A Man of His Word (4 page)

If she wasn't careful, that smile was going to be her undoing. “Would you like me to pick you up?”

Chivalry had apparently not died. But there was no way in hell she wanted this man in this truck to be seen picking her up on the rez. The wrong people would get the wrong idea, and she had enough to deal with right now. “I know where it is.”

He nodded his head in acknowledgment, and she felt the heat from three paces. Definitely a kiss. At least one. One kiss to hold her for the next three years—was that too much to ask? “Good. I'll see you then.”

She couldn't tell if it was a threat or a promise.

D
an sat in his truck, fighting the urge to head straight for the barn, saddle up Smokey and head for the valley. The expectation of bad days were the whole reason he'd driven himself and his horse up here from Texas. He wasn't going to leave Smokey, his champion palomino stallion, at home—being around Cecil practically guaranteed he'd need to ride.

A bad day at the office was always made better by taking Smokey out to check on the Armstrong oil derricks. Dan paid people to make sure the derricks ran properly, but there was something about getting his own hands dirty that made him feel like the company was all his. Usually, by the time he rode back in, whatever problem that had been bugging him had either ceased to be important or a solution had presented itself. Sometimes both.

He could sure use a solution to his long list of current problems, starting with who'd fired on him. He had a feeling that if he camped out in that valley long enough, his Lakota princess would come back to the scene of the crime. He'd rather
take his chances there than go in and see his uncle. Going in would mean reporting back, and reporting back would mean having to say something about Rosebud Donnelly, and saying something about Rosebud was…tricky.

He couldn't be sure, but damned if that woman hadn't looked just like his Indian princess, minus the horse. She had the nerve to do it, too. The cold-eyed determination he'd seen when he called her on it told him she had nothing but ice water running through her veins. No doubt about it, that was the bearcat Cecil wanted dealt with. She was why Dan was here. Regular lawyers couldn't budge her. He was supposed to
woo
her, for God's sake, with all his “talking.” He was supposed to talk his way into her panties, compromise her position and report back.

He was no lapdog.

His
princess. Somehow, he knew there was more to her than just that. Underneath all that cold determination, he'd seen something in her eyes, something that had spoken of a deep sorrow, a deep regret. Something that made him think that if she had taken that shot, she hadn't shot to kill.

He couldn't be sure. But he had a hunch, and he hadn't had one lead him astray in a long time.

But what was he supposed to do with it? Make wild accusations—the kind Rosebud was making? What the hell was that about—“Men have died”? Cecil was an ass—that much he knew—but he wasn't a killer. He didn't need to be one—it was just a dam.

Most every person has a reason,
his mother's voice whispered in his ear. If ever there was a situation where his mother's sensibilities would come in handy, this was it. He turned his phone over in his hand, debating whether or not he should check in with Mom. On one hand, her opinion on these sorts of matters was worth its weight in oil. On the other hand, he'd have to tell her about the gunshot, and once he did that,
she'd go all Mom on him, and she was plenty busy keeping the day-to-day operations going while he was up here dealing with the Cecil “situation.” She was the reason he had time to spend days taking notes with Rosebud. Nope. He couldn't bring Mom in on this yet. He needed her focused on the meetings and deals he'd lined up before he left.

Dan thought hard, trying to review the interview as his mother would. Rosebud Donnelly's voice had cracked and Emily Mankiller had touched her, like a mother comforting her child. His first instinct—she'd lost someone, maybe a husband—had been true. Maybe Rosebud had taken a shot at him to make up for a different shot, a better shot. That had to be it.

Did that even the score? Was she satisfied? No, he decided. A woman like that was never satisfied with
just
once. He smiled at the thought. But he didn't think she was going to take another shot at him. He'd looked her in the eyes. Her mouth may have been lying, but he didn't think her eyes were telling the same tale.

No, they'd been saying something…different. He adjusted his jeans. Damn it all. He shouldn't have gotten so close to her, so close to the way she smelled, to those beautiful eyes the shade of a doe's fur in the early spring. He never should have touched her hair, one long swath of silk. He never should have shaken her hand.

For that matter, he never should have come here.

And now, he thought in resignation, he had to go in
there.

