Not What It Seems (Escape to Alaska Trilogy)

by Brenda Sinclair

  She leaned her arm on the counter, faced Rain Cloud, certain there was more to come.

  “Clayton commented on my grouchy mood and inquired if I worked as a psychologist with a bunch of wealthy complainers whose mothers hadn’t loved them. I assured him he wasn’t even close, explained I worked with troubled youths.” Rain Cloud glanced away for a second and then met Cassidy’s eyes. “One of my kids had committed suicide the night before.”

  “Oh, no!” Cassidy touched Rain Cloud’s arm. “No wonder you were upset.”

  “Times like that, I wonder if I’m doing any good at all, believe my efforts are useless. Clayton suggested I quit my job if I hated it so much. But it’s not that I hate what I do. The kids just drive me crazy sometimes. One minute they demonstrate enormous potential. And then something happens and they piss away every opportunity that’s handed to them. Some days I wish I could just shake some sense into them.” The Chief tapped the bar with his knuckles.

  “What you do is commendable.” Cassidy smiled. “You’re molding so many young lives in a positive way, creating innumerable opportunities for them to better themselves and their community.” She almost blurted out how many troubled youths—both poor as church mice and privileged beyond belief—she’d defended while living in Chicago. But she caught herself in time.

  “On a good day, I’d concur. Then a bad day comes along again, and….” Rain Cloud downed the remainder of his drink.

  “Want another?”

  “No thanks. My set starts soon.”

  Cassidy noticed the guitar case on the floor beside his barstool. “So how did that initial conversation result in your working here as a singer?”

  “Clayton asked if I always wander into a bar when I’ve had a bad day.” Rain Cloud stood and grabbed his guitar case off the floor. “I told him I usually headed home, hauled out my guitar, and sang a few country tunes. All those sad songs about lost jobs and broken love affairs and the dog up and died. Soon, all those troubles seemed worse in comparison to mine, and in no time, I returned to my cheerful old self again.” Rain Cloud sauntered across the room and climbed the two steps to the stage area.

  “Did you audition?” asked Cassidy, following.

  “Clayton just asked if I was any good, and I assured him I’d never heard any complaints. So, he suggested I fetch my guitar, get my butt back here, and sing everyone a couple of country tunes.” Rain Cloud set his guitar case down, plucked his guitar out, and plugged it into the amplifier. “I figured he’d given me a nickname, he was getting one, too. So I warned him, ‘White Boy, be careful what you ask for. I might just take you up on that offer.’ He answers, ‘Fair enough, Rain Cloud, you’re tonight’s warm up act for the band. Your set starts at eight. Don’t be late.’”

  Cassidy grinned. “You actually returned at eight o’clock?”

  Rain Cloud tested the microphone. “Drove home, contemplated the whole idea for thirty minutes, and then packed up the old guitar and headed out the door. I’ve performed three or four sets a week here ever since.”

  “Does Clayton pay you?” Cassidy stood arms crossed.

  “Nope. But every time I stomp in here, guitar in hand, everyone knows I’ve had a bad day. Everybody duly avoids me until I’ve downed a drink and sung a few tunes. Afterward, Clayton pours me another drink or two on the house, and all is well with my world again.”

  “I don’t believe this. You work for free. You exchange derogatory greetings which you consider totally acceptable…”

  “We understand each other just fine.” The Chief interrupted, smiling.

  “I’d be suing for slander!”

  “Cassidy, names aren’t racist unless purposely intended as hurtful toward the recipient. Our banter really isn’t what it seems. White Boy and I understand the nicknames are meant in fun.”

  “You should consider an alternative way to shake off a bad day.” Cassidy met his eyes. “How about a nice dinner out?”

  “A nice dinner out?” asked Rain Cloud, incredulously. “And who would accompany me on this nice dinner out?”

  “Me.”

  “You?” Rain Cloud sounded stunned at her suggestion.

  “Why do you consider the idea so far-fetched?” Cassidy contemplated his reaction for a few seconds and then felt her face redden. “Are you married?”

