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

“Says who? People on the rez?” As if he gave a damn about Lakota etiquette. “Maybe someone should have told her that lying to her kids wasn’t proper.”

“Mary was on the verge of a breakdown when she lost your dad. And Spencer preyed on her emotions. He—”

Walker cut her off. He turned to his mom, needing to hear it from her. “Is that true?”

She nodded, and he realized how frail she looked, sitting alone at the table, listening to him and Tamra argue.

He resumed his seat, his heart pounding horribly in his chest. He wanted to call her a liar, but he knew his uncle had never tolerated gentle-natured women, especially when their wounds were still raw.

Yet he’d loved Spencer. He’d patterned his life after his father’s power-hungry brother.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what he did.”

“He came to see me in the hospital, right after your dad died. I was injured in the accident, nothing life threatening, but I still needed medical care.”

“How did he force you to give us up?”

“He threatened me. He said he would get Social Services involved. That he would prove that I was an unfit mother.”

“But you weren’t.” Walker studied the shadows under her eyes, the lines imbedded in her skin. “Were you?”

“Oh, God, no.” She reached across the table and brushed his hand. A featherlight touch. The touch of a mother who’d lost her son. “I never abused my babies.”

“I have no idea how you treated us.” Which made Spencer’s threats seem even more plausible, he thought. More frightening. “I can’t remember you and Dad. I just can’t.”

“It’s okay.” Mary’s voice went soft, sad. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.” Uncomfortable, he turned in his seat and noticed Tamra stood nearby. She’d fixed a pot of tea, some sort of herbal brew. When she offered him a cup, he looked up at her, and their gazes slammed straight into each other.

Heat. Emotion. The gates of Lakota hell.

He shouldn’t be staring at her. Not like this.

Only, he couldn’t seem to break eye contact.

And neither could she.

God help him, he thought. Suddenly he feared they were destined to be lovers, like misunderstood characters in a movie who yelled and screamed, then kissed like demons. He wasn’t a fortune-teller. He couldn’t predict the future. Yet he could feel the passion. The danger that awaited him.

He’d never been involved in a turbulent relationship. His affairs had never bordered on pain, on the kind of emotion that ripped a man apart.

But everything about Pine Ridge tore him in two.

Finally Tamra shifted her gaze, pouring Mary’s tea. Afterward she sat next to Walker again, and he could smell the lotion on her skin, a disturbing blend of summer botanicals. A fragrance that made him want her even more.

Soft, airy, far too real.

Mary looked at both of them. “Neither of you deserve this.”

“We can handle it.” He turned to Tamra, then considered bumping her arm. But he knew no one would laugh this time. His left-handed antics wouldn’t ease the tension. Nor would it change what was happening between him and Tamra.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We can handle it.”

Under the table, her leg was only inches from his, and the near contact made him warm. He didn’t understand why she affected him so deeply, why she made him yearn for a forbidden liaison.

Was he trying to punish her? Or was he hell-bent on torturing himself?

“Finish your story,” he said to Mary, trying to redirect his focus, to clear his head. “Tell me the rest.”

“I was afraid of Spencer. Of his money, his power.” She sipped her tea, clutching the cup with both hands. “When I was growing up, Lakota children were being put into foster care. Into white people’s homes because their own families were too poor.”

“And you thought Spencer could do that to us? That he could convince Social Services to take me and Charlotte?”

“Yes. I’d been away from the reservation for a long time. Married to your dad, being a farmer’s wife. But in the end I was just a poor Indian all over again. Except, this time I was mourning my husband and drugged with painkillers from the hospital. I couldn’t think clearly.”

“But this was the eighties. Wasn’t there something your tribe could have done to help you? To stop Spencer from taking us?”

“The Indian Child Welfare Act could have made a difference. But I didn’t know about it then. It went into effect after I left the reservation.” Her breath hitched, catching in her throat. “My life with your father was over. He was gone and the farm was in foreclosure. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere but here.” She glanced at the window, where a small breeze stirred the curtains. “But at the time, all I had to come back to was a rundown shack and an alcoholic brother.” She shifted her gaze. “Spencer threatened to use that against me. To drum up phony evidence that I was a drinker, too. That I hurt you and Charlotte. He knew people who would testify, who would lie for him.”

Once again, Walker battled his confusion. He wished Mary had fought for her rights. That she’d done whatever she could to keep him and Charlotte. Yet he was glad Spencer had been his uncle.

“I didn’t want my children growing up in foster care and thinking that I’d abused them,” his mother said. “To me, that was worse than being dead.”

Was it? Walker didn’t know. He didn’t have kids. He didn’t have anything in his life but his work, the career Spencer had groomed him for.

“There’s more,” Mary told him. “Something else your uncle did. It seemed horrible at first. Only it didn’t turn out to be a bad thing.”

“Really? What was it?”

“Money.” She nearly whispered, then raised her voice a little louder. “His attorney sent me a thirty-thousand-dollar cashier’s check after I got back to Pine Ridge. I didn’t want to cash it at first.”

“But eventually you did?”

“Yes.” She reached for his hand. “I did.”

Walker wanted to pull away from her. But he allowed her to touch him, feigning indifference, pretending that he could deal with the money.

With the sale of two small children…

The following day Tamra arrived at Walker’s motel, per his request. He met her outside, looking like the city boy he was, with his well-tailored clothes and men’s-fashion-magazine haircut. He wore the thick dark strands combed straight back and tamed with some sort of styling gel. Short but not conservative, at least not in a boring way.

Walker Ashton’s hair had sex appeal.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself.” She noticed that he seemed troubled. She hoped they wouldn’t end up in another argument. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just want to talk.” He reached into his pocket and removed some coins. “How about a soda?”