Spirit of a Champion (Sisters of Spirit #7)

by Nancy Radke

  “I don’t know. I’m headed to Las Vegas, but, well, I promised him.”

  “Not to say anything, or not to do anything?” Perri asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. Look Stormy. I know you always try to keep your promises, but if it’s life or death...”

  “It is.”

  “Then you can’t keep still. A promise shouldn’t cause the death of someone. If Jerry dies because you kept your promise, how are you going to feel?”

  “I’d never get over it.”

  “Right. So tell me what’s going on.”

  Stormy told her, happy to have “permission” from Perri. Actually, she had known the answer, she just needed her judgement verified.

  Perri heard her out, asking just a few questions. Then she said, “Look, Hugo and I are in Washington D.C. right now. We’re flying home in six days. We always fly in and out of Vegas, so I’ll let you know when we’re coming in. We can meet in the airport. Our car is there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do what you can in the meantime. I’ll talk this over with Hugo. He might be able to do something while he’s in Washington. You never know about him.”

  Stormy thought that was a strange thing to say. “Thanks. See you.”

  She walked to the ticket counter, made sure the seat was still available and paid for it. It was times like these that she wished she hadn’t cut up all her credit cards. She wasn’t going to have much cash when she got to Vegas.

  Kyle Wayne Torrin brushed back the long hair that had fallen in front of his eyes as he glanced around the airplane. He had purchased a coach ticket rather than first class when the ticket agent told him the plane was not over-booked. She had been right, there was room to spare, especially on the aisle seats which he preferred. Also the very front row, near the bulkhead, was empty of all but a very agitated-looking redhead with the best pair of legs he had seen in a long time.

  No ring on her left hand.

  Grinning at his good fortune, Kyle ignored his assigned seat number, threw his carry-on bag into the overhead bin and plopped himself down next to her. The flight between San Francisco and Las Vegas was a short one, but he decided he would get her name and phone number before the plane landed. And maybe the hotel where she planned to stay.

  An inveterate goal-setter, Kyle mentally made a list. Goal number one was her name. Two, address. Three, phone.

  "Hi." He spoke brightly, smiling at her. "Headed for Vegas, or going further?" He projected enthusiasm and good-will. Sort of like a used-car salesman, he told himself.

  She lifted her head to stare at him, dark eyes burdened with some kind of deep emotion, then lowered them as if what she saw had not made any impression on her whatsoever. Her shoulder bag was in her lap, and she twisted the strap tightly, then released it, then twisted it again as far as it would go.

  He thought for a moment she was not going to answer him, and wondered if he had something stuck between his teeth. Not one to give up, he cast about for the next logical thing to say.

  "Vegas."

  She spoke! Her answer, one word, did not offer much encouragement, but Kyle did not require much.

  Her voice, a low alto, reminded him of his mother's soft tones. He leaned forward, turning slightly to get a better look at her. Her hair was red-gold, spun carmel candy, cut to fall just below her ears. A curly mop perched above gamin features.

  "My name's Wayne—what's yours?"

  He didn't use his full name. Some people recognized it, some didn't, but he had enjoyed his short holiday, traveling incommunicado through Japan, and was reluctant to give it up. Once his hair was cut short again, people would recognize him...and he would need to stay aware of his surroundings to keep himself from being mobbed in public places. Fans—any fans—were not always the gentlest of people.

  "And yours is...?" he added when she did not reciprocate.

  "Stormy."

  She was that, all right. She would need to buy another purse strap when they arrived if she kept twisting this one apart. At least she wasn't a fingernail chewer, he thought, noticing her short, but well manicured nails.

  “Excuse me. You’re sitting in my seat.” An older man stood next to him, looking at his ticket and then at the number above Kyle, then back again. The seats were clearly marked, so he had reason to be puzzled.

