Renee Simons Special Edition (54 page)

"Yet Dar is the one who's dead. That puts a different spin on the concept of betrayal, wouldn't you say?" Her voice vibrated with the anger she welcomed as an antidote to his charm.

For the first time, he turned and looked directly at her. His right arm lay negligently across the horse's back. His left hand held a stiff-bristled brush. Beneath the dim light his eyes blazed, and a muscle beat along his jaw line.

"When I was in the field, I sent back reports. Twice a week, per S.O.P. The crucial documents are nowhere in the computer database and no hard copies were ever found. That means they were intercepted and probably destroyed. Dar O'Neill was the only person who could have proven I was telling the truth. Why would I kill him?"

"If you weren't telling the truth you had the perfect motive."

Delivered in a cold, brittle monotone, his words had dropped like icicles into the heavy, musk-laden air of the barn, attesting to the countless times he'd told his version of the truth to listeners who refused to believe. His return to silence sent a strange feeling shivering through her, as if the heat of her anger had cooled by several degrees. Unwilling to accept the change and what it might say about her ability to stay on course, she pressed on.

"If you were innocent, why didn't you appeal the verdict?" He remained silent and she stepped closer. "Why did you let them send you to prison without a fight?"

A protest rumbled up from the horse's belly and he turned to nudge his owner. With a gentle hand, Stormwalker turned the horse's head and went back to grooming the animal.

"I had nothing to fight with. I decided to save my strength to get through the next thirty years." 

The horse nickered softly and stretched his neck toward Alexandra. She stroked his nose, hardly noticing its velvety feel beneath her fingertips. "I wouldn't have gone quietly."

"Have you ever found yourself in a losing situation?"

She resisted the impulse to touch the scar that daily recalled her brush with death nearly a year ago. "There have been times when the outcome was in serious question."

"What did you do?"

"Fought like hell until I ran out of steam. After that I just hung on and rode out the storm."

"My tactic . . . exactly." He gave her a slow, lazy smile that sucked the air out of her lungs and sent her head spinning. "We're more alike than I thought," he said softly.

In an effort to regain her balance she slipped her arm around the horse's neck, then withdrew abruptly when her hand and Stormwalker's met. Unsettled by a flash of recognition at his words and rattled by a touch that felt more intimate and inviting than it should have, she stepped backwards, barely able to say, "I have no other questions," and started for the door.

"Come back any time you think I can help," he called out. "With anything."

With her composure sorely shaken, she raised a hand in acknowledgment and ventured out into the wind that followed her down the street, buffeting and pushing her along, echoing the inner storm tearing at her. She made it to the RV just as the first rain drops fell.

*****

Zan woke early to a world washed clean and cool by the previous night's storm. She opened the refrigerator but nothing appealed to her. After brushing her teeth and running a comb through her hair, she grabbed her knapsack and an apple and headed for the general store.

Inside, she acknowledged John-Two Hunter's greeting with a smile and a wave of her hand and went to the shelves to make her selections. As she read the label on a jar of chokecherry jam, someone spoke beside her.

"That's really good. My mom made it."

Zan looked up at a young woman with dark eyes and darker hair. "Then I'll have to try it."

"I'm Katti Banner." The newcomer extended her hand.

Zan introduced herself and watched as Katti picked up a jar.

"You might want to stock up if you like the jam - the same with all your staples. The powwow begins on Thursday and when the visitors come in they usually pick the shelves clean of everything, including my mom's stuff."

Zan smiled. "I'll try some at breakfast."

Katti's smile broadened. "Maybe consider the blackberry preserves, too, for variety, you know?"

"Does your mom know what a good sales rep you are?"

"That's my puny contribution to the business. Most of the time, I'm at my regular job."

"What's that?"

"Mainly I'm a court stenographer. The rest of the time I'm a civilian employee at the Sheriff's Department. There's a couple of us who do the paper work, handle the phones, dispatch . . . stuff like that."

"Then we'll probably run into each other. I expect to show up there one of these days."

"Good. Maybe we can have lunch. And if I can be of any help, just let me know."

"I will," Zan said. "See you again."

About to say something else, Katti stopped and looked toward the cash register. "Excuse me, please. There's my sister." She lifted a paper bag and went to the young woman who'd taken Stormwalker's job. With a tentative smile she held out the package only to receive a blank stare. 

"Why can't you ever just be nice?" She laid the bag on the counter. When her sister remained silent, she threw up her hands in exasperation and left.

Zan carried her food items to the front. By the time she made her way to the register, the sullen anger had left the girl's face.

"Yesterday, I saw you talkin' to that guy. You know, the one who gave this job to me 'stead of takin' it himself." She added up the total. "So I was just wondering. . . ." She handed Zan the adding machine tape. "You know him pretty well?"

"Some." Zan gave her several bills. "Why?"

"Why do you suppose he did it?"

"I don't know," Zan said with a shrug. "Sometimes people do nice things." After counting her change, she placed a quarter on the counter.

The girl eyed her suspiciously. "What's that for?"

"Without that, the register will come up short."

The girl's dark complexion flushed and she mumbled something that might have been "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Zan said with a nod and headed for the door and home.

She had nearly reached the RV when a vaguely familiar voice called out to her. "Miss McLaren?"

