A Certain Kind of Hero (24 page)

“What other things?”

“The kinds of things I didn't have going for me back then.”

“But Jared did,” she surmised.

“Yeah. Jared did.” He smiled wistfully. He'd loved his brother almost as much as… “I knew you'd like him. I knew he'd be just your type.” He laughed and shook his head. “But, damn my eyes, I introduced you to him, anyway. Beauty, meet Prince Charming.”

“And then you rode off into the sunset, as I remember.”

“No way,” he averred dramatically. “Can't do that scene without a horse. I just sort of politely bowed out. Exit Beast.”

“I never thought….” She turned her palm to his. “I never knew what to think, Gideon.”

“About me? Come on, Raina.”

“Listen, Gideon, you pulled away from me, and you pulled away from Peter. You say you weren't ready.” Her eyes narrowed, challenging him. “But now you've been to hell and back, and I have to know why you want to marry me. It's not for sex, and it's not for Peter.” He tried to pull away again, but she held his hand fast. “What are you afraid of, Gideon?”

It took him a while to answer, but at last, at
long
last, he put it into words that almost surprised him. “Not being good enough, I guess.”

With some difficulty he turned his wounded body in her direction and affected a lighter tone. “What you see is what you get. This is it. A little banged up at the moment, but I'll heal. I always do.”

She extended her free hand toward his cheek, but he caught it midpath, kissed her fingertips and gave a jaunty smile.

No pity, Raina. Whether it's good enough for you now, I don't know, but what you see ain't half-bad.

“I've got plenty of muscle,” he told her. “You wanna go somewhere? I can paddle you all the way to Tahiti. You want an addition on the house? I can cut the timber and raise the roof beams myself. I'd never let you go hungry. I'd protect you, defend you. Hell, I'd stop a bullet with my—”

She closed her eyes. “Oh, Gideon.”

“You want a child? I gave you one. You want another one? I'll make as many babies with you as you want.” He drew her closer, and his voice dropped to an intimate hush. “And I'll give you so much pleasure in the making that when the pain comes…” His head tipped toward her, forehead resting against forehead, and he closed his eyes against the wooziness he was beginning to feel. “But when it comes, I'll be there, just the way you stayed with me. Always. No matter what kind of pain it is. I want to be your husband so that I can be there for the good times and the bad.”

The last confession pinched his heart—badly, this time, because everything else was out on the table, and his heart was completely, absolutely vulnerable. “What I'm afraid of is that all I can offer won't be good enough.”

“Why wouldn't it be?” she asked, breathless from the beauty of his vows, praying for just one more. “If you love me.”

He raised his head and searched her eyes, wondering whether his whole heartfelt speech had fallen on deaf ears. “That's what I just said, isn't it? That I love you?”

“
You
tell
me.
Why do you want to marry me?”

“Because I love you. Because I loved you when I had no business loving you, and now, here you are with…” He caught
her face in his hands. “And now there's no reason in the world why I can't love you. And I'll be damn good at it, Raina.”

She gave him a misty-eyed smile. “I think you already are.”

“Then why are you making me jump through all these hoops?”

“Because I've already jumped through them for you.” She took his hand from her face and placed it on her breast. She moved it over her racing heartbeat, slipped it over and under the neckline of her sundress and invited him to feel the hardness of her nipples. “To me, this means that I love you. You know that, don't you? There's no other way for me. And while my being in love with you was reason enough for making love…” Her hand sneaked into his lap, found his “wilted puppy” and gently caressed him. She smiled, for it was a puppy no more. “The recipe for marriage calls for
two
people in love.”

“Two people making love?”

“Two people—one man, one woman—in love with each other. That's how you make a marriage.”

“Looks like we've got the right ingredients, then.” He figured he'd better get this hand thing under control before she had him howling. He enfolded both of hers within both of his. “Wanna make one with me?”

She laughed and cried, both at once. “I surely do.”

T
he date was set for early October. Raina had gotten started in her new school, Peter in his. Some of the changes weren't easy to make, but, as Arlen had said, the sooner a person learned the lesson of the willow, the smoother life's road became. Flexibility. Learning when to stand firm and when to bend could keep a person from breaking.

Gideon's ears tuned in to such wisdom wherever he found it these days. The fate of the settlement rested with the state legislature now, for the Pine Lake Chippewa had made their offer. And the outcome of the vote, which would be taken a few months down the road, looked like a toss-up. The DNR and the attorney general's office were strongly in favor of the compromise, but those in opposition had financial clout. The sportsmen's groups, in particular, had powerful allies and vocal lobbyists working for them. In the end, the issue might very well be decided in federal court. Either way, Gideon realized that the fate of the Pine Lake Chippewa lay exactly
where it always had—in the hands of the Chippewa people themselves and with
Chimaunido.

