A Man of His Word (8 page)

Suddenly, Rosebud remembered why she'd never been here before. It was one thing for Tanner and Tom to go into a place like this—rough and gritty and full of people who were happy to throw a punch or three, all in the name of a good time. Tanner had always liked a game of pool and a loud band, and Tom—well, he'd never been afraid of anything, including what might happen to a couple of Lakota Indians in a white man's bar. The two of them wouldn't have had any trouble attracting plenty of feminine attention—or holding their own during the inevitable fights. Because the fights
were
inevitable.

She hated the way Tanner would come home with his face a bloody mess, telling her all about how he and Tom had shown those “racist
wasicu,
” those white devils, what a true Lakota warrior could do. Tanner may have lived clean and sober, but he had still itched for the fight and lived to count coup on his enemy.

As if his face wasn't warning enough, Tanner had always lectured her on staying away from places like Bob's.
“Promise me,”
he'd say, his eyes serious as she patched up his cuts.
“Promise me you won't go to a place like that. It's too dangerous for you.”

He'd made her so mad back then. Always trying to tell her what she could and could not do. He'd been the one who'd sent all the cute boys packing because no one was good enough for his sister. He had been the one who'd told her she had to go to law school. And every time he told her to make that promise, she'd wanted to strangle him.
“Oh, you're the only one allowed to do stupid things?”

But every time, Tanner would only shake his head.
“Just promise, little sister.”

At the time, she hadn't thought Tanner would ever run into something that was too dangerous for him. She'd always thought he'd be able to take whatever came his way. Until that night…
“Promise.”

The neon sign seemed less bright, and more like blood spilling into the night. This place was dangerous. The promise was old and Tanner was dead, but that didn't change what she'd promised.

She looked over at Dan, the words
Let's go somewhere else
right on her lips.

But then she saw the look on his face—a broad smile, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “Now this is my kind of joint!” he said, checking out the row of bikes.

“Are you sure you don't want something else? Something nicer?”

He only shook his head. “There's a lot to be said for a good old-fashioned honky-tonk on a Saturday night.” He turned a blinding smile to her. “Almost feels like home.”

Shoot. Well, she'd gotten herself into this mess. Unless she wanted to admit—out loud—that she was scared
and
had no clue about dining options of any sort, she had no choice but to tough it out. And if she stayed close to Dan, no one would give her any trouble, right?

Swallowing down her hesitation, she turned to Dan. It took a second for her to remember what they had been talking about. Oh, yeah. Ecoterrorists staring down the business end of a shotgun. “So, about that truce?” She'd just focus on Dan—which was also dangerous, but in a totally different way.

“Bribery,” he said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Once, they were my friends. I couldn't forget that. So certain people who shall remain nameless are on the company payroll.”

Not what she'd expected. “Seriously? That's the truce?”

“That and the fact that if anything else happens to my
pumps, the FBI will be all over them like white on rice. I'm literally the only outsider to know who some of these people are.”

She was silent for a moment. He really could keep a secret—did that include car repairs and dates? “Is that what this is? A bribe? My car magically gets fixed and I'm supposed to shut up and go away?”

His hand was on the door, seconds from opening it, but he froze. Moving at glacier speed, he turned, his face hard to read in the flashing red light. And then his thumb brushed against her cheek before he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her to him until their foreheads were touching. She flinched. He was going to kiss her—the third kiss. Three and she was out.

“I don't want you to shut up,” he said in a whisper that made his drawl sound like it belonged in a bedroom. “And I most definitely do not want you to go away, darlin'.” His other hand traced the hollow in her neck before it drifted down to her shoulders, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

But he didn't kiss her. He didn't even cop a feel. She wasn't out yet.

“What
do
you want, Dan?” Her heart pounded away in her chest as her hands found their way to his cheeks. The stubble scratched at her palms, small pricks of irritation that did nothing but turn her on. Kind of like Dan himself.
Tell me the truth,
she thought.
A truth I can believe
.

“I want to buy you dinner, and if the band is halfway decent, I want to dance you around.”

“Is that all?”

