SINS OF THE FATHER

by Nina Bruhns

  They arrived at the Board's offices just before closing time and hurried in. She could hardly contain her nervousness.

  "Ah, Miss Martin, Mr. Santangelo," the Chairman greeted them and ushered them into his office. "I have good news for you."

  "Thank goodness," she said, whooshing out a breath of relief. "You're returning my artifacts?"

  "Yes. Well, some of them at any rate."

  "Some of them?"

  He nodded and gestured to a stack of boxes that was sitting next to the door. "After some discussion the Board felt it would not be in our best interest to keep the artifacts. However, we've already gotten many calls from the Indian community expressing their concern about the skeletal remains."

  "I assure you."

  He held up a hand. "Yes, I know. But you must understand our position. We have to be certain. Therefore we will turn over all human remains to our expert to determine who we are dealing with before deciding their disposition."

  "Your expert?"

  "Professor Marie Claire Cooper, at UC Berkeley."

  RaeAnne had heard of Dr. Cooper, and knew her impeccable reputation as a forensic anthropologist. An analysis had to be done anyway, and the eminent Dr. Cooper's name on the report could only be a plus. "Okay, I have no problem with that."

  "As for the other material, I have been authorized to release these eight boxes to Mr. Santangelo today. In the morning, the Board members will examine the contents of the remaining four and make their decision regarding them."

  She stared at the Chairman in disbelief. "I don't understand."

  "They are the ones that contain the real historical artifacts. The ceramics, buttons and shell casings, the Native arrowheads and such."

  "Yes, I realize that," she said, tossing a distracted glance at the four boxes of her most valuable finds. "But you said something about releasing the others to Mr. Santangelo. What did you mean?"

  The Chairman walked around his desk and looked from one to the other. "The Board feels the best interest of the tribe will be served if the artifacts are under Native supervision. Mr. Santangelo is Paiute."

  A slow horror crept up her spine. He couldn't possibly mean… It just wasn't possible! "What exactly are you saying?"

  "Quite simple. We will release the artifacts, but only if they remain under the personal protection and custody of Mr. Santangelo."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  "Whoa! Wait a minute," Roman said, whipping to attention. "What was that?"

  The Chairman couldn't tie him to this artifact deal. He had nothing to do with it.

  The old man handed him an official inventory list and a pen. "It was my understanding Miss Martin's project has your full support."

  "Yes it does, but—"

  "You haven't helped her at the excavation?"

  "Just today, as a friend. I'm not really connected—"

  "That's not important," the Chairman vowed. "The main thing we're concerned with is that Indian interests are being protected. I trust you to do that."

  "This is outrageous," RaeAnne sputtered, finding her voice. "Mr. Santangelo is not on the excavation team and has no authority whatsoever to take charge of anything on my behalf."

  Not exactly true, he thought, thankful she'd preempted the debate so he could consider this newest mess. He thought of the FBI credentials tucked in his jeans pocket. What would happen if he pulled them out now?

  He'd still end up in charge of the artifacts, but his cover would be blown. What would he gain by revealing his special agent status? Nothing, except the Chairman's, along with every other reservation resident's, mistrust. How would RaeAnne feel to learn he wasn't just some motorcycle bum blowing through, but a bona fide federal agent? God only knew. But he wasn't planning on finding out anytime soon. When he started searching for information on his father, the last thing he needed was to be identified as FBI.

  "—giving him the authority," the Chairman was saying. "But I assure you, it's just a formality."

  Roman folded his arms over his chest, trying to read between the lines. Was the Chairman urging him to accept the artifacts for RaeAnne's sake and then bow out if he wanted to? Just to give everyone a way to save face?

  "I don't care if it is just a formality," RaeAnne shot back. "I won't stand for—"

  "You realize of course that we must notify Toby Benson of our decision," the Chairman calmly stated, bringing RaeAnne's tirade to an abrupt halt. "Since he brought them in."

