The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2

Shirley Damsgaard Spirit of the Prairie

R.J. Baxter stood on the bluff overlooking the waving prairie grass and cursed fate. A reporter for The News Courier in Michael’s Creek, South Dakota, her editor had sent her out to do yet another “fluff” story. The opening of a cultural center on the Talltree Reservation stretching out before her.

She’d done her research. She knew all about the “lost generation” of Native American children — children who had been rounded up back in the 1940s and carted off to schools run by white missionaries. It had been an attempt at forced assimilation into the white culture and had failed. Its victims were left with feelings of not belonging to either society. When they were finally allowed to return to their people, they knew nothing of their heritage or language. Alcoholism ran rampant. Now their grandchildren were trying to change all that by instilling pride in the next generation, and the new cultural center was the means.

R.J. didn’t need another human-interest story. She needed a juicy murder, a natural disaster, a political scandal — anything to get her out of the bush leagues and bring her work to the attention of a major newspaper. She had talent, but it was wasted writing endless stories about church bazaars and one-candidate elections whose outcome was long decided before the first vote was ever cast.

Ambition sizzled through her as she looked to the heavens and raised her fist. “Give me something, anything,” she cried to the endless stretch of sky.

A crack of thunder drew her attention to the far horizon. Boiling clouds rolled across the prairie as lightning flashed sideways. If she didn’t get back to town and the motel that she’d spotted nestled amid the pawnshops, the bars and the convenience stores, she’d be caught in the rain storm.

With a hurried step, she turned then paused. Her scalp tingled. Someone watched her. Whirling, she searched the landscape. Nothing. Empty except for a lone pine tree to the right of the bluff.

Suddenly its branches trembled, and a huge white owl emerged from behind the thick needles. Unblinking yellow eyes glowed across the distance. Seconds ticked by as it stared at R.J., then with a screech, it lifted its massive wings and launched itself skyward. The storm forgotten, R.J. watched while it soared higher and higher, becoming smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely into the dark clouds. Shaking herself out of it, she rushed to her Jeep and sped off down the road while the clouds chased after her.

When she reached the town sitting at the edge of the reservation, she whipped into the only motel in sight, bouncing across its empty parking lot. Not the best place she’d ever stayed. The neon sign flickered hypnotically — on and off, on and off, on and off. The doors to each unit looked like they’d recently received a coat of new red paint, but the rest of the building was faded and peeling. With a shrug, R.J. grabbed her purse and ran into the motel office.

A young man sat at an old desk located behind the counter. Holding some kind of computer game in his hand, at first he was oblivious to R.J. When he did notice her, a flare of expectation lit his face only to die instantly.

“What do you want?” he asked in a surly voice, taking in her dark brown hair and brown eyes.

“A room, please,” she replied, approaching the counter.

With a frown, he returned his attention to his game. “We’re full,” he said while his thumbs moved quickly over the keyboard.

Smacking her purse on the counter, R.J. leaned forward. “Then where are all the cars?”

“Sorry.”

Great, the storm was almost upon them — the kid wasn’t going to rent her a room. What did she do now?

She hadn’t reached a decision yet when a door at the back of the tiny office opened. An older man strode out. He took one look at the kid, one at R.J., then noticed her Jeep visible through the office windows. His hand shot out and he gave the kid a whap on the back of his head.

“Put that thing away,” he said, glaring down at the young man. “Can’t you see we have a customer?”

“But Gramps, you said not to rent rooms to—”

Another whomp to the kid’s head silenced him. “You idiot. They don’t drive Jeeps with out-of-county plates.” The man looked at R.J. and gave her a toothy grin. “Sorry about my grandson,” he said, sidling up to the counter. “He’d rather be playing that damn game than doin’ what he’s paid for. Go fold those towels in the back room,” he called sharply over his shoulder.

Without a word, the teen stood and shambled out the back door.

“Need a room, Missy?” the older man asked hopefully.

R.J. thought about telling him he could take his rude grandson and his seedy motel and shove it, but another crack of thunder changed her mind. The idea of searching for another motel during a deluge was less appealing than staying here.

“Yes,” she replied, pulling out her driver’s license and credit card.

The man studied it, comparing the picture to R.J. “Ruth Baxter from Michael’s Creek, hey?”

“Actually, I go by R.J.” She picked up a pen and read the form. “I’ll need it for at least three nights, maybe more.”

Avarice shone in the man’s eyes. “Three nights?” He swiftly ran her card and handed it back to her. “What are you doin’ in this neck of the woods for three nights?”

“I’m a reporter for The News Courier,” she said quickly, filling out the form.

“A reporter, huh? What’s around these parts worth reportin’ on?”

Man, this guy was chatty. But what could it hurt letting him know why she was here?

With a sigh, she handed him her registration. “The new cultural center.”

A frown crossed his face. “Yeah? Would’ve been better for everyone if old Jon Swifthawk and that grandson of his would’ve left well enough alone and let them build a casino.”

Her reporter’s curiosity perked. “A casino?”

“Yup. A casino would’ve brought a lot more tourists than some ratty cultural center. But oh no, Swifthawk had to convince the Council that gambling would only corrupt the young.” He gave a mean snort. “Like they need any—” He suddenly broke off and handed her a key. “Number nine, the one clear at the end.” His eye twitched in a wink. “That way you won’t be bothered by all the comin’ and goin’ next door.”

She wasn’t interested in the bar in the next building, whose parking lot, unlike that of the motel, was full. No, she wanted to hear more about Jon Swifthawk. Taking the key, she glanced down at it, before giving the man a speculative look. “Tell me more about this Jon Swifthawk? Is he someone important?”

“Humph, thinks he is,” he exclaimed, “And his grandson. If you ask me. .” He paused and a look akin to fear crossed his face. “Hey wait a second — you’re not goin’ ta quote me are you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” R.J. assured him. “You were saying — Jon Swifthawk’s grandson?”

He turned away from the counter and crossed back to the rickety desk. “Never mind. None of my business about what goes on out there,” he said firmly. “Enjoy your stay.”

Giving up on quizzing him further, she hurried out the door and to her Jeep. She had just parked in front of her room when the first raindrops hit. She reached in the back seat, jerked out her laptop and ran to the door. Once inside, she placed the laptop on the small desk and flipped on the light. Her heart dropped. This was worse than she’d expected.

The room smelled musty and unused, and the floor was carpeted wall to wall in avocado green. Several suspicious dark stains stood out against the putrid color. R.J. refused to let her mind contemplate what might have caused them. A mismatched bedspread was flung across what looked like a very uncomfortable mattress. Above it hung a reproduction of some Frederick Remington print. If the picture had been meant to give the room a touch of class, it had failed miserably. Cheapened by the rest of the décor, it only looked sad.

With a shudder, R.J. crossed the room to take a look at the bathroom. A stool, a shower, a sink in a vanity scarred by cigarette burns met her gaze.

“Won’t be any chocolate mints on the pillow in this dive,” she muttered to herself.

The sudden ring of her cellphone startled her. Crossing to the bed, she pulled it out of her bag. Her lips twisted in a frown. Mom. With a sigh, she flipped it open.

“Hi.”

“Where are you?” her mother asked without preamble.

“I explained last week,” she answered, trying to hide her exasperation. “I’ve been assigned to write a story about—”

Her mother broke in. “You’re going to be home in time for your sister’s baby shower, aren’t you?”

“I’ll try.”

“Trying isn’t good enough. You know how important this is to Dee.” Her voice took on a distinctive whine. “Do you realize how disappointed she’ll be if you’re not there? And the neighbors? What will they think if—” She stopped. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” R.J. mumbled into the phone. The truth was Dee could not care less if she attended her shower, and R.J. had inadvertently said as much, but thankfully her mother had been too busy with her rant to catch it.

Her mother sniffed. “Well, I expect you to be there. Your aunts have gone to a lot of trouble organizing this. You should’ve helped, but you were too busy.”

R.J. rolled her eyes. “Look, Mom, I have a life and a job. I can’t drop everything just because Dee’s—”

Her mother didn’t let her finish. “We’ll expect you at two on Saturday.”

“Mom,” she began, but her mother had disconnected.

She looked at the silent phone in her hand. “Nice talking to you, too, Mom,” she said, tossing it on the bed.

One of these days, when she finally had the chance to show what she could do, maybe it wouldn’t be “Dee, Dee, Dee” all the time. Her mother would be proud of her, too.

