Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  “You don’t understand, Eric. I don’t want to get married again. And I don’t want to fall in love—especially not with a DEA agent!”

  He ignored her. As if she hadn’t even spoken, he continued, “But what you will have, Wendy, will be good, and it will be caring.”

  “You might want to try that yourself,” she retorted.

  He slid back into his chair and took another long swallow of his beer. “Wendy, I don’t want—”

  He broke off, aware that he was about to repeat her words. He laughed and shrugged. “So how did work go? Did you get anything done?”

  “Yeah. I found a couple of books that you can refer to for total misinformation.”

  “There’s a lot of that, but thanks. It’s just as important to know where the bad stuff is as the good.” He grinned at her. “I was over at the Miccosukee center today. Things are going full speed ahead. They’re planning even more on their reservation lands. Billy was telling me that it’s hard to hone in on the Seminole bingo, so they’re going to try and battle the Hyatt instead.”

  Wendy grinned. She’d also heard the Miccosukee leader speak about his ideas, and she liked the plans as much as she liked the young man making them. It was true, the Seminoles had managed their money well. The tribe did well with bingo, and with cigarette sales. The Miccosukees were looking into those enterprises, but they were also interested in catching business from the new linkup with Interstate 75.

  “So you were fooling around all day, huh?” she said.

  “Yes, and no.” He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “We were talking the same old route. Money, education, housing. I never know quite where I stand myself. I like my house. I like owning this land. Then again, I enjoyed going to school. The years I spent in the service were traumatic—bloody and—yet, they were somehow important. Now I stand here on a crossroad. I don’t want to lose the value of our customs or traditions. But I don’t want to see the children of the tribe growing up without every benefit of white America. Where is the right place to be, Wendy? What is the right stand?”

  She stood up and gave him a hug. “I really love you alot, Eric, you know that?”

  He laughed. “I didn’t mean to give a soapbox lecture.”

  “And you didn’t. You’re super, and I’m going home.”

  “I love you, too, Wendy.” He looked into her eyes for a moment, then told her, “I think you should know, everyone seems to be commenting on all the activity going on. Along Alligator Alley, along the Trail.”

  “What activity?”

  “Well, knowing what I know, I assume that some of the men driving around and hovering around the airboat rides and villages work for the government. There have also been a lot—I mean a lot—of cops around, and you know that the police stations are really good about letting our own forces handle our own problems.” The Seminoles had a police force of their own, just as the Miccosukees did. Eric had always said that Florida was a fair state when it came to respecting the tribal laws of the Indians. The city and county police from Miami and Fort Lauderdale and the other communities seldom interfered with the Indian forces.

  “Well,” Wendy murmured, “I guess that it is reasonable for the government to have men trying to keep an eye out for Brad—and for Michaelson.”

  Eric nodded, watching her. “There’s something else, Wendy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Some of our men seem to think that something big is going to happen. They say there have been seaplane drops in the swamp, down toward the Trail.”

  Wendy shrugged impatiently. “Twenty miles south! Eric, think about it! Think about the size of the swamp! You have to know what you’re doing to find things out there!”

  “That’s true. But we don’t know if these are just petty crooks, smuggling in a kilo of pot—or hired assassins, hunting for Brad.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You should be. At least tell Brad what I’ve told you. I don’t believe that they can just walk in and find Brad, either. Only you and I know that he’s there.”

  “And old Mac up at the gas station.”

  Eric shrugged. “Mac never says a word to strangers. Never. So your secret is safe. But I’m afraid that they might stumble upon you by accident.”

  “They’d be idiots to molest me.”

  “Wendy, they’re criminals.” He sighed, exasperated. “You of all people should know the danger of innocence!”

  Duly chastised, she lowered her head. “I’ll tell Brad,” she promised.

  “Just warn him, that’s all. He has the right to know what’s going on, the right to protect you both.” He laughed suddenly. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you won’t have to give him up—yet.”

