WELCOME TO TYLER-THE AUCTION’S AT TWO O’CLOCK

Tyler’s annual crafts fair is in full swing. This year the theme is Native American art. Stroll among the tables and admire the handiwork of America’s favorite hometown.

TORN BETWEEN TWO CULTURES

Michael Youngthunder is a successful businessman. But he remains tormented by the Winnebago heritage he cannot leave behind....

IS THERE A PLACE IN HIS HEART FOR HER?

Renata Meyer loves Michael, but he comes from a world she knows nothing about. And Michael seems unable—or unwilling—to help her bridge the gap.

Previously Published.

“My grandfather wants to see me dance again.”

“If that’s all it takes to make him happy, Michael,” Renata replied, “surely you could do it for him.”

He shook his head and looked away. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Renata flushed. “Don’t shut me out, Michael,” she begged him. “This Native stuff is all new to me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not listening with all my heart. If I don’t understand, don’t put me down. Just explain it to me.”

His eyes met hers for a long, tense moment. “A mechanical rendition of an old dance or two wouldn’t do a thing for my grandfather. When he says he wants to see me dance, he means he wants to see me dance. He wants me to feel Winnebago.”

Renata laced her fingers with his. “Michael, you can’t be somebody you’re not, just to please him.”

Quietly he replied, “And I can’t be somebody I’m not, just to please you.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harlequin’s Tyler, a small Wisconsin town whose citizens we hope you’ll come to know and love. Like many of the innovative publishing concepts Harlequin has launched over the years, the idea for the Tyler series originated in response to our readers’ preferences. Your enthusiasm for sequels and continuing characters within many of the Harlequin lines has prompted us to create a twelve-book series of individual romances whose characters’ lives inevitably intertwine.

Tyler faces many challenges typical of small towns, but the fabric of this fictional community will be torn by the revelation of a long-ago murder, the details of which will evolve right through the series. This intriguing crime will culminate in an emotional trial that profoundly affects the lives of the Ingallses, the Barons, the Forresters and the Wochecks.

Spring’s arrived with a vengeance, and old Phil Wochek’s broken hip is finally on the mend. Why not follow him down to the crafts fair Alyssa Baron has helped organize on the town square? The theme is original Native American artwork, and you’ll also find classic hand-pieced quilts.

Edward, Phil’s son, has promised to take time out from his duties at Timberlake Lodge and attend. Of course, Alyssa will probably do her best to avoid him. Still, you never know. She has a lot of questions plaguing her, especially after the gruesome discovery Brick Bauer makes in Phil’s closet....

So join us in Tyler, once a month for the next six months, for a slice of small-town life that’s not as innocent or as quiet as you might expect, and for a sense of community that will capture your mind and your heart.

Marsha Zinberg

Editorial Coordinator, Tyler

Arrowpoint

Suzanne Ellison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Special thanks and acknowledgment to Suzanne Ellison for her contribution to the Tyler series.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Joanna Kosloff for her contribution to the concept for the Tyler series.

CONTENTS

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD RAINED all night, but by the time Renata Meyer saw the sign that said Tyler, Three Miles the sky was only dripping, a misty remnant of the deluge she’d left an hour ago in Milwaukee. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but for the past month it had already been so hot that this cooling thunderstorm was more a relief than a burden, especially considering where Renata was going to spend the weekend. Her Milwaukee apartment had a feisty air conditioner that kept her chilled most of the time, but the old family homestead north of Tyler had poor insulation, few windows and only one ancient oak tree for shade. The improvements made since her great-grandparents’ time had been minimal. Air-conditioning was not one of them.

As a free-lance artist, Renata didn’t have a lot of income, but she did have a lot of freedom as to where and how she spent her time. She lived on the periodic sales of her paintings and her more frequent free-lance commercial assignments, which embarrassed her artistic pride but kept a roof over her head. At this point she found that being in the city—where she could brush shoulders with gallery owners, better-established artists and sympathetic art-buying friends—was a tremendous help to her fledgling career. But living in the thunderous rattle of Milwaukee wore her down from time to time, and it was always a relief to know that there was somewhere to go to renew herself. When life got to be a bit much, she turned north and headed back to Tyler like a homing pigeon, even when she hadn’t received a summons from an old friend.

Alyssa Ingalls Baron wasn’t a friend in the intimate sense of the word; she was more a fixture of Renata’s tiny hometown. She was of Renata’s mother’s generation, though the two had not been particularly close. Everybody knew Alyssa, at least by name, and everybody liked her, even if they were a bit jealous of her family’s wealth. Renata’s family had been in the area just as long, but since for the past four generations they’d unpretentiously run a farm that barely broke even, nobody had ever paid much attention to the Meyers. The Ingalls clan, on the other hand, had the Midas touch. They owned land and a thriving business, and kept a guiding hand in local politics. Fortunately, Alyssa wasn’t snooty about her wealth and power—she was a sweet and gentle person—but when she suggested, as she had to Renata, that a Tylerite “volunteer” to do something for the good of the town, it somehow felt like an order.

Renata had loved the warmth of her hometown as a child and hated it as a teenager. She hadn’t been Tyler’s wild child as a girl—Alyssa’s younger daughter, Liza, had sewn up that title—but she had been a bit eccentric in the town’s eyes.

Renata had always been more interested in painting than pom-poms. When the rest of her high school classmates were swimming in the summer or skating on winter ice, Renata was alone at her easel. Kicking local tradition in the teeth, she had skipped the junior prom, the senior homecoming game and one of the Ingallses’ Christmas parties—by accident—when she’d started painting after dinner and forgotten about the world till after midnight. Tyler people still teased Renata about her early paintings and her dramatic choice of clothes. She couldn’t wear her paintings, so she tried to make a statement with fabric art whenever she could. And when she couldn’t do that, she usually found herself wearing a paint-spattered T-shirt and watercolored jeans.

There had been times when she’d found herself in such bad straights that she’d had to return to live in Tyler for several months—once it was a whole year—but Renata had never been poor enough to consider selling the old place. Regardless of the demands of her ambition and her art, she took deep comfort and joy from the knowledge that twelve acres of lush farmland had remained in her family’s hands for nearly 150 years. Granted, the house was old and drafty—a two-story box with a pair of upstairs bedrooms, one bathroom with a hand-held shower, an old-fashioned parlor and a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since World War II. Every time she came home, Renata vowed to start remodeling the old place, but she was never there long enough to justify the expense. Someday she knew she’d want to come home for good, but at the moment it would be too inconvenient to live in Tyler full-time.

And too lonely.

She pulled up at the mailbox and rolled down the window of her old red truck before she remembered that one of the Hansen kids picked up her mail once a week when he checked over her house, watered her roses and mowed the lawn. She couldn’t really afford to pay him, but his mother, Britt, was so strapped since her husband’s death that Renata hadn’t been able to turn Matt down when he made the offer. Even knowing that the mailbox ought to be empty, Renata felt a twinge of sadness to find it that way. When her parents were still living, a mound of good tidings and junk mail had arrived every day.

Before she had time to get maudlin, Renata was startled by an eerie, distant sound. At first she thought it was merely the whisper of the storm, but it almost sounded like humming. No, it wasn’t humming. Not exactly. But she couldn’t exactly call it singing, either. It sounded human. Well, not human so much as not-animal. Sort of other-worldly.

Heyeh, heyeh, heyeh, hiyayayayayaya, heyeh, heyeh. It was a chant of some sort, a weird, eerie chant that made Renata’s flesh crawl. It was soft, which either meant it was loud at the source and very far away, or else...or else it was coming from just up the road.

And the only house up this deserted gravel road was Renata’s.

Maybe it’s just the rain, she told herself stoutly. Sometimes the trees creak in a high wind and sound like someone moaning.

It was a reassuring notion, but Renata didn’t really think the noise had anything to do with the weather. Someone—friend or foe—must be up at her place, expressing himself or herself in some kind of bizarre mantra. But the sound of one voice didn’t mean that there was only one person. It could be one of those devil-worshiping cults! Renata hadn’t been home in a long time, and everybody who lived in Tyler knew it. What better place for weird cult gatherings than an isolated spot like this?

But what kind of a cult gathers at nine a.m. in the rain? a more rational voice asked. Maybe it was just Matt Hansen, humming whatever was hip among the high school crowd these days.

In the end her curiosity overcame her apprehension. After all, Renata prided herself on her acceptance of new things. She’d always been a bit of a radical, moving through life at her own pace to a drumbeat of her own. She wasn’t a rebel, in that she didn’t fight society anymore; she just ignored it when it got in her way. Renata sought her own brand of happiness, and she pursued it with joyful glee every day of her life. She wanted no less for the people around her, but she never tried to force her ways on them.

As she drove on toward the house, she realized vaguely that it was starting to rain more heavily. But she didn’t care. She was too consumed with curiosity to roll up her window. Curiosity tinged with a tiny bit of fear.

Concern and awe washed away the fear the instant she pulled into the gravel driveway and got a good look at her front lawn. Renata had to blink a couple of times. She couldn’t believe what she saw.

Under the shaggy oak tree sat an old man—a very, very old man—hunched cross-legged on a tattered blanket that was drenched and saturated with watery mud. He was wearing buckskin leggings, moccasins and some kind of beaded deerskin shirt. He wore several strands of bones and shells—bears’ teeth, maybe?—around his wrinkled, leathery neck. Feathers dangled from the two long braids that hung halfway down his chest.

Renata knew that Tyler had once been part of the hunting grounds of the local Indians—she couldn’t recall which tribe—and she knew that her grandfather had loved to tell stories about running into them now and again as a child. He even had a collection of old Indian artifacts he’d found on the property; it was still somewhere down in the basement along with the beading loom kit Renata had fussed with as a child. But in Renata’s lifetime, Tyler had been virtually devoid of Indians. She knew some native people in Milwaukee, of course—had taken art classes with more than one—but they were, for all practical purposes, assimilated. She couldn’t imagine any of them sitting on a blanket in buckskin in the rain, chanting to...well, to whatever deity this leathery-skinned Methuselah was probably directing some sort of tribal prayer.

Renata did not particularly care that the old man was trespassing. She wasn’t even dying to know what he thought he was doing or why he’d chosen her place. At the moment her thoughts were more practical and pressing. This old fellow looked as frail as parchment and he was obviously soaked to the bone. There was no telling how long he’d been here, but it took no genius to realize that he was in danger of getting pneumonia. She had to get him dried off and warmed up at once. And that meant she had to get him inside.