“Nope.” He touched his lips to her forehead, leaving a scorch mark on her skin. Not a kiss, she quickly justified. Didn't count if it wasn't on the lips, which conveniently meant she wasn't out yet.
Anything
to still be in—even Bob's Roadhouse Bar and Grill. “But that's all I'm asking for right now.”

H
is “please” smile got them a quiet table in the back of the restaurant—quiet, that is, by bar standards. They only had to shout a little over something that sounded like Charlie Daniels locked in a closet with KISS and an angry cat. “Halfway decent” was pushing it, but the dance floor was packed with every shade of hick, good old boy and white trash possible. The Rapid City Rollers were apparently quite a draw, Dan mused as they looked over the menus. He hadn't been honky-tonkin' for a good long time, and not with a pretty lady by his side for even longer. He was glad she'd picked this place. He wanted to show her that he wasn't all thousand-dollar hats and million-dollar oil wells—he was perfectly happy being a regular guy, if that's what she wanted to see. The night was shaping up real nice.

“Four-drink minimum,” a skinny waitress with unreal blond hair yelled as she bounced her pen on the pad. She pointed her chin toward a handwritten sign over the bar. “4 Drinks, No Execptions. $4 Longnecks Friday and Saterday,”
it announced.
Exceptions
and
Saturday
were misspelled. “What'll ya'll have?”

“Bud—in the bottle—and the T-bone, bloody,” Dan shouted back. Then he looked at Rosebud.

Her sweet mouth was twisted off to one side. She looked like she was five seconds from wrapping all her hair back up in a business braid and grilling him under oath. Great. Now what had he done? “I'll have the New York strip, medium, and a Coke.”

“Four-drink minimum,” the waitress repeated, slamming the tip of the pen for each drawn-out word, like she was talking to a little kid. “Four, understand?”

“I can count,” Rosebud shot back, slapping her menu on the table.

Both women bristled, and Dan had that weird out-of-time feeling again, like he'd waltzed into a saloon in 1886 instead of into a bar in the twenty-first century. What next—armed bandits holding up a stagecoach? “We're here for the band,” he said with his best smile as he dug out two twenties and a ten and placed them on top of the menus he handed back to the waitress. Pre-tipping never hurt anyone. “Four drinks shouldn't be a problem.”

He couldn't hear over the wailing music, but he thought Rosebud hissed. For her part, the waitress broke into an ugly grin and winked at Dan. “No, I guess not. Two steaks, coming right up,
sugar.
” So much for the night being real nice. This was starting to look like a bad idea.

This time, Rosebud definitely hissed. He looked at her. She was hunched defensively, her eyes darting around the room. Anything good he'd started in the truck was long gone. “I take it you've never been in here,” Dan said, hoping to keep the conversation as light as possible while still screaming over the music.

She shot him a smile that looked ferocious, but Dan
watched as she got herself back under control. Her mouth untwisted as she leaned back in her chair, one arm slung over the back. At least she was trying. “No, I've never attempted this before.” The way she said it made it clear that she ranked honky-tonking right up there with skydiving without a parachute.

If she'd never been here, why had she picked this place? There had to be other restaurants in this town. But rather than put her on the spot, he tried to keep things positive. “There's a first for everything, huh?”

For a second, Dan wished they were back in the truck. Not that he loved getting grilled about his past, but Rosebud was way too on edge in this place, and he had no idea why.

He glanced around. Seemed like a run-of-the-mill honky-tonk to him. On second glance, he noticed everyone was looking at her, and not like he looked at her. No, just about every female in the joint was glaring at Rosebud out the corner of their eyes like she was wearing a huge scarlet
A
—and no pants. Most of the men had taken notice, too, but Dan decided he didn't like those looks anymore.

Dan couldn't figure out where the attitude came from until it hit him like a bolt out of the blue. Rosebud was the only Indian in a sea of white faces. Over the din of the band, he remembered that weasel Naylor sputtering out
savages
and the way his uncle talked down to that slime Thrasher. No doubt about it, Dan thought as he mentally smacked his head. This attempt at a date
was
a bad idea.

