The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes: Betrayed Birthright / Mistaken for a Mistress / Condition of Marriage

Tamra opened her eyes, felt her heart catch in her throat. She hadn’t expected him to make such a kind offer. “That would mean a lot to me. Sometimes I worry that she’s lonely, all by herself in a big city. I know that’s a crazy way to feel, but I can’t help it.” She looked up at the sky again. “I should have buried her here. But at the time, I was determined to stay in San Francisco, to prove I could make it.”

“But you changed your mind?”

She nodded. “After a while, I realized I was spinning in circles. Mourning my baby and trying to be someone I wasn’t.” She looked at him, saw him looking back at her. “Mary and I went to San Francisco because we were defying our heritage, because we wanted to be white. But we’re not. We’re Lakota. And this is our home.”

He released her hand, but he did it gently, slowly. “What about your baby’s father? How does he fit into all of this?”

“He doesn’t, not anymore.”

“But he did. He gave you a child.”

When her chest turned tight, she blew out the breath she was holding. “He broke up with me when he found out I was pregnant. He wasn’t her father. He was a sperm donor.”

Walker searched her gaze. “Did you love him?”

“Yes.” She shifted in her seat, causing the swing to rock. “His name is Edward Louis. I met him through JT Marketing, the firm I worked for. He’s one of their top clients.”

“A white guy?”

“Yes. A corporate mogul. The president of a wheel corporation. You know, fancy rims and tires.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you.” Walker paused, frowned. “Is it Titan Motorsports? Is that the company he represents?”

“No. Why? Does it matter?”

“I have Titan wheels on my Jag. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t supporting the enemy.”

She smiled, leaned against his shoulder, decided she liked him. “Your Jaguar is safe.”

“Good.” He leaned against her, too. “I don’t understand how a man could leave a woman who’s carrying his child.”

“He thought I trapped him. That I got pregnant on purpose. He didn’t love me the way I loved him. But I’m not blaming that on his race. It doesn’t have anything to do with him being white. Plenty of Indian men walk away, too.”

“Like your dad?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m still having a hard time with my mom,” Walker said. “It bothers me that she didn’t fight to keep her children. That she let us go. But on the other hand, I’m grateful that I’ve lived a privileged life. That I wasn’t raised here.” He made a face. “I realize how awful that sounds, but I can’t help it. It’s just so damn poor.”

“That was part of Mary’s reasoning, I think. Why she didn’t fight. Why she let Spencer take you.”

“So it was more than him just threatening her?”

Tamra nodded. “It was the hopelessness she felt, the fear of not being able to provide for you and Charlotte. Eighty-five percent of the people on Pine Ridge are unemployed. There’s no industry, technology or commercial advancement to provide jobs.”

“She has a job now.”

“Twenty-two years after she let you and your sister go. Mary has come a long way since then.”

“But Pine Ridge hasn’t.”

“Maybe not, but we keep trying. Mary knows she was wrong. That she should have fought to keep her kids. We have to believe in ourselves, to teach our young to battle the hopelessness, to rise above it.”

“That’s a noble concept. But how realistic is it?”

“Come to work with me tomorrow and find out.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a dare?”

“You bet it is.” She wasn’t about to let him leave the reservation on a discouraging note. She wanted him to be proud of his birthright.

“Then what choice do I have?” He gave her a playful nudge. “I’m not the kind of man who backs away from a challenge. Especially from a pretty girl.”

She didn’t flirt back. At least not in a lighthearted way. She was too emotional to goof around, too serious to make silly jokes. In the waning light, she touched the side of his face, absorbing the texture of his skin.

His chest rose and fell, his breathing rough, a little anxious. “Being nice to me is going to get you into trouble, Tamra.”

“Maybe. But you’ve been nice to me tonight. You offered to visit my baby. To bring her flowers.”

“What was her name?” he asked.

“Jade.”

“Like the stone?”

“When I was pregnant, Mary bought me a figurine for my birthday. A jade turtle that fit in the palm of my hand. It was my protector.”

“Do you still have it?”

She shook her head. “I buried it with my baby. I gave it to her.”

He leaned forward. “Jade was lucky to have you.”

