“Outlaw behavior cannot be tolerated,” Hale was saying. “If we don’t make an example of the boy, we’re encouraging other young renegades to take the law into their own hands.”
Young renegades. He’d used that same phrase eighteen years ago. After the trial she’d overheard him congratulating the prosecutor, telling him his victory had sent a valuable message to any other “young renegades” who thought they were exempt from the American system of justice. That was when Honor first began to realize she’d made a terrible mistake.
She hit the TV’s Off button and plunged the screen into blackness. The hotel room with its unmade bed, closed curtains, and soiled water glasses looked dingy and sordid as she surveyed it. Despair welled. She walked to the bed, intending to throw the newspaper in the trash, but a front-page article caught her eye as she picked up the paper. She scanned the piece hurriedly, realizing it was the same story she’d just heard on television, only it elaborated on the tribe’s futile legal struggles and quoted a tribal spokesperson, who described the boy’s act as a “cry of despair and frustration against an unresponsive system.”
“Ma’am?”
Honor started, nearly dropping the paper. A bellman hovered in the doorway of her room.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
She nodded, but as he began to load her baggage onto his cart, she realized she couldn’t leave Washington, D.C., not just yet. “Take the bags down and put them in storage for me, would you, please?” she asked, fishing some bills out of her purse and dropping them on the bed when she saw that his hands were full. “And thank you!”
Newspaper firmly in hand, she rushed past him and out the door.
Johnny was slipping on his double-breasted suit jacket to go out to lunch when his office door burst open.
“Don’t even think about telling me to leave,” said Honor, entering the room and shutting the door behind her. “And don’t try calling security. I’m in no mood to be bullied this morning, Mr. Starhawk.”
She remained by the door, a newspaper clutched in her hand. She was obviously frightened, but just as obviously determined to tough it out, whatever “it” was. Her eyes glittered with a determination he’d never seen before, and the effect was oddly exhilarating. Her blond hair was tied back, defying him to try to free it. Go ahead, her huge gray eyes seemed to be saying, pull a weapon on me. I’ll show you just how savage I can be.
Good, he thought, his pulse quickening. She’s good. If the anger vibrating in her voice was any indication, there would be no more tearful apologies, skulking around elevators, or sneaking into condos. She’d been pushed to the wall, and she was fighting back.
“Your scalp is safe,” he said nonchalantly. “All my knives are out being sharpened.”
She blinked. “I’m surprised you don’t keep a spare hatchet or two.”
He let out laughter, a husky, appreciative sound. So Honor Bartholomew had a dark side. God, he loved it. Normally he wouldn’t have done anything to encourage her, but the glint in her eyes was too provocative to ignore. He let his gaze flicker disrespectfully over her pink mouth and linger at the neckline of her blouse. Her breasts shivered softly, deliciously, with each breath she took. What color were her nipples? he wondered, unable to check the irreverent thought. Pale pink, like her lips? Were they aroused? Was she aroused at the mere sight of him, the way he was at the sight of her?
“I’m not here for that,” she informed him hotly.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re here for,” he said, wishing he could make her understand what she did to him, what happened when she got within ten feet of him. “Just seeing you is enough, Honor. That’s all it takes to get me going. I’m like one of those pacing animals at the zoo, agitated by the spectators, crazy to get at them.”
“Why do you make it sound as if I’m purposely taunting you?”
“Aren’t you? You make me want what I can’t have, and that’s the definition of savage, remember?”
She looked startled, but her surprise quickly changed to something else. Anger? A deep flush of sensual awareness crept up her throat. “That’s not true. You could have had anything you wanted, Johnny. You wouldn’t let yourself.”
He was silent a moment, catching his breath. She was so honest it hurt. He could have had her, it was true. He could have her now, on the desk, on the floor, wherever they landed when he pulled her into his arms. She might resist, but that wouldn’t last past the first kiss, and they both knew it.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “Nobody’s stopping me. Nobody but me.”
There was a catch of wounded pride in her voice when she finally spoke. “You’ve made it clear you don’t want anything to do with me.”
“Oh, please, woman, don’t get coy on me! Not after all that painful honesty. I want to do everything there is with you. I’d like to violate you within an inch of your sweet life. Right now. Right here! But where you’re concerned, I am that animal in a cage. And when that cage door comes open, somebody’s going to get hurt.”
She wet her lips nervously, and he told himself that he’d done all he could. He’d warned her what could happen, what he knew would happen if they ever made love. There was too much rage mixed up in his desire for her.
She held up the newspaper, almost defiantly. “Despite what you may think, I didn’t come here to talk about sex and animals. I’d like you to take a look at this.”
“What is it?”
Without a word she approached his desk and practically threw the paper at him.
“My goodness, have we forgotten our manners?”
“Read it,” she snapped. “Please.”
He glanced at the headline and sighed heavily, dropping the paper to his desk. “The White Mountain thing again?”
“Read it!” she insisted. “Look what’s happened.”
“Honor, I don’t care what’s happened. It’s not my fight.”
