Whitehorse (15 page)

"I've contacted them. Hopefully I'll hear something soon. But you know how it is; the waiting lists for these organizations are astronomical. It may take up to a year just to make our way onto the list."

"Would you like to talk about Sam?"

Leah broke the cookie apart, amazed and amused at Shelley's ability to read people's emotions. "It's not Sam I'm afraid of. Someone has come back into my life and
I'm
terrified of my feelings for him."

"The one who got away, huh?"

"My fault. I'm surprised he even speaks to me."

"Is he still in love with you?"

"I …
don't know. He kissed me.
I'm
not sure why. Maybe he was just all wrapped up in
used-to-bes.
I'm
afraid he thinks I'm still the same person I once was. That
I'm
the same girl who thumbed her nose at consequences, rebelled against the demands and expectations of my father. The free spirit who, in her love for him, would have defied the world to protect him."

"He sounds very special."

"He was. And is."

"Then if he's so special, he should have no problem with Val. Should he?"

Leah tossed the crumbling cookie onto the table and sighed. "I'm just too damned frightened of finding out."

Sam Clark bought his clothes straight out of the Sears catalog. He did not care for shopping malls at all, though he would break down at Christmastime and shop at J. C. Penney and Dillard's for his mother's and sister's presents. That way he could put them on his charge cards and pay them out over time. He always managed to make the last payment before the next Christmas rush, at which time he would start all over again.

Sam stood five-eight in his bare feet. Same as Leah. She was always careful to wear shoes with little or no heel because she felt uncomfortable looking down at her date. Shamika once pointed out that Nicole Kidman was several inches taller than Tom Cruise, and Leah had pointed out that she wasn't Nicole Kidman, and Sam sure as hell wasn't Tom Cruise. Not even close. Sam outweighed gorgeous Tom by at least a hundred pounds. His scalp was showing through his thinning brown hair, and he had fingers like little Polish sausages. His breath always smelled like the wintergreen Certs he carried in his shirt pocket.

Leah waited for Sam on the front porch, sweater draped around her bare shoulders. She'd deliberated half an hour over what to wear. Not that she had a big choice. Her biggest decision had been over how much skin to reveal.

She'd finally opted for a halter-style sundress that exposed her shoulders and most of her back. This was the third date with Sam, after all. She was allowed to relax a little. She'd swept up her hair in a banana clip, dabbed a touch of an Elizabeth Taylor knock-off perfume behind each ear and borrowed Shamika's pearl drop earrings. She'd dragged out makeup she had not used since the last time she'd gone out with Sam. A spot of Pearlized Warm Copper on her eyelids, Mocha Mist on her cheeks, and Brun Rose on her lips—all from the clearance table at the local five-and-dime.

Sam pulled up to Leah's house at seven-thirty sharp, driving a 1980 El Dorado Cadillac sporting dealer tags. Last date he'd shown up in a maroon Lincoln Continental with an interior permeated by cigar smoke. The time before that an Olds Cutlass boasting two hundred thousand miles and a crunched left bumper that was to be banged out at the local body shop the following Monday—before the car was put on the lot for sale, of course.

He bounced from the car with his usual enthusiasm, hair slicked to one side to better cover the thin spot on top of his head. His coat was brown-and-gray plaid over an ochre-colored shirt and green trousers. His tie was red and blue pinstripes stamped with bucking horses.

Leah smiled as Shamika began laughing somewhere in the house behind her.

Randy's Bar and Grill on
Cedar Creek Road
served the best steaks in town. Sam could afford the best tonight, he informed Leah; he'd sold three cars that afternoon and was ready to celebrate. He'd called ahead for reservations, requesting a table outside on the patio overlooking the valley and the outdoor dance floor where a group specializing in '60s and '70s music were warming up their instruments.

As usual, the place was packed with tourists, most in town for the races. Texans in ostrich boots and cowboy hats flashed wads of money and ordered beer and
margaritas
by the pitcher. A group of New Yorkers took up a table for twenty, all having disembarked the chartered bus parked across the road. By the looks of them they had stripped the local souvenir shops of every tacky made-in-Taiwan Native American relic within a fifty-mile radius. One man wore a headdress of painted chicken feathers and wielded a rubber tomahawk, causing his companions to hoot in laughter every few minutes.

"Looks like the old place is rumbling tonight," Sam said, showing Leah to her chair. "We can go someplace else if you'd like."

"Wouldn't think of it. Besides, it's Friday night in
Tourist
Town
. Every place will be packed."

