Betrayed Birthright

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  “Yes, of course.” Nervous once again, Mary smoothed her blouse. She’d chosen a floral-printed top and blue pants, an outfit she’d purchased last summer. She didn’t fuss over her clothes and she rarely wore makeup. But this evening she’d put on lipstick. And she’d curled her rain-straight hair.

  But even so, she looked older than her fifty-seven years. Her beauty had faded. Tamra had watched it dissipate. Mary had lived a hard life, and the lines in her face bore the brunt of her labor.

  The pain of losing her children.

  And now Walker was back. A stranger. A man with a distant heart. He hadn’t asked about his mom. Nothing that gave Tamra an indication that he cared.

  “I’ll make the salad,” she said, needing to keep busy. The anticipation of entertaining Walker was making her anxious, too.

  “I’ll bet he’s used to steak and lobster.” Mary put the vacuum cleaner into the hall closet, then frowned at their cluttered kitchen, at the simplicity of their existence. “Do you think Spencer knows he’s here?”

  “I have no idea.” Tamra knew that Spencer Ashton had taken Walker and Charlotte away from their mother. He was responsible for the constant ache in Mary’s chest, for the tears she’d cried.

  Tamra washed her hands, running them under the cold water. She couldn’t help being fiercely protective of the woman who’d raised her.

  “Is it too hot in here?” Mary asked, stirring the stew. “Should we open another window?”

  “It’s starting to cool off. It’ll be okay.”

  “Will it?”

  “Yes.” She hated the shame that had begun to creep into their minds. Tamra and Mary had strived to accept their lifestyle, to be proud of it.

  Mary set the table, but when Walker arrived, she was in the bathroom, reapplying her lipstick.

  Tamra answered the knock on the screen door, and for a moment she and Walker gazed at each other through the barrier.

  He didn’t smile. He looked impeccably groomed in a tan shirt and matching trousers. He was cleanly shaven and his short dark hair was combed away from his face, exposing his half-blood features.

  Tamra’s pulse zigzagged, like invisible footprints racing up her arm.

  The last man who’d had that kind of effect on her had given her a child. A baby she’d buried in San Francisco, the city where Walker lived.

  “Come in,” she said, opening the screen door. It wasn’t a fluke that Tamra was connected to San Francisco. That she’d spent her college years there. She’d chosen that region because of Walker and his sister.

  “Thanks.” He entered the house, then handed her a bouquet of roses. “I was going to bring a bottle of wine, but since they don’t sell alcohol on the reservation, I figured you weren’t allowed to indulge in it, either.” He paused, shrugged a little. “But I’ve seen plenty of people drinking. I guess everyone doesn’t follow the rules.”

  She merely nodded. The white-owned liquor stores in the border towns catered to Lakota drunks. His mother was far too familiar with that scenario to think of alcohol as a luxury, even an exceptional bottle of wine. Mary’s brother had died from alcoholism. “Your mom will appreciate the flowers.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Freshening up. She’ll only be a minute.”

  Or a second, she thought, as Mary appeared in the hallway.

  Walker turned around, and Tamra watched mother and son face each other for the first time in twenty-two years.

  Tears filled Mary’s eyes, but she didn’t step forward to hug her boy. He didn’t embrace her, either.

  Awkward silence stretched between them.

  Walker didn’t know what to say. Mary didn’t look familiar. But he didn’t have any old pictures, nothing to refresh his memory.

  Was he a coldhearted bastard? Or was it normal that he didn’t feel anything? That Mary Little Dove didn’t seem like his mother?

  When she blinked, the tears that were gathered on her lashes fluttered like raindrops. Should he offer her his handkerchief? Or would that trigger even more tears? Walker didn’t want to make her cry.

  He moved forward, just a little, stepping closer to her. Why had his memories faded? Why couldn’t he see her in his mind? He remembered the farm, but he couldn’t recall his mom.

  Because it had been easier to forget, he thought. Easier to let her go, to get on with his life.

