Hidden Pearl (21 page)

"Are those my only options?" he asked, amused despite his determination to hold firm on this.

She nodded, that cute little chin stubbornly lifted. This wasn't going to go well, and he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself from trying. "You'll only be in the way. Make me worry about you when I ought to be concentrating on finding what I need, then getting out of there."

"It won't work. I'm going. With you or without you. Actually I have a better excuse than you do. My camera. Besides I think Peter kind of has a thing for me."

S.T. resisted the impulse to slam his fist on the table, knowing that wouldn't help his case. Her last argument made it almost impossible for him to think straight. She wasn't the only one who suspected Soul wanted her. It was almost enough to make him say they'd forget the whole thing.

Maybe it would have been if he wasn't still able to remember the desperation in his mother's voice when she'd begged him to find Shonna. He had not realized at the time how strong that call would be to him. He'd told his mother he owed her nothing, but he couldn't seem to turn away from her request, even if it endangered his own life.

He thought then of a wife with two little girls trying to find proof their husband and father had not committed suicide. He had no choice for what he would do next. He did not, however, want it endangering Christine. Maybe he could think of a way she could help but that would keep her away from any danger.

"You're crazy, you know that," he growled, knowing he'd lost this one before he began. He started to stand, but she came behind him, putting her arms around his neck, holding him.

"I know you're worried, but you'll see it's the right thing to do," she said, nuzzling her nose against his neck, her hands brushing over his hair. "I can help. I know I can."

"I just don't want you getting hurt."

"I don't like it when you get hurt either. Don't do it again."

"Number two on the list—right after keeping you out of this which looks the bigger problem."

"I want us to find out about Soul, about Shonna and Lane Brown, then forget all about this and concentrate on better things like the future." She worked her fingers through his hair, loosening it, letting it fall over his shoulders.

He guessed she was expecting him to say something, but he couldn’t believe they had a future--at least not together.

He should have seen himself as someone worthy of a relationship with a woman. Money, home, a certain amount of power should have made him feel he had something to offer, but instead he saw himself as a little boy, long, dark hair tangled around his face, clothing that never fit right. He saw himself standing on the street watching his father stumble home from a bar. There were other voices screaming--get lost, breed, redskin, dirty, no-good. He heard teacher after teacher asking his real name, then when he was forced to say it, titters from the other kids. There was the first girl he'd thought loved him tell him she didn't want him taking her home because her parents wouldn't approve.

The memories in his past cut too deep to believe there could be a future with this beautiful woman. What did she know of ugliness, hatred and anger? He couldn't make himself tell her why he wasn't going to say the words. His pride had been battered all his life but never more than in the last three days. Despite all that, with her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips on his jaw, his neck, he could almost forget all the reasons this could not be.

"When do we go back?" she asked, her hands now sliding around his neck to rest at the open vee of his collar.

"Sunday."

"Why then?"

"He preaches. It'll mean most people are inside listening. I ought to be able to get into his office with nobody knowing. I don’t plan to announce my arrival."

"What about your ankle?”

“It’ll be better, but I won’t need to run.”

“What if somebody patrols the halls?"

"There'll only be a brief time I'm in the hall, then I'll be in the office. From what I've seen of his mania for control, nobody's going in there without him."

She considered a moment, again kissing his jaw, his cheekbones. He wanted her lips against his, but it appeared she wanted to play and he let her. "So what is my part in this?" she asked, her lips hovering above his.

He swallowed hard. He could think of several delightful things, but momentarily they didn’t seem to fit the situation. "You stay with the Silverado, ready to drive for help if I'm not back out in an hour."

"I don't like that plan." She shifted now to kneel beside his chair. Reaching up, she kissed the edge of his mouth. "I think I'll go get my camera, then hear Soul's sermon."

"No."

She smiled, ignoring his objection. "That way if anyone leaves, I can follow them on the pretext I have to go to the restroom."

"I don't like any part of that. When are you going to let me make love to you?"

She smiled. “You want to do that?" she pressed her lips against his, lightly then harder. Her tongue darted teasingly into his mouth.

"Woman, what are you doing?" he muttered, his breath coming as uneasily as hers when she freed his lips.

"I--"

Jerry threw open the door to the kitchen and striding in, his broad face alight with excitement. “We got it.” He stopped when he saw them. “I interrupt something?"

"What would make you think that?" Christine asked as S.T. groaned.

#

In Hank's family room, S.T. lay on the sofa, his head on Christine's lap, her hand stroking his forehead, combing back his hair. Hank had lowered his body across a worn, overstuffed chair, long legs extending one way, arms hanging loosely the other. Jerry sat on a chair near him. On the stereo, a CD of Celtic melodies was playing, the sounds a soothing wave through the room. S.T. knew there had to have been moments like this before--good music, friends, someone who cared--but he didn't remember when.

