Authors: Renee Simons
"You can invite your friend, if you want,"
Stormwalker's
grandmother said before heading into the house.
Zan suspected she'd passed a test. Next time, perhaps, she would do the examining.
Stormwalker came closer. His strength was a quiet, palpable presence hovering between them, unsettling her.
"I need to take care of the horses," he said. "We can talk while I work."
They went into the barn. In the shadow cast by a dimly lit bulb she watched him tend to his animal.
"What do you want to know?"
"Why did you let Mac recruit you for that assignment in
Vlad
?"
"I had some naive notion that my actions would spell redemption for both the Corps and my people."
"Why you?"
"The lance corporal who got into trouble with that foreign agent was Sioux, a Lakota, like me. I hoped to find out how much damage had been done, maybe even catch the bad guys and make something positive from a negative situation."
"So what went wrong?"
"The unseen hands running the show ambushed me and left me swinging in the breeze."
"How?"
"It wasn't difficult," he replied without self-pity. "I was an amateur, armed with six weeks' training and an intense desire to right a wrong. My zeal was a poor weapon against a network of operatives and someone inside the Agency who would divert my reports."
"How do you know they were diverted? Maybe they were never received."
"They were received all right. Coded acknowledgments told me that, but when Mac's people tried to track them down, everyone had disappeared into the ether."
"They searched everywhere?"
He shrugged.
"As far as I know."
"Mac says you're a pretty good marine but a lousy spy."
He gave her a sidelong glance. The self-deprecating smile softened his features, providing a glimpse of the young man he'd once been. She tried to ignore the butterfly flutters in her abdomen, but without much success.
"Mac's right. When you're a soldier, you come to expect that the guy fighting beside you is a friend. When you're a spy, chances are he's just waiting to put a knife into you. I never could remember that."
"Yet Dar is the one who's dead. That puts a different spin on the concept of betrayal, wouldn't you say?" Her voice vibrated with the anger she welcomed as an antidote to his charm.
For the first time, he turned and looked directly at her. His right arm lay negligently across the horse's back. His left hand held a stiff-bristled brush. Beneath the dim light his eyes blazed, and a muscle beat along his jaw line.
"When I was in the field, I sent back reports.
Twice a week, per S.O.P.
The crucial documents are nowhere in the computer database and no hard copies were ever found. That means they were intercepted and probably destroyed. Dar O'Neill was the only person who could have proven I was telling the truth. Why would I kill him?"
"If you weren't telling the truth you had the perfect motive."
Delivered in a cold, brittle monotone, his words had dropped like icicles into the heavy, musk-laden air of the barn, attesting to the countless times he'd told his version of the truth to listeners who refused to believe. His return to silence sent a strange feeling shivering through her, as if the heat of her anger had cooled by several degrees. Unwilling to accept the change and what it might say about her ability to stay on course, she pressed on.
"If you were innocent, why didn't you appeal the verdict?" He remained silent and she stepped closer. "Why did you let them send you to prison without a fight?"
A protest rumbled up from the horse's belly and he turned to nudge his owner. With a gentle hand, Stormwalker turned the horse's head and went back to grooming the animal.
"I had nothing to fight with. I decided to save my strength to get through the next thirty years."
The horse nickered softly and stretched his neck toward Alexandra. She stroked his nose, hardly noticing its velvety feel beneath her fingertips. "I wouldn't have gone quietly."
"Have you ever found yourself in a losing situation?"
She resisted the impulse to touch the scar that daily recalled her brush with death nearly a year ago. "There have been times when the outcome was in serious question."
"What did you do?"
"Fought like hell until I ran out of steam. After that I just hung on and rode out the storm."
"My tactic . . . exactly."
He gave her a slow, lazy smile that sucked the air out of her lungs and sent her head spinning. "We're more alike than I thought," he said softly.
In an effort to regain her balance she slipped her arm around the horse's neck, then withdrew abruptly when her hand and
Stormwalker's
met. Unsettled by a flash of recognition at his words and rattled by a touch that felt more intimate and inviting than it should have, she stepped backwards, barely able to say, "I have no other questions," and started for the door.
"Come back any time you think I can help," he called out.
"With anything."
With her composure sorely shaken, she raised a hand in acknowledgment and ventured out into the wind that followed her down the street, buffeting and pushing her along, echoing the inner storm tearing at her. She made it to the RV just as the first rain drops fell.
Zan woke early to a world washed clean and cool by the previous night's storm. She opened the refrigerator but nothing appealed to her. After brushing her teeth and running a comb through her hair, she grabbed her knapsack and an apple and headed for the general store.
Inside, she acknowledged John-Two Hunter's greeting with a smile and a wave of her hand and went to the shelves to make her selections. As she read the label on a jar of chokecherry jam, someone spoke beside her.
