by Vella Munn
Mind gone, he leaned even closer. She parted her lips and placed her hands on his shoulders.
They kissed. The contact barely there and all wrong, dangerous as hell.
Making him feel alive.
Chapter Seven
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Niko asked Chinook after Darick had driven away. “Come on, you must know that was the dumbest thing I could have done.”
When Chinook rested her head on Niko’s front legs and closed her eyes, Niko had no choice but to acknowledge that her dog wasn’t concerned with her human’s emotions. Kissing Darick had been a mistake of the first order but, darn it, for a full second it had felt right. Wonderful. Sweeping away everything she’d been dealing with and reminding her of teenage years when falling in love had made her believe she could fly.
She’d moved beyond those crazy impulsive emotions. At least she had until tonight.
“At least I don’t love him,” she informed her dog. “Nothing stupid like that. It’s just a whole mess of things.”
She tried to wrap her mind around what she meant by ‘a whole mess of things’, but an explanation remained elusive, leading her to conclude she should do something physical. Rummaging up something for dinner would at least get her on her feet. She honestly thought that was what she was going to do when she stood, but instead of going into the kitchen, she grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on. The national news was running with reporters talking about the economy, a flood in the Midwest, the President’s planned trip to England, an auto recall. None of those things had anything to do with her.
Then just when she really was ready to enter the kitchen, the screen briefly faded. The female anchor who’d announced the killing on Tamel Road promised an update during the eleven o’clock news that would include an interview with the local animal cruelty investigator. Would Hank mention the chickens or that she’d rescued the hound?
She debated trying to reach Hank, but she couldn’t tell him how to do his job. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to the media, but she couldn’t put off returning the detective’s call much longer.
The refrigerator’s innards were uninspiring, but it looked as if she had enough for a salad. She’d removed some wilted leaves from a head of lettuce when she heard her grandfather’s ancient pickup rolling over gravel. She was out of the door and down the stairs before he’d pulled in front of his place.
“It looks like you bought out the store,” she said as she took a couple of grocery bags from the truck bed. “Anything good?”
“Mostly cookies and ice cream. I’ll thank you to keep your mitts off them.”
Laughing, she headed for his front door. Grandpa did like the occasional dessert but he’d never seen a steak or potato he wasn’t willing to eat. As she was about to step inside, the aroma of French fries surrounded her.
“That smells wonderful. What’d you do, stop for fast food to bring home? I don’t suppose there’s enough for me.”
When Grandpa didn’t immediately answer, she turned toward him. His long white hair was caught in its usual ponytail which, combined with his dark features and prominent wrinkles, made him look regal, at least to her. He had a bit of a belly, but that didn’t distract from his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Anyone who gave him more than a glance—and women did—would surmise he’d had a physical life. They’d be right. What they wouldn’t know unless he trusted them was that he kept more Native American history and lore in his brain and house than many libraries had.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I ran into Dalton while I was in the grocery store. He’d just left where that woman was found.”
Dalton was married to one of Grandpa’s nieces and was a local police officer. “I see.”
Grandpa held up two small grease-stained paper bags. “I thought you and I might break bread together. I wasn’t sure whether you’d be home, but if you were…”
“It was on the news, top story.”
“Let’s go inside.”
Grandpa lived in one wing of the house, while her aunt and the aunt’s husband occupied the larger part. Grandpa had his own small kitchen, living area, bedroom and bath. Much of the living area served as his personal museum. Glass shelving held artifacts that included a hat fashioned from cedar strips which was at least two hundred years old. Cedar had also been used to create the cape that had belonged to Grandpa’s grandmother. As a boy, Grandpa had carved the elaborate wooden hook he’d once used to fish for halibut. He hadn’t limited his collection to Tillamook memorabilia, as witnessed by two weathered chunks that were all that remained of a Haida totem pole. To her, the room was like stepping into a rich, multi-layered past.
She put the groceries away while Grandpa placed hamburgers and fries on paper plates. After filling two glasses with milk, she sat on a stool next to him on the counter.
“You know me well,” she said after taking a bite. “No pickles. Lots of onion.”
“Your aversion to pickles makes me question whether we’re related.” He chewed, drank some milk, picked up a fry and pointed it at her. “Are you ready to talk?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away.”
“You do what you need to. I respect that.”
Of course he did, just as she respected his reluctance to talk about his aging body. “You saw the Fish and Game officer drop me off the other day.”
“Yes.”
Grandpa was the most patient person she’d ever known, but she had no right to keep him waiting, so she told him everything that had happened since the grays had appeared at Dogwood Campground. She showed him her pictures of the mare and foal and watched his expression harden. She didn’t gloss over the consequence of her freeing the chickens or downplay the extent of the hound’s injury.
“Do you believe that woman deserved to die?” he asked when she’d finished. “That the grays were justified in what they did?”
