Danger, Sweetheart

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “Gotta get this gal squared away before I head out.”

  “I’ll watch her,” Blake interjected so quickly he startled himself. “I mean, ah, it’s no trouble to supervise her. For a little while. If you like. I don’t mind.” He glanced at Natalie, who was gaping at him. Does my fondness for the White Rose of York make me more acceptable to her, or less? Not enough data. “Natalie doesn’t mind.” I hope.

  “Naw, I’ll be gone for a couple hours.”

  “Don’t you have enough on your plate with Margaret of Anjou?” Natalie teased, and laughed outright at Blake’s shudder.

  “Welp, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go tickle trout.”

  “Sorry?” Please don’t be a euphemism for masturbating; please don’t be a euphemism for masturbating. Unlikely; he wouldn’t say such a thing in front of Natalie. Would he?

  Natalie took pity at Blake’s clear confusion. “It’s fishing, ya idjit.”

  “Oh.” He paused. Idjit? “That doesn’t help me at all. I’m still mystified.”

  “You in a nutshell.” A strange thing, she’d sounded almost … fond?

  “It’s how we old-timers like to do it. You just”—Roger bent at the waist and wiggled his fingers over an imaginary trout in an imaginary stream—“do like this. It puts ’em in a trance and then…” He mimed gently seizing the entranced trout and heaving it up onto the imaginary riverbank. “Supper!”

  “That is genius. I think.” Was it? On the one hand, it would take time. On the other hand, no equipment necessary. He might have to do some research. “It might be self-defeating, I’m not sure.”

  “I’m goin’ with genius,” was the cheerful reply as Roger moved past their table into the house, the White Rose of York trotting in his wake. She let out a squeak as she passed Natalie. “See you kids later.”

  When the porch door had closed, Natalie leaned forward and almost whispered, “Isn’t he the biggest sweetie? One of the nicest guys in town maybe.”

  Her mouth has never been so close to my face. “Maybe?” he managed.

  “Did you hear him stumble when he was talking about his hobby?”

  “Yes, that was odd.”

  “He takes these long mysterious vacations that he never talks about.” She was still leaning close to him, still speaking in a low, intimate voice that Blake could hear with his groin. He’d had no idea he could hear with his groin; working on a farm was wreaking changes all over his body. “He doesn’t bring it up, ever—and you know how boring people can get about their vacations. He never has pictures. Not that he’s shown anybody, I mean. It’s all pretty weird. The latest theories are he’s a spy brought out of retirement for one more job—which has happened about eight times—and he has a man-whore kink and goes to a big anonymous city to rent his body to tourists and the occasional skeevey local.”

  Blake snorted so hard he nearly aspirated his booze-ade. “I won’t thank you for putting that mental picture in my head.”

  She laughed, delighted. “Think I want it in my head? I don’t want to picture any of that stuff on my own. Why shouldn’t you have to suffer, too?”

  Her head was so close to his! He wished he had a wonderful secret to tell her. Something titillating but nonthreatening. I had a nightmare I ran down Margaret of Anjou with the tractor and woke up laughing. Ah, no. I am considering my brother’s advice but have no idea how to go about seducing you. Pass. Your shampoo is mysterious and it’s the wrong time of the year to smell of cherry blossoms. He liked her confiding in him. He wished he could be overt about smelling her damp hair. “It’s not long,” he blurted, and then wanted to smack himself.

  “What isn’t?” She followed his gaze and touched her hair. “This? No. Not practical for my work. And I have to keep my bangs short, and if I wear it too long it makes my face disappear. I have a fat face!”

  “You do not.” He was almost mortally offended. “You have a wonderful face.”

  “I noticed you didn’t say thin.”

  “Broad,” he said firmly, “is not fat.”

  “Why so interested in my coiffure? D’you want me to break out the braids, maybe stick an eagle feather in my hair?”

  “No, only warriors, chiefs, and braves had that privilege,” he replied without thinking, “and that only after a brave deed done and then told to the tribe.”