She tried not to cry, but her eyes betrayed her. They burned with the threat of tears, with the memory of her daughter, with the little kicks and jabs that had glorified her womb. “I wanted her so badly. But toward the end, I knew something was wrong. She wasn’t moving inside me anymore.”

“I’m so sorry.” He touched her face, the way she’d grazed his. And then he brushed his lips across hers. A feathery kiss, a warm embrace.

Desperate for his compassion, she slid her arms around his neck and drew him closer. His tongue touched hers, and she welcomed the sensation, the slow, sensual comfort of his mouth.

He tasted like blueberries, like Lakota pudding. Masculine heat, drenched in sugar. She couldn’t seem to get enough. Desperate for more, she deepened the kiss.

And then a car sounded, moving along the road, coming toward the house.

Like kids who’d gotten caught with their pants down, they jerked apart.

“My mother’s home.” He grabbed the chain on the swing, trying to keep it from rattling, from making too much noise. “I guess we should reheat the pizza.”

“Yes, of course.” Tamra stood, smoothed her blouse, wondered if Walker’s prediction would come true. That they would, indeed, end up in bed.

And be sorry about it afterward.

Walker, Tamra and Mary sat in the living room, the coffee table littered with napkins, sodas and leftover pizza. They’d eaten their meal, and now they battled a round of silence.

Walker wondered what Tamra was thinking, if she was as confused as he was. With each passing hour, he became more and more protective of her. Not that he was happy about it. In some ways, arguing with her was easier. But he wasn’t about to pick a fight.

If anything, he should cut his trip short and go home. But he knew he wouldn’t. Not until he figured out what to do about Tamra. If he walked away too soon, he would feel like a coward.

“Would you like to spend the night here?” his mother asked, catching him off guard.

He reached for his drink and took a hard, cold swig. Sleep under the same roof as Tamra? Was his mother daft? Couldn’t she see what was happening? “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Because I want to have sex with your non-Hunka daughter, he thought. “Because I don’t have anything with me. All of my stuff is at the motel. My rental car, too.”

“Then how about tomorrow night?” Mary gave him a beseeching look. “It’s been so many years since I’ve had my boy with me. I just hate to let you go.”

Guilt clawed at his conscience. He hadn’t come to Pine Ridge to get hot and bothered over Tamra. He’d arrived in South Dakota to search for his mother. And now that he’d found her, he hadn’t given her the time or the consideration she deserved. He hadn’t given her a chance.

“Sure,” he said. “I can stay tomorrow.”

“And the next night after that?” she pressed, her voice much too hopeful.

He nodded, feeling kind of loopy inside. Walker wasn’t used to maternal affection. Spencer’s wife, Lilah, had all but ignored him, especially when he was young.

Of course, he’d been too enamored of Spencer to worry about getting attention from Lilah. Besides, he’d always seen her as a tragic character, lost in a socialite world, a place with no substance. And from what he’d observed, she wasn’t the greatest mother to her own kids. So why would she treat him or his sister with care?

He’d survived without a mom, something he’d gotten used to. And now here he was, sitting next to Mary on her plain blue sofa, with boyish butterflies in his stomach.

The longing in her eyes made him ill at ease. Yet somewhere in the cavern of his lost memories, in the depth of his eight-year-old soul, he appreciated it. He just wished he could return the favor. But as it was, she still seemed like a stranger.

“Walker is coming to work with me tomorrow,” Tamra said, drawing his attention. “So he should probably drive his car over in the morning.”

“That’s a great idea,” Mary put in.

Yeah, great. He was being prodded by two decision-making females. He addressed Tamra. “You still have to take me back to the motel tonight.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I know.”

Curious, he gauged her reaction. Was she wondering if he would kiss her again? If once they were alone, they would pick up where they’d left off?

Well, they wouldn’t, he concluded. He was going to keep his hands to himself, control his urges, even if it killed him. What good would it do to pursue a relationship with her? To get tangled up in an affair? He was the up-and-coming CEO of a company that had been his life’s blood, and she was dedicated to her reservation, to a place that would never fit his fast-paced, high-finance lifestyle. One or two heart-felt moments on Pine Ridge wouldn’t change him. He would always be an iyeska. And he would always be connected to Uncle Spencer—the tough, ruthless man who’d raised him.

