by Nina Bruhns
And any plans to stay really would be impossible.
She had to play it cool. Very cool. And hope he didn't notice her heart had tumbled from her chest and right back into his hands.
* * *
It was difficult to keep up her facade of casual cheerfulness in the face of her inner turmoil, and especially under the onslaught of Roman's boundless affection. It had always been one of the things she loved best about him—his habit of touching her constantly.
As they ate and gathered fresh clothes, he brushed over her with a caress, a kiss, a nuzzle. Her whole body attuned to it, reveled in its sweet familiarity, made her yearn for the next soft touch of his fingers or lips. When they went together to the hot springs for a quick wash she was barely able to resist his overtures to make love again. But being that close even once more would surely break the heart that was fast becoming hopelessly lost to him.
"I'll just get my purse and we can go," she said to distract herself from watching him straighten the bed.
"Right." He went over and rooted through his pack, slipping a wallet into his pocket and a big silver gun into the back waistband of his jeans.
She gasped in surprise. "What's that for?"
He looked up, briefly puzzled, then answered, "I'm a federal agent. I always carry."
"You didn't yesterday."
"I did. You just didn't notice." He tied up his pack and straightened. "Too busy worrying about other things, no doubt."
"I suppose." She sighed. "The FBI is a far cry from becoming a veterinarian. I can't believe you actually carry a gun."
"Does it bother you?"
She pursed her lips. "You know how I feel about violence. I thought you felt the same way."
"I do."
"Then how can you do it?"
He closed his eyes briefly, then took her by the arms, as if compelling her to listen to an explanation she wouldn't buy.
"Cara, when I ratted out my father for murdering those agents, the FBI couldn't believe their luck—a Navy-trained son of a Native American hero turning traitor to his father and his people."
"You're no traitor," she interrupted, objecting strongly to his self-condemning words. "Your sense of honor made you do it. It had nothing to do with betrayal."
He gazed at her, his eyes shining with desolation. "Thank you for that. I should have known you'd understand. But they didn't. They offered me a job on the spot."
"You didn't have to take it."
He sighed and dropped her arms. "My father killed two of their men. I needed to restore the balance. For my own sake."
Okay, that she could buy. He'd always believed in harmony and honor above all.
"Even though the FBI thought he was dead."
"Yeah."
"Because your father had escaped justice and gotten away with murder by disappearing and making everyone think he'd died a hero."
He shrugged.
"All right. So you felt you owed the FBI two lives. How many have you repaid since then?"
The corner of his lip went up, and she knew instinctively there had been dozens. "The FBI aren't as dumb as they look. They always send me after the nasty wasichu criminals."
The white bad guys. She laughed softly and took his arm, heading for the front door. "Ah, poetic justice. And that's why you've stayed on, despite the violence."
"No," he said, pausing to let her go first. "I stayed on because of the violence—of all kinds and colors. Every day I've seen what it does to this country. My job lets me eliminate some of that suffering, but to do it I need to carry a gun."
Turning to lock the door behind them, she smiled at his circular reasoning. It didn't matter how far afield they went in a discussion, he'd always manage to get back to the original point. "Then you're a bigger hero than your father ever pretended to be."
"Sure I am." He snorted dismissively, and she was about to argue when he said, "Aw, hell," and clumped over to the window. She looked up and saw him bending over a cardboard box.
Toby's box.
"Damn, we forgot about that, didn't we?"
Their eyes met, and it seemed like a lifetime of memories washed between them instead of just twelve hours' worth.
"I guess we did. Want me to open it?"
She nodded. "May as well get it over with. Wouldn't want some disgusting thing sitting on the porch all day."
He fetched a fallen pine branch from the ground and used it to lift the lid from a few feet away, just in case. A frown creased his forehead. "That's weird."
"What?" she asked, and took a step forward from where he'd shooed her. "What is it?"
"Clothes. Old clothes."
