Straddling the Line (12 page)

“We should eat before it gets cold.” He took her hand and led her away from the kind eyes of his mother.

Dinner was indeed on the table. Twice-baked potatoes, spring greens, a homemade loaf of bread and something that looked like a cross between a roast and a Hostess Ho Ho. A bottle of red wine—a shiraz—was breathing on the table. The smells that had been lurking around the apartment hit Josey full-on. The crystal wine goblets caught the light of the taper candles and threw a warm glow around them. “You have a chef.” It was almost too much.

“Gina watches a lot of cooking shows. This is braciola, I think. It’s good.” He sliced the bread and then the meat. “How was the meeting at the university?”

Josey didn’t bother to hide her grin. He wasn’t asking it because he felt he was obligated. She could tell by the way that he watched her that he was actually interested. “Good.”

In between bites of some of the best—and flattest—steak she’d ever had, she told him that, because all of her supply problems had disappeared, she was now working on getting the program certified by the state.

He finished chewing and notched an eyebrow at her. “Let me guess. Don is the sticking point?”

The level of attention he paid to her was making her warm. “He’s provisionally certified. He has a year to complete several classes on child development. A fact that he has yet to learn.” And she wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling him.

“You should sell tickets to that conversation—like a fundraiser for the school. I’d buy one.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.” Ben regarded her with open curiosity. The room’s temperature seemed to go up another notch under the heat of that gaze. “What?”

“Are you certified?”

“No. I’m not a teacher.”

“You’re a corporate fundraiser. Except I don’t know what corporation needs to hold fundraisers.” He turned his attention back to the braciola, making it seem like a casual question.

Josey knew better. Wine or no wine, she could tell when someone was fishing for information. “Depends on how you define
corporate.
Most hospitals are corporations, and a good many universities operate like one. I started out at the New York University Hospital. My grandfather was on the board.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. She could see him thinking, and she wondered which way he’d go—how she got here from NYU, or… “The same grandfather who left you in charge of a trust fund?”

“The very same.”

His smile was cryptic. “You don’t act anything like the trust-fund babies I’ve met before.”

“You’ve met other trust-fund babies with a last name like White Plume?”

“Point taken.”

Josey topped off her wineglass. How many trust-fund babies
did
he know? “My great-grandfather Harold Stewart was a banker. He ran things for J. P. Morgan, II.” She pointed to her head. “That’s where the red hair came from.”

“Impressive.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but Morgan Sr. fronted the money for Edward Curtis to take all those famous photos of American Indians. And Harold idolized the Morgans. So he took it upon himself to do a little documenting. He packed up my grandfather, George, and lit out for the Plains in a Cadillac.”

“I’ve heard of Curtis.”

He waited for her to go on. A man who listened, she marveled. How rare was that?

“They got a flat tire forty miles from Wall, South Dakota. A Lakota named Samuel Respects None found them.”

“How old was George?”

“Ten. They spent the whole summer vacation with Samuel. Harold bought anything—ancient artifacts, new dance costumes—he could get his hands on. He spread more money around the rez than most people had seen in their lifetimes.” Harold had been an outsider, and he’d bought the respect of the tribe. Josey wondered if Ben was doing the same. Some days, she wondered if, with her trust fund, that’s what she was doing, too.

“So Sam invited him back?”

“Every summer for the rest of his life. They were family. When Harold died in 1952, Sam even made the trip to New York for the funeral.” She smiled. This was the part of the story she liked. “He brought his granddaughter, Mary, with him. She stayed.”

It had always seemed like such a romantic tale—two star-crossed lovers from different worlds finding a way to be together, no matter what the cost. She looked at Ben. Is this connection what Grandma had to go all the way to New York to find?

“So Samuel Respects None’s granddaughter was your grandmother? The one from the bluff?”

“And Mom was their only child. He loved my grandmother very much.” That one truth—the truth that no one could ever deny or take away—was the thing that made Josey hold her head high when people looked at her sideways.

Grandpa and Grandma had loved deeply and passionately until their last days on this earth. The dementia that took her grandmother away from Josey, then her mother, couldn’t touch her love of George Stewart. Even when Grandma couldn’t recognize her husband as an old man, she would sit with photos of him from his first visit to the rez, when he had been ten and Grandma had been six, and tell Josey in an awestruck whisper, “I like this boy. I’m going to marry him.” And Josey would pat her hand and assure her that, yes, she would, and they’d live happily ever after.

Sheesh. One or two glasses of wine, and she was getting misty-eyed. Reading too much into Ben’s attentiveness was a recipe for disaster. She sniffed and tried to pull herself together.

