The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes. Emilie Rose

district, cursing Pine Ridge, a place that encompassed two million acres and some of the poorest counties in the nation.

      He would just as soon forget about that Native American hellhole, let alone claim to part of the Oglala Lakota Sioux Nation. While his sister had romantic notions about Indians, Walker was a realist. A liquored-up Native loitering in one of the paltry little towns had called him a stupid iyeska when he’d nearly stumbled over the man’s prone form.

       Iyeska.

      It was an insult he couldn’t even translate.

      Hot and tired, he unbuttoned his shirt and untucked it from his jeans, preparing to take a shower, to wash the grime from his body. He wasn’t used to the sweltering heat, to the depressing vastness of the land.

      When a knock sounded, Walker came to his feet, anxiety knotting his stomach. He’d left word with postal workers, BIA employees, anyone who seemed educated enough to listen. He’d even spoken with tribal cops, but no one had been particularly helpful. If anything, they’d treated him with indifference. The way he’d treated them, he supposed.

      He answered the door and stared at the woman on the other side. He hadn’t expected his visitor to be young and beautiful. She stood about five-seven, with shoulder-length black hair and exotic brown eyes.

      She wore a simple blouse and a pair of nondescript shorts, but her legs—

      When she raised her eyebrows at him, he quit checking her out and remembered that his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his chest and the sweat dampening his skin.

      Uncomfortable, he frowned at her, wondering if she thought he was an iyeska, too. Clearly, she was Indian, probably from the reservation.

      “Are you Walker Ashton?” she asked.

      “Yes.” He wanted to wipe his hands on his jeans. He didn’t like feeling disorganized and dirty. As the interim CEO of Ashton-Lattimer, an investment banking firm in San Francisco, he relied on cell phones, e-mails, fax transmittals and designer suits.

      She tilted her head. “I’m Tamra Winter Hawk. I live with Mary Little Dove Ashton.”

      His anxiety worsened. Deep down he’d hoped that he wouldn’t find his mom. That he could tell Charlotte that he’d done his best but a family reunion wasn’t meant to be.

      He shifted his stance. “How long have you lived with her?”

      “Mary took me in when I was a child.”

      “I see.” His mom had raised someone else’s kid while his baby sister had longed for maternal affection? That pissed him off, even if the details weren’t clear. “I’d like to speak with her.”

      “She’s at work. And she doesn’t know that you’re looking for her. She has no idea you’re here.”

      “But you do.” Apparently someone had told Tamra about the city-slick stranger who’d been poking around, driving from one poverty-laden county to the next, claiming to be Mary’s long-lost son. “So what’s the problem? Why are you keeping her from me?”

      Tamra didn’t respond. With her striking features and regal posture, she reminded Walker of a museum bronze, an untouchable object encased in glass.

      “I’d like to see your ID,” she finally said.

      He squinted into the sun, the hot, fiery ball blazing behind her. “What for?”

      “To make sure you’re who you say you are.”

      Who the hell else would he be? A government agent on the verge of breaking a treaty? Why would he sacrifice his time—his valuable time—to traipse across this godforsaken land if he wasn’t Mary’s son?

      He glared at her. If the police hadn’t asked for his ID, then why should she? “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

      “Then maybe I should leave.” Much too elusive, she turned away, her hair spinning in a dark circle.

      Walker wanted to let her go, but he knew he couldn’t. Charlotte would never forgive him.

      Frustrated, he removed his wallet and followed her into the parking lot. “Hold on.”

      Tamra stopped to face him. For a moment he was struck by how easily she’d managed to stir his blood, to fuel his temper.

      Walker didn’t let women get under his skin.

      Once again she reminded him of a bronze statue. Beautiful, breathtaking, far too aloof. Too bad he’d been taught to behave in museums, he thought. To keep his hands off the glass.

      “Will you take it out?” she asked.

      Take what out? he wondered, as his brain went numb.

      She waited, and he blinked away his confusion. She then asked him to remove his ID from his wallet.

      Complying with her request, he handed her his driver’s license. She scanned his identification, studying the photo. He knew it was a lousy picture. But those Department of Motor Vehicles cameras weren’t meant to be flattering.

      “Satisfied?” he asked, his unbuttoned shirt sticking to his skin.

      She returned his license. “I’ll talk to Mary when she gets home from work.”

      “Then what?”

      “I’ll call you and let you know when you can see her.”

      Right, he thought. Because Mary was queen of the reservation. Or the rez. Or whatever the term for that ghetto plain was.

      Aware of his animosity, Tamra sighed. “Your mother has been hurt. I’m only trying to protect her.”

      No kidding? Well, he’d been hurt, too. He had no idea why Spencer had lied to him years ago, telling him that his mom was dead. And now Spencer was dead, gunned down by an unknown assailant.

      Walker’s emotions were a flat-out mess.

      He motioned to his room, where he’d left the door open. “I’ll be here. Do you need the number?”

      “No, thanks. I already have it.” She paused, her voice turning soft. “Please don’t be angry, Walker. At least, not at Mary. She never quit missing you and Charlotte.”

      His chest constricted, making it tough to breathe.

      When he and Charlotte first moved in with Spencer, he used to whisper in the dark, telling her that Mommy and Daddy were angels, watching them from above. But eventually he’d settled into his new life, and he’d quit consoling his sister about the parents they’d lost.

      Spencer had become Walker’s mentor, the only person he’d strived to impress. He’d chosen the older man over everyone, including Charlotte, leaving her to fend for herself.

      “I’m not angry,” he said. But he was, of course. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he was mad as hell.

      At himself, at Spencer, at Mary.

      And at her, too. Tamra Winter Hawk.

      The girl his mother had raised.

      While the aroma of beef stew wafted through the house, Tamra helped Mary tidy the living room, dusting, vacuuming and fluffing pillows.

      Mary turned off the vacuum and looked around. “This place is dingy, isn’t it? No matter what we do, it’s still an old mobile home.”

      “It’s the same age as me. And I’m not old.” Besides, they had cozy furniture, indoor plumbing, heat in the winter and plenty of food in the icebox. To Tamra that was enough.

      But she knew how nervous Mary was. She’d been clucking around like a chicken in the rain, preparing for her son but drowning in the fear of seeing him.

      “Tell me about him, Tamra. Tell me about Walker.”

      What could she say that would put the other woman