A Man of His Word

by Sarah M. Anderson

  As quick as that smile had shown up, it disappeared again. He wondered if she had a gun in her briefcase. “Are these your files?”

  “Not all of them.” He leaned over to try and see what she was writing, but she caught him and flipped the top sheet back over the one she’d made notes on. “But this is more than enough to keep you busy for today.”

  Dan looked around and was surprised to see that the two extra chairs had disappeared. He’d have to sit in that craptastic chair again. He had to hand it to Rosebud. She didn’t have a lot to work with, but she made the most of it. “Which files are these?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cecil files, dam files or police files?”

  No reaction this time. He had his work cut out for him today. Right now, not only was Rosebud not a woman who invited a touch or a kiss, but she wasn’t exactly leaving any of her weak spots out in the open. “Police files.” She turned her attention back to her own notes. “You are a man of your word, after all.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Moving cautiously, he lowered himself into the evil chair. It promptly let out a muffled squeak, like he’d sat on a squirrel—or worse. He glanced up to see the amusement on her face. “Enjoyin’ yourself?”

  “Immensely.”

  So she was laughing at him. The difference between Rosebud scowling and Rosebud smiling was worth sounding like he’d eaten nothing but chili for the last month. He pulled the top file and started reading the first police report.

  Tanner Donnelly, male, age twenty-eight when he was found by his aunt, Emily Mankiller, with a .22 in his hand and the matching slug in his temple four years ago. Survived by his aunt and his sister, Rosebud. The file noted that the women claimed Donnelly’s dog tags were missing, but the investigators could find no trace of them.

  The FBI agent in charge had been Thomas Yellow Bird. Rosebud had a separate file on Yellow Bird—seemed he was an acquaintance of Tanner Donnelly and had pushed the investigation as far as his supervisors would let him. There was also a log of emails and phone calls with a James Carlson, who was a federal prosecutor in D.C.

  Something didn’t add up, Dan thought as he wrote the name down. A guy named Yellow Bird he could understand, but Rosebud had D.C. contacts? Well, maybe not. The last date she’d written down was over ten months ago. She must have hit a brick wall—which was why she was asking him for help, of all people.

  In addition to police and FBI files, there was a thick file of notes and interviews, some typed and some handwritten in a delicate script. Handwritten? This whole thing just got odder and odder, but he pressed on, copying down every possibly relevant piece of information. His hand began to cramp. He didn’t normally like those little computers—too easy to drop—but he was thinking maybe he’d pick one up the next time he was in town.

  By the time he finished, Dan was pretty sure he knew everything about Tanner Donnelly, from what kind of cereal he ate for breakfast to the name of the first girl he’d ever kissed. Seemed like a decent guy. If Rosebud’s notes were accurate—and he had no reason to doubt that—then he could see how she refused to accept the suicide ruling.

  But he’d seen no red flags, nothing that said Cecil or even Thrasher. Not even a casual connection to Armstrong Holdings.

  He had nothing.

  When he leaned back to rub his eyes, he found Rosebud watching him. “Well?”

  “You’re nothing if not thorough.”

  She cocked her head to one side and bounced the end of her pen on the table. Dan had the distinct feeling he was about to be cross-examined. “Is that what you told your uncle?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “When you reported back about our evening. I’m sure he was…curious, shall we say, to know if you accomplished your assignment.”

  He might be mistaken, but he thought he saw a little bit of that pink come back into her cheeks. “Are you asking me if I told him I kissed you?”

  He wasn’t mistaken. The pink got prettier as her eyes cut to the doorway, but it was empty. “That was your assignment, wasn’t it? I’m not stupid, Mr. Armstrong.”

  She had him dead to rights. He really hoped she didn’t have a gun in that briefcase. “Only a fool would assume you were.” Because it sure would be nice to know she didn’t think him a total idiot—or worse, Cecil’s lapdog.

  She smirked at the compliment, but didn’t return the favor. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  He couldn’t tell which part of her was doing damage control, the lawyer or the woman. “You act like my company kissed your tribe.”

