Witch Dance (22 page)

“Shertainly.”

“I dance a mean tango. Ever tango?”

“Tangled with Eagle . . . long time ago.”

“If you had tangled with me, I’d never have let you go.”

“Damn shtraight.”

She swayed, and he braced her with both arms around her waist. Merciful saints, she felt good. Everything would be perfect if they had music.

He began to hum.

“Love-ly. What ish it?”

“ ‘Moon over Miami.’ It’s the only song I know well. I have to change the rhythm a little bit to make it right for the tango, but, what the heck, I’m a multitalented guy.” Grinning down at her, he watched the play of firelight in her hair. “I guess you’ve noticed by now,” he added, hoping she had.

Kate didn’t answer, but leaned heavily against him with her face pressed in the open neck of his shirt. Her breath was warm against his skin, warm and erotic. Suddenly he felt the moist tip of her tongue.

“Hungry Kate?”

“For you.” She put her hand in the opening of his shirt and splayed her fingers against his skin. “Wan’ chou.”

Mark did a quick conscience check, and discovered to his surprise that he had one. He wondered if he wrestled with it long enough whether he could overcome it.

“Now,” she murmured. “ ‘Side the fire . . . the mishtical fire.”

Tears slid down her cheeks and burned his skin, and he knew it wasn’t he that Kate wanted, but another, a man who spoke in the dark, honeyed tongue of his ancestors.

“I want you, too, babe, but you’d never respect me in the morning.” She was crying outright now, her tears wetting the front of his shirt. “It’s all right, Kate.”

He picked her up as if she were a child and carried her into her bedroom.

“Wait right here,” he said when he laid her on the bed, though she was in no condition to go anywhere.

Her bathroom smelled like her, light floral fragrances blended with an exotic musky scent. Leaning against the lavatory he looked at his pinched face in the mirror.

“Dr. Grant, you noble son of a bitch, you deserve a medal for this . . . or a head examination.”

He found a pink washcloth, wet it with cold water then tenderly washed her face.

“Feels good.” She caught his hand and guided it down her throat. “Don’t shtop.”

“If I don’t stop now, I never will.” The bedsprings creaked when he stood up. “I would get you out of those clothes, Kate, but there’s only so much temptation a man in my condition can bear.”

“What condition?”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow . . . when you’re sober.” Pausing in the doorway, he looked back at her, disheveled and dewy with desire. For somebody else. “That is . . . if you still want to hear about it.”

Softly, he closed her door.

Chapter 25

Hal Lightfoot was proud of his office. Only twenty and already he was an executive.

He balled a wad of paper and hurled it overhanded toward the wastebasket. It landed on the floor with the other wads of paper.

When he got up, the old swivel chair squeaked and threatened to topple. He kicked it with his steel-toed boots and sent it flying into the wall. The rusty rollers on the bottom made a scratch against the painted concrete walls, but nobody would ever see. Nobody cared.

The basement was his domain. So what if his office was a forgotten closet he’d cleaned out and furnished with castoffs he’d rescued from the garbage heap? And what if his title was one he’d made up? Maintenance engineer. It sounded a hell of a lot better than janitor.

Besides, he knew things, things that would advance him quickly up the corporate ladder.

If he played his cards right.

He gathered his dust mops and rags and was headed up the stairs, when a scene outside the basement window caught his attention. The governor and Lacey Wainwright were standing beside the garbage heap, which was exactly the place they belonged. In Hal’s opinion, all the big-shot bastards who thought they were better than everybody else belonged right out there on the garbage heap.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Everybody knew about the scandal Kate Malone had stirred up.

Now, there was a piece of work. That bitch had a lot coming to her, and she deserved every bit of it.

That pompous asshole Wainwright who thought he was such a hotshot manager would be telling the governor that he didn’t have any idea how the rusty barrels got out there and leaked toxic waste into Witch Creek.

In a pig’s eye.

And Mingo would look at him with those eyes blacker than the pits of hell and tell him he spoke with the
sente
soolish
.

Hell, he could tell that Mingo a thing or two. And might have if he didn’t still remember the humiliation of that summer night in front of Kate Malone’s clinic. Hatred boiled in him at the thought of that meddling witch.

