Paper Rose (3 page)

 

The sudden blare of a horn made her jump, brought her back to the painful present in the chill of the nation's capitol, outside the exclusive restaurant where she'd just made the evening news by attacking Tate Winthrop with a tureen of crab bisque.

She stretched, hurting as she let the memory of the past reluctantly slip away. A car horn had separated her from Tate two years ago, too. He'd withdrawn from her at once, and that had been the end of her dreams. She'd helped solve his murder mystery, which was no more than a Paleo-Indian skull with a bullet in it, used in an attempt to frame an unpopular member of congress. Any anthropologist worth her salt would have known the race from the dentition and the approximate age from the patination and the projectile points and pottery that the would-be framer hadn't realized would help date the remains.

Tate had involved Cecily, a student, and that had given her hope. But fate had quickly taken hope away with a blare from an impatient driver's horn. From that moment on, Tate had put her at a distance and kept her there, for the two years of her master's studies in forensic archaeology. Their close friendship had all but vanished. And tonight had shattered her world.

Her doctorate was a fading dream already. Since Tate had rescued her from her abusive stepfather at the age of seventeen and taken her to live with his mother on the Wapiti Ridge Sioux reservation, which was near the Pine Ridge Sioux Reservation, he'd acted in stead of a guardian. But he'd told her that she had a grant to pay for her education, her apartment, her clothing and food and other necessities. She had a bank account that it paid into. All her expenses had been covered for the past six years by that anonymous foundation that helped penniless young women get an education. At least that's what Tate had told her. And tonight she'd discovered that it had all been a lie. Tate had been paying for it, all of it, out of his own pocket.

She pulled the shawl closer as a tall, lithe figure cut across the parking lot and joined her at the passenger door.

“You're already famous,” Colby Lane told her, his dark eyes twinkling in his lean, scarred face. “You'll see yourself on the evening news, if you live long enough to watch it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Tate's on his way right now.”

“Unlock this thing and get me out of here!” she squeaked.

He chuckled. “Coward.”

He unlocked the door and let her climb in. By the time he got behind the wheel and took off, Tate was striding across the parking lot with blood in his eye.

Cecily blew him a kiss as Colby gunned the engine down the busy street.

“You're living dangerously tonight,” Colby told her. “He knows where you live,” he added.

“He should. He paid for the apartment,” she added in a sharp, hurt tone. She wrapped her arms closer around her. “I don't want to go home, Colby. Can I stay with you tonight?”

She knew, as few other people did, that Colby Lane was still passionately in love with his ex-wife, Maureen. He had nothing to do with other women even two years after his divorce was final. He drank to excess from time to time, but he wasn't dangerous. Cecily trusted no one more. He'd been a good friend to her, as well as to Tate, over the years.

“He won't like it,” he said.

She let out a long breath. “What does it matter now?” she asked wearily. “I've burned my bridges.”

“I don't know why that socialite Audrey had to tell you,” he muttered irritably. “It was none of her business.”

“Maybe she wants a big diamond engagement ring, and Tate can't afford it because he's keeping me,” she said bitterly.

He glanced at her rigid profile. “He won't marry her.”

She made a sound deep in her throat. “Why not? She's got everything…money, power, position and beauty—and a degree from Vassar.”

“In psychology,” Colby mused.

“She's been going around with Tate for several months.”

“He goes around with a lot of women. He won't marry any of them.”

“Well, he certainly won't marry me,” she assured him. “I'm white.”

“More a nice, soft tan,” he told her. “You can marry me. I'll take care of you.”

She made a face at him. “You'd call me Maureen in your sleep and I'd lay your head open with the lamp. It would never work.”

He drew in a long breath. His lean hands tightened on the wheel. One of them was artificial. Colby had lost an arm in Africa. He was a mercenary, a professional soldier. Sometimes he worked for various covert government agencies, sometimes he freelanced. She never asked about his frequent travels. They were companions who went out together occasionally, fellow sufferers of unrequited passions for other people. It made for a close friendship.

“Tate's a damned fool,” he said flatly.

“I don't appeal to him,” she corrected. “It's a shame I'm not Lakota.”

“Leta Winthrop would argue that point,” he murmured with an amused glance. “Didn't you lobby for sovereignty at that Senate hearing last month?”

“Me and several other activists. Some of the Lakota resent having a white woman plead their case, but I've been trying my best.”

“I know.”

“Thanks for your support.” She leaned back against the car seat. “It's been a horrible night. I guess Senator Holden will never speak to me again, much less invite me to another political banquet.”

“He'll love the publicity he gets from your exit,” he corrected with a chuckle. “And I believe he's been trying to persuade you to assume the position of assistant curator in charge of acquisitions with his new Native American Museum project in D.C.”