His eyes were open and he was more or less facing her way, but he showed no sign of seeing Renata. She wondered if he might be blind. She wondered if he might be crazy. She wondered how on earth he’d gotten here without a car. Surely nobody would have left this old man out here all alone!

She took a few steps forward, then crouched before him. The lawn was saturated now and the rain was lashing the ground again. She knew that if she didn’t move him soon, she’d end up drenched as well.

“Excuse me, sir,” Renata said quietly, afraid to startle the spooky old fellow. “I’m Renata Meyer. I live here. I’ve got warm blankets inside and I can have some hot coffee going in no time. Wouldn’t you like to come in and dry off?”

The chanting continued. His eyes showed no sign that he knew another person had joined him. Could he be deaf and blind? she wondered. Or was he in some sort of trance?

Uneasily, she moved closer and risked laying one hand on his arm. It was a thin arm, devoid of muscle, but it didn’t even twitch.

“Please, sir. Maybe you don’t care about the rain, but I do. I’m getting cold. Can’t we go inside and talk?”

The chanting changed pitch then—higher, more eerie. It occurred to Renata that maybe the old man didn’t speak English. She had heard that there were old Indians who still spoke their native tongue. And this one looked old enough to have ridden against Custer...or maybe Columbus.

Renata bit her lower lip and tried to decide what to do. She felt absolutely helpless. She still remembered her own dear grandfather, who’d died at the age of ninety-six but hadn’t recognized any of them at the end. If somebody had found him wandering around, befuddled and confused, she would have wanted them to take care of him.

She knelt in the mud right before the old fellow, put both hands on his shoulders and tried one more time. “Please, sir. I know this is important to you. But getting you warm and dry is important to me. Can’t we go inside now? Later, when the rain stops, you can come back and finish. Or you can even chant in my living room.”

This time his eyes flickered over her in what almost looked like sympathy. He brushed one hand in her direction, as if to say, “You go inside. Don’t worry about me.” But he did not stop chanting. And he did not rise.

It was pouring by now. Renata couldn’t see herself forcibly dragging the old man into the house even if she’d had the physical strength to do it. There was a dignity about him that made her feel awkward about calling some authority to take him away. But she’d rather have him mad at her than have him die of exposure right here on her lawn.

“Is there anybody I can call?” she asked. “Do you have family or friends near here?”

It occurred to Renata that Timberlake Lodge was a stone’s throw from the back of her property, and it was feasible that he’d hiked here from there. When the lodge had belonged to the Ingallses, Liza and Amanda had sometimes walked over to her place to visit, and since Edward Wocheck had turned it into a resort, she’d encountered a few tourists nosing around on their morning meanderings. But Edward’s resort catered to a ritzy crowd. Renata couldn’t see this wilted old guy as a typical guest or morning jogger. He seemed more like a candidate for Worthington House, the convalescent center in town.

Relieved that she’d finally thought of a few leads to check out, Renata said, “I’m going to try to find out where you belong, sir. If you change your mind while I’m gone, just come on in and I’ll fix you some breakfast. I’m going to put on some coffee.”

He kept on chanting as she turned and headed for the house, oblivious to the thunderous new cloudburst that nipped at her heels.

* * *

“COME IN, BRICK,” squawked the radio in the police car. “I’ve got a message from the captain.”

Under other circumstances, Michael Youngthunder would have grinned. He remembered when he’d first met Lieutenant Brick Bauer, a kind, decent man struggling to pretend he wasn’t madly in love with his female precinct captain. Beautiful Karen Keppler—they called her “Captain Killer” now—had ruled the station house with an iron hand, but she’d been kind to Michael and his elderly grandfather. Now she was married to Brick, publicly admitted she adored him and actually allowed her dispatcher to convey messages to her husband when he was on duty without using the complex county police code that was more trouble than it was worth in such a small town. Everybody knew everybody else’s business anyway.

Michael had no interest in Tyler’s business, and he would never have come to Tyler at all if his grandfather had not begged him. Last winter Grand Feather, as he’d affectionately called the old one since childhood, had heard about the proposed expansion of Timberlake Lodge near Tyler around the same time he’d heard that some Native Americans in other parts of the country were reclaiming sacred bones from white museums and preventing development on traditional burial grounds. Tyler, the old one insisted, had been built near the site where his ancestors were buried...on land “stolen” by white people 150 years ago.

Michael, the manager of a busy Katayama Computers retail outlet, had better things to do with his time than root through the countryside searching for nonexistent Indian bones. But the suit and tie he wore to work each day could not totally obliterate the part of him that was still Winnebago, and the nice paycheck he earned could never compete with his love for the old man who had raised him. So six months ago he’d come to Tyler, talked with Captain Keppler and Lieutenant Bauer, who’d been kind enough to spend a day driving Grand Feather to all possible sites for the burial ground, which allegedly could be identified by a horseshoe of oak trees. They hadn’t found anything and that had been the end of it.

Until last night. Until news of the scheduled ground breaking of the new wing of Timberlake Lodge Resort had been broadcast on the only Madison station that his grandfather’s puny television picked up in Wisconsin Dells. An hour later Michael had received a call from his uncle, who now owned a tiny remaining piece of allotment land near the old shack where Grand Feather still lived and where Michael himself had grown up. It broke Michael’s heart to see the old man live in such squalor, but Grand Feather would not be moved. He said he’d lived as a true Winnebago on that patch of land back when the old ones still taught ancient rituals that they’d learned from their foreparents before the arrival of the whites. He was born a Winnebago, he had lived a Winnebago, and he would be buried as a Winnebago when the time came. More than once he’d claimed that he was ready to die and could not rest until he knew he would not be buried among white strangers.

Although Michael lived in Sugar Creek, a good hour and a half from Wisconsin Dells, the family always called him when there was a problem with Grand Feather, partly because they knew that nobody loved the old one more and partly because Michael was the best equipped of all of them to deal with white people in the outside world. He was the only one with a college degree and a VCR, the only one who stood out like a sore thumb whenever he went home to visit. His cousins called him a half-breed, even though he wasn’t, and treated him like a white, even though his heart was still Winnebago. At least he thought it was; he knew he wanted it to be. Most of the time he was too busy to think about it, a condition that was easier to handle than was grappling with his tangled cultural roots.

This morning he was too tired to think, but he had never felt his Indian status more keenly. For twelve solid hours he had been trapped in this police car, searching for Grand Feather in the storm-soaked farmland surrounding Tyler. It was an all night walk here from the Dells, and a long hike even if the old one had caught a bus or hitchhiked to Tyler proper. And it had been raining all night long. Michael’s fear was a living thing, a serpentine rope of nausea that threatened to choke him. He knew he’d disappointed his grandfather terribly by choosing to follow the white man’s road, but he worshiped the old one and would have done anything, anything at all, to protect him.

“Go ahead, Hedda,” Brick Bauer said into the radio.

“Captain K says she got a call from CeCe Scanlon at Worthington House that might relate to your search for the old Indian. Apparently Renata Meyer is in town for the weekend and called over there to ask if they were missing anyone. They’re not, but later CeCe heard your grandma talking to your aunt about how you’d been up all night looking for somebody, and it occurred to her that there might be a connection.” Brick’s eyes met Michael’s as the dispatcher continued, “It occurred to the captain that one of the places you took the Youngthunders before was out to the Meyers’ old place. Renata’s line is busy, but Captain K thought you might want to swing by there.”

Michael took a deep breath, relief and fear twisting his innards into tiny knots. “It’s my grandfather, Lieutenant,” he told Brick Bauer. “I know it.”

To the radio, Brick said quickly, “We’re on our way.”

* * *

RENATA HAD ALREADY MADE a dozen futile calls by the time she heard a car pull into the gravel driveway behind her own. A quick glance outside told her the police had arrived, but she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. She’d deliberately avoided calling the Tyler substation because she didn’t want to get the old man in trouble. Somebody else must have, or else their arrival here was just coincidental. Either way, she was at her wit’s end, and she was grateful that there was some authority she could turn to.

As Renata hurried outside, wet and shivering, she felt a flash of relief as she recognized the policeman getting out of the black-and-white cruiser. Brick Bauer wasn’t a close friend, but she was on good terms with him—or had been the last time they talked, a few years ago—and she knew she could count on him to be gentle with the old man.

“Hi, Brick!” she called out, pulling on a jacket to fight off the worst of the rain. “I heard you got married!”

Brick smiled back, both dimples deepening, looking a little bit embarrassed and terribly pleased. “It’s true, Renata. Married my boss. Finally found a woman who could keep me in line.”

It was during this brief exchange that Renata realized somebody else was bolting out of the car, somebody in a rumpled suit and loosened tie who was sprinting toward her so fast it was frightening. She only got a glimpse of him—young, dark, good-looking—before his gaze fell on the old Indian. He slammed to a stop, clutching the side-view mirror of her truck for support. The sight of his painful swallow filled Renata with a great ache for him. Love for the old man was written all over his face.

It was a magnificent face, the kind any artist would love to use as a centerpiece of a painting. But Renata knew at once that it wasn’t the artist in her that responded so keenly to this man’s barely veiled virility and passion. He was tall and lean, with dark brown eyes and thick lashes and a strong jaw. His bronze skin and handsome, angular features hinted strongly at some sort of Indian ancestry.

But Renata only had time to register his compelling good looks and his panic before Brick said softly, “Renata, this is Michael Youngthunder. We’ve spent the whole night looking for his grandfather.”

Brick was wasting his breath. Michael Youngthunder didn’t even see Renata; he certainly didn’t hear Brick or respond to his courteous introduction. Every nuance of his attention was directed toward the old man.

Under other circumstances, Renata would have resented being so totally ignored. But she had loved her own grandfather, and she understood the anguish in Michael’s bloodshot eyes. Even without Brick’s explanation, she could have guessed by his haggard demeanor that he’d been searching for the old man all night.

Instinctively, Renata stepped toward him and laid one hand on his arm. “He’s all right,” she said quickly, even though she knew Michael could see it for himself. “I found him about half an hour ago and begged him to come in. He won’t budge, but his voice isn’t getting any weaker.”

