Lakota Legacy: Wolf DreamerCowboy Days and Indian NightsSeven Days

by Madeline Baker

  “You got a week. Can you do a whole book in a week?”

  “If it’s interesting enough,” she allowed as she poured dark, fruit-scented sauce over the chicken.

  “If you can get past the dusty old leather cover?”

  “You’re not dusty anymore.” She took over on the potatoes he’d done nothing more than play with, reached in front of him to turn the water on. “I mopped up the proof of that.”

  “I think I know where that leak is, by the way.” He took a step back, but only a small one. “I’ll have to tear into some of that tile. Are there any leftovers around?”

  “I usually throw them—” She turned on him, eyes widening. “Tear into the wall of the shower?” She looked horrified. “Make a hole in my wall?”

  “You’ve already got a hole in your wall,” he reminded her as he pilfered a pinch of chopped nuts from a bowl that perfectly matched the color of the kitchen tile. “I can’t fix it unless I can find it, and I can’t find it unless I pull off some tile.”

  She pondered for a moment, as though he’d given her some numbers to add up in her head. “This sounds like more than a little repair work.” She gave up on the problem with a sigh. “I think I should hire a professional.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” It was, after all, her problem.

  “Not that I don’t think you could handle it.” Finger to lips, she reassessed him and reconsidered. “Could you?”

  Damn, he thought, what was she thinking? Those pretty fingertips were shiny with chicken fat. But those lips, full and moist and slightly pouty…

  He imagined kissing the fingertips first, then the lips. Hell, he’d slip her some tongue, even. He wasn’t one to let a little chicken fat get in the way of a great kiss.

  “Let me know if you’re interested in finding out,” he muttered as he helped himself to more nuts. He was getting hungry. “This is good stuff, Raven. Want a taste?”

  “I have a bin full of dog food in that bottom cabinet.” She pointed to a door on the other side of the room.

  “The lady’s cooking enough food for six people, and she’s offering you dog food, Raven.” Ryder offered chopped nuts. Raven licked them from his finger and then followed the fallen bits to the floor.

  “This dish wouldn’t be good for him. The spices…” She went to the dog treat bin herself and returned with a cookie. “Doesn’t he eat dog food?”

  “He’ll eat anything. He’s got an iron gut, just like mine.” Ryder smiled as he watched Raven clean Meredith’s fingers. No, ma’am, his dog wasn’t shy. “The hollow leg is a myth. The iron gut is real.”

  “A lot of good you two will do me as tasters.” She brushed her hands together.

  It pleased him that she went back to the carrots on the cutting board without making a stop at the faucet. Her kitchen was immaculate, but she was unfazed by dog germs.

  His kind of woman.

  “Just because we’ll eat anything, that doesn’t mean we don’t know our beans,” he assured her. “We can sure tell you when they’re fit to eat. Beans especially. We’re bean experts.”

  “Beans are a wonderful source of protein. A fine alternative to red meat.”

  “What have you got against red meat?”

  “My recipes rarely include red meat.” She consigned the chicken dish to the oven, took a plastic dog dish from a cupboard and filled it with water, set the dish on the floor, talking all the while. “I do low-cholesterol, heart-healthy cookbooks.”

  “Just our luck, Raven. More beans.”

  “Everyone’s looking for great vegetarian recipes these days. You’ll be amazed at how good healthful food can be.”

  He grimaced. “You’re a vegetarian?”

  “Not strictly, but don’t tell anyone. My focus is on the health angle. It sells very well. Red meat is fast losing favor, even with teenagers.” She smiled at him as she dried her hands on a striped towel. “Of course, you know that buffalo meat is much better for you than beef.”

  “Of course.”

  “I do the occasional ground-turkey alternative. Maybe we could come up with a couple of dishes using lean buffalo meat. What’s the best way to cook buffalo?”

  “On a stick,” he said, perfectly straight-faced.

  “Buffalo kabob would be great, wouldn’t it? It’s time I did a new ethnic cookbook. I’ve never included a Native American section. Do you have any family recipes we could use as a basis for Woodwardizing?”

