Suzanne Ellison - Arrowpoint

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Renata prosaically suggested, “I suppose we could check the basement, Michael, if you think he might be able to break a lock or find some other way to sneak inside.”

Michael fought back the urge to ask if she was making assumptions about sneaking Indians, but restrained himself. Renata didn’t deserve that kind of crack. The woman who did was a thousand miles away. She probably didn’t even remember his face anymore. He wished he could forget hers.

“Sure, why not,” he agreed wearily. “I don’t think he’s there, either, but he sure as hell isn’t here.”

Silently he followed Renata back toward the house, taking note of the way her hips swayed just a little bit from side to side. She made no special effort to put on female airs. She was just herself—bold in some ways; in others, understated. Whatever the combination was, it spoke to Michael in some quiet nameless fashion.

With great effort, he turned a deaf ear.

Renata dug a key to the basement out of her pocket and opened the door. There was no indication that anybody had fussed with the lock. When she flipped on the light, Michael was surprised at what he saw. The barn was almost empty, but this protected room was stuffed to the gills with the remnants of a century of farm life. There were stacks of boxes, stacks of lumber, stacks of old paintings crammed together wall to wall. A cat could hide in here for a lifetime, but he didn’t think a human could even squeeze inside. It made his grandfather’s tiny shack seem downright spacious.

“Your family sure doesn’t believe in holding on to things, do they?” Michael teased Renata, surprised that he could come up with a joke.

Renata turned around, her eyes big and happy. For a moment he felt happy, too. Then he remembered what he was doing here.

“I should have taken him back to Sugar Creek this morning,” he said soberly. “I can’t believe I lost him again.”

She took a step toward him. “Your grandfather ran off to feel like a freewheeling adult. You’ve been treating him like a child. I don’t blame you for that,” she assured him. “I understand your obligations. But I don’t blame him, either, Michael. Wouldn’t you hate to be in his position?”

He felt a fresh well of feeling for this white woman who so quickly seemed to grasp the heart of Winnebago ways. She didn’t fully understand what drove his grandfather, but she understood the part of the proud old man that still ached to call his own shots, who was not yet old enough to surrender. Grand Feather was still a warrior, or longed to be. And that would be true for the rest of his days.

Suddenly Renata seemed entirely too close. Michael could smell the soft female scent of her, a blend of paint, shampoo and woman. He tried to step back before it grew intoxicating, but behind him there was a pile of bricks. To either side, there were boxes.

“I’m the only one left,” she said quietly, her eyes looking sadder now. “Each time one of them died, we’d pack up everything because it hurt too much to look at it, but we couldn’t bear to throw their things away.” She gestured toward a giant crate in the corner. “My great-grandmother’s wedding dress is still in there. I always hoped I’d wear it one day.” As she turned toward another box near the steps, her shoulder brushed Michael’s, electrifying his senses. “This is Grandpa’s collection of Indian artifacts. He was so proud of it. I know I ought to donate these old arrowheads and moccasins to a museum, but I just can’t bear to give them away.”

Michael didn’t want to think about Indian artifacts, painful memories of another space and time. He didn’t want to think about Renata, either, or feel touched by her loneliness. He didn’t need to know how many brothers and sisters she’d had or how many extended family members were part of the Meyer clan. The bottom line was that Renata was all alone now, and despite her spunk and cheery nature, the emptiness wore on her from time to time.

He was sorry he’d made her come down to this sad room.

He was also sorry that he was trapped so close to her, close enough to smell that clean womanly scent again. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to reach out and slip an arm around her waist to offer comfort and...whatever followed.

It was one of those moments when a man and woman find themselves alone together and they both know that it’s time for something intimate to happen. Michael suddenly wanted very much to kiss Renata. He was sure it was what she wanted, too.

“I’m going about this all wrong,” he said abruptly, desperately hoping that his panic wasn’t evident in his voice. He had to get away from her, had to break the mood before he did something he would surely regret. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had no choice. “I’ve been thinking what I’d do,” he babbled quickly. “I’ve been thinking white.”

Renata licked her lips. Her eyes could not entirely conceal her disappointment, but she discreetly stepped away. “You need to think Winnebago?” she asked, as though the tender near-miss had not just happened.

He nodded, grateful for her tact. And surprised that this confession did not embarrass him as much as it would have just this morning.

“Do you still know how?”

He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask him that. Now that she had, he found himself unable to tell her anything but the truth.

“I can when I really work at it, but it’s a challenge when I’m hungry and wearing a suit and it’s the end of a long day.”

Renata gave him the sort of smile a hardworking man gives up bachelorhood to come home to. “I can find some more of Grandpa’s old clothes to fit you, Michael,” she offered, “and I can drum up something for you to eat, too. I went to the store today, so it ought to be an improvement over breakfast.”

He was so tired that he found himself laughing. “You’ve given me food and clothes and tour-guide service, Renata. Next you’ll be opening a bed-and-breakfast inn so I can spend the night.”

He regretted the words the minute they were spoken, but he could not call them back. Suddenly Renata seemed entirely too close again—too ready, too willing. Her lips seemed to beg him for a kiss, and Michael feared he didn’t have the willpower it would take to pull back.

But Renata abruptly stepped around him and headed toward an open box of clothes. “In the old days Grandpa always took in tired travelers,” she said nonchalantly. “You need to sit down and take a load off. I’ve got a spare bed.”

He knew she did. He’d been in her guest bedroom this morning, upstairs beside the small bathroom. He’d also seen Renata’s room, right across the hall.

Anticipation suddenly tightened his groin. It was a keen warning of why it would be foolish to spend the night in this house. Renata was only offering the guest room, and he had no doubt that she expected him to sleep there tonight. But a fresh kind of intimacy lurked in the darkness nonetheless, a drawing together that tomorrow or next week or next month would surely spell nothing but trouble.

“I think I’ve imposed on you enough,” Michael said tightly. “I really should go.”

“Where?” Renata asked, turning back to face him. “You’re not going to leave Tyler until you find him. The lodge is jammed to the rafters with all Eddie Wocheck’s people who came in for the ground-breaking ceremony tomorrow, and your only other choices are way back in town.”

Her logic seemed impeccable, but Michael knew he had to find a flaw in it.

“Even if you drove back,” she continued, “you know you couldn’t sleep. You’d be waiting for me to call with news, or you’d be driving by here every hour.”

He couldn’t really argue. Staying here was the reasonable choice, and she was kind to invite him. She’d be insulted if he offered to pay her, but at least she’d know that he considered it a purely practical arrangement.