She stared at the meal she’d stopped eating. “She allowed the hound to suffer. The chickens didn’t have any food or water.”
“Then maybe that’s why she died?”
Not died, was killed. “Maybe. I’m not inside the grays’ heads.”
“But you’d like to be.”
She nodded. “You know me so well. Grandpa, I might have to talk to the press. If it happens, I know I’m expected to say I hope her husband doesn’t pay with his life for what he did to his dog. It would be the civilized response.”
“But that isn’t what you want to say.”
“No.” She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Darick Creech showed me pictures of what Cheryl Moyan looked like after the grays were done with her.” She fought a shudder. “This summer I went to the hospital with Mia to visit Kendall Taft. I stared at the end of his legs where his feet once were.” She swallowed repeatedly and continued to abuse her forehead. “Jeff Julian gave Mia pictures of Grover Brown and Ram’s bodies and she shared them with me. They’re pretty— It’s possible more damage was done to them than what Cheryl suffered.”
“What are you getting at?”
Grandpa had continued eating and his plate was almost empty. Taking that as her cue, she picked up her burger. “I don’t know. It’s pretty overwhelming.”
“Are you contemplating the possibility that the grays should be punished for their actions?”
Her grandfather had never been one for laying down rules. Instead, he’d encouraged her to look at her actions and the actions of others from every possible angle, including the consequences. His technique had served her well. More times than not and especially as she got older, she set her own standards. She didn’t drink and drive, not because it was against the law but because she’d mentally worked through all possible outcomes. She couldn’t live with herself if her behavior jeopardized or ended anyone’s life.
However, today the lessons he’d helped her learn weren’t enough. She was in uncharted territory.
“It isn’t my decision to make.
I’m not a wildlife cop ordered to hunt down and kill the grays.”
“But if you were that cop?”
“I wouldn’t fire my weapon.”
“Why not?”
“You know how I feel about taking a life, why I stopped hunting.”
He leaned toward her. “It’s more than that, Niko.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you said, you’d give a great deal to get inside the grays’ heads, to understand why they do what they do.”
“Yes, but that’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
* * * *
“Keep it for as long as you need. All I ask is that you give careful thought to who you share what’s in it with.”
As she’d cleaned up after the meal, Grandpa had gone to his floor to ceiling bookcase and pulled out a thick folder with the word Hopi on the cover. She’d been surprised when he’d suggested they go outside, since clouds had moved in and it looked as if it might rain. It was nearly dark, but obviously Grandpa wasn’t ready to let their conversation end. Neither was she. She’d wanted to buy him new lounge chairs, but he insisted his old ones were fine. As she settled into the plastic webbing, she decided she’d take matters into her hands before one of the chairs disintegrated.
“You know I’ve spent time with Natives from a number of tribes,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I developed a close relationship with a number of elders. Because we trust each other, we’ve shared certain things about our cultures outsiders aren’t privy to.”
“You indicated as much.”
“I’m sure I did. There isn’t much I keep from you.”
“The same goes for me.” She chuckled. “We might be able to blackmail each other.” She opened the folder but there wasn’t enough light to start reading. “It looks as if you have a lot of material on the Hopi.”
“They have a rich culture and heritage.”
“That’s also where the grays came from.”
“Yes. I believe they deliberately chose you to try to save the mare and her baby. I might be wrong, and you were simply in the right place at the right time, but I don’t think so.” He patted her arm. “You’re Native. I have no doubt certain threads of connection exist between the different nations. Nature provides the conduit.”
Years ago, when he’d said things like that, she hadn’t been able to make sense of his beliefs, but she’d learned to listen for the wisdom beneath the sometimes confusing words. “Are you saying my being in the wilderness played a role?”
“Perhaps.”
In other words, Grandpa wanted her to draw her own conclusions. She spread her hand over the folder. “The mare isn’t doing well. I wish there was something I could do.”
“There might be.”
“How? Are you aware of some herbs that—?”
“Nothing Doc Beck probably hasn’t already tried. He’s always been open to what his profession considers unconventional methods.”
She chuckled. “Like the massages I gave Misty when he strained his shoulder. I’ve said it before, but thank you for showing me the technique. I wonder if Doc has given the mare one.”
“Ask him. Offer.”
“I will.”
“And open yourself to other ways of giving the mare what she needs to fight to live.”
“Needs? I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know it.”
After tucking Grandpa’s wisdom into a corner of her mind, she told him she was planning on dropping by the vet’s office on her way to work in the morning. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
“I know you will. It isn’t mine to do, but I wish I could share what’s in this folder with archeologists and anthropologists.”
“In other words, it contains material they’ve never seen?”
“Yes.”
Simple as his response was, she had no doubt things were much more complex. Native Americans had lost so much because of whites who’d seen Natives as primitive creatures and not members of complex cultures. Grandpa had steeped himself in his tribe’s heritage, so he knew better than most about the holes in that heritage.
