Paper Rose

She was intelligent, lively, outrageous and she made him feel good inside. She could have become his world, if he'd allowed her to.

Unexpectedly, Tate reached out and touched her soft cheek with just his fingertips. “I'm Native American,” he said quietly. “You're not.”

“There is,” she said unsteadily, “such a thing as birth control.”

His face was very solemn and his eyes were narrow and intent on her. “And sex is all you want from me, Cecily?” he asked mockingly. “No kids, ever?”

It was the most serious conversation they'd ever had. She couldn't look away from his dark eyes. She wanted him. But she wanted children, too, eventually. Her expression told him so.

“No, Cecily,” he continued gently. “Sex isn't what you want at all. And what you really want, I can't give you. We have no future together. If I marry one day, it's important to me that I marry a woman with the same background as my own. And I don't want to live with a young, and all too innocent, white woman.”

“I wouldn't be innocent if you'd cooperate for an hour,” she muttered outrageously.

“You'll tempt me once too often.” He bit off the words. “This teasing is more dangerous than you realize.”

“Nobody tops Diana Palmer…I love her stories.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

C
ecily Peterson twirled a beautiful red paper rose between her fingers, staring at its perfection with eyes full of shattered dreams. She was in love with a man who was never going to be able to return that love. Her life was a paper rose, an imitation of beauty forever captured in a medium that would not age, or decay, or die. But it was cold. It was dead and yet it had never lived. Tate Winthrop had brought her the delicate crimson rose from Japan. At the time, it had given her hope that he might one day learn to care for her. But as the years passed, and hope dwindled, she finally realized that the paper rose was making a statement for him. He was telling her in the nicest possible way that his feelings for her were only an imitation of passion and love. He was saying, without speaking one word, that fondness would never be a substitute for love. She remembered so vividly how their turbulent relationship began so many years ago…

Eight years earlier…

There was dust coming up the long winding road from Corryville, South Dakota. Tate Winthrop's black eyes narrowed as he turned on the top rung of the makeshift corral fence to watch the progress of a beat-up gray pickup truck. That would be carrying the order he'd placed with the Blake Feed Company in town.

No sense in starting his young mare on the leading rein right now, he thought, climbing back down. The old jeans he wore clung close to his tall, powerful body. He was lean and fit, with elegant hands and big feet. His straight black hair, which fell to his waist when it was loosened, was braided and held by a black band at his nape. His mother's grandfather had been at the Little Bighorn and later went with a delegation to Washington, D.C., for Teddy Roosevelt's inauguration. One of the elders said that Tate resembled the old warrior in some ways.

He pulled out the barely touched Cuban cigar he'd placed in its carrier in the pocket of his chambray shirt and struck a match to light it between his cupped hands. The boys at the agency always wanted to know how he managed to get contraband cigars. He never told them anything. Keeping secrets was a way of life with him. They went with his job.

The truck pulled up onto the rise and came in sight of the small house and big barn, and the makeshift corral where a snow-white filly was prancing impatiently, tossing her mane.

A young, slender girl got out of the old truck's cab. She had blond hair cut short and green eyes. He was too far away to see those eyes, but he knew them better than he wanted to. Her name was Cecily Peterson. She was the stepdaughter of Arnold Blake, the man who'd just inherited full ownership of the Blake Feed Company; and the only employee who wasn't afraid to come up here with Tate Winthrop's order. Not too many miles from the Pine Ridge Sioux Reservation, Tate's ranch sat just outside the southern boundary of the Wapiti Ridge Sioux Reservation. Corryville itself sat on the Big Wapiti River, juxtapositioned between the Badlands and the reservation. Tate's mother, Leta, lived on the Wapiti Reservation, which was just a stone's throw from Corryville. Tate had grown up with discrimination. Perhaps that was why, when he could afford it, he'd bought a ranch outside the tribe's boundaries.

