Danger, Sweetheart (21 page)

Roger cleared his throat. “You do realize you're eating lamb chops while we're talking about this, right?”

“Dammit!” He glared down at the succulent chops, the lunch special. “Lamb lollipops,” they were called, because of how the bone was dressed. “Apples and oranges.” Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't fly. “Please consider what I've said, Roger.”

“I will. The time for that—if it ever comes—is a long way off.”

Natalie broke in. “Heard this was your last one?”

“Last litter,” he corrected her.

“Oh, okay. Garrett's been babbling around town that you're down to one, so I just…”

“That poor idiot.” Roger shook his head. “The worst thing that could happen to that boy is for him to get what he wants. A turd with money is still a turd.”

Wait. Is that some sort of veiled insult? Not to Garrett, but …

“They're letting me keep the rest of 'em on the farm until the bulldozers show.”

At “bulldozers,” Blake felt his stomach drop. Was Roger a casualty of Blake's “money solves everything” blunder? Noooo. No. Consider the evidence: Roger had known who Blake was at their first meeting and been nothing but pleasant. No one in this town had hesitated to express their displeasure with him; he doubted Roger was the exception. There were other reasons why bulldozers were en route to Roger's pig farm, reasons that had nothing to do with Blake.

You're just paranoid. Right? Right. You're ground zero at the site of a future nuclear explosion. You're seeing monsters everywhere.

As if reading his mind, Roger smiled. “It's fine.”

“It is?”

“Losing the farm.”

Shit!
“It
is
?”

“Oh, I hated the idea at first, but letting the farm go means I can retire a few years early. Now I can do more traveling, work on my … my hobby. Which is good. I've never had the chance—it's good.”

Uncertain why the man had suddenly gone reticent, as if he were almost ashamed of whatever his hobby was, Blake was nonetheless grateful for the man's benevolence. “Roger, I apologize. When I helped Garrett with the property deal, I didn't understand the consequences. I'm—” He couldn't help glancing at a frowning Natalie. “I'm trying to make up for that now.”

“Sure you are,” was the easy, pleasant reply. “I know. And Shannah's mighty glad to have you in town, too. We have dinner most nights and she talks about you a lot.”

My mother is dating a pig farmer?
That thought—Blake had no idea how to feel about it, mostly because his mother hadn't been on a date for years—was followed by,
That's why he was so pleasant and nonconfrontational when we first met. And why he's still that way. He knew why I'd come before I knew why I'd come. Hoped I'd see what I had done and come to regret it. Decided there was no point in a confrontation since Heartbreak would punish me worse than anything he could do.

I am a shit.

“That's all very nice to say, Blake,” Natalie began, her mouth screwing into a small twist, “but these are people's lives and their homes, which you didn't give a shit about before your mom—”

“Excuse me, young lady,” Roger interrupted politely, “but you're not allowed to be more upset at the fate of my farm than I am.”

To Blake's surprise, because he thought Natalie could be upset about whatever she wanted to be upset about, she blushed, dark pink staining her cheeks beneath the tan. “Of course. I apologize.” To his astonishment, she added, “To you, too, Blake. I don't mean to give you constant shit. I think— I think by now it's more reflex than anything else. Which doesn't make it right. It's pretty good, having you at Heartbreak.” To Roger: “You should see this guy work. You should see his hands!”

I … I … am I going to faint? No, it's just the heat. And the wonderful thing Natalie didn't have to say but did. I haven't been this pleased since … since … idiot, they're waiting for your response.

“What a kind thing to say,” Blake replied, and that made her blush harder for some reason.

“It's not kind.” She shook her head, staring down at her soup bowl. “I'm not kind. You've gotta get over that idea of me.”

Roger cleared his throat. “Your mama know you're here?”

“God, no.” He wouldn't have been able to speak with Shannah Banana without giving the game away. The nuclear option was most effective and devastating when no one knew it was coming. His grandmother would be pulling into the driveway within minutes, and
that's
when his mother would realize what he'd done, and not a nanosecond before.

