A Man of His Word

Judy knocked on the door. Rosebud glanced at the clock. Almost half an hour had passed. Perfect. “They’re here.”

“How do I look?” Rosebud batted her eyes.

“Be careful,” Judy repeated, sounding awed.

Oh, Rosebud couldn’t wait to see this guy, not if he was throwing Judy for such a loop. She met Joe White Thunder and Emily Mankiller outside the conference room. “Did Judy tell you it’s a new guy?” she said as she kissed her aunt on the cheek.

Joe’s eyes sparkled, and in that second, Rosebud saw the man who’d occupied Alcatraz back in the day. Some days, she longed to have known old Joe back when he raised a lot of hell, but she appreciated who he was now—a tribal elder whose vote carried a lot of weight. “I knew that last one was no match for you.”

Rosebud blushed under the compliment as Aunt Emily shook her head at Joe in disapproval. Aunt Emily had never been one for disobedience, civil or otherwise. “You’re making a dent, dear, but don’t get overconfident.”

Whatever, Rosebud thought as she nodded in deferential agreement. Cecil Armstrong had thrown the best lawyers money could buy at her, and she was not only holding them off, she was officially irritating that man. “I know. You guys remember what to do?”

Joe playfully socked her in the arm. “How, kemo sabe.” And then his face went blank and Rosebud stood in front of the stereotypical Stoic Indian. Joe wouldn’t say a single thing today. His job was intimidating silence. Rosebud knew he wouldn’t even look at Dan Armstrong. If there was one thing self-important lawyers hated, it was being ignored. It drove them to distraction, and a distracted lawyer was a defeated lawyer.

Aunt Emily sighed. Rosebud knew she hated these meetings, hated all the haggling and hated it when Joe acted like a fake Indian. But she hated the idea of Armstrong Holdings flooding the rez more. “We’re ready.”

Here we go, Rosebud thought to herself as she opened the door. Her blood started to pump with excitement. Another adversary was another battle, and Rosebud was confident she could win the battles. She honestly didn’t know if she could win the war with Cecil Armstrong, but she could slow him down for years.

The first thing she noticed was that Dan Armstrong was standing. His back was to the door and he was looking out the conference room’s sliver of a window. The prick of irritation was small. She preferred her victim to be sitting in the chair that was two inches shorter than the others, with the bum wheel that gave the chair an unexpected wobble with every movement.

What she noticed next erased the irritation. Dan Armstrong was tall without being huge, his shoulders easily filling out the heathered brown sport coat. The brown leather yokes on his shoulders made his back seem even broader. She could see the curl in his close-cropped hair, the light from the window making it glow a golden-brown.

She caught her breath. Johnson he wasn’t—in fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a real man in this building, a man who looked like he belonged out on the open range instead of in a dark little office. Hell, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a real man outside of this office.

And then he turned around.

Him. The breath she’d caught was crushed out of her chest. Suddenly she felt vulnerable, the kind of vulnerable that comes from making a mistake and then thinking she’d gotten away with it, only to be caught red-handed.

She was screwed.

He must have noticed her confusion, because he smiled the kind of smile a man wore when he knew exactly what effect he had on a woman. The implied arrogance—and not recognition—was enough to snap Rosebud out of her momentary terror. She might know who he was, but he didn’t seem to recognize her. And if there were no witnesses, who was to say that a crime had occurred?

“Mr…. Armstrong, is it?” she began, striding into the room like she couldn’t be bothered to remember his name. That’s right, she thought as she drew herself up to her full height in three-inch heels, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with any of this. Except he had a good four inches on her. “I’m Rosebud Donnelly, the lawyer for the Red Creek Lakota Indian reservation.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.” Oh, he had a faint drawl, a way of stretching out his vowels that sounded like warm sunshine. Ma’am had never sounded as good as it did coming out of his mouth. Armstrong lifted a hand as if to tip his hat, but then appeared to realize that he wasn’t wearing one. Instead, he swung his hand down and offered it out to her. Rosebud wondered if he’d gone back for the hat she’d seen fly off his head, or if it was still out there. She’d have to check tonight. No hat, no crime.

