He dragged himself out of the sweat lodge. Somehow he’d have to pull himself together and get to his apartment in town. He wouldn’t have time to get a haircut, but he knew he’d damn well better make his appearance at the Conso offices wearing nothing less than a suit and a power tie.
MAGGIE BARELY SLEPT all night, falling into a deep fitful sleep just before dawn. When she woke up, it was much later than she had intended, and she ran around the cabin eating a banana, orange juice sloshing out of her glass, as she threw on some clothes and gulped a prenatal vitamin.
A knock sounded at the door. She threw it open to see a chagrined Kip standing on her doorstep.
“What do you want?”
“To say goodbye. I’m leaving, Maggie. I won’t be back.”
“Good. You shouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
“I know that now. I wanted to say that I’m sorry for any problems I’ve caused you.” He looked sheepish, apologetic. For a moment—only a moment—Maggie remembered that she had loved him for his little-boy quality, for his impulsiveness and his carefree attitude toward life.
“As for the baby,” he went on, “I guess you know I’d make a terrible father. I’ve always been irresponsible, and I don’t think I can change.”
“Yes. Yes, Kip, I do know that. I don’t expect you to be part of our lives, the baby’s and mine. I don’t want you to send us money or remember the baby’s birthday, or…or anything.”
His eyes met hers, and in them she saw relief. “Are you sure?” he said.
“Very sure.”
“Okay. I hope everything goes well for you. For you and the baby, I mean.”
“Thanks,” Maggie said, meaning it.
“Well, goodbye, Maggie.”
“Goodbye, Kip,” she replied, feeling a sense of release when she realized that this was really it for their relation-ship. She supposed she should feel sad, but she didn’t. When she saw Kip’s rental car disappearing down the driveway, she knew she’d be perfectly happy if she never saw him again as long as she lived.
After she was sure Kip was really gone, she laced her hiking boots on and headed for Tate’s camp. She almost ran all the way there, arriving out of breath and full of hope.
Her hope faded, however, when she saw the ashes of an abandoned campfire. A peek inside the asi told her nothing; she could tell he had been in the sweat lodge recently, though, by the steam still rising from the hot stones.
So he’d sought a vision; she didn’t know if that was good or bad.
Probably he had gone in to work today. Tate was no fool. He’d know that the big guns would be aimed at him this morning after his impromptu appearance on TV when it had looked as if he were accepting a membership brochure from Jolene Ott. Suddenly she felt sick; last night after Kip’s unsettling appearance, she had completely forgotten about letting Tate know that the Kalmia Conservation Coalition had found out about those five hundred more mobile home sites that were going to be built on Breadloaf Mountain.
How could she have forgotten something that was so important for Tate to know?
She’d better tell him. She’d call the office, talk to him, tell him about the coalition and how angry the people were.
But she couldn’t. Not after last night. How could she ever face him again?
She saw Tate’s headband crumpled beside the asi; lost in thought, she picked it up, cradling the piece of striped fabric in her hands. And then she knew. Tate was in trouble. She didn’t know how she knew, but somehow she understood that his present difficulty was a direct result of her failure to let him know about the coalition’s emergency meeting last night.
She raced back to the cabin and went straight to the phone, looked up Conso’s number in the book, and called Tate’s office.
“Mr. Jennings is not available at present,” said the person who answered the phone. “Would you like to leave a message?”
Maggie knew that she had to be careful what she said. She didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. What she had to say was meant for Tate’s ears and Tate’s only. And if she asked him to call her back, chances are he would ignore the message.
“No, no message,” she said, and hung up the phone. Then she walked slowly and deliberately into the bedroom to put on a dress suitable for calling on someone at a place of business.
Even though she knew she was setting herself up, she would go to Tate and tell him what she knew. And after that, she’d let the chips fall where they may.
THE ANGRY MOB on the front lawn of the Conso office demanded to speak to someone important. “Karl Shaeffer,” called one of the men. “Is he in there?” Tate rode up on his motorcycle and wheeled to a stop in his parking space. He balanced himself for a moment, his feet firmly planted on either side of the bike, before turning off the motor. The situation looked unstable. Some of the nastier Scot’s Cove characters were pushing forward toward the building; others tried to restrain them.
Tate got off the bike and shouldered his way through the knot of people. A group of Conso employees, apparently reluctant to cross the line of angry demonstrators, stood silently to one side of the parking lot.
“What’s happening?” Tate asked someone who was lounging against the stone wall separating the parking lot from the walkway in front of the building.
“We want the Conso brass to come out and explain why they decided to build five hundred more mobile home sites on Breadloaf Mountain,” the man said.
Tate’s heart sank. Maggie was the only one he told about the company’s decision. He felt a white-hot stab of pure anger; she had known this was confidential information. Well, if she had betrayed him with Kip, what was to stop her from betraying him in other ways as well?
Tate climbed the steps two at a time. Through the glass door to the lobby, he saw Don Chalmers and Karl Shaeffer and a couple of vice presidents conferring in a huddle.