  “Nope, single man. Far-fetched? Let’s review. You don’t know me. I just met you. We probably haven’t one thing in common. Should I continue?” Rain Cloud raised an eyebrow.

  “Consider dinner together a therapeutic opportunity to become acquainted.” Cassidy leaned in closer, whispering in a conspirator-like fashion. “On second thought, consider dinner with me an opportunity to possibly inflame an unprecedented jealous streak in Clayton. I’m new in town and he refused to accept my invitations to dinner.”

  Chief Rain Cloud’s expression changed. He’s obviously found that idea intriguing, she thought.

  “So, you’re falling for Clayton, are you?”

  “Hardly! Well, I think he’s handsome. That doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, if I agree to this little caper, what do you have in mind?”

  “Just dinner for two, your choice. Anything is fine with me.” Cassidy had worked with Hispanic people, African-Americans, Middle East immigrants and Caucasians, of course, but few Native Americans. She’d suggested dinner with Rain Cloud to annoy Clayton, but something about the impeccably dressed, well-spoken, well-mannered, well-educated man fascinated her.

  “Anything?”

  “Chateaubriand or bannock and stew. You choose.” Cassidy grinned. “There’s one condition, however.”

  Chief Rain Cloud met her eyes. “So, as co-conspirator in your ‘make Clayton jealous mission’, I now must meet a condition? What?”

  “I absolutely refuse to consider the idea of dinner with someone named Chief Rain Cloud. What is your real name?”

  The native fellow chucked. “Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Randy Rock. Now which name do you prefer…Rain Cloud or Rock?”

  “Rock? I heard that surname during one of my tours downtown. Are you related to the fellow who started the newspaper Tundra Times?” asked Cassidy.

  “One of my uncles.”

  “Very interesting. I’m looking forward to our evening out, Mr. Rock. Give me a call soon. The number’s in the book under my housemate Patricia Graham.” Cassidy spotted Clayton advancing toward them.

  “I just might do that, Cassidy.” Randy Rock nodded and smiled.

  “Nice to meet you.” She turned on her heel and swung past Clayton on her way to the staff room.

  *

  “Sorry that took so long.” Clayton stood, arms crossed, and feet planted in a wide stance. “What were you and Cassidy discussing?”

  “Nothing much. A little of this, a little of that.” Randy tugged his guitar strap over his head, settled it on his shoulder.

  “Did she leave in a huff, as usual?”

  “Nope. She suggested I phone her and ask her out to dinner.” Randy’s expression remained unchanged.

  “Right. Just tell me to mind my own business. Don’t resort to making stuff up,” muttered Clayton.

  Randy turned on the microphone and smiled. “Good evening, folks. My name’s Randy Rock. Here’s a tune for you originally sung by the man in black.” The native singer started his set singing about prison blues.

  Rock’s reluctance to volunteer any insight into where his conversation with Cassidy had led raised Clayton’s suspicions. What common interests would the two of them find to discuss? When nothing immediately popped into his mind, Clayton decided his friend was just playing with him. He’d seldom seen Randy with a woman. At one time, he’d even considered the possibility the guy was gay.

  Ask Cassidy out to dinner?

  As if that would happen.

  Chapter 8

  What was it with Alaskan men?

  Cassidy had learned that at one time the ratio of single guys to single women was some ridiculous st
atistic like ten men to one woman. Even at two to one, shouldn’t either Clayton or Randy have jumped at the chance to ask her out to dinner? Okay, technically she’d asked them. But neither of them had acted on her almost brazen proposition.

  Cassidy hadn’t dated anyone since the Jonathan Ward fiasco initiated at her father’s insistence, and she hadn’t heard from Randy Rock for a full two weeks. She’d almost given up hope of resurrecting her social life. And then Randy called Wednesday morning and asked her out to dinner Friday night.

  Today was Friday, and she looked forward to the evening out. She’d checked her watch every fifteen minutes for the final two hours of her shift. Time dragged by at a snail’s pace while she completed the day’s work. Finally, six o’clock rolled around, and she raced into the staff locker room to change, touch up her makeup, and fluff her hair before her date arrived.

  Cassidy’s stomach flip-flopped in anticipation.

