The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2

by Trisha Telep

  Her mother sniffed. “Well, I expect you to be there. Your aunts have gone to a lot of trouble organizing this. You should’ve helped, but you were too busy.”

  R.J. rolled her eyes. “Look, Mom, I have a life and a job. I can’t drop everything just because Dee’s—”

  Her mother didn’t let her finish. “We’ll expect you at two on Saturday.”

  “Mom,” she began, but her mother had disconnected.

  She looked at the silent phone in her hand. “Nice talking to you, too, Mom,” she said, tossing it on the bed.

  One of these days, when she finally had the chance to show what she could do, maybe it wouldn’t be “Dee, Dee, Dee” all the time. Her mother would be proud of her, too.

  A loud boom reminded her of her suitcase, still out in the Jeep. Crossing to the door, R.J. flung it open and was immediately hit in the face by raindrops, sharp as needles. She winced as she darted into the storm. By the time she’d retrieved her suitcase and hauled it through the door, she was soaked. Wiping the water out of her eyes, she turned to shut the door.

  It was half-closed when she heard the noise.

  Somewhere, above the sound of the pounding rain, an owl hooted in the night.

  The old man stood in the protection of the lean-to while his eyes roamed the storm-tossed sky. Wind whipped at his braids and water poured down in a curtain from the sloped tin roof. Finally he sensed what he’d sought. Stepping out of his shelter into the rain, he extended a leather covered arm and braced himself. The weight of the bird landing made him stumble as sharp talons clung to his arm. With a quick movement that belied his age, he swung around and ducked back under the cover of the roof.

  The bird, spotting his perch, leapt with a flutter from the old man’s arm and settled himself. Spreading his immense wings, he ruffled his feathers and shook. Droplets of water flew while his yellow eyes focused on the old man.

  Tsking, the old man picked up a towel and gently dried the bird’s white feathers. “I worried for you,” he mumbled softly, dropping the towel.

  The owl, his eyes never leaving the old man’s face, bobbed his head twice in response.

  With perfect understanding, the old man sighed and glanced back into the storm.

  “Ah, it is as I feared,” he whispered.

  A chant to welcome the morning sun rang through the meadow. Two voices – one young; one old – melded together in an ancient rhythm while the sky lightened first to grey, to rose, to pink shot with gold. A breeze, sweet from last night’s rain, blew around them and made the cottonwoods shiver.

  The younger man’s heart filled with peace. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and lifted his arms high. His voice rose, almost drowning out that of his grandfather. Then as the warmth of the first rays touched his face, he let his voice slowly fade. Opening his eyes, he saw Jon Swifthawk watching him. With a smile, his grandfather placed a hand, almost in a benediction, on his grandson’s auburn hair. Pride shone in the old man’s eyes.

  “Come, Akecheta,” his grandfather said, calling him by the name he preferred.

  With an arm around the old man’s shoulders, Akecheta and his grandfather walked together towards the lean-to.

  Jon went directly to his workbench and, removing the cover, looked lovingly at his tools in their neat, straight line. Picking up a twist of sage, he lit it and one by one smudged each tool and a long piece of cedar before sitting on the battered work stool. Taking up a whittling knife, he slowly stroked it down the wood that would become the stem of a sacred pipe.

  Akecheta leaned against a post and found comfort in watching his grandfather’s still strong hands slice away slivers of cedar. He’d been only fourteen and suddenly alone when this man had given him a home.

  A cold spot formed in the pit of his stomach as he remembered those days and the terror he’d felt on the bus ride from Las Vegas to South Dakota. Just a kid, he’d stepped into a culture he knew little about and into the arms of a man he’d never met.

  “Disturbing thoughts serve no purpose, grandson,” his grandfather said without lifting his head.

  Pushing away from the post, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I was just thinking about Mom and—”

  “We don’t speak of them,” his grandfather said, cutting him off.