  “Very amusing, Eric,” she retorted, but when she saw his grin, she smiled, too. “Want to walk me out?”

  “Sure.” Arm in arm, they followed the lawn to where it began to level and fall toward the canal.

  “Want me to come home with you?” he teased her.

  Yes! Wendy thought, but she had to fight her own battles. “I’m all right.”

  “You’re better than all right, Wendy-bird. You’re perfect.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Flattery is great stuff. I’ll see you soon.”

  Distractedly, Wendy waved and started for home. The wind rushed around her and lifted her hair, gently calming her spirit.

  Maybe Brad was right. He knew what she wanted, but he wouldn’t give it to her, because he wanted her to have something better. And maybe someday, if she ever lay upon a psychiatrist’s couch and poured out her life’s story, she would be glad of it. Yes, I had a very bad time learning to step out again after my husband died. For two years I could do nothing. But then I met a man, and though he passed briefly through my life, it was something precious, and something very special.

  As Wendy neared home, she made a few resolutions. She was not going to act childish as she had today. She liked Brad, and she was going to enjoy him. The teasing was fun, and it was fun to get to know him.

  Of course, she’d be damned if she’d ever take another step toward him. If he really wanted her—whenever he decided to let her know when!—he’d better plan on coming to get her.

  Humming softly as she cut off the motor, she wondered if he might have discovered something to cook for dinner. She walked across the lawn to the house with a jaunty step.

  It wasn’t until she reached the door that she began to sense something was amiss. Emptiness and silence abounded through the house. Carefully, she opened the door.

  Nothing was disturbed—nothing at all. The house was neat and tidy. Rushing down the hallway, she discovered that Brad had straightened the beds. She flushed slightly, realizing that he had found the laundry hamper and the washer and dryer behind the slotted doors in the hall. He had washed the clothes that he had been borrowing—and her things. There was ample evidence of the chores he had done.

  Only the man himself was missing.

  Wendy let out a soft cry of fear, spun around and went tearing back out of the house. In dread she searched the yard, praying that she would not find a bloodied body. Pain glazed her heart. It was impossible. They couldn’t have found him. Not here. She lived too deep in the swamp.

  She kept telling herself that as she ran back into the house and found the shotgun.

  Wendy loathed weapons, but she wasn’t foolish. Brad was out there—perhaps in the custody of murderers. She cocked the gun and slung it over her shoulder. Fighting back the tears that stung her eyes, she set out to find him.

  * * *

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, should have surprised Brad about Wendy Hawk’s house anymore. He had been accosted in bed by a wild panther and attacked from the roof by a green-eyed Seminole. He’d learned that the Florida panther did belong, but that only madmen
kept alligators.

  And yet, when he came into the living room to discover the very tall, withered old man, standing dead center in the room, Brad still didn’t know what to think. There was no mistaking the fact that this man was an Indian. Half of his hair was white, the other half was blacker than midnight, long and straight. His face was near brown and weathered from constant exposure to the sun, and his features were solid and strong. His eyes were as black as onyx.

  Brad thought of all the things he had learned in school. This man had the simple pride and dignity of a Chief Joseph. He had the unfaltering stare of a Cochise or a Sitting Bull.

  Or an Osceola, Brad thought. This man was surely a Seminole.

  I’m definitely slipping, Brad thought. He hadn’t heard a single sound.

  But the old man didn’t seem to expect violence from him. In fact, he seemed to know that he would find him there.

  “Hello,” Brad said.

  The Indian nodded. Brad fumed uncomfortably as he realized that he was being scrutinized, from head to toe. What if the old fellow didn’t speak English? Brad raised a friendly hand, palm outward in friendship. “Hello,” he repeated.

  “I am old, not deaf,” the Indian told him.

  Brad felt like a fool. “Sorry. You didn’t answer me.”

  “I hadn’t decided what to answer.”

  “I didn’t think it was that difficult a question.”

  “Where is your respect for your elders?”