They both approached, and perused the contents of the box from above. Sure enough, several articles of clothing appeared to be neatly folded and deposited in the bottom.
"Stand back," he said, and gingerly moved the top layer aside with the twig. "It's gotta be a trick."
But nothing was hidden under it, or under the other articles, except two old tattered envelopes. He dropped to his knees to examine the things closer.
"What does it mean?" she asked, and that's when she noticed he had gone deathly pale. "Roman?"
He pulled the bottom-most garment from the box, some kind of beaded vest, and looked up, anguish shimmering in his face.
"My God," he whispered in a strangled voice, "It's my father's."
* * *
Stunning disbelief coursed through Roman's body. How could it be? After all these years, how could this stuff suddenly reappear? The FBI had searched the Big Pine reservation and surrounding areas thoroughly for any trace of his father, his disappearance and supposed death thirty years ago.
Of course, Roman knew the answer without even thinking. The people of Big Pine would never have betrayed his father by giving a single clue to the hated enemy. No matter the cost.
Only Roman himself had done that, turned Quisling to his dead hero father.
Focus. He had to focus. Fighting the torment razoring through his insides, he answered RaeAnne's unspoken questions.
"This vest was part of my father's regalia. And these—" he carefully picked up the shirt and jeans that had lain on top, now recognizing them from news footage taken the day of the Native Rights demonstration "—they're the clothes he was wearing when he disappeared and supposedly died."
The Western-style shirt had long sleeves and a decorative yoke across the back. Several long, thin ribbons were sewn to the corners of the yoke. As he unfolded it, they fluttered in the breeze like unanswered prayers, almost diverting him from the hole that pierced the left shoulder, and the dried blood that surrounded it.
"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured when he crushed the shirt in his fists.
She came down next to him, put her arms around him. He went rigid, resisting her comfort. He didn't deserve her sympathy.
"Toby must have found out who you are," she said. "He's from Big Pine. Maybe somebody's been keeping the clothes all these years and wanted to return them to you?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so. Why would they do it like this?"
"Then why? What could they mean?"
"I don't know. But one thing I think we can count on. This stuff isn't here out of kindness."
He fished up the two envelopes, desperate for a clue. One appeared much fatter than the other. Carefully he opened the skinny one and peered in. He blinked, a wave of sweet-painful recognition crashing over him.
"Feathers?" RaeAnne's soft voice whispered.
"Eagle feathers," he corrected in a rasp.
Each of the three feathers screamed out a dissonant chord of memories. Of the bravery his father had displayed to earn it. Of a young son, bursting with pride at the ceremony where it had been bestowed. Of the fervent hope that he, too, would someday be worthy of such an honor. Hope that had turned to ashes.
"My father's eagle feathers."
She didn't question him. Roman realized she had lived among Indian people long enough to know that each feather
would be recognized as easily as the man it had been presented to—especially when a photo of his father wearing them still graced the wall of his mother's home.
"But that's impossible," she said, putting voice to the con-fusion beginning to swirl through his own mind. She also knew a man's eagle feathers were sacred. A man would never, ever part with them, not while he was on this earth.
"I thought you said he's still alive?"
"That's what I believe."
Reverently he laid the envelope aside, heedful not to bump or jostle it, and reached for the other one. As soon as his fingers gripped its thick bulk, he knew what lay inside. He couldn't believe it. Lifting the flap open, he was confronted by a literal fortune. In eagle feathers.
* * *
Roman leaned back in the Jeep's bucket seat and listened to the wind rushing past as RaeAnne drove down the mountain. He hoped the long drive would help him think. They'd slid Toby's box and its precious contents in among the stack of similar artifact boxes stowed in the cabin. Plain sight was always the best hiding place.
The whole thing made no sense. Who had sent the box? And why? Obviously, Toby had just been the messenger. Although naturally Roman still planned to grill the boy. He must know something.
