Tom turned to Natalie. "Benoit?"
Natalie Benoit had come to Colorado from New Orleans after losing everything but her life in Hurricane Katrina. Her eyewitness coverage of the tragedy at a New Orleans hospital had made her a Pulitzer finalist, and Tom had hired her on the spot. With long dark hair, big aqua eyes, and a charming New Orleans accent, she was pretty in a way that drew people to her. Yet she didn't seem to date and rarely socialized with the rest of the reporters. Some people thought she was stuck up, but Kat knew that wasn't true. There was something tragic about Natalie, a grief that she kept hidden. Kat didn't know what it was, and it wasn't her place to pry. But she sensed it all the same.
Natalie flipped through her notes. "A rookie cop got shot early this morning responding to a domestic-violence call. He has a wife and a new baby. Right now he's still critical. I thought I'd look into it, talk to his family, get the latest stats on domestic violence. Probably a good fifteen to twenty inches."
Tom turned to his left. "Ramirez, isn't that what you shot this morning?"
Joaquin Ramirez, the photographer assigned to the I-Team, nodded. Usually the most cheerful person in the room, his face was lined by fatigue, his dark eyes full of shadows. "It was down the street from my house. I got pretty much the entire thing. The bastard shot him from the upstairs window when the officer was walking up to the door. Didn't even warn him."
"The shooter turned the gun on his wife and then himself a short time later," Natalie said. "He died. His wife is going to make it--thank God."
Syd punched in the numbers. "Front page?"
Tom nodded. "Let's start it below the fold and jump to a photo spread on page three. Nothing too graphic. People need to be able to read the paper while they eat their cornflakes. Harker, what's going on downtown?"
Matt Harker, the city reporter, sat up straighter and smoothed his wrinkled tie--the same wrinkled tie he'd worn every day since Kat had come to work at the paper. With freckles on his face and reddish hair, he had a boyish look that seemed to contradict his abilities as a serious reporter. "I got a tip over the weekend that the city's finance director has been embezzling the employee pension fund."
Joaquin gave a low whistle. "That's big."
"I spent most of yesterday with some leaked records and a forensic accountant, and it seems the tip is solid. I need to make a few calls, talk to the city attorney, but I think we can run with it today. Fifteen inches maybe?"
Syd tapped her calculator. "Photos?"
"A couple of head shots."
Tom's gaze fixed on Kat. "How's the solar-energy story coming, James?"
"I need to put it on hold." Kat drew a steadying breath. "On Saturday night, Boulder police raided an
inipi
--a sweat lodge ceremony--that a group of Indian people were holding on Mesa Butte just east of Boulder. Native people have been using the site, which is considered sacred, for hundreds of years. The city has long known that Indians hold ceremonies there, but they've suddenly decided to enforce land-use codes."
"That sounds like it could be a violation of the American Indian Religious Freedom Act," Tom said, a frown on his face.
"Yes, it is." Some of Kat's nervousness slipped away. At least Tom was familiar with the law. "Indian people from across the region are gathering in Boulder today to protest the raid and to demand both an apology and changes in the city's land-use codes. I know it's not my beat, but this is an important issue to Indian people all over the country, and ... And I was there. A police officer dragged me out of the
inipi
by my hair because he felt I wasn't moving fast enough. They had dogs."
And suddenly Kat couldn't say another word, her throat too tight.
"Oh, Kat, I'm so sorry! Why didn't you tell me?" Sophie reached over and took her hand. "I can't imagine how terrible that must have been."
"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Natalie met Kat's gaze, her eyes full of sympathy. "Can you imagine if the police had dragged a bunch of Catholics or Baptists out of church by their hair? It would've made CNN, and people would be raising hell."
Matt looked genuinely angry, his freckled face flushed. "Don't they know the law? Aren't they supposed to enforce it?"
