Lakota Legacy: Wolf DreamerCowboy Days and Indian NightsSeven Days

by Madeline Baker

  “I haven’t been gentle with it. That ol’ turtle has seen its share of rowdiness and hard action, graced more than a few hats.”

  In stark contrast with the white margins of the book pages, Ryder’s brown hands looked rough, ready for hard action, not quite at ease with the book or the chair or the wineglass. He took care with these things, as he certainly had with his only heirloom. Maybe he didn’t know he’d been gentle with it. Maybe his gentleness came straight from the heart without any detours through the brain for conscious fine-tuning. What would it feel like, being handled by such a man’s hands?

  The very thought was completely un-Meredith. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d noticed anything so particular about a man as his hands. Not a real man, anyway, not…

  “Are you…do you have other…attachments?”

  “To a woman, you mean?”

  “Yes. Girlfriend, wife, intended? Children? You know, attachments in a family way.”

  “No. No ol’ lady, legal, common or intended. And no one in a family way, as far as I…” He looked into her eyes and let her watch the light dance in his, let her see that he knew damn well why she’d asked, but that he didn’t mind that she’d asked. He finally gave a hearty laugh. “Man, when you get personal, you cover all the bases right off the bat.”

  “Well, I—”

  He lifted a hand. “Don’t spoil it, now. Don’t try to say you didn’t mean to.”

  Smiling, strangely emboldened, she sipped her wine.

  “I might just go to the rodeo myself this weekend and see for myself what a turtle’s share of rowdiness and hard action looks like.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said, abruptly sober. “I can’t hardly see the rodeo as your cup of tea.”

  “I wouldn’t expect tea.” Then she matched her tone to his. “I wouldn’t want to see any animals get hurt, though.”

  “More likely you’d see a cowboy or two get a little banged up.”

  “That I can handle,” she tossed out lightly. “Just no horses or bulls. Or turtles. Oh, and would you mind paying your rent before you ride your bull?”

  “I’d pay right now if I knew—”

  “Just kidding. If you can fix that leak upstairs, we’ll call it even.” Grinning, she tapped the back of his hand. “But could you do it before the rodeo?”

  “You’re a wise woman.” He reached for his glass. “The truth is, I don’t ride bulls anymore.”

  “I thought you said you were a—”

  “Bull fighter, but that’s an exaggeration now, too.” He sipped his wine and grimaced—whether over the wine or the truth, she wasn’t sure. “It used to be my specialty, but I gotta quit doin’ that altogether pretty quick here.”

  “I thought bullfighting was a different sport.”

  “It is.”

  “They don’t have bullfighting in rodeos. We don’t have bullfighting in this country at all, do we? It’s so…” She stood up slowly, finishing her indictment with a facial expression mirroring the one he’d made over the tart wine. “So cruel. Not that I’ve ever—”

  “Don’t worry. In rodeo bullfighting, the bull is the only one who gets to carry any sharp weapons. Like I said, you won’t see bloodshed, at least not from four-legged creatures.”

  She was headed for the other chair, walking gingerly. The bottoms of her feet had stiffened up, and she had to stretch the kinks out.

  “Did you pick up a rock in your shoe?” he asked.

  “Bad feet,” she explained. “They seem to be aging faster than the rest of me. By the end of the day…”

  “I know what you mean.” He moved to the ottoman and patted the dish he’d made in the chair cushion. “Sit down here and let me give you my treatment for happy feet.”

  She settled into the big chair, warmed and reshaped by his body. His gesture called for her feet in his lap. Her response—because her big, flat feet had surely never been her best feature—was tentative. Like a patient afraid to see her wounds or the look on the face of the one who would tend them, she sank back in the chair. She felt his hands slip behind her knees and slide down the back of her undoubtedly bristly calves. He was doing all the choosing, the lifting, the planting of her heels firmly on his thighs, the peeling away of her canvas shoes.