Tate Winthrop didn't like most people, and he steered clear of white women. But Cecily had become his soft spot. She was a gentle, kind girl of seventeen, and she'd had a hard life. Her invalid mother had died a short while ago and she was now living with her stepfather and one of his brothers. The brother was a decent sort, old enough to be Cecily's grandfather, but the stepfather was a layabout and a drunkard. Everyone knew that Cecily did most of the work at the feed store that had been her late father's. Her stepfather had inherited it when Cecily's mother died recently, and he was apparently doing everything in his power to bankrupt it.

Cecily was just a little over medium height and slender as a reed. She would never be beautiful, but she had an inner light that changed her green eyes and made them like peridots in the sunlight.

He scoffed at his own fancies. She was just a child and his only contact with her was through the orders he placed at the feed store. It pleased him that she was interested in his ancestry, and not in any faddish way like some aficionados of Native Americans who dressed in buckskins and bought trinkets and tapes and tried to act as if they belonged there. He had no time for Sunday Indians from the city. But Cecily was another matter entirely. She knew something of the culture of the Oglala Lakota and she had a feel for its history. He'd found himself instructing her in little-known customs and mores before he realized it.

But her bond with him didn't become really apparent until her mother's death. It wasn't to her stepfather or her stepuncle or any of the townspeople that she went the day her mother died. It was to Tate, her eyes red-rimmed, her face tear-streaked. And he, who never let anyone get close to him except his own mother, had held her and comforted her while she cried. It had been the most natural thing in the world to dry her tears. But later, he was worried by her growing attachment to him. The last thing in the world he could allow was for her to fall in love with him. It wasn't only the life he led, dangerous and nomadic and solitary. It was the scarcity of pure Lakota blood left in the world. In order to preserve it, he must marry within the Sioux tribe somewhere. Not among his relatives, but among the other Sioux.
If
he married…

His mind came back to the present, to Cecily stopping the truck nearby and getting out. He deliberately didn't go to meet her.

She noticed that with a wry smile and went to him. She brought an invoice for him to sign. Her hands were shaking a little with the usual effect he had on her, but she tightened them on the pen and paper as she approached him. Even in her thick-heeled working boots, he was far taller than she was. She had on a checked man's shirt and jeans. He'd never seen her wear anything revealing or feminine.

She handed him the invoice without meeting his eyes. “My stepdad said this was what you ordered, but to check with you before I unloaded it,” she said.

“Why does he always send you?” Tate asked the girl deliberately as he scanned the list.

“Because he knows I'm not afraid of you,” she said.

His black eyes lifted from the paper and met hers. They were scary sometimes; like a cobra's, steady and intent and unblinking. They'd made her want to back away when she first met him. They didn't frighten her anymore, though. He'd been tender with her, more than anyone in her life had ever been. She knew, as most other people locally didn't, that there was more on the inside of Tate Winthrop than he ever allowed to show.

“Are you sure that you aren't afraid of me?” he asked in a soft drawl.

She only smiled. “You wouldn't slug me over a messed-up order,” she said dryly, because she'd heard that he did exactly that once, when her stepfather had neglected to bring the feed he'd ordered in a blizzard and he'd lost some calves because of it.

She was right. He would never hit Cecily for any reason. He took the pen from her and signed the invoice before he handed it back. “That's everything I ordered, all right.”

“Okay,” she said brightly. “I'll unload it.”

He didn't say a word. He put out the cigar, stuck it back into his pocket and followed her to the truck.

She gave him a hard look. “I'm no cream puff,” she scoffed. “I can unload a few little bags of feed.”

“Sure you can.” He glanced at her and a smile lit his black eyes for a few seconds. “But you're not going to. Not here.”

“Tate,” she groaned. “You shouldn't be doing this! My stepfather ought to be here. If he's going to run the place, why won't he run it?”

“Because he's got you to do it for him.” He stopped suddenly in the act of reaching for a heavy bag of fertilizer and stared at her intently. “What happened to your throat, Cecily?” he asked abruptly.

She put a hand to it, feeling the bruise there. She'd had her collar buttoned, but it had been too hot to keep it that way. She didn't realize that it would show.

He took off his work gloves, tossed them into the bed of the pickup with the feed and began to unbutton her blouse.

“Stop that!” she exclaimed. “Tate, you can't…!”