Rosebud thanked God she’d done this enough to go on autopilot, because her head was swimming. Not one of the last three lawyers had even sniffed at a polite introduction. She let the seconds stretch as his hand hung in the air. Normally, she let her hand loosely clasp the other person’s—all the better to create an impression of weakness—but not this time. This time, she felt an intense need to be in control of this situation. She returned his grip, noting that his hand was warm, but not sweaty. He wasn’t nervous at all. She was going to have to do better, so she gave him her best bone-crushing shake.

He tilted his head to one side as if he was questioning her. Eyes the color of the sky right before a twister measured her with something that looked a hell of a lot like respect. God only knew what his uncle had told him about her—it probably started with ball-buster and ended with bitch. As the heat from his hand did a slow crawl up her arm, she had the sudden urge to tell him that she really wasn’t like that.

Which was ridiculous—the whole point of this little introduction was to demonstrate that she was exactly like that. No wonder Judy had warned her about this one.

She stepped away from him, pulling her hand with her. He tried to keep his grip for just a second, then the firm pressure was gone. She shivered, but forced herself to forge ahead. “This is Joseph White Thunder, a tribal elder, and Councilwoman Emily Mankiller.” Yes. Formal introductions were the next step. She needed to get back on track here.

Emily must have sensed Rosebud’s hesitation, because she stepped into the gap. “Mr. Armstrong,” she began as she and Joe took their seats without shaking hands, “are you familiar with the Treaty of 1877 between the United States government and the Lakota, Dakota and Nakota Sioux tribes of South Dakota?”

“Ma’am,” Armstrong replied with a polite half bow as he sat down. Rosebud smiled internally as the whole thing tilted off-kilter and he clawed at the table to keep his balance. Still, he managed to sound nonplussed as he said, “I can’t say that I am.”

Thank God for that. Aunt Emily was one of the few women on this reservation with a master’s degree in American history, and her role in this little meeting was to wear the adversary down with a complete recounting of the wrongs the Lakota Indians had suffered back in the day at the hands of the American government, and now, thanks to corporations such as Armstrong Holdings. Rosebud had about forty minutes to get her head together.

Aunt Emily droned on while Joe stared at a spot on the wall just over Armstrong’s head. Rosebud unpacked her files and began reviewing her notes from the last go-round with Johnson. There wasn’t much new to go on. Unlike with Johnson, usable dirt on Cecil Armstrong was just plain hard to dig up. He was courting both political parties, visited a respectable divorced woman twice a month in Sioux Falls and had no personal secretary. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t ever set foot in the Armstrong Hydro office in Sioux Falls, and what few staffers worked there didn’t seem to know anything. That was all she had after three years. It was frustrating.

She snuck a glance at Armstrong. Not only was he paying attention to Aunt Emily, he was taking notes. What the hell? Rosebud thought when Armstrong interrupted the lecture to ask for the specific dates of the last treaty signed. He must not be a lawyer, she decided. Lawyers didn’t give a hoot for history lectures. Why would that man send someone who wasn’t a lawyer?

Aunt Emily began to wind down when she got to the reason they were all here today. Rosebud waited as Armstrong finished his notes before she began. “Mister Armstrong,” she began, going right past condescending and straight on over to contemptuous, “are you aware that Armstrong Holdings is preparing to dam the Dakota River?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, trying to lean back in the chair without tipping. “Down in a valley about two miles from here, as the crow flies. Armstrong Holdings owns the water rights and has secured the government permits to begin construction this fall.”

Oh, she knew where the valley was. “And are you also aware that the reservoir created by that dam will flood thirty-six hundred acres of the Red Creek reservation?”

Armstrong regarded her with open curiosity. “I understood the reservoir will cover several hundred square miles. I was told that land was mostly unoccupied.”

Her eyes narrowed. What the hell was that man doing, sending an unarmed nephew into battle? He might as well have sent an errand boy instead of this… male. There was just no way around it. Everything about Dan Armstrong said male, from the good—no, great—chin to the way he sat in that chair, legs spread wide like he was just itching to get back on his horse.

