True Colors Read online

  There were dark-skinned people in Cy's background. Myrna swore they were French, but Meredith had once heard someone mention that Cy's ancestors contained a full-blooded Sioux on his father's side. Many Plains people had mixed ancestry, but most of them weren't as prejudiced and snobbish as Myrna Harden.

  Blake Garrett Tennison would someday have to be told the truth about his parentage, Meredith thought worriedly. She didn't relish that at all. For now, he accepted that the tall, fair man who used to laugh and bring him things was his real father. In most senses, he was. Henry had spoiled Meredith shamefully, attended LaMaze classes with her, treated her pregnancy as if he'd been responsible for it, and showered her with luxuries when little Blake was born. He stayed with her through the delivery, and he cried when the child was placed in his arms. Oh, yes, Henry really was Blake's father in so many ways. He'd earned the right.

  She often wondered why Cy had apparently never considered the possibility of Meredith becoming pregnant during their brief affair. Presumably his women were usually on the Pill, because he'd never even asked if she was. Not that he'd been in any condition to ask, the first time or the others. She dreamed about him sometimes, about the fierce pleasure he'd taught her to share with him. But she never told Henry about the dreams or compared him with Cy. It wouldn't have been fair. Henry was a gentle, skillful lover, but she'd never attained the heights with him that Cy had taken her to so effortlessly.

  Blake cuddled his plush toy alligator. "Isn't Barry the Alligator nice?" he asked. "Mr. Smith let me pet Tiny. He says you should let me have an iguana, too, Mommy. They make very nice pets."

  She laughed gently at Blake's adult-sounding speech. He was almost six, and he already had a tremendous grasp of language. He would be ready to start first grade next year. This year he attended private kindergarten until one each afternoon, and he was learning fast. Meredith knew that Cy had never married. She allowed herself to wonder for one long instant what Myrna Harden would think of her grandson. It was unlikely that the elderly woman would covet him, of course, since he was Meredith's. And a grandchild would tarnish the youthful image she tried so hard to project.

  "Can't I have an iguana?" Blake persisted.

  "You can pet Tiny, when Mr. Smith lets you."

  "Doesn't Mr. Smith have a first name?" he asked, frowning.

  She laughed. "Nobody has the nerve to ask," she whispered.

  He laughed, too, his young voice delightfully carefree. Had she ever been that happy, she wondered, even as a child? The premature death of her parents had left scars. Thank God there had been Aunt Mary and Uncle Raven-Walking to look after her. They'd loved her, even if nobody else ever had.

  Blake sighed. "I wish I could go with you."

  "One day soon," she promised. "Then I'll take you to the Crow reservation and you can meet some of your Indian cousins."

  "Real Indians?" he asked.

  "Real Indians. I want you to be proud of your ancestry, Blake," she said seriously, smiling at him. "One of your distant relatives actually scouted for General Custer before the battle of the Little Bighorn."

  "Wow!" he said, all eyes. He frowned. "Who was General Custer, Mommy?"

  "Never mind." She shook her head. "Time enough for that when you're older. Now, I have to pack."

  "Blake!"

  The thunderous voice echoed along the upstairs landing.

  "In here, Mr. Smith!" Blake called.

  Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, and a tall, balding hulk of a man walked into the room. Mr. Smith had a Marine Corps tattoo on one brawny arm, and he wore khaki slacks with an olive drab T-shirt. He was the ugliest, and the kindest, man Meredith had ever known. He had to be in his middle or late forties, but nobody knew just how old he was. He had a spotless service record and had come from a successful career in the CIA to work for Henry Tennison. After Henry's death, Meredith had inherited him, so to speak. From his big nose to his green eyes and square face, he was a treasure. He'd aborted the kidnapping attempt on Blake. And nobody bothered Meredith when he was with her. She raised his salary every year without his having to ask. Next to Blake, he was the most treasured person in her private life.

  "Bedtime for you, mister," Mr. Smith told Blake without cracking a smile. "Front and center."

  "Yes, sir!" Blake saluted, laughing, and ran to the big man, to be swung up on his shoulders.

