She dug through the top drawer, removed a folder and sorted through it, gathering the papers she needed. Walker took a deep breath, and her fragrance accosted him like a floral-scented bandit. If he moved forward, just a little, just three or four small steps, he could take her in his arms.
Damn the consequences and kiss her.
The phone on her desk rang, jarring him back to reality.
She answered the call, and he cursed Michele for messing with his mind, for encouraging him to be with Tamra. Walker hadn’t gotten laid in months. Of course, he knew Michele was talking about more than just sex.
“Are you ready?” Tamra asked.
He simply looked at her. He hadn’t even realized that she’d hung up the phone. He’d been too busy feeling sorry for his neglected libido. “Ready for what?”
“To go back outside. Or would you rather wait here?”
“For what?”
“The truck.” She made a curious expression. “Are you all right, Walker?”
A bit defensive, he frowned at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“How would I know? You’re acting weird.”
Did she have to be so pretty? So smooth and sultry? She wore jeans and an Oyate Project T-shirt, but it could have been a nightgown, a breezy fabric, an erotic temptation. “Maybe I’m just sick of the reservation.”
She crossed her arms. “Then go home.”
He didn’t want to return to California, not without putting his hands all over her first. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Anxious, he leaned against the file cabinet. “And I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Me, neither.”
She sighed, and he almost touched her.
Almost.
He decided it was safer waiting outside, even if Michele would probably be dogging his heels, giving him conspiratorial glances.
But luckily that didn’t happen. The truck arrived, and the pace picked up. So much so, Walker got absorbed in the activity, helping the driver unload the food.
After the cartons were sorted and stacked, Tamra organized the volunteers and individual cars were packed with bags of perishable items and boxes of dry goods. Walker loaded the back of Tamra’s vehicle with groceries from a checklist she’d given him.
Soon they were rolling across the plains again, heading to their first destination. He turned to look at her, knowing she was right. He was getting emotionally involved today. But not only with her charity.
He was getting attached to her, too.
Five
W alker and Tamra had spent the afternoon with families who had no electricity and no running water. People living in abandoned camper shells, in old shacks, in rusted-out trailers. But even so, he’d seen pride in their eyes, determination, kindness, a sense of community.
And now Tamra had taken him to the Wounded Knee Memorial. He wasn’t sure why she’d decided to come here, especially today, after driving all over the reservation. They were both road weary and tired.
Walker studied his surroundings. Aside from a Lakota couple selling dream catchers in a shelter of pine boughs, there was no one around. He suspected a few tourists trickled by now and then, or else the enterprising young couple wouldn’t have any customers.
A green sign, suffering from vandalism, offered a historical account of the Massacre of Wounded Knee. The word massacre had been bolted onto the sign with a sheet of metal, covering something below it.
“What did it say before?” Walker asked Tamra, who stood beside him, her hair glistening in the late-day sun.
“Battle,” she told him.
“The Battle of Wounded Knee?”
“That was what the government originally called it.”
But it wasn’t a battle, Tamra explained, as he gazed at the sign. It was a massacre—a place where more than three hundred Indians, mostly women and children, were killed on December 29, 1890, for supporting the Ghost Dance, a religion that had been outlawed on Lakota reservations.
Fourteen days prior to the massacre, the tribal police murdered Sitting Bull at his home. That prompted Big Foot, another Lakota chief, to lead his band to Pine Ridge, where he hoped to seek shelter with Chief Red Cloud, who was trying to make peace with the army. But Big Foot, an old man ill with pneumonia, and most of his people, were exterminated instead. Those who survived told their story, recounting the chilling details.
“It was the Seventh Cavalry who shot them,” Tamra said. “Custer’s old unit. The government sent them, along with other troops, to arrest the Ghost Dancers. The morning after Big Foot and his band were captured, a gun went off during a scuffle. And that was it. That was how the massacre started.” She paused, her voice impassioned with the past, with a war-torn history. “At first the struggle was fought at close quarters, but most of the Indians had already surrendered their weapons. There were only a hundred warriors. The rest were women, children and old men. When they ran to take cover, the cavalry opened fire with cannons that were positioned above the camp. Later some of the women were found two or three miles away, a sign that they were chased down and killed.”
Walker glanced at the craft booth, where dream catchers fluttered, feathers stirring in the breeze. “The Seventh Cavalry got their revenge.”
“Yes, they did.” Tamra followed his gaze. “The Ghost Dance was supposed to bring back the old way, to encourage spiritual powers to save us. At the time, the government was reducing our land and cutting our promised rations. The Lakota were sick and starving. They needed hope.”
“They needed the Ghost Dance,” he said.
She nodded, and he thought about the documentary on TV, the reenactment of a woman and child bleeding in the snow. Was that a depiction of Wounded Knee? Of the massacre? He’d only caught a glimpse of it while he was switching channels, but it had affected him just the same.
