Arrowpoint. Suzanne Ellison

sorry, Michael,” Renata told him. “It was just an idea.”

      “Not a bad one, actually. Do you suppose he might be hiding out in somebody else’s barn around here?”

      “He might, but if he is, then he’s already safe for the night,” she assured him. “This time of year he won’t get cold as long as he’s dry. But we could go visit all my neighbors...”

      Michael shook his head. “No, it’s too late to get everybody in the county out of bed. Besides, Grand Feather would hear us coming and take off anyway. He’s probably better off in some haymow than he would be chased off into the night.”

      Wearily he plopped down on an old milking stool and faced Renata. He felt engulfed by the silence of the empty building. Its lingering scents of leather, hay and horses reminded him of his childhood. After a moment he mused, “There’s something terribly lonely about an abandoned barn.”

      Renata seemed to bristle. “I’d hardly call it abandoned, Michael. I still live here.”

      “I thought you lived in Milwaukee.”

      “Well, I do. At least most of the time. I rent an apartment so I can work there.” She gestured toward the empty stalls. “But my family has lived here since 1840. This will always be my home.”

      Michael didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out just how her family had come to own the land.

      “It’s hard to believe I used to spend half of every day out here,” Renata mused, fingering a rein that hung from a harness tacked up on the wall.

      Michael studied her in the dim light. God, she was a beauty. So natural, so unfettered. Like a filly in the spring. “You had a horse?”

      “I had three.” She grinned at him. “We had chickens and a milk cow, too, when I was little.”

      A tired smile crept onto Michael’s face. “A real country girl, huh?”

      She chuckled. “I was raised on a farm. What else could I be?”

      I was raised in a shack, but it might as well have been a wigwam made of bark or hide, he felt the urge to tell her. But that would open up old memories and new concerns. This wasn’t a date; it was no time to get better acquainted. Renata was a stranger helping him look for his grandfather. That was all.

      Seeming to sense his discomfort, Renata prosaically suggested, “I suppose we could check the basement, Michael, if you think he might be able to break a lock or find some other way to sneak inside.”

      Michael fought back the urge to ask if she was making assumptions about sneaking Indians, but restrained himself. Renata didn’t deserve that kind of crack. The woman who did was a thousand miles away. She probably didn’t even remember his face anymore. He wished he could forget hers.

      “Sure, why not,” he agreed wearily. “I don’t think he’s there, either, but he sure as hell isn’t here.”

      Silently he followed Renata back toward the house, taking note of the way her hips swayed just a little bit from side to side. She made no special effort to put on female airs. She was just herself—bold in some ways; in others, understated. Whatever the combination was, it spoke to Michael in some quiet nameless fashion.

      With great effort, he turned a deaf ear.

      Renata dug a key to the basement out of her pocket and opened the door. There was no indication that anybody had fussed with the lock. When she flipped on the light, Michael was surprised at what he saw. The barn was almost empty, but this protected room was stuffed to the gills with the remnants of a century of farm life. There were stacks of boxes, stacks of lumber, stacks of old paintings crammed together wall to wall. A cat could hide in here for a lifetime, but he didn’t think a human could even squeeze inside. It made his grandfather’s tiny shack seem downright spacious.

      “Your family sure doesn’t believe in holding on to things, do they?” Michael teased Renata, surprised that he could come up with a joke.

      Renata turned around, her eyes big and happy. For a moment he felt happy, too. Then he remembered what he was doing here.

      “I should have taken him back to Sugar Creek this morning,” he said soberly. “I can’t believe I lost him again.”

      She took a step toward him. “Your grandfather ran off to feel like a freewheeling adult. You’ve been treating him like a child. I don’t blame you for that,” she assured him. “I understand your obligations. But I don’t blame him, either, Michael. Wouldn’t you hate to be in his position?”

      He felt a fresh well of feeling for this white woman who so quickly seemed to grasp the heart of Winnebago ways. She didn’t fully understand what drove his grandfather, but she understood the part of the proud old man that still ached to call his own shots, who was not yet old enough to surrender. Grand Feather was still a warrior, or longed to be. And that would be true for the rest of his days.

      Suddenly Renata seemed entirely too close. Michael could smell the soft female scent of her, a blend of paint, shampoo and woman. He tried to step back before it grew intoxicating, but behind him there was a pile of bricks. To either side, there were boxes.

      “I’m the only one left,” she said quietly, her eyes looking sadder now. “Each time one of them died, we’d pack up everything because it hurt too much to look at it, but we couldn’t bear to throw their things away.” She gestured toward a giant crate in the corner. “My great-grandmother’s wedding dress is still in there. I always hoped I’d wear it one day.” As she turned toward another box near the steps, her shoulder brushed Michael’s, electrifying his senses. “This is Grandpa’s collection of Indian artifacts. He was so proud of it. I know I ought to donate these old arrowheads and moccasins to a museum, but I just can’t bear to give them away.”

      Michael didn’t want to think about Indian artifacts, painful memories of another space and time. He didn’t want to think about Renata, either, or feel touched by her loneliness. He didn’t need to know how many brothers and sisters she’d had or how many extended family members were part of the Meyer clan. The bottom line was that Renata was all alone now, and despite her spunk and cheery nature, the emptiness wore on her from time to time.

      He was sorry he’d made her come down to this sad room.

      He was also sorry that he was trapped so close to her, close enough to smell that clean womanly scent again. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to reach out and slip an arm around her waist to offer comfort and...whatever followed.

      It was one of those moments when a man and woman find themselves alone together and they both know that it’s time for something intimate to happen. Michael suddenly wanted very much to kiss Renata. He was sure it was what she wanted, too.

      “I’m going about this all wrong,” he said abruptly, desperately hoping that his panic wasn’t evident in his voice. He had to get away from her, had to break the mood before he did something he would surely regret. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had no choice. “I’ve been thinking what I’d do,” he babbled quickly. “I’ve been thinking white.”

      Renata licked her lips. Her eyes could not entirely conceal her disappointment, but she discreetly stepped away. “You need to think Winnebago?” she asked, as though the tender near-miss had not just happened.

      He nodded, grateful for her tact. And surprised that this confession did not embarrass him as much as it would have just this morning.

      “Do you still know how?”

      He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask him that. Now that she had, he found himself unable to tell her anything but the truth.

      “I can when I really work at it, but it’s a challenge when I’m hungry and wearing a suit and it’s the end of a long day.”

      Renata gave him the sort of smile a hardworking man gives up bachelorhood to come home to. “I can find some more of Grandpa’s old clothes to fit you, Michael,” she offered,