  “I meant no disrespect, truly,” Brad returned evenly. He paused, “Uh, sir, who are you, please?”

  A smile revealed a million wrinkles in the old man’s face. “Hawk. Willie Hawk.” He was dressed in faded dungarees, boots and a beribboned Seminole shirt. He stepped forward, offering Brad a hand.

  “Mr. Hawk, my pleasure. My name is—”

  “Yes, I know. You are McKenna. I have heard.”

  Brad frowned. He had heard? Hadn’t he stressed the importance of his anonymity to Wendy? Had she told this man about him today? Or hadn’t Eric realized that he was betraying Brad to give him away. Maybe Eric hadn’t understood—

  No. Eric was too bright not to understand the situation.

  Willie Hawk seemed to have read the quick wanderings of his mind. His smile deepened and his face seemed to crinkle even more. “They have not betrayed you. Not Wendy, not Eric.”

  “Surely—”

  Willie Hawk dismissed Brad with a wave of his gnarled hand. “You have judged them well. They have not betrayed you. I know the swamp, son. I know what happens here. I can listen to the earth. Even the alligator speaks to me.”

  Just what he needed, Brad decided—an Indian, and senile to boot.

  Willie Hawk lowered his eyes, and Brad realized that the old man had read his mind again. “So Wendy has gone to work, and you are here alone?”

  Brad nodded. “Yes, sir. Can I get you anything? This is your grandson’s house. You are probably at home here.”

  “My grandson is dead. It is Wendy’s house,” Willie said, and Brad could not fathom with what emotion he spoke. If there was pain, it was well hidden. If there was love, that, too, was well hidden.

  “Well, then—”

  “You are alone here. There must be very little to do. The inactivity must weigh heavily upon a man who is accustomed to movement.”

  Brad laughed. “Yes, I guess it does get bad. The laundry is all done, and Wendy is too neat a lady to leave much else to do.”

  There was something intriguing about the old man’s face. It suggested an ancient, enigmatic wisdom. The onyx eyes never seemed to leave his own or to cease their slow and careful assessment. He turned around suddenly. “Come with me.”

  “What?”

  Willie paused. “Are you deaf, young man?”

  “No, it’s just that—”

  “The Indian wars ended many, many moons ago, you know.”

  The old man was a bit of a dramatist, Brad decided. He saw the twinkle in Willie’s eyes, and this time, the Indian laughed with him.

  “What the hell,” Brad said. “I’ll live dangerously. But give me a minute, please. I want to leave Wendy a note. Under the circumstances, I don’t want her to worry.”

  Willie nodded. “Yes, write a message. Tell her that you are with me, and she will not worry.”

  Brad scribbled out a note. He started to attach it to the refrigerator, then worried that she might get scared outside if she called him and he didn’t answer. He followed Willie out the door, thinking that he’d stick his note in the mailbox. Then he realized that there was no mailbox. “How does she get her bills?” he wondered out loud.

  “P.O. box,” Willie advised him sagely.

  “Of course,” Brad murmured. He tried to shove the note beneath the door. It seemed to stick, more or less.

  Willie had come by canoe. He pointed the handmade vessel out to Brad, and they started toward it. Brad offered to paddle, but Willie would have none of it.

  “Sit still,” he advised Brad. “There are not many times in life when you may enjoy the journey with no effort, with your eyes and ears and heart open.”

  “Right,” Brad said. “Thank you, sir.” He still worried that he should be doing the work, but knew that Willie would not appreciate his worry.

  Just as they rounded out to slice westward along the canal, Brad noticed a black figure lurking around the house. On closer inspection, he relaxed. It was only Baby, prowling around the house.

  “I wonder if I was supposed to have fed her something,” he murmured aloud.

  “She came by the village this morning. My wife gave her a chicken. Baby is fine.”

  Brad nodded. But Baby, he saw, wanted something. The cat was crawling up on her hindquarters to let out her savage meow. Baby wanted to go in.