They should go. Dan started to stand, but he caught the defiant way Rosebud crossed her arms and lifted her chin. She may not be comfortable here, but she showed no sign of bolting. Of course she wouldn't. She wouldn't turn tail when Cecil wanted her gone, and she wouldn't bail now. Somehow, he knew she would never give anyone the satisfaction of defeating her.

He settled back into his chair, positioning himself between her and the crowd. If she wasn't about to run and hide, he wasn't, either.

The waitress flitted past, setting down their drinks. Dan caught the way Rosebud stared at his beer. “Is this okay?” he asked, taking a cautious swig.

She shrugged and scooted her chair next to his. It was only natural to put his arm around her shoulders and make sure she knew she was safe with him.

“How much do you know about me, Dan?” The way she leaned up to speak in his ear, using a nearly normal tone, was more than enough to make him forget about all the dirty looks they were getting.

“I've done my research.” A little bit of the internet went a long way.

“So you know about my parents?”

Parents? Who the hell wanted to talk about parents at a time like this? But she was resting her head on his shoulder. She fit there real nice. He sighed and dredged through his memory. “They died in a car wreck, didn't they?”

“Dad was drunk—they both were. Drove into a tree. The official report blames the road conditions, but I know what really happened.”

Midswig, Dan paused. “Tanner didn't drink.” He remembered now—that was one of Rosebud's main arguments against the suicide ruling. Tanner Donnelly didn't drink; therefore, he couldn't have been drunk enough to shoot his head off.

She sighed, a sound of sheer weariness. “No.”

“You don't drink.”

“No.”

He swallowed and nearly choked on his beer. Suddenly, that four-drink minimum looked like a mountain because, as much as he wanted a few beers, having more than one and
then climbing behind the wheel wasn't an option. “I'll just have the one, and we won't leave until I'm stone-cold sober, okay?”

“But the waitress—”

Speak of the devil. The waitress leaned over his shoulder, grazing him with her boobs. “Get you another one, sugar?”

Next time he managed to talk Rosebud into anything resembling a date, it was going to be someplace quiet and secluded. He'd thought the tribal members had given him the cold shoulder at that first meeting—but if this was how they were treated by white folks off the reservation, he couldn't blame them.

Rosebud had never treated him coldly, though—all of her chill seemed to be an occupational hazard. When she wasn't being a lawyer, she looked at him with a gaze that was much warmer. Although he had no idea if he was going to get any warmth in this bar. He sighed in frustration. What they needed was some neutral territory. “You know, I'd like to buy the band a round.” He dug out two more twenties. “That's…” he leaned forward and counted. “Four beers. Keep the change.” If that's what it cost to buy them a little breathing room in this place, then that's what it cost.

The waitress snatched the bills out of his hand and shoved one into her back pocket. “Anything you want, sugar.”

“If she calls you that again, I'm going to rip her lips off,” Rosebud whispered as the waitress finally left them alone. She sounded serious, too.

The note of jealousy had him grinning. “I wouldn't want you to get your hands dirty.”

“Do you do this often? Go out to the dives and pay too much for beer?”

“Naw.” He leaned in—so she could hear him better, not so he could catch a hint of her scent. “And before you ask, I don't spend all my time in an exclusive club sipping mar
tinis, either. I don't have the time for that, and I don't often have anyone I want to go out with, either.”

Rosebud took a long sip of her Coke before she settled back into his arm. “What about Tiffany?”

What was he going to do with—to—this woman? “I suppose I should have seen that one coming.”

“Probably,” she agreed. He couldn't see her face, but her shoulders sort of moved, like she was giggling at him.

“If I tell you about Tiffany, will you be done researching me?”

Unexpectedly, her hand wrapped around his waist and she hooked a finger through a belt loop as she molded herself to his chest. The full-body contact—oh, sweet Jesus, the weight of her breasts pressed against him—made his erection try to stand up and salute. “Well, done with the secondhand research, anyway.”

Which left firsthand possibilities wide-open. He shifted his hips until he was certain that the table was covering them both from the waist down. “Deal. What do you want to know?” Talking about his oldest lady friend didn't seem like foreplay, but if it worked for Rosebud, then it worked for him.