“There’s a sixteen-year-old boy involved,” she said, overriding his resistance. “He’s blown up my father’s leaching plant, and they’re going to crucify him, Johnny. He’ll be a scapegoat.”
Johnny glanced down at the paper involuntarily. Anger rose inside him as he skimmed the first two paragraphs of the article. Old anger. Brand-new hot anger. She was resurrecting his past and shoving it in his face! “You do know how to set a trap, don’t you?” he said, glaring up at her.
“It happened, Johnny. I didn’t make it happen. I’m just telling you about it. Can’t you do something?”
“Like what?”
“Like defend the boy! Keep him out of jail or something equally damaging. Surely you don’t want him to suffer the way you did.”
“He won’t.” A nerve sparked in his jaw, jabbing at him like a hot wire. His anger sharpened and darkened with the need to hurt her back. “If I suffered, it was because of you.”
She flinched, then caught herself. “Apparently you intend to punish me forever for a mistake in judgment that I made at fourteen.” She threw up her hands in despair. “If I can’t make you see how self-defeating that is, then at least understand that you’re the one who’s making the mistake now, a terrible mistake. You’re not hurting me by refusing to help the tribe, you’re hurting them.”
“I owe them nothing.”
“That isn’t true. You owe them something simply because you have Apache blood running in your veins. You lived on that reservation. You know the truth. They’re an oppressed people, struggling to defend their land against exploitation, just as they always have. Except now they’re trying to do it legally, and they’re at a terrible disadvantage. You have the skills to help them. Dammit, Johnny—”
She broke off in frustration, her gray eyes sparkling as she fought tears.
He stared at her, feeling his stomach muscles knot up but refusing to let the pain she evoked control him this time. “They have access to attorneys,” he said.
“Right, and my father has money and influence. Hale Bartholomew doesn’t ne
ed justice on his side. He can buy it! You should know that better than anyone.” She pointed toward herself emphatically. “I’m not trying to excuse anything I’ve done, but surely you know that I didn’t testify against you because it was something I wanted to do. My father put pressure on me. He misled me and misconstrued things—”
“Your father’s a bastard,” Johnny said, cutting her off coldly. “You don’t have to convince me of that. But he wasn’t my friend, Honor. You were. My only friend.”
She shook her head and sighed out a sound full of regret, full of heartache and despair. “This could be your chance,” she said at last, all the hope draining out of her voice. “If any of that hatred in your heart is directed at my father, then you’re being handed an opportunity to avenge yourself. If you won’t do it to help the tribe, then do it to stop Hale Bartholomew.”
Johnny began to button the gray silk suit jacket, his fingers rigid. “I was just going to lunch.”
Her mouth formed tight white lines at the corners, and she stepped back from his desk. “Apparently I’ve kept you. Another unforgivable sin.” She turned and walked to the door, fumbling with the knob as she tried to let herself out of his office. “Enjoy your meal,” she said, and left.
Johnny released his coat, letting it drop open. His gaze fell away from the closed door, but he remained where he stood, unmoving, until the hollow sensation in his chest made him draw in a breath. She wouldn’t be back, he realized. He’d finally driven her off. Whatever he’d expected to feel at this moment, it wasn’t this terrible emptiness. He had no sense of victory, not even of relief, except in the fact that an emotional train wreck had narrowly been avoided.
He wanted to tell himself that it was better this way, but the cliché stuck in his throat. It would have been better if they’d never met. Or if she’d never befriended him . . . but he didn’t want to think about that now. The anger was gone, and for the moment, he felt nothing. He was one of nature’s voids, waiting to be filled.
Staring at the door, remembering her fear and defiance, he recognized a stirring of something that was wholly unfamiliar to him where she was concerned. Finally, reluctantly, he gave it a name—admiration. She had guts and tenacity. She was either a stronger woman than he’d given her credit for or a very foolish one. If their roles had been reversed, he would have given up long ago. But then he knew what a nasty S.O.B. Johnny Starhawk could be. She only thought she knew.
He glanced down at the newspaper on his desk, pulled it to him, and began to read.
Honor switched off the air conditioner and rolled down the window of her Dodge Shadow, letting cool mountain air bathe her damp neck and forehead. The White Mountain Reservation with its scenic vistas and abundance of rivers and lakes was a refreshing change from the arid flatlands she’d been traveling through for the last several hours. Whiteriver, the mountain town where the tribal headquarters was located, might have been any other small southwestern town, except that it was bordered by a serene river and its inhabitants were Apaches.
Honor turned onto a road shaded by cottonwoods that led to the tribal headquarters where she was to meet Chy Starhawk and other members of the tribe. The medicine man had been vague about who would be there, in the same way that he was enigmatic about almost everything, but Honor’s primary concern was the bad news she was bringing him.
She pulled up in front of the log cabin-type building and let herself out of the car, surprised as she looked up to find Chy Starhawk standing before her in fringed buckskins, a beaded choker necklace, and a red cloth headband. Ceremonial eagle feathers floated from the tied ends of his headband, making him a splendid sight. He seemed to have materialized out of the tribe’s proud but war-ravaged past.