Michael’s well muscled arm was tensely knotted beneath Renata’s fingers, but a mighty sigh of relief escaped his invitingly full lips. For the first time he glanced at Renata, but even now she didn’t think he really saw her. Habit more than conscious thought seemed to prompt him to murmur, “I’m sorry for the intrusion. It may take me a few minutes to persuade him to come away.”

“Don’t worry about that,” she assured him. “Just let me know what I can do to help. I draped a rain slicker around his shoulders—” she gestured toward the yellow vinyl garment sprawled across the grass “—but he just let it fall to the ground.”

Again Michael’s beautiful mahogany eyes met hers. “Thank you,” he repeated in a choked voice.

When she felt the ripple of tension in his biceps, Renata realized belatedly that she was still holding on to him. Abruptly she let go. But Michael wasn’t paying any attention to Renata. His gaze was once again on the old man, who was still chanting. Not once had his eyes even flickered toward his grandson.

“I tried everything I could to make him come in and dry off,” Renata explained apologetically. “He acts as though he doesn’t see me. Doesn’t hear. I think he’s in some kind of a trance.”

“Trance?” Michael repeated, as though the single word alarmed him.

“Well, I don’t know what else to call it. It’s as though he’s gone somewhere that I can’t reach.”

Michael closed his eyes, shook his head, then whispered, “I’m not sure I can reach him, either.”

At that point Brick joined them, laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder and said, “This is like talking down a jumper, Michael. I’ll speak to him if you want me to. I would if you weren’t here.”

Quietly Michael said, “Thanks, Lieutenant, but this is something I have to do myself. If he doesn’t finish, he’ll find a way to come back here later. The best thing for me to do is to hurry him along a little.”

“Finish?” said Renata. “He sounds like he’s just repeating the same thing over and over again.”

This time Michael’s gaze focused on her face for a long, dark moment before he turned away. For some reason she could not fathom, Renata knew she’d disappointed him.

Hugging herself for warmth, she stood beside Brick and stared at Michael as he crossed the lawn to join his grandfather. They couldn’t have looked more different: young, old; business suit, Indian clothes; utterly contemporary, locked in another space and time. Still, there was a family resemblance, or at least a tribal one, in the coppery skin and straight, masculine nose. The old man’s hair was very long and braided, already thin and gray. Michael’s black hair was longer than average—thick and straight as it flowed over his broad shoulders—but it was such a magnificent mane that a proud display of it didn’t strike Renata as peculiar. In her arty crowd, lots of people cherished eccentricities in their appearance. None of her Milwaukee friends would have looked twice at Michael’s hair even if he’d worn it in feathered braids.

“I met Michael when Edward Wocheck came back to town and started talking about expanding Timberlake Lodge,” Brick explained sotto voce. “Old man Youngthunder’s got some idea that there’s a sacred burial ground around here. We drove through your property before but the ‘spirits’ didn’t speak to him.”

Renata was astounded. People were right when they said truth was sometimes stranger than fiction! The only burial ground nearby was the family plot out toward the barn, and nobody had been buried there in seventy or eighty years.

“So why do you think he came back here this morning?” she asked Brick.

“Edward’s having a ground-breaking ceremony for the new wing of Timberlake Lodge tomorrow. Last night Mr. Youngthunder heard it on the news.”

Michael was squatting in front of his grandfather now, meeting his eyes, but Renata found it odd that he still had not spoken. The old man was chanting again, and for some reason Michael’s head was nodding ever so slightly as though in time to the distinctive rhythm.

“Why doesn’t he say something to his grandfather?” Renata asked. “Aren’t they on good terms?”

“Very good terms. Winnebago terms. Don’t let the suit throw you. Michael still knows how to be an Indian when he has to, and I think he’s going to have to act Winnebago to get through to the old guy.”

Brick was right. A moment later the handsome man in the rumpled suit—a suit that looked as though it had fit him magnificently before his night in the police car—folded his long legs and sat down on the mud-soaked blanket in front of his grandfather. Then he held up both hands the way the old man was and started to chant right along with him.

Renata stared disbelievingly at Brick, then back at Michael again. She knew Michael loved the old man, so she wasn’t surprised that he was willing to do anything to get him to come inside. She might have been willing to sit in the mud herself, especially in her jeans. But Michael was wearing a suit! And he wasn’t just sitting there pleading with the old man. He was joining in the ritual, raising his hands, chanting the same syllables.

It took Renata a moment to realize the symbolism of that simple act. He wasn’t feigning understanding. He knew the chant. He knew the sounds, the words, the gestures! He knew why his grandfather had come to this place, knew what he was doing, knew why he wouldn’t just get up and leave. And he clearly shared some part of his grandfather’s way of thinking, something that Renata guessed he couldn’t put into English words.

She battled the weird feeling that she was sinking into quicksand. Right before her eyes, this terribly attractive businessman had turned into an Indian! All he was missing was the buckskin and braids.

Suddenly there was a crackle from the cruiser. Brick quickly strode back, picked up the mike, barked a quick response and waved a hand. “Got an emergency,” he called to Renata. “Tell Michael I’ll be back for him as soon as I can.”

In an instant the black-and-white car had pulled away, leaving Renata feeling like an interloper on her own property. It had been strange enough starting the day with one rain-soaked Indian doing eerie chants on her front lawn.

Now there were two of them.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR NEARLY fifteen minutes, Renata stood on the porch, grateful for the overhang, while Michael and his grandfather chanted in the mud. She had no idea what was going through their minds, though she was reasonably certain it wasn’t the same thing. The old man was totally absorbed in his ritual, but Michael’s eyes were open and his neck muscles rippled with tension. Every now and then he made a mistake in the chanting and had to take a moment to pick up a clue from his grandfather. It was obvious that the ceremony, whatever it was, did not come easily to him.

At last the old man stopped and lowered his arms. It didn’t seem to Renata that he was tired or resigned. He just seemed to be finished. At first he did not speak, but at last he opened his eyes and looked at Michael.

A good two minutes of silence passed before Michael began to speak, and even then Renata could not understand him. To her he’d spoken clear, unaccented Midwestern English. To his grandfather he was speaking an unintelligible tongue that she took to be Winnebago. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound; it simply surprised her to hear a man in a suit use a language that seemed to belong to another world...another century.

When Michael was done, the old man spoke, his own voice weak and quavery. He sounded calm but stubborn. Michael spoke again, gesturing to himself and then Renata. He sounded angry and embarrassed. She didn’t need to speak Winnebago to understand the look on his face.

Whatever he said seemed to impress his grandfather, because for the first time the old one’s watery gaze drifted toward Renata. Then he looked down, as though he, too, were ashamed. By this time Renata was shivering with cold and so was the old man. Michael still looked tense. And incredibly handsome.

At last he stood. Muddy water dripped down the legs of his ruined suit. He held out a hand to his grandfather, who ignored it but painfully struggled to rise on his own. The old man had to roll sideways to his knees and use both hands to push away from the ground, and even then he almost fell over. Michael kept his hand outstretched, leaning close to him, but he did not reach out to catch him. Renata was touched by his obvious effort to save the old man’s dignity.

When Michael’s grandfather stood up and started toward the house, Renata could see that the night in the rain had taken its toll. He looked shaky and cold and exhausted. At once she said to Michael, “Why don’t you take him upstairs and warm him up with a hot shower while I find you both some dry clothes.”

Michael’s eyes met hers with embarrassed gratitude as he nodded just once. Then Renata quickly slipped down to the basement while Michael and his grandfather moved slowly into the house.

It wasn’t hard to find clothes for two men; the basement was full of Renata’s parents’ and grandparents’ clothes and keepsakes. She even had a trunk of her great-grandparents’ things. Sometimes, when she was feeling lonely, Renata spent hours down here, perusing old photos and letters or rearranging her grandpa’s box of artifacts. She had never regretted being raised without brothers and sisters because she’d had so much love from the grown-ups in her life. But one by one, death had claimed them all—tractor accident, cancer, kidney disease. Her grandfather had lived longer than his son; he’d been the last to go. But for four years now, Renata had been the last of her branch of the Meyers in Wisconsin. Until recently she’d been too busy trying to launch a career to worry much about marriage and children, but she knew that she was nearly ready to settle down. The pull was always strongest on the days she came to Tyler.

Pushing away her maudlin memories, Renata quickly dug out several sizes of men’s jeans and T-shirts, plus some old long johns and a heavy jacket, despite the humidity, for the shivering old man. She took the clothes to the extra bedroom upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. Over the sound of running water she called out, “The clothes are in the room next door. I’ll be down in the kitchen making breakfast if you want anything.”

She heard a muffled “Thanks,” but nothing more.

The instant Renata reached the kitchen she remembered that she hadn’t been here for more than a month, and she’d planned to stop at the grocery store after the meeting, on her way back from town. Fortunately she always kept a few staples on hand, so she had no trouble finding some coffee and a box of pancake mix. Normally she added milk and a fresh egg to the batter, but under the circumstances, water would have to do. Pancakes were a better choice than soup at this hour of the morning.

She’d just started dropping batter onto the griddle when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She turned as Michael stepped into the room.

He looked different in a pair of old jeans than he had in a suit. Renata’s father had been heavier than Michael, so the jeans were loose on him. So was the T-shirt. The casual look did nothing to diminish Michael’s attractiveness; if anything, it made him seem more accessible. Renata noticed that his hair was just as appealing wet as it was dry—thick, shiny, the fullness lifting it off his face before it curved under slightly on his shoulders.

But what really drew her to him was the expression on his face. She’d never seen a man look quite like this—proud, grateful and embarrassed all at the same time. When Michael had arrived and found his grandfather, Renata had guessed he was caught up in fear and relief. But since then, a measure of shame had crept into his regal bearing.

“I know Brick introduced us,” he greeted her quietly, “but I’m sorry to say I didn’t get a grip on your name.”

“Renata Meyer.”

“Michael Youngthunder.” He held out one strong brown hand, and Renata slipped hers into it. His was still cold, but the chilliness of his skin didn’t linger in his eyes. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your kindness to my grandfather. Most people would have called the cops and had him towed away.” He glanced toward the front lawn. “I put the slicker on the porch to dry.”

“Thanks.” Renata tried to give him a reassuring smile, but somehow a smile didn’t work at the moment. When he gently disengaged his hand from hers, she realized belatedly that she’d gripped it in greeting and forgotten to let go.

“We’re indebted to you,” Michael said sincerely. “If there’s anything my family can ever do for you, don’t hesitate to let us know.”

