Renee Simons Special Edition

by Renee Simons

  She smiled at his serious expression. "I suppose kids were perfect back in the good old days."

  "Not perfect but there were rules. The older guys always looked out for the younger ones who learned from their example. But like today's kids, they could be pretty cruel at times."

  "You speak from personal experience."

  "When someone's a little different, they'll use that difference against you if they can."

  "Like the color of your eyes."

  He nodded.

  "I have to admit I've wondered about them."

  "And you're so well-bred, you didn't ask." He laughed. "Logic and all those X/Y chromosome rules say I should have found an ancestor who passed them down to me . . . in birth records, or the tribe's oral history. Well, I never did, no matter how far back I went or how deep I dug.

  "When I was in college, I spoke to some biologists. They called my eye color an anomaly, something that shouldn't have happened, but did. And since the guys who'd called me a freak had been right, I stopped being angry. To tell the truth, they weren't any worse than the men I served with who called me 'Chief' or 'Geronimo' because they thought it was a compliment."

  "Or not," Zan said.

  "Or not," he agreed with a grin.

  The rodeo was already under way by the time they reached the campground. They stood near the front and a little to the side of a crowded section of the grandstand. Stormwalker explained the events and the scoring as the competition proceeded through saddle bronc riding, calf roping and steer wrestling.

  "How did you learn so much about these events," she asked.

  "I competed for a couple of years while I was in college."

  "Did you win any prize money?"

  "Enough to help pay my way through school."

  The bull riding competition came last. Stormwalker pointed out the requirements of riding form, the way the bulls spun and ducked their heads and how these contributed to the riders' final scores.

  Something about the way the last bull spun out of the chute and into the corral bothered him. "What's wrong?" Zan whispered.

  He silenced her with a hand on her arm as he watched the rider, who bounced high off the animal's back. "He's out of control. He's gonna come down over that bull's head."

  Stormwalker looked around the ring. The rodeo clown was at the far corner, chasing down two kids who'd scaled the railing and now ran along the inside of the corral. Two cowboys stood by the rider to help in an emergency. At the moment, they were positioned to catch him if he came off the bull sideways, in a proper dismount.

  Stormwalker had a hunch he would come off in front of the animal, where the bull could see him and be in perfect position to strike with his horns. The clown, whose job it was to distract the bull, was too far away to help.

  The voice inside his head cautioned him to stay out of the way, but he had ignored that voice before. Glad he'd taped his aching ribs before leaving the house, he tore off his glasses, shoved them at Zan, and dashed down the aisle.

  From her place at the foot of the grandstand, Zan watched the cowboys madly waving their arms and yelling at the animal. As Stormwalker vaulted the corral fence, the rider bounced over the bull's head, landing so close to the animal no one could get between them. The bull lowered his head and hooked him, tossing him like an empty feed sack. The cowboy landed hard and tried to roll out of the way, but the animal butted him, flattening him in the dust and raising a collective groan from the spectators.

  Stormwalker turned and seemed to recognize the clown. They exchanged words she couldn't make out. The clown tossed a lariat at Stormwalker as the beast pawed the ground uncomfortably close to the fallen rider's head.

  With another lariat in his hand, the clown pointed to the bull's horns. Spectators rushed to the railing, blocking Zan's view. She heard the bull bellow and from the sound of pounding hooves, thought he had charged. A loud thud was followed by a cheer from the viewers. By the time she'd pushed her way to the front, the two men had managed to rope and hobble the bull. They sat on the ground with their heels dug into the hard-packed clay. Stormwalker held the end of a rope tied around the bull's ankles. The clown's rope gripped the animal's head by the horns.

  I'll need an explanation of how that was done, Zan thought in amazement. She tried not to think about how close to Stormwalker's own head the bull's hind legs now waited. As if afraid to miss anything, the audience quieted.

  The clown looked over his shoulder and called out to the other men, "Would you get that man the hell out of here? This critter ain't gonna stay confused forever."

  His bulbous clown nose dipped in Stormwalker's direction. "You thought about how we're gonna get out of this predicament?"

  "Shoot, Ollie," Stormwalker said softly, "I thought you had a plan."

  "Onliest one I know is to let loose and run like hell."

  A scant moment or two had elapsed, but the animal had obviously had enough. He swayed restlessly, straining at his bonds and making threatening sounds deep in his throat. Zan's heartbeat pounded in her ears as she watched the two men stand.

  "You go first," Ollie said. "You ain't gettin' paid for this."

  "We'll go together."

  They lowered the ropes to the ground and backed up against the fence. The bull turned his head. He spotted them and attempted a charge but his hobbled legs brought him down. They scrambled to the safety of the top rail while spectators jostled each other to clap them on their shoulders and shake their hands. The bull broke free as two mounted cowboys entered the corral. Once they'd herded the animal into a waiting truck, Stormwalker and the rodeo clown gave each other a "high five."

  Stormwalker spotted Zan at the rail and rejoined her.

  "Did you have to go in there?" she asked. Now that the crisis had passed, her concern for his safety gave way to anger. Her voice shook with it. "You could have been trampled."