For now, on this sunny October day, beside the sparkling blue waters of Pine Lake and with a blazing pink-and-yellow backdrop of sugar maples, there was a marriage to be made. During the feast, the people would launch the bride and groom in a red canoe, and he would paddle her across the water to their honeymoon bower—or as far as Tahiti, if that was her wish. His doctor had pronounced him fit to do anything he felt up to doing, and on this day he felt up to taking his bride to the paradise of her choice.

He was dressed for just such a journey. He wore jeans, along with moccasins and a buckskin jacket, both beaded in the traditional floral designs of the Chippewa. His hair was pulled back and tied at the nape. He had the ring. He was all set. Except that there was a knot in the dentalium shell necklace, and his hands were a little shaky. Must've had too much coffee this morning, he told himself.

There was a knock at the door of the room the lodge had provided him for dressing. Peter stuck his head inside. “Mom wants to know if there's a word in Ojibwa for two o'clock.”

“Tell her the only word we've got for that is
Indian time.
When the time is right and the people are ready.” Gideon motioned for the boy to come in and close the door. “And I'm ready, except for this damned knot.”

Peter looked more than thirteen years' worth of sharp in his blue blazer and tan slacks. He smiled indulgently as he took over on the untying job. “You nervous?”

“Do I look nervous?”

“You look a little pale.” He gave a quick shrug. It was the padded shoulders, Gideon thought, that made the boy look
so much older today. “It kinda fits, though, because even in the sun, Mom's really… We used to call her ‘pale face.'”

“We did?” Gideon chuckled. “Maybe we could come up with something more original.”

“
You
can. ‘Mom' works for me.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that I knew her first?”

Peter glanced up from the slow-yielding knot. “
Knew
her?”

“Met her first. Went out with her first. And, no, don't ask any more than that, because a guy never discusses his private moments with his lady with anyone else.” Gideon nodded instructively. It was becoming a habit. “You remember that.”

“As far as I'm concerned, my mom's a virgin and always will be.” Displaying his conquest over the knot, Peter's eyes twinkled as he imitated Gideon's instructive tone. “A guy's mom doesn't do that stuff. You remember that.”

“I'll be good to her, Peter. I do love her, with all my heart.”

“Siiick! Who turned on the oldies station?” Peter clapped a hand over the pocket of his blazer and crooned, “With aaaall my hearrrrt.” Then he cut Gideon a meaningful look. “You'd better be good to her, with all your heart and whatever else you got.”

“Gotcha. You wanna put that on for me?” Gideon asked, seating himself on the bed to make the job easier. “I seem to be all thumbs.”

Peter draped the necklace in place. “I feel like the mother of the bride,” he muttered, and they both laughed. Then an unsettled quiet fell over them. “You got a best man?”

Gideon shook his head, but damn, he was hoping.

Peter tucked the tied ends of the necklace under the back of Gideon's collar. “You want one?”

Gideon cleared his throat. “You available?”

“Somebody better make sure the ring gets there, nervous as you are.”

Rising slowly from the bed, Gideon drew the gold band from his pocket and pressed it into the hollow of Peter's palm. He wasn't sure he could have said anything if he tried. His chest was full to bursting with love and pride. Maybe that sounded like the oldies station, too, but there was no other way to put it.

Peter looked up, his eyes filled with tears. “It's like I'm filling in for Dad. If he was here, this would be his job, because he was your brother.”

Gideon nodded once. “If your father were here, this wedding wouldn't be taking place.”

“You know what? I think my dad's here in spirit.” He glanced away. “But I feel like my father's here in the flesh, too.”

Gideon's arm went around the boy's shoulders. He closed his eyes and gripped a fistful of shoulder pad.

Peter pressed his cheek against the soft leather jacket. “It sounds confusing,” he said, “but in my head, it works okay.”

“Works great for me, too.”

Then he saw Raina through the window, standing on the grass below. She was wearing a long-sleeved, soft white cotton dress, scattered with pastel field flowers. The gentle breeze lifted the long skirt and made it flutter as she walked. A broad-brimmed hat shaded her face. One of the girls from her class at school came running after her with a bouquet of wildflowers. She turned, took the flowers, then took the girl's hand.

“We're late,” Peter warned.

“But not too late. God, she's beautiful.”

