by Rachel Lee
Struggling against the confines of a sleeping bag that seemed to want to hold on to her like duct tape, she managed to turn over until they were face-to-face. She could barely make him out in the darkness, but she could see the glint of his eyes and the shape of his head. Even the suggestion of his mouth and nose.
“I can’t imagine it,” she said. And instinctively she reached up to brush her fingers against his cheek. “It would seem to me that you should fit anywhere you choose to. I guess that’s where I have an advantage. No big deal that I didn’t want to be a ranch wife. A much bigger deal for you not to stay within your culture and become what your uncle wanted.”
“And that’s just the beginning.”
She turned that around in her mind as she waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. And then a thought occurred to her. “Do you feel guilty for leaving?”
“Just a bit.”
“But why?”
He snorted quietly. “My ancestors didn’t choose to abandon their culture or their way of life. It was forced on them. And those cultures are slowly but surely changing and evaporating. Well, maybe not so slowly. Remember, it hasn’t been all that long. Three, maybe four generations for some of us. Less for others. So when I walked away, I put another nail in the coffin of my people’s ways. So yeah, it makes me feel a bit guilty. The fire is dying. The light is going out. The bits that we’ve managed to cling to have for many become a tourist attraction, or a quaint mythology. Kids want to bust out of the limited opportunities on the rez. They want the whole oyster, just the way I did. Perfectly natural, I guess. Sadly, for native populations there are only two choices left—live the old ways and die out, or build a casino and live the antithesis of the old ways.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“No reason you would.” He stirred a little as if resettling himself into a more comfortable position. “It’s inevitable. Eventually we’ll be little more than someone’s record of us in an ethnography. Time marches on, things change, and the stories I was told while growing up will eventually be nothing but stories.”
“But that’s not a good thing, is it?”
“Of course not. Why else do I feel guilty? There are a lot of things well worth preserving in native cultures. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t seem to work that way. The sands of time bury us all sooner or later.”
“And you feel like one of those sands?”
“Sometimes.”
“But not all the time?”
“No, not always. But I feel a pull, and one of these days I may do more than send donations. I may go back there to stay.”
That frightened her a bit, though she wasn’t sure why. “To do what?”
“Oh, I could teach. I could look after animals. There are lots of things that need doing. Always.” He sighed quietly. “But the fact remains that while there are twelve thousand enrolled members of the Northern Cheyenne, fewer than five thousand remain on the reservation.”
“So a lot of others have moved away, too?”
“Yup. A steady drain, until one day we’re gone.”
“That is so sad.” When she thought of extinctions, she thought in terms of biological species, but he was talking about something very different. “You’re watching an extinction,” she whispered.
“Exactly. Slowly and steadily. And it’ll take a lot more than me going back to stop it. Cheyenne blood will last a lot longer than Cheyenne culture.”
She nodded against his shoulder, absorbing what he was saying and feeling a definite pang of sorrow.
“I guess,” he said after a moment, “that we’ll become museum curiosities, if we aren’t already.”
“That’s awful!”
He surprised her with a quiet chuckle. “It’s awful, but it’s inevitable. Whatever we preserve will eventually survive only in museums. I suppose the good thing is that there’s an effort under way to preserve it at all. And my people have been changing for a long time anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re Algonquian. We started out back east, moved to the upper Midwest, then continued our westward journey, most likely because of pressures coming from the East and all the Europeans. We were farmers, then we became Plains hunters. So we’ve been adapting all along. Who knows how much of our current culture was adopted along the way as we migrated.”
“That’s very philosophical.”
“Show me a healthier way to look at it. Because I sure as hell can’t stop it any more than you could return to a sod hut in the nineteenth century.”
“So true. And that’s where my ancestors, at least in the local area, started. In a sod hut. It’s still on the property, but now it looks more like a hill. When I was a kid, I tried to dig into it. You know, like an archeological site. I was sure stuff must have been left behind in there when the family finally moved into a house. My dad stopped me though.”
“How come?”
“Because he was afraid there might still be hollows inside, and that it could collapse on me.”
“So you became a renovator instead, still hunting for treasures.”
She gave a short, soft laugh. “I guess so. In some ways it’s not that different. I find treasures from time to time. Old postcards, an earring. Once I even found a locket.”
“What did you do with them?”
“I keep them in a little box. Somehow I don’t feel right about throwing them away. Maybe in some silly way I feel that someone someday might show up who would find meaning in them.”
“That’s an intriguing thought.”
Then she heard him murmur a total non sequitur. “Tell me to stop.”
Before her brain could even begin scrambling around to figure that out, his mouth met hers. At first the touch was tentative, as if he expected rejection, but rejection was the last thing in her heart or mind.
Every bit of awareness she’d tried to shove into her subconscious over the past couple of days leaped to the forefront of her mind and body. Instead of pulling away, instead of protesting as he wanted her to, she leaned into his kiss, seeking a much deeper connection.
