Sacred Ground

by Rita Karnopp

  She stepped back. "Don't, Wyatt. You asked for it. Leave well enough alone."

  "I also heard Gordon liked roughing you up,” he sneered. “Also heard him say you liked it."

  "I didn't like it, no woman does. A man hides behind comments like that because he isn't man enough to admit he has to beat a woman to feel big and powerful.” She opened a drawer and grabbed a knife. “Leave now, Wyatt. I don't want any trouble with you."

  "Whoa there, girl. We're friends, remember? I was just teasing you." He rubbed his swelling eye. "Put the knife down, and I'll leave without a word."

  He took another threatening step closer.

  She gripped the weapon tighter. Never again would she let a man put another bruise on her body. If he came at her, she'd use the knife. "Leave, and I'll put the knife away. Stay and you'll have to take your chances."

  "What if I apologize? It was a nasty comment, your Gordon being dead and all. Friends?" he asked, extending his palm.

  Willow clenched the knife. "Leave, Wyatt. I'm not ready to forget just yet."

  "Damn, you sure can get all riled up. When you're over your pout, stop over at my place. Now, don't get all tense. I have some proof concerning Gordon's death that'll shock you. Don't say anything just yet, especially to your friendly neighbor, Brett Turner."

  "Why didn't you bring it here and show me?" Doubting he had proof, she smelled a trap. If she willingly went to his house, it couldn't be called rape. Going to his house would be considered her consent.

  "I have proof, but I'm not about ta go running around with it. Besides, it could be misconstrued, and I ain’t about to get myself in a fix over Gordon's death."

  She wondered what he meant, but didn't want him staying to explain. She wanted him out of her house, now. "Let me think about it. I'll call if I decide to see your proof. But get one thing straight, if I do come, I'm not coming alone."

  "We'll see."

  Willow loosened her grip on the knife, wondering how things had gotten so out of hand. If she didn't get better control of her feelings and temper, it might get her and Lance in some serious trouble.

  "Bye, Wyatt," she stated between clenched teeth.

  "One tough Indian broad, ain't you?" He chuckled as he walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  His car tires threw rocks as he spun a Brody in the graveled drive. She breathed a sigh of relief, even though she still held the knife.

  * * *

  Brett backed up his old pickup, stopping just short of the basement window. He connected the water tubing to the large tank he'd attached to the truck bed years ago. Hauling drinking and cooking water had been demanding enough, even with the large cistern, but since the well had been destroyed, he had to haul bathing water too. It wasn't hard, just tiring and time consuming.

  He wondered why anyone would want to make things tough on him. It was no secret his father wasn't well liked, but the pranks and destruction continued after his death. There had to be a reason. He'd suspected Gordon for so long, but it didn't stop after his death, either. Had he stumbled on the truth? And had that gotten him killed?

  The thought startled Brett. That had never occurred to him before. If that were true, could Mother and Sean be in danger? Brett hated the way things were going. He didn't like complications, suspicions and worrying. He had to make this ranch work. Two people he loved depended on him.

  Mother would be napping, for that he felt grateful. He didn't need more questions from her about his not coming home last night. He'd spent the better part of the morning explaining the why and where.

  Kicking the ground with the tip of his boot, Brett cussed under his breath. Willow Howling Moon filled his thoughts. The feelings of embarrassment rushed back to haunt him. How could he have stood naked and totally erect before her? Claiming it had been a dream sounded lame, even to him. He didn't blame her for not believing him. He could have died of humiliation. Just thinking about it made him shudder with embarrassment.

  He hadn't dreamed about dancing Indians since he was ten. The night his father had told him drunken Indians had raped Mother and that he wasn't Will Turner's son, but an Indian bastard. Strangely he remembered the smell of sweetgrass and it haunted him then, too, he just didn't know what it was. Willow somehow must have jarred those feeling to the surface. He couldn't explain it. He didn't need a woman in his life complicating things more than they already were. Lorraine had been enough wife to cure him of ever wanting another. One thing for sure, Willow and Lorraine were nothing alike.

