From Here to Paternity (4 page)

"HawkHunter! That—"

"Pete, this is Mrs. Nowack," Tenny said quickly.

That stopped him in his tracks. He gulped, visibly fought for control of his temper, and rearranged his face into a charming, if insincere, smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't kn—uh—Mrs. Nowack. How very nice to meet you. I hope you and your family and guests are enjoying your stay."

Tenny and Jane launched into introductions. The young man was Pete Andrews, Bill Smith's nephew.

"So you and Tenny are brother and sister?" Jane asked.

"No!" they both said in unison.

"Pete is Bill's nephew," Tenny explained, apparently embarrassed. "I'm Joanna's niece. Aunt Joanna is Uncle Bill's wife. Pete and I are no relation at all."

"But you both work here?" Jane asked.

Pete preened. "I handle all the entertainment aspects of the resort. Tenny handles the housekeeping." His almost-sneer made it clear that entertainment was the difficult, skilled, imaginative job and housekeeping was both easy and beneath notice. Jane and Shelley, who were both "entertainment directors" and "head housekeepers" of their own homes, exchanged quick glances.

Shelley had sat up very straight and was getting her smiting-down-the-enemy look, so Jane quickly said, "I'm sure you both must work awfully hard. It's nice to see a business that involves the whole family. My late husband was part of a family business." Mention of a late husband usually managed to force people to be courteous, she had discovered.

"Oh—uh—that's nice," Pete said. "And it's been nice meeting you both. I have things to—uh—"

"Run along, Pete. Make sure you get all the quarters out of the video games," Tenny said.

He scowled at her and left.

She stared after him. "That wasn't really nice of me," she mused. "There's no sport in getting the best of him. Poor twit." Then, realizing she was with the wife of a potential investor, she said, "But he's really very good at what he does. Having spent all his useless life 'playing', he knows all about games and leisure pursuits."

"I heard you mention HawkHunter," Jane said. "Is that the same HawkHunter who wrote the book?"

Tenny nodded. " 'Fraid so."

"Book?" Shelley asked. "What book?"

"Oh, Shelley, you remember. We read it in book club about ten years ago. A very good book, but horribly depressing."

"Sounds like most of what we read in that book club. Depressives Anonymous, we used to call it before we finally had the sense to bail out."

Jane chuckled. "I think it was
Ethan Frome
that put us over the edge. This guy's book was just called
HawkHunter
, wasn't it?"

"
I
,
HawkHunter
," Tenny corrected her.

"Oh, yes, that's right. Anyway, it was sort of an Indian version of
Roots. A
story of his family from about the fifteen-hundreds up through his own childhood on the reservation. It really was fascinating, but bigoted in its own way. HawkHunter himself claimed not to have a single drop of 'evil' white blood, but virtually all his ancestors had been hideously mistreated by the white man."

"I'm sure that would have stuck in my mind," Shelley said.

"I don't know how you missed reading it," Jane went on. "Actually, I'm making it sound awful, but it was very interesting. Lots of nifty stuff about the history of this country from the Indian viewpoint. It was a big best-seller for months and months."

"So what's this HawkHunter person doing out there?" Shelley asked Tenny.

"Rabble-rousing," Tenny said grimly. "There's a tiny reservation that abuts Uncle Bill's land—only about ten acres where the village and a couple of houses sit—and HawkHunter's convinced a few of the Indians that they're entitled to our poor little squashed-down mountain. It's a stupid, technical thing, but he's a lawyer, you know. Used to finding niggles. The worst of it is, he's trying to spoil the relationship we have with the tribe."

"How's that?" Jane asked.

"Well, we hire lots of them here. They're wonderful workers and we pay them well and it's been a nice working arrangement ever since Uncle Bill started the resort. Back in the old days, when this was just some primitive hunters' cabins, they worked as guides. Then, when he built it up like it is now, he employed about half the tribe in the construction. Our chef is one of them. So are our accountant and our conference planner, as well as most of the waiters and cleaning crew."

"So what do the placards mean? Especially the 'No Lift' one?" Jane asked.

"HawkHunter is claiming the top of our pathetic little mountain is an ancient tribal burial ground. I don't think the tribe ever believed that until he turned up, and there's no proof whatsoever that there's anything buried up there but a few unfortunate chipmunks that got in the way of a rock slide. But HawkHunter has some of the tribe convinced that somebody—Uncle Bill or the investors—is planning to build a ski-lift mechanism at the top. Which is stupid. It's just a silly hill, and nobody would build a ski lift for a bunny slope."

She took a long, appreciative sip of her coffee.

Shelley had been listening politely, but now asked sharply, "What's the legal niggle?"

Tenny smiled. "Don't worry. Your husband and the other investors know all about it. Uncle Bill hasn't concealed anything from them. There is a sheaf of legal opinions and precedents in the financial packet he had prepared for them."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—"

"I know. But even HawkHunter isn't sure enough of himself to file a suit. He just keeps threatening. And considering how easy it is to file a nuisance suit these days, I think that says a lot about how flimsy his reasoning is."