“I counted about thirty or so mentions of you two in the society pages of the Dallas papers—none of which involved places like this. That seems like a lot for not having anyone you want to go out with.”

He knew what this was. This was Rosebud trying to figure out if he was a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy or not. Full disclosure was the only way to go. “Tiffany's a wonderful girl. I haven't seen her since I danced with her at her wedding, though. She thought that was for the best. She still sends me Christmas cards. Got a couple of cute babies now. Her husband's a real nice fellow.”

“Why didn't you marry her?”

He went stiff, and not in the fun way. Just when he thought he'd gone and figured this woman out, she went and asked him something like that. Hands down, this was the weirdest date he'd ever been on. “I didn't want a wife.”

She stilled against him. “What
do
you want, Dan?”

That was the second time she'd asked him that question tonight. If they were going to get all deep, he sure wished he could have another beer. “Tiffany was what I needed in Texas—someone to go to charity balls with, someone who understood that my company comes first.”

“Men have married for less than that.”

“I don't want a wife,” he repeated with more force. “I want a partner. I don't want someone to cook my dinner and make my bed. I don't want a maid. I want an equal. I want someone I can talk to, someone I can respect.”

Someone like Rosebud.

The thought popped into his head like a prairie dog popping out of the ground.

Dan had thought once—only once—about actually marrying Tiffany, but aside from the sex and the next corporate dinner party, he didn't actually have a single interesting thing to say to her, and vice versa.

Despite his little outburst, he realized he was stroking her hair. And that she was still holding on to him. She didn't say anything, but she hadn't run screaming, either.

The waitress shot Rosebud a look when she came back with the steaks, but when Dan pleased and thanked her for a Coke to go with his meal, he got the kind of smile a waitress gives a big tipper. Man, he'd forgotten how hungry he was, and the steak was bleeding red. Perfect.

“What about you?” he said between bites of meat.

She was digging in herself, which he found refreshing. Too many times he'd taken a woman out to dinner only to have her pick at a sad little salad. “What do you want to know?”

Well, now, that was a change of pace. “I found some stuff. I'm honored to be in the presence of the Indian Days Powwow Princess.”

She rolled her eyes, but still gave him a royal wave. “I bet there was a picture with that one.”

“Yup.” In fact, she'd looked exactly like an old-fashioned Indian princess—her hair in two tight braids, her dress covered with those little jingly cone things—but not a whole lot like
his
Indian princess, the one in the simple buckskin dress with loose hair. Except for the smile—Rosebud's smile of victory. “But there were huge holes.” In fact, all he'd found were the honor rolls. Top of her high school class, summa cum laude all four years at the university, top twenty-five percent in law school. That, and the ongoing legal battle with Armstrong Holdings. That was it.

She grinned at him, fork hovering in the air. “Some of us have the good sense to stay out of the society pages.”

“Trust me, I'm all for keeping a low profile these days.”

Her eyes shot over his shoulder. He followed her gaze and saw their waitress standing with several other barmaids, doing everything but pointing. “You need more practice.” At least she sounded amused. He hoped.

“Tell me about the holes. Do you like being a lawyer?”

Her face hardened a little, but not so much that she stopped chewing. “I'm good at it.”

“Now, ain't that jest like a lawyer,” he said in his heaviest drawl. “Answerin' the question she wants to answer, not the question I
asked.
”

She notched an eyebrow at him that said,
Oh, come on.
“Well, I am. But I wanted to study art—fiber arts. I…” Her eyes dipped down, and he swore she was blushing. “I like to quilt.”

Quilting? At first, that surprised him, but then he thought
about it. One tiny stitch at a time, over and over, until the big picture was finished. Methodical. “I bet you're good at it.”

Even in the dim light of the bar, the blush deepened. Now he was getting somewhere. “I don't get the chance to do it very much. Something
else
takes up all my time.”

“I don't want to talk about
that,
” he said, finishing his beer. No way was Cecil invited to any part of this party.