  “Been reading up on me?” she teased, and at once it was difficult to hold her gaze. Idiot! Must you always show off? He mumbled something about indigenous people and matters of intellectual curiosity and could see she was trying not to laugh. A good sign, he hoped.

  “It’s fine. I’m flattered. I promise there won’t be a quiz.”

  A quiz I could handle. It’s being in close proximity with you that I find difficult and distracting.

  “I would never assume that after reading a Wikipedia entry about Lakota and Dakota tribes I would know all there was to know about you.” Alas. He didn’t and never would know all there was to know about her.

  “Are you sure?” At least she was still teasing; he hadn’t offended her with his clumsiness. “Most people think what Wiki tells them to think. And how’d you know I was Dakota?”

  “Process of elimination,” he replied promptly. “Strictly going by the numbers, your ancestors were likely Sioux or Chippewa. After researching the area, it seemed likely you were—” Stop. Just stop. “Lucky guess?”

  “Never in your life,” was the kind reply, much more than he deserved.

  Okay. She’s not annoyed; you haven’t made an irredeemable ass of yourself, on this topic anyway. Move on. Talk about the weather. Talk about the White Rose of York. Natalie is not your own personal font of Native American trivia.

  “I … I—”

  “Yeah? You okay? You look weird. Weirder,” she clarified.

  Why is it so hot out here? “Nothing.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind if you’ve got questions. It’s nice to see someone going to the source, frankly. Not that I’m much of one, I identify equally with my mom’s and my dad’s cultures.”

  “I’m fine. I am. I have no questions. I seek no knowledge.”

  She leaned in again. “Are you suuure?”

  “It’s just I found the government hierarchy to be fascinating with the subdivisions being divided into tribes as they are—”

  “Ha! Knew you’d crack.”

  “—and you would think their autonomous nature would make governing difficult, but it seems to work, which raises several more questions, and though the U.S. and Canadian governments acknowledge your citizenship they also consider you dual citizens, which must be quite advantageous…” He took a breath. “… and although some tribes were patriarchal in nature I found their encouragement of girls to hunt and fight to be not only indicative of an open mind but in fact putting them ahead of their time, which I think was a factor of the leaders—the itancans—no longer being exclusively male.”

  “Wow.”

  He wanted to hide. “I’m sorry.”

  “How come? You made some good points and you never once offered me the chance to smoke a peace pipe.” At Blake’s horrified groan, her smile widened. “That was— Your curiosity about things, it just eats at you sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what it does.” She understood, miracle of miracles. He’d half expected a faceful of booze-ade.

  “My grandpa was our itancan for years.”

  “He was? Really?” Was. Dammit. No longer a source. Yes, like she would allow you to corner her grandfather and fire questions at him while resisting the urge to kiss his granddaughter.

  “And ahead of his time—which means your relatives and mine have things in common.”

  He wasn’t hearing right. Was he? “Really?”

  “Of course, really. Look, your family was never especially loved around here, but they did big things and they left their mark on the place. No one can deny that.”

  “They certainly left their mark on my mom,” he replied grimly. “She c
oped as best she could.”

  Natalie was nodding. “Yeah, and that’s something else we have in common. No matter how strongly I identify as a Native American—or don’t identify—I promise you, someone always thinks I’m not doing enough. Or that I’m doing too much. Or that I’m hiding. Or that I’m flaunting. You can’t win, and there’s no point in trying to please everyone all the time. It’s— It’s family stuff; it’s complicated and even crippling for some people. And none of it’s easy, even when you love them and want to be with them.”

  “I think you’re fortunate, knowing where you came from. Crichton said if you don’t know where you came from, you’re a leaf that doesn’t know it’s part of a tree.” When Blake had invited her to lunch, he never would have dreamed of this, an earnest and honest discussion of families and their fallout. It was all he could do not to seize her and hug her and tell her however she identified or didn’t was exactly right for her and no one else’s damned business. Not wanting to ruin the most pleasant lunch he’d enjoyed in years, he resisted the urge. “My mom never spoke of Sweetheart or her family. We learned early on not to ask about them.”

