Shut Up and Kiss Me (5 page)

What the hell am I doing?
The question bounced around Shala’s head. Sky’s proximity as he reached for the plates had every one of her nerve endings standing on its head, kicking its feet in glee, and singing “God Bless America.” She could smell him. She could feel him. Oh, mercy, could she feel him!

His chest brushed her shoulders, his knee pressed against her thigh. His pelvis fit against her backside. Finally, he had the plates in his hand. He lowered the dishes for her to take and then stepped away.

Shala drew in a mouthful of mind-cleansing oxygen.
What the hell am I doing?
The question ricocheted back at her. The oxygen must have worked, because somehow she answered.
My job.
That’s what she was doing. And right then she decided to stop acting like a schoolgirl around a star quarterback and more like Shala Winters, owner of Winters Tourism. Owner and entrepreneur who, in spite of insinuating that she might walk out, needed this job almost as much as Precious needed her.

The bad economy meant small towns were looking to tourism to keep them afloat. Unfortunately, the bad economy also meant fewer towns had money to throw around. And plain and simple, she didn’t come cheap. Not that she wasn’t worth it. As Mr. Gomez implied, she had a good résumé.

Another gulp of oxygen, and she decided she could do this. She was smart, a good communicator, and she excelled at negotiating. Standing a little taller, she set the plates on the oak table.

“Silverware?” she asked, looking back at Sky to catch him studying her. She completely ignored his hooded gaze. Yup, best to ignore that.

“Top drawer.”

He focused on the stove again. She focused, too. Hopefully, over dinner she could establish a reasonably pleasant, purely platonic relationship with him—one that led to his returning her camera. Yes, that was a damn good plan.

Aware of the silence, and remembering something he’d said earlier, she pulled utensils from the drawer. “Were you actually in favor of my coming to Precious?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Really?”

His right eyebrow arched, as if he didn’t like to be questioned.

“It’s not as if I don’t believe you. I just know Mayor Johnson said most of the Native Americans were against my coming.”

“I’m not most of the Native Americans.”

“Right.” She smiled but wasn’t sure it came off well, because he didn’t react. Her nerve endings started to twitch again, so she turned around and went to work collecting the toast. “I appreciate dinner. I’m starved.”

“You should taste it first,” he said.

“It smells wonderful. Do you want butter? For the toast?” She glanced back and tried to smile again.

He nodded. “It’s in the fridge.”

She retrieved the butter—real butter, not margarine—and set it on the table. The silence grew awkward, and she realized it was easier being angry with him than playing nice. But damn it, she could and would do this.

“Should I get us something to drink?” She put a hint of cheeriness in her tone.

“There’s milk.” He leaned against the counter and continued to study her. “Glasses are in the cabinet over the toaster.”

She got the milk, poured it, and set the glasses on the table. Uncomfortable with his perusal, she looked around. “You have a nice place. Did you decorate it yourself?”

“You’re not getting your camera back tonight.” He picked up the frying pan and delivered half an omelet to one plate and half to the other. Putting the pan in the sink, he faced her.

“You think I’m just being pleasant to get my camera back?”

“Not only do I think it, I’d stake my right eye on it.” He dropped into a chair and motioned for her to do the same. “Not that I’m complaining, but I wanted to be upfront.”

“Perfect.”

Maria Ortega read the last line of the last page, sighed, and closed her book. She smiled and set it on the bedside table beside the six others waiting to be devoured, then fell back on her pillow. Her day job of running a small accounting business often gave her plenty of reading time. Other than creating pottery, books were her favorite pastime.

Okay, so she might be slightly addicted to romance novels. Yet considering her heritage and past, there were worse things to be addicted to. A lot worse. And it wasn’t as if she honestly believed in happily-ever-afters; life had already disproven those. She placed a hand over her navel, where she had once carried a child. Jose’s child.

Don’t go there.
She pressed a hand to her forehead.

Letting go of things she couldn’t change, she sat up and reached for another novel, thumbed through the pages. No, life wasn’t perfect. Not that she expected it to be. But was it too much to ask for it to be pleasant? Was it too much to ask that she find someone who wanted the same things in life as she did—a home, someone to lean on when the not-so-perfect times came crashing down? Maria remembered Redfoot and his wife Estella before her brain aneurism. They’d been happy, their love good. Maria hoped she and Matt could find the same kind of happiness.

Thinking about Matt, she eyed the clock. Matt sold tools to engineering companies, and his job required lots of travel. But…on the weekends?
No!
she told herself. She had to trust him, didn’t she? Yes. But it was late. He’d said he would call. Had he gotten busy with his client? Did he miss her?

Did
she
miss
him?
She closed her eyes and saw his green-eyed smile. She missed him. She knew Redfoot didn’t like Matt, but her foster father wouldn’t like any man she brought home. Which was too bad. Redfoot was going to have to accept Matt. The relationship was going places.

Her cell phone rang. Rolling over, she snatched it up. “If you were here, I’d have you naked so fast you wouldn’t know what happened.”

The answering chuckle made her feel fuzzy inside. “What if it hadn’t been me?”

“Oh, is this Matt?” she teased.