Renata was touched by the offer—and by the sincerity in Michael’s beautiful dark eyes. Lots of people, if they’d made the offer at all, would have said “I,” not “my family.” Obviously his family obligations were important to him.

“I wish I could have gotten him inside sooner, Michael,” she apologized. “I only arrived an hour or so ago. For all I know, he could have been out there all night.”

“I suspect he was,” Michael agreed sadly. He looked absolutely exhausted, but he made no move to sit down.

Abruptly Renata realized he was probably waiting for an invitation. “Please have a seat,” she was quick to offer. “I’ll have pancakes for you in just a second. Did you have anything to eat this morning?”

Slowly he took a chair, his gaze gratefully brushing her face in a way that made her skin tingle. It occurred to Renata that she must look as bedraggled as Michael and his father. Before, she hadn’t minded, but for some reason she didn’t want to look her worst now that she was talking to Michael face-to-face.

“I haven’t had an appetite since I first found out he was gone,” he admitted. “Now that he’s in there steaming himself, I’m absolutely ravenous.”

This time Renata grinned, and to her surprise, Michael grinned back. His smile took her totally off guard. It was brilliant, almost boyish, utterly charming. What a change from that fierce, anguished scowl!

“Good. I was hoping you’d be too hungry to notice that I’m piecing together a meal from odds and ends,” she confessed. “I keep staples here but I always need to get milk and fresh produce when I come to town. But if you’re hungry—”

“Ready to eat cardboard. Whatever you’ve got will be fine.”

He gave her another dazzling grin as she handed him a plate full of pancakes, dug in the cupboard for some syrup and rinsed off a clean but dusty fork. It occurred to Renata that coming back to her house in Tyler was sort of like arriving at a neglected backwoods cabin. It was cozy and quaint, but it wasn’t set up to entertain strangers. At least she had a phone and running water—the thumps and bangs in the pipes triggered by the old man’s shower were proof of that—but that was about the extent of the amenities.

Michael’s eyes met hers with an expression that reminded Renata of a little boy in a candy shop in a Norman Rockwell painting. “Are you going to join me?” he asked.

This time Renata laughed out loud. “For goodness’ sake, Michael, eat! I can hardly bear to look at you. In another second you’ll start drooling.”

The smile quickly vanished. “No worry about that. I drooled a lot when I ate raw buffalo in the wigwam, but at Georgetown they frowned on that.”

Renata was surprised that she’d offended him and even more surprised that he’d felt compelled to trot out his academic credentials. Honestly, she said, “I was only teasing, Michael, because you sounded so hungry. I wasn’t thinking at all about your...heritage.”

A dark flush reddened his angular cheeks. “After what’s happened outside this morning, I wouldn’t think you’d be able to think about anything else.”

He was so blunt that Renata decided she should be straight with him, also. “I’ll admit that your grandfather took me by surprise. I’m worried about him and I’m damned curious. You took me by surprise, too, but that’s because I’m having a devil of a time figuring out how a man who looks so comfy in a suit and acts so white can speak Winnebago and think like a traditional Indian.”

She drew a quick breath, but didn’t give him time to reply. “Now I’m wondering if I’ve done anything to cause you to believe that I’ve got some Neanderthal prejudice against people who aren’t just like me. Since I’ve spent my whole life as a square peg in a round hole, I’d have to dislike just about everybody if that were true. As it happens, I like people. I like diversity. Until you started making insinuations,” she finished a bit sarcastically, “I rather liked you.”

Michael was silent, but his eyes grew dark as he listened to her speech. For a long, tense moment his inscrutable gaze impaled her. Then he rose, abandoning the fork poised to snag a pancake, and slowly prowled across the room.

Renata wasn’t sure what to expect of this tightly coiled stranger. She knew he was angry, but she wasn’t sure if she was scared. She tried to remember just what Brick had said to her about Michael Youngthunder before he’d galloped off in his police car. He had acted as though Michael were a friend. He’d given Renata no overt or even subtle warnings. Surely he wouldn’t have left her alone with these two Indians if he had any reason to distrust them!

Still, Renata shivered as Michael approached her, his lips drawn down in a fearsome scowl. She wanted to duck away from him, to hide or bolt from the room, but she didn’t seem to be able to move.

And then he spoke, and she knew by the fresh shame in his voice that his anger was directed inward. And she also knew that the chill that feathered up and down her spine as he touched her wrist had nothing to do with fear.

“Renata,” he said softly, his voice taking on a low and tortured tone, “please forgive my rudeness. I am always overly touchy about my...bloodlines. And this morning, I am—” he shook his head “—a great deal more embarrassed by my family than usual.” His gaze met hers, then slipped away, reluctantly swinging back to hers again. “I’ve never been in a situation quite like this before, but that’s no reason for me to behave badly.” As the bathroom pipes upstairs stopped banging, he finished tensely, “You don’t have to feed me. As soon as my grandfather gets dressed, we’ll go.”

As he turned to leave the room, Renata caught his arm. She seemed to be doing a lot of that this morning—holding on to Michael—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. There was something about him that made her want very much to touch him.

“Michael, I’m sorry,” she said simply. “I know this whole situation is terribly awkward for you. But it’s kind of strange for me, too, you know.”

He turned around, met her eyes again and slowly nodded. A thin layer of tension seemed to leave the room.

“My grandfather lived to be ninety-six,” she told him, “and he just died a few years ago. I loved him dearly, but I was the only one left to take care of him near the end, and I didn’t always know what to do with him.”

Michael ran a nervous hand through his thick mane. “Grand Feather’s not senile,” he declared almost defensively. “I know it looks that way, but he’s still sharp as a tack. He’s stubborn and determined, but he’s not losing a grip on reality. At least, not on his reality. It’s just that his reality is probably different from yours.”

Again his dark eyes met hers, imploring Renata to understand what he didn’t seem to be able to say. She wanted him to go on, to share his feelings, for reasons that went beyond the need to satisfy her curiosity or ease her conscience after their spat. But she knew he was still ravenous and exhausted...and nearly proud enough to leave his pancakes uneaten and go.

“Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it while we eat?” she suggested. Renata wasn’t a breakfast person, but she saw no need to mention that to Michael. Grabbing a plate from the cupboard, she filled it with pancakes. “I’m pretty hungry myself,” she lied.

It was hard to say whether it was Michael’s hunger or Renata’s offer to join him that finally did the trick, but he did move back toward the table, where he waited behind his chair until Renata sat down. Only after she took a bite of pancake did he take a forkful from his stack. She tried not to watch him eat, certain that he was holding himself back. Deliberately she kept quiet until he’d consumed three pancakes and she’d discreetly refilled his plate. Mercifully, a companionable silence seemed to fill the room.

Despite her request to have him share the details of his grandfather’s reality, Michael didn’t mention the old man again. Instead he asked, “So where do you live when you don’t live here?”

If Renata had believed he was really interested in her, she would have been pleased by the question. Under the circumstances, she was reasonably certain that he was merely trying to be polite.

“I live in Milwaukee,” she answered simply. “How about you?”

“Sugar Creek.”

He made no effort to expand on the terse answer, so Renata asked another question. “Does your grandfather live with you?”

Michael exhaled sharply and shook his head. “No, unfortunately. I have begged him and begged him, but he won’t leave Wisconsin Dells. He won’t even let me buy him a nicer place. Even a little trailer would be an improvement.”

“Does he live alone?”

“For all intents and purposes. I have an uncle who owns some land nearby. He checks on him every night.”

Renata got the picture. Near the end her own grandfather had been too stubborn to live with anybody, either. She’d had to arrange for a year’s leave from the university—while she pretended to her grandfather that she’d dropped out of school—so she could come home and take care of him. Knowing all the hours of worry that Michael surely had to put up with, all the trips back and forth, she said kindly, “But when he’s in trouble, you’re the one they call?”

He looked surprised at her deduction.

“It’s obvious that you two are very close.”

Renata was rewarded with another smile—tentative, but beguiling nonetheless.

“He raised me after my grandmother died. He felt he’d failed to teach my father the old ways, so he tried to pass them on to me. That’s the only reason I know—” he gestured with his head toward the front lawn “—a few words of Winnebago. Enough to fake my way through a couple of old ceremonies.”

Renata was quite certain that he knew far more than “a few words of Winnebago” and “a couple of old ceremonies.” His Winnebago conversation with his grandfather had sounded quite fluent, and though he’d stumbled a few times with the chanting, she’d gotten the impression that he’d been struggling to remember something he’d known very well at one time. It took no genius to deduce that his Indian roots made him uncomfortable, and not just because his grandfather had made a scene.

The kitchen became suddenly silent when the old man padded through the doorway, his eyes not on Renata but on Michael. She didn’t know if he’d heard Michael’s last words. If he had, they had surely hurt him.

He was wearing a pair of her grandfather’s jeans, which were far too big and far too long. He’d rolled up the hems several inches in a way that almost made him look like a clown. He’d disdained the heavy jacket, but he was wearing three wool shirts. His hair, soaking wet, had been carefully rebraided. One soggy feather hung from his head.

The old man whispered something in Winnebago, then stood absolutely still. Michael turned around, gazed at him for a moment, then said in English, “This young lady has offered us her hospitality and it would be rude to refuse it. It would also be rude to exclude her from our conversation. If you’re not ready to break your fast, come sit down and join us anyway. We can’t leave until the policeman comes back.”

The old man looked affronted at the quiet reprimand, but he did not move toward the table. He glanced briefly at Renata and said in quavery but perfect English, “I am sorry for the trouble. I am grateful for the clothes. I will wait on the porch until my grandson is done eating.”

Shame colored Michael’s sharp, handsome features as the old man left the room.

* * *

IT WAS NEARLY NOON when Michael helped his grandfather out of Lieutenant Brick Bauer’s black-and-white cruiser at the police station, where Michael had left his car. As he shook Brick’s hand, he said quietly, “Thank you again for helping me search last night. And assure the young lady that I’ll return the clothes just as soon as I can.”

Brick waved a negligent hand. “I’m just glad we found your grandfather in one piece, Michael. I’ll give Renata your message, but don’t worry about the clothes. She’s not likely to need them till the next time a soaking-wet stranger shows up on her doorstep.”

