The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes. Emilie Rose
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A Lakota spirit.
He rubbed his arm, fighting an instant chill. Suddenly he could hear voices in his head, the cry of a woman and a child being gunned down, running from the cavalry, falling to the frozen earth. A playacted scene from an Indian documentary he’d caught on the History Channel a few months ago.
“What’s wrong?” Tamra asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re frowning.”
He tried to relax his forehead. “It’s not intentional.”
“Here they are.” Mary returned with two large photo albums.
Walker broke eye contact with Tamra, thinking about the baby she’d buried, the child he’d assumed responsibility for. Flowers on a grave.
His mother resumed her seat, handing him the first album. He opened the cover, then nearly lost his breath.
“That’s your father and me on our wedding day. It wasn’t a fancy ceremony. We went to the justice of the peace.”
“You look just like Charlotte, the way she looks now.” Stunned, he studied the picture. He hadn’t noticed the resemblance until now, hadn’t realized how much his sister had taken after Mary. But then, his mother had aged harshly, the years taking their toll.
“Really? Oh, my.” She seemed pleased, thrilled that her daughter had grown up in her image. Especially since Charlotte had called Mary earlier, promising that she would return to the States next week. They’d talked easily, almost as if they’d never been apart.
Walker had been a tad envious, wondering how his sister had managed to carry on a conversation like that. Within a few a minutes she’d accomplished more than he had in two full days.
And over the phone, no less.
Mary turned the page. “Here you are. On the day you were born. Look at that sweet little face.”
Sweet? He wasn’t an authority on newborns, but he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. “I look like a prune.” A dried plum, he thought, with a cap of dark hair.
When his mom swatted his shoulder, he scrunched up his features, mocking the picture.
And then suddenly he felt sad. He noticed Tamra, sitting alone in her chair, ghostlike once again.
Was she thinking about Jade?
Trying to hide her emotions, she gave him a brave smile. But it was too late. He was already affected by her, already wishing he could hold her, take away her pain.
Too many lost children, he thought. Too much heartache. Now his mother was watching him with anticipation, waiting for him to look at the next picture.
To remember his youth.
But the only thing that came to mind was the documentary he recalled on TV. The woman and her child stumbling to the ground. A depiction of someone’s ancestors.
Bleeding in the snow.
Walker rode shotgun in Tamra’s truck, traveling from Rapid City, South Dakota, back to the reservation. They’d spent the morning in Rapid City, where she’d given him a tour of the warehouse that stocked food donations. The Oyate Project, the nonprofit organization she worked for, was a small but stable operation. She claimed there were bigger charities in the area, but she’d been involved in the Oyate Project since its inception.
Oyate, Walker had learned, meant “the People” in Lakota. Her people, his people, she’d told him.
He glanced out his window and saw a vast amount of nothingness—grassy fields, dry brush, a horizon that went on forever. Rapid City was about 120 miles from Pine Ridge, a long and seemingly endless drive and they were only halfway through it.
“So this is the route your delivery trucks take?” he asked.
“Yes, but because of the distance, the weather can vary, particularly in the winter. Sometimes a truck leaves Rapid City, where it’s sixty degrees and hits the reservation in the middle of a whiteout.”
“A blizzard?”
She nodded, and he pictured the land blanketed in snow. “Some of the homes aren’t accessible during heavy snows or rain, are they?”
“No, they’re not. We try to provide propane fuel and heating stoves. We haul firewood, too. But there are so many people to reach, so many families who need to keep warm.”
He thought about the years Tamra and her mother had spent dodging the cold. “Do you have any extended family? Anyone who’s still alive?”
“I have some distant cousins on my dad’s side, but we don’t socialize much. They tend to party, drink too much.” She heaved a heavy-hearted sigh. “I’ve tried to help them get sober, but they shoo me away. They think I’m a do-gooder.”
“No one could say that about me,” he admitted.
“You’ve never offered to help anyone?”
“Not firsthand. I send checks to charities, but I’ve always thought of them as tax write-offs. I don’t get emotionally involved.”
She slanted him a sideways glance. “You will today.”
He tried to snare her gaze, but she’d already turned back to the road. “So where exactly are we going?”
“To meet one of the trucks at a drop-off location. It’s my home base, where my office is.”
They arrived about forty-five minutes later. The drop-off location was a prefab building equipped with garage-style doors. A group of cars were parked around the structure, where volunteers waited for the delivery truck.
Michele and her daughter, Maya, were among the volunteers, ready to help those less fortunate than themselves. Walker was impressed. Michele was living in an overcrowded home, trying to make ends meet, yet she was willing to drive her beat-up car to other communities on the rez, delivering food to hungry families. He suspected the Oyate Project was paying for her gas, but she was offering her time, her heart, for free.
She greeted him and Tamra with a hug. Maya looked up at them and grinned. Soon another volunteer engaged Tamra in a conversation and she excused herself, leaving Walker with Michele and her sweet little girl.
As casually as possible he removed some cash from his wallet and slipped it into Michele’s hand.
She gave him a confused look.
“For Maya’s birthday,” he said, as the child played in the dirt, drawing pictures with a stick.
Michele thanked him, giving him another hug, putting her mouth close to his ear. “I hope you hook up with my friend. She needs a guy like you.”
He stepped back, felt his pulse stray. “I’m not hooking up with anybody.”
“You sure about that?”
Was he? “I’m trying to be.” He’d been doing his damnedest not to touch Tamra, not to kiss her again.
Michele angled her head. Her long, straight hair was clipped with a big, plastic barrette, and a bright blue T-shirt clung to her plus-size figure. “Maybe you shouldn’t fight it.”
He shifted his feet. They stood in the heat, with the sun beating down on their backs. “It would never work. I live in California.”
“Yeah, but you’re here now.” She gave him a serious study. “And my friend is getting to you.”
So he was supposed to live for the moment? Make a move on Tamra? Have a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am with a woman who’d been through hell and back? Somehow he doubted that was what Michele had in mind. “You think I’ll stay. You think that if I hook up with her, I’ll make this place my home.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Not