  For a second, he saw a little bit of doubt on her face. “Wasn’t that the point?”

  He knew the chair might kill him, but he took the chance and leaned forward—not close enough to touch her, but close enough that he could tell she was biting the inside of her lip. The chair whined pitifully, but at least it held. “Did it ever occur to you that I was kissin’ you?”

  Oh, she was tough. Aside from that lovely blush she was working on, she didn’t react at all—not even to lean away from him. “Does your uncle see such a distinction?”

  Which was a nice, polite way of saying “answer the damn question.” He shook his head, hoping his amusement didn’t further piss her off. “You want to know what I told him?”

  “Please.” She sat up a little straighter.

  Dan looked at her for a few more seconds before he hazarded leaning back in his chair. If Cecil heard what he was about to say, he’d draw and quarter Dan for treason. But the search for bugs in the kitchen had turned up nothing, as had the search of his room. He was going on a hope and a prayer that this room wasn’t bugged. “I told him that you were tougher than I thought. I told him you couldn’t be wined and dined. I told him I’d need more time.”

  She was silent. Her pretty blush drained away, but that was the only sign she’d heard him. “I see. Did you give him an idea of how much time you’d need?”

  Hell, he was in this far. “He told me the next court date is in five weeks.” Besides, she’d said so herself. She wasn’t stupid.

  “Let me guess. He wants me out of the picture before then.” Her voice had a new, pinched tone to it.

  “That’s what he wants.”

  A stillness came over her. Her pen didn’t bounce, her eyes didn’t blink and he couldn’t tell without staring, but he was reasonably confident that her chest didn’t even rise. When she did speak, it came out as a whisper. A pained whisper. “What do you want?”

  Which was a hell of a good question. But he wasn’t going to come up with an answer sitting in this demon chair. He got up as smoothly as he could and went to the window. She needed a moment to get herself together, he rationalized. “You know Google? The company motto is ‘Don’t be evil.’”

  She snorted behind his back. “That’s noble, but naive.”

  “No, dinner was noble but naive,” he shot back.

  “I’m not naive.”

  “Not you. Me.” Because thinking he could walk the line between “interested lust” and “cold-blooded scheming” was obviously one of his dumber ideas. And to expect her to believe him? He turned back to her. “It was naive of me to think that me kissin’ you could be a separate…thing from your tribe suing my company.” So much for being good at talking.

  Even sitting in judgment of him, she was beautiful. What he wanted was to ask her out on a real date, to take her someplace far away from this crappy conference room and Cecil’s ranch house, someplace where it wasn’t Armstrong Holdings talking to the Red Creek Tribe, but just Dan and Rosebud. He’d love to get her hair out of that braid, get her out of that… For the first time, he noticed her suit. It looked like the same one she’d worn to dinner—and the same one she’d had on last week.

  She only had one suit?

  He must have been staring, because she began gathering up files. The movement did little to hide the embarrassment on her face.

  “What happened to your copier?” The question was out before he knew
where it came from. Somehow, he knew the answer was connected to a lawyer that only owned one suit.

  He could see the tension ripple along her shoulders. “It’s broken.” She hefted the banker’s box and made a break for the door. “Good day, Mr. Armstrong.”

  The door shut behind her.

  As Dan’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight in the parking lot, he noticed the man immediately. The black Crown Victoria, the full-wrap sunglasses and the black suit were hard to miss in this heat. Some kind of law was trying mighty hard to look casual in the middle of the parking lot at four in the afternoon.

  The guy looked a little like a Lakota Indian—right color, but wrong everything else. His hair was short and that suit probably set him back a cool grand. Not the local police. And the man was watching him behind those glasses. Dan could tell by the way his chin moved.

  This place must be throwing him for a loop because right now, Dan felt like he was walking into a trap and he wished with all his might he had his gun.

  “Dan Armstrong?”

  “Depends. Who’s askin’?” Yep. Old-timey talk was just pouring out of him.