He threw the door open and went inside. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Karl greeted him with a cold look. “Maybe you should tell us,” he said with a grimace of distaste for Tate’s long hair.
“Easy, Karl,” said Quentin Miller, the general manager, before turning to Tate. “These people have gotten wind of our plans to expand the Balsam Heights development on Breadloaf. Apparently the Kalmia Conservation Coalition had a meeting last night that incited all the rougher elements in the group. They’re demanding an explanation. And you’re going to give it to them.”
A meeting last night? Maggie hadn’t mentioned it. But then there were other things she hadn’t mentioned, too.
Tate had never expected to be hit with this problem on his first day back at work, and on top of his heartache over Maggie.
He drew a deep breath. “What would you like me to say to them?”
“Tell them the usual—more jobs, keeps the young people home—that sort of thing. Make it sound as if we have the good of the community in mind.”
Tate shot an uneasy look at the crowd, which had surged closer to the glass doors. “I’m not sure that’s going to be enough,” he said.
“Remind them about the wilderness park. Tell them what an asset to the community the park will be,” said Karl.
Tate was momentarily confused. He knew that Karl had told him that plans for the park were being—had been, in fact—scrapped. He stared at Karl. Two of the vice presidents in attendance conferred off to one side, each of them shooting troubled looks at Tate.
“It’s my understanding,” Tate said stiffly, “that the park is no longer in the picture.”
Karl stepped forward. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Mentioning the park may be enough to calm this crowd down. No one knows about the legal loophole that will enable us to get out of deeding the park to the county except those of us present here. And we won’t contradict you.”
Tate expelled a deep breath. “That’s not the way to deal with this group.”
“I’ll decide that,” Karl said. There was definite menace behind his words.<
br />
Tate tried to think. If Maggie had told the people in the coalition about the five hundred extra mobile home sites being added to Balsam Heights, surely she would have mentioned in the same breath that they were going to be built on the land that had been set aside for the wilderness park. But the way Karl was talking, the demonstrators didn’t know that there was going to be no park. It didn’t make sense.
Outside, someone shouted something about higher taxes brought about by Conso’s development of the area, and Tate recognized one of the local thugs that he had seen at the Rally for Reality. He knew that he’d better do something to calm the crowd, and fast.
“I’ll go out there and talk to them,” he said. “But I won’t lie.”
“Tate—” Karl began, but Tate cut him off by wheeling around and walking out the door. Karl stared after him, his face a mask of anger.
“You gonna explain about Breadloaf?” someone in the crowd yelled through cupped hands as Tate took a position at the top of the stairs.
Tate smiled as pleasantly as possible and adopted a serious expression.
“I understand that you folks have some concerns about the Balsam Heights mobile home park development on Breadloaf,” he said with what he hoped was the right mixture of pleasantry and seriousness.
“You bet we do,” someone called.
“Yeah,” cried another. “We want the truth about those five hundred more sites for mobile homes on Breadloaf Mountain.”
“I understand your concern. Breadloaf Mountain is a beautiful place, and I’m sure you want to keep it that way.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd.
“As some of you may know, I’ve come back to work today after a six-month leave of absence. Your presence here has taken me by surprise, but I want to assure you that your concerns are being taken seriously by Conso management. I can’t answer your questions this morning, but we will have information for you soon. I ask you to please go home. The company will be making an announcement in the near future.”
“We don’t want no announcements! We want the truth,” said a burly man in the front row. He fingered a rock, turning it over and over in his hands.
“I understand that. But I hope you’ll understand something, too. I’m not prepared at this time to talk about the matter.” He hoped and prayed that no one would mention the wilderness park.
A disconsolate rumble swept the crowd.
“When will you be ready to talk?”
“Soon, I hope.” Tate smiled encouragingly.
“Aw, come on, everybody, you can see he’s not going to talk,” said the burly fellow. He dropped the rock and moved toward the back of the group.
Tate, seeing that some of the anger had been defused, put his hands in his pockets in what he hoped was a casual manner. “I don’t know anything to tell you at this point.”
An uneasy silence settled over the demonstrators, broken only when one of the calmer men spoke up. “I got to get to work myself,” he said. “I got no more time to waste here.”
“Me, too,” said another.
A few people began to wander away from the fringe, and Tate saw some of the Conso employees start to walk toward the building. He gave them an almost imperceptible nod, encouraging them to displace the crowd, which seemed to be waiting for a sign that the confrontation was over.
“When will you talk with us?” asked one still-hopeful woman.
“Someone in the public relations department will be happy to set up an appointment with the president of your group, and I believe that’s Jolene Ott,” Tate said.
“It is. I’ll tell her,” said the woman.
By this time the Conso employees were walking in the front door, and the crowd, which had barely avoided becoming unruly, had dispersed.
After watching them pile into their cars and pickups, Tate, harboring mixed feelings of certain doom, heaved a sigh of relief and went inside the building.