And Wainwright. He hated that piece of shit, too. Driving around Tribal Lands in his gold Cadillac as if he owned the whole damned place. Chicago white trash was what he was.

Still, he could be useful to Hal. He fortified himself with peyote then leaned against the wall until the thundering of the white buffalo was a distant echo.

As he went up the stairs with his mops and rags, Hal remembered a saying of his grandfather’s: Be careful when you hunt for the rattlesnake that he does not find you before you find him, for the bite of the rattler is death.

Hal knew how to be careful.

 o0o

Kate’s head felt as big as a watermelon. Movement set off jackhammers behind her temples that caused her eyes to come unfocused.

“You’ve done it now, Katie Elizabeth,” she said.

Her sins had caught up with her. She’d never make it to the front porch for the morning paper, let alone to the clinic. Picking up the phone, she dialed Deborah’s number. Even the distant ringing of the phone set off minor explosions in her head. Fortunately she didn’t have to endure more than one ring.

“Deborah?”

“Why are you whispering, Kate?”

“Shhh. Not so loud.” Thinking fast, she made an excuse. “Mark’s still asleep.”

Too late, she realized that Deborah would wonder how a telephone conversation would awaken him unless they were in the same bedroom.

“Hmmm” was all Deborah said.

“Can you handle things by yourself today?”

“Certainly. If there’s an emergency, I’ll call you.”

“Thanks.”

Coward
, she said to herself when she hung up. She hadn’t wanted to face Deborah today, hadn’t wanted to see the glow of Eagle Mingo in her eyes. The hangover was merely a convenient excuse.

“You’ll have to do better than this, Katie Elizabeth,” she muttered as she slipped into her robe.

This was what living alone had reduced her to: talking to herself. And sounding like her father in the bargain.

Could that be a sign? Was somebody trying to tell her it was time to get on with her life?

She might start by being more responsive to Mark Grant. Blurred images came to her mind of herself licking his skin. By all the saints, had she actually done that?

Holding her head together with the palms of her hands and sheer willpower, she crept through the house and onto the front porch to get the morning paper. Bending sent her into such a swoon that she closed her eyes. Reaching blindly, she encountered something soft and sticky.

A dead bird lay on top of her newspaper, its neck broken and its wings ripped off.

Kate sank to her knees and stared at the bird, horrified. How did it get there? She didn’t own a cat, and birds didn’t fall out of trees in that condition.

She took the next leap in logic: Someone had put it there. But who? And why?

She felt the bile rising in her throat, and leaning over the porch railing, she heaved. The crisp early morning breezes cooled her forehead and blew some of the cobwebs from her mind.

She was being paranoid. There were plenty of stray cats in Witch Dance. She’d seen them nosing around the garbage cans behind the clinic.

“Poor little thing,” she said, picking up the newspaper with the bird cradled inside.

A blood-smeared headline caught her eye. “Governor Closes Witch Dance Tool and Die Plant.” Still kneeling, she read the rest of the story.

“Governor Mingo personally investigated claims that Witch Dance Tool and Die dumped toxic chemicals into the creek that runs behind their property. Plant manager Lacey Wainwright claims the toxic spills were accidental. At this printing the governor has closed the plant, but says the closure is temporary, pending further investigation.

“Clean-up efforts are under way, and until they are complete, the entire area around the plant is quarantined.

“Employees at the plant, angry at the shutdown and temporary loss of jobs, charged ‘bleeding heart environmentalists’ with scare tactics. Dr. Kate Malone along with Dr. Mark Grant discovered the toxic wastes that led to the closure of the plant.”

A recent photo of Eagle accompanied the article. Kate stared at it, racked by visions of Deborah in his arms. Her lover and her best friend.

Was there any justice in the world?

Sighing, she folded the paper carefully around the small broken bird and carried the bundle to the garbage can. When Mark asked, she’d say the paper boy forgot to deliver.

No need to mention the dead bird. There were other, more pressing things she wanted to talk about. Such as whether Mark Grant would do her the honor of escorting her to the dance at the Chickasaw Cultural Center.

 o0o

Anna sat across the kitchen table from her husband and tried to carry the conversation by herself.

