Arrowpoint. Suzanne Ellison

him magnificently before his night in the police car—folded his long legs and sat down on the mud-soaked blanket in front of his grandfather. Then he held up both hands the way the old man was and started to chant right along with him.

      Renata stared disbelievingly at Brick, then back at Michael again. She knew Michael loved the old man, so she wasn’t surprised that he was willing to do anything to get him to come inside. She might have been willing to sit in the mud herself, especially in her jeans. But Michael was wearing a suit! And he wasn’t just sitting there pleading with the old man. He was joining in the ritual, raising his hands, chanting the same syllables.

      It took Renata a moment to realize the symbolism of that simple act. He wasn’t feigning understanding. He knew the chant. He knew the sounds, the words, the gestures! He knew why his grandfather had come to this place, knew what he was doing, knew why he wouldn’t just get up and leave. And he clearly shared some part of his grandfather’s way of thinking, something that Renata guessed he couldn’t put into English words.

      She battled the weird feeling that she was sinking into quicksand. Right before her eyes, this terribly attractive businessman had turned into an Indian! All he was missing was the buckskin and braids.

      Suddenly there was a crackle from the cruiser. Brick quickly strode back, picked up the mike, barked a quick response and waved a hand. “Got an emergency,” he called to Renata. “Tell Michael I’ll be back for him as soon as I can.”

      In an instant the black-and-white car had pulled away, leaving Renata feeling like an interloper on her own property. It had been strange enough starting the day with one rain-soaked Indian doing eerie chants on her front lawn.

      Now there were two of them.

       CHAPTER TWO

      FOR NEARLY fifteen minutes, Renata stood on the porch, grateful for the overhang, while Michael and his grandfather chanted in the mud. She had no idea what was going through their minds, though she was reasonably certain it wasn’t the same thing. The old man was totally absorbed in his ritual, but Michael’s eyes were open and his neck muscles rippled with tension. Every now and then he made a mistake in the chanting and had to take a moment to pick up a clue from his grandfather. It was obvious that the ceremony, whatever it was, did not come easily to him.

      At last the old man stopped and lowered his arms. It didn’t seem to Renata that he was tired or resigned. He just seemed to be finished. At first he did not speak, but at last he opened his eyes and looked at Michael.

      A good two minutes of silence passed before Michael began to speak, and even then Renata could not understand him. To her he’d spoken clear, unaccented Midwestern English. To his grandfather he was speaking an unintelligible tongue that she took to be Winnebago. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound; it simply surprised her to hear a man in a suit use a language that seemed to belong to another world...another century.

      When Michael was done, the old man spoke, his own voice weak and quavery. He sounded calm but stubborn. Michael spoke again, gesturing to himself and then Renata. He sounded angry and embarrassed. She didn’t need to speak Winnebago to understand the look on his face.

      Whatever he said seemed to impress his grandfather, because for the first time the old one’s watery gaze drifted toward Renata. Then he looked down, as though he, too, were ashamed. By this time Renata was shivering with cold and so was the old man. Michael still looked tense. And incredibly handsome.

      At last he stood. Muddy water dripped down the legs of his ruined suit. He held out a hand to his grandfather, who ignored it but painfully struggled to rise on his own. The old man had to roll sideways to his knees and use both hands to push away from the ground, and even then he almost fell over. Michael kept his hand outstretched, leaning close to him, but he did not reach out to catch him. Renata was touched by his obvious effort to save the old man’s dignity.

      When Michael’s grandfather stood up and started toward the house, Renata could see that the night in the rain had taken its toll. He looked shaky and cold and exhausted. At once she said to Michael, “Why don’t you take him upstairs and warm him up with a hot shower while I find you both some dry clothes.”

      Michael’s eyes met hers with embarrassed gratitude as he nodded just once. Then Renata quickly slipped down to the basement while Michael and his grandfather moved slowly into the house.

      It wasn’t hard to find clothes for two men; the basement was full of Renata’s parents’ and grandparents’ clothes and keepsakes. She even had a trunk of her great-grandparents’ things. Sometimes, when she was feeling lonely, Renata spent hours down here, perusing old photos and letters or rearranging her grandpa’s box of artifacts. She had never regretted being raised without brothers and sisters because she’d had so much love from the grown-ups in her life. But one by one, death had claimed them all—tractor accident, cancer, kidney disease. Her grandfather had lived longer than his son; he’d been the last to go. But for four years now, Renata had been the last of her branch of the Meyers in Wisconsin. Until recently she’d been too busy trying to launch a career to worry much about marriage and children, but she knew that she was nearly ready to settle down. The pull was always strongest on the days she came to Tyler.

      Pushing away her maudlin memories, Renata quickly dug out several sizes of men’s jeans and T-shirts, plus some old long johns and a heavy jacket, despite the humidity, for the shivering old man. She took the clothes to the extra bedroom upstairs and knocked on the bathroom door. Over the sound of running water she called out, “The clothes are in the room next door. I’ll be down in the kitchen making breakfast if you want anything.”

      She heard a muffled “Thanks,” but nothing more.

      The instant Renata reached the kitchen she remembered that she hadn’t been here for more than a month, and she’d planned to stop at the grocery store after the meeting, on her way back from town. Fortunately she always kept a few staples on hand, so she had no trouble finding some coffee and a box of pancake mix. Normally she added milk and a fresh egg to the batter, but under the circumstances, water would have to do. Pancakes were a better choice than soup at this hour of the morning.

      She’d just started dropping batter onto the griddle when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She turned as Michael stepped into the room.

      He looked different in a pair of old jeans than he had in a suit. Renata’s father had been heavier than Michael, so the jeans were loose on him. So was the T-shirt. The casual look did nothing to diminish Michael’s attractiveness; if anything, it made him seem more accessible. Renata noticed that his hair was just as appealing wet as it was dry—thick, shiny, the fullness lifting it off his face before it curved under slightly on his shoulders.

      But what really drew her to him was the expression on his face. She’d never seen a man look quite like this—proud, grateful and embarrassed all at the same time. When Michael had arrived and found his grandfather, Renata had guessed he was caught up in fear and relief. But since then, a measure of shame had crept into his regal bearing.

      “I know Brick introduced us,” he greeted her quietly, “but I’m sorry to say I didn’t get a grip on your name.”

      “Renata Meyer.”

      “Michael Youngthunder.” He held out one strong brown hand, and Renata slipped hers into it. His was still cold, but the chilliness of his skin didn’t linger in his eyes. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your kindness to my grandfather. Most people would have called the cops and had him towed away.” He glanced toward the front lawn. “I put the slicker on the porch to dry.”

      “Thanks.” Renata tried to give him a reassuring smile, but somehow a smile didn’t work at the moment. When he gently disengaged his hand from hers, she realized belatedly that she’d gripped it in greeting and forgotten to let go.

      “We’re indebted to you,” Michael said sincerely. “If there’s anything my family can ever do for you, don’t hesitate