Native Affairs

by Doreen Owens Malek

  His mouth tightened. “Oh, the hell with you,” he said disgustedly. “Get out.”

  “Wait a minute...”

  He picked up the empty plastic carafe from his bedside table and threw it. The bottle exploded against the wall behind her head. “I said get out!” he yelled.

  Marisa stared at him, stunned. “You tried to hit me with that thing!” she gasped.

  “If I were trying to hit you I would have hit you,” he said through clenched teeth. “I merely want you to leave.”

  A nurse appeared in the doorway, staring in astonishment at the jug on the floor. “What the devil is going on in here?” she demanded.

  “Remove this woman from my room,” Jack said distantly. “She’s making me sick.”

  The nurse looked at Marisa.

  “I’m going,” Marisa said meekly and slipped into the hall. The nurse followed her out.

  “Miss, we can’t have you upsetting the patients this way,” the nurse hissed.

  “Don’t worry,” Marisa said in defeat. “I won’t be causing any further disturbances.”

  She hurried off down the hall before she could provoke any more flying missiles.

  * * *

  A couple of hours after Marisa’s abrupt departure, Jack shoved his dinner tray aside and sat up on the edge of the hospital bed. The room swam for a moment and then righted itself. He glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes before visiting hours began again, which meant that his mother and sister would be back. He sighed. He appreciated their good intentions, but after a while he usually couldn’t think of anything to say to them.

  He knew one visitor who wouldn’t be returning. He closed his eyes resignedly. Had he actually thrown a bottle at her? He winced and shook his head. Soon he would be knocking her on the head and throwing her over his shoulder. Of course, that was what he really wanted to do; maybe the ancients had the best idea. They just acted, without worrying about the niceties of civilized behavior.

  Marisa Hancock did not make him feel very civilized.

  When she first left his room, he had been ready to give up on her entirely. But then he had replayed the preceding scene in his mind. He remembered the look on her face when he asked her if she couldn’t think of the real reason for his attention. For one brief, glorious moment, she had known what he meant and wanted to believe him. And then her guard went back up and her expression changed to detached, cynical denial.

  That one moment was enough to give him hope. When he was sprung from this cage he would find her and try again.

  And he must make very sure to control his temper and not throw anything at her.

  * * *

  “So how did it go?” Tracy asked, looking up from her notes when Marisa entered their hotel room.

  “Disaster, utter disaster. I should have listened to you and stayed away from him.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Oh, he’s wonderful. He’s in fine, even athletic, form,” Marisa replied wryly.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind. He’s recovering nicely, that’s what it means. I’m sure he’ll be back tormenting us in court as soon as we resume the case.”

  “Which reminds me,” Tracy said, brandishing an envelope with the seal of the State of Florida on it. “A little missive for you from Judge Lasky.”

  Marisa accepted it wearily. “Anything else?”

  “Charlie called. He wants you to call him back at home tonight.”

  Marisa nodded.

  “Oh, and the records from the Seminole cemetery have been released to the court. You can see them any time in Lasky’s chambers.”

  “So he says here,” Marisa observed, looking up from the letter. “Well, I guess we’d better get to it.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? Isn’t that what we’re here for?” Marisa said testily.

  “Marisa,” Tracy said gently, “the court is closed.”

  “In the morning, then. First thing.”

  Tracy nodded, certain that Marisa’s mood had more to do with her visit to the hospital than her eagerness to peruse the history of an ancient graveyard.

  * * *

  Marisa spent the next day with the cemetery records and collapsed in her room that evening while Tracy went to the movies. She was staring at a rerun on television when there was a knock on her door.

  “Just a minute,” she called, pulling a dressing gown on over her pajamas and running her fingers through her tumbled hair.

  There was no sound from the hall.

  “Is that my laundry?” Marisa said, pulling the door open.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jackson Bluewolf replied.

  Marisa stared at him, then glanced down in dismay at her bare feet and the washed-out robe she was wearing.

  “I thought you were the cleaning service,” she mumbled inanely.

  By contrast with herself, he was gorgeous in eggshell jeans with a blue Oxford cloth shirt and leather moccasins. His left arm was in a sling and he carried a fringed suede jacket over his right shoulder.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  Chapter 3

  “What are you doing out of the hospital?” Marisa asked, stepping aside so he could precede her into the room.

  “I discharged myself against medical advice,” he replied, turning to face her as she closed the door behind them. “I had to sign all these forms saying that my family would not sue them if I dropped dead in the street, or something like that.”

  “If I were your lawyer I would have talked you out of doing that,” she said dryly.

  He fished in his pocket and held up a bottle of pills. “I’m supposed to take two of these every four hours, or four of them every two hours. I forget.” He frowned at the printing on the label.

  “Please, sit down,” Marisa said, sweeping a pile of papers from a chair onto the floor. “I don’t want to witness a relapse.”