  His grandfather’s insistence on not mentioning the dead irritated him. He could never share the good memories of his childhood – his mother’s shy smile so different from his father’s boisterous ways. He didn’t know if his grandfather clung to the old custom out of belief, or because his grandfather had hated the man who’d lured his beloved daughter, Dawn, away from her people and into the white world. Either way, it left him feeling that a large part of his life was locked away. A life his grandfather wanted to pretend never existed.

  Turning from his grandfather, he stepped out of the lean-to and walked a short distance into the clearing. Over the past twenty years, he’d grown to love his grandfather and this land. As his eyes roamed the clearing, he thought of another land, another clearing eleven years ago. Not dappled with early morning sunlight like it was now. No, it had been scarred with freshly overturned dirt. His heart lurched at the memory of that mass grave and its victims. Dozens of bodies dumped without ceremony. Clenching his jaws, a feral smile twisted his lips. The men responsible had paid. He’d used his talent to hunt them down and – suddenly his grandfather’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Excuse me?” he said, returning to the lean-to.

  His grandfather had placed his tools back on the bench and sat watching him intently. “It’s not good. The reporter – the white woman,” he said, almost choking on the word white.

  Akecheta tugged the thin streak of white hair at his temple in frustration. “We’ve been over this, grandfather. I know you don’t want her here, or the tourists her story will bring, but we need them if the Center’s going to pay its own way.”

  A grunt answered him.

  Grabbing a broom, Akecheta carefully swept up the wood shavings to be used later as kindling for the fire. “The gift shop will bring revenue to the tribe,” he said, making the same argument he’d made a hundred times. “Our people can sell their crafts there instead of peddling them along the road, or worse, in town next to the bars.”

  His grandfather’s mouth tightened in a stubborn line. “Nothing good has ever come from the whites.”

  The words “what about me?” almost popped out of his mouth, but respect for his grandfather stopped them. Placing the broom against the wall, he knelt before him. “Would a casino have been better? At least the Center will educate our young. Give them a place to go and celebrate our culture.”

  His grandfather shook his head sadly. “She brings trouble.”

  “We’ve trouble already.” His gaze drifted toward the empty perch above his grandfather’s head. “But we’ll be warned in time.”

  “They’ll use her against you.”

  “I won’t let them,” he answered.

  Cupping Akecheta’s face, the old man stared into his amber eyes. “I don’t know if you can stop them.”

  R.J.’s tyres spun as she hit the gravel in the Center’s parking lot. Man, she was late. If some jerk hadn’t let the air out of her back tyres, she’d have been on time. Coming to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust, she noticed a man pacing back and forth in front of the new building.

  Tall with auburn hair, his light blue chambray shirt clung to wide shoulders and his jeans fit his legs like a second skin. He looked like he’d be more at home on a horse than a place dedicated to Native Americans.

  Spotting the Jeep, the man scowled and started down the stone path toward her. Had he been waiting for her?

  R.J.’s interest kicked up a notch. With an attractive man like him hanging around, being stuck out here in the boonies for the next few days wouldn’t be so bad after all. She quickly glanced in the mirror and fluffed her hair. She needed a little more lip gloss, but swiping some on would be too obvious.
Grabbing her backpack, she slung her camera around her neck, but before she could open her door, the cowboy beat her to it.

  “Hey, cowboy, are you waiting for me?” she said flirtatiously, giving him a wide-eyed look and a flash of her dimples.

  The dimples didn’t work. The cowboy’s scowl deepened.

  “R.J. Baxter?” the man asked in a brusque voice, “you’re late.”

  “Sorry.” Defeated, her smile faded as she jumped out of the Jeep and the man turned, and with long strides, headed back up the path. She ran to catch up with him. “Somebody let the air—”

  “Here.” He stopped and shoved four pouches in her hand.

  “What—”

  “Tobacco.” Taking her arm, he hustled her forward. “When I introduce you, give one to each of the elders.”

  Perplexed, she glanced down at the pouches. “Why?”

  “It’s a sign of respect,” he replied with a disgruntled look, “but in your case, it’s an apology for keeping them waiting.”