  “My son,” Mary said, breaking the silence. “My boy. I never thought I’d see you again. But here you are. So tall. So handsome.”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. “We thought you were dead.”

  “I know.” The tears glistening on her lashes fell, dotting her cheeks. “I’m aware of what Spencer told you.”

  She knew? She’d been part of the lie? Walker wanted to turn away, to shut her out of his life once again, but his feet wouldn’t move. He simply stood there, the weight of her words dragging him down.

  “Is Charlotte all right?” she asked. “Does she know you came to see me?”

  “My sister is fine, and this was her idea.”

  Mary pressed her hand against her heart. “My baby girl. She was only three years old. How could she possibly remember me?”

  Walker didn’t respond. But how could he? He didn’t remember her, either. And, God help him, he didn’t want to. He had no desire to become her son, to be part of Pine Ridge, to embrace his Lakota roots.

  Spencer had taught him that being Indian didn’t matter. And from what Walker had seen so far, he had to agree.

  He glanced at Tamra and saw that she watched him. Could she sense his thoughts? She clutched the roses he’d brought, and the bouquet made her look like a reservation bride, with a summer cotton dress flowing around her ankles.

  “These are from Walker.” She handed the roses to Mary.

  His mother accepted the gift and smiled.

  Walker took a deep breath. She looked pretty when she smiled. Softer, like the woman his father had probably fallen in love with. David Ashton had been a sentimental man, that much he knew. That much Spencer had told him.

  “Thank you,” Mary said to Walker.

  He gave her a quick nod. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll make you a shield.” She searched his gaze. “Your dad always wanted you to have one.”

  His white father wanted him to have a Lakota object? Walker didn’t understand, but he tried to pretend that it made sense. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with a shield.

  Declare war on another tribe? Hang it on his living room wall? Somehow he didn’t see it complementing his contemporary decor. An interior designer had spent months laboring over his hillside condo.

  Tamra spoke up. “The meal is ready. We should probably eat now.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Anything to divert his mother’s attention, he thought. To make her forget about the shield.

  “I’ll put these in water.” Mary took the flowers into the kitchen, where a simple table presented casual china, paper napkins and stainless steel flatware.

  Walker waited for the women, intending to push in their chairs. But his mom tapped his shoulder and told him to sit, anxious to serve him. When she filled his glass with milk, he wondered if she’d forgotten that he was no longer eight years old.

  Finally Mary and Tamra joined him, and they ate a hearty stew, an iceberg lettuce salad and rolls smothered in butter. It was the kind of meal a farmer’s wife would prepare, he thought. Middle America. Only this was a South Dakota reservation.

  He looked across the table at his mom. At Mary. His mind kept bouncing back and forth. He didn’t know what to call her. How to refer to the woman who’d given him life.

  “Did Spencer treat you well?” she asked.

  He blinked, tried not to frown. “Yes. I was close to my uncle.” And probably the only Ashton who could make that claim. No one had forged a bond with Spencer, not the way Walker did. But even so, it had been a hard-earned alliance. Spencer had been a complicated man.

  “You’re not close to him
anymore?”

  “Spencer is dead. He was murdered a few months ago. Shot to death in his office. Charlotte found his body.”

  “Oh, my. Oh.” His mom fidgeted with her food. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  When she stopped talking, the walls closed in. The kitchen was already cramped, the table too small for three people. Tamra sat next to him, too close for comfort.

  He was still mourning his uncle, still missing him. Yet Spencer’s betrayal kept him awake at night.

  “Will you tell me about Charlotte?” Mary said.

  He nodded, knowing how much this mattered to his sister. “She’s engaged to Alexandre Dupree, a winemaker from France. He isn’t the kind of man I’d envisioned for her, but they’re crazy about each other.” Madly in love, he supposed. “My sister was always shy, sort of dreamy. And Alexandre is—” he paused, trying to find a word to describe Charlotte’s fiancé “—worldly.”

  “Like a prince.” Mary sighed, already slipping into her daughter’s fairy tale.