  "Your concern is appreciated."

  "You took a foolish risk."

  "It needed doing," he said.

  "By you?"

  "By me."

  Her tangled emotions subsided as he rubbed the back of his neck and rotated his shoulders, re-stretching muscles she suspected had already begun to tighten.

  "Yesterday's bruises will hurt even worse tomorrow," she said. "How are your ribs?"

  "Irritable."

  He touched her cheek. "That protective look is back."

  "Is it?" Her heart pounded at his closeness from his touch. She could only thank some unseen guardian angel that his hypnotic eyes were shadowed by the brim of his Stetson.

  "It's getting mighty hard to resist."

  "I can understand the problem," she said.

  "Can you?"

  "Uh huh." She handed him his glasses. "Put these on."

  The grin flashed. "Don't you think I've been recognized by now?"

  "Put them on anyhow," she ordered softly.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  His hand reached out to her again in a silent request for her trust. With her hand in his, they trailed behind the crowd and crossed the field to where food had been set out for a community feast.

  He wore the glasses through supper. They ate in silence as both struggled with unwanted, undeniable feelings. He even kept them on after dark, when the tables and benches were cleared away to make room for dancing. They stood on the fringe of the crowd, listening from the shadows to a country and western group and watching couples sway to slow numbers or two-step to more up-tempo music.

  Finally, he swung her around to face him and moved slowly to a song whose sad melody spoke of unrequited love. They drifted further into the darkness where she reached up and removed the glasses, dangling them from her fingers.

  "Why'd you do that?" he asked.

  "I want to see your eyes," she whispered, "so I'll know what you're thinking."

  He eased her closer, close enough so she could feel his heart beat in time to hers and his breath warm on her mouth. The lips that touched hers, with gentleness, in a hi
nt of a kiss, told her what she needed to know. He tested her response with the lightest touch he could manage. When she responded he deepened the kiss. Her lips parted beneath his, her breath moist on the tongue he let slip inside to find and join with hers.

  Her arms slipped around his neck. The movement thrust every heart-stopping feminine curve against him. His senses reeled and the blood pounded through his veins. His arms tightened around her as he lifted her off her feet.

  "Your ribs," she protested. "You'll make them worse."

  "To hell with them," he murmured against her mouth. "The rest of me feels too good to stop."

  She clung to him, her breasts pressed against the hardness of his chest, her belly and hips trembling against the passion his body could not deny. He backed into the shadowy parking lot and leaned against the hood of a van, never releasing her as he kissed her mouth, her eyes, her cheeks and the hollow pulsing at the base of her throat. As his arms pinned her to him, the fingers of her free hand tangled in his hair, held tightly as her mouth tore from his and wandered over his face, then traveled down the side of his neck to where it joined his shoulder.

  Finally, he let her slide slowly to the ground. His hands swept the long waves of hair from her face and lifted her chin so he could look into eyes deep and black and studded with reflected light from the moon above them. She pushed lightly against his chest. He let her go, watching as she struggled to calm the trembling that wracked her, to tame the needs aroused by their encounter.

  "I've got to go," she whispered raggedly and backed away.

  He saw his own fear reflected in her eyes and did nothing to stop her. He'd begun something he was in no position to finish, that he had no right to pursue until his freedom was certain.

  Zan left through the narrow alley between two parked campers only to be blinded by the sudden glare of headlights. She threw up an arm to block the light. Below the grill and headlights of a Jeep, she made out the first two digits of the license plate.

  "That's her," a voice shouted. "He's got to be close."

  She turned and crashed into a body as hard and unyielding as the trunk of a cottonwood. Stormwalker had just emerged from between the campers. Although he seemed immovable, she leaned against him and shoved with every ounce of her strength.

  Responding to her silent urgency, he fell back and pulled her into the shadows. The voices got louder and angrier. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the parking lot. Feet pounded the area in a frantic, disorganized search.

  He pinned her against the van and whispered, "Stay here."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I want to see who those guys are."

  "One of them is Billy Winter. What more do you need to know?" She took his arm. "Let's get out of here."

  He shook his head. "Stay put. I want to see what's going on out there."

  Stormwalker moved into the darkness. Zan waited for a few seconds, then followed him. She kept him in her sights but let some distance open up between them. Finally, he seemed to find the spot he wanted. He dropped to the ground and slithered beneath an old, converted bus.

  To her right she saw a pickup with plenty of clearance and did the same. She glanced briefly in his direction to make sure he hadn't moved, then found herself staring at the shoes of two men leaning against the front of the bus.

  They spoke softly; what they said got lost in the noises of the crowd. Even so, Zan was taken aback by the artificial quality of one of the voices. It sounded computerized.

  No, she thought. Computer-generated voices were smooth and easy to understand despite their stilted quality. This voice was less coherent. She strained to make out the words, but only when the crowd stampeded past and quiet returned, was she able to hear the conversation.

  "Are they always together?" the strange voice asked.

  "I don't know. Is that important?"

  "Can we use her to get to him?"

  "She must hate him because of O'Neill."

  "Then the sexual angle won't work."