  "I'll settle him for the night, Kip," he told Meredith. His eyes narrowed. "You shouldn't go. You need another week in bed."

  "Don't fuss," she said gently, and smiled at him. "I'm all right. I have to do something with Aunt Mary's things you know. And it's a dandy opportunity to reconnoiter the opposition."

  "Recon what?" Blake asked.

  "Never mind," she told him. She leaned forward and kissed his rosy cheek. "Sleep tight, my lad. I'll be along to tuck you in."

  "Mr. Smith is going to tell me about Vietnam!" Blake told her excitedly.

  Meredith grimaced. Vietnam War stories hardly seemed the proper bedtime tales for a young boy, but she didn't have the heart to argue.

  "I want to hear about the snake again."

  She frowned at Blake. "The what?"

  "The snake. Mr. Smith is teaching me about all the animals and stuff in Vietnam," he continued.

  She flushed. She'd thought the stories were about something else entirely.

  Mr. Smith saw the flush and almost smiled. "Fooled you, huh?" he asked smugly. "That's what you get for misjudging innocent people."

  "You're not innocent people," she pointed out.

  "I'm innocent of a few things," he argued. "I never shot anybody twice."

  She looked toward the ceiling. "My bodyguard, the saint."

  "Keep that up and I'll go back to the government," he promised. "They treat a guy right."

  "I'll bet they never bought you kidskin moccasins and your very own Jacuzzi," she said haughtily.

  "Well, no."

  "And they don't give you three weeks' paid vacation and offer you free hotel rooms and carte blanche at restaurants," she continued.

  "Well"

  "And they don't hug you like I do," Blake exclaimed, throwing his arms around Mr. Smith's thick neck as hard as he could.

  Mr. Smith chuckled, returning the hug. "Got me there," he admitted. "Nobody in the CIA ever hugged me."

  "See?" Meredith asked smugly. "You're well off and don't know it."

  "Oh, I know it," he said. "I just like to watch you squirm."

  "One of these days," she began, pointing a finger at him.

  "That's our cue to leave, Blake," Mr. Smith said, turning with the boy in his arms to head for the door. "She's good for an hour on that subject."

  Meredith hid a smile and went back to her packing.

  Two days later she arrived in Billings on the bus. She could have flown, but that was an admission that she had money. A bus ticket was considerably cheaper, and besides, the bus station was located next door to the office of Harden Properties, Inc.

  She waited for her suitcase, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pair of jeans and a faded denim jacket over a sweatshirt. She wore a pair of scuffed boots she'd used for riding back home, and she'd left off her makeup. By and large, she looked very much as she had the day she'd taken the bus out of Billings six years before. Except that she had a different secret now, one she was going to enjoy keeping until the proper time.

  In an office building just catercorner to the bus station, a man sitting at a desk happened to notice the movement of passengers disembarking. He got out of his swivel chair and moved to the one-way window, staring down with dark eyes that seemed to burst with mingled emotions.

  "Mr. Harden?"

  "What is it, Millie?" he asked without turning.

  "Your letter"

  He had to force himself to turn away from the window. Surely not, he thought. That couldn't be her, not after all these years. He'd seen her in crowds before, only to get closer and find another face, the wrong face. But he felt as if
it were Meredith. His heart began to beat with the fierce rhythm she'd taught it. He felt alive for the first time in six years..

  He sat down, his tall, fit body in a dark blue suit so striking that even his secretary of many years stared at him. He was thirty-four now, but sometimes his lean, deeply tanned face seemed older than its years. There were lines around his eyes, too, and threads of gray in his thick, black hair. He had an elegant look for a man whose primary interest was agricultural properties and acquisitions and who had a ranch and spent time with cattle and horses.

  "Forget the letter," he said abruptly. "Find the address of Mary Raven. Her husband was CrowJohn Raven-Walking, but they're listed in the phone directory as Raven. They moved into town two or three years ago."

  "Yes, sir." Millie left to find the address for him.