Time to get this over with.
Dan grabbed his dead hat off the dash. He needed a new one, pronto. A man didn't go without a hat where he was from.

“Well?” Dan hadn't even made it to the door of the dining room. He sighed. There was no avoiding his uncle. The whole house stunk of him.

Dan was so busy mulling over the best way to handle tell
ing Cecil about the situation that he didn't see the man in the black leather jacket sitting in front of Cecil until he stood up. Another Lakota Indian? What was Cecil doing with someone who sure as hell looked like one of the very people suing Armstrong Holdings?

“Dan Armstrong,” he said, making the first move. A fellow could tell a lot about a person by his handshake.

“Shane Thrasher,” the stranger said. His grip started out rock-hard, but quickly went limp, like he was trying to hide something. Dan decided he didn't like the man, an opinion reinforced by his uncle's warm smile for Thrasher. Nope. Didn't like him at all.

“Thrasher is—what are you, again?” Cecil opened a lockbox Dan hadn't seen before and pulled out a thick file. The box looked old—like the house. Definitely not something Cecil normally had in his office.

“Half Crow,” Thrasher replied as he sat back down. He acted like he'd sat in that chair a lot.

Hadn't Emily Mankiller said something about the Crow tribe? Something about Custer and Little Bighorn and Greasy Grass? What Dan needed was an eighth-grade history book, but if he was remembering correctly, according to Ms. Mankiller, the Crow were the ones who worked with the whites against the Lakota.

“That's right. I can't keep you all straight.” Dan winced at Cecil's words, even though Thrasher didn't blink. “Thrasher is my head of security. An inside man, if you will.”

Head of security? Dan looked him over. More like gun for hire. The bulge at his side wasn't hard to see. Maybe Rosebud Donnelly had taken a shot at Dan, maybe she hadn't. Dan had a hunch that he needed to be more worried about Shane Thrasher than a beautiful, conflicted lawyer. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A muscle above Thrasher's left eye twitched in response. It appeared the insincere feeling was mutual.

Cecil was studying a thick file. “What did you think of that Donnelly woman?”

“She's trouble.” An honest assessment—but he couldn't figure out if she was the good kind or the bad kind of trouble. More than likely, she was both.

Thrasher snorted in a way that struck Dan as too familiar. Wielding a red pen, Cecil made a note in the file. “Think you can handle her?”

For the first time in his life, Dan wasn't sure if he could handle a woman. In the space of one afternoon, he'd been impressed by, furious with and turned on by Rosebud Donnelly. The combination was dangerous. “I invited her to dinner Saturday night.” Cecil's eyebrows shot up. “She accepted,” he added. In the space of a second, he'd seen a crack in her ice-cold lawyer front. He had the feeling that keeping her on her toes was the only way to get through to her. That, and making sure she wasn't armed. But he'd be damned if he'd bring up any of that in front of Thrasher.

“That's my boy.” Cecil's grin was wide. He looked downright happy, in an evil sort of way. “What did I tell you, Thrasher?”

“You were right,” Thrasher replied, the butt-kissing tone of his voice at odds with the way his face kept twitching.

Dan had the sudden urge to punch that face. Instead, he dug his fingers into the chair's armrest. “I thought it would help if she could see you as a person, not just an adversary.” Although, with that grin, Dan was having trouble seeing Cecil as more than an adversary right now, too.

Cecil gave him the same look he'd been giving Dan since the day after his father's funeral—the shut-up-and-be-an-Armstrong look. “I don't give a rat's ass how she sees me. I'm not running some feel-good love-in around here. I want
you to find her weak spots. I want you to bring her
down.
Understood?”

Right then, Dan wished he'd never had to leave Texas. In Texas, he ran a tight ship. Armstrong Holdings was one of the twenty best places to work in Texas, or so some award hanging in the reception area said. But the South Dakota division of Armstrong Holdings seemed to be a different can of worms, and Dan was feeling particularly slimy today. He reminded himself that Cecil's lack of ethics was the exact reason he'd come—there was no place for slime in any part of Dan's company. “She won't make me any copies of her files, but she'll let me see them to take notes.”

A look that was dangerously close to victory flashed over Cecil's face. “Well, then, that's something, isn't it? I underestimated you, son.”

