The Bride Price. Suzanne Carey

use—his by right, or otherwise. As for her good graces, it would take a lot for him to storm the moat that protected them.

      It occurred to her that acceptance of him and surrender weren’t that far apart. He wants to go to bed with me, she acknowledged with a little shiver of anticipation. Complete the conquest my scruples denied him. And he’s laying the groundwork.

      “Don’t worry, Dad,” she fibbed. “I’m immune to his charms. As for Paul’s case, we didn’t really discuss it. He did mention Leonard Naminga and the fact that he’d been raped in prison. I suppose this is as good a time as any to ask if you could use your influence to help him win parole.”

      

      To Kyra’s surprise she fell asleep that night the moment her head hit the pillow. She wasn’t to be so fortunate in escaping thoughts of David the following day, however, as she set about reinterviewing the prosecution’s key witnesses. Everything about the reservation’s arid moonscape reminded her of him, as she drove from Flagstaff to Moenkopi to talk with the young girl who’d seen a man in Paul’s costume enter Ben Monongye’s dressing room trailer.

      David grew up out here, she thought, poor as mud, no doubt imbibing a sense of wrong done by the white man along with the beans, cornmeal mush and watered-down coffee that were his daily fare as a child. Maybe his reason for leaving me was as simple as the fact that he didn’t want to get married and I was holding out for that. Maybe the money my father offered him seemed like recompense for the hardships he’d endured…a kind of well-deserved bonus.

      Whatever his motives had been, he would be pleased to learn that she’d continued to ask the question she’d posed to Julie outside the jail, namely, “Did anyone besides Paul want Ben Monongye dead?” And begun to compose a list of the Hopi construction company owner’s enemies, if only for her own reference.

      She wasn’t terribly surprised when some of the same names kept cropping up. Feeling more like an independent investigator than a member of the prosecution team, she justified the path she was taking by reminding herself that her father was sworn to seek justice, no matter what form it took.

      That night, the Miners, Marie Johnson—also a neighbor—and the Cargills, along with their son, Dale, were scheduled to arrive at her father’s house for dinner and an evening of bridge, beginning around 6 p.m. Though it was to be an informal affair, Big Jim’s part-time housekeeper had been engaged to cook for them.

      Given the fact that she’d probably draw Dale for a bridge partner, Kyra was far from heartbroken when he failed to show up on time and the meal started without him. Maybe she would get lucky and he wouldn’t come at all, she thought. Her father and his friends could play hearts, or something.

      To her chagrin, he phoned as the roast beef was being served, to let them know he hadn’t mixed up the date. She was privileged to take the call.

      “A problem came up at one of my construction sites,” he said, his somewhat nasal twang faintly slurred as if he’d downed a couple of stiff drinks on the job. “Feel free to start without me. I’ll be there as soon as I can make it.”

      I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, Kyra thought, as she gave her father the message.

      Grateful the table talk didn’t revolve around her renewed acquaintance with David and the history of their relationship, Kyra murmured whatever responses she deemed necessary as she pushed her food around on her plate without really paying strict attention. However, one item of gossip caught her interest. It arose as part of a discussion of the latest Washington, D.C., scandal, in which yet another senator had resigned, hoisted by the petard of his salacious and ill-advised personal diary.

      “I’ll confess…I’m surprised anyone would bother to jot down the details of daily life nowadays, what with all the obligations everyone has,” Big Jim remarked. “Let alone use their diary as a confessional.”

      Betty Cargill differed with him. “Lots of people keep diaries,” she said. “I always have. So has Dale. He probably picked it up from me. Though he’s hardly the literary type, while I’m a former English teacher, he’s kept one faithfully since high school. As for using them as confessionals, they’re therapeutic.”

      Hoping to duck out when the meal was finished and leave the card-playing to her elders, Kyra stifled her disappointment when Dale arrived as dessert was being served. It didn’t take much coaxing on Big Jim’s part to talk him into having roast beef and mashed potatoes first, thus prolonging the agony. She was forced to watch him shovel food into his mouth as she helped the housekeeper pick up the plates while Red Miner and her dad set up the card tables.

      Gradually the thought of being Dale’s partner—having to put up with his clumsy flirting, dull conversation and ineptness at cards for an entire evening—became too much for her and an escape plan took root. What I want is to see David, she thought. That’s all I care about.

      She just wasn’t sure she had the guts to take him up on his invitation. It was entirely possible that, if she drove out to his house without warning, she’d find that Suzy Horvath had beaten her to the punch.

      There was only one way to find out.

      “Dad…everybody…I’m developing a nasty headache, probably from poring over court files and driving out to the rez,” she said, employing the local epithet for reservation, “to talk to witnesses without my sunglasses.” She massaged her temples for emphasis. “If it wouldn’t be too detrimental to your fun, I’d like to opt out of cards tonight…take a drive instead. A little fresh air might help.”

      Before Dale could try to talk her out of it or offer to come along, the Miners begged off, too. “Red was out at that accident scene until 3 a.m.,” Flossie said. “And, like a fool, I waited up for him. We really aren’t up to counting trump this evening.”

      Giving Flossie a grateful look while avoiding her father’s unspoken questions, Kyra snatched up her purse, a cardigan sweater that matched her pullover and her car keys. You’re probably crazy to do this, she chastised herself as she got into the Cherokee and headed northeast on her way out of town. Nothing good can come of it.

      

      At the same time Kyra was heading out the door, David received a call from Suzy Horvath. “I know it’s a little late to call with an invitation, but have you eaten yet?” she asked, when he answered on the first ring. “If not, what do you say I pick up a bottle of wine and some steaks… come out and cook for you?”

      Briefly silent, David admitted to himself that, before Kyra had come back into his life, he’d probably have taken her up on it. “Not tonight,” he answered, declining to add a word of explanation.

      Her voice betrayed disappointment, incipient jealousy. “Sure I can’t tempt you?” she persisted, her bright, friendly manner failing to hide her urgency.

      Though he hated to hurt her feelings, his answer was unequivocal. “Sorry. But I have other plans.”

      After hanging up the receiver, David headed back to the island range top in his cozy wood, stone and copper kitchen in order to add some seasoning to the slow-cooked Navajo lamb stew he was making. He wondered if those plans he’d referred to would be realized. The worst that could happen was that he would dine alone, he guessed. In view of his mood, it was probably his second-best option.

      He was probably mad to expect that on the strength of a casual, nonspecific invitation, Kyra would materialize. Yet as he’d removed the lamb chunks from the freezer after finishing his day’s work, he’d had her in mind. Wanting her there, in his house, had become an obsession from the day Jody Ann Daniels had informed him she’d be helping her father with Paul’s case.

      In a way, this house was built for her, he acknowledged, though he’d never really thought she would set foot in it. He got out the ingredients for the corn dumplings that would steam to delicious tenderness atop the bubbling, aromatic stew his grandmother, Mary Many Horses, had taught him to make.

      He, who had balked at marriage when she’d been so eager to wear his wedding ring, had