  He thought of her curly, fluffy, mousy-brown hair that reminded him of a beehive. He couldn't help finding Willow's long, glossy, black hair intriguing.

  He cringed, remembering Lorraine's bold blue and pink eye shadow that filled the space between her brows and eyelashes. As the years went on, it got worse. Between the makeup, heels, short, tight skirts and breast-exposing knit tops, she looked every bit a whore. As far as he was concerned, she acted like one too.

  Willow didn’t wear makeup, her beauty came naturally. She looked great in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Even her beaded moccasins were nice.

  He should hate her, he told himself as he went into the house for a cold glass of water. Damn, he grew warm just thinking about kissing Willow. He couldn't keep it out of his mind. Just touching her made his skin tingle and his sexual awareness peak. When had Lorraine made him feel that way? Even at the beginning she didn't jolt him like lightning, as Willow did. Of course, once Lorraine realized she hadn't married a millionaire Montana rancher, she turned into an icy winter storm anyway.

  He thought about their fight the night she left.

  "You disgust me," Lorraine had shouted. "You really think I got all turned on by that immature, cowboy look of yours? Wrong! You let me think you were filthy rich, and I believed you. I might have even considered staying here, if it was worth my while, but it isn't. Won't be long and you're going to lose this ranch, then where will I be?"

  "I don't give a shit if you leave, Lorraine. If you go, be prepared to file for a divorce, because that door swings one way. I won't take you back," Brett ground out the words, his tone deadly.

  "Is that supposed to make me stop and think twice about what I'm leaving behind? Don't make me laugh. I want nothing from you, but my freedom."

  "You aren't taking Sean. He stays with me. I want you to relinquish your rights as his mother. You don't, I won't give you your freedom."

  Her laugh made him tense, and hatred replaced any hint of lingering love.

  "You think I want him? Never did. He's yours as a matter of speaking!" She laughed as she slammed the door behind her.

  The same door slammed now, snapping him from his reverie. Sean ran toward him. Brett knew he should scold the boy for being noisy while Grandma slept, but his anger evaporated the moment he saw his son's smiling face. Besides, Brett remembered too many unhappy greetings from his father.

  "Dad, can I go over to Lance's and see how my buffalo is doing?"

  Automatically Brett felt he should make it clear that under no circumstance should Sean go to Willow's place. Lance wasn't the best choice in friends. Brett paused and thoughts of them sharing the buffalo birthings came to mind. He couldn't make that statement anymore. It sounded . . . prejudiced. "If I say yes, you promise to return in time to finish your chores and homework before nine?"

  "I promise. I'll be real good and won't get in the way. Lance says his mother’s going to do a buffalo dance for us. I can hardly wait." He zipped up his jacket. "She’ll pick me up and even bring me home. Why do you always yell at her? Don't you like her? I think she's really neat."

  The question caught Brett by surprise. He stared at his son, struggling for the right words. "She's okay. I guess I like her. It's not that simple with adults, son. We both have ranches to run, and we have difficulties being neighbors sometimes."

  Sean stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. "Lance says you don't like them because they're Indian. Is that true?"

  The
words coming from Sean sounded narrow-minded and bigoted. Brett admitted to himself he'd become prejudiced against Indians, just as Willow had accused, denying his own blood line. He didn't like how it sounded, especially to Sean. "Maybe once that was true, but I don't think it is anymore.”

  Sean grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. "Lance and I think it’d be neat if you and his mom got married."

  "Married!" Brett repeated, his tone expressing his shock. "What kind of idea is that?"

  "A great one. We want to be brothers. We could share a room and be together all the time. If you stop yelling at her, maybe she would like you as much as I do."

  Brett nearly laughed at his matchmaker son. "Suppose Lance feels the same?"

  "Sure. We…" he paused, rubbing his thumb with his fingertip, "we feel like brothers already. I know you don't want me playing with Lance, but I can't help it. We like the same things and it seems right to be together. We want to really be brothers." He moved closer and wrapped his arms around his father.