Michael managed a smile before he slipped into his BMW, but his face was stony by the time his grandfather joined him inside. Forcing the old one to speak English to Renata had demonstrated a measure of filial disrespect, but it had been unavoidable. Tongue-lashing the old man would wait until the white people were out of earshot.

“I have never been so frightened in my life, Grand Feather,” Michael snapped in English. “And once I found you, I was ashamed and angry. I spent a whole night looking for you with a policeman. We must have made three dozen phone calls. We knocked on doors of strangers and got them out of their beds! And then—” he sucked in a breath, finding it was hard to tackle the worst thing “—you forced that white woman to take us in. To feed us, to get us warm, to give us clothes! And then you treated her with contempt!”

His grandfather looked gray, utterly fatigued. “I was too tired to speak English to a woman whose people stole our land.”

“You were rude to a decent person who could have had you arrested for trespassing! You got me so upset that I was rude, too!” Michael knew that was what bothered him the most. He’d been grateful to Renata, but he hated feeling in debt to her. Not just because she was white, and not just because she was a woman. She was also—how could he put it?—the sort of woman who beckoned to him.

“I want your promise that nothing like this will happen again, Grand Feather,” he said sharply, in fluent Winnebago this time.

“I am old,” his grandfather answered softly. “It is time for me to go. I want to go to my people. I should not have to explain this to you.”

Michael took a deep breath. “You said there was a Winnebago graveyard here. Lieutenant Bauer looked for it. I looked for it. You looked for it! We could not find it.”

The old eyes bored into his. “That doesn’t mean it is not here.”

Michael threw up his hands, wondering what he’d do with this stubborn old man when he really did become senile. He hoped he’d spoken the truth to Renata when he’d insisted that the old man was not becoming irrational yet.

“You were lucky you pulled that stunt on land that belongs to a kind woman. If she’d been a different type of person you could have been shot or arrested.”

If she’d been a different type of person, I wouldn’t feel so ashamed, he added silently. He knew dozens of Winnebagos who would have responded the way Renata Meyer had, but very few white people. She’d gone out of her way to help an old man. She hadn’t accused him of trespassing. She hadn’t called him a dirty Indian. She hadn’t ordered him never to bother her again. She’d fed and cleaned him up and gotten him warm. And she’d smiled...oh, had she ever smiled....

Angrily he thrust away the memory of that smile. It was the sort of smile that could get a man in serious trouble if he dwelt on it.

Still, as he drove back to the Dells, Michael couldn’t seem to put Renata out of his mind. She was not the sort of white woman he dealt with impersonally every day at work. Most of his female customers were professional women who strove to keep their conversation light, and his co-worker, Maralys Johnson, was an aggressive career woman with a sharp tongue and a hard edge. Maralys wasn’t a bad sort, but she sometimes got on Michael’s nerves. Always jockeying her way to the top, she spoke the language of power and even dressed to look the part of a rising young executive.

There were no hard edges to Renata Meyer. She spoke her mind, but gently. She opened her home to the rain-soaked and wayward. She wore ratty jeans and a paint-speckled T-shirt, and her luscious blond hair cascaded unfettered to her trim waist. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, no power suit. Everything about her was natural and unpretentious.

And she was damn easy on the eyes to boot.

But it wasn’t really her appearance that had moved Michael. It was her honesty, her compassion, her warmth. She’d surely felt as awkward as he in their unusual situation, but she’d handled it a lot better than he had. She’d admitted her curiosity, but she hadn’t pressed. She’d tried to anticipate his needs and meet them. When he’d botched everything, she’d tried to make amends.

She was a rare woman, and he was sorry—as well as relieved—that he’d never see her again.

Oh, he could return the clothes to her house. He could even call ahead to make sure she’d be home when he got there. He had a hunch she’d be more flattered than distressed. But Michael Youngthunder was not a foolish man, and he knew trouble when it bit him on the kneecap. He’d been clever enough to crawl out of a shack and drag himself through college; he’d been clever enough to get three promotions in the past two years. He was certainly clever enough to remember how painfully he’d learned that he should never, ever, get romantically involved with a white woman.

He’d loved one once—surrendered himself body and soul—and he’d believed, with every ounce of his heart, that she had truly lived for him. When he’d proposed marriage, Sheila had accepted with what seemed like true joy. When she’d taken him home to meet her parents, she had seemed proud of him. But when he’d introduced Sheila to his grandfather and asked that her parents meet him, she’d told Michael gently, “Maybe some other time.” She’d been so gentle, in fact—so loving and ashamed—that it had taken Michael three full weeks to get the message.

But he’d learned his lesson in the end, and it was not one he could ever forget. He’d mail back those old clothes or leave them with Brick Bauer. He could not deny that he was drawn to Renata Meyer, but that only meant he’d move heaven and earth to make sure he never came face-to-face with her again.

* * *

BY THE TIME the two Indians left and Renata started into town, it was almost eleven, the hour the crafts-fair meeting was set to begin at Alyssa’s house. It was the first time Alyssa had ever asked her to serve on a committee, and Renata wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or put out. The fact that Alyssa wanted her artistic expertise meant that she didn’t see her as a child anymore, and that was good. But since she had plenty of multipurpose volunteers in Tyler, Alyssa most likely planned to turn to Renata for advice that nobody else could offer. Advice that was probably going to translate into boring civic duties that took a lot of time.

As Renata pulled up on the familiar street, she remembered that she had always thought the Ingallses’ old house was magnificent. It had trim white columns on the front porch and clusters of wisteria trailing from trellises below the windows. As a little girl Renata had read books about children who dreamed of living in a palace. She’d always dreamed of living like the Ingallses.

“Renata! How nice to see you,” Alyssa greeted her when she knocked on the door.

Alyssa was a willowy, elegant blonde in her late fifties who looked a good ten years younger. Today she was dressed as casually as Renata had ever seen her—in jeans and a T-shirt. But the jeans were spanking new with a designer label, and the T-shirt had shoulder pads and some sort of hand-painted design that would have gone for fifty or sixty dollars in Milwaukee. Renata hadn’t made a fraction of that when she’d painted some herself.

“You remember everybody, don’t you?” Alyssa asked.

I certainly hope so, Renata thought, knowing that all her parents’ friends would be offended if she forgot their names. As she glanced around the room, old faces pricked her memory. Dear Anna Kelsey, aging some but looking just as pragmatic as ever. Alyssa’s daughter Liza, the hellion, glowingly pregnant and—lo and behold!—proudly sporting a wedding ring. Nora Gates, whose name Renata had recently heard linked with Liza’s husband’s brother; she’d either married him or was planning to soon. And last but not least, Elise Ferguson, Tyler’s beloved spinster librarian.

Nobody ever thought of Elise and marriage in the same breath. Not that she wasn’t nice looking—she was tall and slender with a subtle, almost ethereal sort of beauty. Her smile was as sweet as her spirit. But she carried too many burdens on her slim shoulders to indulge herself in romantic fancy. Her sister, Bea, wheelchair-bound for years, demanded a great deal of care and even more attention. And Elise treated the library itself almost as though it were a living thing. It had become her child. For this Renata, along with the rest of the town, would always be grateful. She’d spent more happy hours than she could count poring over art books that Elise had special-ordered for her back in the days when nobody else had thought she had a lick of talent.

Proof of Alyssa’s father’s faith in Renata was that one of her first paintings, a product of her cubist phase, now hung on a wall in the Ingalles’ living room. It was a crush of blues and greens, with no discernible subject matter, though Renata recalled believing at the time that it represented heaven’s relationship with earth. Now it represented the fact that crusty Judson Ingalls had been the first person in the world to pay actual money for a Renata Meyer painting. For that reason alone she would always cut Alyssa’s dad a lot of slack, no matter what Tyler’s rumor mill had to say about him.

“It’s good to see you all,” said Renata, suddenly enveloped by a sense of warmth for each of them. After the unsettling events of the morning, it was good to feel that she was really back home among people who were always kind and predictable.

“So what have you been doing lately, Renata?” asked Elise with a sparkling smile.

“I’m still trying to make a living from my paintings,” she replied, opting not to mention that most of her income came from drawing newspaper ads free-lance. “It’s a bit of a challenge out there.”

“Tell me about it,” said Liza, not with rancor but with genuine, shared frustration. “Oz isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Renata grinned. That was as close as Liza was likely to come to admitting that even for a rebel like herself, there really was no place like home.

For fifteen minutes everybody munched on Alyssa’s croissants and swapped tales about who had said what last week at the Hair Affair. Renata listened with one ear while her thoughts drifted back to Michael. He’d said he was going to take his father home first, then report to work as soon as he could. He’d mumbled something about his usual unpaid overtime equaling this morning off, but he’d never gotten around to telling her just what his job was. Brick Bauer surely knew and would tell her if she asked, but she couldn’t think of a good excuse to pose the question. Renata had no reason to think she’d ever see Michael Youngthunder again; he’d certainly given her no indication that he was interested in getting to know her. And yet, for reasons that weren’t entirely clear to Renata, the man seemed to have implanted himself in her subconscious. Despite the cheery laughter all around her, she couldn’t quite seem to join in. She wasn’t a woman who normally spent much time worrying about men, but she somehow couldn’t get this one off her mind.

“As most of you know, we’re in the middle of a fund-raising event to replace our library,” Alyssa declared when the meeting finally got under way. “As I understand it, the matching funds we expected to receive have been held up, maybe for years. Elise is going to contact the architect who drew up the plans to see if he can scale them down considerably and still meet our needs, but we’re going to need a massive infusion of cash anyway. It is our hope—” her eyes turned to Renata “—that this wonderful crafts fair will help meet that need.”

Renata didn’t comment, but she couldn’t help thinking that Alyssa was dreaming. No crafts fair could produce the kind of revenue the town was seeking, even if the artists paid a hefty commission or made a generous donations from their profits.

“Uh, excuse me,” she said apologetically, “but this is the first I’ve heard about replacing the library. I’m all for raising funds for books, but to be honest with you, I don’t think we can get all that much money from a crafts fair. Not on the scale of building a new library.” She turned to Elise. “Frankly, I don’t see the point. I love the old place.”