If Roger was puzzled as to why Blake would have lunch with a local girl where his mother was staying without telling her, he didn't comment. Instead he twitched the leash, carefully pulling the White Rose of York away from their table.

“Gotta get this gal squared away before I head out.”

“I'll watch her,” Blake interjected so quickly he startled himself. “I mean, ah, it's no trouble to supervise her. For a little while. If you like. I don't mind.” He glanced at Natalie, who was gaping at him.
Does my fondness for the White Rose of York make me more acceptable to her, or less? Not enough data.
“Natalie doesn't mind.”
I hope.

“Naw, I'll be gone for a couple hours.”

“Don't you have enough on your plate with Margaret of Anjou?” Natalie teased, and laughed outright at Blake's shudder.

“Welp, if you'll excuse me, I gotta go tickle trout.”

“Sorry?”
Please don't be a euphemism for masturbating; please don't be a euphemism for masturbating. Unlikely; he wouldn't say such a thing in front of Natalie. Would he?

Natalie took pity at Blake's clear confusion. “It's fishing, ya idjit.”

“Oh.” He paused.
Idjit?
“That doesn't help me at all. I'm still mystified.”

“You in a nutshell.” A strange thing, she'd sounded almost … fond?

“It's how we old-timers like to do it. You just”—Roger bent at the waist and wiggled his fingers over an imaginary trout in an imaginary stream—“do like this. It puts 'em in a trance and then…” He mimed gently seizing the entranced trout and heaving it up onto the imaginary riverbank. “Supper!”

“That is genius. I think.” Was it? On the one hand, it would take time. On the other hand, no equipment necessary. He might have to do some research. “It might be self-defeating, I'm not sure.”

“I'm goin' with genius,” was the cheerful reply as Roger moved past their table into the house, the White Rose of York trotting in his wake. She let out a squeak as she passed Natalie. “See you kids later.”

When the porch door had closed, Natalie leaned forward and almost whispered, “Isn't he the biggest sweetie? One of the nicest guys in town maybe.”

Her mouth has never been so close to my face.
“Maybe?” he managed.

“Did you hear him stumble when he was talking about his hobby?”

“Yes, that was odd.”

“He takes these long mysterious vacations that he never talks about.” She was still leaning close to him, still speaking in a low, intimate voice that Blake could hear with his groin. He'd had no idea he could hear with his groin; working on a farm was wreaking changes all over his body. “He doesn't bring it up, ever—and you know how boring people can get about their vacations. He never has pictures. Not that he's shown anybody, I mean. It's all pretty weird. The latest theories are he's a spy brought out of retirement for one more job—which has happened about eight times—and he has a man-whore kink and goes to a big anonymous city to rent his body to tourists and the occasional skeevey local.”

Blake snorted so hard he nearly aspirated his booze-ade. “I won't thank you for putting that mental picture in my head.”

She laughed, delighted. “Think I want it in
my
head? I don't want to picture
any
of that stuff on my own. Why shouldn't you have to suffer, too?”

Her head was so close to his! He wished he had a wonderful secret to tell her. Something titillating but nonthreatening.
I had a nightmare I ran down Margaret of Anjou with the tractor and woke up laughing.
Ah, no.
I am considering my brother's advice but have no idea how to go about seducing you.
Pass.
Your shampoo is mysterious and it's the wrong time of the year to smell of cherry blossoms.
He liked her confiding in him. He wished he could be overt about smelling her damp hair. “It's not long,” he blurted, and then wanted to smack himself.

“What isn't?” She followed his gaze and touched her hair. “This? No. Not practical for my work. And I have to keep my bangs short, and if I wear it too long it makes my face disappear. I have a fat face!”

“You do not.” He was almost mortally offended. “You have a wonderful face.”

“I noticed you didn't say thin.”

“Broad,” he said firmly, “is not fat.”

“Why so interested in my coiffure? D'you want me to break out the braids, maybe stick an eagle feather in my hair?”

“No, only warriors, chiefs, and braves had that privilege,” he replied without thinking, “and that only after a brave deed done and then told to the tribe.”

