Eagle, Kathleen (44 page)

"Nothing
wrong with socks," Carter said. They started across the street, a cozy
Blue Sky cluster. "You nervous about your first day of school?"

"Damn
right I'm nervous, and don't tell me school is easy."

Carter
laughed. "I was asking my daughter." He set her down, took her hand,
and walked side by side with his brother. "Titus offered me a position as
special consultant on casino operations. He wants me to work for the tribe. Did
you put him up to that?" He glanced down the street. "Is it really a
job, or just a title?"

"Nobody's
getting any more meaningless titles," Reese said. Carter looked skeptical.
"You're on probation, little brother. You have to prove yourself all over
again."

They
had reached the front yard of the old school, where much of the community would
soon gather for a school-opening ceremony, which would be conducted by tribal
elders.

Reese
laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. "But not to me. I know you. You're
my brother."

Carter
shoved his hands in his pockets and squinted one eye against the morning sun.
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Meaning I ain't heavy?"

"I
didn't say that." Reese chuckled, gave his brother's shoulder a quick
squeeze. "You helped us get Bill Darnell behind bars. I don't care who was
driving that pickup, I know damn well Darnell was responsible for Dad's
death."

"Plus
I helped secure the total humiliation of the Sweeney brothers."

"They
had it coming," Reese said. Like Carter, Preston Sweeney had cooperated
with federal prosecutors, but Earl had gone to jail. He'd insisted that Peter
Jones had bought his old pickup and that he'd had nothing to do with the
hit-and-run. The title to the pickup had never been transferred, but there was
evidence that Jones had taken possession of the vehicle. Earl had admitted to
withholding evidence.

"So
do I." Carter hung his head, his mood reversing quickly, which happened
often lately. "I screwed up. I don't know why you guys stuck by me."

"You're
the smart one in the family, Carter. You can't figure it out?"

"If
it's beyond reason, it must be love," Helen put in quietly. Carter looked
at his sister-in-law in gratitude. She understood him better than anyone.

"We
need you," Reese said. "Pair-a-Dice City is in pretty good shape,
thanks to you. Ten Star tried to convince us we couldn't tie our shoes without
their help, but once we kicked them to the curb, we were able to get favorable
terms on slot machines and contract for services at about half of what Ten Star
was taking. And that was at least partly because the restaurant and the hotel
were running smoothly."

"And
you run an honest game as far as the public is concerned," Helen added.
"A reasonable percentage of the take is paid out to winners."

"If
it hadn't been for Ten Star's scams, the way they were working both ends
against the middle, which is where the people live..."

"The
tribe would have seen more profits," Carter admitted. He nodded, as though
the question had been settled there and then, on the first day of school.
"I'm taking the job. It's like starting over, but if they're willing to
trust me, I know I can do a good job."

"I
know you can, too. I know you will. And you know what else?" Hand still on
his brother's shoulder, Reese guided the group toward the glass doors that led
to the red tile lobby outside the gym—the red road to a place that felt like
home. "You're gonna be a guest speaker for us this fall. I'm booking for
Mrs. Blue Sky, who's looking to work my tail off, so any points you can get
me..."

"You
did very well, you know," Helen told him late that night as she stroked
his long, sleek, dewy torso after they'd made love. "For a beginner."

"Thank
you, ma'am. I know I need lots of practice. What part of my game would you have
me brush up on?" He traced her form from hip to belly to the soft
underside of her breast. She caught her breath when he made a bead of her
nipple. "This part?"

"Mmm,
I meant teaching."

"Practice
teaching.
I'm willing to make a career of practice teaching."

"I'm
not. You're good. Much too good." She cuddled against his side. The
skylight above their bed was like a jewel box filled with Dakota stars. "I
remember when you were shy and quiet, hardly said a word."

"Takes
me a while to warm up. Did you like me better that way?"

"I
loved you then, love you better now." She spread her hand over his chest.
"But you really must stick around until tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll love you
the best ever. Wait till you see what my best love ever is like."

"You've
got a deal, Mrs. Blue." He reached past her for the clock on the
nightstand, turning the red digits in their direction. "Well, will you
look at that. It
is
tomorrow."

She
laughed as she hung her arms around his neck and drew his head down for kisses
and covenants and the most exquisite connections. They had something too often
missed.

They
had today.

Acknowledgments

I
wish to thank Chandler Eagle, who serves on the gaming commission of the
Standing Rock Lakota Nation, for sparking ideas and providing me with
information about the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act. Any mistakes or
discrepancies are strictly my own doing. I have set this story on a fictitious
reservation in order to avoid any suggestion that the characters or events
actually occurred anywhere in the real world. I do believe, however, that
Indian gaming is largely misunderstood by mainstream American society. Indian
casinos have not made most American Indians rich. As far as I know, unless they
are employed
by
a casino, relatively few American Indians receive a
direct personal income from casino profits, which are generally used for much
needed community projects and improvements. Like so many of the laws we have
enacted over the years in our feeble attempts to make amends for injustice,
both the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act and the Indian Child Protection Act are
double-edged swords. But I guess they are better than taking the land,
spiritual practices, tools, and children away, as we have done in the not-so-distant
past.

I
am also grateful to Dr. Tom Nelson for his generous help with the research for
this book. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy turned out to be a far more complicated
topic than I envisioned, but Tom provided me with volumes of material and with
his most helpful translations of the material into layman's terms. His interest
in my books initiated an e-mail correspondence that I have enjoyed and taken shameless
advantage of in getting the medical background for this book. If you find any
mistakes, they are my fault entirely.

Although
the Bad River does run through South Dakota, there is no Bad River Reservation
there. The Bad River Lakota do not exist.