don’t be, really; not for me. I was a very lucky man. Not everyone gets to find love like that.”
He was quiet during the long drive back, and Whitney was left to her reflections. The man beside her, she decided, was extraordinary. He spoke of life and love with a grave simplicity that was astounding in its depth. Man enough openly to declare his emotions with romantic reverence, he had lived his beliefs regardless of obstacles or opinions. Whitney was sure he would never marry again, yet his lost love did not make him morose. It was something he treasured quietly in the recesses of his heart.
And suddenly, as she sat mutely in the car, Whitney knew exactly what she wanted in life. To love and be loved—like J. L. Stewart and his Indian bride. To find a love that supported her and could sustain itself against the problems and idiosyncrasies of living together, a light in any darkness.
She sighed shakily. There was a man she could love that way. The man on whom she had declared bitter war.
“I promised you dinner,” Jon said with a cheerful smile, “and I know a terrific little place on the shore, if you like seafood.”
“Love it,” Whitney assured him.
The restaurant did offer wonderful fresh seafood served in a rustic atmosphere that was pleasant and relaxing. Through the meal Whitney found herself confiding in Jon Stewart naturally, although she didn’t go into much detail. She talked about her childhood, Virginia and even her brief marriage. Stewart, in return, talked about Chicago and his love for museums and theaters, and then how he loved to come back to Naples and spend quiet, peaceful times in the Glades with nature.
“I’m not much of a hunter,” he told her, “but I do love to fish and I’m an avid bird-watcher!”
Their meeting at the Corn Dance was never brought up, nor was any mention of Eagle. The tone of their discussion had been so mellow and lulling that Whitney was taken by complete surprise when Stewart returned her to her motel room and bluntly asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“I—I suppose I’ll battle T and C and look for other land,” Whitney said. “I think I can eventually swing it.”
“Will you tell my son?”
“No,” Whitney said softly. “If we can come up with something else, he’ll know when we meet in the planning conference.”
Stewart hesitated for a second, then cleared his throat. “Whitney, I don’t tend to interfere in other people’s business, and I won’t say much now. I know Eagle played quite a trick on you, but I think you might want to take a look at his motives.”
Whitney bit her lip. She longed for the release of throwing herself into the gentle arms of the kindly, paternal man who had become her friend and to confess all that she was feeling, but she couldn’t. She felt that she knew Eagle’s motives all too clearly.
No, they had not been vicious. Devilish would be more like it. He had treated her to rare streaks of kindness and, understanding. But to him it had all meant nothing. He had given, but in that giving he had torn her to shreds.
And she did still have her pride. The man had accomplished the feat easily of making an unmitigated fool of her.
“Jon,” Whitney said lightly, “you have done your good deed for the day. I will get to work on a rational solution to this thing. But I have no intention of renewing a friendship with your son. And,” she said as she grinned with rueful bitterness, “I sincerely doubt if your son cares one way or another. If he feels anything for me, I’m sure an accurate description might be contemptuous indifference.” She felt herself beginning to blush. Should she add that Eagle might have found her an amusing bedmate? God forbid! This man she respected was most certainly well aware already of the more embarrassing details!
Damn! she thought, meeting his astute blue gaze. He was reading her mind! “Whitney,” he said gently, “I’m going to say one more thing and leave. I promise. I don’t expect any response. But listen, and then think about what I say. I know my son. His greatest sin is pride. He would never come to you now. But he married you in a ceremony that he holds sacred. He loves you, and if I haven’t gone senile I’m pretty sure you’re in love with him too.”
“He doesn’t love me, Mr. Stewart,” Whitney said with quiet dignity. “He married me because he loves his grandmother. He was very careful to tell me it wouldn’t be a legal commitment. Besides …” she tried a nonchalant chuckle, “he married me when we had only known one another a few days. It’s impossible to be in love that fast.”
Stewart shrugged with an easy grin. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I opened my eyes once and fell in love before I could blink. But I promised I wouldn’t say anything more. I’m going to get going. And remember—our whole day is a secret, okay?”
