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.