Elise shook her head. Her lips tightened in distress. “So do I, Renata, but Tyler has grown since you were a little girl! We simply don’t have enough room anymore. Not for books, not for people, not for meetings that could be held in the public gathering rooms.” Her voice grew low and impassioned. A hint of desperation darkened her normally cheerful eyes. “Besides, the building is so old it’s likely to be condemned as unsafe at any time, or we could have a disaster that would cost us thousands of dollars in books or even threaten the safety of our patrons. The library needs massive restoration—electrical work, plumbing, plaster, everything.” There was a tremor of despair in her voice now. “Originally we just hoped to renovate the building or add on, but it would almost cost more to do that, and we’d still be short on space.”

Briskly, Nora said, “Renata, we discussed all of this at the council meetings. If you’d gone through all the hassle we have, you’d understand that we really do have to build a new library. The only question is where we’re going to come up with the funds.”

“The crafts fair is only one idea,” Anna chimed in brightly. “We’ve got several others in the works.”

They weren’t exactly ganging up on her, but Renata got the message clearly enough. You weren’t here when all the planning was done. It’s too late to raise objections now.

Renata maintained a sober silence when Alyssa started to speak again.

“In order for this to come about, we have several ideas. The first is that crafts people will donate part of their proceeds—” her gaze flickered nervously to Renata “—and the second is that we hold an auction of some works by more famous artists, whomever we can impress with the urgency of our cause. Although we’ll be offering notable artwork, we’re hoping that our publicity of this event as a fund-raiser will inflate the prices considerably.”

Again her gaze drifted toward Renata, who was definitely getting edgy now. She didn’t have enough money to be generous with her donations to Tyler, even though she loved the old town. She couldn’t imagine how she was going to get equally impoverished artist friends to donate their paintings to the cause.

When Renata remained silent, Alyssa started to speak again.

“Of course, we need someone to handle the auction portion of the fair—recruiting the works themselves, I mean. Someone who really knows about art and can assess it fairly. That’s why we were so glad that Renata volunteered to serve on the committee.”

Volunteered, my foot, Renata thought. But she kept her expression neutral as Alyssa continued.

“Some of you may not remember that Renata started painting when she was a little girl. She sold her first picture to my father when she was thirteen. It’s probably worth a fortune now, but he would never part with it.” She faced the cubist mass of blues and sighed. “It has such sentimental value.”

Renata had to stifle a smile. The only thing Judson Ingalls could sell that painting for was kindling. Still, it was nice that he’d kept the homely thing, even though she suspected that Alyssa had dug it out of the basement to put on display just for this meeting. It didn’t fit in a home that had been decorated with such wealth and taste.

When all the other ladies beamed at Renata, she felt the noose tighten. Liza winked at her, clearly reading her apprehension.

“With all of her artist friends and contacts, we’re certain that Renata will be able to make the auction an outstanding success,” Alyssa continued. “We’ll help her store and organize the paintings and sculptures, but of course none of us is in a position to recruit and evaluate artwork as she can.” Alyssa smiled hopefully at Renata, who did her best to smile back.

“We were hoping you could bring some of your work to the fair, dear,” said Anna. “And possibly donate some of it.”

“I know it’s asking a lot,” begged Elise, “but we so badly need a new building.”

Before Renata could answer, Liza suggested, “Why don’t you paint us something new for the auction, Renata? You know—the official painting that expresses the theme of the fair? Something Tyleresque but distinctive? Maybe we could capitalize on it in a big way. Reproduce posters for sale nationwide or something.”

Why don’t you order a painting out of the Sears catalog? Renata was tempted to suggest, not quite sure if spunky Liza was kidding. I don’t do paintings on demand. Each creation came from the soul and it dictated its own terms. Renata could no sooner make a sculpture adhere to a given theme than Michelangelo could have painted the Sistine Chapel with a paint-by-number kit.

Before she could express this perspective, however, Anna said, “I think a unique theme for the fair is a great idea.”

“I thought the library renovation was the theme,” said Nora.

“No, that’s the reason for the fair, not the artistic theme,” Alyssa pointed out, looking truly inspired now. “The physical properties of books makes a very narrow theme, and the subjects books cover is just too broad. I think that the history of Tyler, represented by the library’s past and future, might be more appropriate.”

Liza didn’t look impressed. “How do you draw history? Make a painting of a bunch of pioneers cutting down trees and herding dairy cows? I mean, that might be nice for one painting, but how many can you use in one auction? Besides, we’ve all seen that sort of thing before.”

There’s more to Tyler’s history than the pioneers, Renata suddenly thought. Michael’s people were here for generations before the first white person set foot on Wisconsin soil.

As an idea began to form in her mind, Renata cautiously suggested, “I think it might be interesting to feature a different kind of artwork altogether in terms of history. How about bringing Indian arts and crafts to the fair and featuring paintings and sculptures with Native American themes?”

For a moment they all stared at her. Then Alyssa said, “I don’t think Indian things will raise much money, do you?”

“Of course they will!” Liza suddenly burst out. “Get with it, Mother! Indians are in right now. The Santa Fe look is everywhere.”

“But we’re not in Santa Fe, dear,” said Anna.

Nora added, “This is hardly known as Indian country. It’s not the wild West.”

“But there used to be a great many distinguished tribes in Wisconsin,” Elise reminded the group, “and I believe there are still some small reservations not too far from here.”

Suddenly Anna blinked. “Why, just last night my nephew said the police were looking for some old Indian who’d gotten lost in Tyler. I think Brick said something about an old burial ground.”

Renata felt a sudden, curious sense of alarm. For some reason she could not explain, she didn’t want anybody in this group to talk about Michael and his grandfather as strangers, Indians who didn’t really belong here. Her encounter with the two had been oddly touching, almost spiritual, and she knew she couldn’t explain the depth of meaning their visit to her land had had for them. She wasn’t even sure she understood it herself.

“All I know is that Tyler’s focus has always been on white settlers. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—I’m proud that my great-grandparents helped settle this place,” Renata was quick to clarify. “But we all know about pioneer art—quilts and wood carving and knitted goods—and I think it would be an interesting change of pace to focus on the Indians who lived here first. If white artists could use Indian work as a theme and we could persuade some local Indians to sell some of their authentic work, we might be able to really make the fair special.”

“I knew she’d think of something!” Alyssa warmly concurred. “Oh, Renata, it’s wonderful having you in charge of the auction and recruiting the Indian craft people. I’m just so glad you’re here!”

At the moment, Renata was not at all glad to be sitting in Alyssa Ingalls Baron’s living room, and not at all glad that she’d been roped into helping work on the fair. But there were perks to the job that none of the other women realized. Surely the memory of Michael’s sharp cheekbones or his grandfather’s weathered face would inspire Renata to create some of the finest paintings she’d ever done. And as for recruiting Indian artists, well, she’d have to contact every one she knew.

There weren’t all that many. She’d taken art classes with Bobby Montero and Judy Hall and got along well with both of them. But Bobby was a mixture of three or four tribes from Arizona and Judy was a Sioux. If Tyler’s crafts fair was going to center on Wisconsin history, then surely the committee would have to contact Wisconsin Indians. It seemed to Renata that there were a half dozen tribes within the state, but she didn’t know which ones they were or where they’d settled. All she knew for sure was that her farm had once been sovereign territory of the Winnebago.

And except for the old man who’d spent the night on her lawn, Michael Youngthunder was the only Winnebago she knew.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS NEARLY nine o’clock in the evening when Michael reached the turnoff to Renata Meyer’s place. It had been a horrendous day. After spending the whole night in search of his grandfather, finding him at dawn, driving him back home, reporting late for work and working overtime, about the last thing he needed to do was dash back to Tyler again.

And the last thing he wanted to risk was spending an hour alone with this beguiling female.

With great reluctance and more than a little anger at Grand Feather, Michael rang the doorbell. He heard Renata coming, taking her time, probably glancing out the window to see who’d sneaked up on her in the dark. To make it easier for her, he called out, “It’s Michael Youngthunder, Renata.” And then, belatedly, he realized that she might not find the news particularly reassuring. He could hardly have made a good impression on her this morning. Besides, she’d already done her Good Samaritan deed for the year. If she normally lived in a big city like Milwaukee, she undoubtedly thought twice before opening the door to strangers or casual acquaintances who were men.

Even when they weren’t Indians.

To his astonishment, his words had the same effect as “Open sesame.” The door was flung open wide.

“Michael!” she burst out, the joy in her voice unmistakable. So was her assumption that he’d hurried back to Tyler just to see her.

For a full thirty seconds Michael simply stood there, dumbstruck. Renata was wearing that same casual outfit he’d seen her in this morning, although now the T-shirt seemed to sport a bit more paint. But her face, in the moonlight, looked completely different. This morning she’d been worried, cautious, offended, hurt. Tonight she looked positively radiant.

She’s thrilled to see me, he realized, the discovery swelling through him with a rush. I’ll be damned. Renata was hoping I’d come back again.

It occurred to Michael briefly that maybe his grandfather had already shown up here again and Renata was just relieved that someone had come to tow him away. But he hadn’t kept his distance from white women so long that he’d forgotten how to read the expression he saw on her lovely face. No man in his right mind was likely to be blind to such joyous anticipation.

Michael swallowed hard and tried to find somewhere to look besides Renata’s welcoming blue eyes. He didn’t want to embarrass her and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. But today seemed to be his day for humiliation. Grand Feather wasn’t giving him much choice.

“Uh, Renata, I’m really sorry to barge in like this,” he began, pretending he’d missed her delighted greeting. “But my cousin says my grandfather has disappeared again. He left a note this time telling me not to come after him, but there’s no way I can sleep while he’s missing.”

For the tiniest moment Renata stared at him in confusion, maybe a bit of shock. Then she looked concerned. It was not for several seconds that she began to blush.

It touched him that she seemed more worried than embarrassed. The very depth and decency of the woman made it increasingly hard to push away his keen attraction to her. Fiercely Michael reminded himself of why it was vital that he keep a safe distance from Renata. To her, their meeting was probably the beginning of something totally new. To him it was a replay of a movie he hadn’t liked the first time and was not about to sit through again.

“Michael, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen him since you two left with Brick this morning,” Renata said straightforwardly, her tone giving nothing away. “It’s been very quiet here this evening.”

Unhappily he met her eyes, frustrated in more ways than one. He knew this was where his grandfather was heading; it was only a matter of time until he arrived. But what was he supposed to do until Grand Feather got here? Wait in the car? Circle the surrounding farmland? Hang out at that ritzy lodge?

“Do you want to come in and wait for him?” Renata asked politely.