  He sat heavily as Marisa hovered nearby. They surveyed each other warily.

  “Just give me a minute to change and I’ll be right with you,” Marisa said suddenly, remembering what she was wearing.

  He nodded.

  She bolted into the bathroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the hook on the back of the door. As she changed hastily, not bothering with underwear, she glanced at the mirror and groaned at her hair. She found a clip in the medicine cabinet and pulled it back, fastening the wavy mass at the nape of her neck. There was no time for makeup, she would have to do as she was. She reentered the bedroom as he looked up and said, “Too bad.”

  “What?”

  “I liked you with your hair down.”

  Marisa fingered the clip nervously, resisting the impulse to yank it out and fling it on the floor.

  “It was the first time I’d ever seen it that way. In court you’re always so buttoned up and proper. With all that hair around your face you looked like a little girl.”

  Even if it was a deliberate attempt to charm her, she was helpless. It was working. Marisa looked back at him silently, unable to frame a reply.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” he finally observed.

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “I came to apologize for my behavior when you visited me at the hospital. I can only offer the excuse that I was shot full of prescription drugs and not responsible for my actions.” He smiled slightly.

  “That’s all right. I got so mad at you I forgot to thank you for saving my life.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “Not from my point of view.”

  “I guess we should call it even then,” he said lightly.

  “Not even, exactly. That boy Jeff Rivertree is still in jail facing a capital charge.”

  He made a deprecating gesture. “That’s my fault. When I guessed what Jeff was going to do, I rushed to the courthouse but I didn’t arrive in time to prevent the incident. I had hoped to get to him first.”

  “What is he
being held on?” Marisa asked.

  “Attempted murder.”

  She winced.

  “I hope we can get it reduced to felonious assault. We’re trying to raise the bail right now,” Jack said.

  “I’d lobby for the lesser charge, but I can’t get involved with his case. You do understand that,” Marisa said.

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  A silence fell and they stared at each other.

  Jack cleared his throat. “There’s another reason for my coming here,” he said.

  “Yes?” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his good arm across the one in the sling. Instead of focusing on his face she found herself staring at the top button of his shirt, wishing she could undo it. When she tore her gaze away she realized that she didn’t know what he was saying.

  “Why this is so important to me,” he concluded.

  Marisa stared at him, clueless. “I beg your pardon?” she said weakly.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine, I’m just a little tired. Hectic week, you know.” She smiled vacuously, feeling a perfect fool.

  “Of course. I was just saying that we’ve been at cross-purposes from the beginning, but I’ve never had a chance to explain to you why I’m involved here, why my work for NFN has become my life.”

  “Don’t you do anything else?” Marisa asked ingenuously, and then bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, but I know NFN can’t be paying you much.”

  “Don’t apologize, it’s a perfectly logical question. As a matter of fact, you’re right, my stipend from NFN is very small. I support myself with my writing.”

  “Writing?”

  “Do you read mysteries?”

  Marisa shook her head. “I’m afraid that my work doesn’t leave much time for reading anything other than legal briefs.”

  “Well, I write a series of mysteries that features an Indian detective as the main character, sort of a Blackfoot Agatha Christie.”

  “You’re Roger Whitemoon!” Marisa said incredulously. Even she had heard of him.

  “Yes,” Jack said, smiling. “I do a couple of books a year and that enables me to finance my NFN work, which occupies most of my time.”

  “The last one was a bestseller, wasn’t it?” Marisa asked, impressed. “What was it called? Quiet Prairie?”

  “Silent Prairie. Close.”

  “But your first love is the NFN.”

  He shrugged. “The books bring in the money, and I do enjoy writing them, but in the grand scheme of things the NFN is more important.”

  “Why?”

  He sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I grew up on a reservation in Oklahoma. My father was killed when I was five and I was raised by my mother and older sister, whom you met.”

  Marisa nodded.

  “You cannot imagine the hopelessness, the emptiness of the life there. Through a combination of circumstances I was able to escape it, but I never forgot it. I resolved to do what I could to change things for my people.”

  “But do you really think that the preservation of this cemetery is crucial enough to warrant spending eight million dollars to bypass it?” Marisa asked him.

  His mouth tightened. “It’s the principle involved, and anyway, the government can afford it.”

  “Eight million dollars?”

  He stood up so swiftly that Marisa flinched. He began to pace the room and she watched him silently, noticing how the lamplight reflected off his seal black hair and threw his strong profile into relief against the wall.

  “Do you think that any dollar amount can make up for the abuses of the past?” he demanded. “There isn’t enough money in the U.S. treasury to repay Native Americans for what they’ve suffered, for being robbed of their homes and their land and being herded onto reservations like cattle. What do I care if it costs eight million or ten million or twenty million? They’re not going to get one more yard of Indian land under any circumstances, and especially not this land, which has been sacred to the Seminoles for centuries.” He ran out of breath suddenly and fell back into the chair, his face drained.

