She waved her empty glass back and forth, “Fill me up, Red.”
He smiled and poured the last of the wine into her glass. It filled the glass up only about a third of the way.
“We’re out,” she said. “Hang on. I have another bottle.”
“Not for me,” he said. “I’m driving. When you drive the beater truck that I do and you have the long hair of a Cheyenne, you do not want to be pulled over by the Sherriff’s Department.”
Rose’s eyes widened, “I hadn’t thought about that. Will you be ok?”
“I’m pretty sure,” he said. “The Rosebud County Sherriff’s Department is pretty slammed. “It’s only a short distance back to the res. Once I get there, I’ll be fine. The Tribal Police have so much on their hands, I’ll be fine as long as I don’t swerve and run into a building.”
“Oh dear,” Rose said. “Hang on. I’ll put some coffee on.”
“That would be nice, but I need to go. Can I get a raincheck on the coffee for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” she repeated. “I won’t be here. I have to drive into Billings to handle some of my grandfather’s affairs.”
“It’s not a problem for me,” he replied. “All the work is outside. You don’t need to be here.”
“You’re right,” she said, wanting to kick herself for allowing the tone of disappointment to be heard. She wanted the guilty pleasure of watching him getting all sweaty without his shirt on.
“What time will you be back?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Sometime in the late afternoon.”
“I’ll be gone by then. I have another job in Woodplace to get to. I was hoping to show you what I was doing so far to see how you liked it.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Rose replied, disappointed he wouldn’t be around when she returned.
Red Feather stood, “I really enjoyed meeting you, Rose. I’ve heard so much about you.”
He extended his hand. Rose stood and shook his hand, “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you, too, believe me. And thank you for being around tonight when those bullies were here.”
“Of course. I’ll see you soon.”
Rose and Red Feather made eye contact. She allowed it to linger briefly. She smiled and then released his hand.
“Well . . . good night,” he said.
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CHAPTER FIVE
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The following morning Rose woke early, had a light breakfast, a small bowl of fruit and dry toast. She hopped into her rental car to make the drive to Billings, Montana.
It had rained overnight and the air smelled amazingly fresh. Traveling west on I-90 she could almost see the grass, browned by the summer sun, springing back to life. As the sun rose in the east, it filtered through the remaining clouds, now empty and white, creating an explosion of color. What a beautiful place, she thought. As she looked across the fields on both sides of the highway she marveled at how serene it felt to her. It brought back memories. She fully understood why her grandfather never wanted to leave.
Her cell phone rang about the time she reached Dunmore, about half way to Billings. It was Matt Miller, her boss. She answered on the car’s blue tooth. The sound came through clearly.
“Matt? What’s up?”
“Rose, how are things in Wyoming?”
“Montana, Matt. I’m in Montana.”
“Oh, sorry.”
She had already decided she was not going to say anything about her unexpected visit from Lenkov.
“Just got in yesterday morning,” Rose said. “Began making calls to get the funeral arrangements started. Starting going through my grandfather’s books.”
“Hey, I know I told you to take all the time you need, but do you have any idea how long you will be?”
“Not yet,” she replied. “I’m headed to Billings right now to meet with my grandfather’s accountant. I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on late this afternoon. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I didn’t really want to get into it, but the Harden case you’ve been working on is blowing up.”
She rolled her eyes and let out a soft sigh. She had been afraid this would happen but fully believed she had several more days before the shit began to hit the fan. Bill Harden was one of the firm’s seedier clients, but a client with deep pockets, nonetheless. He owned a more than a dozen low income apartment buildings, all subsidized by the state. Harden had the reputation for being a horrible landlord, failing to repair leaky roofs, bad plumbing and bad wiring.
Four months ago, a seven-year-old child plugged in a toaster and the electrical system shorted out, jolting the youngster’s body with electricity. The family didn’t have insurance and the hospital gave him only the bare minimum treatment before kicking him to the curb. A few days later the young boy began to lose use of his arm and he developed heart fibrillation.
Investigators determined the electric shock was caused by faulty wiring and further discovered several code violations. The family sued Harden and Rose Summer was assigned as the lead on the case. It was the first case Miller ever assigned to her as the lead.
“What happened?” Rose asked. “We got a continuance.”
“The injured boy’s condition has taken a turn for the worse,” Miller said. “Plaintiff’s counsel filed a motion to suspend the continuance and continue the trial. Harden is scared. He wants to settle . . . now.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Rose called out in exasperation. The evidence against Harden was overwhelming. He had been cited for code violations many times and had been caught trying to bribe inspectors to make the violations go away. It was never a matter of winning the case. Even Harden knew that. It was all about minimizing the damage and keeping the settlement manageable.
“He’s also pissed at you, Rose?” Miller continued.
“For going to my grandfather’s funeral?”
“For being gone, but also . . . you missed the deadline for filing a motion to suppress the inspector’s report as evidence,” Miller said. “Harden is furious.”
“I told him that motion would never stand up,” Rose argued, her heartrate rising. “It was a Hail Mary.”