  “Tom Yellow Bird.” He stuck out his hand, his jacket flashing open to reveal a Glock.

  Good grip, Dan thought. Not a grip of dominance, but there wasn’t an ounce of weakness in the man. “What can I do for you, Mr. Yellow Bird?”

  Yellow Bird gave him the once-over. “Depends on what you’re doing here. Heard you were looking into the Donnelly suicide.”

  “Word gets around.”

  “It’s a small rez. Going to get a lot smaller if Cecil Armstrong gets his way.” Yellow Bird waited, but Dan was in no hurry to set the man’s mind at ease. Yellow Bird broke first. “You’ve met Rosebud?”

  “I have. You know her?”

  “Knew her brother.” The way he said it made it sound like he considered Rosebud to be the pesky little sister—always had, always would. For some reason, that made Dan want to smile—but he didn’t. “We lost a good one in him.”

  The we said Indian first, FBI second. “You don’t buy the suicide ruling?”

  Yellow Bird scratched his throat. “Officially, that’s what happened. The case has been closed for two years.”

  “Unofficially?”

  Yellow Bird smirked, which gave his face a hard edge. Not a man to be taken lightly, that much was certain. “You know that by this time next year, where we’re standing will be under about ten feet of water?”

  Unofficially, Yellow Bird was still on the case. “I’m aware that that’s the current plan.”

  “Things can always change.” Yellow Bird pulled a card out of his jacket. “Unofficially.”

  Dan watched as the Crown Victoria pulled away, then did a slow circle to see if anyone else had witnessed the meeting. The lot was still empty, and he didn’t see any faces at the narrow windows.

  What the hell had that been about? For some reason, the conversation had struck Dan as being less about Tanner Donnelly and more about Armstrong Holdings. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that, unofficially, Yellow Bird was leaving a door open, just in case.

  Damn hunches. Dan had no idea if this one was right.

  As far as Rosebud was concerned, the rest of the week was simultaneously better and worse than that first meeting with Dan. He showed up at nine each morning, sat in the wobbly chair and took notes while Rosebud reviewed her case for the upcoming hearing on the preliminary injunction against the dam construction. It should have been boring, dry work, but it wasn’t.

  On Tuesday, Dan brought homemade chocolate-chip cookies. Wednesday was brownies and Thursday was cupcakes for the whole office. By Friday, he knew the names of everyone in the building and brought in extra cinnamon rolls for Rosebud to take to Aunt Emily. She couldn’t tell if he was just buttering them—her—up or if he’d been doing his homework and knew that bringing gifts was a Lakota custom, but either way, it seemed to be working.

  Judy was officially crushing on the man, and Rosebud couldn’t blame her. He was easy on the eyes, smart as a whip, quite possibly richer than sin and just all around thoughtful. Add in the fact that not only did he not wear a ring, but he didn’t even have the telltale faint tan lines. And one thing was certain: Dan Armstrong was eminently crushable.

  Rosebud kept her defenses up, but she got the feeling that was a waste of energy. Dan was nothing if not a gentleman. He didn’t make another attempt to touch her, much less kiss her. He didn’t even bring up that kiss again. Instead, he did a reasonably good job of acting like the whole thing had never even happened. Conversation was kept strictly to the facts of the matter, and the fact was, he seemed to believe her about Tanner.

  She decided that he’d been telling the truth—or something close to it—about keeping that kiss from his uncle. That should have made her happy. As much as she’d enjoyed it, she just couldn’t bring herself to throw her body at the man, and it was clear he wasn’t asking her to. He was a gentleman of the highest order.

  Except that she was having dreams about that kiss—and more. In the dreams, the kiss was just the beginning. One night, they went riding and wound up a tangled mess of naked arms and legs on the banks of the Dakota. The next, an old-fashioned tepee hid them from the world. She was waking up hot and all kinds of bothered, only to have to ignore everything she actually liked about Dan to go to work. By Friday, she was officially irritated with the whole situation.