Ben gave her a minute to get things under control before he blissfully steered the conversation away from loves-of-a-lifetime. “He wanted to make things better.”

“His father had paid for Grandma to go to a private school off the rez when she was young. He had a provision in his will that paid for her college in New York, too. When she died, Grandpa tried to think of the best way he could honor her memory. So Mom and I got enough to live on, but the rest of the money went toward building the school.”

“Warren Buffet would have been proud.”

Josey broke out in a laugh. “Actually, they didn’t get along. Grandpa preferred Pepsi.”

Ben laughed with her, a rich, full sound that warmed her even further. So it probably was the wine, but really—how many men could she sit down to dinner with who would make jokes about Warren Buffet? Who’d also heard of Curtis and not one, but two J. P. Morgans? And—this was the kicker—who
didn’t
laugh at names like White Plume and Respects None?

Very few. She’d be hard-pressed to come up with another.

The remains of dinner sat on the table. Ben stood and began to gather the dishes. “So, Gina talked your ear off?”

“Both of them.” She handed him the dishes, he rinsed them under the tap and put them in the dishwasher. Despite having hired help, he seemed comfortable fending for himself.

Ben laughed again. “At least she doesn’t have access to any of my baby pictures.” He shut the dishwasher and, leaning back on the counter, gave her a look that she couldn’t quite read. “Do you know how to play pool?”

Ten

J
osey stood next to the table, leaning against her stick and swaying to the John Legend music Ben had put on. The way her hips were moving was enough to distract him from the game. Too bad she didn’t seem to notice she was doing it.

“You play a lot of pool?”

“When I have someone to play with. Stick used to come up after practice, but he’s got a girlfriend now. Bobby likes to play for money, but he’s kind of a jerk about it.” Ben sank the striped fourteen. He didn’t have to ask if she played a lot. She’d gotten two balls in. He had one to go. “Billy will play, if I can get him out of the shop. But that’s a big if.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He lined up the shot. “You don’t need my permission. Ask away.”

“Why do you live in the old shop? And why is it so much bigger than the new one?”

He took an extra second to make the shot. On to the eight ball. “I grew up here. It just felt like home.”

“Really?” She didn’t seem to mind in the least that he was about to beat her.

“Yeah. Back when Crazy Horse was Dad’s business, he didn’t do custom stuff. He had models, and he had guys who built them assembly-style. He made more bikes, so he had to store more bikes. Mom handled the books then. We’d all get up early and come here, then Mom would take us to school and bring us back here afterward. Some nights we’d be here until late, but Mom liked to keep the family together, she always said.”

Keep the family together. That had been what he’d promised her.

“That must have been hard.”

“It wasn’t so bad. As long as we didn’t break anything, we pretty much got to roam free. We built forts out of boxes and had gear wars—like ninja stars, but with gears.”

She gave him a look of amused disbelief. “You threw gears at each other?”

“Hey, I only chipped Bobby’s tooth that one time.”

His innocent look didn’t work—of course, it hadn’t worked on Mom, either. Josey’s mouth dropped open in shock, which gave him all sorts of ideas. Instead, he sank the eight ball and began to rerack the balls. Now that he thought about it, it had been a long time since he’d played pool with anyone. Even if she wasn’t very good at it, it was still nice to play with her and have a real conversation.

“Okay.” The way she said it made it clear that it wasn’t, really, but she didn’t harp on it. “So the new factory…”

“Billy didn’t—doesn’t—like mass-produced anything. He convinced Dad he could make more money doing one custom bike at a time than doing one hundred cookie cutters. He got Bobby to back him up, and I ran the numbers. Dad will argue with one or two of us, but he figured all three Boltons agreeing on something was as close to a sure thing as he was going to get. So we switched. Two years later, we had made enough to build the shop. That was almost six years ago.”

“I see.” She looked around. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“I’m sure Gina told you she did most of it.”

“Maybe.” She let out a soft giggle and bent over to break. It would be poor sportsmanship to run his hands over the swell of her bottom while she was shooting. He settled for staring.

“You think it’s pretentious to have resident artist-maids.”

This shot was better. Two stripes actually went in as the balls careened around the table. She almost looked like she knew what she was doing. “Don’t forget chef.”

“How could I?”

Still bent almost double, she looked back over her shoulder. “Any other surprises? You’re not hiding mimes in the basement or anything?”

“No mimes.” Sweet merciful heavens, she was still swaying. Her bottom was in serious danger of hypnotizing him. “You?”

