Whitehorse (4 page)

"Yes."

"Sorry. I didn't realize you were still so touchy about those modeling jobs. They paid the rent, didn't they? They paid your tuition through law school and ultimately got you noticed by the leading talent agency in
L.A.
There's not a woman in
America
who doesn't cream her panties every time the commercial comes on of you walking shirtless down
Fifth Avenue
in a pair of low-slung faded jeans. Face it, sweetie. There's not a girl's dorm room in this country that doesn't sport a poster of you on the wall. Should you decide to go back to
L.A.
and continue your movie career you could name your price."

"I'm not going back, so that's that."

Dolores kicked away the blanket covering her hips. Naked, her skin silky as the sheet between her legs, she patted the bed beside her. "Come on, Johnny, let's discuss the matter. I might change your mind."

He shook his head and searched the selection of laundered and starched shirts in the closet. There were three dozen at least—all expensive, grouped by colors, patterns, dress, and casual.

"There was a message from your agent last night. He has a script he'd like you to read."

"Don't tell me. Someone is doing a remake of
The Lone Ranger
and they want me to play Tonto." He reached beyond the shirts for a frayed football jersey emblazoned with the number thirty-three. "What are you doing listening to my messages?"

"I'm a reporter. It's my business to snoop."

"Oh? I thought you were my girlfriend, trusted confidante, et cetera."

Dolores shrugged. "A ring on my finger will immensely ensure my loyalty."

"Bullshit." He pulled the shirt down over his head and shook his hair free of the collar. "What kind of deal have you made with my agent? He'll represent you if you talk me back into show business? Maybe he teased you with a CNN carrot, or maybe even
Good Morning
America
.
Why not? They have their token African American and Asian. It's about time for a Native American. Maybe they'll even make you a White House correspondent. Just think of it. Every time the issue of disgruntled and starving Native Americans comes up at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue they can prop you up in front of panhandling Indians huddled near liquor stores so you can adequately report on the monstrous scale of human suffering on the reservations, and how the government is doing all it can to alleviate their pain."

"Would that be so bad, Johnny?"

"That depends on what you do when the story is over. Do you climb back into your Mercedes and beat it back to your penthouse overlooking the Lincoln Memorial? Or do you picket the liquor store owner who runs specials on the very day the Indians receive their subsidy checks from the government?"

Dolores rolled her eyes. "My, haven't we become righteous. Excuse me, but this house isn't exactly your grandfather's wickiup."

Johnny pulled his boots on, grabbed up his hat, and started for the door.

Scrambling out of bed, Dolores ran after him. "I don't need your agent's help, Johnny. I'm a damned good reporter. If I make it big, I'll make it on my own. I won't do it by riding on your coattails. Do you hear me? I don't
need
you!"

The front door opened suddenly and Roy Moon stepped in. He stopped short at the sight of Dolores standing naked in the foyer, hands fisted, face contorted in rage. He glanced at Johnny. "Guess I should've knocked."

"Probably wouldn't have made much difference. How's the mare?"

"She foaled this morning around seven. A real nice colt. You should've seen Doc Starr. Sick and tired as she was she made certain the birthin' went off without a hitch. Looks like both the colt and mare are goin' to make it."

"Doc Starr?" Dolores said. "Do you mean Leah Foster?"

Roy
chewed his lip before nodding.

Johnny left the house, stood for a moment on the front porch and looked out over the vast puddles of standing rainwater. The air felt cooler than he had expected. He thought of returning to the house to get a jacket.

"How long has she been back?" Dolores asked
Roy
.

"Two, maybe three months."

"Why didn't you tell me, Johnny?"

"Why should you care?"

"Because of what she once meant to you."

"That was a long time ago. Forget it."

"You dumped me in high school for her. How am I supposed to forget that?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't make love to Leah Foster Starr three hours ago, did I?"

"Where are you going?"

"To see my mare."

"To see your mare or Leah?"

"What do you think?" He headed for the truck.

"I'm coming with you."

"Get some clothes on first."

"Don't you dare leave, Johnny. Give me five minutes."

Johnny stepped up into the track and settled onto the leather seat while
Roy
leaned against the open door, arms crossed, his amusement deepening the lines in his Apache face. "You sure she's worth it, boss? You know Dolores. Claws like a cougar's. No way is she lettin' you get away again."

"Just where am I supposed to be going?"

Roy
shrugged. "Different truck. Same girl. She's still as pretty as she was back then. Maybe prettier."

"She's still Senator Foster's daughter, Roy. That won't ever change."