  R.J. skidded to a stop and jerked away. She’d had enough of being yanked around. Holding the tobacco in one hand, she placed the other on her hip and glared up at him, towering over her. “Look, I’m sorry I was late, but just who the hell are you?”

  “Sean O’Brien. I’m the tribe’s liaison. Any questions, ask me.”

  Smart – hiring a white to interact with the press. Too bad he was so abrasive.

  Eyeing her camera, he frowned. “No pictures without permission. Don’t touch any of the displays. And remember you’re a guest here. Act accordingly.”

  She didn’t appreciate the lecture.

  “Any other rules?” she asked, not keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.

  He spun and walked away, his boot heels clicking on the polished wood floor. “Not at the moment.”

  Wait a minute – she wasn’t following two steps behind. After catching up with him, she matched her strides with his. Noticing her huge steps, a small smirk played across his face. When they reached a doorway at the back of the Center, he motioned her inside.

  The room was large. Long windows stretched across the far wall, and above each window hung brightly painted shields. The opposite wall was decorated with paintings depicting the Native American way of life two hundred years ago. Four men, with their hands clasped in the front of them, stood looking very solemn. Long braids hung over their shoulders, and their weathered faces reminded R.J. of old sepia photographs. A feathered staff hung on the wall behind them.

  Sean stopped and drew R.J. forward. “George Eagle Feather, Art Walker, Grady Crow Wing, and Jake Swift,” he said with a slight bow to each man. “R.J. Baxter from The News Courier.”

  R.J. stepped up to the first man, and handing him the pouch of tobacco, smiled. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  The man’s features softened as he took the gift. “Welcome.”

  She repeated the process with the remaining three. Once introductions were complete, her eyes were drawn back to the staff. It was wrapped in strips of white, black, yellow and red cloth. Eagle feathers, attached to the cloth by beadwork, gracefully draped down its length. Intricate carving adorned the top.

  She moved past the Elders to get a better look. Pausing, her breath hitched while her fingers longed to stroke the soft feathers. She took another step, pulled closer by its beauty. Of its own accord, her hand lifted toward the staff.

  Suddenly Sean was beside her.

  “This is sacred,” he said softly with a slight shake of his head. “Only warriors may touch it.”

  The spell broken, her hand dropped. “May I take a photo?” she asked in a voice that sounded distant to her ears.

  Sean cast a glance over his shoulder and the four Elders nodded in unison.

  After rapidly shooting several photos, R.J. turned back to the group of men. “Would you mind answering some questions?”

  The men exchanged looks before motioning to one of the long tables lining the far wall. When all were seated, the Elders on one side with Sean and R.J. on the other, R.J. removed her pen, notebook and tape recorder from her backpack, placing them on the table.

  The recorder caught their attention and they stared at it as if it were a coiled snake. Four pairs of eyes turned to Sean and seconds ticked by as unspoken words seemed to pass between them. Finally, George Eagle Feather spoke, pointing to the recorder. “Yes, we will answer your questions, but you may not tape our voices.”

  “Okay.” With a shrug, R.J. tucked the recorder back into her bag and picked up her pen. She’d start out with a few warm-up questions to put them at ease. “Who designed the Cultural Center?” she asked, directing the question to George Eagle Feather.

  “A young architect in Minneapolis – Edward Little Bear,” Sean replied.

  “A Native American?” R.J. asked, scribbling the name in her notebook.

  “Yes, we wanted a designer who understood the culture,” he answered.

  She ignored Sean and focused on George Eagle Feather. “How long did it take to complete the project?”

  “We broke ground ten months ago,” Sean replied, launching into an explanation. “All the materials are from the reservation and from renewable resources. During the construction, the entire tribe participated in some way.” He pointed to the shields and the paintings, hanging on the walls. “These were all made by people here on the reservation, as were many of the displays that I’ll show you later.”

  R.J.’s pen paused while irritation shot through her. This – some carefully crafted script that anyone could write – wasn’t the story she wanted. Not if she wanted a major newspaper to notice her. It was time to hit him with something from left field.

