The words “what about me?” almost popped out of his mouth, but respect for his grandfather stopped them. Placing the broom against the wall, he knelt before him. “Would a casino have been better? At least the Center will educate our young. Give them a place to go and celebrate our culture.”
His grandfather shook his head sadly. “She brings trouble.”
“We’ve trouble already.” His gaze drifted toward the empty perch above his grandfather’s head. “But we’ll be warned in time.”
“They’ll use her against you.”
“I won’t let them,” he answered.
Cupping Akecheta’s face, the old man stared into his amber eyes. “I don’t know if you can stop them.”
R.J.’s tyres spun as she hit the gravel in the Center’s parking lot. Man, she was late. If some jerk hadn’t let the air out of her back tyres, she’d have been on time. Coming to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust, she noticed a man pacing back and forth in front of the new building.
Tall with auburn hair, his light blue chambray shirt clung to wide shoulders and his jeans fit his legs like a second skin. He looked like he’d be more at home on a horse than a place dedicated to Native Americans.
Spotting the Jeep, the man scowled and started down the stone path toward her. Had he been waiting for her?
R.J.’s interest kicked up a notch. With an attractive man like him hanging around, being stuck out here in the boonies for the next few days wouldn’t be so bad after all. She quickly glanced in the mirror and fluffed her hair. She needed a little more lip gloss, but swiping some on would be too obvious. Grabbing her backpack, she slung her camera around her neck, but before she could open her door, the cowboy beat her to it.
“Hey, cowboy, are you waiting for me?” she said flirtatiously, giving him a wide-eyed look and a flash of her dimples.
The dimples didn’t work. The cowboy’s scowl deepened.
“R.J. Baxter?” the man asked in a brusque voice, “you’re late.”
“Sorry.” Defeated, her smile faded as she jumped out of the Jeep and the man turned, and with long strides, headed back up the path. She ran to catch up with him. “Somebody let the air—”
“Here.” He stopped and shoved four pouches in her hand.
“What—”
“Tobacco.” Taking her arm, he hustled her forward. “When I introduce you, give one to each of the elders.”
Perplexed, she glanced down at the pouches. “Why?”
“It’s a sign of respect,” he replied with a disgruntled look, “but in your case, it’s an apology for keeping them waiting.”
R.J. skidded to a stop and jerked away. She’d had enough of being yanked around. Holding the tobacco in one hand, she placed the other on her hip and glared up at him, towering over her. “Look, I’m sorry I was late, but just who the hell are you?”
“Sean O’Brien. I’m the tribe’s liaison. Any questions, ask me.”
Smart — hiring a white to interact with the press. Too bad he was so abrasive.
Eyeing her camera, he frowned. “No pictures without permission. Don’t touch any of the displays. And remember you’re a guest here. Act accordingly.”
She didn’t appreciate the lecture.
“Any other rules?” she asked, not keeping the sarcasm out of her voice.
He spun and walked away, his boot heels clicking on the polished wood floor. “Not at the moment.”
Wait a minute — she wasn’t following two steps behind. After catching up with him, she matched her strides with his. Noticing her huge steps, a small smirk played across his face. When they reached a doorway at the back of the Center, he motioned her inside.
The room was large. Long windows stretched across the far wall, and above each window hung brightly painted shields. The opposite wall was decorated with paintings depicting the Native American way of life two hundred years ago. Four men, with their hands clasped in the front of them, stood looking very solemn. Long braids hung over their shoulders, and their weathered faces reminded R.J. of old sepia photographs. A feathered staff hung on the wall behind them.
Sean stopped and drew R.J. forward. “George Eagle Feather, Art Walker, Grady Crow Wing, and Jake Swift,” he said with a slight bow to each man. “R.J. Baxter from The News Courier.”
R.J. stepped up to the first man, and handing him the pouch of tobacco, smiled. “Thank you for inviting me.”
The man’s features softened as he took the gift. “Welcome.”
She repeated the process with the remaining three. Once introductions were complete, her eyes were drawn back to the staff. It was wrapped in strips of white, black, yellow and red cloth. Eagle feathers, attached to the cloth by beadwork, gracefully draped down its length. Intricate carving adorned the top.
She moved past the Elders to get a better look. Pausing, her breath hitched while her fingers longed to stroke the soft feathers. She took another step, pulled closer by its beauty. Of its own accord, her hand lifted toward the staff.
Suddenly Sean was beside her.
“This is sacred,” he said softly with a slight shake of his head. “Only warriors may touch it.”
The spell broken, her hand dropped. “May I take a photo?” she asked in a voice that sounded distant to her ears.
Sean cast a glance over his shoulder and the four Elders nodded in unison.
After rapidly shooting several photos, R.J. turned back to the group of men. “Would you mind answering some questions?”
The men exchanged looks before motioning to one of the long tables lining the far wall. When all were seated, the Elders on one side with Sean and R.J. on the other, R.J. removed her pen, notebook and tape recorder from her backpack, placing them on the table.
The recorder caught their attention and they stared at it as if it were a coiled snake. Four pairs of eyes turned to Sean and seconds ticked by as unspoken words seemed to pass between them. Finally, George Eagle Feather spoke, pointing to the recorder. “Yes, we will answer your questions, but you may not tape our voices.”
“Okay.” With a shrug, R.J. tucked the recorder back into her bag and picked up her pen. She’d start out with a few warm-up questions to put them at ease. “Who designed the Cultural Center?” she asked, directing the question to George Eagle Feather.
“A young architect in Minneapolis — Edward Little Bear,” Sean replied.
“A Native American?” R.J. asked, scribbling the name in her notebook.
“Yes, we wanted a designer who understood the culture,” he answered.
She ignored Sean and focused on George Eagle Feather. “How long did it take to complete the project?”
“We broke ground ten months ago,” Sean replied, launching into an explanation. “All the materials are from the reservation and from renewable resources. During the construction, the entire tribe participated in some way.” He pointed to the shields and the paintings, hanging on the walls. “These were all made by people here on the reservation, as were many of the displays that I’ll show you later.”
R.J.’s pen paused while irritation shot through her. This — some carefully crafted script that anyone could write — wasn’t the story she wanted. Not if she wanted a major newspaper to notice her. It was time to hit him with something from left field.
Cocking her head, she studied him. “Why a cultural center instead of the casino that some of members of the tribe wanted?”
Her question hit its mark. Without glancing their way, she heard the Elders shift in their seats while Sean’s amber eyes flared.
He recovered quickly and gave her a tight smile. “There’s always two sides to every question, but the important thing is, in the end, the tribe came together to build this.” Rising, he motioned to the door. “Come, I’ll show you the rest of the building.”