  “You’re using the word we pretty freely all of a sudden.”

  She gave him a pert, sparkly look. “The book is getting interesting.”

  “And you haven’t even opened it yet.” He returned the smile with a touch of reproach. “Like I told you, I grew up with a white family.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She flipped one end of the towel over her shoulder as she set about tidying up her kitchen island. “But you left when you were sixteen. You haven’t tried to discover your roots?”

  “I know my onions. Is that a root?” Ryder chuckled as he seated himself opposite her on a padded barstool. “I discovered that being an Indian allowed me to compete in more rodeos. Indian rodeos.”

  “How does the rodeo figure into Native American culture?”

  “In Indian country when you have a powwow in the summer, you’ve got to have a rodeo. Cowboy days and Indian nights. Nothin’ like it.” He watched Raven help himself at the water dish and wondered when Meredith was going to offer him something to drink.

  “I’m not sure I’d like the rodeo part, but I’d love to go to a powwow.”

  “They’re a little different nowadays, from what I hear. The dancing is more competitive than the rodeo. That’s where the big prize money is now, the dancing.”

  “That’s the part I’d like to see anyway.”

  He smiled. “Are you asking me for a date?”

  “No.” She’d made quick work of her cleanup, and now she was posing for him, arms akimbo, head tipped to one side. “But I might consider offering you one if I decide to go to a powwow.”

  “What about if you decide to go out to supper?”

  “I rarely eat out.”

  “Do you go to the movies?”

  “I wait until they come out in video. I have a big-screen TV.”

  “I saw that,” he said with an appreciative nod. “It’s a nice one.”

  “It was our Christmas present to the house two years ago. I told Ken he could take it with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.” She checked her watch as she added absently, “You’re welcome to use it whenever I’m not…”

  “How about when you are?” he insisted.

  She had just remembered to set the timer on the oven. That done, she gave him another turn at her divided attention the way a woman might do for a child asking a string of questions.

  “Are you asking me for a date?”

  “Pretty cheap date,” he allowed. “Your food and your TV.”

  “I haven’t decided on the rate yet. It might not be so cheap.” She opened the refrigerator door and peered up, down and around until she spotted her objective. “Would you like some ice tea?”

  “Sure.” Finally. “I get a discounted meatless rate, don’t I?”

  “For my rather renowned and very highly rated cooking, you’d be getting a bargain at twice the price.”

  “We’ll see what the tasters have to say about that.” He took a long drink from the tall glass she’d set near his elbow before asking, “Where do you go when you go out?”

  “Ever since my son’s former girlfriend left him with a baby, I haven’t been out that much.” She sat down across the island from him, folded her hands primly and stared at his tea. “It’s odd, isn’t it? You don’t anticipate the grown-offspring-moves-back-home-with-a-baby scenario when your only offspring is a son.”

  “Ken’s a good man.” He figured she was looking for some outside reassurance. “Takes his responsibilities to heart. You raised him right.”

  “There’s the little m
atter of getting the girl pregnant when neither of them wanted to be married to the other. I’m sure I planted that little song in his brain way back when. ‘First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes Kenneth with the baby carriage.”’

  “Sounds like a fine recipe.”

  “I think so.”

  “Kenny just spiced it up some.”

  “He left out the first two ingredients. You can’t do that to a perfectly good recipe.” She flattened her hands on the butcher-block inset, spreading her fingers as though she were fitting the piece into the granite for the first time. “But you’re right. They’ll be fine. My son is a good man, and I have a beautiful grandson. They aren’t that far away. I can see them anytime.”

  “An easy day’s drive.”

  “It’s a long drive for a toddler. But once they get settled in, maybe I’ll…” She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes betraying a flash of vulnerability. “They need time to get settled, and I need to let go.”

  “Which comes first?” he wondered. “The letting-go part, or the getting a life?”