“So he is. I may have to take it now. I can't see going on with my studies under the circumstances.”

“I've got some cash in Swiss banks. I'll help you.”

“Thanks, but no, thanks. I'm going to be totally independent.”

“Suit yourself.” He glanced at her. “If you take that job, it won't get you any points with Tate. He and Matt Holden are bitter enemies.”

“Senator Holden doesn't favor allowing a casino on the Wapiti reservation. Tate does. They've almost come to blows on the issue twice.”

“So I heard. And that's not all I've heard. Holden is sticking his nose into a hornet's nest in the Indian Affairs committee, and he's had some public and all but slanderous things to say about the push for a casino at Wapiti.”

“There are other Sioux casinos in South Dakota,” she replied. “But Senator Holden is fighting this one all the way. Nobody knows why. He and Tate have had some real battles over this.”

“That's just an excuse and you know it. Tate hates the man.” Colby pushed back a strand of straight black hair that fell into his eyes. Unlike Tate, his hair was short. “I know I said this before, but it bears repeating. You know Tate won't like you staying with me.”

“I don't care,” she said bitterly. “I don't tell him where to sleep. It's none of his business what I do anymore.”

He made a rough sound. “Would you like to guess what he's going to assume if you stay the night in my apartment?”

She drew in a long breath. “Okay. I don't want to cause problems between you, not after all the years you've been friends. Take me to a hotel instead.”

He hesitated uncharacteristically. “I can take the heat, if you can.”

“I don't know that I can. I've got enough turmoil in my life right now. Besides, he'll look for me at your place. I don't want to be found for a couple of days, until I can get used to my new situation and make some decisions about my future. I want to see Senator Holden and find another apartment. I can do all that from a hotel.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Make it a moderately priced one,” she added with graveyard humor. “I'm no longer a woman of means. From now on, I'm going to have to be responsible for my own bills.”

“You should have poured the soup in the right lap,” he murmured.

“Which was?”

“Audrey Gannon's,” he said curtly. “She had no right to tell you that Tate was your benefactor. She did it for pure spite, to drive a wedge between you and Tate. She's nothing but trouble. One day Tate is going to be sorry that he ever met her.”

“She's lasted longer than the others.”

“You haven't spent enough time talking to her to know what she's like. I have,” he added darkly. “She has enemies, among them an ex-husband who's living in a duplex because she got his house, his Mercedes, and his Swiss bank account in the divorce settlement.”

“So that's where all those pretty diamonds came from,” she said wickedly.

“Her parents had money, too, but they spent most of it before they died in a plane crash. She likes unusual men, they say, and Tate's unusual.”

“She won't go to the reservation to see Leta,” she commented.

“Of course not.” He leaned toward her as he stopped at a traffic light. “It's a
Native American
reservation!”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Leta's worth two of Audrey.”

“Three,” he returned. “Okay. I'll find you a hotel. Then I'm leaving town before Tate comes looking for me!”

“You might hang a crab on your front door,” she said, tongue-in-cheek. “It just might ward him off.”

“Ha!”

She turned her eyes toward the bright lights of the city. She felt cold and alone and a little frightened. But everything would work out. She knew it would. She was a grown woman and she could take care of herself. This was her chance to prove it.

T
here was film at eleven. Senator Holden found it hilarious, and when Cecily phoned to ask him about the job at the new museum that he'd offered her, he told her so. He didn't ask any questions. He accepted her application over the phone and gave her the job on the spot.

Early Monday morning, Cecily found a small apartment that she could manage on the salary she'd be making and she moved out of the apartment Tate had been paying for. She pulled out of her master's classes and withdrew from college. From now on, she was paying her own way. And one day, she'd pay Tate back, every penny. For the time being, shell-shocked and sick at heart that she was nothing more than a charity case to him, she wanted no more to do with the man she'd loved for so long. No wonder he'd thought of her as his ward. She was obligated to him for every crumb she put in her mouth. But no more. She was her own woman now. She'd support herself. Maybe later she could finish her master's degree. She had plenty of time for that. At least she had a job to see her through this difficult transition.

She was forced to use her small bank account to pay the deposit on the new apartment, to pay for movers to transport her few possessions and for enough food to keep her going until she drew her first paycheck. She was so sick at heart that she hated the whole world. She couldn't even talk to Tate's mother, Leta.

The new apartment was small, and not much to look at, but at least she'd be responsible for herself. Unlike the old one, it was unfurnished, so she started out with very little. She didn't even have a television set. At least the new place was closer to the museum. She could ride the bus to work every day, or even take the metro if she liked.

Colby came by to help her unpack, bringing a pizza with him and a small boom box with some cassettes as a house-warming present. They munched while they unwrapped lamps and dishes, sipping beer because it was all he brought for them to drink.