  “Here’s your problem,” he diagnosed, and she imagined a hideous wart or boil—something new to add to her growing collection of physical imperfections. “These shoes go nice with your skirt, but they’re not giving your feet the support they deserve. Got any horse liniment around?”

  She laughed, absurdly relieved. “I just used the last of it, I’m afraid.”

  His hands gave pain before pleasure, but she knew her feet were to blame. She held her breath while he took his own pains working them over, moving slowly, end to end. It was all she could do to keep quiet.

  “How about Bag Balm?”

  She lifted her head from the backrest. “What’s…”

  “For cows’ udders. Keeps the teats nice and…”

  She scowled. “Those are my feet.”

  “You don’t think I know the difference between feets and teats?” He grinned. “Are yours ticklish?”

  Giggling, she jerked her feet back, but he grabbed them before they escaped.

  “How can I make them happy without getting to know their little quirks?”

  “Ticklish feet are normal. I don’t have any quirks.”

  “Everybody has quirks.” He winked at her as he resumed the rhythm of his massaging. “Relax. I’m only holding your foot.”

  “A rather intimate undertaking for someone who walked into my life just a few hours ago.” She smiled with pure pleasure. “Or limped. Did I miss that? I have a feeling you’re a bit more perceptive than I am, but you obviously know something…ahhhh-bout tired feet.”

  “Does that feel good?” He shifted his kneading, turning her heel to dough. “How about here?”

  She stretched and flexed, reaching for more until his heated glance turned hers to the foot that had strayed too close to his crotch. She jerked both feet away. Their eyes exchanged hints of trepidation and reassurance. He reclaimed the foot that had escaped him, followed by the more innocent one. He smiled as he watched the tension ebb from her limbs, her shoulders, finally her face.

  “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “I’m older than you are.”

  “Did I say ‘for your age’?” He chuckled. “That’s the worst comeback my flattery has ever gotten me.” He lifted a sturdy shoulder. “Except for the time I got slapped, but I was sadly misunderstood. My vocabulary was limited to man talk back then.”

  “Is that a language?”

  “Let me try again,” he said with a warm smile. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Meredith. The way you move around in the kitchen, handling your pots and plates, fixing up the food. The way you stop to pet your cat, thought to give my dog some water, put the salt and pepper out even though you don’t use either one. I haven’t once asked myself how old you might be, and that’s the truth.”

  “I’m a grandmother.” But her smile felt girlish and flirtatious. “A very young grandmother, but still…” She sighed, fighting off total contentment. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “About what?”

  “You. No, me. I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He questioned her with a look. “Letting you stay,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that it was all a mistake, and I’m sorry and good luck at your next stop.”

  “You still can.”

  “But I don’t want to,” she admitted. His smile was too self-satisfied. “Be rude. I hate rudeness. I agreed to let you have the room for a week, and I’m fine with that.” She tipped her head back. “This feels heavenly.”

  “Heaven is a safe place to be.” After a moment he added, “You’re safe, Meredith.”

  Tucking her doubts away for later, she nodded.

  “But I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you
to come to the rodeo. I think we’re better off for you to forget that plan.”

  “Why? I can always leave if I see anything upsetting.”

  “Once you’ve seen it, you can’t un-see it.”

  “Are you going to do something bad?”

  “Maybe. You might not like it.” He shrugged. “You just don’t strike me as a rodeo kind of a gal, and I don’t want you wastin’ your time on my account.”

  “I’m not in the habit of wasting anything.” In a test flex her feet gave her no pain. “Ahh, that was some aperitif, Ryder. I guess taking in a boarder isn’t such a bad idea.” She smiled. “It’s just that you’re such a surprise.”

  “That makes two of us. You’re a real nice surprise.” He patted her foot. “For a grandma.”

  She always had her morning coffee and read the newspaper on the porch. One of the advantages to working at home was not having to rush off anywhere in the morning. She had a good life. With Ken and Collin gone, it had become a quiet life. Some people might call it dull. A thrill-seeker like Ryder Red Hawk would undoubtedly come to that conclusion after a day or two. She had not seen him yet this morning and wondered whether he was a late riser.

