Sacred Ground (7 page)

Willow
drew back, desperate to put space between them. "I'm serious, Wyatt. I just want to get some sleep before Lance gets home from school."

"Where are your folks?" He glanced around, playing with his thin, straggly mustache.

"They left with Aunt Liz Hunting Bees to visit family in Browning for a few weeks."

"You're here all alone?" he asked.

She didn't like the way he boldly looked her over. "I guess you could say that."

"Where's your pickup?" he asked.

She hated his third degree. She’d never had much patience for Wyatt and today she had none. "Brett borrowed it―"

"Brett Turner came here and borrowed your truck?"

She shook her head, amazed at his outburst. "It's the least I could do since he helped me with Thunder's calving last night."

"Boy, things are getting cozy around here. I wouldn't have figured Brett would ever have balls ta spend a night at Arrowhead. Old Gordon must be turnin’ over in his grave."

"You have a dirty mind and an undisciplined tongue. I didn't say anything about Brett spending the night. He helped me with the animals." She watched Wyatt raise a brow in accusing disbelief. The gesture unraveled her twisted, tense nerves. "You can go to hell, Wyatt Anderson! At least go home!" She stormed into the house and slammed the door behind her.

She drew in several deep breaths, struggling to calm her nerves. That man not only aggravated her, she couldn't stand his skinny hands and gaunt appearance. His smile was more of a leer, and his eyes had the warmth of a rattlesnake.

"Didn't mean to make you mad,
Willow
."

She whirled around, exasperated he'd followed her and hating his tight-lipped smile. "Please leave. I'm tired and not in the best mood, in case you haven't noticed.”

"Let's have a cup of coffee and talk," he suggested. "There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you."

"Please, Wyatt, not today."

"It has to do with Gordon's death."

Willow
felt the blood drain from her face. She slowly went into the kitchen. The clicking of boot heels on the hardwood floor told her Wyatt followed.

She busied herself filling a coffee carafe with water. "What about Gordon's death? You know something, Wyatt?"

"I heard some talk, now it's only talk mind you, but many times there's a grain of truth in talk and―"

"Wyatt! Good God, get on with it," she interrupted.

"I heard Brett was seen fighting with Gordon at the J-Bar T the day they figured he died. It had something to do with him and Lorraine Turner."

"What about Gordon and
Lorraine
? You must have heard more than that," she prompted, shakily pouring a scoop of grounds into the filter.

"Nope.
That's all I heard. You think old Gordon and
Lorraine
had a thing going on?"

Willow
jerked, dropping the scoop. She tightened her fist, turned, and punched Wyatt in the eye with every ounce left in her. He teetered backward and dropped to the floor. She'd never hit anyone before, but it felt damn good to put Wyatt in his place.

"God damn,
Willow
, that hurt," he shouted, getting to his feet. "Like it rough, do you?" He took a step toward her.

She stepped back. "Don't, Wyatt. You asked for it. Leave well enough alone."

"I also heard Gordon liked roughing you up,” he sneered. “Also heard him say you liked it."

"I didn't like it, no woman does. A man hides behind comments like that because he isn't man enough to admit he has to beat a woman to feel big and powerful.” She opened a drawer and grabbed a knife. “Leave now, Wyatt. I don't want any trouble with you."

"Whoa there, girl.
We're friends, remember? I was just teasing you." He rubbed his swelling eye. "Put the knife down, and I'll leave without a word."

He took another threatening step closer.

She gripped the weapon tighter. Never again would she let a man put another bruise on her body. If he came at her, she'd use the knife. "Leave, and I'll put the knife away. Stay and you'll have to take your chances."

"What if I apologize? It was a nasty comment, your Gordon being dead and all. Friends?" he asked, extending his palm.

Willow
clenched the knife. "Leave, Wyatt. I'm not ready to forget just yet."

"Damn, you sure can get all riled up. When you're over your pout, stop over at my place. Now, don't get all tense. I have some proof concerning Gordon's death that'll shock you. Don't say anything just yet, especially to your friendly neighbor, Brett Turner."

"Why didn't you bring it here and show me?" Doubting he had proof, she smelled a trap. If she willingly went to his house, it couldn't be called rape. Going to his house would be considered her consent.

"I have proof, but I'm not about ta
go
running around with it. Besides, it could be misconstrued, and I ain’t about to get myself in a fix over Gordon's death."

She wondered what he meant, but didn't want him staying to explain. She wanted him out of her house, now. "Let me think about it. I'll call if I decide to see your proof. But get one thing straight, if I do come, I'm not coming alone."

"We'll see."

Willow
loosened her grip on the knife, wondering how things had gotten so out of hand. If she didn't get better control of her feelings and temper, it might get her and Lance in some serious trouble.

"Bye, Wyatt," she stated between clenched teeth.

"One tough Indian broad, ain't you?" He chuckled as he walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

His car tires threw rocks as he spun a Brody in the graveled drive. She breathed a sigh of relief, even though she still held the knife.