Electricity sparked along her nerve endings. Synapses long asleep awoke in a huge wave of hunger and desire. Yearning filled her, yearning for a man’s touches, and man’s possession. All the things she’d been without for so long.
And perversely, the very caution in him that had tried to warn her away now seemed like a promise of safety. Whatever happened between them here and now would not go any further. He would pull back to save himself, and in so doing would save her from herself.
And that perverse sense of safety unleashed the explosion of need. She leaned into him, against him, twining her arm around his neck, wanting him closer, needing him closer. Reveling in the feeling of a man’s hard body pressed tightly to hers, even through layers of clothing and sleeping bag.
A quiet groan escaped him, she felt a shudder run through him, and then he gave up the battle, just as she had.
Right here, right now, all the barriers dissolved into a more primitive force than culture or race. And all those barriers had never seemed more irrelevant. They were just imaginary, man-made boundaries to the elemental need to mate, man and woman.
His kiss deepened as she welcomed him. She felt his leg lift to drape heavily over hers. The sleeping bag was between them, but at that moment it was the only acknowledged barrier. Anything else had instantly vaporized in the heat of longing.
God, she wanted him. Wanted this stolen night, these explosive moments of passion. If there would be a price later, she was past caring.
His hands worked their way inside her sleeping bag, then up under her shirt until skin touched skin. The sensation was electric, and so, so good. Her back seemed to come alive under his touch, more nerve endings awakening to the thrill of being alive.
And how long had it been since she had allowed herself to feel that?
Too long, because almost as soon as skin touched skin, she felt a deep,
almost painful throb between her legs as her body took over.
Her brain became incapable of any thought except a yearning to be touched, here, or there… She nearly held her breath in anticipation, every ounce of her being focused on those fingers that stroked so lightly against her back, trespassing no farther although she wanted him to trespass everywhere.
She could feel the tension and heat building in him as well, could sense in the way his body tightened, in the pressure against her abdomen, and sensing his need inflamed her own.
She was wanted. God, it had been so long since she’d been wanted….
His hand slipped around, up under her bra, cupping her breast in heat. Desire zinged through her and she arched against his legs. Needing no more invitation, he caught her nipple between thumb and forefinger, brushing it, twisting it gently, sending more shock waves running throughout her body.
She ached. Oh, how she ached. She pressed herself harder into his hand, tried to bring her hips to meet his, felt the rocking response of his body against her. She managed to clutch his shoulder, telling him with her grip that she wanted it all, every bit of it, right now.
He groaned softly and deepened his kiss, now pushing his leg hard up between hers, pressing on her aching core, and it felt good, so good that she became instantly damp.
She burned for him, and somewhere deep inside, some part of her was holding its breath in anticipation, wishing away clothes, wishing away everything that separated them.
“Mike, please!” It was the only way she could tell him. A plea for more and yet more. He mumbled something she couldn’t quite make out.
Then a loud bang sounded through the house.
At once they both froze. Mike swore, and before she could make a sound he had leaped to his feet. She struggled against the sleeping bag that seemed to have become the arms of an octopus, grabbing at her and refusing to free her.
Still struggling, she blinked as the camp lantern came on and she cried a protest as she saw he was about to leave the room. “No, wait!”
He paused, looking back at her, his face cast into eerie shadows by the lantern he held low. “No, stay here,” he said. “If someone’s in the house…”
If someone’s in the house? He’d spoken the words quietly, but they seemed to ring deafeningly in her head.
If someone was in the house, the last place she wanted to be was tangled up in a sleeping bag, alone.
By the time she got out of that damn sticky sleeping bag, Mike had vanished. She could tell where he had gone only by the dim glow from the lantern as he moved through the downstairs rooms.
By the time he reached the staircase, ready to ascend, she was there, determined to go with him. He looked at her, as if he wished she’d listened to him, but he didn’t argue.
Together they climbed the stairs, with him just two risers ahead of her. She kept her feet to the outside of the risers, so as not to make them creak, and he did the same.
She was convinced, absolutely convinced, that someone had to be in the house. The windows weren’t open so there was no way on earth the wind could have blown one of those doors shut.
And she was mad. Sexual arousal and adrenaline weren’t far apart on the biological scale, at least to judge by what she felt. She was angry that someone might be trying to scare her, although she couldn’t imagine why anyone would, and furious that those precious moments with Mike, that wonderful budding sense of being a woman again, had been truncated.
A switch had just been flipped, from her earlier concern that Colleen was uncomfortable to one of sheer fury. Whoever was responsible for this crap would pay.
Maybe she was forgetful. Maybe she laid down tools and other equipment in her preoccupation and forgot where she’d placed them. She could accept that explanation for things seeming to move around. She could even accept that vermin in the walls could make the noises that frightened Colleen. But a door slamming? Twice now?
Unless they found a window open, there could only be one explanation.
They got to the head of the stairs and Mike reached out, flipping on the lights. No more tiptoeing in the dark. Getting out of here now would involve someone rushing past them or scrambling out a window and over the front porch roof, any one of which would be a dead giveaway.