Son.
The chair creaked. Dan was in serious danger of breaking off an armrest or two. Thrasher had the nerve to snort in amusement.

“I've got a fundraiser in Sioux Falls Saturday night. It'll be just the two of you,” Cecil went on as he made another note with the red pen. “I expect results.”

Dan would also like to see some results—but he wanted to believe his reasons were more noble. “Interested lust” was better than “cold-blooded scheming.” Wasn't it? At least Thrasher hadn't gotten this assignment. But then, Dan didn't think Thrasher would get anywhere with Rosebud. She didn't seem like the kind of woman who went for jerks.

“What about him?” Dan didn't even look at Thrasher—he was too afraid he'd lose the last of his cool and punch him.

“Don't worry your pretty little head about me,” Thrasher replied as he stood, conveniently moving out of range. “In fact, I doubt you'll ever see me again, Armstrong.”

Dan shot to his feet. But by the time he got turned around, Thrasher was gone. Dan swung back around, his fists ready.

“We're all on the same side here,” was all Cecil said as he locked the box back up.

No, Dan didn't think they were.

He didn't know whose side he was on.

H
er aged, dented Taurus made it to the Armstrong ranch house. That was a good thing. And the weather wasn't so hot that she was sweating in her suit, so that was also a good thing.

But beyond those two good things, Rosebud was grasping at straws. The whole situation had an air of unreality to it. Was she really about to have dinner—at his house—with the one-and-only Cecil Armstrong? With Dan Armstrong? Was she really this scared about it?

Oh, yeah, she was terrified. If she'd owned chain mail, she would have put it on under the jacket, but she didn't, so she'd settled for a lower-cut-than-normal tank top in a soft-and-flirty pink under her gray suit. That was as close as she got to pretty when she was about to do battle.

She could do this. She was a lawyer, damn it. She'd argued a case before the South Dakota Supreme Court, for God's sake—argued and won. She could handle the Armstrong men.

She grabbed her briefcase and put on her game face. But before she could get anywhere, the front door swung open and out stepped the cowboy of her dreams.

The white, button-up shirt was cuffed to the elbows, and the belt buckle sat just so on the narrow V of his waist. For a blinding second, she hoped he'd turn around and go right back inside, just so she could see what that backside looked like without a saddle or a sports coat to block the view. She thought she saw a loaded holster at his side, but she realized it was a cell phone. All that was missing was a white horse and a sunset to ride off into.

Just one kiss, she thought as she fought to keep a satisfied smile off her face. Kissing Dan Armstrong wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, would it?

“You're right on time,” Dan said as he came down to greet her. When he shook her hand this time, he acted like he was one step away from kissing it.

Maybe two kisses. Darn it, this whole situation was driving her crazy. She fought the urge to swing her briefcase in between them like it was a guillotine. “I'm sure your uncle appreciates punctuality.”

Dan still had her hand. Warm, again, and still not sweaty. He wasn't nervous. The realization made
her
even more nervous. “He probably does. But he's not here.”

Relief flooded her system at the same time her heartbeat picked up another notch. “Oh?” Was it just the two of them?

The look in Dan's eyes said yes, it was just the two of them. The gentle pressure his fingers were exerting on her wrist seconded the motion. “He's at some fundraiser.”

She was going to have to draw the line at three kisses, tops. Any more than that, and this man would have her in a compromising position behind enemy lines. “You understand that no matter what party he tries to buy off, I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure he doesn't get elected?”

“Completely.” No, there was no mistaking Dan's feelings. He didn't like his own uncle. But if that was true, what was he doing here, with her? Finally, he let go of her hand and stepped back. As his eyes skimmed her body, she saw his brow wrinkle. “This isn't a business meeting, you know.”

Just her luck—he really was that observant. He'd noticed her suit—what were the odds he remembered it was the same one she'd had on two days ago? She jutted out her chin in defiance of all known fashion laws and bluffed her way past the blush she was sure she was working on. “You didn't expect me to treat this as a social call, did you?”

“No, I guess I didn't.” He offered her his arm. Chivalry was not only
not
dead, it was also apparently alive and well in his part of Texas. She ignored the flattered feeling that started to hum high in her chest. So what if it had been an awfully long time since any white man had done more than look down his nose at her? She was not going to let this “respect” thing go to her head. “Shall we?”