  “I guess, yeah. Women probably think so.” Walker knew that Alexandre had given his sister everything she needed, including the strength to investigate their family, to discover that Mary was still alive. “They’re in Paris. Charlotte needed to get away after Spencer’s funeral. But she made me promise that I’d search for you.”

  “I’m glad she did.” Mary’s eyes were watery again. “Do you have a picture of her?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t think to bring one. But I’m sure she’s going to rush back to meet you. Her and Alexandre.”

  “I can’t wait to see her. And her fiancé, of course.” Mary scooted closer to the table. “Is there someone special in your life, son?”

  “Me?” Without thinking, he glanced at Tamra. She turned toward him, and he shifted in his seat, wondering if she had a significant other, if she was sleeping with some big Indian buck.

  Then he recalled the blonde in a San Francisco bar who’d tried to pin that phrase on him. A racial slur that had made him feel dirty.

  “I’m not involved with anyone,” he said. “I’m too busy with my career. Investment banking.” More than ready to change the subject, he questioned his mom. “So, what kind of work do you do?”

  She smoothed her gray-streaked hair. “I’m a nurse’s aid at the PHS.”

  “PHS?”

  “Public Health Service Hospital.” She sat up a little straighter, proud of her job. “It’s easier for me than some of the other aids. I lived in the white world, so I have a better understanding of the white doctors and nurses who work there.”

  Tamra interjected. “Most of the doctors are young. Physicians who received government loans for medical school. So they’re paying back those loans by performing public health services on the reservation for a few years.”

  And probably hating every minute of it, he thought.

  Tamra continued, “Our society equates wisdom with age, so it’s difficult for our elders to accept young doctors. And there’s often a language barrier. Far too many cultural differences.” She glanced at his mom. “Mary is a valuable asset. The patients trust her. And so do the nurses and doctors.”

  Unsure of how to respond, he ate another a bite of stew. Mary sounded like a caring woman, yet she’d allowed her children to believe she was dead. He wanted to grill her about the past, to bombard her with accusations, but having Tamra nearby complicated the situation even more.

  She’d taken his place. She’d been raised by the lady who’d let him go. And worse yet, he was attracted to Tamra.

  A disaster in the making.

  When he reached for his drink, he brushed her arm, a touch that made him much too aware.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m left-handed.”

  “It’s okay.” She tried to move away from him, to give him more room, but her effort proved useless. There was nowhere to go. They were stuck.

  Yet his mother was smiling. “Walker used to do that when he was little, too.”

  “You mean this?” He lifted his milk, bumping Tamra’s elbow, nearly knocking the roll out of her hand.

  Everyone laughed. A silly incident. But it felt good. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

  A few moments later, silence engulfed him. No one could think of anything to say, so they resumed their meal, making noise with spoons and forks and butter knives.

  He glanced at a clock on the wall and imagined it ticking. Like a bomb, he thought. Like the day Spencer had taken legal custody of him and his sister, the day he’d been told that both of his parents had died.

  Charlotte had been too young to understand, to comprehend the cold, harsh reality of never seeing Mommy and Daddy again. But she’d cried just the same.

  Walker stopped eating. His childhood memories were scattered, lost in the darkness of his mind. But not about that day. He remembered it vividly.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked Mary, unable to hold back his emotions, to keep faking this reunion. “Why did you give us away?”

  Two

  “I ’m sorry, Walker.” Mary’s voice quavered. “I should have explained everything right away. But I thought…I hoped…we could get to know each other first.”

  He pushed away his plate. “Why?”

  “So you wouldn’t judge me so harshly. So you wouldn’t think I was trying to turn you against Spencer.”

  “I already told you. My uncle is dead.”

  “This is his fault,” Tamra said. “He forced your mother to give up her children.”

  “Oh, yeah? With what? A gun?” Unable to sit at the cramped table any longer, he rose from his chair and glared at the young woman Mary had raised. “Did he force her to take you in, too? To be your mom instead of ours?”