But nothing happened.
Room by room they walked through the upstairs and found nothing at all.
Del felt her lips tightening with anger. This could not continue. She would not allow this to continue.
Except she had no idea at all how to put an end to it.
Back downstairs, in silent agreement, they went to the kitchen. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. The sun would be coming up soon, and apparently the night was over, at least as far as sleeping went.
Still furious, Del went to put on a pot of coffee. Mike disappeared for a few moments and returned with a bag. He placed it on the counter and began pulling out an assortment of snack foods: chips, pretzels, even a tray of raspberry Danish from the local bakery. “What would you like?” he asked.
“Sugar. Energy.”
“Danish it is.” He ripped the plastic wrap off the aluminum tray and hunted up some small plates and a knife.
“That wasn’t vermin,” she said. She leaned against the counter, facing the coffeepot, her head resting against a cabinet.
“No,” he agreed.
“And don’t tell me the house is sending a message.”
“Never crossed my mind.”
But she sensed the stiffening in him, as if she had just insulted him. Damn it. Were they always going to have to tiptoe around sensibilities?
“Look,” she said, “I didn’t mean anything critical by that.”
“No?” He sighed and put two plates of Danish on the table. “Maybe not.”
“I didn’t. But if I’m going to have to measure every word against some form of political correctness, we’re going to spend a lot of time being angry.”
“Or I could just leave.”
“Oh, that’ll solve a lot,” she said, pivoting abruptly to face him. “Just walk away. That always clears the air.”
“Del…”
But she interrupted him. Something had been building in her, some point of snapping rapidly approached. She didn’t know why, unless the past four years were finally catching up with her, aggravated by sounds she couldn’t explain, a frightened daughter and now a neighbor who, while he seemed to be trying to help her, had also added a whole additional area of concern.
“Look, I’m me, and you’re you,” she said. “We have different backgrounds. I don’t have a particular problem with that, regardless of what you seem to think. And if I’m tired and a bit crabby and I say something not exactly right, I’d appreciate it if you would not put five hundred years of ugly history on my shoulders.”
Silence hung so thickly in the room that she felt it nearly impossible to draw a breath. Mike didn’t move a muscle. His face revealed not a single thing.
Well, she thought, that had blown it. Too little sleep, too much worry, noises she couldn’t explain, and it had all come together to make her blow up like some fringe lunatic over absolutely nothing. She should apologize. If nothing else, she should at least apologize.
But then he astonished her by saying simply, “You’re right.”
She sucked a breath so deep it felt as if she must have stopped breathing throughout the silence as she waited for his reaction. “What?” Stupid question, but his words seemed out of sync with what was going on inside her.
“I said, you’re right. I think of it as being smart and not getting involved in dangerous situations, but in point of fact I’m walking around with a bunker mentality, waiting for the next artillery round to land. And damn near everything hits me like an artillery shell. My own emotional version of shell shock.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling more than anger now, something that overwhelmed anger completely. Whatever her problems, she could scarcely imagine the life experiences that had ta
ught him this.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” He passed his hand over his face before continuing. “You’re right. I overreacted to something you said because you’re upset and worried, and you have every right to be. And I’ve been muttering on about how this house feels sad—and I won’t take that back because it does—so why wouldn’t you expect me to say something like the house is slamming doors? It must all sound like mumbo jumbo to you.”
“But that’s the thing,” she said with a surprising amount of vehemence, maybe bordering on a plea. “It doesn’t sound like mumbo jumbo. It’s just a different way of looking at things I’ve basically always believed! In my faith there are angels and saints, and even, if I’m willing to go that far, demons. If that’s part of my belief system, then why not the things you said earlier? It even makes a kind of sense.”
His eyebrows lifted, as if it surprised him that she should say such a thing. “What do you mean?”
“Well, like you said, if God created the universe, what did he create it out of? Why not awareness in rocks and trees? Different awareness, maybe, but why not? I’m having less trouble with that idea than you would think.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“Wow.” The faintest of smiles touched his lips. “Just don’t go New Agey on me.”
“I’m not sure New Age is all wet.” She sighed. Her eyes felt as if they were full of sand, and her body just wanted to sag in the wake of her anger. “I mean, I don’t buy most of it, but who am I to say it’s totally wet? Why do you object to New Age?”
“Because they try to glom on to bits of my people’s beliefs and twist them to their own purposes.”
“Well, I’d resent that, too. I’m sorry I sniped at you, but I’m not going to accept the possibility that the door-slamming sound originated with anything except a human being.”
“I agree. And that seriously concerns me. So before this day is over, we’re going to move Colleen into my house with your aunt, or find some other suitable arrangement. And if you don’t talk to the sheriff about this, I will.”
At least it was a plan. It wouldn’t solve the problem, but it would take the biggest worry off her plate: Colleen. Right now she wouldn’t bring Colleen back into this house for any reason. She didn’t want her daughter scared any more than she was already.