  She breathed deeply, attempting to calm her silly schoolgirl nerves while she undressed and tossed her blouse and denim skirt into her locker. Off came the cowboy boots next. She’d forgone wearing socks to avoid elastic marks on her legs. She stuffed her cowboy hat onto the top shelf and grabbed the plastic garment bag off the locker’s interior metal hook.

  The sleeveless little black Vera Wang dress she’d bought on sale last Boxing Day slipped smoothly over her head. She peeked into the floor-length mirror attached to the locker room door. Vera’s creation fit her slim body perfectly, hugging her curves in all the right places. The V-neck tastefully displayed her cleavage, and the slightly scalloped hem floated about her legs enticingly.

  “If Randy Rock’s heart doesn’t stop when he sees me in this dress, I’ll eat it,” she whispered aloud.

  Black high-heeled sandals, diamond studs, and a single strand of pearls completed her outfit. She dug a brush and can of hairspray out of her purse and performed magic on curls crushed by a cowboy hat for the past eight hours. She retouched her cheeks with blush, carefully reapplied pink lipstick, and then added smoky gray eye shadow and another layer of mascara to complete the look. Satisfied with the image that reflected back at her, she whispered, “Here goes nothing.”

  Just as Cassidy stuffed the garment bag inside her locker and slammed the tinny locker door shut, Sherry charged into the locker room. “Hi Cassidy, I’m late for my…” Sherry stood, speechless.

  “Hi, Sherry. You muttered something about running late?” Cassidy dropped her lipstick into her small black silk evening purse and closed it.

  “It is you in there, right?” Sherry motioned for Cassidy to turn in a circle for her. “Wow! That is some dress!”

  “Thank you. A little number I purchased months ago, but it seemed perfect for tonight.” Cassidy grinned and curtsied playfully.

  “That’s right. Randy’s taking you out to dinner tonight.” Sherry whistled. “I can’t wait to see his face.

  “Gotta go.” Cassidy grabbed her black trench coat off the coat rack and folded it over her arm. “Don’t wait up,” she called playfully on her way out to the bar to wait for her date.

  Cassidy noticed that Clayton almost dropped the liquor bottle he was holding when she strolled into the bar, and then he just gawked at her. Well, at least the dress achieved the desired effect on one man, she thought. For a second, she wished he was the man she was waiting for. Well, he’d blown his chance.

  Clayton appeared to have recovered and asked, “Going somewhere with a girlfriend tonight?”

  “Nope.” Cassidy winked. “I have a date.”

  “A date? I’m a little surprised. You usually just head home after your shifts.” Clayton swiped a damp towel across the counter in front of Cassidy, and then wiped the area dry with a second cloth.

  Cassidy tossed her coat on the bar top, sat ladylike on the barstool, and placed her evening bag in front of her.

  After a trio of fellows paid their tab at the counter and left, Cassidy asked, “Clayton, is the idea of me dating really that surprising?”

  Scowling, Clayton cleared away the mess the fellows left behind and vigorously wiped the countertop. “Remember, I warned you. The owner fires waitresses who date customers.”

  “I’m not dating a customer,” spat Cassidy. “I’m capable of attracting a man’s attention without accepting the unwanted overtures of drunken bar patrons.”

  Cassidy silently stewed. Did Clayton Morrison and his overblown ego think so little of her? “You, my friend, refused my offer to spend a pleasant evening together over dinner. Ergo, my personal life is none of your business.”

  “As long as we understand each other.” Clayton stood, frowning, arms crossed.

  At that moment, the main entrance door swung open. Anticipating her date’s arrival, Cassidy’s eyes migrated in that direction. Clayton’s eyes followed.

  Randy Rock crossed the threshold, spotted her seated at the bar, and smiled warmly. Cassidy’s heart fluttered unexpectedly inside her chest. The handsome man slowly strolled toward her wearing a perfectly-tailored dark blue suit, pale gray and blue striped shirt, solid medium blue tie, polished black leather shoes, and a wide grin. Two perfect braids hung over his shoulders. When he stepped up beside her, she caught a whiff of the same male cologne which she again recognized but still couldn’t put a name to.

