wouldn’t have a home.”
“I’ve been praying for Mom and Dad.”
Normal prayers, Spencer hoped. None of that heathen crap.
Walker glanced out the window. He had a chiseled profile—handsome, in spite of his brown skin. He seemed to be surveying the land, the wealth of the wine country. Spencer suspected he appreciated what he saw. This kid would be grateful for his uncle’s generosity.
“Is my dad going to be buried here?” Walker asked.
“Yes, he is.”
“And my mom?”
“No, son. She’ll be laid to rest on that Indian reservation. The place where she came from. But it’s too far away for you to attend the funeral.”
“I’ve never been there.”
And you never will, Spencer thought. He noticed the eight-year-old’s voice had turned raw, but he wouldn’t dare cry. He was too strong to bawl, to act like a baby. Nope, Walker Ashton wasn’t a sniffling coward.
It was hard to believe that mealy-mouthed Sioux had given birth to him. She’d fallen apart at the seams, no backbone whatsoever. But just to ensure she kept up her end of the bargain, Spencer had arranged a thirty-thousand-dollar payment.
A pittance in his bankbook, a fortune in hers.
As for Walker and Charlotte, he supposed they were worth a few bucks. The boy was, anyway. The timid little girl merely came with the deal.
But it was the best deal either of them would ever get. As far as Spencer was concerned, he’d done himself proud.
One
Walker wished his sister had never found out that their mother was still alive. And worse yet, he wished Charlotte hadn’t convinced him to look for her.
He sat on the edge of his motel-room bed and blew a weary breath. He was staying in Gordon, Nebraska, but he’d been scouting the South Dakota reservation, traveling from district to district, cursing Pine Ridge, a place that encompassed two million acres and some of the poorest counties in the nation.
He would just as soon forget about that Native American hellhole, let alone claim to part of the Oglala Lakota Sioux Nation. While his sister had romantic notions about Indians, Walker was a realist. A liquored-up Native loitering in one of the paltry little towns had called him a stupid iyeska when he’d nearly stumbled over the man’s prone form.
Iyeska.
It was an insult he couldn’t even translate.
Hot and tired, he unbuttoned his shirt and untucked it from his jeans, preparing to take a shower, to wash the grime from his body. He wasn’t used to the sweltering heat, to the depressing vastness of the land.
When a knock sounded, Walker came to his feet, anxiety knotting his stomach. He’d left word with postal workers, BIA employees, anyone who seemed educated enough to listen. He’d even spoken with tribal cops, but no one had been particularly helpful. If anything, they’d treated him with indifference. The way he’d treated them, he supposed.
He answered the door and stared at the woman on the other side. He hadn’t expected his visitor to be young and beautiful. She stood about five-seven, with shoulder-length black hair and exotic brown eyes.
She wore a simple blouse and a pair of nondescript shorts, but her legs—
When she raised her eyebrows at him, he quit checking her out and remembered that his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his chest and the sweat dampening his skin.
Uncomfortable, he frowned at her, wondering if she thought he was an iyeska, too. Clearly, she was Indian, probably from the reservation.
“Are you Walker Ashton?” she asked.
“Yes.” He wanted to wipe his hands on his jeans. He didn’t like feeling disorganized and dirty. As the interim CEO of Ashton-Lattimer, an investment banking firm in San Francisco, he relied on cell phones, e-mails, fax transmittals and designer suits.
She tilted her head. “I’m Tamra Winter Hawk. I live with Mary Little Dove Ashton.”
His anxiety worsened. Deep down he’d hoped that he wouldn’t find his mom. That he could tell Charlotte that he’d done his best but a family reunion wasn’t meant to be.
He shifted his stance. “How long have you lived with her?”
“Mary took me in when I was a child.”
“I see.” His mom had raised someone else’s kid while his baby sister had longed for maternal affection? That pissed him off, even if the details weren’t clear. “I’d like to speak with her.”
“She’s at work. And she doesn’t know that you’re looking for her. She has no idea you’re here.”
“But you do.” Apparently someone had told Tamra about the city-slick stranger who’d been poking around, driving from one poverty-laden county to the next, claiming to be Mary’s long-lost son. “So what’s the problem? Why are you keeping her from me?”
Tamra didn’t respond. With her striking features and regal posture, she reminded Walker of a museum bronze, an untouchable object encased in glass.
“I’d like to see your ID,” she finally said.
He squinted into the sun, the hot, fiery ball blazing behind her. “What for?”
“To make sure you’re who you say you are.”
Who the hell else would he be? A government agent on the verge of breaking a treaty? Why would he sacrifice his time—his valuable time—to traipse across this godforsaken land if he wasn’t Mary’s son?
He glared at her. If the police hadn’t asked for his ID, then why should she? “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
“Then maybe I should leave.” Much too elusive, she turned away, her hair spinning in a dark circle.
Walker wanted to let her go, but he knew he couldn’t. Charlotte would never forgive him.
Frustrated, he removed his wallet and followed her into the parking lot. “Hold on.”
Tamra stopped to face him. For a moment he was struck by how easily she’d managed to stir his blood, to fuel his temper.
Walker didn’t let women get under his skin.
Once again she reminded him of a bronze statue. Beautiful, breathtaking, far too aloof. Too bad he’d been taught to behave in museums, he thought. To keep his hands off the glass.
“Will you take it out?” she asked.
Take what out? he wondered, as his brain went numb.
She waited, and he blinked away his confusion. She then asked him to remove his ID from his wallet.