  Kyle jumped to his feet, moved out into the aisle with the man, and turned so his back was towards Stormy. He pulled out his wallet, looked inside, pulled out his ticket...and a fifty dollar bill. “No, see, this is my seat,” he said, holding the ticket and the money out for the man to take. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, I...I... “ The man looked at the money and for a moment Kyle thought he wasn’t going to take it. “Oh, no. I don’t mind.” He grinned broadly. “Good luck.” The man handed Kyle his ticket, took Kyle’s ticket and the money and moved on up the aisle.

  Kyle sat back down. The airplane alert chimed and he fastened his seatbelt, glancing down to see if hers was fastened. It was.

  She was wearing a teal blue, sleeveless blouse, and white shorts, exposing a lot of golden-tanned arms and legs. The short nails probably meant she was not a model, but she well could be.

  "What do you do?" he asked, then hoped she didn't ask him the same question. "I mean, what line of work are you in?"

  "Work?" She paused, seemed to finally hear him. "Work. Yes. I'm trying to decide at the moment."

  That should not cause so much angst, should it? "What are your choices?"

  "I've been offered four positions...." She stared off into space.

  "And...?" Kyle shifted in his seat. He refused to let her stop there. Four positions sounded pretty good to him. She must be well qualified. "What's so hard about them?"

  She looked at him briefly, then away. "They're all the same kind of job.”

  “Then what’s the choice?”

  “They’re in different parts of the country. I must decide on a location."

  Kyle beamed. "Maybe I can help. I've been all over the States."

  She didn’t reply.

  This was harder than knocking out Pepper Jones. Stormy kept looking straight ahead or out the window—not at him. It was as if she was trying to tell him to get lost.

  Should he take the hint?

  He had set his goals; he was not one to give up.

  "Uh, you on vacation?” he asked, at the same time mentally kicking himself. She didn't look like someone going on vacation. She looked like someone with a big problem. Her eyes were dark with sorrow. Perhaps he shouldn't have spoken. She might be reeling from the death of a parent or something.

  "No." Her answer confirmed it. Maybe he should shut up. Then again, it might help her to talk.

  "I'm sorry,” he said, determined to see if he could help her. “This your first trip? You have friends down here?"

  "Yes. And no, I've been here before."

  He looked at her again. "You’re saying it's not a vacation. It's a business trip, then, right?”

  Her expression told him she wished he would move to another seat. It was not the reaction Kyle usually got and it made him more determined than ever.

  "Business?" She rubbed one hand across her eyes and looked at him blankly.

  "Ah, yeah...your company's sending you there for some reason."

  "No, nothing like that. I just have people I have to...to talk to.

  It made Kyle even more curious He wanted to wipe away the stress lines from her face. "I don't mean to intrude, but—"

  “It’s not anything I can talk about.” She clipped off the words, sharply.

  Well, that put you in your place, buddy. One more try. "We can talk about the weather if you like. I hope you packed light clothes. "

  "I did."

  That sounded more forthcoming. "Where are you from?"

  "Idaho."

  "Oh. " He couldn't think of anyone he knew there and drew a blank.

  Her hair was cut in a short bob. He preferred
women with long flowing hair, but when Stormy moved her head, her hair swung and seemed to beckon him.

  She chewed on her lower lip as if she was thinking hard, and twisted her purse strap into a tight ball. Twist, release. Twist, release. Busy fingers.

  He looked past her out the window. Sometime during his struggle to make conversation they had taken off. He glanced up. The seat belt sign was out, and he removed his, angling his seat back to a more comfortable position.

  An attendant stopped beside him, holding a bottle in his hand. "Champagne?" he asked.

  "Nothing, thanks." Liquor and championships didn't mix. Kyle kept to a fitness regime that kept his strength up and the fat off. It was embarrassing to see a fighter come out with a spare tire around his waist.

  "None for me,” Stormy said. "Do you have any soft drinks?"

  "They're on the next cart."

  Kyle could have told her that sugar was no good for her either, but refrained.

