Dropping his arm, he shifted forward. “I could give you a better angle than the one Swifthawk shoved on you.”
This guy really did want to dish the dirt. Regardless of her trepidation about Sean O’Brien, R.J. felt a tickle of excitement. “Like what?” she asked, keeping her face calm.
He downed his beer and motioned to the waitress for another. Sliding the empty bottle to the side, he crossed his arms on the table. “See here’s the deal — the rez needs money. I could show you homes that are no better than squatter shacks and the Center isn’t going to change that.” He stopped as the waitress smacked another beer in front of him. He waited until she was out of earshot before continuing. “A casino would.”
“A little late for that, isn’t it,” R.J. replied. “The tribe chose to build the Center, not a casino.”
“They were misled.” His eyes darted to the side before returning to R.J. Leaning forward, his voice dropped. “Swifthawk and his grandfather didn’t want a casino and persuaded them it would be easier to finance the Center.”
“And Sean raised the money?”
“Yeah.” He sipped on his beer. “Him and his white buddies.”
“Then convince him to raise the money for a casino.”
His mouth twisted in a bitter line. “Swifthawk won’t do it. Him and his grandfather want to cling to the old ways. They want our people to live as they did 200 years ago. It can’t be done.” His expression lightened. “But here’s the beauty of it — now we don’t need him. The Center’s paid off and it could be used as collateral to finance a casino.”
R.J. threw a hand in the air. “There’s your solution.”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Like I told you — they don’t want a casino and they’ll do everything they can to stop it.”
“I don’t see how I can help you.”
His eyes narrowed and he gave her a smug grim. “If you dig below the surface, you’re going to find Swifthawk’s motives aren’t as pure as he’d like the tribe to believe.”
“You want me to discredit him.”
“No, I want you to write the truth.”
“Which is?”
“How Sean’s sold out to white investors.” He moved even closer. “I can give you names — people who’ll tell you the truth about Swifthawk.”
A million ideas bounced through her mind and she longed to whip out her notebook and begin taking notes. But that would seem too anxious. Much better to let Charlie think he needed to convince her.
“How do you know they’ll talk to me?”
“Oh, they’ll talk, if you ask the right questions,” he answered cryptically.
“How can I? I don’t know anything about Sean and his grandfather.”
Charlie’s lips pursed. “You won’t get much on the old man. Going back as far as I can remember, people on the rez have always been reluctant to talk about him.” He shook his head. “Even my own grandfather — I did hear him say something once, but my grandmother shushed him.”
“What was it?”
“I can’t recall his exact words,” he replied, scratching his chin. “But it wasn’t about Jon Swifthawk. It was about his father.”
“Sean’s great-grandfather?”
“Yeah. .” he paused, trying to remember. “He said something about animal totems.”
“What are they?”
“Never mind — we’re talking forty years ago.” He picked up his beer, drank it in one long gulp then stood. Throwing a piece of paper on the table, he stared down at her. “I’m telling you — if you want a ‘real’ story, take a closer look at Sean.”
The dying sun cast long shadows in the clearing. In its centre, Sean stood before the fire, watching the rocks glow red. He removed a pinch of tobacco from the pouch dangling at his waist. Holding it high, he turned to the north and let it fall from his fingertips. He shifted to the east, to the south, to the west, repeating the process as he offered the sacred herb to Mother Earth. Finished, he turned back to the fire and grabbed a pitchfork. Using it, he carried the hot rocks one by one into the canvas-covered sweat lodge and placed them in the fire pit.
Satisfied the stones were aligned, he exited the lodge and quickly pulled off his boots, his socks, his jeans, until finally he stood naked in the gathering twilight. Turning he entered the lodge.
It was like walking into an oven. Instantly sweat popped from his pores and snaked down his face, chest and arms in tiny rivulets. Moving to the blanket woven by his grandmother, he sat cross-legged and reached for a ladle of water from the nearby bucket. He cast water on the shimmering rocks, making the air hiss with steam.
Hot, so hot. It felt like the spit inside his mouth was ready to boil. With a sharp intake of breath, he picked up the drum at his side. He shut his eyes and began beating a slow rhythm on the taut deer hide while he focused on the spot deep inside where his heritage lay.
He needed guidance. The confidence he’d shown his grandfather had been false and, at times, the special burden he bore threatened to crush him. He knew his power and the temptation to control it was a constant fight. How could he help his people win their battles if he couldn’t even win his own?
He beat the drum harder.
The brush of wings seemed to graze his cheek while, softly, the distant whisper of his ancestors began to echo in his ears. Images flickered in the recess of his mind. A buffalo thundering across the plains, a lone wolf darting through the cotton-woods and, finally, a white owl soaring into the heavens. He felt connected to all that had gone before him and the heaviness in his heart eased with each beat of the drum.
He would help his people towards a better life. He would win against those who plotted his downfall. He would stop them from using the woman.
The woman. His hand faltered and he felt his connection slip. She had tried to charm him, slip under his defences. She’d almost succeeded, but it wasn’t her dimples that had drawn him, but her refusal to be intimidated.
It was a new experience for him. Most of the people on the reservation had always steered clear of him — either due to the rumours that had circulated about his family, or because they didn’t trust him. Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered to him. His only concern was saving their culture.
He needed to remember that. He needed to remind himself even though she might look like a Native with her dark hair and dark eyes, the heart that beat beneath the pretty exterior was white. He’d sensed her ambition, her self-serving attitude. He knew she wanted more than he was willing to give.
What of her reaction to the sacred staff? He knew she wanted to touch it and would’ve had he not stopped her. Why? Was it just the need to handle something “unique”, or had the staff called to her?
Her face took over his mind, chasing away the buffalo, the wolf, the snow owl. The whispers died. No! His questions hadn’t been answered.
He pounded the drum harder; pounded until his fingers ached, trying to banish thoughts of the woman and to regain his link with his ancestors. No good. All he saw in his mind’s eye was her face smiling at him, and all he felt was the pull of a culture he’d left long ago.
Laying the drum aside in frustration, he rose and left the lodge.
The sun had set and the evening star shone in the night sky above the cottonwoods. Gleaming with perspiration, he paused and glanced toward the trees while steam rolled off his naked body. His eyes were sharp and he saw what the darkness hid. Night creatures — like him — hunting their prey. A longing to join them came over him. To run free and wild. To forget the woman, forget his questions. He tamped it down. He’d bent to bundle his clothes when he felt the air stir. He looked up. Above him white wings glistened in the starlight.