Montana Mavericks, Books 1-4

by Diana Palmer

  Jackson leaned back in his battered swivel chair and smothered a grin as best he could. He probably should be ashamed of himself, but he wasn’t. If he was honest, he’d have to admit he was enjoying this immensely.

  Since taking over for Uncle Frank two months ago, he’d been forced to deal with representatives from the federal, state and county governments on a daily basis. All of them wanted something from him or his tribe, but they didn’t want to give anything in return. And they didn’t care whether or not they understood the people they were supposed to be serving.

  Well, he’d finally had enough of trying to accommodate these idiots. He felt stupid for ever having thought this one was cute. Hell, she was just another insensitive bureaucrat. The fact that she was Indian herself only made it all the more inexcusable, as far as he was concerned. Damn it, she should know better, and by the time he was done with her, she would.

  Lacing his fingers together over his belt buckle, Jackson stared at her until the tension nearly crackled between them. “Why not? Because we’re sick and tired of being studied like bugs under a microscope. And because I don’t think you really want to understand our problems, Ms. Schaeffer.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She drew herself up as tall as she could and still remain seated. It didn’t help a whole lot, because she was only about five foot four when she was standing. “I didn’t come all the way to Montana from Washington for the fun of it, Mr. Hawk.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Jackson said. “You came here looking for easy answers, so you can write your little report and make points with Baldwin. Well, here’s a news flash, Ms. Schaeffer. There aren’t any easy answers. If you really want to understand the problems of this reservation, you come out here and live with us for a year.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t possibly stay for a year.”

  “Then don’t waste the taxpayers’ money writing another useless report about Indians.”

  “Why are you being so obnoxious about this with me?” she demanded, poking the center of her chest with her index finger. “I certainly don’t have any prejudice against Indians. I was chosen for this assignment because I am one.”

  Jackson had to chuckle at that. “You may have the blood, honey, but you don’t have the soul.”

  Red patches bloomed over her cheekbones. She jumped out of her chair as if the seat had suddenly caught fire and propped her fists on her hips. “If you’re implying—”

  “I’m not implying anything,” Jackson said, rising from his own chair. Bracing both hands on the top of his desk, he leaned forward until his nose nearly brushed hers. “I’ll call you an apple right to your face, if you want. You know what that means, don’t you? Red on the outside, white on the inside?”

  “I’ve heard the term.”

  “I’m sure you have. You’re trading on a heritage you know nothing about to further your career, and I’ll be damned if you’ll do it at my tribe’s expense. Go on back to Washington and find somebody else to write about.”

  Her chin rose another notch. She slowly lowered her fists to her sides, her movements stiff and jerky enough to make Jackson suspect she was having a hard time fighting off an urge to punch him in the face. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Hawk. And might I remind you that I’m a federal employee?”

  “So was Custer, lady. He didn’t belong here, either.”

  She gave him a glare that should have singed his eyelashes off. Then she put on her coat, picked up her briefcase and rested the bottom of it on the seat of the chair. “You really think you know everything about me, don’t you?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Perhaps. But then again, perhaps not.”

  He didn’t like the grim smile that slowly curved the corners of her mouth. He straightened to his full height. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not important. But get one thing straight. With or without your help, I will write my report. Congressman Baldwin will be using it to draft legislation that will directly affect the people on this reservation. Since you have refused an opportunity to offer input, you’ll have only yourself to blame if you don’t like the results. Have a nice day, Mr. Hawk.”

  Jackson remained standing behind his desk, listening to the angry clicks her heels made on the tile floor as she marched down the hallway. When he heard the exit door open and close, he swore under his breath, plunked his butt into the chair and reached for the phone.

  Not only was the woman an apple, he’d bet his law degree she was an apple with some kind of an ax to grind. One of his old friends from Georgetown University’s law school worked on Capitol Hill. Bennie Gonzales had a network of contacts among congressional staffers that a gossip columnist would kill for. If there was anything worth knowing about Maggie Schaeffer, Bennie already knew it, or he could get it within an hour. The call went through, and when he’d chitchatted enough to be polite, Jackson made his request.

  “Maggie Schaeffer,” Bennie said. “That name’s familiar. Let me think a second. Maggie Schaeffer, Maggie Schaeffer…Yeah, I’ve got her now. Research aide for Baldwin. Native American. Kinda short. Cute. Hair like Katie Couric’s?”

  “That’s the one,” Jackson said, grinning to himself as he imagined Bennie sitting behind a desk piled high with papers, tapping his forehead, as if that would help him spit out pertinent facts faster. “What do you know about her?”

  “I’ve met her once. She’s got a good rep. Supposed to be one of the best researchers on the Hill. Has a master’s in public administration from Harvard.”

  “Do you know if she’s ever worked with Native American issues?” Jackson asked.

  “Not that I remember. She’s done a lot of work on labor and transportation issues, though. Did a report on the timber industry a few months ago that was really excellent.”

  “That’s all you know about her?”

  “Professionally,” Bennie said. “I heard a rumor about her last week, but I doubt there’s any truth in it.”

  “What?”