  The steward moved the cart on down the aisle, and Kyle shifted his long legs so that one stuck out partially into the aisle.

  His trainer and manager had flown on ahead to set up his temporary training facilities, while he had taken his week's vacation. It had been over a year and a half since his last fight, and he had been doing some serious training the last three months. He was now prepared to do the finish work required to get ready.

  Time to get back to his goals. Now that he had her attention, he would start over again.

  "What did you say your name was?"

  "Stormy."

  Stormy. Ah, yes. Now there was a name. It certainly fit. But he bet it wasn't her given one.

  "Nickname?"

  "Uh huh." But she didn't elaborate any more.

  “You have another name?”

  She just looked at him, a look that said, “Go away.” She really didn't want to talk, but Kyle would not give up. It wasn’t his nature.

  Another attendant, another cart. Stormy asked for a can of apple juice.

  Kyle nodded in approval, took one too, then returned to the subject he was pursuing. “Would you like to talk about what's bothering you?” he said, opening his tiny can. “Sometimes it helps to talk things over with an impartial bystander.”

  “No.”

  So much for that, Galahad. Strike one. "Where are you staying?"

  "I don't know.”

  "Don't you have reservations?"

  "No. I figure a place as big as Vegas, you shouldn't need reservations. Besides, I didn't have time.”

  Strike two.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Most of the big hotels are pretty good,” Kyle said. “The food is excellent.”

  "You've been there before?"

  "Yes. Every two or three years in fact." Whenever he had a match. Otherwise, he preferred to work on his Texas ranch. His father managed it, and managed it well—from his wheelchair. Kyle wasn't really needed there.

  He had been thinking of retiring from boxing and going into politics, for one or two terms only. The money from this fight would pay for a campaign without having to take from the ranch...or putting himself in "debt" to any special interests. He wanted to stay free from such connections. Any connections. He had seen the havoc that crooks could do, with their mega riches earned from gambling.

  He was doing great, and had avoided the mob entirely. Both his trainer and manager had helped, of course.

  Fortunately he hadn't had to do too many fights. Once you were the world champion, the challengers had to work their way through the ranks in order to prove themselves before they could challenge you. When one did come his way, he had to retrain himself, although he always stayed very fit, wishing to keep his good health.

  "I usually go to Reno. That's where my brother and his wife live," she said, actually volunteering the information.

  He took heart. She sounded more willing to talk. "Uh...what do you do...in Idaho?"

  She smiled slightly, and Kyle's heart skipped. Foul tip. Still alive.

  "Nothing right now,” she said. “I've got four job positions open...and am trying to decide which one to take."

  That could account for how worried she looked...although she didn't look so strained right this minute.

  "That's interesting. What are they? " He felt like he was playing twenty questions. He had never met a woman so closed mouthed before. Usually they chattered away and he was the one wishing the other person would give it a rest.

  “It's not the what. It's the where. And the who with.”

  Well, that didn't tell him much. “What's wrong?” he asked.

  “Well, the better ones are across country and I don't know if I really want to go there.”

  “That sounds familiar. What will you be doing?”

  “Teaching. At a university.”

  A school marm. Not exactly. A professor.

  It was a good thing he had avoided telling her his profession. Even though he had a college degree, everyone thought a boxer was illiterate. Well, some were, most weren't.

  Kyle tried acting like a travel agent. “Where are the positions located?"

  “One's at Cornell. Minnesota. Miami. The fourth one's up at the U-Dub...the University of Washington.”

  "I see. Having never been to any of them, I really can't offer any input." He had gone to the University of Texas, paying for his tuition by boxing. He was good at it and had continued on as the prizes got higher. He figured he could always use his education, but he couldn’t always be a prize fighter.

  It was better than bronc riding...which was what his dad had done for many years. The pay was better and the injuries fewer. A bronc had fallen on his dad during his last ride, permanently damaging his lower spine.

  Prize fighting was more like being the rodeo horse. A short amount of work, with a large amount of pay.