Sam took his chair next to Leah, flashing his
This-car-has-never-been-driven-over-thirty-miles-an-hour-and-was-owned-by-a-little-old-octogenarian-who-only-drove-it-on-Sundays
smile at the teenage waitress dressed in a flamingo-pink can-can dress short enough to show off her frilly black petticoat.

"I called in earlier," he told her. "Name's Sam Clark. You got an order back there for me."

Without a word she turned on her spiked heels and elbowed her way toward the kitchen.

Lacing his fingers on the table, Sam looked around the
patio.
The trees twinkled with firefly-sized white lights. Candles burned under globe chimneys on each table, giving the area a fairy-tale appearance.

"You're looking especially nice tonight," he told her. "I like your earrings."

"And I like
your …
tie."

Sam looked pleased. "Good. It's got horses on it. See?" He flapped the thing at her. "I wore it just for you. Thought you'd appreciate the equestrian motif."

"Where on earth did you find it?" she asked, still smiling.

"Wal-Mart. They'd marked it down from seven dollars to three-fifty. Leftovers from their Easter sale, I think. Anyway, I found several I liked. Stocked up. Can't pass up a deal like that."

They nodded in unison.

"Hope you like this kinda music. I seen in the paper that this group was going to be here tonight. I saw them once before down at the convention center and thought, what the heck. Why not?"

"I like the oldies very much. They're my favorite."

"Yeah?" He fluttered his tie again. "Somehow you looked like the kinda gal who would enjoy a blast from the past. So who is your favorite?"

"Neil Diamond."

"Yeah." He nodded. "Ever seen him in concert? Puts on a helluva show. Least he used to. Haven't seen him in oh, probably twenty years or so."

"I have every album he ever did. His early ones are my favorites, though."

The waitress returned, wheeling an ice bucket stocked with a chilled bottle of champagne: Mums Extra Dry. Not Dom Perignon, certainly, but neither was it
André' s.
Sam's face lit up like a Christmas tree as he looked at Leah with an expression that made a knot form in her throat. Something was up, and she wasn't certain she was going to like it.

EIGHT

«
^
»

A
fter much cajoling on Dolores's part, Johnny finally agreed to a night out, despite his lack of sleep and the fact that he was supposed to fly his Cessna up to Boulder in the morning and catch a flight to D.C., where he was to speak first thing Monday morning before a congressional committee regarding the situation with the Indian Trust Fund.

With the top down on her Mercedes SL, Dolores's short black hair whipped freely in the night wind, as did Johnny's. The drive from Whitehorse Farm to
Cedar Creek Road
had been exhilarating, the mountain air biting their faces and taking their breath away. Johnny needed all the help he could get. His mind felt like mush. The idea of dancing away the next few hours was not high on his list of things he'd rather be doing. But, as usual, Dolores got her way. She always did. Which, he surmised, is what made her one of the finest reporters in the state. She simply did not know when to say no. Besides, she'd flogged him with enough guilt over his dalliance with Leah that he supposed he owed it to her.

And maybe a few beers and some light music would get his mind off the memory of Leah's mouth opening under his that morning, the way it had the very first time he'd kissed her. Timid. Hesitant. Experimenting with passion.

The valet hurried from his perch near the restaurant door, obviously enthused over the prospect of driving Dolores's car. The young man recognized Johnny and Dolores immediately, thrust a pen and scrap paper at them and pleaded for their autographs. Dolores glowed as he gushed over her reporting—she was the only reason he watched the news that early—she deserved a network spot—best-looking babe on television. Had she ever thought about acting? Posing for
Playboy?

And Johnny Whitehorse—who would have thought it. Saw Johnny's jeans billboard on the Las Vegas strip near the Mirage Hotel—Johnny standing three stories tall wearing unzipped jeans and no shirt—shit, man—awesome. My girlfriend gets turned on every time she sees it. Would Johnny sign the autograph to Karen, with lust? No? With love, then. That would do. Oh, by the way, heard a rumor Johnny was going to do a movie up in
Arizona
with Robert Redford and Kevin Costner. Any truth to it? A sequel to
Dances with Wolves!
No? Too bad. Was he really thinking about running for Senator Foster's seat in the next election? Wow, mind-blowing karma, huh? Get pissed at the Senate and take a few scalps, huh? Just think of it—Indian dude finally gets even for all the injustices put on his people by the white populace. Far out!

"Hello, I'm Candy.
I'm
your hostess tonight
and …
oh my God. You're Johnny Whitehorse, aren't you? Oh my God. Sarah! Sarah look who's here.
Johnny Whitehorse!"

"Oh my God. Mr. Whitehorse, we were talking about you just this afternoon."

"I just bought your poster—"