  At least she wouldn’t have to see him this weekend. Assuming her car could get her there in one piece, she was going to drive to her alma mater, the University of South Dakota. She needed to find out a hell of a lot more about Dan Armstrong, and she needed a computer with internet access to do it.

  She only had four weeks left.

  Seven

  Dan stood over the huge architectural drawing, comparing the plans on the blue sheet to the engineering report. Virgil Naylor, the chief of Naylor Engineering, hovered behind him, pointing out the details. Naylor was a slight, nervous man, no doubt made all the more nervous by Dan’s silence.

  Something about the engineering report didn’t add up, but he was having a hell of a time nailing Naylor down. He flipped to a footnote in the middle of the report. “But you say here that a run-of-river dam would generate almost as many megawatts.”

  “Given optimum conditions.” Naylor’s hands fluttered as he waved the suggestion away.

  “Yes, given. So why aren’t we doing a run-of-river dam?” Because that would make the most sense. A run-of-river dam wouldn’t flood that pretty little valley or any significant part of the Red Creek reservation.

  Naylor’s mouth puckered like he was sucking on a lemon. “Because run-of-river dams cannot store any electricity for slow times.”

  “And the cost benefit of that storage is?”

  Naylor seemed to get a shade pinker. The effect was not a pretty one. “Over the life of the dam, it averages out to a .019 cent gain per kilowatt.”

  Dan stared at the man in surprise. “With a peak operating capacity of 150 megawatts?”

  “Yes.” Naylor snapped the word off.

  Dan did the math. “That’s a difference of less than three thousand dollars a year.”

  “Mr. Armstrong, I’m sure you can understand the advantages of long-term hydroelectric storage…” Naylor launched into all the reasons why it was best, for the third time in the last two hours.

  Hell of a way to spend a Saturday, Dan thought in increasing frustration. He wondered if he could get Jim Evans, his engineer down in Amarillo, up here to look over this mess. Just then, his phone buzzed. Thank God, he thought as he unsnapped it from the holster. He didn’t recognize the number, but it was a South Dakota area code. “Hello?”

  “Dan? This is Rosebud. Donnelly,” she added, like he knew tons of Rosebuds.

  She was calling him. All those cookies must have worked. Dan ordered his face not to smile as he excused himself and hurried outside, away from any prying ears. “Hey. What’s up
?” Sheesh, what was he—thirteen again?

  “Um, well, I’m…well, I’m stuck.” She sounded thoroughly miserable about it. “My car died, and no one else can come get me. I need help.”

  A damsel in distress. And she was calling him. She was either really desperate or…well, no use getting ahead of himself. “I’m just finishing up a meeting. Where are you?”

  He thought the call had been dropped, but finally she said, “Do you know where the University of South Dakota is?”

  “No. Why are you at a university?”

  “Um…research. Can you pick me up or not?”

  The damsel was really desperate, it seemed. “Give me fifteen minutes to finish this meeting.”

  “I’m in parking lot D, behind the library. You should get here in an hour.”

  “Then I’ll be seein’ you in an hour.” He ended the call and stared at the phone. Research? Did the university even have a law library?

  “Mr. Armstrong?” Naylor hovered his way out onto the porch. “It’s getting late. Do you have any other questions?”

  “Just one.” It took a second to get his brain off Rosebud waiting for him and back onto engineering reports. “Who else have you told about the run-of-river option?”

  The man turned positively red, which was an ugly shade on his sallow skin. “I assure you that all the work at Naylor Engineering remains completely confidential at all times. We take client privileges—”

  Dan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “You haven’t told any of the members of the Red Creek tribe?”

  “Certainly not.” Naylor actually stamped his foot on the porch, looking for all the world like an indignant parakeet. “And those—those—those savages destroyed several thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near the lot of them.”

  The little man sounded just like his uncle. Dan hadn’t gotten out much around here—just making the rounds between the rez, the ranch house and the dam site. Did everyone here talk like that? Was that why Rosebud had shut down that kiss so quickly—she was afraid he’d call her a savage?