"So what is it he wants?" Jane asked. "What are the threats about?"

"Oh, not much," Tenny said sarcastically. "He just wants Uncle Bill to give the resort to the tribe."

"I'm sorry," Tenny said to their questioning looks. "I've really got to get back to work. I left Aunt Joanna at the desk and she's probably knocking things off people's bills left and right. She can't stand the slightest hint of discontent. I really just came in to let you know that there's a big storeroom off the lobby that has all sorts of boots, mufflers, even snow-shoes and sun goggles. If you want to go adventuring but don't have the equipment, feel free to help yourself. It started out as a lost-and-found, but now we just let guests help themselves."

"Thanks. I may take you up on that," Jane said. "Shelley's going to sit in on some of the genealogy stuff this morning, and I'll take a walk."

Tenny left just as Katie and Denise straggled into the dining room. "Jane, I'm going to run to town and get a notebook," Shelley said. "You don't mind my abandoning you for the morning, do you?"

"Shelley! What do I look like, a wallflower? Go. I'm looking forward to being all by myself for a while. Solitude is such a rare commodity that I can't imagine why you're not interested in it, too. Katie, I see your fingernails are back to normal."

Katie and Denise had stopped by her table, but clearly had no intention of sitting with a mother in public. "The polish took forever to get off. That glue is really tough. You weren't waiting for us, were you?" Katie asked, glancing around to see if anybody had noticed them speaking to Jane. Her gaze lingered for a long moment on the handsome omelet chef.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving in a minute."

"Mom, there was the neatest guy in the lobby. And he was just leaving! Isn't that just morbid?" Katie glanced again at the buffet table, and especially at the handsome omelet maker.

"Hideous," Jane agreed. "Fate deals us these blows sometimes. Katie, that young man is working. Don't try to take up his time, or he could get in trouble with his boss."

"What young man?" Katie asked, all offended innocence.

"The one you're staring at."

"Mother!"

"I'm off to explore. I'll be back here at lunchtime. I'd appreciate it if you'd check in with me then, or leave a note at the cabin."

"I'm not a baby!" Katie said, sticking out her lower lip.

"No, but I'm a mother for life."

I can't win
, Jane thought wryly as she headed for the lost-and-found.
If I don't pay enough attention, I'm uncaring. If I show too much concern, I'm over
bearing.

The saving factor was that time passes and teenage girls eventually grow up. Her mother had once told her that about the time her daughters got to be nice young women she could actually like, they went away. There were days when Jane felt that that time couldn't come soon enough.

The lost-and-found was an old-fashioned cloakroom just off the entrance to the hotel. She joined another woman who was rummaging among the items on the shallow shelves. Jane had brought along a heavy jacket and a good, warm stocking cap, as well as insulated boots that were cozy but made her walk like a robot. She added a soft wool muffler and a pair of darkly shaded goggles. Fearing her fur-lined leather gloves might not be warm enough, she put on a fat pair of padded mittens over them. She took a quick glance in the mirror on the back of the cloakroom door and decided the look was Pillsbury Doughboy-ish, but practical.

She waddled out the front door of the hotel and began to follow the road back up toward the Eagle's Nest group of cabins, where she would set out from. Unfortunately, as she toiled chubbily up the hill, she met a couple of young women coming down the road. Jane was sweaty and out of breath. They were all spandex, long, easy strides, flowing tresses, and breezy tans.
I don't think I looked twenty-five when I was twenty-five
, Jane thought grouchily. As soon as they were out of sight, she sat down on an artfully fallen tree at the side of the road to catch her breath.

By the time she'd reached the condo, she realized that she'd badly misjudged in the matter of wardrobe. It was cold, but the air was so thin and dry that it didn't feel cold. In fact, when she was in the sun, she felt downright hot in all those layers. She decided to shed several of them before continuing. Patting herself down, she found her room key in her back trouser pocket and let herself into the cabin.

A pretty young woman with glossy black hair in a bun was sitting on the floor.

"I'm sorry, I must have the wrong—" Jane babbled.

The girl rose quickly. "No, no. You must be Mrs. Jeffry. I'm here to clean. I was just petting your dog."

And sure enough, as she got up, she revealed Willard, belly-up, on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"He probably told you he'd been abandoned and that nobody loved him. Right?"

The girl's dark eyes sparkled. "Right. And that he hadn't been fed for four days."

Jane shook her head. "He's such a liar."

"I think he's a big sweetheart. Are you trying to get out of that jacket?"

"Yes. I know it looks more like a seizure of some kind, but the zipper's stuck, I think."

The young woman helped her. Up close, she was stunningly pretty, with high cheekbones, slanted eyes that looked faintly Oriental, and a nose that was merely strong now and would become dignified and possibly even imperious when she was older.

"Thanks! I was beginning to think it was going to take the Jaws of Life to get me out of that jacket."

"You're wearing a whole lot more clothing than you need to, Mrs. Jeffry."

"I discovered that too late. And I'm Jane, by the way."

"I'm Linda Moosefoot."