God, he’d looked so good on that horse. Looking had been her first mistake. Instead of just firing over his head from the shadows like she’d planned, she’d wanted to get a better view of the behind that had been sitting in that saddle, a better look at the forearms laid bare for the sun. She’d come out of the shadows, and he’d spotted her. She’d nearly shot his head off, all because he was a man who looked good in a saddle.

She had to remind herself that, at this exact moment in time, she was not a woman, no matter how much she might like to be one. Right now, she was a lawyer, damn it. Men and women didn’t count in a courtroom, and she couldn’t afford for them to count in this conference room. The only thing that mattered was the law. “Then this is just a waste of our time, isn’t it?” She stood and began to shove paper back into the files. Aunt Emily and Joe scrambled to their feet.

“Ms. Donnelly, please.” Armstrong rose to his feet, too, which didn’t make Rosebud any happier, because nothing good could come from looking up into those green-gray eyes. The only other option was to look at his jaw, which was strong and square and freshly shaved. “Educate me.”

Educate him? After that history lesson, he was coming back for more? Suddenly, Rosebud realized just how great a danger Dan Armstrong was. She knew how to fight against faceless corporate stool pigeons. She had no idea what to do with a real man who apparently had a grasp on compassion—and already had her at a disadvantage. The feeling of helplessness left her with only one other emotion to grab at—anger.

“Fine.” She unpacked all the files again at a rate that struck even her as irritated. “Cecil Armstrong has been a blight upon this land since he came here five years ago. He’s strong-armed local ranchers—many with whom we had unspoken agreements—out of their water rights and lands. He’s filed frivolous lawsuits against the tribe and attempted to use eminent domain as legal justification for taking our land.” Eminent domain was the biggest threat to her whole legal standing, the one she knew she’d lose. Who the hell cared about a few hundred Indians when they could get their electricity for pennies-on-the-kilowatt cheaper? No one, that’s who. No one but the tribe.

Armstrong sat down and began scribbling furiously. If this was an act, it was a damn good one, she decided. This must be why that man had sent him. The new, caring face of Armstrong Holdings. When he paused, she continued.

“He has engaged in a campaign of intimidation against members of the tribe.” And wouldn’t it be lovely if she had some proof of that? But who else would be responsible for Aunt Emily’s shot-out windows or Joe’s missing spark plugs and punctured tires? Who else would have left another skinned raccoon spread-eagled on her front porch three days ago? No one, that’s who. No one else hated her with the passion of Cecil Armstrong.

“That’s a serious charge,” Dan said without looking up. His voice held steady, with no trace of knee-jerk denial.

“Men have died.” Too late, she realized her voice was cracking. Aunt Emily reached out and rested a calming hand on Rosebud’s arm. Dang it, she was losing her cool in a meeting. She never lost her cool.

Armstrong raised his eyes to meet hers. “Do you have proof?” It didn’t come out sneering. It was just a simple question.

With a complicated answer. “The FBI determined that both cases were suicides. The tribal police didn’t agree. Nothing ever came of it.” Because money talks. The tribe had no money. Cecil Armstrong, it seemed, had it all. Broken, drunk Indians shot their heads off all the time. What were another two? Who cared that Tanner had never had a drink before in his life? He was just another Indian—who’d realized the danger Armstrong Holdings posed to the tribe from the beginning. Who’d happened to be making a run at the tribal council. Who’d happened to be her brother. Just another Indian, that’s all.

Armstrong looked at her, then at Aunt Emily’s hand, then back to her. “I’m sorry for your loss.” And the hell of it was, he really seemed to mean it. Rosebud felt the ground shifting under her feet. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure where she stood. “As I said, those are serious charges. I’d like to review your documents before I do anything else.”

Finally, something technical she could hold on to. “I’m sure you can understand that we can’t let the originals leave this building.” That man would have himself one hell of a bonfire, that much she knew.

“Of course,” he agreed far too easily. “Can you have a copy made for me?”

Another unpleasant reality smacked Rosebud upside the head. Of course this Dan Armstrong was used to a world where copiers worked. That world had shiny new computers that connected to the internet, real office space and chairs that didn’t try to eat a person alive.

That wasn’t her world.