  Very early on. It wasn’t that their mom would shout or get hysterical or that she forbade discussion of the subject or would refuse to answer. She would get very quietly, very visibly upset and he and Rake would feel terrible for raising the subject.

  No other subject was off-limits: she would answer questions about sex, money, politics, racism, religion, or any combination thereof. But she had little to say on the subject of where she came from. Eventually Blake came to understand it was a defense mechanism, one that kept her sane but made her take refuge in pride. For years, pride and her sons were all she had. Blake suspected all three held equal value in her eyes. In this, they were alike.

  Whoever they were and whatever they had done, his mother had raised the twins on her own. That was all Blake needed to know, and he stopped asking about her family before his eighth birthday. Rake made up his own mind and stopped asking six months later.

  “If they hadn’t died and left her the property headache, we wouldn’t be out here—Mom and me, I mean; Rake isn’t here because Rake is terrible—and I still have more questions than answers. How can I spend close to a month in my mother’s hometown and still not know anything?” The habit of not pressing, it seemed, ran deep.

  “Died?” Natalie had pulled back with an expression of surprise. “I’m not getting you. They didn’t—”

  “Blake!”

  They looked up; Shannah had stepped out on the porch with a glass of iced tea and her Kindle. No matter how often Blake persisted in buying her hardcover books, she persisted in riding the tech river. He had nothing against technological advancement, but there was nothing like the feel of a solid book in your hand. Bytes were no substitute for pages.

  He rose to his feet. “Mom.”

  “Natalie Lane?”

  “Are you asking her if that’s who she is?” he asked dryly. For her part, Natalie seemed flustered.

  “Uh … hi, Shannah. I thought—” She looked at Blake, helpless. “I thought we were having lunch with your—”

  “Roger is tickling trout, if you’re looking for him.” It wouldn’t do to have Natalie give the game away. And he must have misunderstood Natalie’s expression. Natalie Lane doesn’t do helpless; I must be misinterpreting. And it’s too damned hot out here! He guzzled more booze-ade and squashed an evil chuckle at the havoc about to be wreaked.

  Shannah was smiling at them both, dressed in her weekday outfit of dark slacks and a cream-colored blouse so simply designed it was almost stark. She had a navy blue cashmere sweater draped over one arm and her reading glasses on the end of her nose. She seemed so delighted to see him the first niggle of guilt slipped into his brain.

  “This is a surprise, my boy. I’m so—”

  “Holy shit.” At the rare epithet from Natalie, both Tarbells glanced at her, startled, then at what she was speaking of: the black stretch limousine at the far end of the driveway, just pulling in.

  His mother’s eyes went round as she put two and two together. One could argue that anyone could have commandeered a limousine from the airport and ordered the driver to take them three hundred miles into the Dakota prairie. Except not anyone would. Someone would, though, and his mom would know who. Fascinated (and not a little terrified), Blake realized he could almost see her working it out. Blake + Heartbreak ÷ his resentment × insatiable curiosity = Dammit, Blake!

  When she shouted, he was surprised the porch windows didn’t shatter on impact.

  “Blake Tarbell!”

  Blake almost dropped his glass, recovered, toasted his mom, then turned to Natalie. “You should be running.”

  Twenty-five

  This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, and that counts the time Blake was hosing down Margaret of Anjou with one hand and reading her Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part 3, with the other.

  Natalie knew it was wrong to feel such excitement, knew she shouldn’t be a witness to this. She felt like a spectator at a tennis match where the players had guns instead of rackets and the prize was murder. But Blake was fascinating and his mom was fascinating and his grandmother! Holy God!

  “You activated the nuclear option,” Shannah was saying, arms folded across her chest. “Touché, my son.”

  “You left me little choice, Mom. Hello, Nonna. Booze-ade?”

  An older woman right out of central casting for Well-Off Caucasian Grandmother, Blake’s grandma

  (the nuclear option?)

  had left the limo before the driver had even unbuckled his seat belt, and was now standing before them on the porch. Natalie saw at once that she and Blake had the same eyes, that wonderful riveting deep blue, and the same coloring, pale skin and dark blond hair. Hers was streaked with silver and pulled back in a neat chignon. She was wearing an old-fashioned tweed skirt, a cream-colored blouse with a bow, sensible black low heels, a black cardigan (in the country! it was seventy-four degrees!), a small string of pearls, and an honest-to-God faux fur snugged around her throat.