"Times like this," Hank said, articulating S.T.’s thoughts, "are what a man works for, struggles to get to."

Christine smiled at him. "It was generous of you to let us stay with you tonight."

"Every man deserves a good sleep before he begins a venture that could cost him everything he holds dear," Hank said, his gaze now on S.T.

"You've heard the story," S.T. said. "What's my choice? But you could  convince this woman to stay with you."

Hank laughed. "Get my head caught in a buzz saw? No, thank you, Mister Taggert." His sigh was gusty. "Life's a funny thing, isn't it? You go along, thinking you got it all figured out, know where you fit, how to make a day worth living. You get a day like this one, when the work goes well, when you got friends around, then something happens and you know it's all going to end up in pieces. Times like that are enough to make a`man stop and question the whole shebang."

"You a philosopher, Brannigan?"

"Every good photographer's a bit philosopher, a bit poet and a whole lot dreamer, or he'll never take a picture worth its salt."

"So then, poet king, tell us what makes life worthwhile when it's so uncertain."

"Ah we begin with the easy questions, do we?" Hank retorted with a puckish grin. "I am, however, ready with an answer. It’s the moment." He glanced over at Jerry and smiled.

"I'm beginning to understand, listening to music like this, why the Irish and Scots are such fatalists," S.T. said. "Listen to that melody. It's as though the poor fellow is fated to head off into a war. He'll die in it, yet he goes bravely without a backward thought."

"Not the Irish," Hank said. "We go complaining all the way, but we go. That's the point."

"Fatalism isn't exactly my thing either," S.T. said.

Hank chuckled. "Tell that to somebody who doesn't know your name."

"Ah, a poet, philosopher and psychologist," S.T. quipped. "Besides, practically nobody knew my name, at least not until this woman came into my life."

"Blaming me now, are we?" Christine smoothed his hair out so that it formed a dark cloud around his face.

"That reminds me, did you tell Soul my name?"

"Absolutely not. How dare you think I would? I don't talk to that man anymore than I must."

"Somehow he knew it."

She stared down at him, ceasing for the moment her playing with his hair. "Additional proof that your sister was there?" she asked finally.

"Since I've had it legally changed, there's only one person I can think of who could have. Something's definitely wrong there. Just the fact that he's never once mentioned her to me is odd. I figure his use of my name was deliberate, but I'm not sure what he hoped to gain."

"Don't you people have some kind of superstition about names?" Hank asked, rising to put a new CD on the player.

"If by 'you people,' you mean my Navajo half, there's a feeling that names have power. Use them loosely, by people who don't know you well, and the power's diminished."

"Jews recognized the power in names too," Christine mused. "They saw God as changing people's names when they began a particular journey or changed in some significant way... Like Jacob to Israel. Saul to Paul."

“Some Indian tribes change a child’s name at puberty,” offered Jerry.

Christine added, “That’s what Soul does—renames people.”

"Is your birth name Native American?" Jerry asked.

“Doubtful even though I’m half Navajo. I don't know a lot about my mother’s people. Just pieces of what she told me—whatever stuck. A lot of which I've probably garbled through the years. But I don't think it's traditional... or if it is, I should have had another name to go with it. Maybe it was her or my father's idea of a joke."

“Or her way to give you power and help you see your path,” Christine said.

"You ever live on the reservation?" Hank asked.

"She left me when I was six," S.T. shot back. "I wasn't invited to go with her. She's talked about wanting me to come since, but I didn't lose anything there."

"Didn't you?" Christine asked, her mouth tightening as she met his heated gaze.

"Don't start on me," he growled.

"Hey there. Didn't mean to start a brawl over there. Sure you're not part Irish and always ready for a brawl?" Hank asked, his grin affable.

"Sorry." S.T. met Christine's troubled gaze. "Being a breed makes a man thin-skinned."

"You can't use that excuse forever, you know," she retorted.

Fresh Celtic strains filled the room, and S.T. knew as beautiful as the music was, as lilting as the melodies, they were a part of the fatalistic mood that was slowly settling over him.

"Anyone want a wee nip?" Hank asked, then headed for the kitchen when both Christine and S.T. shook their heads. "Has to be in the cupboard somewhere," they heard him muttering.

When he was gone, Christine bent and kissed S.T.’s forehead. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Okay."

Does your ankle hurt?"

"Not much." He took her wrist in his hand and drew her hand to his lips.

Hank returned with a small decanter of amber liquid. "I know every man who’s ever felt like he's under the lash thinks he's the only one been through it, but I understand something about persecution and not just for being a gay man." His thoughtful gaze met S.T. "My people, the Irish, have been conquered, stomped on, abused, treated lower than dogs. Even when they came to America to escape famine, persecution, they were looked down on."