"Is it a message, or is it a warning?" RaeAnne asked, uncannily echoing his own thoughts. "Could it be someone trying to tell you your father really is dead?"
"A good possibility. I have a hard time believing he'd part with those feathers otherwise."
After considering for a moment, she asked, "Who told you he's still alive?"
"The FBI."
She shot him a surprised glance. "You're kidding."
He shook his head wearily. "I'd never brought myself to look up his file before, until a few months ago. I thought I was finally ready to read what was in it."
"And it said he was alive?"
"Not outright. But a few entries had been added back in '86, and again in '88. Entries I couldn't read because they were classified Need To Know. When I asked about them, I was given the runaround by the special agent in charge of the case. Made all sorts of excuses, and sounded mighty uncomfortable talking to me. The only explanation that fits is that he was alive back then and he's still alive today."
"But you're his son!" Outrage sizzled in her declaration. "You have a right to know if your own father is alive!"
He sighed. "It's complicated. I told them he murdered their men. Maybe they think—"
"You'll run out and shoot him? Come on. They must know you better than that."
He chuckled. "Not necessarily. The Bureau's always considered me a loose cannon. But if he's still involved in the drug trade and they're watching him, or closing in for an arrest, it's more likely they're afraid I'll mess things up."
"You think it's the FBI who sent the box? Trying to throw you off the trail?"
"Nah. Too subtle," he said. "They'd just haul me in and slap an order on me if they thought I was getting too close."
She was quiet for a few minutes as she drove off the dirt road and turned onto the highway heading north. The valley was warm and fragrant, the sky crystal clear, but Roman couldn't relax and enjoy the beautiful day. He glanced up at the mountains. Ever since he'd arrived, he'd felt them hovering, watching him.
"It has to be someone who knew him well," RaeAnne said.
Shaking off the completely ridiculous feeling, he lowered his gaze to her. "Why do you say that?"
"Why else would they separate your father's eagle feathers from the rest? If they put them in a different envelope it just makes sense they knew you'd recognize them. Only someone who knew him well would care enough, one way or another, to do that."
He stared at her, impressed. Of course, he'd already realized those facts, but it was his job.
"Archaeology isn't so different from police work," she said at the look on his face. "We just usually deal with cultural rather than personal motivation for why things are left the way they are."
"Still. That was some pretty good logic," he remarked. "All right, so we know they care about what happens to Hector Santangelo, and my involvement in it. But the real question remains, was this a message or was it a warning?"
* * *
Roman took the news that the Board had voted to return the rest of RaeAnne's artifacts with mixed feelings. On the one hand, her beaming face as the Chairman led them into his office showed just how elated she was to get them back. But on the other, there was now no credible reason to put off leaving her.
He'd gotten the forgiveness he came for. He'd momentarily be done with his duties as Native overseer of the artifacts. It was obvious she'd never been in any real danger from Toby. And as for Toby's box, Roman planned to go straight to Big Pine, get to the bottom of that mystery, and start working on the bigger task of finding his father. She'd just be in the way, even if she felt like going along.
The sight of her happy smile and laughing eyes as they loaded the artifact boxes into the Jeep made his heart do a little leap, and his body fill with a quiet craving.
Making love to her had not been the smartest move. Though he didn't regret a single touch or minute in her arms, it would make parting with her all the more difficult. And finding out about the baby had added a new layer to his guilt and reluctance to just ride away. Somehow, even though they'd talked and he was sure she'd told him everything, it still felt unfinished between them. Especially now.
Because after being with her again like that, holding her close, whispering endearments in her ear as she sighed his name, he couldn't kid himself any longer.
He was in love with her.
He'd always been in love with her. Had known from the start, way back in junior high, she would be the only woman for him, ever.
Unfortunately she didn't share his deep feelings. What he'd done in the past had hurt her too much. And the baby … oh, God, his baby! His own heart carried a new blistering wound so profound he didn't dare think of it. It was too painful to contemplate how badly the loss of their baby had affected RaeAnne.