  “I came as soon as you called.” She accepted Blake’s offer and took a glass. “Well, as soon as you called, plus several hours for travel. I woke up,” she added with a wistful look at the horizon, “in Boston. But this is nice, too.”

  “Thank you, Nonna. This is my employer, Natalie Lane.”

  Shannah’s brow wrinkled into a frown, but Blake’s grandma interrupted before she could comment. “This is delightful! Fresh lemon juice … um … sugar syrup? And rosemary? And something else I can’t quite put a name to…”

  “Vodka,” Natalie said helpfully. “Lots.”

  “Yes, thank you, dear.” Natalie felt the near burn of the woman’s examination and saw Blake shared more than her coloring. “My grandson spoke of you when he wasn’t pleading for rescue.”

  “Nonna…”

  “He said you work hard and resolutely refuse to take crap from any source.”

  “Oh. That’s, um, yeah.” Smooth, Nat. “That was nice of him.”

  “Mrs. Tarbell, I’ll thank you not to interfere in this matter between my sons and me.”

  “Oh, is Rake here, too?” she asked, the picture of innocence. “And for heaven’s sakes, Shannah, I’ve been asking you to call me Ruth for decades.”

  This time it was Blake’s turn to pipe up with a helpful comment. “Rake is in Venice. Against his will, apparently.”

  News to Natalie. But not to Shannah, she noticed, because the woman didn’t blink. “We’re not here to discuss Rake.”

  Because Rake is terrible, Natalie mouthed at Blake, who, to her delight, stifled a chuckle.

  “Quite right. I’m here to have lunch with Blake and his friend Natalie. Oh, thank you.” Trish Miller, who helped run the B and B with her sister and brother-in-law, had appeared with another place setting. She winked at Natalie and headed back to the kitchen. To her relief, the other diners had left and they had the long three-seaso
n porch to themselves.

  Blake’s Nonna adjusted her faux

  (the woman screams money might not be faux fur might be actual fur),

  seated herself, then turned and waved at the limo. The driver started the engine and began backing out of the driveway.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Natalie, who wasn’t worried at all. “He’ll come back for me tomorrow. Oh yes. More of this please.” Natalie obligingly filled the older woman’s glass. “Tell me about your farm. Heartache?”

  “Heartbreak. It’s not really my farm, I’m just—” She had to be careful. Shannah knew Natalie didn’t work there. “—just helping while we figure out … while we try to—” What? She didn’t know anymore. And Blake had never known, through no fault of his own. What was any of this for?

  “Well, it’s kind of you—”

  “I’m not kind.”

  “—to put up with my grandson.” A light, almost brittle laugh. “I can’t imagine how much work he is.”

  “He’s not work. He does work.” Wow. Here thirty seconds and Shannah’s freaked and Blake looks like someone clipped him with a brick. Nuclear option indeed.

  “No need to exaggerate, dear. My grandson knows a little bit about almost everything. Not enough to be satisfying. Just enough to drive you to distraction. ‘Keep this up and you’ll give me an aneurysm.’ ‘Actually, at your age a heart attack is more likely, Nonna.’ ‘Shut up, darling.’ ‘Very well, Nonna.’”

  Natalie giggled. “Sorry, Blake, but she’s got you dead to life.”

  “Now, about your farm, I’m sure he thinks it’s work, going on and on about the endless minutiae of, say, how farming goes back to the ancient Greeks—”

  “Neolothic era, actually,” Blake said quietly.

  “—while the people around him are the ones getting their hands dirty.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms. Tarbell. He gets his hands dirty.” Natalie reached for his wrists—they’d shuffled seats to accommodate the nuclear option, so Natalie was now sitting beside Blake. “Look! He works harder than anyone. He’s putting farmhands to shame.” Well, Gary. Which wasn’t much of a trick, actually. “See?”