  Hugging Sean, Brett wondered how much Lorraine's leaving had hurt his son. She'd never shown the boy much affection. His grandmother had filled that void, thank goodness.

  "I don't think there's much chance I'll ever marry again. I have enough to keep me busy taking care of you and Grandma."

  "But you could fall in love with Willow, couldn't you?" Sean asked, stepping back.

  Brett hated the hope he saw in Sean's eyes. "I suppose anything is possible, just don't count on it. Willow and I don't see much eye-to-eye."

  "Lance says you keep accusing her of things she didn't do. Why do you do that, Dad?"

  Taking a deep breath, Brett pulled his fingers though his hair. "I . . . there are things big people talk about. Boys, like you and Lance, aren't likely to understand. You shouldn’t worry about such things. Now get going before it’s too late to even go." Brett flipped Sean's all-star baseball cap off his head.

  "Dad, I hate it when you do that." He grabbed it and ran out the door, slamming it behind him.

  "Don't slam the door," he shouted after his son, laughing at youth in general. He tossed a handful of ice cubes into a glass and filled it with water. He leaned against the sink and Willow's deep brown eyes and soft smile came to his mind's eye. Absently he swallowed, choked, and then spit the contents into the sink.

  "God damn!" he shouted, spitting more. He gagged while reaching into the fridge for the orange juice. He swallowed several gulps with urgency.

  "What on earth are you cussing about, Brett? Stop drinking from the carton and get a glass," Elsie Turner said.

  "Someone put bleach in the cistern. Damn, I just finished filling it up. Who the hell is doing this?" he shouted.

  "Calm down. Are you sure it's bleach?" She took the glass from him and sniffed. "Oh, dear, you're right. This is awful. How will we drain the cistern and get rid of the bleach?"

  He saw her concern and the hidden unasked question. Who had done this? Thinking of the truckload he’d just emptied, he rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  "Don't slam the door," Elsie called out in a monotone.

  His mother's comment caused him to smile in spite of himself. Quickly he tightened off the valve, then climbed up to the top cap and opened it with an angry snap. Immediately the odor of bleach assaulted his nostrils.

  "Damn!" he shouted. He should have emptied it when he got home yesterday. Anyone could have done this last night, he thought, anyone but Willow Howling Moon. They'd spent the night together.

  He glanced down as his mother approached. "It wasn't Willow."

  "You almost sound disappointed. Who then?"

  "I don't know." Brett banged the lid back down on the holding tank. "There has to be a reason," he said, sliding down. "Know anyone who smokes cigars?" He reached down the side of the truck bed and retrieved a soggy, half-smoked butt.

  "Too bad it rained last night. I saw on Forensic Medicine the saliva on cigarettes can be tested for DNA. It's as good as a fingerprint. You think the police could still try to do it with that?" Elsie asked.

  He shook his head. "Doubt it. Here." He handed it to her. "Put it in a baggie and I'll check with Mike at the station. Whoever's doing this is bound to get sloppy one of these days." Better be sooner than later.

  "Come inside and have some lunch. We should call Mike and have him write up a report on this."

  Brett leaned against the old truck and kicked the tire with his heel. "Why? God damn it, why?" Emotion filled him, and he struggled against the tears that threatened to surface.

  He stomped over to Willow's old truck and got in. It roared to life. He headed down the gravel back road, unsure where he was headed. He needed time to think.

  Thirty minutes later, he’d parked below the ridge where Gordon's body had been scattered. The gruesome site still haunted Brett. He'd discovered a leg over the next hill and had vomited on the spot. It gave him nightmares, and he could only begin to imagine what Mike went through when he'd found Gordon's half-eaten head. Damn, it came straight from a Stephen King novel, except this was real. The crazy bastard responsible must be capable of just about anything.

  Brett moved from behind the steering wheel, and forced his tired, bruised body up the ridge. Glancing skyward he recognized a front moving in. It looked capable of dumping a good amount of wet, heavy snow their way. He slid his fingertips into the back pockets of his Levis, worried about his cattle. His cows were calving. The late spring snows were usually killers, and he couldn't afford any more losses.