“Nothing like Gina. Hang on.”

In six consecutive shots, she cleared the table. He stood gaping at her as the eight ball went down without a whimper. “You let me win?”

“Of course not.” Her innocent look was much more effective than his would ever be. “I was getting a feel for how you play the game.”

She’d let him win to make sure he’d lose. She could give as good as she got. Man, what a woman.

She set down her cue. “I’m about done playing for tonight.” She put her hands on his cheeks and pulled him into her until her lips scorched his. The idling erection he’d been trying to ignore went full throttle in a heartbeat. When she pulled away from him, she licked her lips and breathed, “You?”

“Finished.” His cue clattered to the ground and he actually swept her off her feet. There was a first for everything.

For the first time, the size of his place bugged him. Between dancing around the furniture and kissing Josey, it took forever to get back to the bed. She was wearing a red bra with a matching pair of panties that sat low on her hips and begged a man to peel them off. He was willing—more than willing—to put the time and energy into a right and proper seduction, but when he had her nude before him, her body already wet for him, he barely got the condom on before he took what she so willingly gave him.

She rose to meet him again and again. She dug her nails into his back—not enough to draw blood, but enough that the sensation spurred him on. She felt so damn good. Everything about her was good. His name sounded just right coming out of her mouth as a moan. Her legs fit just so around his waist. He tried to go slow, but he couldn’t hold back. Not with her. Something about her…

After she’d gotten cleaned up and they’d wrapped themselves around each other in bed, Ben said, “I like this.”

“Just ‘like’? I’ll try harder next time,” she said with a sleepy yawn. Underneath the covers, she stretched out her legs and stroked his ankle with her toes.

“Not just that—all of this. Dinner, pool—and
that.
I like it all. I like you.”

She got very still before taking a careful breath. “I like you, too.”

There it was again—that strange feeling. This happiness thing was getting out of hand.

Ben was getting used to it.

*

“Well, well, well.” Jenny launched a paint roller at Josey’s head. “Look who’s back.”

Josey threw the roller back. “It’s been, what? Three days? I don’t consider that ‘gone.’”

Jenny was like a bulldog. Once she latched onto an idea, she wouldn’t let go of it until it was good and dead. “So, how is he?”

Josey did a quick check, but the two women were alone in the seventh-and eighth-grade room. Everyone else was outside using as many power tools as the generators could support. She could hear Don bellowing instructions through the walls.

The second time in two days someone had asked her that question. And, once again, she had no intention of answering. Instead, she made a play for Jenny’s outsize maternal instincts. “Have you talked to Jared recently? He was feeling a little picked on at the powwow.”

Jenny let out a short laugh. “Nice try, but you didn’t think that would work, did you? You show up at a powwow with Mr. Super Hunk, disappear for three days and expect nobody to put one and one together?”

Oh, heavens, people were talking. Guessing. And, by all estimations, getting close to the truth. The churning anxiety made Josey’s stomach turn worse than drinking sour milk. Was it better or worse that she’d run into Jenny first? When she went out to talk to Don later, would he meet her eyes, or would he barely acknowledge her existence?

No. She would not let other people define her. She knew what she wanted, and right now, what she wanted was not to talk about her love life. What she wanted was for everything to be normal. And the one way she knew how to ensure that was to act as normal as she could.

Josey pulled herself up to her full height and looked down her nose at her cousin. “I expect certain people to mind their own business.”

Like she could intimidate Jenny. The woman was a force to be reckoned with. She bounced on the balls of her feet and clapped her hands. “Ooh. Either really bad or really, really good. Does he live in a garage or a palace?”

“If I tell you, can we get to work?” Jenny nodded and made a big show of mixing the paint. “Can you keep it to yourself?” Jenny nodded even more enthusiastically. Luckily, Josey knew her cousin would keep that promise—especially if she ever wanted any more tidbits. “Both. He remodeled the top floor of an old factory and parks his bike in it. How are things coming out there on the shop?”

“Wow, you must like him.”

It was a lot to ask for people not to put one and one together. Josey knew this. That didn’t make dealing with it any easier. She pushed her anxiety further down, desperately trying to ignore it entirely. She’d worked too hard to make her place in this tribe to let something like a casual relationship with Ben Bolton derail her plans.

Normal, she reminded herself, keeping her tone light. “He’s nice. Did you get my message about the certification?”

Jenny whistled and poured the paint. “Three subject changes. I amend my previous statement to ‘really like.’”

“Okay, I really like him. Happy?”