  Roman came to full alert. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Just another formality," the Chairman said, giving him a level gaze. "You might want to take some extra precautions tonight at your site. The boy's heart is in the right place, but he has a tendency to act before thinking things through."

  "Fine. I'll lock my door. But that still doesn't give—"

  "We'll be sure to take precautions," Roman interrupted, grabbing RaeAnne's arm and pulling her to the stack of boxes. "Tell him to see me if he has a problem with your decision. I'll straighten the kid out."

  He picked up a box and dumped it into RaeAnne's arms. "Come on, let's get these loaded."

  "You'll have to sign the inventory list," the Chairman said, handing him the papers.

  "Sure." He hurriedly scrawled his signature, tore the carbon from the back and stuck it under the lid of the box RaeAnne carried. "Go." Hefting two more boxes, he herded her outside.

  "If you think I'm going to put up with this, you're mistaken," she hissed out.

  "It's not what I had in mind, either, but let's talk about it at the site."

  "The whole thing is completely unacceptable," she said as they brought out the second load.

  "Would you rather leave these here?" he asked.

  "No," she grudgingly admitted. "But—"

  "Then let's get the artifacts safely back where they belong. We'll pick up the rest tomorrow, then hopefully the Board'll forget all about me."

  That seemed to mollify her enough to drive back to Cleary with things still up in the air. But she was not done steaming even after they'd returned to the cabin and finished stacking the boxes neatly in one corner.

  "I can't believe the audacity of the Board. Making you caretaker of what's legally my responsibility!"

  He let her rant on for several minutes about the unfairness of the situation while he stoked up the woodstove and put on a kettle of water.

  She always did have a hot temper. She might have looked like a bookworm in high school, but he recalled making tea many a time in her mother's kitchen, listening to Rae go on and on about some injustice or another that was being perpetrated on either some other kid, or the school, or the world in general. She'd always been big on doing the right thing, sticking up for the underdog. It was one of the characteristics he admired most about her.

  He watched her pace back and forth, gesturing angrily, and almost smiled. Such a beautiful, passionate warrior, his RaeAnne.

  "Where's the tea?" he asked, before his mind could take him down that road. What he didn't need to be thinking about at the moment was passion.

  "Huh? Oh, in that cupboard." She pointed, then went on as if he hadn't interrupted.

  Oh, yeah, his little bookworm had been passionate. So passionate in every way it made his toes curl just remembering. And made him break out in a sweat wondering if she still was.

  Definitely should not be thinking about passion.

  "And if you think you'll be spending the night here with me, you've got another think coming," she said and glared at him.

  Suddenly the room went absolutely still. Well, except for the blood pounding in his ears. Spend the night with her?

  A flash flood of goose bumps spilled over him at the very thought. Lord have mercy.

  "Tea?" he croaked, and pushed an enamel mug of hot mint at her, scrambling to get his brain jump-started and his hormones beaten back into submission. The room seemed to shrink around them so he could hardly breathe.

  Without
looking at him, she accepted the mug. Their fingers touched, sending an electric shock through him powerful enough to nearly jolt the cup from his hand.

  "Damn," he swore, and spun to escape her wide eyes and flaming cheeks. And bumped his shins right into the big, blanket-covered bed.

  "Of course. Philip will be coming," he said, grasping for a reason—any reason—not to pull her onto it and kiss her to within an inch of her life. And more. He turned his back on the bed, unable to bear the thought of some other man in it.

  She shook her head. "No. He won't." If possible, her cheeks grew even redder. "I mean—"

  So that's how things stood. He didn't know whether to jump for joy or jump on his bike and keep riding until his teeth rattled out of his skull.

  "I have a sleeping bag," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll sleep on the porch."

  "How about a motel?" She blanched. "It's still freezing at night."

  "I'm not leaving you out here all alone. Not tonight. I'll be fine on the porch."

  She licked her lips but didn't argue, backing away instead, putting much-needed distance between them. She suddenly seemed to notice the mug in her hands and took a sip. Her hands trembled and for the second time that day he had to stop himself from reaching out to her.