He didn’t. He knew it was a bad idea. But he couldn’t think of any good way to tell her so without hurting her feelings. And that was the last thing he wanted to do. After all this time he was still cautious with white women, but he’d gotten over the need to be cruel to them.

“Thanks, Renata, but I think I’d better go look for him,” he answered reluctantly. “If he’s not here he might be on the road or maybe at the lodge.”

Renata stepped out onto the porch, her delicate face lit up by the porch light, which was attracting an army of moths. “Do you want me to go with you? Or take my own car? I know all the back ways into this place, Michael. I know the footpaths from the lodge.”

He had no ready comeback for that. The truth was, she did know the area better than he did, and he desperately wanted to find his grandfather before it got completely dark. The old guy was tough, but it could be dangerous for him to spend another night out in the open. He might still get sick because of last night’s exposure.

Michael gazed at Renata and tried to weigh his options. She looked so pretty standing there in the twilight, her eyes vibrant, her skin creamy and pale. But her expression had sobered since he’d explained why he’d come, and now he could read nothing on her face but human concern for a frail old fellow who quite literally didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.

“I’d appreciate your help,” Michael said slowly. “I really hate to bother Lieutenant Bauer again. I kept him up all night, you know, and he’d worked half a shift before I even showed up at the station.”

“Just let me get a flashlight,” she said, then vanished into the house.

As he watched her shapely backside sprint away from him, he loosened his tie and tugged off his jacket. The memory of his air-conditioned car was no help at all in the sweltering evening air, and with Renata by his side, Michael knew that the night was going to get hotter yet.

* * *

BY THE TIME she grabbed her most powerful flashlight and locked up the house, Renata felt that she had her feelings pretty much under control. She couldn’t recall saying anything in particular that revealed how very glad she was to see Michael, let alone that she’d thought for one foolish minute that he’d rushed back to Tyler with her grandpa’s old clothes just so he could see her again. Still, there was always the chance that her feelings had shown on her face. If they had, Michael had chosen to ignore her faux pas, and for that she could be grateful.

The porch was empty when she returned to the door. A classy blue BMW was sitting in her gravel driveway with headlights on and engine running. The passenger door had been left open for her, but Michael was already in the car.

Renata slipped inside and put on her seat belt as Michael pulled out of the drive. Her seat was close to his, so close their knees almost touched, but she studiously braced her body at a safe distance. She was entirely too aware of his proximity. She was also aware that Michael was ignoring her. At least, he was ignoring her as a woman. Since he’d arrived this evening, he hadn’t treated her any differently than he would have treated a man.

“Tell me about the back trails from the lodge,” he ordered, his voice throbbing with concern. “Maybe that’s how we missed him last night. He might have spent part of the night in the woods by the lake. I never thought to ask him how he got here.”

“Even if we knew that, we don’t know for sure he’d take the same route again. I’m not certain why you think he’ll come straight back here anyway, Michael,” Renata pointed out. “For some reason he settled under the oak tree in my front yard last night, but don’t you think he might want to check out some other oaks in the area?”

When Michael gave a helpless shrug, his long hair brushed his neck and shoulders. His profile was clean and sharp, stunning in its masculine strength. Renata wondered how he’d look in braids and feathers, then reminded herself that there were some things in life it was better not to find out.

“Frankly, I don’t know what he’ll do. I would have sworn he would never have come over here in the first place. I would have sworn he’d have had enough sense to do his praying under your eaves or inside your barn. And after I read him the riot act this morning, I would have sworn he’d never have pulled such a harebrained stunt again.”

Renata wasn’t sure what to say. Michael was frightened. She could feel his fear. And it wasn’t just fear because his grandfather was missing. It was fear that the old man truly was losing his grip on reality. He might have decided to run away.

“I don’t know what to say, Michael,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Again he shrugged, with frustration this time. “It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t mean it was. I just...I wish I could do something to help you. To help you both.”

Michael glanced at her, his eyes too dark to read in the twilight. “You already have, Renata. You’ve done more than anybody could have asked of you.” His voice caressed her with embarrassed gratitude. “We have no right to keep showing up on your doorstep. Believe me, if he hadn’t run off again—”

Michael broke off abruptly, as though he suddenly realized what he’d been about to say: You never would have seen me again. It was tactless, but probably true. Renata swallowed hard and looked out the window. She was drawn to this man, but it was obvious that he did not return her interest in him. Some things just weren’t meant to be.

The next half hour was busy but unproductive. Renata showed Michael the shortest way by road to Timberlake Lodge. After circling the main building, he drove through the parking areas while she darted inside to ask if anyone had seen a solitary old man. Edward Wocheck was in the lobby, conferring with his staff in preparation for the next morning’s groundbreaking ceremony, and he took a moment to express his sympathy. He promised Renata that he’d tell his people to be on the lookout for Michael’s grandfather.

When she got back to the car, Michael didn’t touch the door as she opened it and climbed in. Wordlessly he searched her face, then floored the engine when she said, “He hasn’t been here.”

It was a quiet night on the lake. Only one tourist couple was out for an evening stroll. When Michael made a sharp turn, he caught the startled eyes of deer in his headlights. He slowed down until the deer safely crossed the road, but he made no comment as the BMW approached the highway.

He drove in virtual silence for maybe half a mile until Renata said abruptly, “Stop the car.”

Instantly he braked. “Do you see him?” he demanded.

There was a catch in his voice that tugged at Renata. Oh, Michael, a tiny voice inside her whispered, you really do cherish that old man. She felt a sudden jealous ache as she realized how much it would mean to have anybody cherish her with such devotion.

Especially a man as compelling as this one.

“I don’t see anything, but this is the easiest place to catch the back trail to the lodge from the highway,” she explained. “Do you want to come with me or keep driving around while I check it out on foot?”

This time when Michael turned to face Renata, he looked astounded. For the first time since he’d arrived, she had the feeling that he realized a real live person was sitting beside him, not just a faceless local guide.

“You are suggesting that I let you wander through these woods alone at night on the off chance you might find a stranger who was trained in the Winnebago art of hiding?” he asked incredulously.

Renata was touched by his concern, even though she realized that his protest might be an instinctive macho reaction. “I was born here, Michael,” she reminded him. “I know these woods like my own backyard.”

“And that lodge is filled with city people, all strangers,” he retorted. “I’ve got enough on my plate looking for Grand Feather. The last thing I need is to report to Lieutenant Bauer that I’ve lost you, too.”

“Gee, thanks, Michael,” she snapped, not at all appreciating his sharp tone. “I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you.”

He glared at her for a moment, then exhaled a mighty sigh. His dark eyes were intense as he apologized. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just don’t want you to get hurt because of me or mine.”

“This is Tyler,” she pointed out patiently. “Nobody ever gets hurt walking in the woods.”

“Renata, a woman was killed here! Right here at the lodge!”

“That was forty years ago.” She was surprised that he’d heard about Margaret Ingalls, but since he’d spent a good twelve hours in Brick’s police car last night, he probably had heard everything that had ever happened to anybody in Tyler.

“If they never found the killer, it might as well have been yesterday,” he insisted somewhat irrationally. “Whoever did it might still live near here. How many of the farms around your place have been sold since then?”

“Michael, you don’t honestly think that one of my neighbors—”

“I don’t know your neighbors. I only know you. And I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His voice was low...too low for a casual statement. It caused a strange vibration that sensitized Renata’s ears. She felt herself leaning toward him again; she felt his grip tighten on her hand.

Was it possible that he felt a fraction of what she did when they touched like this? Was there some reason beyond fraternal concern that he was still holding her hand?

“Then I guess you’d better walk back to the lodge with me,” she suggested, not at all averse to taking a moonlit walk around Timber Lake with Michael, especially when he seemed eager to keep her close to him. “I really do think we need to check out the trail.”

This time when Michael’s eyes met hers, Renata saw something she hadn’t noticed before. He was torn. For some reason he was struggling to protect her from something more than Timberlake Lodge’s out-of-town guests...something he hadn’t put into words.

For the first time she wondered if, in some strange way, he was trying to protect her from himself.

* * *

IT WAS AFTER TEN when Renata suggested that they check the house again. They had walked from the road to the lodge, from the lodge to the house and from the house back to the road again. They had listened for the sound of chants; they had watched for any ghost of motion. They had alarmed some Timberlake guests, dislodged one ring-necked pheasant hen and startled a ruffed grouse. Other than that they had seen no one.

The instant Michael pulled into Renata’s driveway, he knew that he was wasting his time. Grand Feather had outfoxed him again. The old man hadn’t sneaked off just to come right back to where Michael had collared him the first time. He was hiding somewhere different this time.

He must be working on a new plan.

“Oh, my God,” Michael said aloud as the implications of that thought crystallized in his mind.

“What?” Renata’s voice echoed his alarm.

“I’m so stupid! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!”

“Michael, tell me!”

He shook his head. “Renata, Grand Feather came over here in the first place because of that damn ground-breaking ceremony. He’s going to show up there tomorrow and make a scene. I know it!”

“Oh, Michael.” She didn’t try to tell him he was wrong. “If we go there early, maybe we can stop him.”

Again he shook his head. “I doubt it. The best we can do is try to keep him from getting hurt. He is a stubborn, stubborn old man, Renata. I told you he was not senile. He’s got a mind like a steel trap, and you’d better believe that he’s thought up a plan worthy of a Winnebago chief. Damn it! He’s going to take Edward Wocheck and all the rest of us by surprise.”

Renata took a deep breath, then laid a hand on his arm.

He knew it was meant to be a comforting gesture, but his instantaneous response was anything but platonic. All night he’d been far too aware of the proximity of this terribly appealing female. “If he’s planning something in the morning, he must have planned somewhere to spend the night,” he told her, trying to place some distance between them, at least in his mind. “Unless he’s broken into one of the unoccupied rooms at the lodge, he’s going to take shelter in some other empty place.”

“Why don’t we check the barn?” asked Renata.

It was the best idea he’d heard all night. Quickly he bolted out of the car and followed Renata past the house. A single feeble light bulb announced the barn’s location. It wasn’t more than fifteen yards to the beat-up old building. Although there were no animals inside, it had six large stalls and half a load of moldy hay in the loft.

Michael hurriedly checked every stall and every corner of the tack room while Renata shinnied up to the loft. They met in the center of the barn two minutes later, ready to concede their defeat.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Renata told him. “It was just an idea.”