"And you hate Senator Foster. That don't make for good pillow talk, does it?"

Johnny turned the ignition key and the track rambled like thunder.
Roy
stepped aside and closed the door. "Once those years ago I thought that you was sniffin' after Leah just to get back at the senator for the way he treated you and your pa. Now here we are twelve years later. Your pa has been dead for ten years and you're still carryin' around a hate for Foster that's more dangerous now than it was then."

"What's your point?"

"Just wonderin' how far you'd go to rain the senator. That's all."

He did not wait for Dolores, because her five minutes stretched to ten, then fifteen—as usual. The only time she was ever on time was to her job because that was the most important aspect of her life. Seeing herself on the television screen substantiated her existence. As long as Dolores Rainwater looked good on camera, all was right with the world. Besides, he was not in the mood to be second-guessed, interrogated, or nagged about old lovers. Leah Foster Starr was old news. Dusty baggage. What had gone on between them in the back of his father's old Dodge pickup was nothing more than a rite of passage into adulthood for them both.

Easing the truck into second gear, he noted several of his employees repairing the break in the fence. Across the road an enormous black wrecker was struggling to pull Leah's truck from the mud. In the light of day the truck resembled something he'd bought back in the days when he was trying to establish credit and no one would trust an Indian with more than a monthly payment of a hundred dollars. Back in those days a hundred-dollar truck payment was a week's salary pumping gas and scrubbing bug guts off windshields at
Conroe
's Texaco. Occasionally the customers tipped him, but not often. Not nearly as often as they tipped the white boys.

The turnoff to Leah's place was marked by an unobtrusive sign near the shoulder of the road: "Starr Veterinary Practice." A small red pennant, meant to attract the eye of passersby, fluttered on each corner of the sign. Engine idling, gear in neutral, Johnny sat at the entry of the driveway as memories rolled through his mind like old celluloid grown yellow with time. He had not stepped back into what once was his home since the day he'd buried his father. Not much had changed through the years. The scattering of trees was bigger. The frame house needed painting. The roof could use new shingles. The concrete block that had sufficed as a front porch was still crooked. Someone had, however, at some time, painted it orange, along with the shutters on the house. They had also constructed a path from the drive to the porch using crushed gravel lined with red rocks the size of bread loaves. A sign planted by the walkway requested visitors to kindly not block the drive. Parking was in the rear, thank you.

As he manipulated the dually into a space near the barn, he checked out the office Dr. Starr had converted from a tractor shed. There were several palpation chutes. A two-horse trailer that was showing signs of rust. Stacks of bagged shavings and another of hay bales covered by giant blue tarps. A pair of green, molded plastic lounge chairs resided beside a child's inflated wading pool. Several yellow rubber ducks floated in the water, which was scattered with bits of hay and brown leaves, not to mention sediment that had settled in the bottom of the pool.

The back screen door of the house opened and a black woman appeared. She was tall and thin, with close-cropped hair and features that belonged on the cover of
Ebony
magazine. She carried a cup in one hand, a sandwich on a plate in the other. Her stride was long and determined as she moved toward the office, her thoughts apparently focused on her destination. He was halfway around the truck before she saw him. Her step slowed and her eyebrows lifted. Her gaze took a leisurely trip up and down his person before she spoke in a voice that was huskily sensual.

"You must be Johnny Whitehorse."

"How did you guess?" he replied, and adjusted his hat over his eyes.

"You got to be joking, honey."

"What gave me away?"

"Oh please." She rolled her eyes. "You don't strike me as a man who has to have his ego stroked."

"How's my mare?"

"Do I look like the vet to you?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've seen some vets who were real babes in my day."

"I hope you're not talking about Dean Crabbet. There would be a whole lot of disappointed women if you were."

He laughed and joined her at the barn door.

"I'm Shamika," she said. "And this is Doc Starr's lunch. Long as you're here, why don't you take it to her? She's probably starving by now."

Shamika thrust the plate and coffee into his hands. "Now you make her eat. She won't if you don't." She started to turn, then stopped. "By the way, I think what you're doing with the Native American Rights Fund is right on. On the other hand, the casino issue is going to get sticky as far as Senator Foster is concerned, if you know what I mean. While Leah and her father aren't exactly close, he's still her father. It's that old blood-is-thicker-than-water thing. It's chiseled in granite someplace that the offspring of powerful men are the last to abandon the familial ship—even if that ship
is
the
Titanic."

"Warning noted."

"She's had a tough time of it, Mr. Whitehorse. I'd appreciate it a lot if you take it easy on her."