“Been reading up on me?” she teased, and at once it was difficult to hold her gaze.
Idiot! Must you always show off?
He mumbled something about indigenous people and matters of intellectual curiosity and could see she was trying not to laugh. A good sign, he hoped.

“It's fine. I'm flattered. I promise there won't be a quiz.”

A quiz I could handle. It's being in close proximity with you that I find difficult and distracting.

“I would never assume that after reading a Wikipedia entry about Lakota and Dakota tribes I would know all there was to know about you.”
Alas.
He didn't and never would know all there was to know about her.

“Are you sure?” At least she was still teasing; he hadn't offended her with his clumsiness. “Most people think what Wiki tells them to think. And how'd you know I was Dakota?”

“Process of elimination,” he replied promptly. “Strictly going by the numbers, your ancestors were likely Sioux or Chippewa. After researching the area, it seemed likely you were—”
Stop. Just stop.
“Lucky guess?”

“Never in your life,” was the kind reply, much more than he deserved.

Okay. She's not annoyed; you haven't made an irredeemable ass of yourself, on this topic anyway. Move on. Talk about the weather. Talk about the White Rose of York. Natalie is not your own personal font of Native American trivia.

“I … I—”

“Yeah? You okay? You look weird. Weird
er,
” she clarified.

Why is it so hot out here?
“Nothing.”

“You sure? I don't mind if you've got questions. It's nice to see someone going to the source, frankly. Not that I'm much of one, I identify equally with my mom's and my dad's cultures.”

“I'm fine. I am. I have no questions. I seek no knowledge.”

She leaned in again. “Are you suuure?”

“It's just I found the government hierarchy to be fascinating with the subdivisions being divided into tribes as they are—”

“Ha! Knew you'd crack.”

“—and you would think their autonomous nature would make governing difficult, but it seems to work, which raises several more questions, and though the U.S. and Canadian governments acknowledge your citizenship they also consider you dual citizens, which must be quite advantageous…” He took a breath. “… and although some tribes were patriarchal in nature I found their encouragement of girls to hunt and fight to be not only indicative of an open mind but in fact putting them ahead of their time, which I think was a factor of the leaders—the
itancans—
no longer being exclusively male.”

“Wow.”

He wanted to hide. “I'm sorry.”

“How come? You made some good points and you never once offered me the chance to smoke a peace pipe.” At Blake's horrified groan, her smile widened. “That was— Your curiosity about things, it just eats at you sometimes, doesn't it?”

“Yes. That's exactly what it does.” She understood, miracle of miracles. He'd half expected a faceful of booze-ade.

“My grandpa was our
itancan
for years.”

“He was? Really?”
Was.
Dammit. No longer a source.
Yes, like she would allow you to corner her grandfather and fire questions at him while resisting the urge to kiss his granddaughter.

“And ahead of his time—which means your relatives and mine have things in common.”

He wasn't hearing right. Was he? “Really?”

“Of course, really. Look, your family was never especially loved around here, but they did big things and they left their mark on the place. No one can deny that.”

“They certainly left their mark on my mom,” he replied grimly. “She coped as best she could.”

Natalie was nodding. “Yeah, and that's something else we have in common. No matter how strongly I identify as a Native American—or don't identify—I promise you, someone always thinks I'm not doing enough. Or that I'm doing too much. Or that I'm hiding. Or that I'm flaunting. You can't win, and there's no point in trying to please everyone all the time. It's— It's family stuff; it's complicated and even crippling for some people. And none of it's easy, even when you love them and want to be with them.”

“I think you're fortunate, knowing where you came from. Crichton said if you don't know where you came from, you're a leaf that doesn't know it's part of a tree.” When Blake had invited her to lunch, he never would have dreamed of this, an earnest and honest discussion of families and their fallout. It was all he could do not to seize her and hug her and tell her however she identified or didn't was exactly right for her and no one else's damned business. Not wanting to ruin the most pleasant lunch he'd enjoyed in years, he resisted the urge. “My mom never spoke of Sweetheart or her family. We learned early on not to ask about them.”