  “You know Washington gossip. Everybody’s always supposed to be sleeping with their boss. I can’t imagine Maggie with ol’ horse-faced Baldwin, though.”

  Jackson couldn’t imagine that, either, and it was surprising how distasteful he found the idea. “Are you sure this rumor was about the same Maggie?”

  “Oh, yeah. The word was, Baldwin was shipping her out of town because his wife was jealous. The source really wasn’t all that reliable, Jackson. I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

  “All right, Bennie. Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Jackson hung up the phone, then leaned back and propped his heels on the desk again. Should he call his uncle about Maggie Schaeffer or not? Kane Hunter, the doctor who served the reservation, had said they weren’t supposed to upset Uncle Frank, but it had been two months since his heart attack. At this point, Jackson figured discovering he’d been kept in the dark about a potential problem with a congressman would upset his uncle more than hearing about it now.

  Bracing for a scolding he probably deserved, Jackson grabbed the phone again and punched in his uncle’s number. Sure enough, when he finished describing his encounter with Baldwin’s aide, Uncle Frank cut loose with a list of insults, spoken in rapid-fire Cheyenne. Jackson caught one that sounded like “turnip brain” and considered himself lucky he couldn’t understand the rest.

  “All right, I get the message,” he said, when his uncle started to slow down. “I don’t know how you stand dealing with these people all the time, Uncle Frank. They drive me nuts. It made me feel better to finally tell one of them off.”

  “The job isn’t about making you feel better, Jackson,” Frank said, his voice deeper and gruffer than usual. “It’s about doing what is best for the tribe. And what is best for the tribe is to stay on polite terms with our congressional delegation.”

  “I know, I know. But why should we waste our time like that? I’m telling you, this lady knows nothing. What good will it d
o for her to write a stupid report about us?”

  “There’s probably a warehouse in Washington as big as the Pentagon that’s full of stupid reports about Indians,” Frank countered with a chuckle. “One more won’t hurt anything, nephew. Besides, what right have you to judge anyone for being an apple?”

  Jackson winced as his uncle’s pointed question struck home. What right, indeed? Maggie Schaeffer wasn’t doing a blessed thing he hadn’t done himself—for almost half his life. He’d been back on the res for four years now, but he still didn’t like to be reminded of the man he’d once been. Maybe that was why he’d reacted so strongly to Ms. Schaeffer—he couldn’t look at her or listen to her without remembering his own folly.

  “You know what you have to do, Jackson,” Frank said, after a moment’s silence.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Jackson swung his feet to the floor. “Answer one more question, Uncle Frank. How do you always manage to say the one thing that will make me squirm the most?”

  Frank let out one of his deep, rumbling laughs. Jackson treasured that sound, especially since he’d come so close to never hearing it again. “Haven’t you figured that out yet, kid? I’m a wise old Indian. Just like in the movies.”

  Breathing deeply in an attempt to bring her chaotic emotions under control, Maggie Schaeffer tossed her briefcase onto the passenger seat of her rental car and slammed the door. It didn’t help much. She marched around the front end, unlocked the driver’s door, climbed in behind the wheel and slammed that door, too. She poked the key at the ignition, but her hand was trembling too much for her to fit it into the narrow slot.

  She dropped the keys into her lap and pounded the steering wheel with the side of her fist. “Damn that arrogant jerk!”

  There were better words to describe Jackson Hawk, but she refused to lower herself that far. Her chest was so full of rage it ached, and she blinked back the tears of frustration stinging the backs of her eyes. She would not let him get to her. He wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called an apple, and she doubted it would be the last.

  “So why does it still hurt?”

  Maggie sniffed, then sighed and shook her head. She’d grown up surrounded by white people. Her mother had been the only other Indian she knew until she left home. Beverly Schaeffer hadn’t seemed very different from the other kids’ mothers, though, and since Maggie had worn the same kind of clothes, played with the same toys and taken the same lessons after school as the other kids, she hadn’t felt all that different, either.

  Oh, once in a while somebody would make a remark about her being an Indian, but she hadn’t thought much about it then. Her mother and father had kept her too busy being an adored only child for her to worry about being inferior to anyone. She’d certainly never felt that way about herself.

  Still, she’d always known she wasn’t exactly like the other kids. She wasn’t white, and she never would be. Her mother’s refusal to talk about her own childhood, her relatives and Maggie’s biological father had raised more than a few questions in Maggie’s mind about her Indian heritage. One of her secret goals when she went off to college had been to meet other Indian students and find out if she would feel more at home with them than she did with her white friends.

  “Hah!” she muttered, rolling her eyes in disgust at the painful memories flitting through her mind. She’d been rejected by white people over the years, but they had usually been so obviously ignorant, she was able to ignore them. It had hurt a thousand times more when her fellow Indian students took one look at her and despised her on sight.

  It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t been raised on a reservation. It wasn’t her fault she’d been raised with plenty of money, or that she’d received a better education in an upper-class white suburb of Denver. It wasn’t her fault she had a white stepfather, or that he’d been allowed to adopt her. And yet she’d been rejected by her fellow Indian students for all of those reasons.