A loud boom reminded her of her suitcase, still out in the Jeep. Crossing to the door, R.J. flung it open and was immediately hit in the face by raindrops, sharp as needles. She winced as she darted into the storm. By the time she’d retrieved her suitcase and hauled it through the door, she was soaked. Wiping the water out of her eyes, she turned to shut the door.

It was half-closed when she heard the noise.

Somewhere, above the sound of the pounding rain, an owl hooted in the night.

The old man stood in the protection of the lean-to while his eyes roamed the storm-tossed sky. Wind whipped at his braids and water poured down in a curtain from the sloped tin roof. Finally he sensed what he’d sought. Stepping out of his shelter into the rain, he extended a leather covered arm and braced himself. The weight of the bird landing made him stumble as sharp talons clung to his arm. With a quick movement that belied his age, he swung around and ducked back under the cover of the roof.

The bird, spotting his perch, leapt with a flutter from the old man’s arm and settled himself. Spreading his immense wings, he ruffled his feathers and shook. Droplets of water flew while his yellow eyes focused on the old man.

Tsking, the old man picked up a towel and gently dried the bird’s white feathers. “I worried for you,” he mumbled softly, dropping the towel.

The owl, his eyes never leaving the old man’s face, bobbed his head twice in response.

With perfect understanding, the old man sighed and glanced back into the storm.

“Ah, it is as I feared,” he whispered.

A chant to welcome the morning sun rang through the meadow. Two voices — one young; one old — melded together in an ancient rhythm while the sky lightened first to grey, to rose, to pink shot with gold. A breeze, sweet from last night’s rain, blew around them and made the cottonwoods shiver.

The younger man’s heart filled with peace. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and lifted his arms high. His voice rose, almost drowning out that of his grandfather. Then as the warmth of the first rays touched his face, he let his voice slowly fade. Opening his eyes, he saw Jon Swifthawk watching him. With a smile, his grandfather placed a hand, almost in a benediction, on his grandson’s auburn hair. Pride shone in the old man’s eyes.

“Come, Akecheta,” his grandfather said, calling him by the name he preferred.

With an arm around the old man’s shoulders, Akecheta and his grandfather walked together towards the lean-to.

Jon went directly to his workbench and, removing the cover, looked lovingly at his tools in their neat, straight line. Picking up a twist of sage, he lit it and one by one smudged each tool and a long piece of cedar before sitting on the battered work stool. Taking up a whittling knife, he slowly stroked it down the wood that would become the stem of a sacred pipe.

Akecheta leaned against a post and found comfort in watching his grandfather’s still strong hands slice away slivers of cedar. He’d been only fourteen and suddenly alone when this man had given him a home.

A cold spot formed in the pit of his stomach as he remembered those days and the terror he’d felt on the bus ride from Las Vegas to South Dakota. Just a kid, he’d stepped into a culture he knew little about and into the arms of a man he’d never met.

“Disturbing thoughts serve no purpose, grandson,” his grandfather said without lifting his head.

Pushing away from the post, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I was just thinking about Mom and—”

“We don’t speak of them,” his grandfather said, cutting him off.

His grandfather’s insistence on not mentioning the dead irritated him. He could never share the good memories of his childhood — his mother’s shy smile so different from his father’s boisterous ways. He didn’t know if his grandfather clung to the old custom out of belief, or because his grandfather had hated the man who’d lured his beloved daughter, Dawn, away from her people and into the white world. Either way, it left him feeling that a large part of his life was locked away. A life his grandfather wanted to pretend never existed.

Turning from his grandfather, he stepped out of the lean-to and walked a short distance into the clearing. Over the past twenty years, he’d grown to love his grandfather and this land. As his eyes roamed the clearing, he thought of another land, another clearing eleven years ago. Not dappled with early morning sunlight like it was now. No, it had been scarred with freshly overturned dirt. His heart lurched at the memory of that mass grave and its victims. Dozens of bodies dumped without ceremony. Clenching his jaws, a feral smile twisted his lips. The men responsible had paid. He’d used his talent to hunt them down and — suddenly his grandfather’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Excuse me?” he said, returning to the lean-to.

His grandfather had placed his tools back on the bench and sat watching him intently. “It’s not good. The reporter — the white woman,” he said, almost choking on the word white.

Akecheta tugged the thin streak of white hair at his temple in frustration. “We’ve been over this, grandfather. I know you don’t want her here, or the tourists her story will bring, but we need them if the Center’s going to pay its own way.”

A grunt answered him.

Grabbing a broom, Akecheta carefully swept up the wood shavings to be used later as kindling for the fire. “The gift shop will bring revenue to the tribe,” he said, making the same argument he’d made a hundred times. “Our people can sell their crafts there instead of peddling them along the road, or worse, in town next to the bars.”

His grandfather’s mouth tightened in a stubborn line. “Nothing good has ever come from the whites.”

The words “what about me?” almost popped out of his mouth, but respect for his grandfather stopped them. Placing the broom against the wall, he knelt before him. “Would a casino have been better? At least the Center will educate our young. Give them a place to go and celebrate our culture.”

His grandfather shook his head sadly. “She brings trouble.”

“We’ve trouble already.” His gaze drifted toward the empty perch above his grandfather’s head. “But we’ll be warned in time.”

“They’ll use her against you.”

“I won’t let them,” he answered.

Cupping Akecheta’s face, the old man stared into his amber eyes. “I don’t know if you can stop them.”

R.J.’s tyres spun as she hit the gravel in the Center’s parking lot. Man, she was late. If some jerk hadn’t let the air out of her back tyres, she’d have been on time. Coming to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust, she noticed a man pacing back and forth in front of the new building.

Tall with auburn hair, his light blue chambray shirt clung to wide shoulders and his jeans fit his legs like a second skin. He looked like he’d be more at home on a horse than a place dedicated to Native Americans.

Spotting the Jeep, the man scowled and started down the stone path toward her. Had he been waiting for her?

R.J.’s interest kicked up a notch. With an attractive man like him hanging around, being stuck out here in the boonies for the next few days wouldn’t be so bad after all. She quickly glanced in the mirror and fluffed her hair. She needed a little more lip gloss, but swiping some on would be too obvious. Grabbing her backpack, she slung her camera around her neck, but before she could open her door, the cowboy beat her to it.

“Hey, cowboy, are you waiting for me?” she said flirtatiously, giving him a wide-eyed look and a flash of her dimples.

The dimples didn’t work. The cowboy’s scowl deepened.

“R.J. Baxter?” the man asked in a brusque voice, “you’re late.”

“Sorry.” Defeated, her smile faded as she jumped out of the Jeep and the man turned, and with long strides, headed back up the path. She ran to catch up with him. “Somebody let the air—”

“Here.” He stopped and shoved four pouches in her hand.

“What—”

“Tobacco.” Taking her arm, he hustled her forward. “When I introduce you, give one to each of the elders.”

Perplexed, she glanced down at the pouches. “Why?”

“It’s a sign of respect,” he replied with a disgruntled look, “but in your case, it’s an apology for keeping them waiting.”

R.J. skidded to a stop and jerked away. She’d had enough of being yanked around. Holding the tobacco in one hand, she placed the other on her hip and glared up at him, towering over her. “Look, I’m sorry I was late, but just who the hell are you?”

“Sean O’Brien. I’m the tribe’s liaison. Any questions, ask me.”

Smart — hiring a white to interact with the press. Too bad he was so abrasive.

Eyeing her camera, he frowned. “No pictures without permission. Don’t touch any of the displays. And remember you’re a guest here. Act accordingly.”

She didn’t appreciate the lecture.

“Any other rules?” she asked, not keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.

He spun and walked away, his boot heels clicking on the polished wood floor. “Not at the moment.”

Wait a minute — she wasn’t following two steps behind. After catching up with him, she matched her strides with his. Noticing her huge steps, a small smirk played across his face. When they reached a doorway at the back of the Center, he motioned her inside.

The room was large. Long windows stretched across the far wall, and above each window hung brightly painted shields. The opposite wall was decorated with paintings depicting the Native American way of life two hundred years ago. Four men, with their hands clasped in the front of them, stood looking very solemn. Long braids hung over their shoulders, and their weathered faces reminded R.J. of old sepia photographs. A feathered staff hung on the wall behind them.

Sean stopped and drew R.J. forward. “George Eagle Feather, Art Walker, Grady Crow Wing, and Jake Swift,” he said with a slight bow to each man. “R.J. Baxter from The News Courier.”

R.J. stepped up to the first man, and handing him the pouch of tobacco, smiled. “Thank you for inviting me.”

The man’s features softened as he took the gift. “Welcome.”