Zan turned and watched the approach of a tall, slender woman whose regal bearing and graceful movements belied her years. A high-necked blouse in burnt orange complimented her golden brown skin and picked up the print in her earth toned broomstick skirt. The discs on a silver concho belt seemed to echo the silver hair that swept back from her forehead and disappeared into a thick braid draped over one shoulder.

"I am Stormwalker's grandmother." She held out her right hand and Zan took it after shifting her groceries.

"I'm Alexandra." Now, of course, she placed the voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you from last night."

"Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Redfeather." 

"Call me Grandmother. Like everyone else does."

Zan felt awkward using such a familiar term, but custom demanded that instead of names, people use titles that reflected their relationship to each other or that were a sign of respect. While she might think of Stormwalker's grandmother as Mrs. Redfeather or even Emma, she would try to consider her wishes. Zan nodded. 

"Have you had breakfast?"

"I ate with my grandson, but I could use a cup of coffee if it's real."

Zan smiled. "It's real."

As they climbed inside the camper Zan glanced around to confirm everything was in its place. She put away the groceries and touched the coffee carafe. It was still hot.

"This is nice," Emma said as her gaze traveled around the interior. "Cozy. And air conditioned. Feels good on a hot day."

"It helps both the computer and the operator function more efficiently." Zan made toast, then set the table and put out butter and jam. After working silently for several moments she asked, "Did you have anything particular you wanted to discuss?"

"I wanted to talk to you instead of just hearing about you from other folks."

Zan brought the carafe and a plate of whole wheat toast that gave off a faintly nutlike aroma. She poured their coffee and sat opposite Emma, who examined a wall of photos.

"Those men - who are they?"

Zan grinned. "My rogue's gallery?" She swivelled around, watching as the old woman walked over to examine the faces up close.

"The photos represent three generations of McLarens, all of them members of law enforcement."

"That you in a police uniform?"

"The day I graduated from the
New York City
Police
Academy
. Those are my brothers."

On her right stood oldest brother Donald, whose suit and tie did little to hide the bearing of a military man and the easy confidence of a well-trained CIA field officer.

"The one on your left is my grandson's boss?" Emma asked.

"Yes." Mac, next oldest, looked more like a college professor in slacks and crew neck sweater than the newly appointed head of the FSA.

They had barely been on speaking terms by then, but his pride in her accomplishment smiled undisguised from the photo. She regretted only that their father had been behind the camera and not standing beside them.

Emma broke into her thoughts. "And your parents?"

"Both dead."

The woman pointed to a photo. "But this has to be your father. He and your brother look alike." Emma returned to the table. "No women up there except you."

"I'm the first."

"You follow a family tradition." She tilted her head to one side but her golden brown eyes bore into Zan. "Our family has a tradition, too. Older than yours."

"And what's that?"

"A warrior tradition, that goes back hundreds of years, to before your ancestors landed on these shores. It is a tradition of honor and loyalty that somehow managed to survive despite everything that has happened to our people.  You need to know that so you'll believe me when I say my grandson would not have betrayed the country or killed your fiancé. Remember that while you do your work."

"If you explain why a man would fight for a country that nearly destroyed his people and turned them into immigrants in their own land."

"To defend that land. To see pride reborn. To live a warrior's life. To restore honor."

Emma's speech touched Zan in a way she hadn't expected. "You speak eloquently on your grandson's behalf."

"His life is in your hands. I would call up every word I've ever learned if they would reach your heart."

Zan saw no reason to challenge Emma's loyalty and simply nodded.

"Are you still with the police?" Emma asked.

"Officially. I'm on recuperative leave."

"Where did you get hurt?"

Zan added coffee to their cups. "You want to know everything, don't you?"

"I need to know about you so I know what to expect. Can you understand that?"

"Mike Eagle feels the same way. I understand it's because you both care so much about Stormwalker."

Emma gave her a long, probing look. After a moment she nodded and rose. On her way to the door she stopped to examine another photo. "Who is this?"

"That's my fiancé."

"All those curls and blue eyes cold as a winter sky." She glanced at Zan. "Handsome, but hard. He looks how you'd expect a spy to look."

Zan let her leave without acknowledging the naive comment. Only in the comics did spies "look" like spies, but then, Emma Redfeather was a civilian. She couldn't be expected to understand.

She sipped at her coffee. Dar had been the FSA's top field officer. His exploits, at least those that could be discussed, had been legendary. It made no difference if what he sought was security information, contact with a foreign agent or a woman. Darwin O'Neill had been an efficient professional who always got what he went after.

The memory made her smile. The first time they met she'd come very close to thwarting him in one of his goals. Later, when they'd become lovers, they laughed about the encounter.

He'd come to the section because he wanted to learn his way around computers. When she'd insisted that he needed special permission, his demeanor had taken on a hard, almost menacing, edge. Eventually, he'd gotten limited clearance. Although he was denied access to the Agency's computer files, authorization came through for her to give him basic computer training.

During the days that followed she got to know him well and had been disarmed by his intelligence, sense of humor and gentleness. He never again showed her his predatory side and before long its existence faded from memory.

She grimaced. Without the force of his personality to muddy the waters, the old woman had homed in on a truth love had obscured. Denial would not make that truth any less true.

Chapter 4