"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 bead work, 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 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 wasn't the story she wanted. Some carefully crafted script that anyone could write. 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 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 plague. 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 plague. "Here's my name," he finished proudly.
R.J. read down through the names. "Where's yours, Sean."
Charlie gave a bark of laughter. "He didn't serve, did you, Sean?"
"Not in the Army," he replied curtly.
Charlie shrugged. "That's right—you went off to college instead." He shrugged again. "Not everyone's cut out to be a warrior." Taking his sunglasses out of his pocket, he settled them on his face. "Nice meeting you, R.J." With a slight sneer, he glanced at Sean before returning his attention back to her. "If there's anything I can do, be sure and let me know."
R.J. watched Charlie march down the hall before turning back to Sean. "Ah," she began, but the words caught in her throat.
His eyes. For a split second, she could've sworn they changed from amber to yellow.
*
It was late afternoon by the time R.J. returned to the motel. After Charlie had left, Sean had continued his tour of the Center. He'd been articulate, and at times, even charming. She would've needed ice flowing through her veins in order not to have felt the tug of attraction, especially when he smiled. Man, he had a great smile. And the pride he felt in the Center would've been kind of cool had she not known he was only using her as a means to an end. She had cooperated. She'd taken a ton of photos, learned all about life on the prairie, and could quote exactly how many stones they'd used in constructing the Center.
No doubt about it—this story was going to be just another piece of fluff, she thought, slapping her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. The only thing that had been remotely interesting, other than staring at Sean, was the animosity between him and Charlie Two Horses. But was that a lead she wanted to pursue? She remembered the look on Sean's face as he watched Charlie walk away. She wasn't a coward, but the idea of coming up against Sean Swifthawk O'Brien made her shiver. And not in a good way.
She'd almost made it past the bar, when suddenly someone stepped out between two parked cars and waved her down.
Charlie Two Horses.
Rolling to a stop, she cranked down the driver's window.
"Hey, good to see you again," Charlie said, approaching her door then motioning toward the bar. "How about a beer?"
She debated with herself for a moment. She wasn't an idiot—this guy had an agenda and he wanted to use her to achieve it. But on the other hand, she had her own agenda—a better story than the one she was being force fed. What could it hurt to at least talk to him?
With a nod, she pulled into an empty parking space.
From inside the bar, the jukebox whined with the sound of steel guitars and a singer lamenting how "she'd done him wrong." Above the bar itself, hung an old TV with the volume shut off. Some sporting event flickered across the screen. Taking her arm, Charlie held up two fingers to the bartender then guided her past the pool tables to a booth in the back. They'd barely settled when a waitress with the biggest beehive R.J. had ever seen slapped two bottles of beer in front of them. Without a word she turned and sauntered back to the bar.
Charlie lifted his bottle, saluted R.J., then took a long pull. Scooting back, he stretched an arm across the back of the bench. "So? What did you think of the Center?"
She thought for a moment before answering him. The best way to play this was close to the vest, sound non-committal, let Charlie do all the talking.
"It's nice," she replied, in a neutral voice.
"But not much of a story, huh?"
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
Dropping his arm, he shifted forward. "I could give you a better angle than the one Swifthawk shoved on you."
This guy really did want to dish the dirt. Regardless of her trepidation about Sean O'Brien, R.J. felt a tickle of excitement. "Like what?" she asked, keeping her face calm
He downed his beer and motioned to the waitress for another. Sliding the empty bottle to the side, he crossed his arms on the table. "See here's the deal—the rez needs money...I could show you homes that are no better than squatter shacks...and the Center isn't going to change that." He stopped as the waitress smacked another beer in front of him. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. "A casino would."
"A little late for that, isn't it," R.J. replied. "The tribe chose to build the Center, not a casino."
"They were misled." His eyes darted to the side before returning to R.J.. Leaning forward, his voice dropped. "Swifthawk and his grandfather didn't want a casino and persuaded them it would be easier to finance the Center."
"And Sean raised the money?"
"Yeah." He sipped on his beer. "Him and his white buddies."
"Then convince him to raise the money for a casino."
His mouth twisted in a bitter line. "Swifthawk won't do it. Him and his grandfather want to cling to the old ways. They want our people to live as they did 200 years ago. It can't be done." His expression lightened. "But here's the beauty of it—now we don't need him. The Center's paid off and it could be used as collateral to finance a casino."
R.J. threw a hand in the air. "There's your solution."
"No," he said with a shake of his head. "Like I told you—they don't want a casino and they'll do everything they can to stop it."
"I don't see how I can help you."
His eyes narrowed and he gave her a smug grim. "If you dig below the surface, you're going to find Swifthawk's motives aren't as pure as he'd like the tribe to believe."
"You want me to discredit him."
"No, I want you to write the truth."
"Which is?"
"How Sean's sold out to white investors." He moved even closer. "I can give you names—people who'll tell you the truth about Swifthawk."
A million ideas bounced through her mind and she longed to whip out her notebook and begin taking notes. But that would seem too anxious. Much better to let Charlie think he needed to convince her.
"How do you know they'll talk to me?"
"Oh, they'll talk, if you ask the right questions," he answered cryptically.
"How can I? I don't know anything about Sean and his grandfather."
Charlie's lips pursed. "You won't get much on the old man. Going back as far as I can remember, people on the rez have always been reluctant to talk about him." He shook his head. "Even my own grandfather—I did hear him say something once, but my grandmother shushed him."
"What was it?"
"I can't recall his exact words," he replied, scratching his chin. "But it wasn't about Jon Swifthawk. It was about his father."
"Sean's great-grandfather?"
"Yeah..." he paused, trying to remember. "He said something about anim
al totems."
"What are they?"
"Never mind—we're talking forty years ago." He picked up his beer, drank it in one long gulp then stood. Throwing a piece of paper on the table, he stared down at her. "I'm telling you—if you want a 'real' story, take a closer look at Sean."
*
The dying sun cast long shadows in the clearing. In its center, Sean stood before the fire, watching the rocks glow red. He removed a pinch of tobacco from the pouch dangling at his waist. Holding it high, he turned to the north and let it fall from his fingertips. He shifted to the east; to the south; to the west, repeating the process as he offered the sacred herb to Mother Earth. Finished, he turned back to the fire and grabbed a pitchfork. Using it, he carried the hot rocks one by one into the canvas covered sweat lodge and placed them in the fire pit.
Satisfied the stones were aligned, he exited the lodge and quickly pulled off his boots, his socks, his jeans, until finally he stood naked in the gathering twilight. Turning he entered the lodge.
It was like walking into an oven. Instantly sweat popped from his pores and snaked down his face, his chest, his arms in tiny rivulets. Moving to the blanket woven by his grandmother, he sat cross legged and reached for a ladle of water from the nearby bucket. He cast water on the shimmering rocks, making the air hiss with steam.
Hot, so hot. It felt like the spit inside his mouth was ready to boil. With a sharp intake of breath, he picked up the drum at his side. He shut his eyes and began beating a slow rhythm on the taut deer hide while he focused on the spot deep inside where his heritage lay.
He needed guidance. The confidence he'd shown his grandfather had been false, and at times, the special burden he bore threatened to crush him. He knew his power and the temptation to control was a constant fight. How could he help his people win their battles if he couldn't even win his own?
He beat the drum harder.
The brush of wings seemed to graze his cheek while softly the distant whisper of his ancestors began to echo in his ears. Images flickered in the recess of his mind. A buffalo thundering across the plains; a lone wolf darting through the cottonwoods; and finally a white owl soaring into the heavens. He felt connected to all that had gone before him and the heaviness in his heart eased with each beat of the drum.
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