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

“It’s starting to cool off. It’ll be okay.”

“Will it?”

“Yes.” She hated the shame that had begun to creep into their minds. Tamra and Mary had strived to accept their lifestyle, to be proud of it.

Mary set the table, but when Walker arrived, she was in the bathroom, reapplying her lipstick.

Tamra answered the knock on the screen door, and for a moment she and Walker gazed at each other through the barrier.

He didn’t smile. He looked impeccably groomed in a tan shirt and matching trousers. He was cleanly shaven and his short dark hair was combed away from his face, exposing his half-blood features.

Tamra’s pulse zigzagged, like invisible footprints racing up her arm.

The last man who’d had that kind of effect on her had given her a child. A baby she’d buried in San Francisco, the city where Walker lived.

“Come in,” she said, opening the screen door. It wasn’t a fluke that Tamra was connected to San Francisco. That she’d spent her college years there. She’d chosen that region because of Walker and his sister.

“Thanks.” He entered the house, then handed her a bouquet of roses. “I was going to bring a bottle of wine, but since they don’t sell alcohol on the reservation, I figured you weren’t allowed to indulge in it, either.” He paused, shrugged a little. “But I’ve seen plenty of people drinking. I guess everyone doesn’t follow the rules.”

She merely nodded. The white-owned liquor stores in the border towns catered to Lakota drunks. His mother was far too familiar with that scenario to think of alcohol as a luxury, even an exceptional bottle of wine. Mary’s brother had died from alcoholism. “Your mom will appreciate the flowers.”

“Where is she?”

“Freshening up. She’ll only be a minute.”

Or a second, she thought, as Mary appeared in the hallway.

Walker turned around, and Tamra watched mother and son face each other for the first time in twenty-two years.

Tears filled Mary’s eyes, but she didn’t step forward to hug her boy. He didn’t embrace her, either.

Awkward silence stretched between them.

Walker didn’t know what to say. Mary didn’t look familiar. But he didn’t have any old pictures, nothing to refresh his memory.

Was he a coldhearted bastard? Or was it normal that he didn’t feel anything? That Mary Little Dove didn’t seem like his mother?

When she blinked, the tears that were gathered on her lashes fluttered like raindrops. Should he offer her his handkerchief? Or would that trigger even more tears? Walker didn’t want to make her cry.

He moved forward, just a little, stepping closer to her. Why had his memories faded? Why couldn’t he see her in his mind? He remembered the farm, but he couldn’t recall his mom.

Because it had been easier to forget, he thought. Easier to let her go, to get on with his life.

“My son,” Mary said, breaking the silence. “My boy. I never thought I’d see you again. But here you are. So tall. So handsome.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “We thought you were dead.”

“I know.” The tears glistening on her lashes fell, dotting her cheeks. “I’m aware of what Spencer told you.”

She knew? She’d been part of the lie? Walker wanted to turn away, to shut her out of his life once again, but his feet wouldn’t move. He simply stood there, the weight of her words dragging him down.

“Is Charlotte all right?” she asked. “Does she know you came to see me?”

“My sister is fine, and this was her idea.”

Mary pressed her hand against her heart. “My baby girl. She was only three years old. How could she possibly remember me?”

Walker didn’t respond. But how could he? He didn’t remember her, either. And, God help him, he didn’t want to. He had no desire to become her son, to be part of Pine Ridge, to embrace his Lakota roots.

Spencer had taught him that being Indian didn’t matter. And from what Walker had seen so far, he had to agree.

He glanced at Tamra and saw that she watched him. Could she sense his thoughts? She clutched the roses he’d brought, and the bouquet made her look like a reservation bride, with a summer cotton dress flowing around her ankles.

“These are from Walker.” She handed the roses to Mary.

His mother accepted the gift and smiled.

Walker took a deep breath. She looked pretty when she smiled. Softer, like the woman his father had probably fallen in love with. David Ashton had been a sentimental man, that much he knew. That much Spencer had told him.

“Thank you,” Mary said to Walker.

He gave her a quick nod. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll make you a shield.” She searched his gaze. “Your dad always wanted you to have one.”

His white father wanted him to have a Lakota object? Walker didn’t understand, but he tried to pretend that it made sense. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with a shield.

Declare war on another tribe? Hang it on his living room wall? Somehow he didn’t see it complementing his contemporary decor. An interior designer had spent months laboring over his hillside condo.

Tamra spoke up. “The meal is ready. We should probably eat now.”

“Yeah, sure.” Anything to divert his mother’s attention, he thought. To make her forget about the shield.

“I’ll put these in water.” Mary took the flowers into the kitchen, where a simple table presented casual china, paper napkins and stainless steel flatware.

Walker waited for the women, intending to push in their chairs. But his mom tapped his shoulder and told him to sit, anxious to serve him. When she filled his glass with milk, he wondered if she’d forgotten that he was no longer eight years old.

Finally Mary and Tamra joined him, and they ate a hearty stew, an iceberg lettuce salad and rolls smothered in butter. It was the kind of meal a farmer’s wife would prepare, he thought. Middle America. Only this was a South Dakota reservation.

He looked across the table at his mom. At Mary. His mind kept bouncing back and forth. He didn’t know what to call her. How to refer to the woman who’d given him life.

“Did Spencer treat you well?” she asked.

He blinked, tried not to frown. “Yes. I was close to my uncle.” And probably the only Ashton who could make that claim. No one had forged a bond with Spencer, not the way Walker did. But even so, it had been a hard-earned alliance. Spencer had been a complicated man.

“You’re not close to him anymore?”

“Spencer is dead. He was murdered a few months ago. Shot to death in his office. Charlotte found his body.”