“I might take a job,” she said.

Cole stared at her, silent. Clint’s brows drew together as he watched his father, waiting. Then he forced a bright smile.

“That’s great, Mom.”

Still, nothing from Cole. Two months earlier he’d have wrapped his arms around her and cajoled her with endearing words. “I can’t do without you at the ranch, Anna,” he’d have said. “What would I do if my sweet hummingbird were not here?”

Two months earlier Bucky and Mary Doe had been alive. Anna wadded her napkin in her fist and tried not to cry.

“Eagle said I could work in his office. His secretary is swamped.” Her husband stared right through her. “I know it’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Cole picked up his knife and sliced his roast beef.

“Whatever you want to do, Anna. It’s no concern to me.”

“No concern to you? I’m your wife!”

The knife clanked against his plate, and his chair fell over as he stood up.

“Cole, where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. His boots echoed on the polished wood floor as he made his way to the back door.

“Cole?”

Tears started in her eyes as she looked at her son.

“Clint . . . stop him.”

“Let him go, Mother.”

 o0o

The sun had left the sky and the first stars were beginning to show. In the distance a lone wolf howled, and the nighthawk answered. Cole listened to the night music and waited for peace to invade his soul. But it didn’t come. Peace had eluded him for many moons now.

Behind him the kitchen windows glowed. Anna would still be sitting at the table. Thinking of the tears in her eyes, he wavered, then resolutely he started to the barn.

Cold winds bit his skin. He probably should go back to get a coat, but the journey he had to take would not be postponed, not even for ten minutes.

His mare whinnied when he entered the barn. They hadn’t ridden together in a long time, not since the night he’d carried his children into the mountains.

Filled with purpose, he felt strength and power surge through him. He put bridle and blanket on his mare then vaulted onto her back. Nothing could take away his riding skills, not even alcohol.

Outside, the sky had darkened and the stars brightened. Lights were on inside Cole’s house, and through the window he saw his wife. Anna. Love of his life. Keeper of his heart. Guardian of his soul.

Impatient, his mare whinnied. Cole dug his heels into her flanks and raced down the road with the night wind singing in his ears.

He had no soul.

That was his mission. To find his soul.

Chapter 26

There was no doubt that Deborah Lightfoot was a beautiful woman. Her hair hung down her back like a bolt of black silk and her skin shone like polished copper. She was gentle, kindhearted, and intelligent. All the qualities a man would want in a woman.

Or a wife.

The vague dissatisfaction Eagle felt turned to full-blown unhappiness as he gazed across the room. Kate Malone was dancing in the arms of another man.

“I haven’t had this much fun in years,” Deborah said, and Eagle leaned down to catch her voice above the music. With Kate he hadn’t had to bend so far. Her head had fit exactly on his shoulder.

“Do you love dancing?” Foolish question. She’d just admitted as much.

“Oh, yes. When I was a little girl I dreamed about being a ballerina. Of course, that was before I decided to be a cowboy.”

“A cowgirl?”

“No. I wanted to be a cowboy. I’d be in pictures, of course, and for once I’d be on the winning side.”

Deborah’s laughter was infectious. Over the top of her head he saw Kate laugh at something Mark Grant had said. He pulled Deborah closer, determined to make the relationship work.

“Let’s dance under the stars,” he said, leading her toward the open French doors. On the patio he wouldn’t have to see Kate and Mark Grant pressed together like a matching set of bookends.

“Sounds like a wonderfully romantic idea.” Deborah smiled up at him. “I’m a sucker for romance, you know.”

The trust in her eyes was absolute. He’d wrestle with his conscience tomorrow.

 o0o

Mark Grant saw Kate’s eyes darken when Eagle left the room, felt the tension that came into her shoulders and back, heard her soft intake of breath. All the grand plans he’d made suddenly came crashing down around his ears.

What a fool he’d been. Whistling while he dressed for the dance, thinking she’d finally noticed him. Picturing the two of them cuddled cheek to cheek on the dance floor then later, tangled together in his bed. Or hers. Heck, they might not even make it home. They might end up in the backseat of his car.