by Trisha Telep
R.J. read down through the names. “Where’s yours, Sean.”
Charlie gave a bark of laughter. “He didn’t serve, did you, Sean?”
“Not in the Army,” he replied curtly.
Charlie shrugged. “That’s right – you went off to college instead.” He shrugged again. “Not everyone’s cut out to be a warrior.” Taking his sunglasses out of his pocket, he settled them on his face. “Nice meeting you, R.J.” With a slight sneer, he glanced at Sean before returning his attention back to her. “If there’s anything I can do, be sure and let me know.”
R.J. watched Charlie march down the hall before turning back to Sean. “Ah,” she began, but the words caught in her throat.
His eyes – for a split second, she could’ve sworn they changed from amber to yellow.
It was late afternoon by the time R.J. returned to the motel. After Charlie had left, Sean had continued his tour of the Center. He’d been articulate and at times even charming. She would’ve needed ice flowing through her veins in order not to have felt the tug of attraction, especially when he smiled. Man, he had a great smile. And the pride he felt in the Center would’ve been kind of cool had she not known he was only using her as a means to an end. She had cooperated. She’d taken a ton of photos, learned all about life on the prairie, and could quote exactly how many stones they’d used in constructing the Center.
No doubt about it – this story was going to be just another piece of fluff, she thought, slapping her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. The only thing that had been remotely interesting, other than staring at Sean, was the animosity between him and Charlie Two Horses. But was that a lead she wanted to pursue? She remembered the look on Sean’s face as he watched Charlie walk away. She wasn’t a coward, but the idea of coming up against Sean Swifthawk O’Brien made her shiver. And not in a good way.
She’d almost made it past the bar, when suddenly someone stepped out between two parked cars and waved her down.
Charlie Two Horses.
Rolling to a stop, she cranked down the driver’s window.
“Hey, good to see you again,” Charlie said, approaching her door then motioning toward the bar. “How about a beer?”
She debated with herself for a moment. She wasn’t an idiot – this guy had an agenda and he wanted to use her to achieve it. But on the other hand, she had her own agenda – a better story than the one she was being forcefed. What could it hurt to at least talk to him?
With a nod, she pulled into an empty parking space.
From inside the bar, the jukebox whined with the sound of steel guitars and a singer lamenting how “she’d done him wrong”. Above the bar itself, hung an old TV with the volume shut off. Some sporting event flickered across the screen. Taking her arm, Charlie held up two fingers to the bartender then guided her past the pool tables to a booth in the back. They’d barely settled when a waitress with the biggest beehive R.J. had ever seen slapped two bottles of beer in front of them. Without a word she turned and sauntered back to the bar.
Charlie lifted his bottle, saluted R.J., then took a long pull. Scooting back, he stretched an arm across the back of the bench. “So? What did you think of the Center?”
She thought for a moment before answering him. The best way to play this was close to the vest, sound non-committal, let Charlie do all the talking.
“It’s nice,” she replied, in a neutral voice.
“But not much of a story, huh?”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
Dropping his arm, he shifted forward. “I could give you a better angle than the one Swifthawk shoved on you.”
This guy really did want to dish the dirt. Regardless of her trepidation about Sean O’Brien, R.J. felt a tickle of excitement. “Like what?” she asked, keeping her face calm.
He downed his beer and motioned to the waitress for another. Sliding the empty bottle to the side, he crossed his arms on the table. “See here’s the deal – the rez needs money. I could show you homes that are no better than squatter shacks and the Center isn’t going to change that.” He stopped as the waitress smacked another beer in front of him. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. “A casino would.”
“A little late for that, isn’t it,” R.J. replied. “The tribe chose to build the Center, not a casino.”
“They were misled.” His eyes darted to the side before returning to R.J. Leaning forward, his voice dropped. “Swifthawk and his grandfather didn’t want a casino and persuaded them it would be easier to finance the Center.”
“And Sean raised the money?”
“Yeah.” He sipped on his beer. “Him and his white buddies.”
“Then convince him to raise the money for a casino.”
His mouth twisted in a bitter line. “Swifthawk won’t do it. Him and his grandfather want to cling to the old ways. They want our people to live as they did 200 years ago. It can’t be done.” His expression lightened. “But here’s the beauty of it – now we don’t need him. The Center’s paid off and it could be used as collateral to finance a casino.”
R.J. threw a hand in the air. “There’s your solution.”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Like I told you – they don’t want a casino and they’ll do everything they can to stop it.”
“I don’t see how I can help you.”
His eyes narrowed and he gave her a smug grim. “If you dig below the surface, you’re going to find Swifthawk’s motives aren’t as pure as he’d like the tribe to believe.”
“You want me to discredit him.”
“No, I want you to write the truth.”
“Which is?”
“How Sean’s sold out to white investors.” He moved even closer. “I can give you names – people who’ll tell you the truth about Swifthawk.”
A million ideas bounced through her mind and she longed to whip out her notebook and begin taking notes. But that would seem too anxious. Much better to let Charlie think he needed to convince her.