“Someone found a baby still suckling from its dead mother,” she said, her words creating a devastating image in his mind. “And after most of the people had been killed, there were soldiers who called out, claiming that those who weren’t wounded should come forth, that they would be safe. But when some of the little boys crept out of their hiding places, they were butchered.” She paused, took a breath. “We have an annual event called Future Generations Riders, where the organizers take a group of horseback riders, mostly children, on the same trail as the Wounded Knee victims. Sitting Bull’s great-great-great-grandson is one of the leaders. Some of the kids don’t know their culture, so it helps them learn, to look to the future. Hope can come from grief. From accepting who you are.”
“Spencer told me that being Indian didn’t matter,” Walker admitted. “That I needed to forget about it if I wanted to succeed.”
“I was told the same thing. From my mother, from your mother. But Mary and I have changed. We believe differently now.”
“Can we visit the grave site?” he asked, compelled by his heritage, the Lakota blood he’d fought so hard to ignore.
“Yes, of course,” she told him, meeting his gaze.
He wondered if she could see into his heart, if she knew what he was thinking. If she did, she didn’t say anything. Instead she led him to a road that looped around like a teardrop.
On top of a hill, a rustic archway announced the entrance to the cemetery. A mass grave, hedged by a small slab of concrete, was marked with a stone obelisk, listing the names of the Indians buried there. Native gifts, feathers and tobacco offerings adorned their resting place. Surrounding the memorial were other graves, a bit more modern, scattered in the rough grass.
Walker reached for Tamra’s hand and whispered a prayer. She slid her fingers through his, and they stood side by side, a man and a woman who’d forged a bond.
A closeness neither of them could deny.
After they went back to her truck, they sat in silence for a while. Finally he turned to look at her. She moved closer, and they kissed.
Slowly, gently.
And even though the exchange was more emotional than p
hysical, more sweet than sexual, he wished they could make love tonight, hold each other in the same bed. Of course, he knew that wasn’t possible. Especially since he’d agreed to stay at his mother’s house.
Confused, he ended the kiss, still tasting her on his tongue, still wanting what he shouldn’t have.
Tamra lay beside Mary, who snored a bit too loudly. Restless, she glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost one o’clock in the morning. She’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, trying not to toss and turn. But it wasn’t the other woman’s snoring that kept her awake.
It was Walker.
She’d given him her room, offering him a private place to sleep. But picturing him in her bed was making her skin warm. When she touched her lips, intent on reliving his kiss, she knew she was in trouble.
She couldn’t fantasize about Walker, not here, not now, not like this. Guilty, she climbed out of bed, cautious not to wake Mary.
What she needed was a drink of water. A tall glass, full of ice. Something to douse her emotions, to cool her skin.
As she padded down the hall, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Once she reached the kitchen, she stalled. Walker stood at the counter, drinking a glass of water, doing exactly what she had come to do.
He hadn’t noticed her yet. He faced the tiny window above the sink, gazing out at the night. His chest was bare and a pair of shorts rode low on his hips. His hair, those dark, sexy strands, fell across his forehead in sleepless disarray.
Suddenly he turned and caught sight of her. The glass in his hand nearly slipped. She could almost hear it crashing to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. I was just—”
He roamed his gaze over her, and she became acutely aware of her short summer nightgown, of the soft cotton material.
“Just what?”
“Thirsty,” he told her.
“Me, too.”
“Then you can have this.”
He handed her his water, and she put her mouth on the rim of the glass, sipping the liquid, wishing she were tasting him. The ice crackled, jarring the stillness.
He continued to watch her, taking in every inch of her body. He seemed to like what he saw, the slight cleavage between her breasts, the flare of her hips, the length of her bare legs.
She took another sip of his drink and noticed that his nipples were erect. She wanted to drop her gaze, but she didn’t have the nerve to glance at his fly, to be that bold in the middle of the night.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Not in your bed.”
Tamra returned his glass, giving him the rest of the water. In the process, her hand touched his. “Why not?” she asked, her heart picking up speed.
“Because I kept imagining your scent on everything. The sheets, the pillowcase.”
Dizzy, she took a deep breath, dragging oxygen into her lungs. “I don’t wear perfume.”
“I know. I can tell. You wear lotion. Whenever we get really close, I can smell it on your skin.”
“It’s just a moisturizer.” She knew that was a dumb thing to say, but she didn’t know how else to respond. He was looking at her with lust in his eyes, with a hunger so deep, she wanted to crawl all over him.
Right here. In his mother’s kitchen.
“It’s soft,” he said. “Airy. Like the plants and flowers in the greenhouse at my family’s estate.” He set his glass on the counter and moved forward.
She swallowed, got thirsty again, envisioned his mouth covering hers. She knew he was seducing her, but she didn’t care. She liked the erotic expression on his face, the deep, husky tone of his voice.
He took another step toward her, his feet silent on the faded linoleum. “I haven’t been with anyone in months.”
A vein fluttered at her neck. She could feel it, skittering beneath her skin. “It’s been longer than that for me.”
“I’m good at controlling my urges,” he told her.