  Sighing again, Maggie gazed through the windshield, silently reading the black letters painted on the door of the huge complex that housed the tribal offices, a restaurant, and heaven only knew what else. “Welcome to the Laughing Horse Tribal Center. Home of the Northern Cheyenne, Western Band.”

  Well, if this was really the home of the Northern Cheyenne, then Maggie Schaeffer had as much right to be here as Mr. High-and-Mighty Hawk did. Her mother had been born and raised here. Maggie herself had been born here.

  If she had received a warmer welcome, she might have found the nerve to look up a few of her relatives. She wouldn’t dream of doing that now, though. Any relatives she had living here might well be as mean and nasty as Jackson Hawk.

  Just thinking the wretched man’s name was enough to raise gooseflesh on her arms. The meeting had started out so well. And then, in the space of a heartbeat, his attitude had changed from cautiously welcoming to downright hostile. What on earth had she done wrong?

  It was hard to believe she’d thought he was so handsome at first—the handsomest man she’d ever seen. In a primitive sort of way. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining his face.

  He had smooth, coppery skin stretched over a bold blade of a nose, sharply defined cheekbones, and a firm jaw and chin. His long black braids did nothing to detract from his masculinity; he was so tall, his shoulders were so broad, his voice was so deep and rough, she doubted anything would be able to do that.

  But it was his eyes she remembered best. Black, black eyes, shining with intelligence, glittering with anger, eyes that had looked into the darkest corners of her soul. And found her wanting.

  A shiver zipped up her spine, and she felt a hollow, aching sensation in the center of her chest. Sighing, she opened her eyes and shook her head. It didn’t matter whether or not he liked her. There was no point in feeling sorry for herself. She had a job to do. Perhaps someone at the BIA office would help.

  She looked up at the sprawling building again, searching for a sign to tell her which way to go. Her stomach fluttered, her heart contracted, and a strangled gasp escaped her lips. There, at the top of the steps, stood a man wearing jeans, a denim jacket, and a black Stetson with a white feather sticking out of the hatband. It was Jackson Hawk. Though he also wore a pair of aviator sunglasses, she just knew he was staring straight at her.

  Two

  Jackson stepped outside, slid on his sunglasses to soften the sun’s reflection off the snow and felt a sharp tug at his heartstrings that was part guilt, part relief. So, she hadn’t left yet. Though her powder-blue rental car was only a compact, Ms. Schaeffer looked awfully small and fragile behind the wheel. And why was she just sitting there with her head back and her eyes shut? Maybe he’d given her a headache.

  That was only fair, he thought with a wry grin. She’d sure as hell given him one. Then she sat up and looked right at him. His stomach lurched as if he were in an elevator that had suddenly plunged twenty stories. Her shoulders went rigid. Her chin came up. Even from this distance, her eyes looked as huge as a doe’s during hunting season.

  Damn. He hadn’t thought he’d been mean enough to send her into a fight-or-flight response. She climbed out and stood behind the car door, facing him, her expression clearly indicating she’d give him one hell of a fight long before she would ever run from him. Well, good. He would have really felt bad if he’d scared all the spunk out of her.

  Shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, he ambled down the steps and crossed the sidewalk. She braced one arm across the top of the car door and propped her other hand on her hip. Her face betrayed no emotion now, but he could see her chest rising and falling with rapid, choppy little breaths.

  When she spoke, her voice was so carefully controlled it was a challenge, whether or not she intended it to be one. “Is there a problem, Mr. Hawk?”

  Yeah, there was a problem. He’d never been any good at making apologies. He hoped he could figure out a way to do this without having to swallow a whole crow, feathers and all.


  “Not exactly.”

  The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. She looked up at him expectantly, and for an insane instant, he wanted to touch the graceful curve of her neck. He cleared his throat, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and inclined his head toward the vehicle.

  “Havin’ trouble with your car?”

  “No.”

  “Good. The road between here and Whitehorn’s not the best.”

  Her eyebrows shot up beneath her bangs again, and the corners of her mouth tightened. “Is that supposed to be a subtle way of telling me to leave?”

  Feeling like an idiot, Jackson shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What exactly did you mean?”

  No one could ever accuse her of having less-than-perfect diction.

  “Nothing, really. I was just, uh, tryin’ to make a little conversation.”

  Her eyes widened slightly at that. Jackson felt even more foolish when he saw the light of understanding turn on in her big, dark eyes and heard a trace of amusement slide into her voice. “Why?”

  “It’s no big deal,” he said, raising one shoulder in a half shrug. “I just realized I may have been a little…abrupt when you were in my office.”

  Oh, damn. She was on to him, all right. He hadn’t given her any reason to make this easy for him, but she was enjoying his discomfort entirely too much. Her voice took on a sweetness that made him grind his back teeth together.

  “Abrupt? Don’t be so modest, Mr. Hawk. I would have called your behavior insulting, at the very least.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic,” he grumbled.

  She tipped her head to one side and gave him a wide-eyed look. “I don’t? You certainly were.”

  “Yeah, I know. And I’m sorry, all right?”

  Straightening away from the car door, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Funny. You don’t sound very sorry to me.”

  “Well, I am.”