  "Cara, nothing's going to happen here that you don't want to happen."

  "I know," she whispered. "That's what I'm afraid of."

  The words were spoken so softly he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined them.

  But before he could react, her back straightened and her eyes cleared. "In the meantime, we'd better have dinner. Keep up our strength in case we have to defend ourselves against Toby and the gang tonight."

  "He wouldn't dare."

  "Oh, wouldn't he?" Her lips turned down wryly. "Toby's nothing if not persistent."

  Roman strolled to the kitchen area and looked around. "I'll cook," he said. "It's the least I can do to make up for … everything."

  Cooking would work. He needed the distraction. He needed something in his hands. Besides her. Pots and pans and spoons and spatulas were a hell of a lot less complicated.

  "There's not much here. I do a lot of cans." At his wrinkled nose she chuckled. "Still the gourmet snob, I see. Well, I'm afraid preparing real food on a woodstove stretches my culinary abilities past their already meager limits."

  "Ah," he said, eyeing the solid black contraption as he started opening cupboards. "I hadn't thought about that."

  "Backing out, Santangelo?"

  "Not a chance. But I guess the chocolate soufflé will have to wait."

  She moaned. "Beast! You know how much I love your chocolate soufflé."

  Smiling wistfully, he pulled out flour and baking powder from the cupboard. "I remember. I haven't made it in … a long time."

  RaeAnne opened a bottle of wine while he stirred up some biscuits and put them to cook in a large iron frying pan. Eggs and peppers seemed to be the only fresh foods in the larder, so he settled on a very primitive western omelet as the entrée.

  "So, tell me," she said, chin in hand as she watched him. "What have you been up to all these years?"

  The question had been inevitable so he figured he'd play it for maximum shock value. Dishing up her half of the omelet, he said straight-faced, "I'm a special agent for the FBI."

  She almost spit out her wine with a bark of laughter. "Yeah, sure." Her mirth faded at the look on his face. "God, you're serious!"

  "Yep."

  "But … but the Harley, the leather, your hair!"

  Grinning at her astonishment, he savored the moment. Earlier he'd let it out of the ponytail, so it hung loose in all its glory. "You don't like my hair?"

  "Well, it's, um, it's … inventive."

  "Funny … women usually go for my hair."

  Strange, but true. A lot of women had a thing for bad boys, and his image was definitely bad. One of the many reasons he avoided bars. Being a sex object had never appealed to him—not since he'd left RaeAnne, anyway.

  "No accounting for taste," she muttered. "And the FBI puts up with it?"

  "It was their idea. Helps my undercover work."

  "That's what you do? Undercover?"

  He nodded. "But I'm breaking about twenty-seven regulations by telling you."

  "You're secret's safe with me."

  "Now we're even."

  She smiled, and his heart squeezed at the trace of sadness still in her eyes. No, they'd never be even. It had been naive to think she'd ever be able to forgive him. Foolish to think he'd ever be able to lift the melancholy from her eyes and make her truly happy.

  "Eat up," he said, and drained his wineglass. "Then we need to talk about Toby."

  She sighed. "I don't know what to do about that boy. I met him at the local high school when I gave a presentation on the project last month. He seemed so interested. So smart I guess all he was really interested in was making trouble."

  "Not necessarily. Indian kids have a lot of pressures placed on them from both sides—their own culture wanting them to preserve their heritage, and society in general wanting them to throw aside the old ways and assimilate into the mainstream. This might be Toby's way of working those things out in his head."

  "Great. And I'm caught in the middle."

  "You can handle it." He gave her a smile of encouragement. "Growing up on the rez gave you special insight. Use it and you'll be fine."

  "Like you do, you mean?" She lifted a brow. "I can't believe you're an FBI agent. Your father would roll over in his grave."

  Her words hit him like an unexpected fist in the gut and he had to clutch the edge of the table to stave off a wave of sick torment.