They chatted about silly things, like what Matt had eaten for dinner, and then she told him about Shala Winters and how Sky had confiscated her camera.

“Does Redfoot still think she’s Sky’s soul mate?” Matt asked.

“I think so,” she replied.

“Does he ever have dreams of us being soul mates?”
Matt paused. “Wait, don’t answer that. He probably has visions of scalping me.”

“Matt!”

“I know, bad joke. Sorry. I just don’t know what he has against me.”

Maria knew: Matt wasn’t Jose. Redfoot had been so sure that she and his son would come together. And they had, only it hadn’t meant anything to Jose. Maria also knew that sooner or later she needed to tell Matt everything. He had a right to know, but…not now. She could only hope it wouldn’t change things between them.

The front door opened and then slammed. A loud thud followed, as if someone hit the wall; then the light in the hallway went out.

“Hold on a second,” she told Matt. “Something doesn’t sound right.”

“Viejo?”
she called to Redfoot. When he didn’t answer, she got up to go see.

Sky watched Shala drop down in a chair.

“You know, I thought we could talk about this in a reasonable manner. Obviously I was wrong.”

He took a bite of omelet and studied her. The spark of anger in her eyes was back. Much better. Not that he liked angry women, but her play-nice routine had been as believable as a sock-stuffed bra on a bearded crossd-resser. And knowing that he could rile her so easily was thrilling. He wondered if she was as easy to rile in the bedroom.

“Your omelet is getting cold,” he pointed out.

She pushed her plate away. “I’m suddenly not hungry.”

“That’s a shame. I make a mean omelet.”

“Look, Mr. Gomez. I’m in town to do a job. I can’t do that job without my camera.”

“I can see how that might be difficult.”

“It wouldn’t be if you’d just…” She closed her eyes. “If you’d just accept my sincerest apology for overlooking the rule.”

He picked up his toast. “I can’t do that.”

Her eyes popped open. “You mean you
won’t
do that.”

He considered. “You’re right. I won’t do that.”

Her mouth tightened. “You are impossible. It can’t be legal to just steal someone’s camera!”

“I didn’t steal it. I confiscated it, just as the rules stated I would.” His cell phone, still on the coffee table, rang. Sky decided to just let it go to voice mail. Fighting with Shala was fun. “Seriously, you should eat before it gets cold. Nothing’s worse than cold eggs.”

His home phone rang. He debated answering, but the woman with fury in her eyes tempted him more. The answering machine picked up and played his outgoing message. Then a frightened voice spilled out.

“Sky, answer, damn it! It’s Maria. Redfoot’s hurt. Bad! Oh, God, there’s so much blood.”

Sky shot out of the chair so fast that it slammed backward onto the floor. He ran across the room and grabbed the phone.

“Maria? What happened?”

“Someone broke into the lodge. Redfoot caught them.”

“Christ! Have you called an ambulance?”

“He won’t let me. He said to call you. He keeps muttering about having to tell you something.”

“How bad is it?” Terror constricted Sky’s chest.

“I don’t know. He’s conscious, but…there’s so much blood.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll call the ambulance.” He dropped the phone and ran across the living room, snatching up his keys and cell phone and dialing 911.

“Precious Emergency. Ms. Winters, is this you again? I’m—”

“Martha, get an ambulance over to Redfoot’s. He’s been hurt. Get it there now!” He flipped the cell phone closed before his secretary had a chance to ask him any questions, then started out the door. “Damn!” he swerved around as he remembered the silent woman at the kitchen table. “I’ve got to go.”

She nodded, eyes wide. “I understand. I hope he’s okay.” She stood up as if to leave.”

“I have to go,” he said again. “I…I’ll call you.” His gaze shot to the food on the kitchen table. “Feel free to finish eating.”

Shala stood in the same spot until she heard Sky’s truck start and the sound of his tires slinging dirt outside. She noticed the omelet. Her stomach grumbled, but her mind shot to the old man she’d just met, and she tried to imagine him hurt and bleeding. She also remembered getting a call very similar to Sky’s from her grandmother’s neighbor. Nana had fallen. Before Shala got to the hospital, her grandmother had died.

Shala’s chest clutched, and she hoped Sky’s emergency ended better than her own. Then she wondered who Redfoot was to him. Was he family?

Picking up the two plates, she emptied the food into the garbage and put the dishes in the sink. She didn’t feel comfortable enough to clean much more, but at least he wouldn’t come home to a dirty table.

Putting the butter back in the fridge, she emptied the milk from their glasses and rinsed them out. Then she went to the living room.

Shouldering her purse, she got halfway to the door before she remembered why she’d come. To get her camera.

Sky slammed his truck into park and jumped out before the vehicle came to a full stop. As he made his way to the front door of the home he’d lived in since he was twelve years old, the memory of his arrival hit hard.

He’d been full of anger and resentment back then, certain Redfoot and Estella would grow tired of him like the two foster homes before. They hadn’t, even when Sky made their lives hard. Estella hadn’t given up on him because she was too kind, and Redfoot had hung in there because…well, he’d said he was too stubborn to let a twelve-year-old boy win a battle of wills. In so many ways, Redfoot had been right. It
had
been a battle. Not so much because Sky hadn’t wanted them to love him, but because he hadn’t thought they could.