  “Hi.” Cassidy couldn’t contain her smile.

  “Hi yourself,” answered Randy.

  His eyes roamed over her entire body from her sandals clear up to the diamond studs, and then he whistled in approval, low and slow.

  Cassidy hopped off the barstool and similarly scanned her date from head to toe.

  Randy slowly turned in a complete circle, grinning broadly. “Donned my best suit, and splashed on some ‘white-man-smell-good-lotion’. Do I pass inspection?”

  “Definitely.” Cassidy grabbed her evening bag off the countertop. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you very much, Miss Du Pont.”

  “Have you picked out a restaurant?”

  “Yes, I have. And I’m hoping there aren’t too many old gentlemen eating at Endless Nights tonight.” Randy Rock reached for her coat and helped her into it.

  “And why is that?” asked Cassidy.

  “When you stroll in wearing that dress, some of those old geysers might swallow their dentures.” Randy whistled again.

  Cassidy laughed. “Mother insisted a lady could never go wrong wearing a little black dress and pearls.”

  “That’s what we Native people call a wise elder.” Randy kissed her on the forehead.

  Cassidy stiffened slightly when Randy leaned toward her, but the moment his warm lips brushed her skin she relaxed. Jonathan Ward had never kissed her so tenderly or created such a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach during their entire three months of dinners, movies and dancing. Not even once.

  *

  “So, Chief, you’re her date tonight?”

  Clayton glared at his friend. He recalled brushing off Randy’s comment concerning Cassidy’s request that he ask her out to dinner. Should he have taken the comment more seriously? He couldn’t put his finger on any specific reason why the idea of the two of them dating bothered him. But for some reason, the idea didn’t sit well with him.

  “Yes, sir.” Randy moved his hand to Cassidy’s back. “I’m the lucky fellow.”

  Clayton gritted his teeth.

  “Cassidy, I warned you. The waitresses are not allowed to date the customers.” Clayton emphasized his statement by wagging his finger at her.

  Randy pointed at the stage, grinning. “White Boy, you hired me to sing here every week and that qualifies me as staff, not a customer.”

  In Clayton’s opinion, he’d only offered Randy an opportunity to entertain folks with no money exchanged. Did free drinks, however, constitute an agreement that could be construed as employment? Clayton opened his mouth to argue the ‘hired’ part, and then thought better of it.

  “Correct.” Cassidy stared down Clayton, daring him to disagree.
“Although your arrangement with Mr. Rock is verbal in nature, the mutual agreement remains valid and binding on both parties. Furthermore, although no money changes hands, Randy receives complimentary drinks on evenings when he performs. Thus, he receives consideration in return for providing a service, namely entertainment. He’s staff!”

  Clayton glowered at Cassidy. Had she read his bloody mind? She’d presented her case convincingly enough: succinct wording, spoken with conviction and confidence. Hell, the damn woman could hold her own in a court of law if she set her mind to it.

  “Are you ready to go?” asked Randy.

  “Anytime you are.” Cassidy smiled up at her tall date.

  “Then we’re off.”

  As she headed toward the front entrance, Cassidy called over her shoulder, “Goodnight, Clayton. See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t wait up, White Boy. I’ve no intention of bringing Cinderella home before midnight.” Randy grinned wickedly, bobbed his eyebrows, and then closed the door behind them.

  A full minute passed before Clayton realized he still stood with his mouth agape in the middle of the room. He glanced across at Terry, noticed the amused expression on the bouncer’s face, and realized his friend witnessed the entire exchange.

  “Okay. So Cassidy hasn’t become acquainted with a lot of people in town yet. But you’d imagine someone as intelligent and attractive as Cassidy would govern her social life by higher standards. The man wears his hair in braids, for God’s sake.” Clayton kicked a chair on his way back behind the bar.

  Terry gave no reply.

  “Randy just joked about that Cinderella midnight stuff, right?” Clayton glared at the bouncer. “After all, it’s only their first date. Isn’t it?”

  Terry remained silent.

  “Well, isn’t it?”