“I hate beer,” she moaned.

“If you drink enough of it, you won't care about the taste,” he assured her.

She gave the can a dubious stare, shrugged, closed her eyes, held her breath and drank heavily. “Yuck!” she said.

“Keep going.”

She finished half of the can and ate some more pizza. After a few minutes, sure enough, it didn't taste half-bad.

He watched her grin and nodded. “That's the first smile I've seen in days.”

“I'm getting through it,” she assured him. “I start work next Monday. I can't wait.”

“I wish I could be around to hear about your first day, but I've got another overseas assignment.”

She suspended the pizza at her mouth. Putting it down, she said worriedly, “Colby, you've already lost an arm…”

“And it will make me more careful,” he told her. “I lost it because I got drunk. I won't let that happen again.” He glanced at the can. “Beer doesn't affect me these days. It's just a pleasant diversion.” He looked at her. “I'm through my worst time. Now I'm going to help you through yours. When I get back.”

She grimaced. “Well, don't get killed, okay?”

He chuckled. “Okay.”

 

During Colby's absence, she celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday with a cupcake, a candle and a card from Leta, who never forgot. Tate apparently had, or he was holding a grudge. For the first time in eight years, her birthday passed unnoticed by him.

She was now firmly entrenched at the museum and having the time of her life. She missed college and her classmates, but she loved the work she was doing. Acquisitions would be part of her duties as assistant curator, and she got to work in her own forensic archaeology field, Paleo-Indian archaeology. She didn't really miss forensics as much as she'd expected to. It was almost as exciting to have access to rare collections of Folsom Clovis, and other projectile points, which were thousands of years old, along with bola stones, chippers and other stone tools and pottery fashioned by long-dead hands.

Her new phone number was unlisted, but Tate called her once at the museum. She put the phone down, gently but firmly. He didn't call again.

Senator Holden did. “It's my birthday Saturday night,” he said. “I want you and Colby to come.”

“He's out of town. But I'd love to.”

“Great! We can talk about some new projects I've got in mind.”

“We can?” she asked, grinning because she knew how much he loved the museum; it had been his idea to open it. He was a fanatic in the field of Native American culture. He wasn't Sioux, but his mother had taught on the Wapiti Sioux reservation. Like Cecily, he had an affinity for the Lakota nation.

He chuckled. “I'll tell you all about it on Saturday. Six sharp at my house. Don't be late. It's a buffet.”

“I won't eat for days,” she promised.

When she hung up she realized what she'd said. She did eat more frugally than before. She spent more frugally than before. Her surroundings weren't lavish. But she wasn't having to depend on anyone's charity. She was twenty-five and self-supporting. It felt good.

 

Cecily phoned Leta to let her know that she planned to fly out to Rapid City and drive over to the Wapiti Ridge Sioux Reservation near Custer State Park in South Dakota for the tribe's annual celebrations. There would be a large contingent of Lakota at the three-day September event, and native dancing and singing as well. She'd already bought her plane ticket and reserved a rental car. She wasn't going to back out of the event just because she and Tate weren't speaking. Anyway, there wasn't a chance that Tate would go now.

“Tate hasn't called recently,” Leta mentioned when they'd discussed the event. “I phoned to see if he was at his apartment, and that Audrey Gannon answered. She told me he was out of the country on some job for his boss, Pierce Hutton.”

Cecily felt a lump in her throat. She swallowed before she replied. “I didn't know she was living with him,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“He's secretive, isn't he, baby? I guess he must feel something for her,” Leta replied irritably. “She hates what he is, she hates the reservation and she was barely civil to me when I told her who I was. If he's as crazy about her as she says he is, she could turn him against his own people, even against me.”

“Surely she wouldn't,” Cecily tried to reassure her.

ely she would. She's against native sovereignty.” There was a hesitation. “I'm glad you're coming out here. I miss seeing you. Since you went to live in Washington, I hardly get to have you out here at all.”

“I miss you, too,” Cecily said warmly.

“I need something to lift my spirits,” Leta continued. “We've just lost the hope of getting an ambulance and a new community clinic, because the funds that were budgeted have disappeared.”

“Disappeared? Where to?” Cecily said.

“Nobody knows,” Leta said. “Tom Black Knife, you remember our tribal chief, says it's probably a math error. I'm not so sure. There are some real suspicious comings and goings around here lately. Especially since the paperwork for the proposed casino was sent off. I guess you haven't been able to get Senator Holden to listen to you about our side of the story?” she added, a curious inflection in her voice.

“Matt Holden is one hundred percent against the casino, despite all my pleading,” Cecily said sadly. “Not that I haven't bombarded him with information. I'm going to his birthday party. Maybe I can waylay him there and do us some good.”