She held her head high. “Your predecessor in negotiating, Mr. Lon Johnson, had a copy of all my files.” Or at least, that was what he thought.

“Actually, I looked into that last night.” Armstrong’s mouth bowed up into an appreciative smile. “It appears that all those files up and disappeared out of his car one day, about a week ago. In addition to his laptop, iPod and three candy bars.”

Hmm. That sounded like Matt, who was trying to fashion himself as the ideological heir to Tanner but thus far had just succeeded in being a low-level criminal. She would have loved to have gotten her hands on Johnson’s laptop, but there was no question that it had already been pawned off or sold outright. Dang it, she thought. Another missed opportunity. She tried to look surprised, but given how Dan’s grin got bigger, she didn’t think she’d made it. “That’s unfortunate.” Armstrong cleared his throat. Time to go to the lame-excuse file. “Our copier recently had an… incident, shall we say. We are awaiting the parts.” Which was only a small lie. The copier had had an incident, all right. Two years ago.

Armstrong seemed to buy it. “I guess that leaves only one other option. I’d like your permission,” he said, directing his statement to all three of them, “to come back and review the files myself and take notes. That way, they don’t leave the building, and I still get what I need.”

Rosebud deferred to Aunt Emily, who was weighing the offer. Finally, she nodded. “Of course, Mr. Armstrong, you understand that there’ll be conditions.”

“Of course,” he agreed, leaning back in the chair. He seemed to be getting used to the wobble. He looked to Rosebud, and again she saw the arrogant smile. A man used to getting his way. “I imagine you won’t want me to have un-supervised access to original documents.”

The implication was clear. He had her cornered, and they both knew it. Nobody else on the rez grasped the full import of all the details Rosebud had meticulously collected over the last three years, not even Aunt Emily. Rosebud was the only one who could possibly make sure nothing original “walked off.” She was going to have to sit in this small room for hours—days—on end with a handsome, charming man while he copied her life’s work by hand. He was going to leverage all that compassionate charm against her under the auspices of a fact-finding mission.

Whoever the hell Dan Armstrong was, she had to give him credit. He was a worthy opponent.

Aunt Emily took up her cue again. She began to go on about how the tribe just wanted to be left in peace and get a little respect from the outside world. Rosebud tuned her out. Instead, she found herself studying Armstrong’s hands. He had calluses that told her he’d earned them the hard way. As he leaned back, she saw an impressive buckle that didn’t look store-bought. Actually, upon closer inspection, she didn’t think that his shirt was store-bought, either. She glanced down at his boots. Top-of-the-line alligator. They probably cost more than she took home before taxes last year. He wasn’t some office gopher, but a man who worked and made more than a nice living. Somehow, she knew he didn’t send anyone out to do his bidding. If this Dan Armstrong needed something done, he either asked the right person or he went and did it himself.

If she wasn’t careful, she was going to be caught staring. She wondered what he’d been doing in the valley, and immediately, the guilt began to build. God, what a mess. She’d assumed he was one of Cecil Armstrong’s mercenary “security” guards. That had been her second mistake. She couldn’t be sure it had been her last one.

Finally, as Aunt Emily began to wind up, she noticed that Armstrong was starting to fidget in his chair. All that coffee was finally getting to him. Normally, she’d take advantage of his discomfort to really rake him over the coals, but not today. She needed to get out of this room, far away from this unusual man, and figure out her next move.

On Dan’s way out the door, Joe still didn’t shake Armstrong’s hand, but Aunt Emily did. Then Dan shook Rosebud’s hand. “I look forward to working with you,” he said as he put the slightest pressure on her fingers. The warmth was still there, but this time it moved up her arm with a greater urgency until she was afraid her face was going to flush.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She was afraid she was looking forward to it, too.

Three

Rosebud was sure she’d thrown the files in her office and locked the door, but that part was a little hazy. The next thing she was really conscious of was the soft breeze and the warm sun on her face as she stood in the parking lot, facing south. The breeze still had a touch of cold spring in it, which was just enough to let her mind clear a little.

The situation was far from out of control, she quickly decided. Dan Armstrong might be a different kind of danger to her, but he was still just a man, and a woman didn’t make it through law school without figuring out how to handle a man. She just needed to remember who he represented, not what he looked like or how he addressed her with all that “respect” and “compassion.”

