The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2 (12 page)

Interesting, but R.J. had finally had enough. She stopped short in front of a large stone plague. “I appreciate the tour, but if you really want to draw tourists, you’ve got to give me a better angle than this.”

“What do you mean?”

“What makes this place different than every other Native American museum in the country?”

“I told you – it’s made of material from the reservation; the entire tribe worked—”

R.J. cut him off with a wave of her hand. “So? You think anyone really cares about that stuff? Readers want to know more than just facts and figures. They want the human story.”

“Such as?”

“Well, one question that springs to mind – why did the Elders hire a white to represent the Center?”

He stiffened. “I’m not white.”

“But with a name like O’Brien, I assumed—”

“You assumed wrong,” he said, cutting her off. “My father was white, but I was raised here.”

“Don’t you know who this is?” a voice from behind her called out.

R.J. turned to see a man standing a few feet away. Shorter than Sean and barrel-chested, he wore a dark shirt and jeans. A pair of sunglasses dangled from a pocket embroidered with the words “Tribal Police”.

He crossed the short distance and held out his hand. “You must be the reporter. I’m Charlie Two Horses. Welcome to the rez.”

Shaking his hand, R.J. stole a look at Sean who’d taken a step back. “Thanks.”

Charlie turned toward Sean and smiled. “So our boy here didn’t tell you about himself, huh?”

Sean shuffled uncomfortably. “This isn’t necessary, Charlie.”

“Of course it is,” he replied turning back to R.J. “This here’s Sean Swifthawk O’Brien, grandson of Jon Swifthawk. Raised you didn’t he, Sean, after your parents were killed?”

“We don’t need to go into that, Charlie.”

Charlie’s face took on an expression of innocence. “But I heard her say she wanted a ‘human’ story, and just think how yours would tug on the heart strings . . . the son of murdered parents; a poor half-breed kid shipped off to the rez to be raised by one of the most important men in the tribe?”

“My family background doesn’t have anything to do with the Center,” Sean said in a clipped voice.

“Sure, it does, Sean. You and your grandfather were the ones who talked the tribe into building it—” He stopped and looked at R.J. “Sean was also the one who got white investors to put up the money.”

“I organized a few fundraisers.”

Charlie snorted “A
few
fundraisers? How much did you get? A cool—”

“That’s enough, Charlie,” Sean said, his hands clenched at his side.

Charlie took a step forward. “What’s wrong, Swifthawk,” he spat out the word. “Don’t want to give her too—”

“Not now,” Sean began, his chin rising. “She doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t what?” Charlie interrupted, moving closer.

R.J. squirmed. A fight breaking out in the Cultural Center
would
make a better story, but she really didn’t want to see them come to blows. “What’s this?” she asked quickly, trying to diffuse the rising tension.

“Ah that,” Charlie said, suddenly forgetting Sean and stepping up to the plaque. He ran his finger down the carved names, stopping on one near the bottom. “It’s in honor of our warriors. All who’ve proudly served in the Armed Forces.” He tapped the plaque. “Here’s
my
name,” he finished proudly.

R.J. read down through the names. “Where’s yours, Sean.”

Charlie gave a bark of laughter. “He didn’t serve, did you, Sean?”

“Not in the Army,” he replied curtly.

Charlie shrugged. “That’s right – you went off to college instead.” He shrugged again. “Not everyone’s cut out to be a warrior.” Taking his sunglasses out of his pocket, he settled them on his face. “Nice meeting you, R.J.” With a slight sneer, he glanced at Sean before returning his attention back to her. “If there’s anything I can do, be sure and let me know.”

R.J. watched Charlie march down the hall before turning back to Sean. “Ah,” she began, but the words caught in her throat.

His eyes – for a split second, she could’ve sworn they changed from amber to yellow.

It was late afternoon by the time R.J. returned to the motel. After Charlie had left, Sean had continued his tour of the Center. He’d been articulate and at times even charming. She would’ve needed ice flowing through her veins in order not to have felt the tug of attraction, especially when he smiled.
Man, he had a great smile.
And the pride he felt in the Center would’ve been kind of cool had she not known he was only using her as a means to an end. She had cooperated. She’d taken a ton of photos, learned all about life on the prairie, and could quote exactly how many stones they’d used in constructing the Center.

No doubt about it – this story was going to be just another piece of fluff,
she thought, slapping her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. The only thing that had been remotely interesting, other than staring at Sean, was the animosity between him and Charlie Two Horses. But was that a lead she wanted to pursue? She remembered the look on Sean’s face as he watched Charlie walk away. She wasn’t a coward, but the idea of coming up against Sean Swifthawk O’Brien made her shiver.
And
not in a good way.

She’d almost made it past the bar, when suddenly someone stepped out between two parked cars and waved her down.

Charlie Two Horses.

Rolling to a stop, she cranked down the driver’s window.

“Hey, good to see you again,” Charlie said, approaching her door then motioning toward the bar. “How about a beer?”

She debated with herself for a moment. She wasn’t an idiot – this guy had an agenda and he wanted to use her to achieve it. But on the other hand, she had her own agenda – a better story than the one she was being forcefed. What could it hurt to at least talk to him?

With a nod, she pulled into an empty parking space.

From inside the bar, the jukebox whined with the sound of steel guitars and a singer lamenting how “she’d done him wrong”. Above the bar itself, hung an old TV with the volume shut off. Some sporting event flickered across the screen. Taking her arm, Charlie held up two fingers to the bartender then guided her past the pool tables to a booth in the back. They’d barely settled when a waitress with the biggest beehive R.J. had ever seen slapped two bottles of beer in front of them. Without a word she turned and sauntered back to the bar.

