A Man of His Word by Sarah M. Anderson

“You haven’t told any of the members of the Red Creek tribe?”
    â€œCertainly not.” Naylor actually stamped his foot on the porch, looking for all the world like an indignant parakeet. “And those—those—those savages destroyed several thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near the lot of them.”
    The little man sounded just like his uncle. Dan hadn’t gotten out much around here—just making the rounds between the rez, the ranch house and the dam site. Did everyone here talk like that? Was that why Rosebud had shut down that kiss so quickly—she was afraid he’d call her a savage?
    He knew better. Compared to this wart with an engineering degree? Dan had no doubt that Rosebud could fit in anywhere from a honky-tonk to the boardroom to one of those garden parties Mom was fond of having in the summer. As he watched the little man get into his sedan, he knew who the real savage was—and it wasn’t the pretty lawyer.
    By the time he found parking lot D, it had taken him almost an hour and a half. Damn GPS, he grumbled to himself as he kept an eye out for an old car and a young woman. He could track the value of the euro versus the yen from up in the saddle, no wires required, but with this GPS, left versus right turns seemed to be beyond the stupid thing. It was almost five o’clock on a Saturday night, and the campus was nearly deserted. There was Rosebud’s old car, parked at the far end of the lot. He didn’t see her—until he pulled into the parking space.
    She was sitting in the driver’s seat, a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Her hair was long and loose, and she was wearing a pale green T-shirt that was wonderfully snug. She almost looked like a college student instead of a top-notch legal eagle.
    When she saw him, she hopped out of the car, her eyes darting around. What was she so afraid of? But that thought was arrested by the sight of Rosebud stretching herself out. Dan decided that, no matter what came out of this evening, it was all worth seeing her in that particular pair of jeans, held tight to her hips with a respectable-looking buckle.
    He took it back. College girls never looked as good as she did.
    â€œHi,” she said with a careful smile. Her eyes darted up, and her grin grew. “Nice hat.”
    Dan tipped the new beaver-fur felt at her. “Thanks. I’m hoping to keep this one hole-free for at least a few days.”
    She tilted her head to one side, and all that black silk she called hair tipped over her shoulder. His mind immediately pulled up a memory from that first ride in the valley.
    It had to have been her. Sure, he’d heard some clueless idiots in the town outside the reservation claiming that all Indians looked alike, but no one else looked at him like she did. Again, he wondered what the hell her reason was. Most everybody had a reason, after all. His eyes darted down to the passenger seat. He didn’t see any gun-shaped lumps—but there was a lot of glove-box room. “I’m still asking around.” She was less than convincing, almost like she was tired of the lie.
    Dan let it slide. It was Saturday night in what passed as a big town in this state, and he was officially in the company of a beautiful, if slightly dangerous, woman. “You didn’t have to wait in the car. It’s a nice night out.”
    She gave him a look he couldn’t read. “Safer that way. The library’s already closed.” Before he could ask her what that was supposed to mean, she visibly shook herself and favored him with a sweet, almost shy smile. “Thanks for coming.”
    â€œWhat’s the problem with your car?”
    The weariness he thought he’d heard in her voice spread to her eyes. “It refused to start. It sounded a little funny on the drive down, but I thought it might at least get me home.”
    After