“I won’t let this get out of my hands,” she said. “Won’t share it with anyone, not even Mia—unless you give me permission.”
“What about Darick Creech?”
What about him? “He isn’t Native.”
“But he’s become part of your life.”
She couldn’t argue that.
“You don’t know where that relationship is heading,” Grandpa said. “Neither does he. The grays are complicating that journey.”
She sighed. “Right now, everything about my life feels complicated.”
“This”—he indicated the folder—“might clarify some things. Give you answers.”
“I hope so.” One thing she was sure of, she wasn’t going to be getting much sleep that night.
“The Hopi are a peaceful people,” he said. “When Spanish invaders threatened their way of life, they were loath to go to war. The Church sent padres to try to convert them.” He stared at the open space between their two homes. “What those outsiders didn’t understand is that Hopi belief was an integral part of them. Engrained. Woven into their DNA. Back then they couldn’t, wouldn’t change. In many respects that hasn’t changed. Their land is everything to them, Mother and Father.”
Grandpa’s voice was like a gentle breeze. The longer he talked, the less she cared about anything else. She wished Darick could not just hear her grandfather but absorb his essence.
“Many of today’s Hopi still believe in their sprits, or kachinas as they call what can’t be quantified,” Grandpa continued. “Even if they don’t believe as their ancestors did, they often participate in the ceremonies.”
“As I recall,” she said, “the Hopi do more of that than Northwest Indians. For example, some ceremonial participants wear elaborate costumes that depict their spirits.”
“What else can you tell me about the Hopi?”
She closed her eyes. “Not as much as I wish I could and nowhere near as much as you know.”
“Try.”
“I am. Where the Hopi live is quite different from here. The land’s so arid it’s hard to get anything to grow. Corn is the most vital crop, right?”
“It was.”
“Yes, I imagine that has changed. In the past, they didn’t dare take the seasons for granted. They did everything they could to curry favor with the spirit world.”
“Curry favor? That’s one way of putting it.” He indicated the folder. “I’d like you to take particular notice of the kachina drawings. Some are well known to outsiders but some…”
“Are private? Secret?”
“Yes. Researchers maintain the main purpose for the kachinas is to ensure that the Hopi always have good hearts and pure thoughts.”
“That’s a worthy if ambitious goal.”
“True. As for the reason, in the past, in order for the tribe to survive, everyone had to work together. Harmony and the avoidance of conflict was essential.”
“Maybe we need more kachinas these days.” She chuckled. “Several for each political party. Some to confront burglars and thieves and convince them to change their career choice.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“Too much. It was simply wishful thinking. Grandpa, are you telling me you believe an explanation for why the grays are wired the way they are is in here?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Of course.”
“Then maybe that’s what you’ll find.”
* * * *
Instead of going straight into Doc Beck’s clinic the next morning, Niko headed for the barn. Her eyes ached, her head throbbed and her stomach was having an argument with the caffeine she’d placed in it, but at least she’d gotten through the student essays. She’d also talked to Detective Anders, mostly reinforcing what Doc Beck had told him about the hound
’s condition and admitting she’d let the chickens loose. The detective had said he wouldn’t give her name to the media, but he couldn’t promise they wouldn’t somehow learn of her involvement. It didn’t matter, she’d told him. She had no intention of saying anything. Instead, she hoped to spend the evening going through the Hopi folder. Shortly after getting up, she’d run a Google search on the tribe but hadn’t come across anything she didn’t already know. Even if she had, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold on to the information thanks to everything that had been going on.
Then there was the not so little matter of trying to figure out how she felt about Darick Creech.
At least there was one thing she was clear on. She couldn’t go to work without first seeing the horses she’d rescued.
Tried to rescue.
The mare—she’d decided to call her Hope—was in the first stall on the right. Niko wondered if she’d been placed there because the most sunlight reached it. Hope was hooked up to an IV that ran into a vein in her neck. She was slowly chewing hay.
Niko rested her elbows on a well-chewed wooden railing. “Good morning, Hope. It rained a little last night and was sprinkling on my way here. At least it isn’t particularly cold, so if you were still in the woods… I’m so glad you aren’t.”
Hay sticking out of the side of her mouth, Hope gave her a disinterested glance.
“I’m not going to tell you about what’s on the news. It’s intense, but hopefully you and I won’t become part of it. You don’t need that kind of fifteen minutes of fame. Me neither.”
When Hope looked at her again, Niko struggled to think of something else to say.
“I’d like to name your baby, if you don’t mind. I need to ask Doc if he’s already done that, but if we come up with something you don’t approve of, I want you to tell me. My horse—the one that carried your foal out of the woods—is Misty. How about a variation on that? Mist. Mist. I kind of like that, all except for the part about mist coming and going. I need your colt to be around for the long run.”