“You okay, Rosie?” Joe’s hand rested on her shoulder.

“Oh, fine.” Not true, but she was a lawyer, after all. Never admit weakness, because weakness is defeat. She opened her eyes to see Aunt Emily standing before her, a serious look on her face. “What?”

Aunt Emily looked to Joe and then sighed. “That man…”

“I can handle him.”

Aunt Emily regarded her for a painful second. Then she leaned forward and grasped the sticks holding Rosebud’s braided bun into place. The whole thing unfurled like a sail. “He is different. He is a handsome man, dear. And you are a handsome woman.”

Something about the way she said it hit Rosebud funny. “What are you saying?”

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” Joe said, sounding surprisingly serious about it. The weight of his hand suddenly felt like a vise, pinning her in place.

“You want me to—what? Sleep with him?” When Aunt Emily didn’t say anything, Rosebud tried to take a step back, but Joe held her in place. The breeze—colder now, so cold it chilled her to the bone—caught the straggling remains of her braid and unwound it for her. “You want me to sleep with him?” Shame ripped through her.

Of all the things asked of her—leaving home for so many years to get that damned law degree when she really wanted to study art; giving up any semblance of a normal life to eat, drink and breathe legal proceedings against Armstrong Holdings; having dead animals show up around her house; losing her brother—sleeping with the enemy was the worst. Even if the enemy was as attractive as Dan Armstrong. That was irrelevant. It didn’t matter that she’d given her life to the tribe. Now it wanted her body, too.

“No, no,” Joe finally protested, too late. “But a beautiful woman can muddle a man’s thinking.”

“This may be the chance we’ve been waiting for, dear,” Emily added. Rosebud could hear how little her aunt really believed it, but she kept going. “He could let something… useful slip about his uncle. He might know something about Tanner.”

The blow was low. For a second, Rosebud wanted to smack the woman for pouring salt in her wound, but it was a short second. Of course, they were right. Dan Armstrong was an opportunity to do a little domestic spying, that was all. And if she could link Tanner’s death to an Armstrong—any Armstrong—she’d be able to sleep at night. Hell, she might even find a new way to stop that dam.

Aunt Emily gave her an artificial smile. “It’s what Tanner would do.” She pulled Rosebud’s glasses off her face and gently tucked them into the pocket of her one-and-only suit jacket. “Do it for Tanner.”

Tears that she normally kept out of sight until the middle of the night, when no one would know she cried them, threatened to spill. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep them in. “All right,” she managed to get out.

Aunt Emily kissed her cheek in painful blessing. “Find out what you can. Give away nothing.”

“Do your best,” Joe added, finally removing his clamping hand from her shoulder.

Her best. She’d been doing her best, fending off that dam for three years, but it hadn’t been good enough. She wondered if anything ever would be.

She heard both car doors shut, heard both of them drive away, but still she couldn’t open her eyes. The breeze tickled her hair, and the sun tried to reassure her it would, in fact, be all right, but she couldn’t move. When Tanner had died, she’d sworn to do anything to find out who put that gun in his hand and pulled the trigger. She’d never thought it would come to seducing Cecil Armstrong’s nephew.

“Ms. Donnelly?”

Oh, hell.

“Mr. Armstrong,” she said without turning around. How on God’s green earth was she supposed to muddle his thinking when her own mind was exactly as clear as the Dakota River during the spring floods? “Thank you for coming today.”

He stood next to her. She didn’t know how she felt it, but one moment, she was alone, and the next, his solid warmth was close enough that she thought he was touching her arm. Moving slowly, she turned to meet his gaze.

As she did, the breeze surged like a trickster, throwing her hair around. The look in his eyes went from curious regard to recognition—the wrong kind of recognition. His nostrils flared as his jaw clenched. She was no longer facing a compassionate man. Any fool could see that Dan Armstrong was fighting mad.

“Tell me, Ms. Donnelly,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you ride?”

He knew—or thought he knew. In a heartbeat, she realized she needed to play innocent. “Of course. Everyone out here does. Do you?”