a second, then the firm pressure was gone. She shivered, but forced herself to forge ahead. “This is Joseph White Thunder, a tribal elder, and Councilwoman Emily Mankiller.” Yes. Formal introductions were the next step. She needed to get back on track here.
Emily must have sensed Rosebud’s hesitation, because she stepped into the gap. “Mr. Armstrong,” she began as she and Joe took their seats without shaking hands, “are you familiar with the Treaty of 1877 between the United States government and the Lakota, Dakota and Nakota Sioux tribes of South Dakota?”
“Ma’am,” Armstrong replied with a polite half bow as he sat down. Rosebud smiled internally as the whole thing tilted off-kilter and he clawed at the table to keep his balance. Still, he managed to sound nonplussed as he said, “I can’t say that I am.”
Thank God for that. Aunt Emily was one of the few women on this reservation with a master’s degree in American history, and her role in this little meeting was to wear the adversary down with a complete recounting of the wrongs the Lakota Indians had suffered back in the day at the hands of the American government, and now, thanks to corporations such as Armstrong Holdings. Rosebud had about forty minutes to get her head together.
Aunt Emily droned on while Joe stared at a spot on the wall just over Armstrong’s head. Rosebud unpacked her files and began reviewing her notes from the last go-round with Johnson. There wasn’t much new to go on. Unlike with Johnson, usable dirt on Cecil Armstrong was just plain hard to dig up. He was courting both political parties, visited a respectable divorced woman twice a month in Sioux Falls and had no personal secretary. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t ever set foot in the Armstrong Hydro office in Sioux Falls, and what few staffers worked there didn’t seem to know anything. That was all she had after three years. It was frustrating.
She snuck a glance at Armstrong. Not only was he paying attention to Aunt Emily, he was taking notes. What the hell? Rosebud thought when Armstrong interrupted the lecture to ask for the specific dates of the last treaty signed. He must not be a lawyer, she decided. Lawyers didn’t give a hoot for history lectures. Why would that man send someone who wasn’t a lawyer?
Aunt Emily began to wind down when she got to the reason they were all here today. Rosebud waited as Armstrong finished his notes before she began. “Mister Armstrong,” she began, going right past condescending and straight on over to contemptuous, “are you aware that Armstrong Holdings is preparing to dam the Dakota River?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, trying to lean back in the chair without tipping. “Down in a valley about two miles from here, as the crow flies. Armstrong Holdings owns the water rights and has secured the government permits to begin construction this fall.”
Oh, she knew where the valley was. “And are you also aware that the reservoir created by that dam will flood thirty-six hundred acres of the Red Creek reservation?”
Armstrong regarded her with open curiosity. “I understood the reservoir will cover several hundred square miles. I was told that land was mostly unoccupied.”
Her eyes narrowed. What the hell was that man doing, sending an unarmed nephew into battle? He might as well have sent an errand boy instead of this… male. There was just no way around it. Everything about Dan Armstrong said male, from the good—no, great—chin to the way he sat in that chair, legs spread wide like he was just itching to get back on his horse.
God, he’d looked so good on that horse. Looking had been her first mistake. Instead of just firing over his head from the shadows like she’d planned, she’d wanted to get a better view of the behind that had been sitting in that saddle, a better look at the forearms laid bare for the sun. She’d come out of the shadows, and he’d spotted her. She’d nearly shot his head off, all because he was a man who looked good in a saddle.
She had to remind herself that, at this exact moment in time, she was not a woman, no matter how much she might like to be one. Right now, she was a lawyer, damn it. Men and women didn’t count in a courtroom, and she couldn’t afford for them to count in this conference room. The only thing that mattered was the law. “Then this is just a waste of our time, isn’t it?” She stood and began to shove paper back into the files. Aunt Emily and Joe scrambled to their feet.
“Ms. Donnelly, please.” Armstrong rose to his feet, too, which didn’t make Rosebud any happier, because nothing good could come from looking up into those green-gray eyes. The only other option was to look at his jaw, which was strong and square and freshly shaved. “Educate me.”
Educate him? After that history lesson, he was coming back for more? Suddenly, Rosebud realized just how great a danger Dan Armstrong was. She knew how to fight against faceless corporate stool pigeons. She had no idea what to do with a real man who apparently had a grasp on compassion—and already had her at a disadvantage. The feeling of helplessness left her with only one other emotion to grab at—anger.
“Fine.” She unpacked all the files again at a rate that struck even her as irritated. “Cecil Armstrong has been a blight upon this land since he came here five years ago. He’s strong-armed local ranchers—many with whom we had unspoken agreements—out of their water rights and lands. He’s filed frivolous lawsuits against the tribe and attempted to use eminent domain as legal justification for taking our land.” Eminent domain was the biggest threat to her whole legal standing, the one she knew she’d lose. Who the hell cared about a few hundred Indians when they could get their electricity for pennies-on-the-kilowatt cheaper? No one, that’s who. No one but the tribe.
Armstrong sat down and began scribbling furiously. If this was an act, it was a damn good one, she decided. This must be why that man had sent him. The new, caring face of Armstrong Holdings. When he paused, she continued.
“He has engaged in a campaign of intimidation against members of the tribe.” And wouldn’t it be lovely if she had some proof of that? But who else would be responsible for Aunt Emily’s shot-out windows or Joe’s missing spark plugs and punctured tires? Who else would have left another skinned raccoon spread-eagled on her front porch three days ago? No one, that’s who. No one else hated her with the passion of Cecil Armstrong.
“That’s a serious charge,” Dan said without looking up. His voice held steady, with no trace of knee-jerk denial.
“Men have died.” Too late, she realized her voice was cracking. Aunt Emily reached out and rested a calming hand on Rosebud’s arm. Dang it, she was losing her cool in a meeting. She never lost her cool.
Armstrong raised his eyes to meet hers. “Do you have proof?” It didn’t come out sneering. It was just a simple question.
With a complicated answer. “The FBI determined that both cases were suicides. The tribal police didn’t agree. Nothing ever came of it.” Because money talks. The tribe had no money. Cecil Armstrong, it seemed, had it all. Broken, drunk Indians shot their heads off all the time. What were another two? Who cared that Tanner had never had a drink before in his life? He was just another Indian—who’d realized the danger Armstrong Holdings posed to the tribe from the beginning. Who’d happened to be making a run at the tribal council. Who’d happened to be her brother. Just another Indian, that’s all.
Armstrong looked at her, then at Aunt Emily’s hand, then back to her. “I’m sorry for your loss.” And the hell of it was, he really seemed to mean it. Rosebud felt the ground shifting under her feet. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure where she stood. “As I said, those are serious charges. I’d like to review your documents before I do anything else.”
Finally, something technical she could hold on to. “I’m sure you can understand that we can’t let the