And then they were on their way out the door. “One thing you gotta learn about Mom. She's always there when she says she will be.”

Gideon smiled. “Then from now on, my time is her time.”

Pine Lake Reservation and the Pine Lake Band of Chippewa are purely fictitious. The Anishinabe, or Chippewa bands (many of whom prefer the name Ojibwa or Ojibwe), are an indigenous people of the Upper Great Lakes Region. Even though I chose to create a fictitious band, many readers will recognize that the issues with regard to Native American treaty rights, especially as they apply to fishing rights, are genuine concerns. While many bands have negotiated settlements, the issues are still highly controversial and continue to be fought in the courts—and outside of them.

It should be noted that the vast majority of people who enjoy fishing as a sport have no interest in interfering with the relatively few Native Americans who seek to exercise their treaty rights. Typically, non-Indians who question the validity of treaty rights do so because they have limited knowledge of their historical background, along with limited understanding of and respect for Native American culture and its values.
Historically, movements to abrogate Native American treaties have been fueled for the most part by a common motive, and that has been greed.

For Judy Baer, Pamela Bauer,
Mary Bracho and Sandy Huseby.

Vive
Prairie Writers' Guild!

T
ate Harrison cupped his big, callused hands around his face and peeked through the back door window into the Beckers' kitchen. Except for the two plates standing in the dish drainer along with two forks and a pair of tall tumblers, turned bottoms up, the place was as neat and tidy as the rows in a Kansas cornfield. It was Amy's kitchen, so naturally it would be. The only fingerprints would be those he was making on the glass right now, pressing his face to the window. The floor looked so clean he could almost smell the pine soap, and the stainless-steel sink was flooded with Indian summer sunshine, pouring through the ruffles of a yellow gingham curtain.

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and gave the rambler-style farmhouse a cursory inspection on the outside. The yellow trim was in pretty good shape, but the white clapboard siding sure needed a coat of paint. White sheers hung in the side window, but he would bet there were yellow curtains down the hall. Yellow was Amy's color. It looked
great with her dark hair and dark eyes. Black-Eyed Susan, he'd called her, but that had been a long time ago.

He rapped on the glass a second time, put his hands back up and peered again. As always, Tate was on the outside looking in. He liked it that way, especially whenever he came home to Overo. The best part of Montana was definitely the outside. Plenty of elbow room. Plenty of scenery. Plenty of opportunity for a cowboy to move on to greener pastures whenever he felt like it. Moving on had become his stock in trade, taking him out of state, even out of the country, but whenever he was in town—and it had been a while—he always looked in on the Beckers.

He'd had mixed feelings this time about paying his more-or-less regular call. Up until a year ago Kenny Becker had been leasing the land Tate had inherited after his stepfather died. He felt a little funny about showing up now to talk business. Kenny was Tate's best friend, and Tate wanted to sell him the land eventually, whenever Kenny could swing the financing. At least, that had always been the plan.

When Kenny had dropped the lease last year, the only explanation had come in a note that said they were “cutting back on the horses.” Kenny had assured him that there were plenty of neighbors interested in picking up the lease. But Tate wasn't interested in leasing his land to anyone else. He had called to wish the family a merry Christmas and to tell Kenny to go ahead and use the land, cut the hay on shares. He'd asked only a token percentage for himself, because he knew what Amy would say if she thought he was giving them something for nothing. But he and Kenny were friends, and if times were tough, he wanted to help out. He'd managed to keep his own financial obligations to a minimum.

“You sure you guys are okay?” Tate had asked over the phone. He couldn't imagine Kenny cutting his horse herd. He
loved every useless broomtail he kept around the place, and year after year that sentiment had helped him run his operation into the red. But that was Kenny. “You know, if you need to, you can sell my share of the hay and use the cash to—”

“Hey, thanks, buddy, but we're doin' just fine. Amy's got us into this sideline that's…well, it's a long story, but next year things'll start lookin' up. You oughta get married and settle down, Tate. I tell you…”

“I'm doin' fine, too, Ken,” Tate had said. “Come fall, we'll take a look at where things stand. If you want to pick up the lease again, fine. If you don't think you're gonna want to buy it like we planned, I'll probably just unload it. My banker tells me the mineral rights are worth more now than the grass.”

Lately Tate had been thinking he wouldn't mind selling the land and cutting the last of his ties. He'd left Overo when his stepfather died seven years ago, and hadn't been back in at least the last two, maybe longer. There were a thousand other places where he could be outside without feeling quite so much like an
outsider.
He shouldn't be feeling that way anymore, not when he was standing here on the back step of a house he'd spent as much time in as his own when he was growing up. Kenny Becker was his
best friend.
Always had been.