She repeated the process with the remaining three. Once introductions were complete, her eyes were drawn back to the staff. It was wrapped in strips of white, black, yellow and red cloth. Eagle feathers, attached to the cloth by beadwork, gracefully draped down its length. Intricate carving adorned the top.

She moved past the Elders to get a better look. Pausing, her breath hitched while her fingers longed to stroke the soft feathers. She took another step, pulled closer by its beauty. Of its own accord, her hand lifted toward the staff.

Suddenly Sean was beside her.

“This is sacred,” he said softly with a slight shake of his head. “Only warriors may touch it.”

The spell broken, her hand dropped. “May I take a photo?” she asked in a voice that sounded distant to her ears.

Sean cast a glance over his shoulder and the four Elders nodded in unison.

After rapidly shooting several photos, R.J. turned back to the group of men. “Would you mind answering some questions?”

The men exchanged looks before motioning to one of the long tables lining the far wall. When all were seated, the Elders on one side with Sean and R.J. on the other, R.J. removed her pen, notebook and tape recorder from her backpack, placing them on the table.

The recorder caught their attention and they stared at it as if it were a coiled snake. Four pairs of eyes turned to Sean and seconds ticked by as unspoken words seemed to pass between them. Finally, George Eagle Feather spoke, pointing to the recorder. “Yes, we will answer your questions, but you may not tape our voices.”

“Okay.” With a shrug, R.J. tucked the recorder back into her bag and picked up her pen. She’d start out with a few warm-up questions to put them at ease. “Who designed the Cultural Center?” she asked, directing the question to George Eagle Feather.

“A young architect in Minneapolis — Edward Little Bear,” Sean replied.

“A Native American?” R.J. asked, scribbling the name in her notebook.

“Yes, we wanted a designer who understood the culture,” he answered.

She ignored Sean and focused on George Eagle Feather. “How long did it take to complete the project?”

“We broke ground ten months ago,” Sean replied, launching into an explanation. “All the materials are from the reservation and from renewable resources. During the construction, the entire tribe participated in some way.” He pointed to the shields and the paintings, hanging on the walls. “These were all made by people here on the reservation, as were many of the displays that I’ll show you later.”

R.J.’s pen paused while irritation shot through her. This — some carefully crafted script that anyone could write — wasn’t the story she wanted. Not if she wanted a major newspaper to notice her. It was time to hit him with something from left field.

Cocking her head, she studied him. “Why a cultural center instead of the casino that some of members of the tribe wanted?”

Her question hit its mark. Without glancing their way, she heard the Elders shift in their seats while Sean’s amber eyes flared.

He recovered quickly and gave her a tight smile. “There’s always two sides to every question, but the important thing is, in the end, the tribe came together to build this.” Rising, he motioned to the door. “Come, I’ll show you the rest of the building.”

Reluctantly, R.J. stood. She would love to get one of the Elders aside and grill him about any dissention that might have existed, but Sean wasn’t going to give her the opportunity. Maybe she’d have her chance later.

After voicing her thanks to the Elders, she followed Sean into the display area. While they strolled along, he gave a running monologue, describing each display and its significance. They paused in front of photos showing families standing in front of tar paper shanties; dancer displays with elaborate costumes and beautifully beaded moccasins; tribal implements used hundreds of years ago when the people still roamed the plains following the buffalo.

Interesting, but R.J. had finally had enough. She stopped short in front of a large stone plague. “I appreciate the tour, but if you really want to draw tourists, you’ve got to give me a better angle than this.”

“What do you mean?”

“What makes this place different than every other Native American museum in the country?”

“I told you — it’s made of material from the reservation; the entire tribe worked—”

R.J. cut him off with a wave of her hand. “So? You think anyone really cares about that stuff? Readers want to know more than just facts and figures. They want the human story.”

“Such as?”

“Well, one question that springs to mind — why did the Elders hire a white to represent the Center?”

He stiffened. “I’m not white.”

“But with a name like O’Brien, I assumed—”

“You assumed wrong,” he said, cutting her off. “My father was white, but I was raised here.”

“Don’t you know who this is?” a voice from behind her called out.

R.J. turned to see a man standing a few feet away. Shorter than Sean and barrel-chested, he wore a dark shirt and jeans. A pair of sunglasses dangled from a pocket embroidered with the words “Tribal Police”.

He crossed the short distance and held out his hand. “You must be the reporter. I’m Charlie Two Horses. Welcome to the rez.”

Shaking his hand, R.J. stole a look at Sean who’d taken a step back. “Thanks.”

Charlie turned toward Sean and smiled. “So our boy here didn’t tell you about himself, huh?”

Sean shuffled uncomfortably. “This isn’t necessary, Charlie.”

“Of course it is,” he replied turning back to R.J. “This here’s Sean Swifthawk O’Brien, grandson of Jon Swifthawk. Raised you didn’t he, Sean, after your parents were killed?”

“We don’t need to go into that, Charlie.”

Charlie’s face took on an expression of innocence. “But I heard her say she wanted a ‘human’ story, and just think how yours would tug on the heart strings. . the son of murdered parents; a poor half-breed kid shipped off to the rez to be raised by one of the most important men in the tribe?”

“My family background doesn’t have anything to do with the Center,” Sean said in a clipped voice.

“Sure, it does, Sean. You and your grandfather were the ones who talked the tribe into building it—” He stopped and looked at R.J. “Sean was also the one who got white investors to put up the money.”

“I organized a few fundraisers.”

Charlie snorted “A few fundraisers? How much did you get? A cool—”

“That’s enough, Charlie,” Sean said, his hands clenched at his side.

Charlie took a step forward. “What’s wrong, Swifthawk,” he spat out the word. “Don’t want to give her too—”

“Not now,” Sean began, his chin rising. “She doesn’t—”

“Doesn’t what?” Charlie interrupted, moving closer.

R.J. squirmed. A fight breaking out in the Cultural Center would make a better story, but she really didn’t want to see them come to blows. “What’s this?” she asked quickly, trying to diffuse the rising tension.

“Ah that,” Charlie said, suddenly forgetting Sean and stepping up to the plaque. He ran his finger down the carved names, stopping on one near the bottom. “It’s in honor of our warriors. All who’ve proudly served in the Armed Forces.” He tapped the plaque. “Here’s my name,” he finished proudly.

R.J. read down through the names. “Where’s yours, Sean.”

Charlie gave a bark of laughter. “He didn’t serve, did you, Sean?”

“Not in the Army,” he replied curtly.

Charlie shrugged. “That’s right — you went off to college instead.” He shrugged again. “Not everyone’s cut out to be a warrior.” Taking his sunglasses out of his pocket, he settled them on his face. “Nice meeting you, R.J.” With a slight sneer, he glanced at Sean before returning his attention back to her. “If there’s anything I can do, be sure and let me know.”

R.J. watched Charlie march down the hall before turning back to Sean. “Ah,” she began, but the words caught in her throat.

His eyes — for a split second, she could’ve sworn they changed from amber to yellow.

It was late afternoon by the time R.J. returned to the motel. After Charlie had left, Sean had continued his tour of the Center. He’d been articulate and at times even charming. She would’ve needed ice flowing through her veins in order not to have felt the tug of attraction, especially when he smiled. Man, he had a great smile. And the pride he felt in the Center would’ve been kind of cool had she not known he was only using her as a means to an end. She had cooperated. She’d taken a ton of photos, learned all about life on the prairie, and could quote exactly how many stones they’d used in constructing the Center.

No doubt about it — this story was going to be just another piece of fluff, she thought, slapping her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. The only thing that had been remotely interesting, other than staring at Sean, was the animosity between him and Charlie Two Horses. But was that a lead she wanted to pursue? She remembered the look on Sean’s face as he watched Charlie walk away. She wasn’t a coward, but the idea of coming up against Sean Swifthawk O’Brien made her shiver. And not in a good way.

She’d almost made it past the bar, when suddenly someone stepped out between two parked cars and waved her down.

Charlie Two Horses.

Rolling to a stop, she cranked down the driver’s window.

“Hey, good to see you again,” Charlie said, approaching her door then motioning toward the bar. “How about a beer?”

She debated with herself for a moment. She wasn’t an idiot — this guy had an agenda and he wanted to use her to achieve it. But on the other hand, she had her own agenda — a better story than the one she was being forcefed. What could it hurt to at least talk to him?

With a nod, she pulled into an empty parking space.