Despite her words to the contrary, how could she possibly forgive him for all that, let alone want to build a future with him? She couldn't. She just couldn't.
So there was no excuse to stay and a million reasons to hit the road. To stick around would only prolong the agony, and make it that much harder on both of them.
"Now who's a million miles away?" she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"Sorry. I was just thinking about—" He halted, before he could say something they'd both regret. Glancing back at the tribal building, he said, "Stay put a minute. I want to ask the Chairman something."
He marched off, hoping she hadn't noticed he couldn't look her in the eye. Questioning the Chairman would get his mind back on track. Back to finding his father. Not how much he was going to miss RaeAnne Martin's warm companionship and loving touch.
"May I speak with you?" he asked the Chairman after flinging open the door and striding back into the building.
A fleeting wariness passed through the older man's eyes, but he inclined his head and led Roman into his office. "What can I do for you? If it's about the skeletal remains—"
"When was the last time you saw Hector Santangelo?" he interrupted.
There was no mistaking the Chairman's brief flash of shock, but he quickly recovered. "Why?"
Roman kept his mouth shut, staring at him expectantly. Their gazes warred for a moment before the old man looked away and said, "Your father disappeared many years ago."
"Did he ever come back?"
The Chairman turned away, facing the window overlooking the mountains. "Hector Santangelo is gone," he said, as if speaking to the towering peaks. "He will not return." He pivoted and pinned his gaze on Roman. "Don't waste your time on phantoms, my son. There are other things you should be concerned about."
"Like what?" Roman asked in annoyance, just as the intercom on the desk buzzed loudly.
"Keep her safe," the Chairman said crypticall
y, then turned away and lifted the receiver, effectively dismissing him.
Roman tromped back to the parking lot, but was brought up short by the sight of a sheriff's cruiser parked next to the Jeep, and RaeAnne in conversation with a man. The same man who had walked into the cabin this morning.
Just great.
A surge of panic shot through Roman's chest. What did the sheriff want? Had he changed his mind about dumping RaeAnne?
He stifled the urge to stalk over there and flatten the guy. No. Hadn't he just decided he was leaving anyway? If his rival had reconsidered, he should be happy for RaeAnne, and not blow it for her. It's what she'd wanted.
Gritting his teeth, he compelled a strained smile to his face and sauntered up to them.
"What's going on?" The words came out sharper than he'd intended, so he forced himself to stick out his had to the sheriff. "I'm Roma Santangelo."
The other man stared for a moment before giving it a perfunctory shake. "Philip O'Donnaugh. I can't say it's a pleasure to meet you, Santangelo."
There wasn't much he could say to that, so he remained silent.
"RaeAnne and I need to talk. You won't mind if I drive her back to the site, will you?"
O'Donnaugh's whole attitude dared him to mind. It seemed the sheriff was spoiling for a fight as badly as he'd been this morning.
Roman looked over to RaeAnne, who appeared a little pale. "Rae?" She gave him a weak smile, and lifted a shoulder almost imperceptibly.
All right, fine. So she wanted to talk to the guy.
"No problem," he said curtly to O'Donnaugh, and slid into the Jeep. "She's all yours."
He ignored the widening of her eyes, and gunned out of the lot. No way in hell was he going to stand there and make nice with Mr. Steady-Job-And-Fishing-On-The-Weekends. If she wanted to settle for that, it was her life. None of his damned business. She'd made that clear with her casual attitude since they'd made love.
He kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road whipping past, forbidding himself to turn the Jeep around and snatch her away from O'Donnaugh.
This morning had been an accident. A fantasy. One last burst of passion for old time's sake. Nothing in RaeAnne's subsequent actions or conversation had indicated their lovemaking meant anything more to her than mutual comfort after a bad night. She wasn't in love with him. Hadn't been for years.