As they walked up the porch steps, Rosebud had the distinct feeling that she was walking into the jaws of hell, and the demon house would swallow her down in one big gulp. She fought the urge to cling to Dan's arm. She wasn't some weak female who needed a male protector. It wasn't her fault if her fingers wrapped around his bare skin.

“Have you ever been here?” he said as he held the door for her.

“Never
in.
Just
by,
” she said as her eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of the foyer. Actually, it looked nothing like a dungeon. Everything was neat and clean—even the mounted buffalo head she could see in the parlor was dust-free. The rooms had a warm, almost feminine sensibility to them.

He nodded as he guided her down a long, dark hallway. “To hear Maria tell it, Cecil's never set foot in any rooms
but the dining room and his bedroom. I guess the rest of this place is like a museum.”

“Who's Maria?”

“The housekeeper. She made us dinner tonight.” Dan pushed open a swinging door. “Oh, good. Maria, meet my guest, Rosebud Donnelly, the Lakota lawyer who's suing Cecil. Rosebud, this is Maria Villerreal. She basically runs the place.” His tongue rolled the
R
s right. She flushed hot, thinking of his tongue rolling anything.

“Señor!”
Maria was a small woman with a thick accent who was in the middle of putting on her coat. She ducked her head to Rosebud. “It is an honor to meet you,
señorita.
”

“The pleasure is mine.” Again, this was not what she expected. A pristine mansion and kindly hired help? Maybe she had Cecil Armstrong all wrong.

“Dinner is in the oven,
señor.
Do you need anything else?”

Dan patted her arm, and Rosebud saw the girlish blush rise up. “No, Maria, it smells wonderful. You can head out—give my best to Eduardo and the boys, okay?”

“Sí, señor.”
Maria held out her hand to Rosebud. “Señor Daniel is a good man,
señorita.
”

As opposed to…his uncle? The statement opened the door to about twenty questions. Dan couldn't have been around that long, or she would have heard about his arrival
before
he showed up at her office. How long had Maria worked for Cecil? Clearly, Dan was working his charm on more people than her. That wasn't a bad thing, either, she decided. This wasn't any different than judging a date by how he treated the waiter—except, she reminded herself, this wasn't a date. Now that Maria was out of the house, Rosebud had to remember that.

Dan pulled out a stool at the huge kitchen island and motioned for her to sit. She felt a little silly about the formality,
but she couldn't say no to that smile. “We're eating in the kitchen?”

“The dining room is Cecil's headquarters.” Dan got busy with plates and forks before he opened the oven. The scent of Mexican—good Mexican—filled the air. “The kitchen is a much nicer place, trust me. I hope you like tamales.”

Sounded like the dining room was the place she needed to be. Something occurred to her. “You call him Cecil?”

Dan paused, a sheepish smile on his face. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“You don't like him very much, do you?”

“Not many people do.” He dug out some cheese and proceeded to garnish the tamales.
A good-looking man who knows how to garnish,
Rosebud thought in amazement.
No,
she caught herself. She would
not
be impressed. “You don't like him.”

That was putting it mildly. “I've never actually met him. He's
your
uncle.”

“And there's not a damn thing I can do about that.” He sounded lighthearted, but the tension in his voice was unmistakable as he set her dinner before her. “I'd offer you a beer, but that suit says I'd be wasting my breath.” Here, just the two of them in a kitchen that smelled of warmth and goodness, she allowed herself to smile. His eyes latched on to her smile, and she froze. Did he think he recognized her from the valley? Or was he just staring? “Lemonade?” he finally said into the silence.

Disaster averted, she thought with a mental sigh. “I'd love some.”

“Tell me about your name.” He set the lemonade down in front of her, but he didn't withdraw. Instead, he stood in the space between touching her shoulder and not touching her shoulder.

She looked up. No, there wasn't any of that wariness she
thought she'd caught a glimpse of. His eyes weren't so stormy, she decided. They were more like the palest jade with just a hint of gray. A precious stone. “Is that the nice way of asking if I'm named after a sled?”

Jade probably didn't sparkle as much as Dan's eyes. “My mother loves
Citizen Kane,
” he said and then headed back to the stove to scoop out Spanish rice. “I bet you get that question a lot.”