“Do you want to see some old family photos?” Mary asked.

Walker glanced up, realizing he’d zoned out, gotten lost in troubled thoughts. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Pictures of you and Charlotte when you were little,” she said. “They were the first things I packed. After I was released from the hospital, Spencer told me to grab a few belongings and he would send the rest. But I didn’t trust him, so I took mementos I didn’t want him to destroy.”

His lungs constricted. “Sure. Okay. I’d like to see the pictures.”

Mary smiled, her dark eyes turning bright. “I’ll get them.” She rose from the sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

After she left the room, he locked gazes with Tamra, who sat across from him in a faded easy chair. The golden hue from a nearby lamp sent shadows across her face, making her look soft, almost ghostly.

A Lakota spirit.

He rubbed his arm, fighting an instant chill. Suddenly he could hear voices in his head, the cry of a woman and a child being gunned down, running from the cavalry, falling to the frozen earth. A playacted scene from an Indian documentary he’d caught on the History Channel a few months ago.

“What’s wrong?” Tamra asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re frowning.”

He tried to relax his forehead. “It’s not intentional.”

“Here they are.” Mary returned with two large photo albums.

Walker broke eye contact with Tamra, thinking about the baby she’d buried, the child he’d assumed responsibility for. Flowers on a grave.

His mother resumed her seat, handing him the first album. He opened the cover, then nearly lost his breath.

“That’s your father and me on our wedding day. It wasn’t a fancy ceremony. We went to the justice of the peace.”

“You look just like Charlotte, the way she looks now.” Stunned, he studied the picture. He hadn’t noticed the resemblance until now, hadn’t realized how much his sister had taken after Mary. But then, his mother had aged harshly, the years taking their toll.

“Really? Oh, my.” She seemed pleased, thrilled that her daughter had grown up in her image. Especially since Charlotte had called Mary earlier, promising that she would return to the States next week. They’d talked easily, almost as if they’d never been apart.

Walker had been a tad envious, wondering how his sister had managed to carry on a conversation like that. Within a few a minutes she’d accomplished more than he had in two full days.

And over the phone, no less.

Mary turned the page. “Here you are. On the day you were born. Look at that sweet little face.”

Sweet? He wasn’t an authority on newborns, but he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. “I look like a prune.” A dried plum, he thought, with a cap of dark hair.

When his mom swatted his shoulder, he scrunched up his features, mocking the picture.

And then suddenly he felt sad. He noticed Tamra, sitting alone in her chair, ghostlike once again.

Was she thinking about Jade?

Trying to hide her emotions, she gave him a brave smile. But it was too late. He was already affected by her, already wishing he could hold her, take away her pain.

Too many lost children, he thought. Too much heartache. Now his mother was watching him with anticipation, waiting for him to look at the next picture.

To remember his youth.

But the only thing that came to mind was the documentary he recalled on TV. The woman and her child stumbling to the ground. A depiction of someone’s ancestors.

Bleeding in the snow.

Walker rode shotgun in Tamra’s truck, traveling from Rapid City, South Dakota, back to the reservation. They’d spent the morning in Rapid City, where she’d given him a tour of the warehouse that stocked food donations. The Oyate Project, the nonprofit organization she worked for, was a small but stable operation. She claimed there were bigger charities in the area, but she’d been involved in the Oyate Project since its inception.

Oyate, Walker had learned, meant “the People” in Lakota. Her people, his people, she’d told him.

He glanced out his window and saw a vast amount of nothingness—grassy fields, dry brush, a horizon that went on forever. Rapid City was about 120 miles from Pine Ridge, a long and seemingly endless drive and they were only halfway through it.

“So this is the route your delivery trucks take?” he asked.

“Yes, but because of the distance, the weather can vary, particularly in the winter. Sometimes a truck leaves Rapid City, where it’s sixty degrees and hits the reservation in the middle of a whiteout.”

“A blizzard?”

She nodded, and he pictured the land blanketed in snow. “Some of the homes aren’t accessible during heavy snows or rain, are they?”

“No, they’re not. We try to provide propane fuel and heating stoves. We haul firewood, too. But there are so many people to reach, so many families who need to keep warm.”

He thought about the years Tamra and her mother had spent dodging the cold. “Do you have any extended family? Anyone who’s still alive?”