  Marisa leaped to her feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up tonight, you’re obviously in no condition to discuss it.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, irritated.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  He glanced around the room. “Do you have any coffee?”

  “I’ll order it from room service,” she said.

  “No, don’t bother...” he began, but Marisa was already on the phone. When she hung up and turned back to him he was studying her intently, his dark eyes unfathomable.

  “Coffee will be here in a few minutes,” she announced.

  “You must think me an awful bore,” he said wearily, passing his hand over his eyes.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I show up at your door, fresh out of the hospital, and even with one foot in the emergency room I can’t stop berating you about my noble cause. Why haven’t you thrown me out of here?”

  “Jackson, you may be many things, but boring is not one of them,” Marisa replied lightly.

  “I like the sound of that,” he said quietly, after a moment.

  “What?”

  “My first name on your lips. You’ve gone to great pains to avoid saying it.”

  “That was before you threw yourself in front of a bullet meant for me,” she said.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said dryly. “Reality isn’t quite as heroic. I was trying to shove you out of the way and I tripped. That’s the truth.”

  “The result is the same. You saved me.” She leaned against the footboard of the bed. “How did you know what Jeff Rivertree was going to do?”

  “His mother came to me and told me he had taken her husband’s gun from the house. He had been sounding off about you in the bar the night his brother was killed and it didn’t take much ingenuity to put two and two together.”

  “Sounding off about me?” Marisa asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Saying what?”

  Jack shifted uncomfortably.

  “Tell me.”

  Jack met her eyes and then looked away.

  “Hotshot gringa lawyer on the Washington payroll sent to overpower the impoverished Indians and deprive them of their inheritance?” Marisa suggested.

  “Something like that,” Jack confirmed.

  “Isn’t that what you think?” Marisa inquired evenly.

  “Not any more,” he replied, holding her gaze.

  There was a knock at the door and the coffee arrived. Silence reigned as Marisa poured for both of them and Jack drained half his cup in one swallow. “That’s better,” he said, sighing.

  “You really should be home in bed,” Marisa said worriedly.

  “I’ve spent the last four days in bed,” he said darkly.

  “How is your shoulder?”

  “Not bad. A little stiff.”

  Marisa watched him as he flexed the fingers of his injured arm and then looked up at her.

  “So how did you get off the reservation?” she asked. “If you don’t mind telling me, that is.”

  “I don’t mind. It was the usual story. A teacher took an interest in me, helped me get a scholarship.”

  “To college?”

  “To a prep school first, then to college.”

  “I can’t imagine you at a prep school,” Marisa said, before she could censor herself.

  “Cochise at Choate?” he said, raising one dark brow.

  “I didn’t meant that,” she murmured, unable to meet his eyes.

  “That was about the size of it. I didn’t go to Choate, but the school was similar.”

  “Was it awful?” Marisa asked softly.

  “I didn’t exactly fit in with the preppies, but I endured it. I knew that it was my only chance and I took it.”

  “And college?”r />
  He grinned. “Oh, college was different. I had a great time.”

  Marisa could imagine the swath he cut through the coeds. Her expression must have reflected what she was thinking because he said, “I became a significant minority experience for a number of female undergraduates, until I realized what was motivating them.”

  Marisa looked at him inquiringly.

  “Curiosity,” he said flatly. “Not very flattering certainly, but accurate. They weren’t interested in me, but in something, or somebody, different.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t true of everyone,” Marisa said quietly.

  He tilted his head to one side. “How have you remained such an innocent, in your job?”

  “In my job? I like that. I’m not exactly a hit woman for the mob, you know.”

  “But you’ve seen a side of life many women never encounter. Hasn’t it changed you?”

  Marisa thought about it. “I guess my experiences haven’t exactly made it easy for me to trust people,” she admitted.

  He burst out laughing and the sound was so infectious that she had to smile, too.

  “Tell me about it,” he said, chuckling. “That first day when I tried to warn you there might be trouble you thought I was running you out of town.”

  “You wouldn’t have been the first to try it,” she said.

  “So you’re tough, eh?”

  “Tough enough.”

  “You don’t look tough. Right now you look like a tomboy about to play third base in a sandlot game.”

  Marisa’s hand went to her hair self-consciously.

  “Oh, leave it alone, I’m teasing you. You don’t take much to teasing either, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “It’s time someone loosened you up, took some of the steel out of your spine. Does that sober air come along with your sturdy New England roots?”

  “You make me sound like some Puritan marching around in a mobcap and starched apron. Am I really so forbidding?”

  “No,” he said softly, his eyes lambent.

  She had to look away.

  “Have you always lived in Maine?” he asked in a normal tone, pouring himself more coffee.

  “Yes, I was born there, in Freeport. I went to the University at Augusta. Now I work in Portland and live in Cumberland Foreside, a suburb a few miles out.”