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.”