* * *

Brett backed up his old pickup, stopping just short of the basement window. He connected the water tubing to the large tank he'd attached to the truck bed years ago. Hauling drinking and cooking water had been demanding enough, even with the large cistern, but since the well had been destroyed, he had to haul bathing water too. It wasn't
hard,
just tiring and time consuming.

He wondered why anyone would want to make things tough on him. It was no secret his father wasn't well liked, but the pranks and destruction continued after his death. There had to be a reason. He'd suspected Gordon for so long, but it didn't stop after his death, either. Had he stumbled on the truth? And had that gotten him killed?

The thought startled Brett. That had never occurred to him before. If that were true, could Mother and Sean be in danger? Brett hated the way things were going. He didn't like complications, suspicions and worrying. He had to make this ranch work. Two people he loved depended on him.

Mother would be napping, for that he felt grateful. He didn't need more questions from her about his not coming home last night. He'd spent the better part of the morning explaining the why and where.

Kicking the ground with the tip of his boot, Brett cussed under his breath. Willow Howling Moon filled his thoughts. The feelings of embarrassment rushed back to haunt him. How could he have stood naked and totally erect before her? Claiming it had been a dream sounded lame, even to him. He didn't blame her for not believing him. He could have died of humiliation. Just thinking about it made him shudder with embarrassment.

He hadn't dreamed about dancing Indians since he was ten. The night his father had told him drunken Indians had raped Mother and that he wasn't Will Turner's son, but an Indian bastard. Strangely he remembered the smell of
sweetgrass
and it haunted him then, too, he just didn't know what it was.
Willow
somehow must have jarred those feeling to the surface. He couldn't explain it. He didn't need a woman in his life complicating things more than they already were.
Lorraine
had been enough
wife
to cure him of ever wanting another. One thing for sure,
Willow
and
Lorraine
were nothing alike.

He thought of her curly, fluffy, mousy-brown hair that reminded him of a beehive. He couldn't help finding
Willow
's long, glossy, black hair intriguing.

He cringed, remembering
Lorraine
's bold blue and pink eye shadow that filled the space between her brows and eyelashes. As the years went on, it got worse. Between the makeup, heels, short, tight skirts and breast-exposing knit tops, she looked every bit a whore. As far as he was concerned, she acted like one too.

Willow
didn’t wear makeup, her beauty came naturally. She looked great in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Even her beaded moccasins were nice.

He should hate her, he told himself as he went into the house for a cold glass of water. Damn, he grew warm just thinking about kissing
Willow
. He couldn't keep it out of his mind. Just touching her made his skin tingle and his sexual awareness peak. When had
Lorraine
made him feel that way? Even at the beginning she didn't jolt him like lightning, as
Willow
did. Of course, once
Lorraine
realized she hadn't married a millionaire
Montana
rancher, she turned into an icy winter storm anyway.

He thought about their fight the night she left.

"You disgust me,"
Lorraine
had shouted. "You really think I got all turned on by that immature, cowboy look of yours? Wrong! You let me think you were filthy rich, and I believed you. I might have even considered staying here, if it was worth my while, but it isn't. Won't be long and you're going to lose this ranch, then where will I be?"

"I don't give a shit if you leave,
Lorraine
. If you go, be prepared to file for a divorce, because that door swings one way. I won't take you back," Brett ground out the words, his tone deadly.

"Is that supposed to make me stop and think twice about what I'm leaving behind? Don't make me laugh. I want nothing from you, but my freedom."

"You aren't taking Sean. He stays with me. I want you to relinquish your rights as his mother. You don't, I won't give you your freedom."

Her laugh made him tense, and hatred replaced any hint of lingering love.

"You think I want him? Never did. He's yours as a matter of speaking!" She laughed as she slammed the door behind her.

The same door slammed now, snapping him from his reverie. Sean ran toward him. Brett knew he should scold the boy for being noisy while Grandma slept, but his anger evaporated the moment he saw his son's smiling face. Besides, Brett remembered too many unhappy greetings from his father.

"Dad, can I go over to Lance's and see how my buffalo is doing?"

Automatically Brett felt he should make it clear that under no circumstance should Sean go to
Willow
's place. Lance wasn't the best choice in friends. Brett paused and thoughts of them sharing the buffalo birthings came to mind. He couldn't make that statement anymore. It sounded . . . prejudiced. "If I say yes, you promise to return in time to finish your chores and homework before nine?"

"I promise. I'll be real good and won't get in the way. Lance says his mother’s going to do a buffalo dance for us. I can hardly wait." He zipped up his jacket. "She’ll pick me up and even bring me home. Why do you always yell at her? Don't you like her? I think she's really neat."

The question caught Brett by surprise. He stared at his son, struggling for the right words. "She's okay. I guess I like her. It's not that simple with adults, son. We both have ranches to run, and we have difficulties being neighbors sometimes."

Sean stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. "Lance says you don't like them because they're Indian. Is that true?"

The words coming from Sean sounded narrow-minded and bigoted. Brett admitted to himself he'd become prejudiced against Indians, just as
Willow
had accused, denying his own blood line. He didn't like how it sounded, especially to Sean. "Maybe once that was true, but I don't think it is anymore.”