“I have some distant cousins on my dad’s side, but we don’t socialize much. They tend to party, drink too much.” She heaved a heavy-hearted sigh. “I’ve tried to help them get sober, but they shoo me away. They think I’m a do-gooder.”

“No one could say that about me,” he admitted.

“You’ve never offered to help anyone?”

“Not firsthand. I send checks to charities, but I’ve always thought of them as tax write-offs. I don’t get emotionally involved.”

She slanted him a sideways glance. “You will today.”

He tried to snare her gaze, but she’d already turned back to the road. “So where exactly are we going?”

“To meet one of the trucks at a drop-off location. It’s my home base, where my office is.”

They arrived about forty-five minutes later. The drop-off location was a prefab building equipped with garage-style doors. A group of cars were parked around the structure, where volunteers waited for the delivery truck.

Michele and her daughter, Maya, were among the volunteers, ready to help those less fortunate than themselves. Walker was impressed. Michele was living in an overcrowded home, trying to make ends meet, yet she was willing to drive her beat-up car to other communities on the rez, delivering food to hungry families. He suspected the Oyate Project was paying for her gas, but she was offering her time, her heart, for free.

She greeted him and Tamra with a hug. Maya looked up at them and grinned. Soon another volunteer engaged Tamra in a conversation and she excused herself, leaving Walker with Michele and her sweet little girl.

As casually as possible he removed some cash from his wallet and slipped it into Michele’s hand.

She gave him a confused look.

“For Maya’s birthday,” he said, as the child played in the dirt, drawing pictures with a stick.

Michele thanked him, giving him another hug, putting her mouth close to his ear. “I hope you hook up with my friend. She needs a guy like you.”

He stepped back, felt his pulse stray. “I’m not hooking up with anybody.”

“You sure about that?”

Was he? “I’m trying to be.” He’d been doing his damnedest not to touch Tamra, not to kiss her again.

Michele angled her head. Her long, straight hair was clipped with a big, plastic barrette, and a bright blue T-shirt clung to her plus-size figure. “Maybe you shouldn’t fight it.”

He shifted his feet. They stood in the heat, with the sun beating down on their backs. “It would never work. I live in California.”

“Yeah, but you’re here now.” She gave him a serious study. “And my friend is getting to you.”

So he was supposed to live for the moment? Make a move on Tamra? Have a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am with a woman who’d been through hell and back? Somehow he doubted that was what Michele had in mind. “You think I’ll stay. You think that if I hook up with her, I’ll make this place my home.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Not that strange, he thought.

Tamra returned and invited him into her office. He entered the building with her, eager to escape. As much as he liked Michele, he didn’t need to get side-tracked by her hope-filled notions.

Determined to keep his distance, he refrained from getting too close to Tamra. But once they were in her office with the door closed, he didn’t have a choice. Her workspace put them in a confined area: a standard desk, a narrow bookcase, a file cabinet that took up way too much room.

She dug through the top drawer, removed a folder and sorted through it, gathering the papers she needed. Walker took a deep breath, and her fragrance accosted him like a floral-scented bandit. If he moved forward, just a little, just three or four small steps, he could take her in his arms.

Damn the consequences and kiss her.

The phone on her desk rang, jarring him back to reality.

She answered the call, and he cursed Michele for messing with his mind, for encouraging him to be with Tamra. Walker hadn’t gotten laid in months. Of course, he knew Michele was talking about more than just sex.

“Are you ready?” Tamra asked.

He simply looked at her. He hadn’t even realized that she’d hung up the phone. He’d been too busy feeling sorry for his neglected libido. “Ready for what?”

“To go back outside. Or would you rather wait here?”

“For what?”

“The truck.” She made a curious expression. “Are you all right, Walker?”

A bit defensive, he frowned at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“How would I know? You’re acting weird.”

Did she have to be so pretty? So smooth and sultry? She wore jeans and an Oyate Project T-shirt, but it could have been a nightgown, a breezy fabric, an erotic temptation. “Maybe I’m just sick of the reservation.”

She crossed her arms. “Then go home.”

He didn’t want to return to California, not without putting his hands all over her first. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Anxious, he leaned against the file cabinet. “And I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Me, neither.”