  "These jobs you’re considering? Is there any difference in salary?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes. Big ones."

  "But that doesn't matter to you?"

  "Not very much. I don't have anyone to spend it on, particularly. Just myself. There's always the prestige of a big university of course. But I don't know if I would fit in."

  It didn't sound like she had much of the cutthroat desire for riches that he had been running into in his profession...but then, you never knew. She was now more approachable, so he tried to keep her talking to get more information.

  He stretched his arms out in front of him. He hadn’t quite gotten over the long airplane trip from Japan. “Guess I won't be of much help to you. Especially since the colleges all have somewhat of a different culture than the town.”

  “Yes. I'll probably have to fly to each of those places and have an interview to make up my mind. I was hoping I could narrow it down before I went anywhere.”

  “Maybe you would want to stay in a place that is more familiar. Have you lived in Idaho most of your life?”

  “Yes. Except for college in Virginia, I’ve lived in the Idaho mountains.”

  “Stormy mountains. Is that where you got your nickname.”

  “No. It’s because when I find a cause I believe in, I go all out for it.”

  “Like, ‘Save the Whales?’”

  She smiled. She must get that a lot. “More like, ‘Save the People.’”

  “What from?” And what people?

  “The government.”

  “That’s a cause?” He hadn’t heard of that one before.

  “A big one. Over three quarters of our land is controlled by the federal government.”

  “That much?”

  “Have you ever looked at a map of Idaho? Or of most of the western lands, for that matter? Between the Bureau of Land Management, the National Forests and the National Wildlife Refuge System, there isn't much private land left.”

  Kyle drew back. He'd hit a hornet's nest here. His aim had been to lift her mind off her worries...and he had accomplished that. Also, he now knew where she got her nickname. There was lightning in her eyes and fire in her
speech when she spoke of the Western lands. Maybe she was going to a convention, to speak out about this. They had conventions in Las Vegas.

  She continued on. “The politicians back east tie up so much of our land. It prevents the private citizen from being able to use it freely."

  "Surely there can’t be that much land involved?"

  "Over 600 million acres. Almost all of it in the western United States and Alaska. Why do you think Alaska threatens to secede from the Union? It's a very big problem."

  “There’s a lot of land out here.” Glancing past her, out the window, he could see miles and miles of what looked like uninhabited desert. Except he knew better. It was what his ranch looked like from the air.

  “There's not enough private land left to spit on,” she said. “Those fellows back east take their pens and draw on the map and say, 'Look at the good we're doing.' Alaska looks so small on a map, but when they draw their circle they are confiscating a huge area, the size of several of their states. I don’t know if they even realize how much land they are taking away from Alaskans."

  He drew back. As a Westerner himself, he’d heard comments about this, but Stormy was giving him an earful. He had never thought seriously about it.

  "If it’s even got a tree on it, they'll call it a national something or other. With one stroke of a pen, Utah lost a million acres with rich coal deposits on it. You can bet the people of Utah didn't want that to happen. Especially the company which had done all the costly permits and studies and was all ready to mine it."

  “I see.”

  She looked up at him and smiled, actually smiled! "I shouldn't have gotten on my soap box. I try to remember not to."

  "I don't mind. Really. Were your folks farmers?"

  "Oh, no. But my neighbors were. The kids I went to school with. You hear it often enough, and see the results. Someone wants to put in a pond, cut a tree, or improve their land, and they are told no...they can't do that because of some rule or regulation.”

  Kyle remembered his dad talking about some of this. He just hadn’t paid attention. “Can’t you get them changed?”

  She shook her head. “No. Some unelected bureaucrat in Washington DC made it a rule, and there’s no way to reach him and say, ‘This regulation is wrong. It’s destroying our way of life.’ You take a mountain person and tell him that he has no say over the land he lives on, and he erupts. Most of the people in Idaho don't like feds.” She paused, took a quick look at him. “Which you aren't, I hope?"