She stood perfectly still. He was only inches away, so close they struggled to breathe the same air. “So am I. But I can’t seem to do that with you.”
“Me, neither.” He cursed, just once, before he dragged her into his arms, before he kissed her so hard, her head spun.
When he pinned her against the counter, she nearly wept. His mouth plundered hers, over and over, giving her what she wanted, making the moment last.
Heat. Intensity. A tongue-to-tongue sensation.
She gripped his shoulders; he cupped her bottom and pulled her flush against his body. Then they broke apart and stared at each other.
“We can’t do this,” he said. “Not here.”
She nodded, fighting the pressure between her legs, the desperation he’d incited. “Then where?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled his hand through his hair. “I can’t think clearly.”
Neither could she. All she wanted was him. Walker Ashton. A boy she’d heard about since she was a child. A man she barely knew.
“We could go for a drive,” he suggested. “In my car.”
The SUV he’d rented, she thought. A vehicle with four-wheel-drive and big backseat. Suddenly she felt like a teenager, a moonstruck girl who should know better. “What if your mom wakes up?”
“We’ll leave her a note.”
“And say what? That we decided to cruise around the rez in the middle of the night? Or drive to Gordon for a piece of pie?”
He made a face. “Do you have a better idea?”
“At least let me get dressed. Grab something from my room. Mary knows I’d never go out like this.”
That made him smile. Apparently, he’d been willing to climb behind the wheel just as he was—half-naked and much too aroused. “My clothes are in your room, too. Will you get me a shirt? A pair of tennis shoes?”
She nodded, but as she turned away, he latched on to her arm. She thought he was going to kiss her again, but he didn’t. He frowned instead.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t have any protection.”
“I’m on the Pill.”
He was still frowning. “I thought you haven’t been with anyone for a while.”
“I haven’t. But I prefer to be prepared.”
He searched her gaze. “Because of the father of your baby?”
She let out the breath she was holding. “Yes.”
“I can’t make any promises, Tamra. No happily-ever-afters. But I wouldn’t do what he did. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”
“Thank you.” She realized they were whispering, speaking in hushed tones, talking about something far more intimate than sex.
And this time when she turned away to get their clothes, he didn’t stop her.
Walker drove into the night, traveling on a dirt road, thinking this had to be the most strangely erotic moment of his life. Tamra sat beside him with a shopping bag on her lap. He hadn’t asked her what was in it. For now he was trying to decide where to park. The reservation was dark, eerie, beautiful. The land went on forever, with trees swaying to the moonlight. In the distance a coyote howled.
“I don’t know how far to go,” he said.
She turned to look at him. She’d changed into a sundress that sported a row of tiny buttons down the front. On her feet, she wore cowboy boots. He’d never seen a more compelling woman. Her hair was the color of a raven’s wing, sleek and shiny and begging to be touched.
“With me?” she asked.
He blinked, wondered what she meant. Then it dawned on him. She was responding to his statement. The SUV hit a slight bump in the road, and he grinned. He knew how far to go with her. “I was talking about how far I should keep driving, where would be a good place to park.”
“Oh.”
She ducked her head and he suspected she was blushing. He reached over to slide his fingers through her hair, just for a second, just to feel the silkiness against his skin. “I’m going to do everything imaginabl
e to you.”
“Oh,” she said again, only sexier this time.
Damn if he didn’t want to pull over right now, right in the middle of the road. “How about over there?” he gestured to a copse of cottonwoods.
Tamra glanced out the window. “The river is that way. There might be people camped by the water.”
“Then we’ll go in the other direction.” He cut across the terrain, closer to the hills, to a backdrop that took his breath away. He’d never made love in an area so vast, so romantic.
He parked beneath a jagged stretch of moonlight, where stars danced in the sky. “What’s in the bag, Tamra?”
She clutched it to her chest. “A blanket. Some extra clothes.”
“Extra clothes?” He touched her hair again, toying with a strand that looped across her cheek. “What for?”
“In case the ones we’re wearing get torn.”
Walker’s pulse jumped. Excited, intrigued, far too aroused, he moved closer. “Does that mean we can go crazy?”
She chewed her lip, a girlish habit he’d seen her do before. “You kept warning me that we were going to tear off each other clothes and I—” she paused, leaned toward him “—thought we better be prepared.”
He wasn’t sure if anything could prepare him for this moment—this middle-of-the-night, heaven-help-him lust. Anxious, he took her in his arms, his hands nearly quaking. She held on to him, too, gripping his shoulders.
And then they kissed, as deeply as they could, tongue to tongue, heart to beating heart.
A second later they went mad. He attacked her dress, sending every last button flying. She did the same thing to his shirt, ripping the denim with feminine force.
When she climbed onto his lap, he thought he might die. He breasts were exposed, only inches from his mouth. She was jammed between him and the steering wheel, but she didn’t seem to mind. So much for the blanket, he thought. She’d dropped it, along with their extra clothes, onto the floorboard.
Betrayed Birthright Page 6