  Brad couldn’t imagine a bag of Tender Vittles big enough for such a cat anyway. He was glad that she’d eaten elsewhere.

  The canoe moved through the swamp.

  Brad dismissed all thoughts of Baby, not realizing that the panther had clipped his note with one long toenail, and that, when she finally walked away, she shredded his note as she went.

  Three hours later, Brad discovered himself sitting at the base of a tall pine. His hands were loosely tied behind his back, and he was smiling as a group of wild Indians danced and war-whooped around him.

  As a kid he’d played cowboys and Indians. Sometimes he’d been an Indian, and sometimes he’d been a cowboy.

  To the best of his knowledge, there hadn’t been any cowboys in the swamps, but that was okay. He had met Marna Hawk Panther and Anthony Panther—and all the little Panthers. He had met Mary Hawk, whom Willie referred to as his raven woman because of the ink-dark tresses that still adorned her head, despite the fact that she had turned eighty on her last birthday.

  Mike, Dorinda, David and Jennifer—the four little Panthers—suddenly ceased their war whoops. They raced over to hug their father, who gave them each a hug and a pat on the back. He whispered something to the children, and they all ran back to thank Brad for playing with them. Dorinda blushed and came close, giving a kiss on the cheek. “You’re very, very nice, Mr. McKenna. I’m going to tell Aunt Wendy that, too.”

  He smiled. She was a very pretty little girl with her great-grandfather’s onyx eyes, Mary Hawk’s raven hair and her mother’s lovely, golden skin. Brad nodded to her gravely. “Thank you,” he told her. She blushed again, then ran off to join her siblings.

  Tony Panther sat down beside Brad, leaning against the tree. He was a young man, dressed in a business suit that seemed somewhat ludicrous in the clearing of thatched-roof chickees. The clearing itself seemed to Brad to be a moment out of time.

  Of course, there were cars nearby. Tony’s Dodge was just beyond the tree. He was an accountant, who worked for the tri
be. He drove in and out of Fort Lauderdale daily.

  “That was nice, letting the kids play that way,” Tony told Brad. “We didn’t get to win very often in real life, you know.”

  Brad laughed, idly running the rope that had held him so loosely captive through his fingers. “I enjoyed them.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I remember playing cowboys and Indians when I was young. At the time, it was a total fantasy—pow-wows and peace pipes and scalpings.”

  “I’m just proud to still be here. It meant our Hawk ancestor was willing to fight and brave the swamps, rather than be sent west. But don’t worry—we haven’t scalped anyone in ages.” Tony looked at him a long moment. “Did you really enjoy the afternoon?”

  Brad mused over the question. He had. Mary had told him how the tribe had once raised pumpkins to survive. She had made him taste the old staple of their people, koontie bread, made from the koontie root. He had helped repair a chickee, and—since it was alligator season, he had also tasted the smoked meat of the creature. Tony, he had learned, was a Miccosukee, and from him, he had learned quite a bit about the two tribes who had coexisted in the Florida swampland. They shared their green corn dance and other festivals.

  Then, sitting there against the tree, Brad felt the peace of the area sweep through him. The sun was setting beautifully. Out on the water, a great blue heron rose and swept into the sky. The entire horizon reflected the golden sunset.

  Brad turned and nodded to Tony. “Yeah. I’ve enjoyed it very much.”

  “I wonder why Wendy hasn’t shown up yet,” Tony murmured, then he shrugged, seeing the worry that sprang into Brad’s eyes. “She might know what Grandfather is up to. He came over to kidnap you on purpose, you know. Just to rile Wendy.”

  Brad laughed. “Did he really?”

  He nodded. “I hope you don’t find this too strange, but we are Wendy’s family. Wendy and Leif met in college, when they were just kids. They married before they graduated. Her mother had died when she was a child, and her dad passed away right after they were married. She has been with us for a long time. We love her as if she were our blood.”