“Look, I know that and you know that, but the client wanted to do it,” Miller replied. “You agreed to do it and didn’t.”
“Dammit!” barked Rose. “Ok. I’ll call him.”
“No, Rose,” Miller shot back. “Don’t. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“He wants Bennett.”
“Oh crap, here we go,” she gasped.
Michael Bennett was her boyfriend and a rising star in the firm. He wanted this case from the beginning but Miller convinced him it was time to give Rose a crack as a lead attorney. The Harden case seemed perfect because it was never about winning the case. It was all about negotiating a settlement and Rose had shown tremendous promise with her negotiating skills. However, if this case was turned over to Bennett, she would be seen as a failure. It would be a huge setback in her career, perhaps even an unrecoverable setback.
“Look, Matt, give me the rest of the day to figure something out,” Rose pleaded.
“Sorry, Rose, it’s already done,” he replied.
“When?”
“Yesterday morning,” he said. “I tried to call you but your phone was turned off.”
“Why didn’t you call me back, text me or leave a message?” she asked, growing angry.
“Because it was done and I have a firm to run,” he said. “Look, Rose, this is a good thing . . .”
“How is this a good thing, Matt? Tell me.”
“With Michael taking over from here, there will be no distraction and no rush for you,” he said. “You can focus on shoring up your grandfather’s affairs.”
“Because I’ll never be lead on another case, right? I know how this works, Matt. You get one crack at it. You screw up and your name goes to the bottom of the stack.”
“I’m sorry, Rose. We have an obligation to the client. Look, I have to go. Good luck down there.”
Rose was fuming. The question she really wanted an answer to, was why didn’t Michael call her—her boyfriend? Why didn’t he protect her back? Why didn’t he at least give her the courtesy of calling her and letting her know she was getting kicked to the curb.
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CHAPTER SIX
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Randy Clay had spent forty minutes going over Eli Summer’s financial situation with Rose. Randy had been Eli’s accountant for sixteen years. He was in his mid-sixties, heavyset, balding with a wisp of white hair over his ears. He wore tiny wire-rimmed glasses that were too small for his face. Rose had never met the man but knew her grandfather had thought highly of him. Her face looked somber and dour as she went through his tax returns, his assets and his debts.
At the end she sighed, “This is worse than I thought, Mr. Clay.”
Clay nodded, wearing his own look of disappointment, “I wish I had better news for you. Things have been going downhill for some time.”
“This is awful,” she said. “I had no idea.”
“I’ve been telling him for years, the expense of maintaining Summer Breeze as a non-working ranch was rapidly dragging him into the hole. I told him he needed to sell years ago, to get out, buy a small place and live comfortably.”
“But he wouldn’t listen,” Rose finished. “I know him. He always said he wanted to die on the ranch. How could he get so far in debt?”
“He took out a line of credit using the property as collateral. He was using the line of credit to live on.”
“That’s illegal and stupid, both,” Rose snapped. “You should have told him.”
“I did . . . several times. You know Eli, though.”
“Yes, all too well. Oh, what a mess.”
“There is some good news,” Clay said. “You can still sell the place, pay the back taxes and all the debt, and still have a tidy sum to walk away with. There is no one else mentioned in his will. It would all be yours.”
“I guess I have to strongly consider it,” Rose said.
“There is an offer on the table, you know that, right?”
“Mission Mining?” she replied, nodding.
“Yep. It’s a nonrecurring opportunity, Rose. The mining company needs the property. If you turn it away, the bank will foreclose and take the property away and the mining company will buy it out of foreclosure.”
Rose felt her face flushing, feeling as though she was going to pass out. The thought of selling her grandfather’s land to that pig Lenkov and the mining company was making her sick to her stomach.
“Would you like some water?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
Clay poured her a glass of water and handed it to her, “Ms. Summer, I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’ve been over it time and time again. There is only one solution where this works.”
She gritted her teeth, fuming, “And that’s to sell to Mission Mining, where they will, in turn, poison the water and the air of the reservation.”
Clay raised his eyebrows, “Who have you been talking to?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He sighed, “I wish I could.”
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CHAPTER SEVEN
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Red Feather pulled the truck up to the Summer Breeze Ranch gate; his truck was filled with plants, shrubs and tools he needed for the job. He didn’t see Rose’s car but she had already told him she’d be out for the day. He began to unload the plants and shrubs from the truck when he saw dust kicking up in the distance—a car approaching down the long dirt road of the drive leading to the house from the highway.
The car Rose had rented was white. This one was black, so he knew it wasn’t her. As it drew closer he recognized it as the limo he had seen the evening before, the one carrying a driver, Lenkov and the bodyguard, Mr. McCoy.
He walked to the front of his truck and leaned against his grill, waiting for the car to arrive. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and dabbed the light sweat from his brow. It was already well over eighty degrees and the forecast called for it to reach ninety by midday.