From inside the bar, the jukebox whined with the sound of steel guitars and a singer lamenting how “she’d done him wrong”. Above the bar itself, hung an old TV with the volume shut off. Some sporting event flickered across the screen. Taking her arm, Charlie held up two fingers to the bartender then guided her past the pool tables to a booth in the back. They’d barely settled when a waitress with the biggest beehive R.J. had ever seen slapped two bottles of beer in front of them. Without a word she turned and sauntered back to the bar.

Charlie lifted his bottle, saluted R.J., then took a long pull. Scooting back, he stretched an arm across the back of the bench. “So? What did you think of the Center?”

She thought for a moment before answering him. The best way to play this was close to the vest, sound non-committal, let Charlie do all the talking.

“It’s nice,” she replied, in a neutral voice.

“But not much of a story, huh?”

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

Dropping his arm, he shifted forward. “I could give you a better angle than the one Swifthawk shoved on you.”

This guy really did want to dish the dirt. Regardless of her trepidation about Sean O’Brien, R.J. felt a tickle of excitement. “Like what?” she asked, keeping her face calm.

He downed his beer and motioned to the waitress for another. Sliding the empty bottle to the side, he crossed his arms on the table. “See here’s the deal — the rez needs money. I could show you homes that are no better than squatter shacks and the Center isn’t going to change that.” He stopped as the waitress smacked another beer in front of him. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. “A casino would.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it,” R.J. replied. “The tribe chose to build the Center, not a casino.”

“They were misled.” His eyes darted to the side before returning to R.J. Leaning forward, his voice dropped. “Swifthawk and his grandfather didn’t want a casino and persuaded them it would be easier to finance the Center.”

“And Sean raised the money?”

“Yeah.” He sipped on his beer. “Him and his white buddies.”

“Then convince him to raise the money for a casino.”

His mouth twisted in a bitter line. “Swifthawk won’t do it. Him and his grandfather want to cling to the old ways. They want our people to live as they did 200 years ago. It can’t be done.” His expression lightened. “But here’s the beauty of it — now we don’t need him. The Center’s paid off and it could be used as collateral to finance a casino.”

R.J. threw a hand in the air. “There’s your solution.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Like I told you — they don’t want a casino and they’ll do everything they can to stop it.”

“I don’t see how I can help you.”

His eyes narrowed and he gave her a smug grim. “If you dig below the surface, you’re going to find Swifthawk’s motives aren’t as pure as he’d like the tribe to believe.”

“You want me to discredit him.”

“No, I want you to write the truth.”

“Which is?”

“How Sean’s sold out to white investors.” He moved even closer. “I can give you names — people who’ll tell you the truth about Swifthawk.”

A million ideas bounced through her mind and she longed to whip out her notebook and begin taking notes. But that would seem too anxious. Much better to let Charlie think he needed to convince her.

“How do you know they’ll talk to me?”

“Oh, they’ll talk, if you ask the right questions,” he answered cryptically.

“How can I? I don’t know anything about Sean and his grandfather.”

Charlie’s lips pursed. “You won’t get much on the old man. Going back as far as I can remember, people on the rez have always been reluctant to talk about him.” He shook his head. “Even my own grandfather — I did hear him say something once, but my grandmother shushed him.”

“What was it?”

“I can’t recall his exact words,” he replied, scratching his chin. “But it wasn’t about Jon Swifthawk. It was about his father.”

“Sean’s great-grandfather?”

“Yeah. .” he paused, trying to remember. “He said something about animal totems.”

“What are they?”

“Never mind — we’re talking forty years ago.” He picked up his beer, drank it in one long gulp then stood. Throwing a piece of paper on the table, he stared down at her. “I’m telling you — if you want a ‘real’ story, take a closer look at Sean.”

The dying sun cast long shadows in the clearing. In its centre, Sean stood before the fire, watching the rocks glow red. He removed a pinch of tobacco from the pouch dangling at his waist. Holding it high, he turned to the north and let it fall from his fingertips. He shifted to the east, to the south, to the west, repeating the process as he offered the sacred herb to Mother Earth. Finished, he turned back to the fire and grabbed a pitchfork. Using it, he carried the hot rocks one by one into the canvas-covered sweat lodge and placed them in the fire pit.

Satisfied the stones were aligned, he exited the lodge and quickly pulled off his boots, his socks, his jeans, until finally he stood naked in the gathering twilight. Turning he entered the lodge.

It was like walking into an oven. Instantly sweat popped from his pores and snaked down his face, chest and arms in tiny rivulets. Moving to the blanket woven by his grandmother, he sat cross-legged and reached for a ladle of water from the nearby bucket. He cast water on the shimmering rocks, making the air hiss with steam.

Hot, so hot. It felt like the spit inside his mouth was ready to boil. With a sharp intake of breath, he picked up the drum at his side. He shut his eyes and began beating a slow rhythm on the taut deer hide while he focused on the spot deep inside where his heritage lay.

He needed guidance. The confidence he’d shown his grandfather had been false and, at times, the special burden he bore threatened to crush him. He knew his power and the temptation to control it was a constant fight. How could he help his people win their battles if he couldn’t even win his own?

He beat the drum harder.

The brush of wings seemed to graze his cheek while, softly, the distant whisper of his ancestors began to echo in his ears. Images flickered in the recess of his mind. A buffalo thundering across the plains, a lone wolf darting through the cotton-woods and, finally, a white owl soaring into the heavens. He felt connected to all that had gone before him and the heaviness in his heart eased with each beat of the drum.

He would help his people towards a better life. He would win against those who plotted his downfall. He would stop them from using the woman.

The woman. His hand faltered and he felt his connection slip. She had tried to charm him, slip under his defences. She’d almost succeeded, but it wasn’t her dimples that had drawn him, but her refusal to be intimidated.

It was a new experience for him. Most of the people on the reservation had always steered clear of him — either due to the rumours that had circulated about his family, or because they didn’t trust him. Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered to him. His only concern was saving their culture.

He needed to remember that. He needed to remind himself even though she might look like a Native with her dark hair and dark eyes, the heart that beat beneath the pretty exterior was white. He’d sensed her ambition, her self-serving attitude. He knew she wanted more than he was willing to give.

What of her reaction to the sacred staff? He knew she wanted to touch it and would’ve had he not stopped her. Why? Was it just the need to handle something “unique”, or had the staff called to her?

Her face took over his mind, chasing away the buffalo, the wolf, the snow owl. The whispers died. No! His questions hadn’t been answered.

He pounded the drum harder; pounded until his fingers ached, trying to banish thoughts of the woman and to regain his link with his ancestors. No good. All he saw in his mind’s eye was her face smiling at him, and all he felt was the pull of a culture he’d left long ago.

Laying the drum aside in frustration, he rose and left the lodge.

The sun had set and the evening star shone in the night sky above the cottonwoods. Gleaming with perspiration, he paused and glanced toward the trees while steam rolled off his naked body. His eyes were sharp and he saw what the darkness hid. Night creatures — like him — hunting their prey. A longing to join them came over him. To run free and wild. To forget the woman, forget his questions. He tamped it down. He’d bent to bundle his clothes when he felt the air stir. He looked up. Above him white wings glistened in the starlight.

“Little Brother,” he murmured acknowledging the owl, then with heavy steps walked away from the lodge.

Like a disembodied spirit, the white bird hovered over him, guarding his back.

The thin drapes did little to block the wavering light of the motel sign outside R.J.’s window. It flashed like a strobe light across the yellowed ceiling. She lay on her back and watched while thoughts of half-remembered dreams lingered in her mind. She’d been on the prairie, walking through tall grasses blooming with yellow, purple and white flowers. In the distance, from a branch in a tall cottonwood, a white owl seemed to beckon her. Her steps had quickened. Then. . nothing. Whatever had happened next in the dream eluded her. Baffled, she flipped over on to her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. “Forget it, go to sleep,” she mumbled. But she couldn’t. Not when her pillow smelled like a hunk of month-old bread. She rolled back over and stared at the lights once again.

She had to reach a decision. Did she pursue the information that Charlie Two Horses had given her, or did she write the story Sean O’Brien expected of her? If the first story was as juicy as Charlie hinted, it could be THE ONE. Her toes curled at the thought of what such a story could bring into her life. Recognition, respect, money.

But what would an exposé do to Sean O’Brien’s life? If what Charlie said was true, and he had sold out, then he had it coming. So what if he was one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen? Hormones had no place in journalism. She was a pro, not some simpering female blinded by a guy’s smile.

A prickle of conscience hit her. Even the truth could come in shades of grey and, as a pro, she knew she could spin the story any way she wanted. She had the power to make Sean O’Brien either the hero or the villain of the piece. Which would it be?