"You're an Indian."

"Yes, I know."

Jane smiled. "I'm sorry. I should have known that you'd noticed."

"You're trying very hard to figure out if I'm serious about my name, aren't you? It strikes people that way. But within the tribe, it's a common name. My brother always says we should just be happy it wasn't Elkballs or Badgerpiss."

"Have I offended you by calling you an Indian? Do you prefer Native American?"

"Oh, God! No! That's just trendy twaddle in my opinion. Anybody who's born in this country is a native American as far as I'm concerned. Your people might have originally come from Ireland or Germany or wherever and found my people already here, but only because we'd come over the land bridge from Siberia before that. Human beings are all immigrants on this half of the globe."

"Why, that's a fascinating concept," Jane said.

"Not original, I'm afraid. A college professor of mine said it and I recognized the truth of it."

"Are you in college now?"

Linda had gone to the closet and was unwinding the vacuum-cleaner cord. "Yes. I'm just helping out over the semester break. The Smiths are always looking for extra help over the holidays."

"Do you go to college locally?"

"No. Yale, actually."

"That's a long way from home," Jane said.

"In more ways than just geography," Linda replied. "You know what's best about being back? Nobody from around here thinks Moosefoot is a weird name. Everybody's gone to school with a Moosefoot or had one of the Moosefoot girls as a bridesmaid or employed a Moosefoot to put on their last roof. I'm not a token anything here. There are people at school who are forever trying to make me represent an entire race. Like I'm not entitled to individual habits and opinions and traits. You know, a professor—a grown man who should have known better—once said to me, "I didn't realize Indians were left-handed." "

Jane laughed. "Boy, do I ever know what you mean! My dad traveled all over the world and took us along. I grew up being told that I was representing my whole country and that if I chewed my braids or didn't clean my fingernails, people would think all American girls were slobs. To my parents' credit, they didn't claim this was fair or right, just a fact of life."

"Lots of facts of life aren't fair, I guess."

"Am I keeping you from your work? I'm sorry. Tell you what. I need an excuse to sit down and get my breath before I trudge off again. Use the time you would have taken doing the girls' room and have a cup of coffee with me, would you? Doing their room would be a waste of time anyhow. They'll trash it again the minute they come back."

"Sounds good to me," Linda said.

When they were settled, Jane on the sofa, Linda back on the floor with Willard, Jane said, "Do you know there's some kind of demonstration going on at the main lodge?"

"Oh, right. Is that today? You mean HawkHunter, don't you?"

"What's it all about?"

"Hmmm, I'm sorry to say I haven't followed it all closely enough to talk with any kind of authority. I've been working here since I started my break. Something about the Flattop."

"The Flattop?"

"The mountain—well, hill really—behind the resort. It's called that. Some of the elders seem to believe it was once a burial ground, I guess. I'd never heard that before, but I don't always pay as much attention to the old stories as I should. Anyway, HawkHunter's a lawyer, you know, and it's part of his contract with the tribe to represent their interests. They're afraid that somebody's going to build a ski lift and disturb the graves up there. When word got out that Bill Smith was at the point of selling the resort, I guess somebody got concerned that the new buyers would do something like that."

"But Mr. Smith wouldn't have?"

"Oh, no. Bill has always been good to the tribe and the tribe's been good to him. He's an old-timer, you know."

"I haven't met him. Is he elderly?"

"He is, but I didn't mean that. I meant in the sense of being an old-fashioned Colorado type. Live and let live. Mind your own business. Don't antagonize your neighbors. Help without asking for thanks. Don't try to reform anybody. It's a very distinct mind-set. Anyway, he has it. And if he'd wanted to build a ski lift and the tribe said there were graves there, he'd have just respected it without question. But nobody knows about some unknown buyer. The tribe's unhappy that Bill's retiring, but nobody would butt into his business."

"But HawkHunter is doing exactly that, isn't he? Butting in, I mean."

"Well, yes, I guess he is."

"Look, Linda, I'll be honest with you. The reason I'm interested is because my friend's husband is one of the investors who are considering buying the resort."

"Oh, I knew that already. But thanks for being up front about it."

"So what does HawkHunter want? What's the point of the demonstration down at the lodge? To scare the investors off?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so. All he wants is something attached to the deed—that's not the term, but you know what I mean—a rider or something that makes any subsequent buyers have to respect the holy significance of the land and not put up buildings or roads there."

"Is that legal?" Jane asked, not mentioning that this simple-sounding request wasn't what Tenny had said HawkHunter wanted.

"Well, I guess it must be. HawkHunter's a lawyer."

"Then why doesn't Mr. Smith add it to the deed? You just said he had a good relationship with the tribe and would respect their feelings."

Linda scratched Willard's ears and made him mumble with pleasure. "You ask good questions and I'm sorry I don't really have the answers. All I know about this is what I've overheard my mom and dad say. I think—but don't quote me on this—I think Bill doesn't believe there are graves up there. And my own guess is that he doesn't think it's fair to bind future owners to anything that the law doesn't already require. That's just based on what I know of him."