Honor wondered whether he’d just performed a ritual of some kind, or whether the traditional clothing was for her benefit. She decided not to ask. It seemed an intrusion. From what she knew of the culture, Apaches were inclined to be private about their tribal traditions, especially sacred ceremonies.
“Johnny isn’t coming,” she told the old man as they entered the headquarters. “I’m terribly sorry.”
The shaman neither stopped nor showed any emotion. “If you are sorry about things you can’t change,” he said, “you will soon not know the difference.”
Honor almost thought she’d understood him. There wasn’t time to mull meanings, however, because Chy had several people for her to meet. He introduced her to the tribal leader, a tall man in his late forties who wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a white Stetson over his long black braided hair. Johnny’s godmother, the woman who’d advised her not to try to find Johnny after the tried, was heavier and grayer, but with the same unchanging quality of beauty in her rounded features. Other members of the council were present, as was the lawyer from the Indian Legal Services, a young man who was part Apache and part Zuni.
Honor hadn’t expected such a prestigious group, and it made her aware of how vital her mission had been to them. This was more than a whim of Johnny’s grandfather, she realized. Either the tribal leaders had believed his prophetic dream, or they’d reached the point of desperation and saw her as their last resort.
Either way it was that much more difficult to tell them she’d failed. Only the shaman showed no disappointment or emotion. Honor tried to be encouraging. She begged them not to give up, insisting that there were other excellent, high-profile lawyers who might take on the case simply because of its growing publicity. But her enthusiasm was as strained as their polite attention.
She was saying good-bye when the roar of a powerful car engine drowned out her voice. Someone had pulled up outside. They all turned toward the door as if some magnetic force had drawn them. The shaman smiled, and Honor’s nerves leaped in anticipation. Could it be Johnny?
Her astonishment that it might be him was mixed with apprehension. If he’d come to offer his help, it was an answered prayer. But his anger was so vivid in her mind, she could imagine any number of other frightening motives. She’d suggested he avenge himself against her father. Was that was he wanted? Or was it she he’d come after?
The door swung open.
Johnny stepped over the threshold to murmurs of shock and excitement. Honor reached out as if to steady herself and caught hold of nothing but thin air. No one else in the room had seen him in person in eighteen years. But to her he looked so fundamentally different from the attorney with the expensively tailored suits and the modern office that she had to tell herself he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
He wore faded jeans with patches on the legs, a black T-shirt, and a buckskin vest. With his long hair flying free under the strip of rawhide tied around his forehead, he looked as Apache as anyone in the room.
An Apache on the warpath, Honor thought. The hostile lines of his handsome jaw spelled out trouble, and as he approached the group, Honor stepped aside, immensely relieved when he walked up to his grandfather rather than to her. He had the newspaper article she’d given him in his hand, and he held it up for the old man to see.
“Who’s representing this boy?” he asked. “I’d like to speak with his counsel.”
The young attorney spoke up. “No one’s been retained yet. I’m here from the Indian Legal Services to review the matter. It’s possible I’ll be taking the case.”
“Then I’ll talk to you,” Johnny said.
The shaman raised his hand to intervene. “Why are you here?” he asked Johnny.
Johnny’s gaze flashed angrily over the crowd and settled on Honor. “I don’t want to see another Apache kid get burned at the stake. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Sighs of relief could be heard, and even Honor relaxed slightly. But the shaman didn’t seem to be satisfied, and the tension rose again as he and Johnny faced each other. The old man’s response to Johnny’s announcement was a stoic nod. There would be no apologies between two such proud men, Honor realized. Neither would acknowledge the rift between them, or even the blood ties that bound
them.
“The boy’s situation is only a symptom,” the shaman said. “We must fight the disease. Will you take our case against the mining company?”
Johnny hesitated, reluctant to get himself any more deeply entangled than he already was. “It’s not that simple,” he explained. “Technically in a case like this, both the secretary of the interior and the commissioner of Indian Affairs have to approve the attorney. There’s some red tape involved, but I’ve got contacts, and I’ll do what I can to expedite things.”
“Good,” the old man said, “that’s good.”
“In the meantime I can provide legal assistance and help prepare the case.”
“Yes,” the shaman said emphatically. “You must prepare as if for battle, your mind, your body, your spirit.”
Johnny wasn’t sure what the old man was getting at, but he didn’t like the sound of it. “There’ll be a tremendous amount of work involved,” he said, ignoring the remark. “I’ll want to talk to whoever’s been working on the case, and I’ll need a support team for the research—”
“Anyone can read law books and do research,” the shaman said, cutting him off. “We have legal-aid agencies for that. This is a battle for our right to pursue our livelihood, to protect our sovereignty as a tribe, and you are a proven warrior in the legal arena. But you must think like an Apache if you’re going to fight for Apaches.”
“What are you saying?” Johnny asked.
“You must go to the white mountains, where the spirits reside. You must find the medicine that will invoke your power.”
A vein in Johnny’s forehead began to tighten and throb. Since the trial he had done everything possible to separate himself from tribal customs, and especially from the ancient mysticism that his grandfather was steeped in. “If I take this case, I have to fight it my way.”
Night of the Panther Page 7