“I’ll remember,” Whitney vowed.
She had barely closed the door before the phone started to ring.
“Whitney?”
The voice, she knew immediately, belonged to Katie. For an uncontrollable minute she started to laugh. It seemed that every Stewart she knew wanted to talk to her—except the one whose voice she wanted desperately to hear.
“Whitney? Are you there? Are you all right?”
“Yes, Katie,” Whitney said, sobering. “I’m fine. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to know if you were still interested in visiting the reservation and some of the independent villages along the Trail.”
“Yes, I’d like very much to do some visiting,” Whitney admitted. “When?”
“Tomorrow would be good for us—it’s Sunday. How is that for you?”
“Fine.”
They agreed on an early start, and just before she hung up, Katie asked the inevitable question.
“Oh—uh—Whitney, you won’t mention this to my brother?”
“No, Katie, I won’t,” Whitney said dryly. “I really don’t expect that I’ll be talking to your brother.”
There was nothing on the wire for several seconds except a slight static. “I’ll—ah—see you in the morning, then,” Katie said.
By late afternoon of the following day Whitney felt that she had been through a crash course on history and current events. Her curiosity over the Miccosukees had become insatiable, and she knew it had little to do with her job. She had reentered Eagle’s world, and all that she learned was as much a part of him as the stunning and immaculately tailored suit he had worn to their elegant luncheon. She couldn’t have him, but somehow being with Katie among the Indians was strangely comforting—although it also brought memories that ripped her heart to anguished pieces.
During the day she met men and women who lived extremely varied lives. She visited homes that ranged from the typical chickee to the whitewashed house of her own community. Some of the Indians, like Morning Dew, stayed in the densest woods and lived off the land, while others held important jobs. She even learned how electricity could be installed in a chickee.
As the day drew to a close Whitney stood with Katie near the cattle pens on the reservation, watching the final roundup as she chewed on a blade of grass. As she crunched into the sweet root, a frown furrowed its way deeper and deeper into her brow.
“What is that look for?” Katie demanded with a chuckle.
Whitney glanced at her guiltily. They had skirted the subject of Eagle and the past all day, but now it was she who wanted to ask a question.
“I’ve been wondering … I mean, I don’t understand your brother at all.” Whitney glanced shamefaced at her hands to avoid Katie’s eye
s. “When I came down here I guess I really felt that the Indians needed help and that that was why they had a white man handling their affairs. Why didn’t he start out by showing me how brilliant some of these men are—how far they have come in so many ways?”
Katie climbed up on the fence and stared out at the horizon, where the golden beauty of the setting sun in the Everglades could be seen. “You just said it yourself, Whitney. ‘How far they have come.’ Don’t you see, you’re going by your standards, which are fine. Our people are firm believers in live and let live. If you want a nine-to-five job in the city and a little yellow house with green trim and a flower garden, that’s fine. But a lot of these people like to live in the Glades, the way their ancestors did for centuries. My grandmother grinds corn because she wants to. My father and brother are both wealthy men. Morning Dew could have anything in the world she wants. But she does have what she wants: custom and culture. She is happy to tend her garden and greet her family when they come back to her and the old ways, seeking comfort from the modern world. And we do go back to her, all of us. Eagle and I were raised to have pride in all that we are. I love my father and all that he is. And I love my grandmother, and I’m fiercely proud to be a Miccosukee. I can’t speak for my brother, but I don’t think he ever intended to hurt you. To tease you, yes; that’s Eagle’s way. He can be fierce, but I’ve never known my brother to be malicious. Have I made any sense?”
“Yes,” Whitney said quickly. “Yes, of course.” Ridiculous tears were forming in her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she pretended to feel a pebble in her boot and bent to remove it, shake it and put it back on.
“I think I should tell you, Katie,” she said clearly, “that I’m going to try to find new land. I may have problems with the company, so I’m not going to make any promises. We could still wind up bitter opponents in a long drawn-out court battle.”
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