  Cocking her head, she studied him. “Why a cultural center instead of the casino that some of members of the tribe wanted?”

  Her question hit its mark. Without glancing their way, she heard the Elders shift in their seats while Sean’s amber eyes flared.

  He recovered quickly and gave her a tight smile. “There’s always two sides to every question, but the important thing is, in the end, the tribe came together to build this.” Rising, he motioned to the door. “Come, I’ll show you the rest of the building.”

  Reluctantly, R.J. stood. She would love to get one of the Elders aside and grill him about any dissention that might have existed, but Sean wasn’t going to give her the opportunity. Maybe she’d have her chance later.

  After voicing her thanks to the Elders, she followed Sean into the display area. While they strolled along, he gave a running monologue, describing each display and its significance. They paused in front of photos showing families standing in front of tar paper shanties; dancer displays with elaborate costumes and beautifully beaded moccasins; tribal implements used hundreds of years ago when the people still roamed the plains following the buffalo.

  Interesting, but R.J. had finally had enough. She stopped short in front of a large stone plague. “I appreciate the tour, but if you really want to draw tourists, you’ve got to give me a better angle than this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What makes this place different than every other Native American museum in the country?”

  “I told you – it’s made of material from the reservation; the entire tribe worked—”

  R.J. cut him off with a wave of her hand. “So? You think anyone really cares about that stuff? Readers want to know more than just facts and figures. They want the human story.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, one question that springs to mind – why did the Elders hire a white to represent the Center?”

  He stiffened. “I’m not white.”

  “But with a name like O’Brien, I assumed—”

  “You assumed wrong,” he said, cutting her off. “My father was white, but I was raised here.”

  “Don’t you know who this is?” a voice from behind her called out.

  R.J. turned to see a man standing a few feet away. Shorter than Sean and barrel-chested, he wore
a dark shirt and jeans. A pair of sunglasses dangled from a pocket embroidered with the words “Tribal Police”.

  He crossed the short distance and held out his hand. “You must be the reporter. I’m Charlie Two Horses. Welcome to the rez.”

  Shaking his hand, R.J. stole a look at Sean who’d taken a step back. “Thanks.”

  Charlie turned toward Sean and smiled. “So our boy here didn’t tell you about himself, huh?”

  Sean shuffled uncomfortably. “This isn’t necessary, Charlie.”

  “Of course it is,” he replied turning back to R.J. “This here’s Sean Swifthawk O’Brien, grandson of Jon Swifthawk. Raised you didn’t he, Sean, after your parents were killed?”

  “We don’t need to go into that, Charlie.”

  Charlie’s face took on an expression of innocence. “But I heard her say she wanted a ‘human’ story, and just think how yours would tug on the heart strings . . . the son of murdered parents; a poor half-breed kid shipped off to the rez to be raised by one of the most important men in the tribe?”

  “My family background doesn’t have anything to do with the Center,” Sean said in a clipped voice.

  “Sure, it does, Sean. You and your grandfather were the ones who talked the tribe into building it—” He stopped and looked at R.J. “Sean was also the one who got white investors to put up the money.”

  “I organized a few fundraisers.”

  Charlie snorted “A few fundraisers? How much did you get? A cool—”

  “That’s enough, Charlie,” Sean said, his hands clenched at his side.

  Charlie took a step forward. “What’s wrong, Swifthawk,” he spat out the word. “Don’t want to give her too—”

  “Not now,” Sean began, his chin rising. “She doesn’t—”

  “Doesn’t what?” Charlie interrupted, moving closer.

  R.J. squirmed. A fight breaking out in the Cultural Center would make a better story, but she really didn’t want to see them come to blows. “What’s this?” she asked quickly, trying to diffuse the rising tension.

  “Ah that,” Charlie said, suddenly forgetting Sean and stepping up to the plaque. He ran his finger down the carved names, stopping on one near the bottom. “It’s in honor of our warriors. All who’ve proudly served in the Armed Forces.” He tapped the plaque. “Here’s my name,” he finished proudly.