Kat swallowed--hard. "I'd like to cover the protests and follow this as it unfolds. With photos and eyewitness interviews, I could easily have twenty inches. I know it's not my beat and that it might seem like a conflict of interests but--"
"No one can bring to this story what you can." Tom stood. "Do it."
And the meeting was over.
KAT HEADED NORTH to Boulder on Highway 36. The sky was bright blue, the mountains gleaming white in the sunshine. She parked downtown and walked through an icy wind toward the municipal building where protesters had been asked to gather, her right leg aching from the cold. She heard the protest before she saw it, the big drum beating like a heartbeat, men's voices rising above it, singing sacred songs.
The sight that greeted her put a warm lump in her throat. More than a hundred American Indian people stood together in front of the entrance to the municipal building, the drum in the center, elders given a place of honor beside the singers, younger people standing on the periphery holding protest signs so that passing motorists could see them. Glenna, pale but smiling, was there with Pauline, who looked proud now, not afraid. They saw her, smiled, and waved.
Grandpa Red Crow stood off to one side in his best blue jeans, a red shirt, a black leather bolo tie, and a black vest, an eagle feather in his hair, his forehead and the part in his hair painted red to show he was a warrior. He was speaking to a news crew together with Robert Many Goats, a Dine attorney from the First Nations Rights Fund, and Adam Caywood, the Creek/Choctaw actor Kat had had a crush on--until she'd learned he was Two Spirit and preferred men.
She waved to Joaquin, who'd beaten her there as usual and was busy snapping away, then drew out her digital recorder and joined the other reporters, the words of the Lakota song that was being sung running through her mind.
Our grandfather's drum is beatinglOur grandfather's drum is beating/Hear, our grandfather's drum is beating/His drum beats/Our hearts beat/And our ancestors walk strong beside us.
Behind her a man spoke in Lakota. "She's the Navajo journalist who was there."
Kat felt a swell of pride. Her mother might not have appreciated what she did for a living, but these men and women did.
"Mesa Butte has long been sacred to Indian people," Grandpa Red Crow was saying. "My ancestors have prayed there and held their ceremonies there since long before European settlers came to this land. Now the police come to stop our prayers and drive us away. Where is the justice in that?"
"The city says you didn't have a land-use permit," one of the reporters said, the tone of his voice indicating that he thought this justified everything. "Is this true?"
Robert Many Goats ducked his head toward the mic. "Do you need a permit when you pray at your church? The American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1978 guarantees Indian people access to their sacred sites and protects our right to pray in the traditional way. When the police broke up the sweat lodge, frightening and manhandling our sisters, they broke the law."
Then it was Adam Caywood's turn. "Native people are losing sacred sites across the continent. What happens to Indian people, especially urban Indians, when these places are turned into strip malls and parking lots? If our ways of life are to survive, these sites, and our access to them, have to be protected."
Grandpa Red Crow nodded. "The land is our bible. How can I teach my young people if our ceremonies are interrupted and we are driven off the land?"
The look on his dear face told Kat that he was trying desperately to communicate what for him was a profound and important truth, but it was clear the reporters didn't understand.
"Did you have a permit or not?" the reporter asked again.
Kat bit her tongue.
CHAPTER 3
GABE SAT AT the corner table with his back to the wall, watching the restaurant's front door as a couple of silver-haired seniors in jogging suits entered and were seated. He glanced up at the clock. It seemed that Katherine James had stood him up. It was only lunch--lunch with conditions tacked on to it--but she'd stood him up.
What in the hell had he been thinking when he'd asked her out? Or maybe it was less a question of what he'd been thinking and more a question of which part of him had been doing the thinking.
Your dick getting you into trouble again, Rossiter?
Except that he hadn't been out of Samantha's house--or, for that matter, out of Samantha--for an hour yet when he'd asked Katherine to go out with him. It's not like he'd gone without sex for a month and had been desperate to get laid. In fact, the more he thought about why he'd asked her out, the less it made sense to him. One moment he'd felt perfectly sane, and the next his mouth had started talking.