  Zan worried at her bottom lip during a long silence.

  Finally, the second voice said, "It didn't work in Vlad. It won't work here, especially because of her feelings toward him."

  "Then maybe she'd be willing to betray him."

  She wondered what Stormwalker thought about the conversation. A Jeep stopped in front of the men, its tires grating on the gravelly surface, its brakes squealing in protest.

  "We've searched the grounds," Billy Winter said. "They're nowhere around."

  The two men walked toward the vehicle. "Meet Sawyer and me in the hotel coffee shop at eight tomorrow morning."

  The Jeep left and the men walked away. Zan listened to the remaining voices and stomping feet die away to nothing. Suddenly drained of energy, she closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the cold ground.

  A soft knock sounded against the side of the truck.

  "C'mon out, Red." he whispered. "Everyone's gone."

  He stepped back, allowing her to slide out from under the truck. She handed over the sunglasses that had somehow remained unbroken and dusted herself off. They left the parking lot, staying on the far fringe of people who walked back to wherever they would sleep during this last night of the powwow. Inside the house they sat by the window in the dark. Zan leaned against the frame and closed her eyes.

  Stormwalker watched her in the moonlight. Her body shook with a fine, almost imperceptible tremor, but whether from anger, fear or fatigue, he couldn't tell. Torn between the desire to hold her and the need to protect himself from the aching need her presence aroused, as well as the very real danger of betrayal, he went instead to a wooden cabinet. He removed a bottle and poured a small amount of brandy into a glass.

  "Take a sip of this." He held the miniature snifter beneath her nose.

  She watched him over the rim of her glass, seeing little of his features in the darkness, except for one cheek and his jaw line outlined by the light sifting through the window glass.

  "What do you suppose would have happened if that mob had found you?"

  "We wouldn't be here talking."

  "The two men we heard sounded as if they knew you. Did you recognize their voices or anything they said?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know anyone named Sawyer and I'm damned if I can figure out how Bill Winter is connected to them."

  "Maybe they ordered the beating."

  Her velvety voice caressed his ear, making concentration difficult. "Since you interrupted Bill and his bully boys, maybe they tried to get the mob to finish the job."

  "How does it feel to be a clay pigeon?" she asked.

  "That's the whole point of being here." He breathed deeply, welcoming the returning calm.

  "I'd be nervous as hell."

  "Kind of like being a beat cop."

  Zan considered the comparison. "Worse. We were 'out there', but we were armed."

  "Since I can't carry a gun, looks like you've been chosen."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Mac would never send me out unprotected. At first, I thought Becker might be my guardian angel, but I'm convinced it's you. Otherwise, Mac wouldn't have sent you here."

  "Those two think I might be capable of betraying you. Aren't you concerned they may be right?"

  "I've considered the possibility, but I think you'll do what you have to because it's your job."

  "Maybe you give me too much credit."

  "I hope not," he said.

  An awkward silence filled with unspoken doubts dragged on. Finally, Zan asked, "What do you make of that strange voice we heard?"

  "It sounded like a voice box . . . you know, the kind a person uses who's had surgery to remove a diseased larynx."

  "You're right, of course. The explanation is so simple I didn't think of it."

  "I don't remember ever meeting anyone like that."

  "Neither do I, but we've been away from the business for a long time. I'll do some digging."

  Emma Redfeather came out of the
darkness like an apparition and joined them at the window.

  "I'm grateful you're both all right," she said.

  Stormwalker went to her and put an arm around her shoulders. "You heard about the ruckus earlier, did you?"

  "I was there. Why were those men chasing you?"

  "We're not sure, but even if we knew, I wouldn't tell you. Your ignorance is your security."

  His grandmother pulled back and looked at the clock over the mantel. "It's nearly two a.m. . . . you should not be out after what just happened, Granddaughter. Please stay the night."

  "I'd appreciate it, if you have room for me."

  "We have plenty of room." The woman turned to Stormwalker. "Please show your friend to your aunt's room."

  Upstairs, Stormwalker opened a door and turned on a small lamp.

  "Your aunt's room?" she asked with concern. "I don't want to put anyone out."

  He smiled. "This was my Aunt Martha's when she was a kid, but she hasn't lived here since before I was born."

  "That's okay, then." She returned the smile. "Oh, by the way, the next time you're tempted to call me Red, don't. Call me Zan."

  He leaned against the door frame. "Does that make me family? I hope." His smile took years off a face that showed the strain of recent events as well as his bruises.

  "Don't push it, Major."

  "Wouldn't even think of it. I'm just counting my blessings, is all."

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, Stormwalker brought a cup of steaming coffee to the room where Zan slept. When his knock went unanswered, he opened the door and stepped inside, filling his eyes with her image as she lay uncovered in a graceful sprawl across the bed. During the night, she'd removed the plaid shirt and jeans and slept in a tank top and bikini bottom.

  Her beauty hit him like a body blow. His gaze traveled the length of her, from long, shapely legs to the enticement of firm breasts thrust against the fabric of her shirt.

  He leaned against the door and remembered the holy man, Old Elk, who had couched his teachings in the tribe's oral history.