“Yes. His birthday. He's inflexible when anything goes against his principles,” Leta murmured.

“You sound as if you know him!” Cecily teased.

There was a long pause and when Leta spoke, her voice was strained. “I know of him. Everybody here does.”

“Why don't you come to Washington later in the year and talk to him personally?” Cecily asked. “You can stay with me.”

“What, in that fancy apartment?” she said, distracted.

Cecily winced. “I've…moved. I have a new place. It's smaller, and a little shabby, but it's homey. You'll like it. I have a sofa that folds out into a bed. I can sleep there and you can have the bedroom.”

Leta paused. “I'd love to see you. But I don't know about getting on an airplane. I'll have to think about that. You and Tate and I could go on the town, if I did. It might be fun, at that!”

Cecily hesitated. “Tate and I aren't speaking, Leta,” she said tautly.

“Why not?”

“I found out who's been paying all my expenses.”

“It's some foundation, isn't it?” Leta asked in all innocence. “What would that have to do with you and Tate not speaking? So, who's really behind it?” she added in a teasing tone. “Is it some gun runner or maybe one of those international terrorists we read about?”

Leta didn't know that Tate had been supporting her! Well she couldn't discuss it on the phone. Time for that when she flew out to South Dakota.

“I'll tell you all about it when I get there,” Cecily promised. “See you soon.”

“Okay. Take care, baby.”

“You take care, too.” She put down the receiver. Leta was going to be hurt that her “children” were at war. She frowned, remembering what Leta had said about losing some tribal funds. She wondered what was going on at Wapiti.

 

Saturday came and Colby was unexpectedly back in the country, so she asked him to go with her to Senator Holden's birthday party. He agreed, but he sounded solemn. When he came to pick her up, she could see how tired he was.

“I shouldn't have asked you,” she said gently, knowing better than to ask him what was wrong.

He shrugged. “It beats sitting at home, thinking.” He smiled wanly. “I'm bad company. But I'll give it a shot.”

They left Cecily's apartment and drove to the Senator's residence.

Cecily stared around her at the elegant company of politicians, millionaires and other guests assembled in the huge ballroom of Senator Matt Holden's Maryland home. Her upswept medium blond hair was neatly done and her knee-length black cocktail dress, while off the rack, was tasteful. But her pale green eyes were restless. She felt vulnerable without her glasses. She hadn't wanted to bother with them, since Colby was driving. And she hated the worry of trying to wear contact lenses. Besides, who did she need to see, anyway? She and Colby had arrived just in time to wander through the buffet and nibble at the delicious spread. There was everything from caviar to champagne.

Now that they'd finished eating, she wished he would hurry back with the coffee. She was uncomfortable among people whose casual conversation centered around investments, foreign travel and upcoming appropriation bills. She didn't travel in monied circles. As she studied the people around her being offered drinks by a white-coated, white-gloved waiter, she grinned to herself thinking that her usual companions these days were skeletons. She glanced at the tureen in the waiter's hands and had an attack of conscience.

She draped her small evening bag over one shoulder and wandered quietly through the room of guests, nodding and smiling politely at people she knew mainly from the nightly news. She was in glittering company, but she was a stranger, alone in this packed gathering. She'd have been more at home in her office at the museum. Or on the reservation with Leta.

It was an unusually quiet cocktail party, she thought, and conversation was muted and somber around her. Recent turmoil in Washington, D.C., had thrown a shroud over the celebration of Senator Holden's birthday. Holden was the senior Republican senator from South Dakota, a fiery, difficult man who made enemies as easily as he ran the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs, of which he was chairman. He had his finger in plenty of political pies and some private ones. His most recent private one was private sector funding for his pet project, the newly created Anthropological and Archaeological Museum of the Native American where Cecily now worked.

She spotted Matt Holden and her eyes began to twinkle. He was a handsome devil, even at his age. His wife had died the year before, and the husky black-eyed politician with his glimmering silver hair and elegant broad-shouldered physique was now on every widow's list of eligibles. Even now, two lovely elderly society dames were attacking from both sides with expensive perfume and daring cleavage. At least one of them should have worn something high-necked, she mused, with her collarbone and skinny neck so prominent.

Another pair of eyes followed her amused gaze. “Doesn't it remind you of shark attacks?” a pleasant voice murmured in her ear.

She jumped, and looked up at her companion for the evening. “Good grief, Colby, you scared me out of a year's growth!” she burst out with a helpless laugh.

Colby only smiled. “Here's your coffee. It's not bad, either.”

He handed her the cup and sipped from his own. She wondered why he'd been out of the country at the same time as Tate, and why. Then she shut Tate out of her mind. She wasn't going to think about him tonight.