He supposed he ought to be grateful that she was a no-show. It might bruise his ego, but it helped make up for whatever had gone wrong with his brain Saturday night when he'd--
The restaurant door opened, and she walked in, the wind catching her dark hair for one last moment before the door closed behind her.
Gabe felt a little hitch in his chest.
Okay, he could cut that shit out right now. He was not going to get tangled up in her. He didn't even know her--where she was from, what Indian nation she was a member of, whether she was even single. Hell, yeah, she was pretty--okay, more than pretty. And, true, he respected her for the strength she'd shown after she'd fallen. And, sure, he supposed he felt a certain protectiveness toward her, but that was probably just the Neanderthal part of his brain stuck in rescue mode or some shit.
Have you ever felt protective of the other people you've rescued?
Ignoring the question, Gabe stood, watched her scan the crowded eatery, her gaze finding him. She threaded her way through the tables, her limp still noticeable. She wore a gray boiled-wool coat with Indian designs on it, a long denim skirt and brown leather boots, a brown leather purse hanging from one shoulder. As she drew closer, he saw that her cheeks were rosy, as if she'd been outdoors all morning, her hair tousled by the wind.
"Sorry I'm late." She set her purse on the chair beside her, sat, and slipped off her coat. She was wearing a shirt the same rosy color as her cheeks, a turquoise and silver bear claw hanging from a slender silver chain to nestle distractingly between her breasts. "I hope you weren't waiting long. I've been covering the protest at the municipal building and was about to leave when the mayor came out for an impromptu press conference."
"Covering it? So you're ... a reporter?"
She nodded. "I'm part of the
Denver Independent's
I-Team."
That's why she'd made him agree to share everything he learned. She was a journalist, and she was covering this as a story. For her, this was nothing more than a business lunch, and he was nothing more than a source.
Now do you feel like an idiot, idiot?
Thrown off balance, he tried to cover his surprise and irritation. "How's the protest going?"
She unfolded a paper napkin and put it in her lap, looking down at her hands. "So far the mayor and a few city council members have promised to look into what happened, but there's been no official apology from the city yet."
He was about to warn her not to hold her breath when their server came to take their drink order. Gabe asked for water, Katherine a cup of black coffee. And for a moment, they sat in silence.
A damned reporter!
"How's your leg?"
"It still hurts sometimes, but it's getting stronger. They had to put pins in it, so I haven't been walking on it for long. Thanks for asking." Her gaze skimmed lightly over him. "I thought you'd be in uniform."
"I work weekends, so today's one of my days off."
She looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a familiar turquoise earring dangling from her pierced earlobe. "Grandpa Red Crow wanted me to thank you for getting that officer to back off and for being respectful of the women."
As his surprise lessened, Gabe found himself watching her, just taking her in--the strange color of her eyes, the gentle movements of her hands, the almost shy way she tilted her head as if unable to meet his gaze. He knew some Indian cultures felt it was rude to look people directly in the eye unless you knew them well, so it might have been a cultural thing. Even so, it struck him as sweet.
"Did you report Officer Daniels?" It was then he realized she wasn't wearing any makeup, her caramel skin smooth and luminous and clean, her dark lashes thick and long, her fingernails neat and free of polish. He'd bet the curves under her sweater were real, too. She was the opposite of Samantha Price--no artifice, nothing artificial.
"Yes," she said, still not looking at him.
"Good. So did I." He hoped the bastard got demoted to meter maid. "If I'd been the first one to show up at Mesa Butte, none of this would have happened."
Kat could hear in Gabe's voice that he meant what he said, and she regretted being so harsh with him Saturday night. He'd saved her life, protected her from an overzealous cop, and offered to help her get to the bottom of the whole mess. So why did she feel so ill at ease around him, this man who had twice come to her rescue? She glanced up at him--and the answer hit her.