  “I found it” came the sudden announcement from the kitchen. “Come see the cause of all your cussing.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” she said when he popped his head into the doorway. “What cussing?”

  “Yesterday, remember? When you cussed me outta’ the shower.” He motioned her out of her comfortable wicker chair. “Come take a look at the bugger.”

  “Bugger?” She followed, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out what kind of a bug caused a leaky shower. “I didn’t cuss at you. What bugger?”

  “Not only do you have a hole, but I’m bettin’ you’ve got a mouse.”

  “I have a cat. Somewhere.” She paused to greet his dog, but glancing to the top of the stairs, she saw no cat. “Kitty’s been hiding since Raven arrived.”

  “She’s also been falling down on the job.” He ushered her into his room, past his neatly made bed, into the bathroom, where he presented his morning’s discovery by thrusting his finger through a hole in the wall. “This is the work of a mouse right here. Somebody tried to stick some caulking around that soap thing and patch some of the grout, but it didn’t hold. Your son does good work on dogs and horses, but he did a piss-poor patch-up job on this shower stall.”

  “How do you know this wasn’t my patch-up job?”

  “You would have hired it done.”

  Eyeing the patchwork of tile and old adhesive on the shower walls, the crumbled grout and the litter on the floor, Meredith sighed. “I didn’t even think you were up yet.”

  “I got right to it, just like I promised. Didn’t take much to track down the problem.”

  “You found two problems, which means I’ll need to track down a carpenter who also does tile work and an exterminator.”

  “What for? You’ve got me.” With the toe of his boot he scraped a pile of litter toward the base of the toilet. “Is breakfast ready yet?”

  “Breakfast?”

  “I work for food,” he reminded her.

  “That’s right.” A snap of her fingers signaled things remembered. “Real men eat breakfast.” On second thought, she eyed the hole in her wall. “Are you sure you can handle this? It’s turning into a pretty complicated repair job.”

  “Real men do their own repairs.”

  “But this is…” She started to say my own repair, but something in his eyes made her smile and offer Swedish pancakes instead.

  Chapter 4

  Ryder had never met a woman who had her own library. It had to be the most comfortable room he’d ever experienced. It felt good to sit in a big, cushy chair surrounded by shelves full of books and classy knickknacks and nice pictures on the walls and realize that the room wasn’t part of a public building. There were no hours here. No closing time. No rules against having food and drink.

  He loved to read, but he never stayed in one place long enough to use the library for checking out books. He always had a few paperback books in his duffel bag. Westerns, mainly. After he read them, he’d give them away or trade them in if he ran across the right bookstore. Keeping the good ones around would be nice, he thought. He’d bought some of his favorite stories more than once.

  With the shower fixed and Meredith busy at her computer, Ryder had followed her suggestion that he “retire to the library with a glass of lemonade.” He had tried not to let on that the consequence of squatting in the bathtub was a knee aching to retire to a sandy beach on some no-bull island in the Caribbean. He had to wonder what kind of attention a little limping might have earned him after the foot massage he’d given Meredith last night. Wondering was one thing, but he wasn’t ready to find out. In the sympathy department, dishing it out was easier than taking it. Or, stickier still, being denied.

  He already liked this woman as much as her son had promised he would. Kenny got to teasing him about turning into a fussy old bachelor and asked him just what kind of woman he might be willing to settle down with. Ryder didn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but Kenny’s response was that he’d just described his mother. It probably wouldn’t have mattered what qualities he’d listed; Kenny was all set to claim them for his mom. Ryder had been set up, pure and simple.

  But it sure was nice to be able to take his hound and his lemonade and “retire” to the lady’s fine library.

