Sheri WhiteFeather - The Ashtons - Walker, Ford & Mercedes - Betrayed Birthright / Mistaken for a Mistress / Condition of Marriage

Her pulse quit pounding. There were no banks on the rez, no financial institutions. “That makes sense.”

Mary checked her watch, then went back to the oatmeal. An early riser, she was already dressed for work, wearing a freshly laundered uniform and squeaky nurse-type shoes. Her gray-streaked hair was tucked behind her ears. “Walker seemed preoccupied today.”

“He did?” Tamra opened a carton of eggs, took inventory, tried to behave accordingly. “How so?”

“I think he was anxious to see you, hoping you were awake.”

“Really?” A teenybopper reaction, a bevy of wings took flight in her belly, making breakfast an impossible task. But she cracked several eggs into a pan, anyway, then realized she’d neglected to turn on the flame. She glanced up and noticed Mary watching her. She’d forgotten the oil, too.

“What’s going on with you two?”

“Me and Walker?” Caught red-handed, Tamra faked her response, feigning a casual air. “Nothing. We’re just friends.”

“Friends, my foot,” his mother said. “I think you have your eyes on each other.”

Uh-oh. Trying to stay calm, she dumped the mistake she’d made into a bowl, deciding she would fix scrambled instead of fried. And this time, she put a pad of butter in the pan, igniting the stove. “Would it be okay with you if we did?”

“Did what?”

“Had our eyes on each other.”

“Of course it would,” Mary told her. “But I’d hate to see you do something rash.”

Unable to keep pretending, she gazed at the lady who’d raised her, who’d given her everything a child could hope for. “I already slept with him.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Mary fanned her face. “So soon?” She turned off the oatmeal, ignoring their half-made breakfast. “You need to be careful, honey. And so does he. This is all so new.”

“We can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” she admitted, “I’m not. But what choice do we have? We’re already involved.”

“For how long?”

“It doesn’t have to last forever. And he promised he wouldn’t hurt me.”

The older woman frowned. “Not purposely, no. But what if you fall in love with him? What then?”

It was a question Tamra couldn’t answer. A question she feared. Because she knew that when Walker went home, she would have to cope with her loss.

With missing him desperately.

Tamra tried to focus on her job. She sat at the desk in her cluttered office, telling herself to quit thinking about Walker. She had more important issues to deal with: flyers to design, schedules to coordinate, donations to secure for an end-of-the-month powwow.

Obsessing about a man wouldn’t accomplish a thing.

A knock sounded on her door and she reached for her coffee, her second cup that day. “Come in,” she called out, assuming it was Michele. Her friend had offered to stop by to help with the powwow details. The Oyate Project intended to host a raffle this year, giving away as many prizes as they could wangle.

She glanced up, saw that she was mistaken. It wasn’t Michele. Walker crossed the threshold, wearing jeans and a denim shirt, similar to the one she’d torn off his body.

He moved closer, and her heart went haywire.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” She started stacking folders, trying to compose her senses, trying to look busy, to pretend that she hadn’t been thinking about him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He reached for an ancient folding chair in the corner and opened it, positioning it across from her. A pair of mirrored sunglasses shielded his eyes, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked.

For him, she had all day. All night. All year. “Sure. What’s going on?”

“I just got back from the bank.”

“Mary told me that’s where you went.”

“I opened a checking account in Gordon. I figured that would be the most convenient location.” He removed his sunglasses and hooked them onto his pocket. “You and Mary will have to go into the branch to fill out some paperwork. Unless you already do your banking there. Then I can add your names online.”

She merely blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand? It’ll be a joint account. I’ll make a deposit every month, and you and Mary can use it for whatever you need.”

“You’re volunteering to support us?”

“Not completely, not unless you want to quit your jobs. But I don’t see that happening. You’re both so dedicated to what you do.”

“Then why are you doing this?” She sucked in a much-needed breath, wondering how he could sit there—so damn casually—and offer her money. “Is it because you slept with me?”

A sudden flare of anger burst into his eyes, like fire. Like brimstone. Like a man who was used to controlling other people’s lives. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? That I’m trying to turn you into my mistress?”

“That’s how it seems,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by his temper, the all-consuming power that could drain a woman dry. The muscle ticking in his jaw. The hard, ready-to-explode, king-of-the-universe breathing.

He stood and pushed away his chair, nearly shoving it against the file cabinet. “I was just trying to help. To make life easier for my mom.” He paused, drilled his gaze into hers. “And for you, too. But I don’t keep mistresses. I don’t reward my lovers for sleeping with me.”

She didn’t say anything, so he leaned forward, bracing his hands on her desk. “I can’t believe you think so little of me. Don’t you get it, Tamra? Don’t you see why this matters to me?”

“No, I don’t. Mary and I can take care of ourselves.”

“I know. But my mom’s car looks like it’s on its last leg and you’re lending money to friends, cash you can barely spare. I don’t want to go home and worry about you.”

She sighed, wishing she hadn’t provoked an argument. Walker was confused, she thought. And he was comparing his life to hers. “You don’t have to feel guilty for being rich.”

“Easy for you to say, Miss Do-Gooder.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to ease the tension, to make him stop scowling. It was the best she could do. Other than fall prey to his machismo and touch him. Kiss him. Tug his stubborn mouth to hers. “Listen to you, Mr. Write-a-Check.”

He smiled in spite of himself. Grateful, she flicked a paper clip at him. He grabbed the worse-for-wear chair and parked his butt down again.

“You should see my office at Ashton-Lattimer,” he said. “And my condo. Not to mention the apartment I have on my family’s estate in Napa Valley. It’s inside the mansion, on the second floor with a spectacular view.”

She couldn’t even fathom his lifestyle. Edward had been wealthy, but not compared to the Ashtons. “Those are the kinds of things Mary wanted you to have.”

“Will you talk to her about the account?” he pressed.

“No, but you can. If you want to help your mom and she’s willing to accept your offer, then it’s okay with me. But I don’t want to be part of it.”

“Because you’re not comfortable taking money from me?”

“Edward used to give me gifts. He used to buy me trinkets.”

“That jerk who hurt you? It’s not the same thing.”

“When it ended, when he broke up with me, I felt cheap.” And for her, it had been the worst feeling in the world. “I don’t want to go through that again. Not ever.”

“Don’t compare me to him. We’re nothing alike.”

She almost reached across the desk to hold his hand, but she curled her fingers, keeping her distance, recalling the ache that came with being in love. She couldn’t bear to fall for Walker, not like that.