“How do you know they’ll talk to me?”
“Oh, they’ll talk, if you ask the right questions,” he answered cryptically.
“How can I? I don’t know anything about Sean and his grandfather.”
Charlie’s lips pursed. “You won’t get much on the old man. Going back as far as I can remember, people on the rez have always been reluctant to talk about him.” He shook his head. “Even my own grandfather – I did hear him say something once, but my grandmother shushed him.”
“What was it?”
“I can’t recall his exact words,” he replied, scratching his chin. “But it wasn’t about Jon Swifthawk. It was about his father.”
“Sean’s great-grandfather?”
“Yeah . . .” he paused, trying to remember. “He said something about animal totems.”
“What are they?”
“Never mind – we’re talking forty years ago.” He picked up his beer, drank it in one long gulp then stood. Throwing a piece of paper on the table, he stared down at her. “I’m telling you – if you want a ‘real’ story, take a closer look at Sean.”
The dying sun cast long shadows in the clearing. In its centre, Sean stood before the fire, watching the rocks glow red. He removed a pinch of tobacco from the pouch dangling at his waist. Holding it high, he turned to the north and let it fall from his fingertips. He shifted to the east, to the south, to the west, repeating the process as he offered the sacred herb to Mother Earth. Finished, he turned back to the fire and grabbed a pitchfork. Using it, he carried the hot rocks one by one into the canvas-covered sweat lodge and placed them in the fire pit.
Satisfied the stones were aligned, he exited the lodge and quickly pulled off his boots, his socks, his jeans, until finally he stood naked in the gathering twilight. Turning he entered the lodge.
It was like walking into an oven. Instantly sweat popped from his pores and snaked down his face, chest and arms in tiny rivulets. Moving to the blanket wo
ven by his grandmother, he sat cross-legged and reached for a ladle of water from the nearby bucket. He cast water on the shimmering rocks, making the air hiss with steam.
Hot, so hot. It felt like the spit inside his mouth was ready to boil. With a sharp intake of breath, he picked up the drum at his side. He shut his eyes and began beating a slow rhythm on the taut deer hide while he focused on the spot deep inside where his heritage lay.
He needed guidance. The confidence he’d shown his grandfather had been false and, at times, the special burden he bore threatened to crush him. He knew his power and the temptation to control it was a constant fight. How could he help his people win their battles if he couldn’t even win his own?
He beat the drum harder.
The brush of wings seemed to graze his cheek while, softly, the distant whisper of his ancestors began to echo in his ears. Images flickered in the recess of his mind. A buffalo thundering across the plains, a lone wolf darting through the cotton-woods and, finally, a white owl soaring into the heavens. He felt connected to all that had gone before him and the heaviness in his heart eased with each beat of the drum.
He would help his people towards a better life. He would win against those who plotted his downfall. He would stop them from using the woman.
The woman. His hand faltered and he felt his connection slip. She had tried to charm him, slip under his defences. She’d almost succeeded, but it wasn’t her dimples that had drawn him, but her refusal to be intimidated.
It was a new experience for him. Most of the people on the reservation had always steered clear of him – either due to the rumours that had circulated about his family, or because they didn’t trust him. Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered to him. His only concern was saving their culture.
He needed to remember that. He needed to remind himself even though she might look like a Native with her dark hair and dark eyes, the heart that beat beneath the pretty exterior was white. He’d sensed her ambition, her self-serving attitude. He knew she wanted more than he was willing to give.
What of her reaction to the sacred staff? He knew she wanted to touch it and would’ve had he not stopped her. Why? Was it just the need to handle something “unique”, or had the staff called to her?
Her face took over his mind, chasing away the buffalo, the wolf, the snow owl. The whispers died. No! His questions hadn’t been answered.
He pounded the drum harder; pounded until his fingers ached, trying to banish thoughts of the woman and to regain his link with his ancestors. No good. All he saw in his mind’s eye was her face smiling at him, and all he felt was the pull of a culture he’d left long ago.
Laying the drum aside in frustration, he rose and left the lodge.
The sun had set and the evening star shone in the night sky above the cottonwoods. Gleaming with perspiration, he paused and glanced toward the trees while steam rolled off his naked body. His eyes were sharp and he saw what the darkness hid. Night creatures – like him – hunting their prey. A longing to join them came over him. To run free and wild. To forget the woman, forget his questions. He tamped it down. He’d bent to bundle his clothes when he felt the air stir. He looked up. Above him white wings glistened in the starlight.
“Little Brother,” he murmured acknowledging the owl, then with heavy steps walked away from the lodge.
Like a disembodied spirit, the white bird hovered over him, guarding his back.
The thin drapes did little to block the wavering light of the motel sign outside R.J.’s window. It flashed like a strobe light across the yellowed ceiling. She lay on her back and watched while thoughts of half-remembered dreams lingered in her mind. She’d been on the prairie, walking through tall grasses blooming with yellow, purple and white flowers. In the distance, from a branch in a tall cottonwood, a white owl seemed to beckon her. Her steps had quickened. Then . . . nothing. Whatever had happened next in the dream eluded her. Baffled, she flipped over on to her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. “Forget it, go to sleep,” she mumbled. But she couldn’t. Not when her pillow smelled like a hunk of month-old bread. She rolled back over and stared at the lights once again.
