Reluctantly, R.J. stood. She would love to get one of the Elders aside and grill him about any dissention that might have existed, but Sean wasn’t going to give her the opportunity. Maybe she’d have her chance later.
After voicing her thanks to the Elders, she followed Sean into the display area. While they strolled along, he gave a running monologue, describing each display and its significance. They paused in front of photos showing families standing in front of tar paper shanties; dancer displays with elaborate costumes and beautifully beaded moccasins; tribal implements used hundreds of years ago when the people still roamed the plains following the buffalo.
Interesting, but R.J. had finally had enough. She stopped short in front of a large stone plague. “I appreciate the tour, but if you really want to draw tourists, you’ve got to give me a better angle than this.”
“What do you mean?”
“What makes this place different than every other Native American museum in the country?”
“I told you — it’s made of material from the reservation; the entire tribe worked—”
R.J. cut him off with a wave of her hand. “So? You think anyone really cares about that stuff? Readers want to know more than just facts and figures. They want the human story.”
“Such as?”
“Well, one question that springs to mind — why did the Elders hire a white to represent the Center?”
He stiffened. “I’m not white.”
“But with a name like O’Brien, I assumed—”
“You assumed wrong,” he said, cutting her off. “My father was white, but I was raised here.”
“Don’t you know who this is?” a voice from behind her called out.
R.J. turned to see a man standing a few feet away. Shorter than Sean and barrel-chested, he wore a dark shirt and jeans. A pair of sunglasses dangled from a pocket embroidered with the words “Tribal Police”.
He crossed the short distance and held out his hand. “You must be the reporter. I’m Charlie Two Horses. Welcome to the rez.”
Shaking his hand, R.J. stole a look at Sean who’d taken a step back. “Thanks.”
Charlie turned toward Sean and smiled. “So our boy here didn’t tell you about himself, huh?”
Sean shuffled uncomfortably. “This isn’t necessary, Charlie.”
“Of course it is,” he replied turning back to R.J. “This here’s Sean Swifthawk O’Brien, grandson of Jon Swifthawk. Raised you didn’t he, Sean, after your parents were killed?”
“We don’t need to go into that, Charlie.”
Charlie’s face took on an expression of innocence. “But I heard her say she wanted a ‘human’ story, and just think how yours would tug on the heart strings. . the son of murdered parents; a poor half-breed kid shipped off to the rez to be raised by one of the most important men in the tribe?”
“My family background doesn’t have anything to do with the Center,” Sean said in a clipped voice.
“Sure, it does, Sean. You and your grandfather were the ones who talked the tribe into building it—” He stopped and looked at R.J. “Sean was also the one who got white investors to put up the money.”
“I organized a few fundraisers.”
Charlie snorted “A few fundraisers? How much did you get? A cool—”
“That’s enough, Charlie,” Sean said, his hands clenched at his side.
Charlie took a step forward. “What’s wrong, Swifthawk,” he spat out the word. “Don’t want to give her too—”
“Not now,” Sean began, his chin rising. “She doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t what?” Charlie interrupted, moving closer.
R.J. squirmed. A fight breaking out in the Cultural Center would make a better story, but she really didn’t want to see them come to blows. “What’s this?” she asked quickly, trying to diffuse the rising tension.
“Ah that,” Charlie said, suddenly forgetting Sean and stepping up to the plaque. He ran his finger down the carved names, stopping on one near the bottom. “It’s in honor of our warriors. All who’ve proudly served in the Armed Forces.” He tapped the plaque. “Here’s my name,” he finished proudly.
R.J. read down through the names. “Where’s yours, Sean.”
Charlie gave a bark of laughter. “He didn’t serve, did you, Sean?”
“Not in the Army,” he replied curtly.
Charlie shrugged. “That’s right — you went off to college instead.” He shrugged again. “Not everyone’s cut out to be a warrior.” Taking his sunglasses out of his pocket, he settled them on his face. “Nice meeting you, R.J.” With a slight sneer, he glanced at Sean before returning his attention back to her. “If there’s anything I can do, be sure and let me know.”
R.J. watched Charlie march down the hall before turning back to Sean. “Ah,” she began, but the words caught in her throat.
His eyes — for a split second, she could’ve sworn they changed from amber to yellow.
It was late afternoon by the time R.J. returned to the motel. After Charlie had left, Sean had continued his tour of the Center. He’d been articulate and at times even charming. She would’ve needed ice flowing through her veins in order not to have felt the tug of attraction, especially when he smiled. Man, he had a great smile. And the pride he felt in the Center would’ve been kind of cool had she not known he was only using her as a means to an end. She had cooperated. She’d taken a ton of photos, learned all about life on the prairie, and could quote exactly how many stones they’d used in constructing the Center.
No doubt about it — this story was going to be just another piece of fluff, she thought, slapping her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. The only thing that had been remotely interesting, other than staring at Sean, was the animosity between him and Charlie Two Horses. But was that a lead she wanted to pursue? She remembered the look on Sean’s face as he watched Charlie walk away. She wasn’t a coward, but the idea of coming up against Sean Swifthawk O’Brien made her shiver. And not in a good way.
She’d almost made it past the bar, when suddenly someone stepped out between two parked cars and waved her down.
Charlie Two Horses.
Rolling to a stop, she cranked down the driver’s window.
“Hey, good to see you again,” Charlie said, approaching her door then motioning toward the bar. “How about a beer?”
She debated with herself for a moment. She wasn’t an idiot — this guy had an agenda and he wanted to use her to achieve it. But on the other hand, she had her own agenda — a better story than the one she was being forcefed. What could it hurt to at least talk to him?
With a nod, she pulled into an empty parking space.
From inside the bar, the jukebox whined with the sound of steel guitars and a singer lamenting how “she’d done him wrong”. Above the bar itself, hung an old TV with the volume shut off. Some sporting event flickered across the screen. Taking her arm, Charlie held up two fingers to the bartender then guided her past the pool tables to a booth in the back. They’d barely settled when a waitress with the biggest beehive R.J. had ever seen slapped two bottles of beer in front of them. Without a word she turned and sauntered back to the bar.
Charlie lifted his bottle, saluted R.J., then took a long pull. Scooting back, he stretched an arm across the back of the bench. “So? What did you think of the Center?”
She thought for a moment before answering him. The best way to play this was close to the vest, sound non-committal, let Charlie do all the talking.
“It’s nice,” she replied, in a neutral voice.
“But not much of a story, huh?”
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug.