he thought of Emma’s blue eyes, her easy laugh, her lush curves. He remembered how she’d challenged him, taught him, loved him that summer. And the irrepressible question occurred to him.
Why not?
TIRED AS SHE WAS, Emma spent two restless hours trying to get to sleep before finally giving in and switching on the lamp again.
Her mind seemed to bounce from one problem to the next, without finding a solution and without settling down. She thought of those boys—Harlow was the Texan, she gathered, and Tomas the Indian—spending the night in detention. Horrible possibilities assailed her; American jails had a reputation for danger, even violence, from the people in charge. The officers had come close to assaulting the boys tonight. What would happen when there were no civilian witnesses?
Forcing herself to think of something else only brought her to Jimmy. Jimmy Falcon, whom she’d expected to know as easily, as intimately, as if they’d been together yesterday.
Even after twenty years, she remembered the beginning as clearly as she remembered yesterday. She’d been visiting her dad, at work on the Sioux reservation in South Dakota, before starting her studies at Oxford in October. Taking refuge from the fierce flatlands sun, she’d opened the door to a reservation trading post and been nearly knocked over by a young man—Jimmy—trying to sneak two bottles of beer without paying for them. The owner of the shop had grabbed him and threatened to call the police, but let him go when Emma laid down the cash.
Outside, Jimmy handed over one of the bottles. “You paid for it,” he said with that completely engaging grin. “Let’s go for a ride.” He gestured at his beat-up truck.
They ran wild together that summer, while her dad spent meticulous hours recording stories and language. Jimmy took her to the mountains, to the rodeo, to the Badlands of South Dakota. More often than not, Emma paid for the truck’s gas, the food, the tickets. If Jimmy showed up with money, she learned not to ask how he got it. Gambling was an answer she accepted, but stealing made her nervous. As long as she didn’t know which route to wealth he’d taken, she could simply share and enjoy.
He’d made love to her for the first time in the mountains at midnight. She relived the moment now—cold air and the heat of his body against hers, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the clean scent of his skin, the rasp of his tongue, the only sounds that of their heavy breathing, and of her own pounding heart.
Oh, God. Emma left the bed and opened the mini-fridge, pulled out a can of ginger ale and pressed it against her cheeks, her forehead, her breastbone. This was the reason she’d kept the memory of Jimmy at the back of her mind all these years. It was almost too vivid to endure.
The man’s magnetism had only intensified with time. He would have kissed her tonight. With the smallest movement, she could have joined her lips to his. A kiss for old times’ sake—what would be the harm?
Turning off the lamp, she opened the curtains and stared into the city street—quieter here than outside The Indigo, nearly empty. No homeless boys to foolishly worry about.
Kissing Jimmy would be foolish, as well. They weren’t so young now, so eager for experience, so confident of the future ahead of them. A relationship of any depth would complicate their lives, perhaps beyond possibility of resolution.
And Emma had too many complications already. Making a life without her dad’s wry, loving support would be hard enough. The loss of one’s employment ranked very high on the list of significant life changes, and within the last six months she’d lost not just a teaching position, but her entire career as a research historian. She’d lost a fiancé too, though she hardly regretted the fact—Eric Jeffries had simply used their relationship to further his own interests. Still, the knowledge that he hadn’t really loved her hurt. As did her inner recording of things he’d said…
The bedside clock relentlessly counted the hours as she lay there, trying to sleep. She saw four-thirty, then five…and finally fell into an exhausted slumber just as the sun was coming up.
ON WEDNESDAY Jimmy stepped into the club and took off his sunglasses, relieved to be in the air-conditioned shadows after Denver’s summertime heat.
“Tiffany? Tiff?”
His bartender came out of the kitchen. “Hey, Jimmy.”
He gave her a grin. “Hey, beautiful. I hope you ordered me whatever you’re having. It smells great, and I haven’t seen food yet this morning.”
“It’s two o’clock, boss. That makes this the afternoon.” She winked at him. “But listen. I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Hit me.” He eased his sound hip onto a bar stool.
“The good news is that I ordered Chinese and there’s enough for an army.”
“And?”
“The bad news is I ordered in lunch because Hank quit.” Hank Rawlins was the only cook he’d hired in the past year who’d stayed more than a couple of weeks.
Jimmy swore. “Why?”
“Something about a fight in the alley last night. He said he didn’t get paid enough to risk his life.”
“Great. Fantastic.” Jimmy tossed his sunglasses onto the bar. “What a way to start the day.” Thanks to Harlow and company, The Indigo was now missing a cook. And while the food wasn’t the draw, people usually liked something to eat while they drank. “Did you call the agency, see if they had any temps?”
“I did. And they didn’t. I also called to put an ad in the paper. But that’ll take a few days to get results. Meanwhile…”
“Meanwhile, dammit, I do the honors.” Eyes closed, he waited out the urge to throw something. He opened them again on a deep breath. “Those are the breaks, right?”
Tiffany shook her head, her smile sympathetic. “I can help you get ready.”
Jimmy put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay. You’ve got all you can handle out here. I think I can manage cutting up lettuce and tomatoes. I’ve got to make a call first, then I’ll get started.”
In the office, he pulled out the phone book and found the number for Emma’s hotel. With his finger on the button, though, he stopped and put the handset down. Unlocking the desk drawer, he reached in, then sat looking at the walnut box resting on his palms.
Without lifting the lid, he could visualize the medallion inside. Most likely Navajo or Hopi or Zuni work, the Southwestern tribes were known for their expertise with metals and stone. The route the piece had traveled from Arizona to South Dakota might be interesting to follow. If you cared about things like that.
Jimmy didn’t. He’d decided a long time ago that his Indian background created more trouble than it was worth. His ambition from the age of eight had been to get off the reservation and forget he’d ever been there. For the most part, he’d succeeded.
Until now. Emma had brought the reservation back into his life. Seeing her, getting at all close to her, would most likely involve him in the search for the background on the medallion.
But not seeing her again…he didn’t like that option, either. She wasn’t the girl he’d known that long-ago summer—redheaded, reckless and sassy, a strange