"That's really good. My mom made it."
Zan looked up at a young woman with dark eyes and darker hair. "Then I'll have to try it."
"I'm
Katti
Banner." The newcomer extended her hand.
Zan introduced herself and watched as
Katti
picked up a jar.
"You might want to stock up if you like the jam - the same with all your staples. The powwow begins on Thursday and when the visitors come in they usually pick the shelves clean of everything, including my mom's stuff."
Zan smiled. "I'll try some at breakfast."
Katti's
smile broadened. "Maybe consider the blackberry preserves, too, for variety, you know?"
"Does your mom know what a good sales rep you are?"
"That's my puny contribution to the business. Most of the time, I'm at my regular job."
"What's that?"
"Mainly I'm a court stenographer. The rest of the time I'm a civilian employee at the Sheriff's Department.
There's
a couple of us who do the paper work, handle the phones, dispatch . . . stuff like that."
"Then we'll probably run into each other. I expect to show up there one of these days."
"Good. Maybe we can have lunch. And if I can be of any help, just let me know."
"I will," Zan said. "See you again."
About to say something else,
Katti
stopped and looked toward the cash register. "Excuse me, please. There's my sister." She lifted a paper bag and went to the young woman who'd taken
Stormwalker's
job. With a tentative smile she held out the package only to receive a blank stare.
"Why can't you ever just be nice?" She laid the bag on the counter. When her sister remained silent, she threw up her hands in exasperation and left.
Zan carried her food items to the front. By the time she made her way to the register, the sullen anger had left the girl's face.
"Yesterday, I saw you
talkin
' to that guy. You
know, the one who gave this job to me 'stead of
takin
' it himself."
She added up the total. "So I was just wondering. . . ." She handed Zan the adding machine tape. "You know him pretty well?"
"Some." Zan gave her several bills. "Why?"
"Why do you suppose he did it?"
"I don't know," Zan said with a shrug. "Sometimes people do nice things." After counting her change, she placed a quarter on the counter.
The girl eyed her suspiciously. "What's that for?"
"Without that, the register will come up short."
The girl's dark complexion flushed and she mumbled something that might have been "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Zan said with a nod and headed for the door and home.
She had nearly reached the RV when a vaguely familiar voice called out to her. "Miss McLaren?"
Zan turned and watched the approach of a tall, slender woman whose regal bearing and graceful movements belied her years. A high-necked blouse in burnt orange complimented her golden brown skin and picked up the print in her earth toned broomstick skirt. The discs on a silver
concho
belt seemed to echo the silver hair that swept back from her forehead and disappeared into a thick braid draped over one shoulder.
"I am
Stormwalker's
grandmother." She held out her right hand and Zan took it after shifting her groceries.
"I'm Alexandra." Now, of course, she placed the voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you from last night."
"Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
"Yes, of course, Mrs.
Redfeather
."
"Call me Grandmother.
Like everyone else does."
Zan felt awkward using such a familiar term, but custom demanded that instead of names, people use titles that reflected their relationship to each other or that were a sign of respect. While she might think of
Stormwalker's
grandmother as Mrs.
Redfeather
or even Emma, she would try to consider her wishes. Zan nodded.
"Have you had breakfast?"
"I ate with my grandson, but I could use a cup of coffee if it's real."
Zan smiled. "It's real."
As they climbed inside the camper Zan glanced around to confirm everything was in its place. She put away the groceries and touched the coffee carafe. It was still hot.
"This is nice," Emma said as her gaze traveled around the interior. "Cozy. And air conditioned.
Feels good on a hot day."
"It helps both the computer and the operator function more efficiently." Zan made toast, then set the table and put out butter and jam. After working silently for several moments she asked, "Did you have anything particular you wanted to discuss?"
"I wanted to talk to you instead of just hearing about you from other folks."
Zan brought the carafe and a plate of whole wheat toast that gave off a faintly nutlike aroma. She poured their coffee and sat opposite Emma, who examined a wall of photos.
"Those men - who are they?"
Zan grinned.
"My rogue's gallery?"
She
swivelled
around, watching as the old woman walked over to examine the faces up close.
"The photos represent three generations of McLarens, all of them members of law enforcement."
"That you in a police uniform?"
"The day I graduated from the New York City Police Academy. Those are my brothers."
On her right stood oldest brother Donald, whose suit and tie did little to hide the bearing of a military man and the easy confidence of a well-trained CIA field officer.
"The one on your left is my grandson's boss?" Emma asked.
"Yes."
Mac, next oldest, looked more like a college professor in slacks and crew neck sweater than the newly appointed head of the FSA.