Tossing the covers to the side, she swung her legs off the bed and pulled jeans over her gym shorts. She grabbed her sweatshirt and threw it on, too. She couldn’t think straight in this musty, smelly room. She needed fresh air. A drive would clear her mind.

Moments later she was flying down a black ribbon of highway, while the moonlit prairie whizzed by her open window. Without knowing why, she found herself back at the same spot where she’d stood and watched the storm roll in. She shut off the ignition and scanned the landscape. Yesterday, she’d felt eyes upon her. If she got out of the car, would she feel it again? It was the middle of the night and she was alone. How did she know what might be lurking in the tall grass?

“You’re nuts, R.J.,” she muttered, her hands gripping the wheel. “Go back to the motel.”

She remembered the haunting dreams, the stale room, the flickering lights. A tightness squeezed her chest and she took a deep breath to ease it. The scent of sweet grass and wild clover seemed to fill the Jeep and she looked longingly across the plains. So fresh and clean.

“Quit being a ninny.” She pushed the door open and climbed out. “It was only a stupid owl,” she whispered with a glance at the lone pine tree.

High grass brushed against her pant legs as she tromped up the hill and, in the stillness, it sounded as loud as a troop of soldiers marching. At the top of the rise, she stopped and took a deep breath. Nothing but miles and miles of heaven and earth. No houses, no lights, no fences. A strange feeling of aloneness came over her and with it a sense of freedom. Is this how the Native Americans once felt, wandering a land with no boundaries?

A sudden whoosh followed by the soft rustling of grass made her spin round. Her eyes scanned the ground between her and the Jeep. As empty as the space behind her.

She turned back to the endless landscape. Quit dithering she told herself, thinking of the paper Charlie had given her. It wouldn’t hurt to meet a few people, ask a few questions. She wouldn’t let Charlie use her any more than she intended to let Sean O’Brien. She could—

“What are you doing here?” a voice behind her whispered.

She twirled so fast she almost lost her balance while her heart seemed to stutter in her chest. In the moonlight, she recognized Sean, climbing the hill towards her. Her temper flamed.

“What am I doing?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he were pleased that he’d startled her. It vanished. “It’s not smart to be out here alone. People have been known to disappear.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “I’m not afraid.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“Are you threatening me?” she shot back.

“Of course not. I’m well aware of the power of the press.” A real smile flashed in the dark. “I wouldn’t dream of threatening a woman who buys ink by the gallon.”

Damn, he could turn on the charm when he wanted and she felt her anger soften. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What am I doing here?” He lifted a shoulder. “Like you, I couldn’t sleep.”

“How did you—”

His low voice cut her off. “Look over there.” He pointed to a spot on the left. “Do you see them? A mother coyote with half-grown pups.”

R.J.’s eyes searched the prairie, trying to see what he did, but she only saw waving grass. “I can’t.”

He stepped away from her. “Ah, well, I come out here a lot at night.” He hesitated. “I guess my eyes are accustomed to the dark.”

“I’ll say,” R.J. said, still trying to pick out the coyote. “I can’t see a—”

“I love it out here,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “At night, I can imagine how it must’ve been two hundred years ago.”

“The freedom.”

He glanced at her, surprised. “You felt it too. I didn’t realize you were so perceptive.”

She recalled Charlie’s words about their way of life. “You can’t go back, you know.”

Moving a few paces away, he bowed his head for a moment before squaring his shoulders and facing her. “I know. We have to go forward if our culture is going to survive.”

“The Center.”

“Yes. .” his voice trailed away. “Charlie talked to you, didn’t he?”

It was her turn to be surprised. “How did you know?”

He gave a soft snort. “I’ve known Charlie a long time. He’s using you.”

R.J. crossed the distance between them. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence by stating the obvious. I know he has an agenda.” She stopped and looked up at him. “But then again, so do you.”

“My only goal is to help the tribe have a better life.”

“Not according to Charlie.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, that’s not the way this works,” she said, cocking a hip and shaking her head. “If you want information from me, you have to reciprocate.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Seems Charlie and I aren’t the only ones with agendas.”

“Damn straight!” she exclaimed. “I’m tired of writing stories that any eighth-grader could write.”

“Regardless of the truth?”

“Of course not,” she replied with heat in her voice. “I don’t want lies — I want the real story.”

“No one would believe it,” he murmured more to himself than her.

Her breath quickened. This guy was weakening. If she played it right, if she could convince him to be honest with her. She took a step closer. “Sure they would. I’m good, really good,” she insisted. “Give it to me straight and that’s the way I’ll write it. Cross my heart.”

He startled her by placing a hand on her cheek. “I can’t,” he said sadly. “There are some things that can never be revealed. Forget about the story, Ruth Baxter, and go home. We’ll find another reporter.”

Looking into his eyes, she felt the full force of his magnetism and, without thinking, moved in until they were almost touching.

She heard his sharp intake of breath and time seemed to slow. His eyes glowed in the night with desire and with something else. A wildness that she’d never seen before. His face lowered to hers.

When his mouth touched hers, she felt the thing that had been coiled inside of her for so long smooth. Her driving ambition faded and her entire focus was on the mouth pressing against hers. Stealing her hands up his arms, they settled on his shoulders and pulled him closer. Her lips parted and she felt, more than heard, his groan. She tasted him while his scent surrounded her. The strangest feeling came over her. It was if she were gliding toward the heavens, no longer tied to the earth. Suddenly his mouth left hers and began a trail across her cheek, down her neck, to a place right below her ear. Heat shot through her as his tongue began to trace lazy circles on her sensitive skin. She tipped her head to the side and gripped his broad shoulders. His hand stole down her back, cupping her bottom and bringing her closer.

This is crazy registered somewhere in the corner of her mind. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours and she wasn’t even sure she liked him. Yet all he had to do was kiss her and she turned into a wild thing.

Abruptly he released her and jerked away.

Dazed, R.J. tottered while a cool breeze chased away the heat.

“Wh-wh—” she stuttered.

Grabbing her arm, he began to drag her down the hill toward the Jeep. “We have to leave.”

She stumbled. Sean righted her. When they’d reached the vehicle, he opened the door and tried to bundle her in. The rush down the hill had cleared her thinking and she dug in her heels, refusing to budge.

“Wait a second. What’s going on? One minute you’re all over me like a rash, then—”

“I don’t have time to explain. I’m needed at the Center.”

The expression on his face told her not to argue. She shoved the keys into the ignition and jerked her head at the passenger side. “Let’s go.”

“No, you go back to the motel—”

“No you don’t,” she interrupted, “you’re not ditching me. Get in.”

“But,” he said with a glance over his shoulder, “I can travel faster if I—” His hand hit the side of the Jeep. “Damn!” Slamming the door shut, he ran to the other side and jumped in. He barely had his seatbelt fastened when she hit the gas and sped off down the road. Minutes later, they were at the Center. They opened their doors at the same time, but before she could leap out, his hand restrained her.

“You stay,” he hissed, jabbing a finger at her. Without giving her a chance to answer, he was out of the Jeep and running into the Center in loping strides. He disappeared inside.

Fuming, R.J. gripped the steering wheel. Every instinct told her she was missing out on the action, but what? Only one way to find out. Leaning over, she grabbed her can of mace out of the glove compartment then, exiting the Jeep, quietly stole up the walkway. Inside, she paused and let her eyes adjust to the shadows. Slowly she crept down the hallway, one finger on the trigger of the mace while her other hand trailed the wall, guiding her.

She stopped halfway and listened. Silence. She began to feel foolish. What was she doing sneaking around in the middle of the night, hanging on to a can of mace like her life depended on it? That Sean O’Brien was playing her. He ran hot then cold. Next he scares her into thinking that something big is happening. Nothing was happening. And he was just plain weird.

Turning on her heel, she started back the way she came. She’d leave him here, go back to the motel, write the stupid story, then blow this place. Her mother would be happy. She’d be home in time for the baby shower. So what if this story didn’t pan out as she’d hoped. One of these days—

A loud crash followed by a shriek startled her. Spinning, she ran down the hall to the Council room and skidded to a stop inside the door.

Moonlight streaming through the windows lit the scene playing out before her. Two men crouched in the middle of the room with arms stretched over their heads, weaving and bobbing, while a white owl circled above them. With a screech, the owl extended its talons and dive-bombed the men. The bird sliced at their faces. One man cried out. Wheeling, it soared back towards the ceiling, getting ready to make another run.