Her mouth watered. Whatever else happened tonight, at least the food was going to be good. “Only from white people.”

His shoulders shook with laughter. “Guilty as charged.”

At least he had a sense of humor about it. That was a rare thing in and of itself, especially considering the past three years. She was used to dealing with
that man
's lawyers, who held her in obvious contempt. When she was in college, she'd become familiar with white people who had an overdeveloped sense of liberal guilt. And the locals? They mostly treated her—or any Indian, for that matter—like dirty, dumb Injuns. Dan didn't fit into any of those categories. “You don't have to be all politically correct, either—
Indian
is fine. I think of myself as a Lakota Indian.”

He regarded her with a look that was between frank curiosity and open respect. “Duly noted. So are you named after a sled?”

She couldn't help but grin widely at him. “I'm named after a distant relative who moved to New York in the '40s, Rosebud Yellow Robe. Family legend is that Orson Welles named the sled after her—they both did radio shows for CBS back in the day.”

“Interesting.” His voice dropped a notch as he served dinner with a flourish. “And the Donnelly?”

She wasn't much of a cook, and this was, hands down, the most delicious meal she'd had in ages. She forced herself
to focus. If she wasn't mistaken, that was a pretty slick way of asking if Donnelly was her maiden or married name. “A grandmother married a white man after the Civil War, and they had nothing but sons for a while.”

“Until you.”

She froze, the fork halfway to her mouth. Her appetite disappeared, leaving only uneasiness in her belly. Carefully, she lowered the fork back to the plate and cleared her throat. “I had a brother. He was one of the deaths deemed a suicide by the FBI.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand flex.
Way to go,
Rosebud scolded herself. Way to play the pity card.
Way to
use
Tanner's memory.
Suddenly, she felt dirty. This whole situation was wrong. There had to be better ways to get to Cecil Armstrong. If she thought real hard, she was sure she could come up with
something.
Anything would be better than this intimate dinner with his nephew.

He finally spoke into the silence. “I'm goin' to look into it.”

“You said that.” She tried to shrug this whole awkward conversation off but failed miserably.

He pivoted on his stool, put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. “I mean it.”

She wanted to believe him, but she'd had too many men—white and Indian—break too many promises. Still, something about the way he met her gaze made her think that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.

She was getting warmer. Just like when he'd shaken her hand, she could feel the slow burn moving from where he was touching her shoulder down her arm and across her chest. Despite the confusion that swirled in her head, she still felt the pull of sexual tension. She tested out a small smile and got an honest one in return as his hand drifted down to her arm and gave it a little squeeze. That burn got a lot less slow.
Oh, boy. If she wasn't careful, all this promising and smiling and touching would pull her right under. She was already a mess right now. She couldn't afford something as distracting as sexual tension to further unscrew her head. “A man of his word?”

“Always.” His fingers trailed down her arm, leaving scorch marks under her jacket. He motioned to the food. “It's goin' to get cold.”

Luckily, dinner was still warm—and delicious. Eating it gave her a little time to get her thoughts organized, because the last thing she wanted to do was add the embarrassment of spewing half-chewed tamales across the kitchen island. Finally, the plates were nearly empty and she'd moved on to the lemonade. She decided to start with the least dangerous topic she could think of. “You'll have to tell Maria that I said this was wonderful.”

“She'll like that.”

“How long have you known her?”

“About a week.”

Okay, that answered her question about how long he'd been here. No wonder she hadn't heard about his arrival. “Really? You seem like old friends.”

Maybe that grin wasn't arrogant. Maybe that grin was just confident. “My mother raised me to be nice to everyone, regardless of whether they were the maid or the king of the world.” Then the grin slid right on over into arrogant. “Plus, I gave Maria a—what do they call it these days? A retention bonus. My uncle was still paying her the same wage he hired her at five years ago.”

That didn't surprise her. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman,” she said, hoping she was using the right tense.

“She is. She's the executive vice president. We run the Texas division of the company as a team—before this thing
with Cecil pulled me up here, that is.” He began to rummage through the fridge. “I think Maria left a cake—interested?”

“Yes, please. Will your mother be visiting you here?” Because she'd kind of like to meet the woman who produced this charmer.