  Tamra came to her feet. Suddenly she looked like a female warrior, her mouth set in a determined line, her dark eyes blazing with anger. “That isn’t fair.”

  “You want to talk fair? There’s no excuse for what my mom did. None whatsoever.” He rounded on Mary. “I prayed for you. I called you an angel.” Much too edgy, he blew out a hard breath. “When Spencer rescued us, I was so damn grateful. And so damn scared. Do you have any idea what being an orphan feels like?”

  She didn’t answer. She just swallowed the lump that seemed to be forming in her throat.

  “I know what it feels like,” Tamra said.

  He spun around, gave her a cold look. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No. It’s just that I understand.”

  “Yeah, right. You. The perfect Indian.”

  “Perfect?” She started clearing the table, moving at a frustrated pace. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. I wasn’t raised in a mansion, Walker. My father ran off before I was born, and my mother was all alone, trying to survive on welfare. To find us suitable places to live.”

  “It’s not the same thing.” He gestured to Mary, who crossed her arms, hugging herself. “She let me think she was dead. At least your parents were honest.”

  “Don’t point at her.” Tamra clanked the dishes. “Don’t do that. It’s not proper.”

  “Says who? People on the rez?” As if he gave a damn about Lakota etiquette. “Maybe someone should have told her that lying to her kids wasn’t proper.”

  “Mary was on the verge of a breakdown when she lost your dad. And Spencer preyed on her emotions. He—”

  Walker cut her off. He turned to his mom, needing to hear it from her. “Is that true?”

  She nodded, and he realized how frail she looked, sitting alone at the table, listening to him and Tamra argue.

  He resumed his seat, his heart pounding horribly in his chest. He wanted to call her a liar, but he knew his uncle had never tolerated gentle-natured women, especially when their wounds were still raw.

  Yet he’d loved Spencer. He’d patterned his life after his father’s power-hungry brother.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what he did.”

  “He came to see me in the hospital, r
ight after your dad died. I was injured in the accident, nothing life threatening, but I still needed medical care.”

  “How did he force you to give us up?”

  “He threatened me. He said he would get Social Services involved. That he would prove that I was an unfit mother.”

  “But you weren’t.” Walker studied the shadows under her eyes, the lines imbedded in her skin. “Were you?”

  “Oh, God, no.” She reached across the table and brushed his hand. A featherlight touch. The touch of a mother who’d lost her son. “I never abused my babies.”

  “I have no idea how you treated us.” Which made Spencer’s threats seem even more plausible, he thought. More frightening. “I can’t remember you and Dad. I just can’t.”

  “It’s okay.” Mary’s voice went soft, sad. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has.” Uncomfortable, he turned in his seat and noticed Tamra stood nearby. She’d fixed a pot of tea, some sort of herbal brew. When she offered him a cup, he looked up at her, and their gazes slammed straight into each other.

  Heat. Emotion. The gates of Lakota hell.

  He shouldn’t be staring at her. Not like this.

  Only, he couldn’t seem to break eye contact.

  And neither could she.

  God help him, he thought. Suddenly he feared they were destined to be lovers, like misunderstood characters in a movie who yelled and screamed, then kissed like demons. He wasn’t a fortune-teller. He couldn’t predict the future. Yet he could feel the passion. The danger that awaited him.

  He’d never been involved in a turbulent relationship. His affairs had never bordered on pain, on the kind of emotion that ripped a man apart.

  But everything about Pine Ridge tore him in two.

  Finally Tamra shifted her gaze, pouring Mary’s tea. Afterward she sat next to Walker again, and he could smell the lotion on her skin, a disturbing blend of summer botanicals. A fragrance that made him want her even more.

  Soft, airy, far too real.

  Mary looked at both of them. “Neither of you deserve this.”

  “We can handle it.” He turned to Tamra, then considered bumping her arm. But he knew no one would laugh this time. His left-handed antics wouldn’t ease the tension. Nor would it change what was happening between him and Tamra.