  Cy continued to sit, turning to read some new contracts and an inquiry from one of his directors about a few mining leases he'd refused to cede to Tennison International. He looked at the papers without seeing them as memories flooded back, memories six years old of a woman who'd betrayed him and left town under a cloud of suspicion.

  "Sir, there's an obituary here," Millie said as she returned thumbing through the local paper. "I saw it last week and meant to mention it. Well, I remembered, you know, about that Ashe girl who was involved in the theft six years ago."

  Cy bristled. "Her part in it was never proved," he corrected.

  Her eyebrows arched, but she was concentrating on the column and hardly heard him. "Yes, here it is. Mrs. Mary Raven, and here's the addressthey print it, you know. She was buried two days ago. No family is listed at all. I suppose they didn't know about Miss Ashe at the newspaper"

  "Give me that." He took the paper and pored over it. Mary was dead. He remembered her from the Crow reservation, where she and Raven-Walking had lived until the old gentleman's death two years ago. Mary had moved into town. God only knew how she'd managed to afford a house on her Social Security. Cy hadn't seen the house but knew about it because he'd seen her one day in Billings. He'd questioned her harshly about Meredith, but she wouldn't tell him anything. She was frankly evasive and even a little frightened. He grimaced, remembering his desperation to find Meredith. The old lady had practically run to get away from him. He hadn't followed her, but he'd been tempted to go and see her. Then he'd realized that it would accomplish nothing. He'd only upset her more. Besides, the past was dead. Meredith was probably married by now, with a house full of kids.

  The thought hurt him. He sighed angrily. Well, she'd be coming back, surely. In fact, that could have been Meredith he'd just seen. Someone would have to tie up all the loose ends that Mary's death created. He knew that Meredith was Mary's closest living relative.

  He sat back in his chair, scowling. Meredith was here. He knew she was. He didn't know whether he was sorry or glad about it. He only knew that his life was about to be disrupted all over again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  » ^ «

  It was too much to hope for that Cy would walk out of his office building and run headlong into her, Meredith decided as she watched the city bus head toward the Billings station. He might not even be in town. Like Henry, and now herself, business demanded frequent trips to business meetings and conferences. And for her to run into the object of her youthful desire today would require a ferocious kind of coincidence or a helping hand from fate.

  She boarded the bus and got off several minutes later near the Rimrocks. Her aunt's little house sat on a dead-end street sheltered by towering cottonwood trees. This house, thank God, held no memories for her. When Meredith lived here, Great-Aunt Mary's home was a small matchbox on the reservation. When she dated Cy, they always wound up in the penthouse he kept at the Sheraton, the tallest building in the city. She ground her teeth, remembering. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back here after all. With the city of her youth around her, memories hurt more.

  She unlocked the door with the key Mr. Hammer, the Realtor, had sent her. September was chilly here in southeastern Montana, and the snows weren't far away. She hoped to be long gone before they trapped her.

  The house was cold, but fortunately Hammer had remembered to have the utilities put on for her. There was a gas stove with the pilot light already burning, and the electricity worked. He'd even been kind enough to leave her a few groceries. Typical Montana hospitality, she thought, smiling. People here looked out for each other. Everybody was friendly and kind, even to tourists.

  Her eyes lingered on the old but functional furniture. Everything was done in Early American, because that was what Great-Aunt Mary liked. But she had kept many of her late husband's treasures. The medicine shield and bag that he always displayed so proudly were on the one wall. His pipe, with its exquisite decoration, rested on another peg, as did the bow and arrows his own grandfather had made for him in his youth. There were several parfleche bags filled with secret things in a coffee table drawer. There was a huge mandala on another wall, and assorted dried skins and woven hangings on the others. Dead potted plants covered almost every available surface. Great-Aunt Mary's plants had been her greatest treasures, but they'd gone without water since her death and now were beyond savingexcept for one philodendron, which Meredith took to the kitchen and watered, then placed gently on the Formica counter.

  When she noticed the telephone on the wall, Meredith felt a stab of relief. She was going to need it. She was also going to need her fax machine and her computer with its internal modem. Smith could bring all that equipment out, and she could make use of Aunt Mary's library as an office. It had a door that locked, to protect her secret from prying eyes in case any of the Hardens ever made it this far.

