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

“Oh, my. Oh.” His mom fidgeted with her food. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

When she stopped talking, the walls closed in. The kitchen was already cramped, the table too small for three people. Tamra sat next to him, too close for comfort.

He was still mourning his uncle, still missing him. Yet Spencer’s betrayal kept him awake at night.

“Will you tell me about Charlotte?” Mary said.

He nodded, knowing how much this mattered to his sister. “She’s engaged to Alexandre Dupree, a winemaker from France. He isn’t the kind of man I’d envisioned for her, but they’re crazy about each other.” Madly in love, he supposed. “My sister was always shy, sort of dreamy. And Alexandre is—” he paused, trying to find a word to describe Charlotte’s fiancé “—worldly.”

“Like a prince.” Mary sighed, already slipping into her daughter’s fairy tale.

“I guess, yeah. Women probably think so.” Walker knew that Alexandre had given his sister everything she needed, including the strength to investigate their family, to discover that Mary was still alive. “They’re in Paris. Charlotte needed to get away after Spencer’s funeral. But she made me promise that I’d search for you.”

“I’m glad she did.” Mary’s eyes were watery again. “Do you have a picture of her?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t think to bring one. But I’m sure she’s going to rush back to meet you. Her and Alexandre.”

“I can’t wait to see her. And her fiancé, of course.” Mary scooted closer to the table. “Is there someone special in your life, son?”

“Me?” Without thinking, he glanced at Tamra. She turned toward him, and he shifted in his seat, wondering if she had a significant other, if she was sleeping with some big Indian buck.

Then he recalled the blonde in a San Francisco bar who’d tried to pin that phrase on him. A racial slur that had made him feel dirty.

“I’m not involved with anyone,” he said. “I’m too busy with my career. Investment banking.” More than ready to change the subject, he questioned his mom. “So, what kind of work do you do?”

She smoothed her gray-streaked hair. “I’m a nurse’s aid at the PHS.”

“PHS?”

“Public Health Service Hospital.” She sat up a little straighter, proud of her job. “It’s easier for me than some of the other aids. I lived in the white world, so I have a better understanding of the white doctors and nurses who work there.”

Tamra interjected. “Most of the doctors are young. Physicians who received government loans for medical school. So they’re paying back those loans by performing public health services on the reservation for a few years.”

And probably hating every minute of it, he thought.

Tamra continued, “Our society equates wisdom with age, so it’s difficult for our elders to accept young doctors. And there’s often a language barrier. Far too many cultural differences.” She glanced at his mom. “Mary is a valuable asset. The patients trust her. And so do the nurses and doctors.”

Unsure of how to respond, he ate another a bite of stew. Mary sounded like a caring woman, yet she’d allowed her children to believe she was dead. He wanted to grill her about the past, to bombard her with accusations, but having Tamra nearby complicated the situation even more.

She’d taken his place. She’d been raised by the lady who’d let him go. And worse yet, he was attracted to Tamra.

A disaster in the making.

When he reached for his drink, he brushed her arm, a touch that made him much too aware.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m left-handed.”

“It’s okay.” She tried to move away from him, to give him more room, but her effort proved useless. There was nowhere to go. They were stuck.

Yet his mother was smiling. “Walker used to do that when he was little, too.”

“You mean this?” He lifted his milk, bumping Tamra’s elbow, nearly knocking the roll out of her hand.

Everyone laughed. A silly incident. But it felt good. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

A few moments later, silence engulfed him. No one could think of anything to say, so they resumed their meal, making noise with spoons and forks and butter knives.

He glanced at a clock on the wall and imagined it ticking. Like a bomb, he thought. Like the day Spencer had taken legal custody of him and his sister, the day he’d been told that both of his parents had died.

Charlotte had been too young to understand, to comprehend the cold, harsh reality of never seeing Mommy and Daddy again. But she’d cried just the same.

Walker stopped eating. His childhood memories were scattered, lost in the darkness of his mind. But not about that day. He remembered it vividly.

“Why did you do it?” he asked Mary, unable to hold back his emotions, to keep faking this reunion. “Why did you give us away?”

Two

“I’m sorry, Walker.” Mary’s voice quavered. “I should have explained everything right away. But I thought…I hoped…we could get to know each other first.”

He pushed away his plate. “Why?”

“So you wouldn’t judge me so harshly. So you wouldn’t think I was trying to turn you against Spencer.”

“I already told you. My uncle is dead.”

“This is his fault,” Tamra said. “He forced your mother to give up her children.”

“Oh, yeah? With what? A gun?” Unable to sit at the cramped table any longer, he rose from his chair and glared at the young woman Mary had raised. “Did he force her to take you in, too? To be your mom instead of ours?”

Tamra came to her feet. Suddenly she looked like a female warrior, her mouth set in a determined line, her dark eyes blazing with anger. “That isn’t fair.”

“You want to talk fair? There’s no excuse for what my mom did. None whatsoever.” He rounded on Mary. “I prayed for you. I called you an angel.” Much too edgy, he blew out a hard breath. “When Spencer rescued us, I was so damn grateful. And so damn scared. Do you have any idea what being an orphan feels like?”

She didn’t answer. She just swallowed the lump that seemed to be forming in her throat.

“I know what it feels like,” Tamra said.

He spun around, gave her a cold look. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It’s just that I understand.”

“Yeah, right. You. The perfect Indian.”

“Perfect?” She started clearing the table, moving at a frustrated pace. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. I wasn’t raised in a mansion, Walker. My father ran off before I was born, and my mother was all alone, trying to survive on welfare. To find us suitable places to live.”

“It’s not the same thing.” He gestured to Mary, who crossed her arms, hugging herself. “She let me think she was dead. At least your parents were honest.”

“Don’t point at her.” Tamra clanked the dishes. “Don’t do that. It’s not proper.”