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

For Tamra, this was home. The land, the trees, the tranquility. The impoverished reservation. A place she used to hate. But she would never hate it again. She knew better now.

Maka Ina, she thought. Mother Earth.

She glanced at Walker. He sat next to her, watching the horizon. They occupied a rustic porch swing at his mom’s house that complained every so often, the wood creaking from age.

He hadn’t said much since they’d left Michele’s house, but he seemed reflective.

Sticking to their original plan, they’d gotten a pepperoni pizza. But instead of eating it, they’d put it in the fridge, saving it for later, waiting for Mary to come home from work. But for now, their bellies were still full of fry bread and wojapi.

“What’s an iyeska?” Walker asked.

“A half-breed.”

“That’s it? That’s all it means?”

“Yes. Do you want me to translate yummy, too?”

He smiled, just little enough to send her heart into a girlish patter.

When his smile faded, she sensed the hurt inside him, the pain that often came with being a mixed blood. “Michele wasn’t trying to insult you.”

He gazed into the distance, at the land of his ancestors. Tamra waited for him to respond. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped, preparing for their evening roost.

“I know Michele wasn’t putting me down,” he said. “But the first day I arrived, a wino called me a stupid iyeska. It never occurred me that it meant half-breed. In San Francisco, people think I’m this major Indian. No matter how much I downplay my heritage, they still notice, still comment on it. But here I’m not Indian enough.”

“It’s the way you carry yourself, Walker.”

He shifted on the swing, scraping his lace-up boots on the porch. He wore comfortable-looking khakis and a casual yet trendy shirt. A strand of his hair fell across his forehead, masking one of his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s always been dissention between the full bloods and the mixed bloods on the reservation.” A war she understood all too well. “But sometimes iyeska refers to someone’s attitude, not his or her blood quantum. Full bloods can be iyeskas, too. Indians who think white.”

Edgy as ever, he frowned at her. “Fine. Then that’s what I am.”

“You didn’t seem like an iyeska once you got to know Michele’s family. You seemed like a full blood.”

“I did?” He smoothed his hair, dragging the loose strand away from his forehead. Then he laughed a little. “I really liked Michele’s family, but they weren’t totally traditional. I don’t know if I could handle that.” He released a rough breath. “I’m too set in my wasicu ways.”

“Maybe so.” She grinned at him. “But you’re starting to speak Lakota.”

He grinned, too. “A few words. My uncle is probably rolling over in his grave.”

For a moment she thought his good mood would falter. That his grave-rolling uncle would sour his smile. But he managed to hold on, even if she saw a deeply rooted ache in his eyes.

“What does ennit mean?” he asked.

“It’s not a Lakota word. It’s an interjection a lot of Indians use. Ennit? instead of isn’t it?”

“You don’t say it.”

“I’ve never been partial to slang.”

“Thank God,” he said, and made her laugh.

She looked up at the sky and noticed the sun was gone. Dusk had fallen, like a velvet curtain draping the hills. Beside her, Walker fell silent. She suspected he was enjoying the scenery, too. The pine-scented air, the summer magic.

He interrupted her thoughts. “I almost kissed you earlier.”

Her lungs expanded, her heart went haywire. Fidgeting with the hem on her blouse, she tried to think of something to say. But the words stuck in her throat.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.” Beneath her plain white bra, her nipples turned hard—hard enough to graze her top, to make bulletlike impressions.

“Would you have kissed me back?”

“No,” she lied, crossing her arms, trying to hide her breasts.

“I think you would’ve,” he said.

Tamra forced herself to look at him. A mistake, she realized. An error in judgment. Now her panties were warm, the cotton sticking to her skin. “We’re supposed to get past this.”

“Past what?” He leaned into her, so close, his face was only inches from hers. “Wanting each other?”

She nodded, and he touched her cheek. A gentle caress. A prelude to a kiss.

She waited. But he didn’t do it.

He dropped his hand to his lap and moved back, away from her. “We are.” He brushed his own fly, tensed his fingers and made a frustrated fist. “We’re past it.”

She stole a glance at his zipper, looked away, hoped to God she wasn’t blushing. “Then let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine. But I can’t think of anything.” He spread his thighs, slouching a little. “Can you?”

“Not really, no.” And his posture was making her dizzy, ridiculously light-headed. She could almost imagine sliding between his legs, whispering naughty things in his ear.

He cleared his throat. “How about San Francisco?”

She fussed with her blouse again. “What?”

“We can discuss San Francisco.”

“You want to compare notes?” She told herself to relax, to quit behaving like a crush-crazed teenager. “About what? Our alma mater?”

He shook his head. “I went to UC Berkeley.”

“Then what?”

“I want to know what happened in San Francisco. Why you didn’t stay there.” A slight breeze blew, cooling the prairie, stirring the air.