  Meredith was a little concerned over the amount of time this project was going to take, but the mineral leases were her top priority right now. The domestic operation simply couldn't move ahead with its expansion program without them. She was committed, however long it took. She'd have to keep up with business through Don and the telephone and hope for the best.

  Worst of all was the time away from Blake. He was becoming hyperactive in school. Her lifestyle was apparently affecting him more than she'd realized. And business had edged its way between them until she couldn't even sit down to a meal with her son without being interrupted by the telephone. He was on edge, and so was she. Maybe she could use this time to her advantage, to catch up on work so that she could have more time with him when she got home again.

  She made herself a pot of coffee, smiling at the neatness of the little kitchen with its yellow walls and white curtains and oak furniture. Aunt Mary hadn't wanted to let Meredith and Henry buy her this house and furnish it, but they'd convinced her finally that it was something they wanted to do. Despite the fact that she had friends and cousins on the reservation, they wanted her close to her best friend, Miss Mable, who'd offered to look after her. Miss Mable had died only a few weeks before Mary. Perhaps they were together now, exchanging crochet patterns and gossiping on some ghostly front porch. Meredith liked to think of them that way.

  Her fingers were cold, and she almost spilled the coffee as she poured it. Aunt Mary's doilies were everywhere in the living room, intricate patterns of colored thread that she'd crocheted so beautifully. It was a shame to use them, and Meredith knew that she wasn't going to let them be sold with the house when the time came. She'd have to choose some personal items to keep, especially the doilies and quilts, and of course Uncle Raven-Walking's legacy for little Blake.

  As Meredith's gaze lingered on the beautifully decorated parfleche bags she had removed from the drawer, she remembered sitting on Uncle Raven-Walking's knee while he told her stories about the long-ago times of the People and how they'd enjoyed their horse-taking forays into Cheyenne and Sioux camps, and vice versa. So much she'd read and seen about the Plains Indians was inaccurate. The thing she remembered most from her uncle was his teachings about giving and sharing, traits that were inherent in Crow society. The giving of gifts and the sharing of
acquired wealth were commonplace among these Indians. Selfishness was virtually unknown. Even the religion of the Crow focused on brotherly love and giving to the less fortunate. Nobody went hungry or cold in the camps of long ago. Even enemies were fed and gifted and allowed to go their own way, if they promised never again to make war on the Crow. No enemy was attacked if he walked into camp unarmed and with peaceful intent, because courage was admired.

  CourageMeredith sipped her coffee. She was going to need plenty of that. Myrna Harden's face flashed before her eyes, and she shivered. She had to remember that she was no longer eighteen and poor. She was twenty-four, almost twenty-five, and rich. Much richer than the Hardens. It was important to keep in mind that she was equal to them socially and financially.

  Her eyes settled on Uncle Raven-Walking's medicine pouch. It contained, among other things, kinnikinnickwillow shavings used as tobaccoand sage, some gray dust from the Custer battlefield, a tiny red rock, a red-tailed hawk feather and an elk tooth. She'd opened it once secretively and looked in. Later she'd asked her uncle about the contents, but all he was willing to say was that it was his own personal "medicine," to keep away evil and protect him from enemies and ill health. How ironic, she mused. Her people seemed to think money and power were the answers to the riddle of what made life bearable. But Uncle Raven-Walking had never cared about having things or making money. And, content to work as a security guard for Harden Properties, he was one of the happiest people Meredith had ever known.

  " Wasicun ," she murmured, using a Plains Sioux word for whites. It meant, literally, "You can't get rid of them." She laughed, because it seemed to be true. The Crow word for whites was mahistasheeda literally, "yellow-eyes." Nobody knew why. Maybe the first white man they saw was jaundiced, but that was the expression. Crow called themselves Absaroka "People of the fork-tailed bird." Meredith had loved the huge Montana ravens as a girl. Perhaps the forerunners of the Crow had loved them, too.