R.J. turned to race away but an arm, shooting around her neck, jerked her backwards. She slammed into a body and her adrenaline surged. Without thinking, she lifted her heel and brought it down full force on the foot next to hers. His grip loosened while his yelp joined the cries of his buddies. Pivoting, she sprayed him in the eyes with the mace and fled. She had to get out of there. She didn’t know what was going on, but she didn’t want any part of it. Some reporter!

She was almost to the door when she heard the beating of wings behind her.

Shit, the damn owl was after her now.

Hearing a thump, she whirled, ready to give the owl a shot of mace.

Up close, it was huge. Staring at her with yellow eyes, it expanded its wings until they stretched wider than a man’s body. R.J. gasped and in the blink of an eye, the shape in front of her changed.

The owl disappeared and Sean O’Brien stood in its place.

Staggering back, she hit the wall and felt her face turn white. The can of mace slipped from her nerveless fingers and rolled down the hall. Her eyes, never leaving Sean, watched him bend and snag it.

He took one step.

Knees buckling, her last thought before hitting the floor. . what a story!

The not-so-soft tapping on the side of her cheek was the first thing she felt. She opened her eyes to find herself sprawled on the floor with Sean kneeling beside her. Sitting up, she scooted until her back hit the wall. “What hap—”

“You tripped and hit your head,” Sean said quickly, cutting her off. Standing, he offered her his hand.

She brushed it away and scrambled to her feet. A wave of nausea hit her. She clutched her stomach and took a deep breath. “No, I didn’t.” Straightening, she looked him square in the eye. “An owl was chasing me — only it wasn’t an owl — it was—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “You need to leave.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and held her ground. “No way. Not until I get some answers.”

“There are no answers,” he spat out and marched to the door. Flinging it open, he waited for her. “The Center’s been vandalized and the men escaped. You have to leave before Charlie and his goons show up.” Reaching out, he grabbed her arm and pulled her forwards.

Yanking away, she glared at him. “Why? We can explain what happened.”

“And what are you going to say?” he asked, his eyes drilling into hers. “How are you going to explain what you, a white woman, were doing at the Center in the middle of the night?” He pointed toward her Jeep. “Go.”

Giving up, she followed him down the path. Her mind felt muddled. Did she see the owl change into Sean? Like he said, it was ridiculous. Things like that just didn’t happen in the real world. Sean had been in the shadows. She’d been scared. Her eyes had played tricks on her. When he stepped out, it only appeared that the owl transformed.

But what had happened to the owl? She opened her mouth to ask, but before she could speak, Sean opened the Jeep’s door and hustled her into the driver’s seat. Slamming it shut, he turned back toward the Center.

“Wait,” she called out. “Aren’t you coming with me?” With a deep sigh, he shook his head. “No, I’ll be needed here.” He faced her. “It would be better for both of us if you left and forgot this place.”

Sean stood before the Council and tried not to look at Charlie Two Horses, sitting at the end of the table. He longed to shred the smug grin from Charlie’s face as he spun his lies to the Elders. With a will of their own, Sean’s fingers curled talon-like at his side, but he remained still. Next to him, his grandfather, rigid with indignation, glared at the tribal leaders.

“Akecheta stopped the vandals,” his grandfather insisted.

“Did he stop them, or did I stop him?” Charlie asked before any of the Elders could speak. “When I arrived, the place was a shambles and he was alone.”

As his grandfather focused the full weight of his stare on Charlie, Sean felt a small wave of pleasure when Charlie squirmed, but he kept his face blank.

“That makes no sense,” his grandfather said with a wave of his hand. “Akecheta worked hard to build this place. Why would he want to destroy it?”

“Insurance,” Charlie replied.

His grandfather shifted his attention from Charlie to George Eagle Feathers as if Charlie’s words had no importance. “Only a foolish man says foolish things.”

Rebuffed, Charlie’s face lost some of its smugness while he leaned forwards and addressed George. “I checked. There was no sign of a break-in and, other than the Council, Sean is the only one who has keys. If there were three men as he claims, how did they get in?”

Moving past Sean, his grandfather stood directly in front of Charlie and, placing his hands on the table, leaned in. “I know what you’re trying to do—”

A sudden commotion at the door interrupted him. All eyes turned toward the sound and watched R.J. blunder into the room.

Sean suppressed a groan. Ah hell, what’s she doing here? Steeling himself, he didn’t look her way when she came to stand beside him.

“I apologize,” she began, focusing on the Elders and ignoring Charlie, “I don’t mean to intrude in private matters, but when I heard Sean had been accused, I felt I needed to help.”

“Why?” Charlie barked. “You barely know him.”

Shifting her attention to Charlie, she gave him a stiff smile. “True, but I know for a fact he isn’t responsible.”

“How?” Charlie scoffed.

Turning back to the Elders, she showed her dimples. “I was here, too.”

From behind him, Sean heard his grandfather’s gasp.

Charlie shifted forward. “Really? Why?”

“I recently received some information,” she replied, giving Charlie a pointed look, “and I wanted to give Sean a chance to respond.” She turned her attention to George. “When we arrived, there were three men. . at least I think it was three. . it was dark.” She glanced at him as if she expected him to confirm her story. When he didn’t, she gave a shrug and glossed over what really happened. “They saw us and ran off.”

George’s eyes shifted from R.J. to Sean. “Is this true? Why didn’t you speak of her?”

Sean’s jaw clenched and unclenched. He appreciated R.J. coming to his defence, but in reality she’d only made the situation worse. He’d kept an eye on Charlie during R.J.’s explanation. Speculation had played across Charlie’s face the whole time. Not good. By aligning herself with him, she’d just made an enemy. He had to get this inquisition over quickly and get her out of town.

“I didn’t think it right to involve her in tribal business.” He finally allowed himself to look at her. “She has her story and will be leaving town today,” he said, with emphasis on ‘today’.

R.J. refused to meet his eyes.

George placed his hands on the table and stood. “Thank you for stepping forward. If you’ll excuse us?”

She took the hint. And after casting a triumphant look first at Charlie then at George, she left the room.

It didn’t take long for the Council to dismiss Charlie’s allegations. Relieved, Sean and his grandfather quietly walked to the door. Sean could feel the disapproval rolling off his grandfather in waves and he wasn’t looking forward to the explanations he’d have to make. He’d acted foolishly last night, letting the woman distract him. Only by luck had he won this battle. If he were to continue to win, he had to forget her and step up his guard.

His grandfather didn’t wait long to jump him. They stepped into the hallway and he pulled him to the side.

“What were you thinking,” his grandfather hissed. “Why did you bring the woman here? Did she see—”

Sean held up his hand, stopping him. “Yes, but I think I convinced her that she imagined it.”

His grandfather exploded. “You think? For god’s sake, she’s a reporter — a white reporter.”

“Grandfather, I mean no disrespect, but who would believe her if she wrote the truth? A story like that would destroy her reputation as a reporter. And trust me, she’d never risk her career.”

Slightly mollified, his grandfather continued down the hallway. “Maybe, but stay away from her,” he cautioned.

“Don’t worry, I w—”

The words died as he stepped outside and saw R.J. waiting by her Jeep.

Shit.

When she came running up to them, he had no choice but to introduce her to his grandfather. “R.J. Baxter,” he said, indicating her. “R.J., this is my grandfather, Jon Swifthawk.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replied, rummaging around in her bag. A second later, she withdrew a pouch of tobacco and handed it to his grandfather. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Reluctantly, he accepted her gift, while Sean felt a glimmer of pride that she’d remembered their custom.

“Miss Baxter,” his grandfather said gruffly. “Thank you for defending my grandson.”

With a shy smile, she nodded. “I appreciate the time he’s given me.”

“Hmm,” his grandfather said with a steely look his way. “I must get home — Sean?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said, “I need to discuss something with R.J.”

She waited until his grandfather had reached his pickup then leaned in.

“He doesn’t approve of me,” she whispered.

“It’s not personal, it’s—” his voice faltered. “Look, I don’t have much time. I want you to leave today. You’ll no longer be welcome here.” He made a move to join his grandfather, but she shifted to the side, blocking him.

“Wait, I need to talk to you.”

He made a move around her. “No you don’t. You have your story.”

“Do I?” Her eyes narrowed. “You want me to write about what happened last night?”

“Go ahead,” he answered with a shrug. “We stopped a break-in. That’s it.”

She cocked her hip and gave him a long stare. “Yeah? Well call me crazy, but I think there was a little more to it than that.”

“Such as?”