  He didn't even want to ranch, he admitted to himself. Secretly, he almost wished the place would fold. He didn't want anything to do with his father. Keeping the place and living there only reminded him of his lost dreams and how his father had won.

  "Didn't expect you'd ever return here," Willow said.

  Brett jumped, torn from his morbid thoughts. "Damn! You could have let me know you were here! Almost shi…you surprised me," he stammered.

  "I can see that, sorry. It seemed strange to see my truck coming this way without me in it. What are you doing here?" She stood and brushed off her jeans, smacking her backside free of dust.

  Watching the gesture, his breathing increased, and he paused. "I don't know," he finally answered, “Needed time to think. Someone put bleach in the water tank on my truck and I dumped most of it into my cistern. Damn awful mess. I guess it'll save me from sterilizing and cleaning it out later this spring, but now I'll have to drain it all and refill it. It'll take days of extra work."

  "You can't be serious?" she said, her tone one of shock. "You accusing me, again?"

  He couldn't blame her for thinking the worst. He wondered how many other accusations he'd verbally attacked her with, having no more proof than he did right now.

  "No," he admitted. "I know you couldn't have done it. You were with me last night."

  "Don't let that stop you from thinking it was me. I could have hired someone to do it."

  "Damn, Willow, I'm sorry. Christ, this is getting out of hand, and I haven't a clue what's going on. I'd always thought my dad had pissed someone off, and they were getting even. He had that affect on people. But it hasn't stopped. In fact, it's getting worse. Last week Wyatt asked me if I'd consider selling the Tumbling T to him."

  "What?" Willow stomped toward him. "You won't, will you? God, I couldn't stand having him that close. It makes me shudder to think about it." She wrapped her arms around herself.

  "Thought Gordon and he were great friends."

  "Gordon was, not me. I can't stand the weasel. He reminds me of Snidely Whiplash!" she said, chuckling.

  Brett laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed. It’d been way too long. "Would you believe I've made the same correlation? Poor Snidely."

  "You aren't selling, are you?"

  "I'm thinking about it. It holds no sentimental ties for me. I would like to pass it on to Sean, if he wants to be a rancher, but there are times I'd like to pack up and take Mother to a new place
, one she could fill with happy memories. I think the old place is nothing but a reminder of the mistakes in her life."

  "Sell to me."

  "What?"

  "If you truly feel that way, let me buy it. I could sell a few horses for the down and get a loan for the rest. Lance wants to continue raising horses. Some day he'll want a place to build a house and raise a family. We could level the old homestead and he could build just up the hill, new, and filled with happy memories, as you said."

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "More serious than Wyatt Anderson. Snidely is in hock up to his armpits. There's no way he could buy you out. What's he thinking?"

  Brett thought for a moment. "How do you know he's broke?"

  "Rumors, you know how it is. Small town nothing is sacred, and all that."

  "You're hiding something, I can tell," he said, wondering how he could sense it. "You and he an item?"

  "What? I’m not interested in that snake! Not on your life! My skin crawls when he gets too close, and not in a good way, like with you . . . I mean . . . Snidely would be the last person I'd let near me." She glanced away.

  He noticed her darkened cheeks before she turned her back. So, she'd felt the electricity, too. In spite of all his recent problems, he suddenly felt light-hearted, even happy.

  He moved behind her and placed his palms on her shoulders. Without a word, he slid his hands down her arms, then back up again. She pressed her back into his chest, and he put his arms around her and pulled her into him.

  Chapter Five

  I can't fight it anymore," he whispered in her ear. "You haunt me. Everywhere I go, you're there. I don't understand it. I always thought I hated you as much as you hated me.”

  She turned in his arms and saw tenderness in his gaze. "I don't recall ever saying I hated you." She paused, unsure if he moved closer. Her breath caught. A flush of heat rushed through her veins. Did she imagine a sensuous light passed between them?

  "I assumed . . . Gordon made it clear I wasn't even to speak to you. That was the way you wanted it. I couldn't imagine what I'd done to offend you that much. Even after his death, you steered clear of me. I figured you wanted it kept that way."