She had to reach a decision. Did she pursue the information that Charlie Two Horses had given her, or did she write the story Sean O’Brien expected of her? If the first story was as juicy as Charlie hinted, it could be THE ONE. Her toes curled at the thought of what such a story could bring into her life. Recognition, respect, money.
But what would an exposé do to Sean O’Brien’s life? If what Charlie said was true, and he had sold out, then he had it coming. So what if he was one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen? Hormones had no place in journalism. She was a pro, not some simpering female blinded by a guy’s smile.
A prickle of conscience hit her. Even the truth could come in shades of grey and, as a pro, she knew she could spin the story any way she wanted. She had the power to make Sean O’Brien either the hero or the villain of the piece. Which would it be?
Tossing the covers to the side, she swung her legs off the bed and pulled jeans over her gym shorts. She grabbed her sweatshirt and threw it on, too. She couldn’t think straight in this musty, smelly room. She needed fresh air. A drive would clear her mind.
Moments later she was flying down a black ribbon of highway, while the moonlit prairie whizzed by her open window. Without knowing why, she found herself back at the same spot where she’d stood and watched the storm roll in. She shut off the ignition and scanned the landscape. Yesterday, she’d felt eyes upon her. If she got out of the car, would she feel it again? It was the middle of the night and she was alone. How did she know what might be lurking in the tall grass?
“You’re nuts, R.J.,” she muttered, her hands gripping the wheel. “Go back to the motel.”
She remembered the haunting dreams, the stale room, the flickering lights. A tightness squeezed her chest and she took a deep breath to ease it. The scent of sweet grass and wild clover seemed to fill the Jeep and she looked longingly across the plains. So fresh and clean.
“Quit being a ninny.” She pushed the door open and climbed out. “It was only a stupid owl,” she whispered with a glance at the lone pine tree.
High grass brushed against her pant legs as she tromped up the hill and, in the stillness, it sounded as loud as a troop of soldiers marching. At the top of the rise, she stopped and took a deep breath. Nothing but miles and miles of heaven and earth. No houses, no lights, no fences. A strange feeling of aloneness came over her and with it a sense of freedom. Is this how the Native Americans once felt, wandering a land with no boundaries?
A sudden whoosh followed by the soft rustling of grass made her spin round. Her eyes scanned the ground between her and the Jeep. As empty as the space behind her.
She turned back to the endless landscape. Quit dithering she told herself, thinking of the paper Charlie had given her. It wouldn’t hurt to meet a few people, ask a few questions. She wouldn’t let Charlie use her any more than she intended to let Sean O’Brien. She could—
“What are you doing here?” a voice behind her whispered.
She twirled so fast she almost lost her balance while her heart seemed to stutter in her chest. In the moonlight, she recognized Sean, climbing the hill towards her. Her temper flamed.
“What am I doing?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he were pleased that he’d startled her. It vanished. “It’s not smart to be out here alone. People have been known to disappear.”
She lifted her chin a notch. “I’m not afraid.”
“Maybe you should be.”
“Are you threatening me?” she shot back.
“Of course not. I’m well aware of the power of the press.” A real smile flashed in the dark. “I wouldn’t dream of threatening a woman who buys ink by the gallon.”
Damn, he could turn on the charm when he wanted and she felt her
anger soften. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What am I doing here?” He lifted a shoulder. “Like you, I couldn’t sleep.”
“How did you—”
His low voice cut her off. “Look over there.” He pointed to a spot on the left. “Do you see them? A mother coyote with half-grown pups.”
R.J.’s eyes searched the prairie, trying to see what he did, but she only saw waving grass. “I can’t.”
He stepped away from her. “Ah, well, I come out here a lot at night.” He hesitated. “I guess my eyes are accustomed to the dark.”
“I’ll say,” R.J. said, still trying to pick out the coyote. “I can’t see a—”
“I love it out here,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “At night, I can imagine how it must’ve been two hundred years ago.”
“The freedom.”
He glanced at her, surprised. “You felt it too. I didn’t realize you were so perceptive.”
She recalled Charlie’s words about their way of life. “You can’t go back, you know.”
Moving a few paces away, he bowed his head for a moment before squaring his shoulders and facing her. “I know. We have to go forward if our culture is going to survive.”
“The Center.”
“Yes . . .” his voice trailed away. “Charlie talked to you, didn’t he?”
It was her turn to be surprised. “How did you know?”
He gave a soft snort. “I’ve known Charlie a long time. He’s using you.”
R.J. crossed the distance between them. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence by stating the obvious. I know he has an agenda.” She stopped and looked up at him. “But then again, so do you.”
“My only goal is to help the tribe have a better life.”
“Not according to Charlie.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, that’s not the way this works,” she said, cocking a hip and shaking her head. “If you want information from me, you have to reciprocate.”