“Such as. . who were they? How did they get in? What was their motive?” she replied, ticking off her questions. Her voice dropped and she stepped closer. “And, last but not least — how in the hell does an owl change into a man?”

“That’s impossible. The blow to your head must’ve addled your brain,” he scoffed.

“Really?” She touched the back of her scalp. “If I hit my head, why don’t I have a bump? Now what about that owl?”

“There wasn’t an owl,” he insisted.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Tell that to the grandson of the guy who owns the motel.” She whistled through her teeth. “Man, you should see the gouges on the side of that kid’s face—”

“A white boy? I thought—” He stopped and, taking her arm, pulled her around the side of the building. “You recognized him from last night?”

“No, but I can recognize claw marks when I see them.”

He plucked on the white streak at his temple. Great, what did he do now? This woman was too clever for her own good — for his own good. He gave her arm a shake.

“Thanks to your butting in today, they now know you were with me,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s not safe. You have to leave today. Go back to Michael’s Creek. Forget about the story. I’ll square it with your editor.”

Her face took on a mutinous look. “I don’t want to forget.”

“I told you,” he hissed, “people have disappeared on the prairie. You could be next.”

“I’m not afraid,” she blustered.

“You should be. There are ravines deep enough to hide a body until next spring. Do you want to wind up a pile of bleached bones?”

She gulped. “Not really.”

“Then leave.” He spun on his heel, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

“Listen. I’ll leave. Tomorrow. Meet me tonight,” she pleaded, “I can’t walk away without answers. I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut. .” she hesitated. “I just need to know I’m not nuts.”

His mouth formed in a grim line. “You’re not, but I am. Meet me at eleven.”

Leaning her head against the driver’s window, R.J. waited for Sean. She glanced at the dashboard clock. He was late. Was he standing her up? He’d better not. If he tried, she’d hunt him down like a dog. She wasn’t leaving town without answers.

Regardless of what he’d said, R.J. still had a problem wrapping her mind around what she’d seen. Lying awake last night and staring at the ever-blinking lights, she’d gone over and over the scene in her mind. It had happened so fast. First there was the owl then there was Sean. Being a reporter, her life had brushed up against a lot of odd things and she’d become convinced a long time ago that life really was stranger than fiction. But this?

Only when the first rays of morning lightened the sky had she decided it hadn’t been her imagination. Old legends were true. Sean Swifthawk O’Brien was a shapeshifter. And she wanted him to confirm it.

But first she needed more information. Before she confronted him, she had to learn all she could about shapeshifting and Native American lore. She’d tried going online but she couldn’t find a connection from her crappy motel room. It was when she’d gone to the motel’s office to ask where the nearest Internet connection might be that she’d seen the kid. And overheard him and his grandfather discussing the accusations against Sean. The discussion ended the instant they’d seen her and the kid had hot-footed it out the back door, but not before she’d seen the marks on his face.

How they’d known about Sean so early in the morning was anyone’s guess. She had her suspicions. No proof, but plenty of suspicion. She longed to dig deeper and find the truth, but Sean’s remark about bleached bones gave her pause. Nope, the best she could hope for was an explanation from Sean about his peculiar abilities. After he gave her one, she’d cut her losses and get out of town.

The irony of it all? She’d be walking away from a story bigger than she could’ve imagined. Only no one would believe it and if she tried to convince them, her credibility would be ruined. She’d be laughed out of the newspaper business. She’d find herself working for some rag, writing about alien abductions and crop circles.

Sean was right. She should go back to her life in Michael’s Creek and forget everything. Well, maybe not everything. She doubted she could ever lose the memory of his kiss. Thinking about it now made her feel all soft and gooey inside. She shoved the feelings away. He wasn’t for her. Even if they hadn’t come from two different cultures, she’d seen his type before — a selfless do-gooder out to change the world.

Good luck with that one.

She’d go back to Michael’s Creek and focus her energy on landing a story that everyone would believe. Sooner or later one had to come along.

Sitting up, she stared out the window. My god, it was spooky out here tonight. Last night, moonlight had lit the landscape but now clouds chased across the moon, dimming its light. The Center sat like a hulking beast and even the air felt heavy. Her hand stole over to the passenger’s seat and the jack-handle lying there. She wasn’t a fool. She’d lost her mace last night, but she wasn’t going to go traipsing around in the middle of the night without some kind of weapon. Just in case. The jack-handle seemed like a good choice. Settling her head against the window again, she placed the handle on her lap as the lack of sleep overtook her.

What seemed like only moments later, a sharp rap on the window made her jump. Sean. Her eyes flew to the clock. My god, it was four o’clock in the morning.

She pushed the door open, still hanging on to her weapon. “I thought you said eleven? Where have you been?”

“Something came up.” He eyed the jack-handle. “Planning on using that?”

She snorted. “You were the one who said it wasn’t safe.”

Without commenting, he turned and headed towards the hill beyond the Center. R.J. ran after him. At the top of the rise, he suddenly whirled on her.

“What do you want to know?”

Caught off-guard, the words stumbled out, sounding silly even to her. “Are you a shapeshifter?”

“Yes.”

Shocked at his honesty, R.J.’s jaw dropped and she waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

“That’s it? ‘Yes’?”

A wry grin twisted the corners of his mouth. “I think that word covers it.”

Frustrated, she kicked a clod of dirt. “Not bloody likely, mister.”

“I suppose you want to know the ‘who, what, when, and where’?”

“Damn straight I do,” she exclaimed.

Sean sighed deeply. “My gift, talent, whatever the whites would call it, runs in my family.”

“Your grandfather, too?” R.J.’s eyes widened.

“No, not him, but his father.” He stopped and looked up at the sky as if trying to decide what to say. “This is hard,” he said finally. “Not even our people are aware. They know that my family has powerful medicine, but they’ve never questioned what it might be.”

“Have you always been able to shift?”

“No. It started shortly after I came to live with my grandfather. I was lucky in a way that I’d come here. Because of what he’d learned from his father, he recognized what was happening to me and was there to guide me through it.”

“Does it happen. . um. . well. . you know. . whenever the moon—” she broke off, feeling foolish.

“Are you trying to ask me if I only change during a full moon?” he inquired, not hiding the humour in his voice.

Irritated, her chin hiked. “According to movies and literature—”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” he cut in, his humour gone. “We’re not in a movie — this is my life we’re discussing. No, it’s not only during a full moon, I can change at will. At first, when I was a teenager, it’d happen whenever I experienced high emotion.”

“Must’ve happened a lot.”

“It did. After the first change, my grandfather took me out of school for about a year and taught me at home. During that time, he showed me how to manage the changes.”

“Are you like—” she paused, trying to think of the right word, “well, invulnerable?”

“We’re back to the movies, huh?” He shook his head. “No, I can be killed just like any other animal. It wouldn’t take a silver bullet.” Tugging on his bottom lip, he studied her. “I’ve never had to explain this to anyone and I don’t really know if I can. When I’m in animal form, there is still a part of me that’s human but I feel the freedom of being a wild thing.”

“Last night, when you were fighting those men, why didn’t you become something other than an owl? Something a little bigger with a few more teeth?” she asked, playing with the jack-handle still in her hand

He gave a rough bark of laughter. “You really don’t know anything about the legends, do you?”

She pulled herself up and glared at him. “Nope, sorry, never saw the need to do research on shapeshifters,” she replied sarcastically. “If I’m not asking the right questions, you’ll just have to forgive me.”

“I can only become an owl — it’s my totem. I told you that, as an owl, part of me is still human?”

She nodded.

“As a human, the owl is always with me, too.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I can move silently whenever I need to, I can see things in the dark that are invisible to others, and my hearing? Unbelievably sharp.” He came close, looming over her. “And I will do everything I can to defend and protect my family and my territory.”

She swallowed. “I’m not going to write about this,” she insisted.

“I believe you. It wouldn’t be in your best interests.”

“You think I’m selfish, don’t you?” she asked defensively.

He stepped back. “I think you’re so driven by ambition that you’d do anything to succeed.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she huffed.

“Nothing. . in your world. In mine, we’re worried about surviving.”

“And you’re using, what did you call it? Medicine?”

“Trying to.” His eyes roamed the landscape. “There are those who’ve been seduced, lost interest in the good of the people. They see only their own desires.”

“Charlie Two Horses.”

“He’s one. There are others.”

“Why do they want to ruin the Center?”

“There are several reasons. People with little else have donated possessions that have been in their families for years. To see them destroyed would be destroying the heart of our people.” He focused on R.J. “People without heart, who’ve been beaten down, are easier to manipulate,” he said sadly. “Then there’s the money. The Center is heavily insured, so if something happened to it, a large sum of money would be paid to the tribe. That money could be used for other things.”