But he already had. His eyes blazed like black diamonds in fire. His hands gripped hard on the fabric as he saw the other bruises just at her collarbone, above the tattered little bra she wore—bruises like the imprint of a man's fingers. His jaw clenched hard. It infuriated him to see bruises on that pale skin. It was almost as bad to see the state of her clothes—he knew that she hadn't had anything new for a very long time. Presumably her stepfather kept her destitute, and probably on purpose so he wouldn't lose his mainstay. His eyes shot back up to catch hers and held them relentlessly. She was flushed and biting her lip. “I won't embarrass you any more than this, but you're going to tell me if those same kind of bruises are on your breasts.”

Her eyes closed and tears slid past the closed eyelids. “Yes,” she bit off.

“Was it your stepfather?” he asked shortly.

She swallowed. Since she couldn't meet his eyes, she merely nodded.

“Talk to me.”

“He was trying to feel me…there. He was always trying, even when he first married Mama. I tried to tell her, but she didn't want to hear. He flattered her and they both liked to drink.” She folded her arms over her breasts. “Last night he got stinking drunk and came into my room.” She felt nauseated from the memory. “I was asleep.” She looked up at him with the repulsion she felt showing in her eyes. “Why are men such animals?” she asked with a cynical maturity far beyond her years.

“Not all of us are,” he replied, and his voice was like ice. He buttoned her blouse with a deftness that hinted of experience. “You don't even have a proper bra.”

She flushed. “You weren't supposed to see it,” she said mutinously.

He buttoned her up to her chin and then rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. They were good hands, lean and dark and warm and strong. She loved the feel of them.

“You aren't being subjected to that sort of lechery again.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me. Come on. Let's get this unloaded. Then we'll talk and make decisions.”

A short time later, he had her by the hand and all but dragged her into the house. He pulled out a chair for her, poured coffee from a coffeemaker into a cup and put it in front of her.

Stunned by his actions, she sat and stared around her. She'd never been in his house, and it was surprising to find that it wasn't at all what it appeared to be on the outside. It was full of electronic equipment, computers and laptops and printers, a funny-looking telephone setup and several short-wave radios. There was even a ham radio set. On the wall were collections of pistols and rifles, none of which looked like anything she'd ever seen.

The furnishings were impressive, too. She remembered then the whispers she'd heard about this reclusive man who was Lakota but didn't live on a reservation, who had a mysterious background and an even more mysterious profession. Unlike many Lakota who were victims of prejudice, nobody pushed Tate Winthrop. In fact, most people around Corryville were a little afraid of him.

She glanced at his taciturn face, wondering why she'd been hijacked into his house. He usually signed the invoice, unloaded the supplies, and when they talked, it was always outside. Not that he didn't watch her like a hawk when he was in town and she was anywhere around. Over the past year, he'd always seemed to be watching her. And today he'd seen the truth of her miserable home life all too starkly.

He sat down and leaned back in his chair. He dropped his hat on the floor and stared at her intently.

He made an angry sound and took another draw from the cigar. “Did he have you last night?” he asked bluntly.

She blushed violently and closed her eyes. It was useless not to tell him the truth. “He tried to,” she choked. “I hit him and he…grabbed me. He was pretty drunk, or I'd never have got away, even if I got pretty bruised doing it. He'd always bothered me, but it wasn't until last night…” She lifted an anguished face to his. “I hid in the woods until he passed out, but I didn't dare go back to sleep.” Her face tautened. “I'd rather starve to death than let him do it,” she bit off. “I mean it!”

He watched her quietly while the smoke from his cigar went sailing up into the fan. He'd seen enough of her to know that she never shirked her duties, never complained, never asked for anything. He admired her. That was rare, because he had a fine contempt for most women. Especially white ones. The thought of her stepfather assaulting her made him livid. He'd never wanted so badly to hurt a man.

He flicked ashes into a big glass ashtray and didn't say anything for a minute or two.

She sipped coffee, feeling uncomfortable. He was still almost a stranger to her and he'd seen her in her underwear. It was a new, odd uneasiness she couldn't remember feeling with anyone else, especially with another man.

“What do you want to do with your life, Cecily?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Be an archaeologist,” she blurted out.