  "As it turns out, my father is not dead." He pushed his plate savagely aside. "And it would be more likely he'd run for the hills."

  She frowned, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth "Not dead?"

  "As in still alive."

  Roman lurched to his feet and cleared his dishes with a clatter, then swung open the door and leaned a shoulder against the frame, gulping down a lungful of the crisp, calming air. Damn, this was not what he wanted to talk about.

  "Have you seen him?"

  "No." He turned and jerked his head toward the hills.

  "Come on. I need some space. Show me your thinking spot."

  She blinked. "How do you know I have one?"

  "You always have one."

  He was grateful when she didn't hesitate, but rose and fetched a puffy down jacket. "You should take yours, too. We can watch the site from there. Maybe Toby'll show up before we freeze to death."

  "I'll bring the blanket," he said without thinking, and had it halfway off the bed before he noticed her staring at him in consternation. Damn. Still, he continued to fold the blanket, perversely unwilling to break their tradition. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

  He saw her throat work, but she didn't comment, just grabbed her purse and keys. "Should we make some coffee to bring?"

  He shook his head. "I've got something better." Pulling a flask and an unmarked bottle of clear liquid from his pack, he filled the silver flask with it. "Slivovitz. A friend of mine makes it in his basement."

  She rolled her eyes. "You always did have the most bizarre taste in liquor. Should I bring a fire extinguisher?"

  He winked. "Nah. If we catch on fire, a good roll in the blanket should do the trick."

  Their eyes met. Hers narrowed, but the telltale throb of a vein in her flushed throat gave her away. Hell, the idea aroused her just as much as it did him. Every cell of his body crowed in triumph before he subdued his reaction.

  Careful, compadre. He was taking off in the morning, and she didn't deserve to be loved and left.

  Again.

  That particular thought really dampened his ardor. He was a cad even to consider making love to her. It wouldn't be right. Especially with ol' what's-his-name Dann-o waiting in the wings to make an honest woman of her. A happy, honest woman.

  He ground his teeth together, unab
le to bear the thought of that, either.

  "Coming?" she asked, and walked out the door.

  "Yeah," he mumbled, ignoring the sharp desire that roiled through him. He wished.

  Damn, he had to get out of here before he drove himself crazy. He couldn't hope to make her happy even if he wanted to. The wariness in her eyes every time she looked at him sent the message loud and clear.

  But even if he could get past that barrier, what kind of life could he offer her? He traveled all the time, was always embroiled in dangerous situations, and his only home was a room in his mother and stepfather's house that held his collection of books and music, and a few clothes. He saw his best friends three, maybe four times in a good year.

  True, he'd saved and invested enough to buy a small island and retire. But he liked his life and his job. He didn't want to retire.

  Suddenly, as he climbed into the Jeep beside RaeAnne, the idea held a lot more appeal than it ever had before.

  Like he said, driving himself crazy.

  * * *

  Her thinking spot was magnificent, as he'd known it would be. She'd always had a knack for discovering the perfect eagle's nest, no matter where they'd found themselves.

  He'd never forget one in particular on their trip to the Grand Canyon with her mom. Perched high in the blazing orange sandstone cliffs, their private hideaway had overlooked miles of breathtaking canyon views, surrounded by fragrant piñions, filled with the cheerful chatter of chipmunks and blue jays. It had been the day after he'd bought her the Navajo blanket from a grizzled old man weaving by the side of a dirt highway. The place they'd first broken it in.

  He swallowed hard on the memory and ventured out onto the huge granite boulder she'd led him to, about a quarter-mile from the road above the cabin. The whole valley was laid out before them in panoramic Technicolor.

  "Wow," he said with a low whistle. "What a view."

  He could see the road leading over the hills down to US 395, a tiny black ribbon dotted with occasional moving bumps. Beyond the highway the Owens River glittered in the evening sun, which was already waning where they stood.

  "If we were just a bit higher you could see Death Valley, behind those hills." She indicated the long, low range of mountains stretching across the horizon like a sleeping dragon.