“Maria?” He heard voices coming from the kitchen and took off almost at a run. Logically, he knew Redfoot couldn’t live forever, but he hadn’t come to a place where he could let the old man go.
Not yet,
he prayed,
and especially not at the hands of some murderer.
Rage filled him.

“In here,” Maria called.

Redfoot sat at the kitchen table. Maria sat in front of him, her hands gently separating the old man’s hair. He pushed her hands away. “I am fine. Leave me be.”

Sky’s gaze shot to the blood-soaked towel in Maria’s hands. “You’re not fine,” he said. Then, to Maria, “An ambulance is on its way.”

“I’m not getting carted off in some noisy van like a cripple!”

“Yes, you are. I don’t care if I have to handcuff your ass.”

“Stubborn ol’ Indian,” Maria muttered.

“I do not need an ambulance.” Redfoot waved Maria’s hands away. When a new stream of blood flowed down his forehead, she pressed the cloth back to his brow.

“How bad is it?” Sky asked.

“Not as bad as I thought,” Maria admitted. “But he needs stitches and to be checked for a concussion.” She
gazed down at her foster father with tenderness and concern.

“I am not a child to be coddled!” Redfoot’s gaze shifted to Sky. “We have bigger problems than the scratch on my head. This person who broke in, he—”

“What’s important is that you’re okay.” Sky moved closer, but his gut clenched as he thought about the work he and the others had put into the powwow and their plans for the money in the lodge safe. No doubt that was what the intruder had come for—and had probably taken. But did he want to rub salt in the old man’s wounds by discussing it?

“I need to get dressed,” Maria said.

Sky noticed her nightgown for the first time, and thought of the woman he’d left at his house.

“Watch him,” Maria commanded. “I’m going to change before the paramedics show up.” She handed her towel to Redfoot. “Keep that on that cut to slow the bleeding,” she said, then tenderly touched his cheek.

As Maria walked out, Sky sat down in her chair. “Do you feel up to telling me what happened?” he asked. The money didn’t matter, but catching this creep did.

“I was walking and saw a light through the window of the lodge.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Sky asked.

“By the time you got here, they could have robbed us blind.”

“It’s just money. Your life is worth more than that.”

Redfoot pulled the towel from his head. “The intruder was not there for money. This is about Blue Eyes.”

Sky flinched when he saw a stream of blood flow down the old man’s face. “What about her? Why don’t you lie down?”

“I’m fine. I told you of my dream of the mad bulldog? For some reason, I think this man is that dog.”

Redfoot had gone on and on about the dream that afternoon. It hadn’t made sense then, and it still didn’t.
“Why do you think this has anything to do with her?” Sky took the towel and pressed it to Redfoot’s head.

“Because the thief wasn’t there for money. All he wanted was Blue Eyes’s camera.”

“Her camera?” An ambulance siren sounded in the distance.

“He asked me where we keep the cameras we take. I pointed to the cabinet. We still have two small ones that people never came back for, but he opened the cabinet and got mad. He said he wanted the one from today.”

Sky tried to wrap his mind around all this. Had Shala gotten someone to steal her camera for her while she distracted him? The thought rolled around his brain but he didn’t believe it. She’d come to him looking for the camera, and she hadn’t known he was chief of police. Sky supposed someone had seen her with it and, knowing its value, had simply wanted to steal it from the lodge.

“Did he take anything?” he asked Redfoot.

“Nothing.”

“The money?” Sky pressed.

“The safe was in front of him. He was big enough he could have carried it out with him. He didn’t. I’m telling you, he came for her camera. That’s all he wanted.”

“I guess it’s good that the camera wasn’t here,” he said, almost to himself.

“I know.” Redfoot swayed a little in his chair. “You need to listen, Sky. Your woman, she needs you. This man is after her.”

Why would anyone be after Shala Winters? Because of her work bringing tourism to Precious? He recalled the troublemakers in town trying to stop the Chamber of Commerce from hiring her.

“Did you get a good look? Recognize him?”

The sirens seemed to stop in front of the house.

“He wore a ski mask. Big guy. Light eyes. Don’t think he’s from around here.”

The doorbell rang. Sky got up to answer.

“I’m not getting in that noisy…”

Redfoot’s words faltered, and Sky looked back. His foster father had stood up. “Sit down!” he ordered, but too late. Redfoot stumbled. Sky managed to catch him before he hit the floor, and said, “I got you,” but when he laid the old man down, he realized Redfoot was unconscious.

Maria came running into the room. “What’s wrong?”

“He passed out,” Sky replied.

“Dios!”
Maria said, and Sky saw her tears.

“Open the door,” he ordered. “The paramedics are here.”

When Maria ran off, Sky looked back at Redfoot. The man had been more than just a foster father; he’d been the only real father Sky ever knew. His chest swelled with emotion, and for the first time ever he wondered if he’d actually told the man thank you. Had he ever said the words
I love you?
Probably not.

“Redfoot, don’t you dare die on me.”