She sighed, and he almost touched her.

Almost.

He decided it was safer waiting outside, even if Michele would probably be dogging his heels, giving him conspiratorial glances.

But luckily that didn’t happen. The truck arrived, and the pace picked up. So much so, Walker got absorbed in the activity, helping the driver unload the food.

After the cartons were sorted and stacked, Tamra organized the volunteers and individual cars were packed with bags of perishable items and boxes of dry goods. Walker loaded the back of Tamra’s vehicle with groceries from a checklist she’d given him.

Soon they were rolling across the plains again, heading to their first destination. He turned to look at her, knowing she was right. He was getting emotionally involved today. But not only with her charity.

He was getting attached to her, too.

Five

Walker and Tamra had spent the afternoon with families who had no electricity and no running water. People living in abandoned camper shells, in old shacks, in rusted-out trailers. But even so, he’d seen pride in their eyes, determination, kindness, a sense of community.

And now Tamra had taken him to the Wounded Knee Memorial. He wasn’t sure why she’d decided to come here, especially today, after driving all over the reservation. They were both road weary and tired.

Walker studied his surroundings. Aside from a Lakota couple selling dream catchers in a shelter of pine boughs, there was no one around. He suspected a few tourists trickled by now and then, or else the enterprising young couple wouldn’t have any customers.

A green sign, suffering from vandalism, offered a historical account of the Massacre of Wounded Knee. The word massacre had been bolted onto the sign with a sheet of metal, covering something below it.

“What did it say before?” Walker asked Tamra, who stood beside him, her hair glistening in the late-day sun.

“Battle,” she told him.

“The Battle of Wounded Knee?”

“That was what the government originally called it.”

But it wasn’t a battle, Tamra explained, as he gazed at the sign. It was a massacre—a place where more than three hundred Indians, mostly women and children, were killed on December 29, 1890, for supporting the Ghost Dance, a religion that had been outlawed on Lakota reservations.

Fourteen days prior to the massacre, the tribal police murdered Sitting Bull at his home. That prompted Big Foot, another Lakota chief, to lead his band to Pine Ridge, where he hoped to seek shelter with Chief Red Cloud, who was trying to make peace with the army. But Big Foot, an old man ill with pneumonia, and most of his people, were exterminated instead. Those who survived told their story, recounting the chilling details.

“It was the Seventh Cavalry who shot them,” Tamra said. “Custer’s old unit. The government sent them, along with other troops, to arrest the Ghost Dancers. The morning after Big Foot and his band were captured, a gun went off during a scuffle. And that was it. That was how the massacre started.” She paused, her voice impassioned with the past, with a war-torn history. “At first the struggle was fought at close quarters, but most of the Indians had already surrendered their weapons. There were only a hundred warriors. The rest were women, children and old men. When they ran to take cover, the cavalry opened fire with cannons that were positioned above the camp. Later some of the women were found two or three miles away, a sign that they were chased down and killed.”

Walker glanced at the craft booth, where dream catchers fluttered, feathers stirring in the breeze. “The Seventh Cavalry got their revenge.”

“Yes, they did.” Tamra followed his gaze. “The Ghost Dance was supposed to bring back the old way, to encourage spiritual powers to save us. At the time, the government was reducing our land and cutting our promised rations. The Lakota were sick and starving. They needed hope.”

“They needed the Ghost Dance,” he said.

She nodded, and he thought about the documentary on TV, the reenactment of a woman and child bleeding in the snow. Was that a depiction of Wounded Knee? Of the massacre? He’d only caught a glimpse of it while he was switching channels, but it had affected him just the same.

“Someone found a baby still suckling from its dead mother,” she said, her words creating a devastating image in his mind. “And after most of the people had been killed, there were soldiers who called out, claiming that those who weren’t wounded should come forth, that they would be safe. But when some of the little boys crept out of their hiding places, they were butchered.” She paused, took a breath. “We have an annual event called Future Generations Riders, where the organizers take a group of horseback riders, mostly children, on the same trail as the Wounded Knee victims. Sitting Bull’s great-great-great-grandson is one of the leaders. Some of the kids don’t know their culture, so it helps them learn, to look to the future. Hope can come from grief. From accepting who you are.”