Paper Rose. Diana Palmer
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Lakota woman. The first time he’d said that, it had broken Cecily’s heart. But she’d come to accept it. When she realized that she was never going to be able to have Tate, she gave up and devoted herself to her studies. At least she was good at archaeology, she mused, even if she was a dismal failure as a woman in Tate’s eyes.
“She’s been broody ever since we got here,” Leta said with pursed lips as she glanced from Tate to Cecily. “You two had a blowup, huh?” she asked, pretending innocence.
Tate drew in a short breath. “She poured crab bisque on me in front of television cameras.”
Cecily drew herself up to her full height. “Pity it wasn’t flaming shish kebab!” she returned fiercely.
Leta moved between them. “The Sioux wars are over,” she announced.
“That’s what you think,” Cecily muttered, glaring around her at the tall man.
Tate’s dark eyes began to twinkle. He’d missed her in his life. Even in a temper, she was refreshing, invigorating.
She averted her eyes to the large grass circle outlined by thick corded string. All around it were makeshift shelters on poles, some with canvas tops, with bales of hay to make seats for spectators. The first competition of the day was over and the winners were being announced. A women-only dance came next, and Leta grimaced as she glanced from one warring face to the other. If she left, there was no telling what might happen.
“That’s me,” she said reluctantly, adjusting the number on her back. “Got to run. Wish me luck.”
“You know I do,” Cecily said, smiling at her.
“Don’t disgrace us,” Tate added with laughter in his eyes.
Leta made a face at him, but smiled. “No fighting,” she said, shaking a finger at them as she went to join the other competitors.
Tate’s granitelike face had softened as he watched his mother. Whatever his faults, he was a good son.
“She’s different since your father died,” Cecily commented, sitting down on one of the bales of hay, grateful for the diversion. “I’ve never seen her so animated.”
“My father was a hard man to live with,” he replied quietly. “If he hadn’t spent most of his life away on construction jobs, I’d probably have killed him.”
She knew he wasn’t kidding. Jack Winthrop had beaten Leta once, and Tate had wiped the floor with him after coming home unexpectedly and finding his mother cut and bruised. By then, he’d been in espionage work for some time. Jack Winthrop, big and tough as he was, was no match for the experienced younger man. It was the last time Leta ever suffered a beating, too. Jack became afraid of his son. Cecily remembered that Jack had never spoken one kind word about his only child. Oddly he seemed to hate Tate.
“You didn’t like your father much, did you?” Cecily remembered.
“He wasn’t a likable man.” He sat down beside her.
She felt the warm strength of him and closed her eyes briefly to savor it. He hardly ever touched people, not even his mother. In all the long years she’d been part of his life, he’d never touched her with intent. Not to hold her hand, kiss her even on the cheek, brush back her hair. That one time, when she’d flown to Oklahoma to help him with his case was the closest they’d come to intimacy, and that was anticlimactic, even if she had lived on it for weeks afterward. She’d ached for any contact at all, but that wasn’t Tate’s way. Yet she’d seen him holding hands with Audrey that day in the coffee shop. Nothing had ever hurt so much. It was an indication of the attraction he felt for the gorgeous socialite.
She smiled as she watched Leta doing the intricate steps of the dance inside the circle. All the women were wearing buckskins, a feat of endurance because it was almost ninety degrees in the South Dakota September sun.
“That was a nasty crack I made about you and Senator Holden at his birthday party,” he said after a minute. “I didn’t mean it.”
It was the closest he came to an apology. She was tired of arguing, so she took the olive branch for what it was. “I know.”
The mention of birthdays reminded him that he’d deliberately ignored Cecily’s this year. It wasn’t a pleasant memory. He shifted on the hay, staring at his mother in the circle. “Do you like the job at the museum?”
“Very much. I’ll be in charge of acquisitions, which is one reason I came out here. I want to exhibit some Oglala pottery and beadwork.”
He didn’t look at her. “How did you get to know Holden?”
“He’s good friends with a member of the faculty at George Washington University,” she said. “I ran into him in the hall one day. He knew me from one of the hearings…” She stopped, because this was part of her life she hadn’t shared with Tate.
“Hearings?” he prompted.
She folded her hands on the warm fabric of her skirt. The sun was beating down on her uncovered head. “It was a public hearing on Native American sovereignty. I went to speak in favor of it before the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs, speaking for a committee from the Wapiti reservation. Holden is the chairman of the Senate committee.” She kept her eyes on the circle of dancers. “It was Leta’s idea,” she added quickly. “She said Senator Holden was impressed by anthropology graduates, and I was the only one they could dig up at such short notice.”
“I didn’t know you involved yourself in political issues.”
She glanced at him wryly. “Of course you didn’t. You don’t know a lot about me.”
He scowled as he turned his attention to the circle and watched his mother dance, resplendent in her beautiful buckskins. No, he didn’t know a lot about Cecily, but he did know how devastated she’d been to discover he’d paid her way through college, absorbed all her expenses out of pity for her situation. He was sorry for how much that had hurt her. But over the past two years, he’d deliberately distanced himself from her. He wondered why…
“I had dinner with Senator Holden last week,” she said conversationally, deliberately trying to irritate him. “He wanted to point me toward some special collections for the museum.”
He stared at his mother in the circle, but he was frowning, deep in thought. “I don’t like Holden,” he said curtly.
“Yes, I know. You’ll be delighted to hear that he returned your sentiment,” she said with a chuckle at his scowl. “He’s really stubborn on the issue of a casino on the Wapiti reservation. We’ve pointed out the benefits to the tribe time and time again, but he won’t give an inch,” she recalled. “We could build a bigger clinic, buy an ambulance and train and hire an EMT to drive it. We could fund recreational programs for teens to keep them from drinking and getting into trouble. We could have prenatal programs…”
He was staring at her openly. “When did you talk to him about that?” he asked.
“I’ve been a thorn in his side for months,” she said easily. “I’ve left him e-mail messages, put notes under his door, left voice mail, sent tapes of the poverty on the reservation through the mail. He knows me very well indeed. But most recently I got him to listen to me over a nice dinner at the local cafeteria between Senate sessions,” she recalled. “He’s afraid of organized crime. He seems to have some suspicions about the motives of the tribal chief who’s so determined to get the casino approved by the state government for Class III gambling.”
“Tom Black Knife,” he said, nodding, because he knew the tribal chief, and there had been some gossip about the way he earmarked tribal funds. Not a lot of money was going into the reservation’s projects right now, and nobody seemed to know exactly where the money was going. Some was even missing, if Tate had understood a random comment one of his cousins had made earlier today. Tom was a good man with a kind heart, the softest touch on the reservation. Odd that his name would be connected with anything as unsavory