Jenny stuck her hands on her hips, tilted her head sideways and stared at her. “You look happy.” Josey rolled her eyes, but Jenny didn’t let it drop. “You do! I mean, I’d kill for your bone structure, but you always look like you’re having to work at a smile. It’s like you’ve got to prove to people that you’re thrilled to be here in the middle of nowhere. But today?” Jenny gave her a wistful smile. “Happy.”

And that’s why Josey loved her cousin. Despite the fact that Jenny was full-blooded Lakota, she was one of the few people on this reservation who never held her mixed heritage against Josey. She always understood.

For the first time since Josey had driven back onto the rez this morning, she felt herself breathe. Not everyone would approve. Not everyone had to. If Jenny and Mom still treated her like the same old Josey-from-the-block, then it didn’t much matter what the whole tribe thought. “He gave me the keys—well, the key codes—to his place.”

Jenny whistled. “How many nights?”

“Two.”

“And he’s coming out here tomorrow?”

“Dinner at Mom’s. Just as soon as I tell Mom.” That part made her a little nervous. Okay, a lot nervous. Although she didn’t talk about it too much, Josey was pretty sure that Mom had had her heart broken by a white man back in the day, which was why she’d come back to the rez and married Dad. Josey’s last heartbreak had been hard on both of them. She didn’t know if Mom would react well to Josey giving another white man a chance to break her heart again.

They fell into an easy silence as they painted the classroom. Jenny did the cutting in while Josey started on the ceiling. The work went much faster than it did when the tasks were divided between ten
helpful
girls. The whole thing was done in less than an hour.

Jenny dropped her brush on the drop cloth and clenched her hands a few times. “Is he perfect?”

Josey thought about his overwhelming need to be in charge, the conflicted feelings he had about his family and—if left to his own devices—his penchant for gray as a go-to color. She giggled. “No. Not even close.”

“But he’s rich?”

“Yes.”

“Handsome?”

“Very.”

“And he’s footing the bill for more tools?”

“That’s the plan.” A plan that would take another month or so to come to fruition. Something about that time frame felt cozily long-term.

Jenny sighed, a mix of concern and pity. Then she shot Josey a sneaky grin. “Does he have a brother?”

*

Not surprisingly, Billy was in the shop at ten on a Saturday morning. He grunted when Ben got within acknowledgment range. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here. How’s the trike coming?”

Billy glared at him from underneath bushy eyebrows. “Same woman, or different?”

Ben chose not to answer that. He made a slow circle around the trike. Billy had the engine on the frame. “Looks good.”

Billy grunted again. So much for conversation. Just to bug the big man, Ben pulled up a stool and watched him. He was promptly ignored.

As Billy worked, Ben’s mind drifted. It started on Josey—more specifically, the way she looked when she woke up, half asleep and half turned on. Man, she’d been all sorts of turned on by that high-speed ride down the highway after dark. He wondered if she’d want to learn to ride. Years had passed since he’d last built a bike from the ground up—if he made one for her, would she ride it? Would she even like it?

He shifted on the stool. Being as he wouldn’t get to see her either sleepy or turned on for another couple of days, he forced his mind to move on to less painful thoughts. He saw Billy had some brochures for new—and expensive—equipment on his workbench.

Snatches of conversations from the past few days jumbled together in his head. Grandfathers—white and Indian—lifelong friends—fundraisers. Those concepts didn’t mix with that kid—what was his name? The one with the bad hair? Jared? Or the way people kept a buffer zone around Josey’s mom. But those other kids—the tough ones—those kids had lost almost all of their attitudes when it came to his bike.

Ben started out of his daze. That was it.

“Billy.”

His big brother jumped, dropping a wrench on his boot. “Dammit, what?”

“Would you teach kids how to build a bike?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“At Josey’s school—the boys want to build a bike. They could sell it for a fundraiser.”

“So she has a name.”

Ben bristled. He didn’t bug Billy about his lady friends and he expected the same courtesy. “You’re the one going on and on about Mr. Horton. You’re the one who talks about giving respect, instead of having to earn it the hard way.”

That was what Horton had done for Billy. He’d never held him to an unattainable standard and then punished him for not reaching it. Maybe Ben could do that for those kids. He might never get his father’s respect—but that didn’t mean he had to treat everyone else the same way. He could break the cycle. He could make things better.

“I’m talking about paying it forward. But, hey—you don’t want to help out kids everyone else has given up on? That’s your business.” He jumped to his feet and stomped toward the door.

“Now wait just a goddamn minute,” Billy roared behind him.