But Amy was his best friend's wife. And they'd never made a very good threesome.

Damn, he'd knocked three times now, and nothing seemed to be moving except a fat calico cat. She padded across the white linoleum, stopped by the back door and blinked a couple of times, then rounded the corner and ambled down the basement steps. It all made for a pretty disappointing homecoming. Tate had been looking forward to surprising them, earning a couple of smiles, maybe even a couple of hugs and a home-cooked meal. He tried to remember whether he'd
still had his beard the last time he'd been back. They might not even recognize him since he'd started shaving regularly again. Well, fairly regularly. No, Kenny would, he amended. Fifty years from now, when they were both nearsighted ol' codgers, Ken would still know him right off.

Amy was another story. She wasn't interested in knowing Tate Harrison. She had no use for his good intentions or his excuses or his apologies. She tolerated him because she loved Kenny. He wasn't sure she was really interested in knowing Kenny, either, not the same Kenny he knew. But she loved him just as sure as she had no use for his best friend.

A mystery, that woman. The kind you could stay up all night reading and never figure out until you hit the very last page. She was a city girl turned country. One minute she could be as stiff-necked as an old schoolmarm, the next she'd be bubbling over like she'd just popped her cork. Smart and sexy both. Tate figured she'd outsmarted herself when she'd married Ken, thinking all she had to do to shape him up was change the company he kept. On her wedding day, Tate had sincerely wished her luck. From the looks of things, somebody's luck was stretched a little thin right about now.

Tate tried the door, but it was locked. That had to mean they'd gone into town together. Kenny never locked the door, because he never had a key. If there'd been anybody out in the barn, they would have peeked out when they heard the pickup, but just to make sure, Tate walked around back and gave a holler. The only response came from the two dogs that had been yappin' to beat hell when he drove up. A Border collie and a Catahoula Leopard, both trying to see who could jump the highest inside the chain-link kennel. Tate didn't remember the kennel being there, next to the clothesline. The dogs were new, too. He wondered what had happened to the old black
Lab he and Kenny used to take with them when they'd go fishing.

On the way to his pickup he turned the corner around the dilapidated yard fence and nearly tripped over a pint-size red-and-white bicycle lying on its side in the gravel. Their little boy couldn't be old enough to ride a bike. Last time Tate had seen the little squirt he'd barely been toddling around, pigeon-toed like his ol' man. His hair was curly like Kenny's, too, only lighter, but he had his mother's big brown eyes. Cute little tyke. Cute enough to make a guy think he might want one of his own someday.

Tate lit a cigarette and leaned his backside against the headlight of his pickup. The crisp October breeze felt good against his face. This was a pretty spot. Plenty of water and grass, and a fine view of the snow-capped mountains. Wouldn't be long before the lowlands would snuggle under a blanket of snow and sleep until springtime. The only time he ever got homesick was when he thought of the Becker place. He'd sold his own house right off the foundation, along with the pole barns, the grain bins, even the damn toolshed. All he'd kept was the land. If you wanted to make a go of it on the land, you had to sacrifice, and you never knew what kind of forfeiture the land might demand. It had taken all it would ever get from Tate. He'd been making a damn good living as a rodeo cowboy, truck driver, construction worker—whatever came along. He'd socked the lease payments away in the bank. He didn't need the land, and it damn sure wasn't claiming his best years.

Didn't look like it was claiming much of the sweat off ol' Kenny's brow, either. He hadn't brought in much hay. The half section west of the house hadn't been cut. Worse yet, somebody's mangy sheep were grazing on it. Just like Kenny to let a neighbor take advantage of his good nature. But from
the looks of things, Kenny couldn't afford to be so damned good-natured. Other than the dogs and the trespassing sheep, Tate didn't see too many signs of life around the place. No horses in the corral out back. Not a cow in sight.

The more he thought about it, the less he liked what he was seeing. Tate dropped his cigarette on the gravel driveway and ground it under his boot heel. Fishing in his jacket for his keys, he jerked the pickup door open. Surely on his way to town he would see a supply of square bales, stacked up in a nice long wall close to the road, where it wouldn't be too hard to reach in the winter. Probably down on his land, near the old homesite, where the access would still be pretty good. Maybe on the alfalfa field, where Kenny should have been able to get a good two cuttings this year. He should have hauled the bales in closer, though, damn his lazy hide.

But, then, that was Kenny.