  “What are you talking about? I have a life. I have a good life.” She scowled. “That’s a terrible expression, you know. Get a life. It’s a vulgar thing to say.”

  “I didn’t say get a life.” On second thought, he had to admit, “Yeah, I did. That’s what it amounts to, but I’m honestly wondering how you would go about it, someone like you. It’s more like getting a life of your own. Wouldn’t that help with the letting-go part? I’m just asking.”

  “I’ve never been dependent. I have my own house, my own income, my own interests. I have everything I need, and I provide it quite nicely for myself.”

  “Man, that was a fast turnaround,” he said with a chuckle. “A minute ago I thought I was gonna have to pull out my handkerchief and catch a few tears, but you sure got your starch back in a hurry over a little vulgarity.”

  “A little goes a long way.” She stood quickly, pushing away from the butcher block. “I’m thinking about going to Europe.”

  “Now?”

  She shook her head impatiently, overlooking his smile. “I haven’t decided when. I should talk to a travel agent. I haven’t done much traveling, but I’d love to see some of the places I’ve studied and read so much about. France, especially.” She pulled the dishtowel off her shoulder and folded it in half. “Have you seen any interesting places in your travels? Besides Montana.”

  “The only other countries I’ve been to were Canada and Mexico. Canada’s nice. I don’t remember much about Mexico. I was drunk the whole time I was there.”

  “I’ve never been out of the country,” she said quietly, carefully smoothing the fold she’d made, clearly ignoring the part about him being drunk.

  “There’s a lot to see and do right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Right here in the Twin Cities. You don’t have to go too far to find something different.” He gestured with a cocked thumb. “It might be right at your front door.”

  “No kidding,” she said, finally jarring loose with a smile.

  Chapter 3

  Meredith’s new chicken recipe passed muster with her boarders. Raven was allowed no more than a taste of chicken with his kibbles. Meredith deemed the sauce too rich for the dog, and Ryder claimed that it was just plain too good for him. He made her admit that she didn’t change into a skirt, serve wine and light candles for every meal and that she didn’t often use her mother’s dishes, which he helped her clear from the table at the end of the meal.

  He didn’t know much about dishwashers, he said, but he could scrape and wipe with the best of them. “Just don’t tell anyone,” he said as he hung up the towel. “There are some chores that can ruin a guy.”

  “Really?” She reached for his hand as he turned from the sink. It was damp and warm. “I’d say these hands can only benefit. You’ve got calluses on top of calluses.” She looked up, saw his discomfort, and realized, to her regret, that she’d embarrassed him. She gave his hand a quick, impulsive squeeze. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone I let you touch my remote with these hands.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am.” The confidence restored in his smile, he kept her hand from slipping away. “You’re going to let me touch your remote what?”

  “Control.”

  “Your control is anything but remote, but I tell you what. If I ever get my hands on it, it’s goin’—”

  “In addition to the TV, I have a modest library that’s always open. Come see.” She started to pull him along, snatching her wineglass from the shiny granite countertop as an afterthought. “Grab the bottle,” she instructed, and he did. “Let’s see if we can find anything on turtles.”

  “That doesn’t sound too remote.”

  “Beaded ones,” she said as she ushered him into her favorite room in the house. She turned on a lamp and basked in the warmth of a room full of books. “I collect old books. I just love them. The smell, the feel, the sense that the words have been right here since…”

  Setting her glass aside, she pulled an old leather-bound volume from its niche and opened it carefully to the copyright page. “Since the turn of the century. Look,” she whispered, marveling at the detailed drawings of cook stoves and cast-iron utensils, Hoosier cabinets for the “modern, organized kitchen,” and laundry tools that made a wringer washer look easy to use. “Isn’t that something? Don’t you wonder how many people have read this, and who they were, where they lived?”

  “And why they’d be interested in Mrs. Curtiss and her discoveries?” He added a splash of white wine to both glasses before setting the bottle on the table beside them.

  “Household discoveries,” Meredith amended as she turned to a photograph of a dour-looking woman whose collar seemed to be choking her.