Charlie lifted his bottle, saluted R.J., then took a long pull. Scooting back, he stretched an arm across the back of the bench. “So? What did you think of the Center?”

She thought for a moment before answering him. The best way to play this was close to the vest, sound non-committal, let Charlie do all the talking.

“It’s nice,” she replied, in a neutral voice.

“But not much of a story, huh?”

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

Dropping his arm, he shifted forward. “I could give you a better angle than the one Swifthawk shoved on you.”

This guy really did want to dish the dirt.
Regardless of her trepidation about Sean O’Brien, R.J. felt a tickle of excitement. “Like what?” she asked, keeping her face calm.

He downed his beer and motioned to the waitress for another. Sliding the empty bottle to the side, he crossed his arms on the table. “See here’s the deal – the rez needs money. I could show you homes that are no better than squatter shacks and the Center isn’t going to change that.” He stopped as the waitress smacked another beer in front of him. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. “A casino would.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it,” R.J. replied. “The tribe chose to build the Center, not a casino.”

“They were misled.” His eyes darted to the side before returning to R.J. Leaning forward, his voice dropped. “Swifthawk and his grandfather didn’t want a casino and persuaded them it would be easier to finance the Center.”

“And Sean raised the money?”

“Yeah.” He sipped on his beer. “Him and his white buddies.”

“Then convince him to raise the money for a casino.”

His mouth twisted in a bitter line. “Swifthawk won’t do it. Him and his grandfather want to cling to the old ways. They want our people to live as they did 200 years ago. It can’t be done.” His expression lightened. “But here’s the beauty of it – now we don’t need him. The Center’s paid off and it could be used as collateral to finance a casino.”

R.J. threw a hand in the air. “There’s your solution.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Like I told you – they don’t want a casino and they’ll do everything they can to stop it.”

“I don’t see how I can help you.”

His eyes narrowed and he gave her a smug grim. “If you dig below the surface, you’re going to find Swifthawk’s motives aren’t as pure as he’d like the tribe to believe.”

“You want me to discredit him.”

“No, I want you to write the truth.”

“Which is?”

“How Sean’s sold out to white investors.” He moved even closer. “I can give you names – people who’ll tell you the truth about Swifthawk.”

A million ideas bounced through her mind and she longed to whip out her notebook and begin taking notes. But that would seem too anxious. Much better to let Charlie think he needed to convince her.

“How do you know they’ll talk to me?”

“Oh, they’ll talk, if you ask the right questions,” he answered cryptically.

“How can I? I don’t know anything about Sean and his grandfather.”

Charlie’s lips pursed. “You won’t get much on the old man. Going back as far as I can remember, people on the rez have always been reluctant to talk about him.” He shook his head. “Even my own grandfather – I did hear him say something once, but my grandmother shushed him.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t recall his exact words,” he replied, scratching his chin. “But it wasn’t about Jon Swifthawk. It was about his father.”

“Sean’s great-grandfather?”

“Yeah . . .” he paused, trying to remember. “He said something about animal totems.”

“What are they?”

“Never mind – we’re talking forty years ago.” He picked up his beer, drank it in one long gulp then stood. Throwing a piece of paper on the table, he stared down at her. “I’m telling you – if you want a ‘real’ story, take a closer look at Sean.”

The dying sun cast long shadows in the clearing. In its centre, Sean stood before the fire, watching the rocks glow red. He removed a pinch of tobacco from the pouch dangling at his waist. Holding it high, he turned to the north and let it fall from his fingertips. He shifted to the east, to the south, to the west, repeating the process as he offered the sacred herb to Mother Earth. Finished, he turned back to the fire and grabbed a pitchfork. Using it, he carried the hot rocks one by one into the canvas-covered sweat lodge and placed them in the fire pit.

Satisfied the stones were aligned, he exited the lodge and quickly pulled off his boots, his socks, his jeans, until finally he stood naked in the gathering twilight. Turning he entered the lodge.

It was like walking into an oven. Instantly sweat popped from his pores and snaked down his face, chest and arms in tiny rivulets. Moving to the blanket woven by his grandmother, he sat cross-legged and reached for a ladle of water from the nearby bucket. He cast water on the shimmering rocks, making the air hiss with steam.

Hot, so hot.
It felt like the spit inside his mouth was ready to boil. With a sharp intake of breath, he picked up the drum at his side. He shut his eyes and began beating a slow rhythm on the taut deer hide while he focused on the spot deep inside where his heritage lay.

He needed guidance. The confidence he’d shown his grandfather had been false and, at times, the special burden he bore threatened to crush him. He knew his power and the temptation to control it was a constant fight. How could he help his people win their battles if he couldn’t even win his own?

He beat the drum harder.

The brush of wings seemed to graze his cheek while, softly, the distant whisper of his ancestors began to echo in his ears. Images flickered in the recess of his mind. A buffalo thundering across the plains, a lone wolf darting through the cotton-woods and, finally, a white owl soaring into the heavens. He felt connected to all that had gone before him and the heaviness in his heart eased with each beat of the drum.

He
would
help his people towards a better life. He
would
win against those who plotted his downfall. He
would
stop them from using the woman.

The woman
. His hand faltered and he felt his connection slip. She had tried to charm him, slip under his defences. She’d almost succeeded, but it wasn’t her dimples that had drawn him, but her refusal to be intimidated.

It was a new experience for him. Most of the people on the reservation had always steered clear of him – either due to the rumours that had circulated about his family, or because they didn’t trust him. Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered to him. His only concern was saving their culture.