  He set his hat on its crown on the side table, signaled for Raven to relax, and pulled out the American Indian art book he’d looked through with Meredith the night before. He flipped to the Plains Indian beadwork and paid close attention to the cradleboards. He’d never thought much about getting married, but he’d often imagined being a dad. He wondered how Kenny was making out down in South Dakota. Some trick, being a dad without a woman around. Ryder figured Kenny would find himself a nice girl within a few months. A year, tops. She’d look something like Meredith. She’d have the blue eyes, maybe, or the fine-boned hands. Kenny wouldn’t even realize it himself, but there would be some similarity between the girl he picked for himself and his mom.

  “Kid stuff’s gettin’ to me,” Ryder muttered as he fanned past the cradleboard pages and into the pottery section. But there were turtle images crawling all over those pages, too.

  Chuckling, he reached across the arm of the chair and sought his own turtle. “What’s inside your belly, old friend? Are you carrying any secrets in there?” He caressed its bumpy back with his thumb. “You’ve been ridin’ up there just above my ear all this time, and you never gave me a hint. Not a whisper.” He gave another chuckle, remembering Meredith’s burning curiosity. “Hey, you don’t have to worry about me cutting you open, ol’ fella. You don’t wanna say anything, your secret’s safe.

  “But I guess I gotta wonder if whatever you’ve got in there is…ever was any connection to somebody I might be related to. Some kind of family connection. Not that I care about droppin’ any names, you understand. Ryder Red Hawk is all the name I need. But some hint that whoever came before…”

  “See this?” He pulled his T-shirt up, tucked his thumb into the waistband of his jeans and pulled down. “I’ve got a belly button, just like everybody else. I had one of those cords once. It was attached to some woman named Elaine. Father unknown. Hell, you’d think he would’ve dropped his own name, but…”

  Raven raised his head, nose pointed toward the door. The floor creaked. Ryder pulled his shirt down as he turned slowly in the chair.

  He grimaced sheepishly. “How long have you been standing there?”

  Flustered, Meredith shook her head. She was glad she was carrying a plate of the blond brownies she’d made for no particular reason. They gave her an excuse for her sudden appearance, while her rubber soles explained her silence, even though she truly regretted hitting the wrong floorboard when she had.

  “I didn’t mean to—” Cut you off quite so soon.


  “There you go again, doin’ stuff you don’t mean to.”

  She shrugged. “I heard you promise the turtle you wouldn’t cut him open.”

  “Which proves I’m harmless, right? You oughta’ feel safe with a guy who wouldn’t hurt a turtle.”

  “I oughta’?” She felt a lot of things with him, but she wasn’t ready to sort those things out and figure out what they were. She set the plate between his hat and his lemonade and turned the tables. “I was just wondering whether talking to a stuffed turtle was normal behavior for a rodeo cowboy.”

  “Cowboys’ll talk to anything that don’t talk back.” On his way to returning the book to its shelf, he cocked an accusatory finger at Raven. “Too slow with the warning, there, partner.”

  “Is it normal behavior for an Indian?”

  What a dumb question.

  “Now, that I couldn’t tell you.” He turned from the bookshelf. The look of chagrin had vanished. “If you were listening just now, you know why.”

  “I wasn’t really, but I…” It was a white lie, she realized. Thrown out in defense, which was the supposedly best offense. But that was unnecessary, gaining her nothing, and fooling no one. “Well, I heard. Frankly, I thought it was cute when I realized whom you were talking to. And in case you couldn’t tell, I was trying to be cute with the cowboy and Indian remarks. That’s really all I know about you, so…” Sidestepping the dog, backing herself into a corner, she shook her head in disgust. “Oh, I’m such a poor tease. I always fall flat.”

  He laughed. “I’m the one who just made an ass of myself, and you’re embarrassed. For me?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “For myself.”

  “I don’t get any?” He grinned and nodded toward the brownies.

  “Oh, yes. Those are for you.” The sparkle in the eyes of a male coveting her sweets reassured her. “You need to bulk up a little bit to fight those bulls.”

  “Lack of bulk is my main advantage over them. I’m down to less than half a step ahead of them as it is. But we won’t turn these down, will we, boy?” Ryder broke a brownie in half.