The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes. Emilie Rose
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Or that his intensity reminded her of the past, of the years she’d spent in San Francisco, of the man who’d destroyed her heart.
She glanced at Mary, saw that she waited for a response. “He’s stunning.” Tall and lean, she thought, with just the right blend of power, of male muscle. “He was dressed casually.” And she’d noticed his chest, his stomach, the indentation of his navel. “But he doesn’t seem like a casual guy.”
Mary frowned. “You could tell he was rich?”
“Yes.”
“Fancy watch? Designer labels on his clothes?”
Tamra nodded, troubled by the insecurity in the other woman’s eyes. “But you know what?” she said, hoping to soften the blow. “He looks like his dad.” She’d seen photographs of David Ashton. She knew all about the farmer Mary had married. “And he resembles you, too.”
Walker’s mother relaxed a little. “He looked like both of us when he was young.” She paused, took an audible breath. “Do you think he’ll like stew?”
“Sure.” And if he didn’t, she doubted he would say otherwise. He would probably go through the motion of being polite. Of course, he hadn’t been particularly polite with Tamra. But she’d been harsh with him. She didn’t trust his motives, and she suspected he was going to complicate their lives.
Turn their Lakota world on its ear.
Most whitemanized Indians were brash and unyielding. Tamra knew because she’d been one herself. And in some ways she was still struggling with her identity.
“I wonder why he didn’t mention Charlotte,” Mary said. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything about his sister?”
“I’m sure. But you can ask him about her.”
“Yes, of course.” Nervous once again, Mary smoothed her blouse. She’d chosen a floral-printed top and blue pants, an outfit she’d purchased last summer. She didn’t fuss over her clothes and she rarely wore makeup. But this evening she’d put on lipstick. And she’d curled her rain-straight hair.
But even so, she looked older than her fifty-seven years. Her beauty had faded. Tamra had watched it dissipate. Mary had lived a hard life, and the lines in her face bore the brunt of her labor.
The pain of losing her children.
And now Walker was back. A stranger. A man with a distant heart. He hadn’t asked about his mom. Nothing that gave Tamra an indication that he cared.
“I’ll make the salad,” she said, needing to keep busy. The anticipation of entertaining Walker was making her anxious, too.
“I’ll bet he’s used to steak and lobster.” Mary put the vacuum cleaner into the hall closet, then frowned at their cluttered kitchen, at the simplicity of their existence. “Do you think Spencer knows he’s here?”
“I have no idea.” Tamra knew that Spencer Ashton had taken Walker and Charlotte away from their mother. He was responsible for the constant ache in Mary’s chest, for the tears she’d cried.
Tamra washed her hands, running them under the cold water. She couldn’t help being fiercely protective of the woman who’d raised her.
“Is it too hot in here?” Mary asked, stirring the stew. “Should we open another window?”
“It’s starting to cool off. It’ll be okay.”
“Will it?”
“Yes.” She hated the shame that had begun to creep into their minds. Tamra and Mary had strived to accept their lifestyle, to be proud of it.
Mary set the table, but when Walker arrived, she was in the bathroom, reapplying her lipstick.
Tamra answered the knock on the screen door, and for a moment she and Walker gazed at each other through the barrier.
He didn’t smile. He looked impeccably groomed in a tan shirt and matching trousers. He was cleanly shaven and his short dark hair was combed away from his face, exposing his half-blood features.
Tamra’s pulse zigzagged, like invisible footprints racing up her arm.
The last man who’d had that kind of effect on her had given her a child. A baby she’d buried in San Francisco, the city where Walker lived.
“Come in,” she said, opening the screen door. It wasn’t a fluke that Tamra was connected to San Francisco. That she’d spent her college years there. She’d chosen that region because of Walker and his sister.
“Thanks.” He entered the house, then handed her a bouquet of roses. “I was going to bring a bottle of wine, but since they don’t sell alcohol on the reservation, I figured you weren’t allowed to indulge in it, either.” He paused, shrugged a little. “But I’ve seen plenty of people drinking. I guess everyone doesn’t follow the rules.”
She merely nodded. The white-owned liquor stores in the border towns catered to Lakota drunks. His mother was far too familiar with that scenario to think of alcohol as a luxury, even an exceptional bottle of wine. Mary’s brother had died from alcoholism. “Your mom will appreciate the flowers.”
“Where is she?”
“Freshening up. She’ll only be a minute.”
Or a second, she thought, as Mary appeared in the hallway.
Walker turned around, and Tamra watched mother and son face each other for the first time in twenty-two years.
Tears filled Mary’s eyes, but she didn’t step forward to hug her boy. He didn’t embrace her, either.
Awkward silence stretched between them.
Walker didn’t know what to say. Mary didn’t look familiar. But he didn’t have any old pictures, nothing to refresh his memory.
Was he a coldhearted bastard? Or was it normal that he didn’t feel anything? That Mary Little Dove didn’t seem like his mother?
When she blinked, the tears that were gathered on her lashes fluttered like raindrops. Should he offer her his handkerchief? Or would that trigger even more tears? Walker didn’t want to make her cry.
He moved forward, just a little, stepping closer to her. Why had his memories faded? Why couldn’t he see her in his mind? He remembered the farm, but he couldn’t recall his mom.
Because it had been easier to forget, he thought. Easier to let her go, to get on with his life.
“My son,” Mary said, breaking the silence. “My boy. I never thought I’d see you again. But here you are. So tall. So handsome.”
A muscle clenched in his jaw. “We thought you were dead.”
“I know.” The tears glistening on her lashes fell, dotting her cheeks. “I’m aware of what Spencer told you.”
She knew? She’d been part of the lie? Walker wanted to turn away, to shut her out of his life once again, but his feet wouldn’t move. He simply stood there, the weight of her words dragging him down.
“Is Charlotte all right?” she asked. “Does she know you came to see me?”
“My sister is fine, and this was her idea.”
Mary pressed her hand against her heart. “My baby girl. She was only three years old. How could she possibly remember me?”
Walker didn’t respond. But how could he? He didn’t remember her, either. And, God help him, he didn’t want to. He had no desire to become her son, to be part of Pine Ridge, to embrace his Lakota roots.
Spencer had taught him that being Indian didn’t matter. And from what Walker had seen so far, he had to agree.
He glanced at Tamra and saw that she watched him. Could she sense his thoughts? She clutched the roses he’d brought, and the bouquet made her