“Like a casino?”

“Exactly. Some people lose enough of their money in town; they don’t need easy access to gambling here.”

“Have you made this argument to the Elders?”

“Of course but it’s not that simple. My grandfather has a lot of honour in the eyes of the tribe, but I’m still a half-breed.”

She saw lines of weariness tighten his face. “They don’t trust you?”

“Not completely.”

Moving close, she dropped the jack-handle and laid a hand on his arm. His muscles quivered at her touch. “Then why are you fighting for them? Why not leave this place and start a new life away from all of this?”

A look of regret crossed his face and he opened his mouth to speak. Abruptly, his features hardened. His lips closed and he shook his head. “I can’t. My place is here.”

The sadness in him reached out and swamped her. Putting her arms around him, she laid her head on his chest and felt him shudder. His hand stole up to her face and he tilted her chin, looking deeply into her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the fire burning inside of him. Unblinking, he began to lower his face to hers. Suddenly in the depths of his eyes, a yellow spark flamed.

“Down!” he whispered harshly, pulling her off her feet.

“Wha—”

He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet,” he hissed, crouching beside her. “You’ll give away our position to the men down there.”

Her eyes strained against the darkness, trying to see what he saw, but all she could make out was the dark shape of the Center.

He released her arm and began to steal away. “Stay here.”

“Oh no you don’t, Bird Man,” she said softly, picking up the jack-handle. “You’re not leaving me behind this time.”

“Bird Man?” he sputtered. “You make light of my medicine?”

“Hey, I’m just going with the flow,” she murmured, “and happy I’m not insane after all.”

She felt him tense and saw the conflicting emotions race across his face. She almost sensed what he was thinking: how many were there? Should he leave her here unprotected? What if he lost the fight?

Finally, he made his decision and motioned her to follow. “Quietly,” he cautioned as he crept ahead.

R.J. tried to mimic Sean’s stealth. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he could move silently — the tall grass barely stirred as he edged forward. He led her to the side of the building and moved her into the shadows. Laying a finger on his lips, he pointed to the ground with his other hand, indicating she should stay put. Then without a word, he disappeared around the side of the building.

Flattened against the side of the Center, her heart hammered in her chest and sweat beaded in her armpits. Visions of bones scattered across the prairie danced in her mind. Could she make it to the Jeep without giving Sean away? She could go for help — but where? And who could she trust? No, she thought with a shake of her head, for once she’d obey and pray that the owl wasn’t outmatched.

Suddenly she heard the sound of voices. Shrinking back into the shadows, she strained to listen.

“Shut up,” one voice rasped.

“I’m telling you — that’s her Jeep sitting there,” A second voice whispered. “What if she comes back and catches us?”

“Do what I tell you and she won’t.”

“What if she’s inside?”

“That’s her problem, not ours.”

“But—”

“Just do it.”

A shift in the breeze lifted a strand of R.J.’s hair and with the breeze came a strange odour. Her nose twitched and she felt a sneeze building. Grabbing the tip, she pinched until the feeling passed. Letting go of the breath she’d been holding, she inhaled deeply. Oh my god, she smelled gasoline — they were going to torch the place. Where in the hell was Sean?

She slunk around the corner of the building and saw three shapes huddled on the ground by the long windows of the Council room. Close enough to make out what they held in their hands, she saw a glass bottle with a rag trailing down its side. Great, a molotov cocktail. She smelled the sulphur as the match struck and watched in horror as the flame drew near the rag. She had to do something.

But then, the flame abruptly died and the man holding the spent match flew into the air as if yanked by an invisible rope. A foot shot out and knocked the bottle from the next man’s hand. A second hit to his jaw had him sprawling backwards. He didn’t move. The third man scrambled to his feet and took off at a run towards a stand of cottonwood. A screech rent the air, and a white owl soared above the running man’s head, outdistancing him.

At least now she knew where Sean was. Relieved, she fell back against the building, until a quick movement on her left had her standing at attention.

A fourth man. With a gun. As if in slow motion, he raised it, training it on the white shape headed for the cottonwoods.

“Hey!” She pushed away from the building and, raising the jack-handle high, rushed him.

Surprised, his gun wavered, giving R.J. time to bring the jack-handle down with full force on his wrists. Bones snapped and dirt flew when the shot went wide. Holding his arms tightly against his stomach, the man wheeled and ran.

R.J. thought about giving chase, but a noise from the stand of trees caught her attention. She turned just in time to see the man make it to the trees. . but the owl had made it first. It waited on a low branch, and as the man ducked under the limb, the owl disappeared. Sean swung down and planted both feet on the man’s chest. He staggered back, trying to gain his balance, but Sean was on him in a flash. The thud of fists hitting flesh lasted only a few moments.

The man went down for the last time.

Sean watched Charlie Two Horses bundle three of the vandals in the back of the tribal police car.

“They’ll be set free,” his grandfather said softly from where he stood beside him.

“I know.” Sean’s mouth tightened in a grim line. “They’re white and they’re barely eighteen. I imagine if they’re tried at all, it will be as juveniles and the charge will be malicious mischief. Not much of a penalty for that.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“One is the grandson of the man who owns the motel. He was also involved in the vandalism last night, but we can’t prove it.”

“You came close to losing this time, Akecheta.”

He gave his grandfather a nudge. “But we didn’t.” His eyes travelled to R.J., leaning against the side of her Jeep. “She helped.”

His grandfather stiffened. “What if she tells her story?”

“She won’t. She gave me her word.”

“Ha! The word of a white woman.”

“She saved my life, grandfather,” he replied in a quiet voice.

The tension in his grandfather’s stance eased. “Hmm, we’ll see.”

“I’m going to go say goodbye.”

R.J. pushed away from the Jeep as he approached. A soft smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. One dimple showed.

“Got to say this for you, Swifthawk,” she said, shoving her hands in her pockets. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

“And you, R.J. Baxter,” he answered with a smile and a tap to the end of her nose, “don’t know how to follow instructions.” He sobered. “And I’m glad you don’t. Thanks for saving my life.”

Her face tinged with pink. “No problem.” Shifting her attention to the patrol car slowly leaving the parking lot, she gave her head a shake. “What will happen now?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” she asked, indignant. “They tried to burn down the Center.”

“They’re white. Charlie will turn them over to the sheriff and at most, they’ll get a slap on the wrist.”

“That’s not fair.”

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

She watched the patrol with a speculative look. “I could do a story about the injustice of it all?”

“Don’t,” he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention away from the departing vandals. “It won’t do any good. We know them now — they’ll be watched.”

R.J. crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ll agree you have some pretty unusual talents, Bird Man,” she said in a low voice, “but you and your grandfather can’t be everywhere.”

“There are others.”

Her eyes flew wide. “What?” she hissed, “Some secret society of shapeshifters?”

Sean allowed a smirk. “Let’s just say we have ‘friends’.”

“But—”

The hand on her shoulder squeezed lightly, cutting her off. “Let it go, R.J.”

She glanced towards the Center with a light glinting in her eye. “Okay, I won’t write about the plot to destroy the Center,” she said, slapping him on the arm, “but I’ll tell you what I am going to do — I’m going to write a story that’ll make this place sound better than Disneyland.” She chuckled and gave a quick nod. “And I can do it. You’re going to have so many tourists to fleece, the tribe won’t know what to do with all the money.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Yup,” she said with a broad smile, “this place is going to be so popular that whoever’s behind this attack won’t dare try and destroy it again.” Her smile fell away. “You really can’t leave, can you?”

He shook his head, almost with remorse.

“Well,” she said, and shot a glance towards his grandfather.

Then, before he could react, she grabbed the front of his shirt and, standing on tiptoes, planted a kiss that shook him to his core. With a satisfied smile, she turned and hopped in her Jeep. Starting the engine, she winked. “See you around, Bird Man.”

He watched as she slowly pulled away and turned on to the highway.

“Did she call you Bird Man?” his grandfather asked in shocked tones.

“Yes,” Sean answered with a low chuckle.

His grandfather scratched his head, his attention on the retreating Jeep. “Even for a white, she’s a strange woman. It’s good we’ve seen the last of her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sean replied, more to himself than his grandfather. With a jerk of his head, he motioned towards the rise. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Together, they walked across the prairie as the sun brightened the horizon. At the top of the rise, they looked down at the highway winding its way out of the reservation and the Jeep speeding away.

Above it, in a golden sky, a white owl circled.