Karl met him at the door. “You’d better come along to my office,” he told Tate, and Tate had the feeling that Karl was going to be even harder to face than the crowd.
“ALL RIGHT,” Karl said, staring at Tate from under beetle brows. “If you’re a member of the Kalmia Conservation Coalition, you’d better own up now.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Tate, glaring back at him.
“Sources tell me that your girlfriend was at their membership meeting the other night.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were at the Rally for Reality together. I saw it on television.”
“True, we were there. We were swept up in it before we really knew what was going on. I don’t see anything wrong with being there. I wasn’t a participant, and Conso should have sent someone to monitor the rally so we’d know what those people are thinking. We may be able to use what I learned that day for the good of this company.”
“If we were going to send someone to that rally, it certainly wouldn’t have been the head of the public relations department, which you still are by virtue of this ridiculous leave policy.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Tate said angrily.
“I think you’re the one who leaked the information about the Balsam Heights expansion to the coalition,” Karl said.
Tate reeled with shock. Did Karl know that he had let Maggie in on this privileged information?
“You know I wouldn’t tell company secrets to a group like that,” Tate said.
“I don’t know what you’ll do,” Karl said. “When I hired you, I never thought that you’d stop wearing clothes and run around in the woods for six months reclaiming your heritage. If you ever want to do it again in the future, I certainly hope you’ll resign your position first.”
Tate thought of the angry crowd demanding answers that he couldn’t or wouldn’t give; he thought of all he had learned during his sojourn at his camp; he thought of the simplicity of Cherokee ways; he thought of the peace he had found on Flat Top Mountain. Deep in his heart where it counted, he now thought and felt as a Cherokee; he realized it and was exulted by it.
He stood up abruptly. “You don’t have to worry about what I might or might not do in the future, Karl. I quit.”
He had the satisfaction of watching Karl’s jaw drop as he turned on his heel and marched from the office.
“Mr. Jennings, please don’t forget to pick up your mail,” said Karl’s administrative assistant as he strode past her desk.
“Can it,” said Tate, and he kept walking.
Chapter Twelve
Maggie arrived at the Conso building and went into the lobby.
The receptionist looked at her nervously. “I’d like to see Tate Jennings, please,” Maggie said.
The woman seemed to size her up. “I don’t know if he’s accepting appointments this morning,” she said.
“Please find out.”
The woman bit her lip. “It’s just that if you’re one of that gang that was here this morning—”
“Gang?”
“Some of the rowdier folks around here tried to make trouble earlier.”
“Oh, no,” Maggie said.
“You don’t look like one of them.”
“I’m not. I’m—” but here Maggie wavered. It was a safe bet that she wasn’t anything to Tate Jennings; how could she explain to this woman why she needed to see him?
The woman smiled. “I can see you’re not part of that group. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll ask if Mr. Jennings will see you.”
Maggie sat down on a convenient chair and waited, fidgeting uneasily. She felt even more strongly now that Tate was in trouble, and in the past ten minutes, the feeling had become unbearable. And what exactly had happened here this morning to make the receptionist so wary? It must have had something to do with the meeting that Jolene had called last night. Oh, if only she had been able to warn Tate about the meeting, if only Kip hadn’t shown up and ruined everything. She wanted to run to the elevator, punch buttons until she landed on the right floor, and
rescue Tate from whatever situation was making him feel so angry.
Oh, God, how did she know he was angry? She heard her pulse pounding at her temples and knew she was feeling his; she felt her skin growing hot and knew his was, too. He might be able to read her thoughts, but she was experiencing his emotions as if they were her own. And it was not pleasant.
The receptionist put down the phone, a puzzled look on her face. “Mr. Jennings is no longer employed here,” she said to Maggie.
At that moment, the elevator door burst open and Tate strode out. He was tugging his tie from around his neck, and his suit jacket was open. He heard what the receptionist said.
“Damn right,” he said. “I don’t work here any more, and I’m glad.” His eyes lit on Maggie, but he didn’t miss a beat. He kept walking out the door, and after a stunned moment, Maggie hurried after him, down the steps, into the parking lot.
“You were fired?” Maggie gasped as she ran up to Tate, who was stuffing his suit jacket into the carryall on his motorcycle.
“I quit,” Tate said. He stared at her. She was self-conscious about the way she looked; her hair was flying every which way and her dress was twisted around so that it revealed the slight rounding of her stomach.
“You quit? Why?” Maggie asked, dumbfounded. She couldn’t stop panting because she was so out of breath.
“I can’t stand working here any more. I can’t go on spouting the company line when I don’t believe in it. And listen, Maggie, I don’t appreciate your telling Jolene or other members of the coalition or whoever you told about the additional five hundred mobile home sites that Conso is going to put on Breadloaf Mountain. That was privileged information that I told you only because I trusted you. I suppose I should thank you for not telling them that there’s not going to be a wilderness park. At least they didn’t know that when they came marching on Conso this morning.” He sounded bitter.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m sure you know.” He got on his bike and put on his sunglasses so she couldn’t see his eyes.
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