As the limo pulled up, he noticed it was McCoy himself who was driving the car and appeared to be the lone occupant. The mountain of a man emerged from the vehicle. His bald head, dark suit and sunglasses made him think McCoy looked like a Secret Service Agent but he knew the muscle-bound man was anything but.
McCoy buttoned his coat and walked straight toward Red Feather.
“Kinda hot out here for a black suit, don’t you think?” Red Feather asked. He noticed the tight jacket bulging a little near the breast pocket. The big man was concealing a pistol.
“Mr. Lenkov wants to know what you are doing here?” McCoy asked, ignoring the Cheyenne’s comment.
Red Feather shrugged, “Why would Lenkov be concerned about what I am doing here?”
“Mission Mining is buying this property,” McCoy answered. “We are monitoring the company’s interests.”
“How did you know I was here?” Red Feather asked.
“Just answer my question,” McCoy replied, sternly.
McCoy removed his sunglasses, glaring at Red Feather, but saying nothing.
“You’ve been watching the place, haven’t you?” the former SEAL noted.
McCoy looked at Red Feather’s half unloaded truck, “There is no need for landscaping. When the purchase is complete, this house will be leveled.”
“I somehow doubt that happens.”
“Just go away,” he demanded.
“Getting pushy, are we?” he asked. “Actually, I think I’ll stay.”
“You will not stay,” he replied. “You’ll leave now. Mr. Lenkov doesn’t want anyone here.”
“Ask me if I give a rat’s ass what Lenkov wants,” the Cheyenne shot back. “I was hired for a job and I intend to do it.”
“You need to leave . . . now.”
“I spoke to the owner last night and she authorized me to be here,” Red Feather insisted.
“No more talk. Either leave or I will remove you!”
“Why do you care if I complete a job I was hired to do?” the former SEAL asked.
“Mr. Lenkov doesn’t want you snooping around this property,” mountain man answered.
“Why would that be? What does he think I’ll find?”
McCoy paused, “I’m done talking.”
“Tell Mr. Lenkov I intend to stay until Ms. Summer tells me otherwise.”
“I can’t let you stay,” McCoy answered.
“Then you will have to move me,” Red Feather replied.
“Fine by me,” he said.
Mountain man walked a couple of steps forward, closing the gap between them to less than ten feet. Red Feather stood his ground. McCoy looked at him and chuckled, “What are you, a hundred and seventy-five pounds? I’ll break you in two, Cheyenne.”
“You take another step closer and we will soon see,” Red Feather warned.
McCoy paused and smiled. He reached into the inside of his jacket for his gun.
Red Feather cried out in a high-pitched scream and with the quickness and grace of a mountain lion took one step forward and leaped toward the large man. McCoy’s eyes widen in shock. He fumbled trying to pull his gun. He saw the former SEAL gliding through the air toward him, legs apart, arms raised, fists clenched, like a giant eagle zoning in on its prey.
McCoy managed to pull his pistol but Red Feather landed on him feet first before he could clear his pistol from his holster, propelling the body guard backwards. McCoy fell on his back with a large thud. Red Feather stood over him. The big man groaned in pain, pistol now in hand, trying to train his weapon forward.
The Cheyenne kicked the gun out of McCoy’s hand, and stooped, delivering a hammer blow to the body guard’s face. The big man howled in pai
n as blood began to spurt from his nose.
“You broke my nose, you bastard,” McCoy bellowed.
“You can leave . . . now,” Red Feather responded, “or you can suffer the consequences.”
McCoy glared at the Cheyenne, and then looked at his pistol. It was on the ground, more than six feet away.
Red Feather, still standing over the big man, placed his foot on his neck and pressed. McCoy started choking.
“The way I see it, this can go one of two ways,” the former SEAL said. “Option A: you can promise me if I let you up that you will leave quickly and quietly . . . or option B: I can crush your windpipe and watch you die. What do you say? Option A?”
McCoy glared at the Cheyenne again momentarily. Red Feather then felt the big man’s body relax. He looked up and nodded.
“Smart man. Option A it is,” Red Feather said, releasing his foot.
McCoy rolled on his side, coughing and holding his nose. He slowly climbed to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and began to walk toward the gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” Red Feather warned.
The big man sighed and raised his left hand submissively. He was red in the face and heaving for air. He began walking toward his car. He opened the door and took once step inside the door before looking again at the former SEAL.
“See you again, soon, Cheyenne,” he said.
“Of that, I have little doubt,” came the response. “Tell Lenkov that Ms. Summer will be the only one who can ask me to leave, and by the way, if you and I ever have to have this conversation again, it’s going to put me in a foul mood. I might not give you a choice next time.”
McCoy sneered, “Fuck you, Cheyenne.”
McCoy climbed in, started the car and drove away, spinning the vehicle’s wheels angrily, kicking up a plume of dust.
Red Feather watched the limo until he was certain it was gone, then walked over to McCoy’s pistol, picking it up. It was a Desert Eagle .50 caliber, chrome, a powerful weapon. At least the big bastard had good taste in weapons, he thought. He checked the clip, it was full—the safety was on. He slipped the gun down his pants in the back.
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