“Not a bad one, actually. Do you suppose he might be hiding out in somebody else’s barn around here?”

“He might, but if he is, then he’s already safe for the night,” she assured him. “This time of year he won’t get cold as long as he’s dry. But we could go visit all my neighbors...”

Michael shook his head. “No, it’s too late to get everybody in the county out of bed. Besides, Grand Feather would hear us coming and take off anyway. He’s probably better off in some haymow than he would be chased off into the night.”

Wearily he plopped down on an old milking stool and faced Renata. He felt engulfed by the silence of the empty building. Its lingering scents of leather, hay and horses reminded him of his childhood. After a moment he mused, “There’s something terribly lonely about an abandoned barn.”

Renata seemed to bristle. “I’d hardly call it abandoned, Michael. I still live here.”

“I thought you lived in Milwaukee.”

“Well, I do. At least most of the time. I rent an apartment so I can work there.” She gestured toward the empty stalls. “But my family has lived here since 1840. This will always be my home.”

Michael didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out just how her family had come to own the land.

“It’s hard to believe I used to spend half of every day out here,” Renata mused, fingering a rein that hung from a harness tacked up on the wall.

Michael studied her in the dim light. God, she was a beauty. So natural, so unfettered. Like a filly in the spring. “You had a horse?”

“I had three.” She grinned at him. “We had chickens and a milk cow, too, when I was little.”

A tired smile crept onto Michael’s face. “A real country girl, huh?”

She chuckled. “I was raised on a farm. What else could I be?”

I was raised in a shack, but it might as well have been a wigwam made of bark or hide, he felt the urge to tell her. But that would open up old memories and new concerns. This wasn’t a date; it was no time to get better acquainted. Renata was a stranger helping him look for his grandfather. That was all.

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Renata prosaically suggested, “I suppose we could check the basement, Michael, if you think he might be able to break a lock or find some other way to sneak inside.”

Michael fought back the urge to ask if she was making assumptions about sneaking Indians, but restrained himself. Renata didn’t deserve that kind of crack. The woman who did was a thousand miles away. She probably didn’t even remember his face anymore. He wished he could forget hers.

“Sure, why not,” he agreed wearily. “I don’t think he’s there, either, but he sure as hell isn’t here.”

Silently he followed Renata back toward the house, taking note of the way her hips swayed just a little bit from side to side. She made no special effort to put on female airs. She was just herself—bold in some ways; in others, understated. Whatever the combination was, it spoke to Michael in some quiet nameless fashion.

With great effort, he turned a deaf ear.

Renata dug a key to the basement out of her pocket and opened the door. There was no indication that anybody had fussed with the lock. When she flipped on the light, Michael was surprised at what he saw. The barn was almost empty, but this protected room was stuffed to the gills with the remnants of a century of farm life. There were stacks of boxes, stacks of lumber, stacks of old paintings crammed together wall to wall. A cat could hide in here for a lifetime, but he didn’t think a human could even squeeze inside. It made his grandfather’s tiny shack seem downright spacious.

“Your family sure doesn’t believe in holding on to things, do they?” Michael teased Renata, surprised that he could come up with a joke.

Renata turned around, her eyes big and happy. For a moment he felt happy, too. Then he remembered what he was doing here.

“I should have taken him back to Sugar Creek this morning,” he said soberly. “I can’t believe I lost him again.”

She took a step toward him. “Your grandfather ran off to feel like a freewheeling adult. You’ve been treating him like a child. I don’t blame you for that,” she assured him. “I understand your obligations. But I don’t blame him, either, Michael. Wouldn’t you hate to be in his position?”

He felt a fresh well of feeling for this white woman who so quickly seemed to grasp the heart of Winnebago ways. She didn’t fully understand what drove his grandfather, but she understood the part of the proud old man that still ached to call his own shots, who was not yet old enough to surrender. Grand Feather was still a warrior, or longed to be. And that would be true for the rest of his days.

Suddenly Renata seemed entirely too close. Michael could smell the soft female scent of her, a blend of paint, shampoo and woman. He tried to step back before it grew intoxicating, but behind him there was a pile of bricks. To either side, there were boxes.

“I’m the only one left,” she said quietly, her eyes looking sadder now. “Each time one of them died, we’d pack up everything because it hurt too much to look at it, but we couldn’t bear to throw their things away.” She gestured toward a giant crate in the corner. “My great-grandmother’s wedding dress is still in there. I always hoped I’d wear it one day.” As she turned toward another box near the steps, her shoulder brushed Michael’s, electrifying his senses. “This is Grandpa’s collection of Indian artifacts. He was so proud of it. I know I ought to donate these old arrowheads and moccasins to a museum, but I just can’t bear to give them away.”

Michael didn’t want to think about Indian artifacts, painful memories of another space and time. He didn’t want to think about Renata, either, or feel touched by her loneliness. He didn’t need to know how many brothers and sisters she’d had or how many extended family members were part of the Meyer clan. The bottom line was that Renata was all alone now, and despite her spunk and cheery nature, the emptiness wore on her from time to time.

He was sorry he’d made her come down to this sad room.

He was also sorry that he was trapped so close to her, close enough to smell that clean womanly scent again. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to reach out and slip an arm around her waist to offer comfort and...whatever followed.

It was one of those moments when a man and woman find themselves alone together and they both know that it’s time for something intimate to happen. Michael suddenly wanted very much to kiss Renata. He was sure it was what she wanted, too.

“I’m going about this all wrong,” he said abruptly, desperately hoping that his panic wasn’t evident in his voice. He had to get away from her, had to break the mood before he did something he would surely regret. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had no choice. “I’ve been thinking what I’d do,” he babbled quickly. “I’ve been thinking white.”

Renata licked her lips. Her eyes could not entirely conceal her disappointment, but she discreetly stepped away. “You need to think Winnebago?” she asked, as though the tender near-miss had not just happened.

He nodded, grateful for her tact. And surprised that this confession did not embarrass him as much as it would have just this morning.

“Do you still know how?”

He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask him that. Now that she had, he found himself unable to tell her anything but the truth.

“I can when I really work at it, but it’s a challenge when I’m hungry and wearing a suit and it’s the end of a long day.”

Renata gave him the sort of smile a hardworking man gives up bachelorhood to come home to. “I can find some more of Grandpa’s old clothes to fit you, Michael,” she offered, “and I can drum up something for you to eat, too. I went to the store today, so it ought to be an improvement over breakfast.”

He was so tired that he found himself laughing. “You’ve given me food and clothes and tour-guide service, Renata. Next you’ll be opening a bed-and-breakfast inn so I can spend the night.”

He regretted the words the minute they were spoken, but he could not call them back. Suddenly Renata seemed entirely too close again—too ready, too willing. Her lips seemed to beg him for a kiss, and Michael feared he didn’t have the willpower it would take to pull back.

But Renata abruptly stepped around him and headed toward an open box of clothes. “In the old days Grandpa always took in tired travelers,” she said nonchalantly. “You need to sit down and take a load off. I’ve got a spare bed.”

He knew she did. He’d been in her guest bedroom this morning, upstairs beside the small bathroom. He’d also seen Renata’s room, right across the hall.

Anticipation suddenly tightened his groin. It was a keen warning of why it would be foolish to spend the night in this house. Renata was only offering the guest room, and he had no doubt that she expected him to sleep there tonight. But a fresh kind of intimacy lurked in the darkness nonetheless, a drawing together that tomorrow or next week or next month would surely spell nothing but trouble.

“I think I’ve imposed on you enough,” Michael said tightly. “I really should go.”

“Where?” Renata asked, turning back to face him. “You’re not going to leave Tyler until you find him. The lodge is jammed to the rafters with all Eddie Wocheck’s people who came in for the ground-breaking ceremony tomorrow, and your only other choices are way back in town.”

Her logic seemed impeccable, but Michael knew he had to find a flaw in it.

“Even if you drove back,” she continued, “you know you couldn’t sleep. You’d be waiting for me to call with news, or you’d be driving by here every hour.”

He couldn’t really argue. Staying here was the reasonable choice, and she was kind to invite him. She’d be insulted if he offered to pay her, but at least she’d know that he considered it a purely practical arrangement.

“Renata, I’d feel a lot better if—”

“Michael Youngthunder, if you even suggest paying for my guest room, I swear I’ll make you sleep in the barn.”

Again he laughed. It wasn’t funny. Nothing was. But he hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and he was punchy as hell. “I’m not looking for a roll in the hay,” he joked.

At least it seemed like a joke to him. But Renata didn’t seem to find it humorous.

“Barn, hay—you get it?”

Stonily she gathered up her grandpa’s jeans and thrust them into his arms. “Michael, you don’t need to spell it out for me. I have no intention of throwing myself at a man who’s made it clear that he hasn’t got the slightest interest in me as a woman.”

He flushed. “Renata, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did. You’ve been giving me ‘no way, lady’ signals ever since you got here tonight, and now your alarm is working overtime. I know you wish you could get away from me, but until we find your grandfather we’re stuck with each other.”

He was speechless. And absolutely mortified.

“I get the message, Michael. No problem. What makes you so damn sure that I’m hot to trot with you, anyway?”

Just like that, his confidence vanished. Had he read her all wrong? Was she reminding him that compassion was one thing, attraction to an Indian quite another?

“I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. This has been such a bizarre day. When I got here you seemed so glad to see me that I—”

“Of course I was glad to see you. I need your help on a project and your arrival saved me having to track you down. You did tell me, didn’t you, that I should give you a call if I ever needed a favor?”

Confused and embarrassed, he said, “Yes, I did. I would be happy to even the scales, Renata. It...” It’s the Winnebago way, he’d almost told her. There had been a time in his life when every thought was Winnebago. Then there’d been a time when every thought was white. Now there were surprises like this one.

He’d been disappointed when he’d thought she wanted him. Now he was upset to learn he’d been wrong. It didn’t make sense, but nothing about this crazy day did. And things were getting even worse.

Ever since he’d arrived tonight he’d been afraid of hurting Renata, but she’d just turned the tables. She’d shut him down and turned away. Surely that would be the end of it.

But as Michael watched her sashay up the basement stairs, a flush of arousal warned him that he was far too tired to lie to himself. Getting close to this woman would be stupid. Spending the night here was unwise. Sorting out in her presence the parts of him that were Winnebago would be akin to opening a Pandora’s box of trouble.

He was going to do it anyway.

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