  “I’ll bet her favorite household discovery was how to get a week’s work out of somebody for a day’s pay.”

  “Look at the list of stuff they had to do on wash day.” She ran her finger down the page before she slapped the book closed and put it back in its place. “Just looking at it makes me tired. I would have been a total flop as a woman back then. If Mrs. Curtiss could see my kitchen—”

  “She’d want to know how you got into homemaker’s heaven so easy.”

  “I’m a homebody, not a dead body.” She moved across the room to another section of shelves. “You might find something to interest you on this shelf. Native American antiquities, artifacts, basketry, ceremonies, dwellings, pottery, treaties… Oh, here.” She bent to pull a book off the bottom shelf.

  “That sounded alphabetical,” he muttered as he moved to her side.

  “Basically, yes. This one’s too tall for that shelf, so it’s out of order.” She pushed the book into his hands and directed him toward one of the two Morris rockers that flanked the lamp table. “This has some fabulous color photographs in it. It’s a museum collection.” She braced one arm over the back of the chair and leaned over his shoulder, turning pages for him. “There,” she said of a series of beaded moccasins. “Examples from several Plains tribes. Between this and the book of Edward Curtis photographs, I know we’ll find something similar to your turtle.”

  “Were we looking?”

  “For some examples of amulets like yours.” She turned a page. “Here’s a cradleboard beaded with a Western Sioux mountain motif,” she pointed out, reading some of the description aloud. “Isn’t this gorgeous? The pattern looks very much like your hatband. Imagine how much time and skill it took some woman to make this.”

  “She wasn’t foolin’ with any remote control.”

  “Here’s one with a turtle amulet.” The turtle in the picture was red and white, and its shape seemed less distinctive than Ryder’s blue and black one, but there was an interesting footnote. “See? It says that the turtle is a symbol for longevity, and it would have contained—”

  “Don’t say it,” Ryder warned. “If I’ve been carrying a piece of somebody’s dried-up blood vessels around all this time, I don’t wanna
know about it. It gives me the willies, thinking I might be wearing some dead guy’s charm for long life.”

  “Maybe he had a very long life, and maybe the karma passes from him to you through this amulet.”

  “Or maybe not. Anyway, now you’re mixing up the traditions. Karma goes with something else.” On his own initiative, he turned the page, uncovering more beaded amulets. “Damn. They’re everywhere.”

  “The word comes from somewhere else, but if karma exists, it’s everywhere, too. It doesn’t matter what name we give it.” She circled behind his chair, took up her wine, passed up the other easy chair in favor of an ottoman, which put her nearly knee to knee with him. Perched before him as though she expected him to read to her, she propped her chin on her fist. “Your turtle might be a sign of more than one person’s longevity,” she suggested eagerly. “Maybe it’s part of a connection, Ryder.”

  “Like an umbilical cord?” He leaned back, leaving the book lying open across his knees. “I was cut loose twice. My connection to the Red Hawks isn’t much more than a nodding acquaintance. I found a few relations when I got into the Indian rodeo circuit. I’ve got some cousins.”

  “Did they know anything about your turtle?”

  “I didn’t ask.” He smoothed the glossy page as though he were petting one of the amulets. “Yeah, I guess I wear it for luck, and maybe I’ve been lucky. Once or twice I missed getting gored by this much,” he told her, measuring a scant inch between his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe I got a busted rib because my turtle wasn’t looking. Or maybe because he was.” After a moment’s reflection, he raised his brow, challenging her theory. “What if the guy that was connected got disconnected? What if somebody stole his turtle? You know, cut him off prematurely? What if he—or his spirit or karma or wandering soul—what if he has bad feelings toward the people who keep passing his turtle around?”

  She stared silently, trying to read his eyes. Was he worried, or was he teasing her?

  He stared back, but one corner of his mouth finally twitched. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “I think…” Surrendering the stare-down, she focused on the book. “I’m convinced it came off a baby’s cradleboard, which means it’s a gentle kind of karma. Or whatever you want to call it.”