The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes. Emilie Rose

      Walker took a deep breath. She looked pretty when she smiled. Softer, like the woman his father had probably fallen in love with. David Ashton had been a sentimental man, that much he knew. That much Spencer had told him.

      “Thank you,” Mary said to Walker.

      He gave her a quick nod. “You’re welcome.”

      “I’ll make you a shield.” She searched his gaze. “Your dad always wanted you to have one.”

      His white father wanted him to have a Lakota object? Walker didn’t understand, but he tried to pretend that it made sense. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with a shield.

      Declare war on another tribe? Hang it on his living room wall? Somehow he didn’t see it complementing his contemporary decor. An interior designer had spent months laboring over his hillside condo.

      Tamra spoke up. “The meal is ready. We should probably eat now.”

      “Yeah, sure.” Anything to divert his mother’s attention, he thought. To make her forget about the shield.

      “I’ll put these in water.” Mary took the flowers into the kitchen, where a simple table presented casual china, paper napkins and stainless steel flatware.

      Walker waited for the women, intending to push in their chairs. But his mom tapped his shoulder and told him to sit, anxious to serve him. When she filled his glass with milk, he wondered if she’d forgotten that he was no longer eight years old.

      Finally Mary and Tamra joined him, and they ate a hearty stew, an iceberg lettuce salad and rolls smothered in butter. It was the kind of meal a farmer’s wife would prepare, he thought. Middle America. Only this was a South Dakota reservation.

      He looked across the table at his mom. At Mary. His mind kept bouncing back and forth. He didn’t know what to call her. How to refer to the woman who’d given him life.

      “Did Spencer treat you well?” she asked.

      He blinked, tried not to frown. “Yes. I was close to my uncle.” And probably the only Ashton who could make that claim. No one had forged a bond with Spencer, not the way Walker did. But even so, it had been a hard-earned alliance. Spencer had been a complicated man.

      “You’re not close to him anymore?”

      “Spencer is dead. He was murdered a few months ago. Shot to death in his office. Charlotte found his body.”

      “Oh, my. Oh.” His mom fidgeted with her food. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

      When she stopped talking, the walls closed in. The kitchen was already cramped, the table too small for three people. Tamra sat next to him, too close for comfort.

      He was still mourning his uncle, still missing him. Yet Spencer’s betrayal kept him awake at night.

      “Will you tell me about Charlotte?” Mary said.

      He nodded, knowing how much this mattered to his sister. “She’s engaged to Alexandre Dupree, a winemaker from France. He isn’t the kind of man I’d envisioned for her, but they’re crazy about each other.” Madly in love, he supposed. “My sister was always shy, sort of dreamy. And Alexandre is—” he paused, trying to find a word to describe Charlotte’s fiancé “—worldly.”

      “Like a prince.” Mary sighed, already slipping into her daughter’s fairy tale.

      “I guess, yeah. Women probably think so.” Walker knew that Alexandre had given his sister everything she needed, including the strength to investigate their family, to discover that Mary was still alive. “They’re in Paris. Charlotte needed to get away after Spencer’s funeral. But she made me promise that I’d search for you.”

      “I’m glad she did.” Mary’s eyes were watery again. “Do you have a picture of her?”

      He shook his head. “I didn’t think to bring one. But I’m sure she’s going to rush back to meet you. Her and Alexandre.”

      “I can’t wait to see her. And her fiancé, of course.” Mary scooted closer to the table. “Is there someone special in your life, son?”

      “Me?” Without thinking, he glanced at Tamra. She turned toward him, and he shifted in his seat, wondering if she had a significant other, if she was sleeping with some big Indian buck.

      Then he recalled the blonde in a San Francisco bar who’d tried to pin that phrase on him. A racial slur that had made him feel dirty.

      “I’m not involved with anyone,” he said. “I’m too busy with my career. Investment banking.” More than ready to change the subject, he questioned his mom. “So, what kind of work do you do?”

      She smoothed her gray-streaked hair. “I’m a nurse’s aid at the PHS.”

      “PHS?”

      “Public Health Service Hospital.” She sat up a little straighter, proud of her job. “It’s easier for me than some of the other aids. I lived in the white world, so I have a better understanding of the white doctors and nurses who work there.”

      Tamra interjected. “Most of the doctors are young. Physicians who received government loans for medical school. So they’re paying back those loans by performing public health services on the reservation for a few years.”

      And probably hating every minute of it, he thought.

      Tamra continued, “Our society equates wisdom with age, so it’s difficult for our elders to accept young doctors. And there’s often a language barrier. Far too many cultural differences.” She glanced at his mom. “Mary is a valuable asset. The patients trust her. And so do the nurses and doctors.”

      Unsure of how to respond, he ate another a bite of stew. Mary sounded like a caring woman, yet she’d allowed her children to believe she was dead. He wanted to grill her about the past, to bombard her with accusations, but having Tamra nearby complicated the situation even more.

      She’d taken his place. She’d been raised by the lady who’d let him go. And worse yet, he was attracted to Tamra.

      A disaster in the making.

      When he reached for his drink, he brushed her arm, a touch that made him much too aware.

      “Sorry,” he said. “I’m left-handed.”

      “It’s okay.” She tried to move away from him, to give him more room, but her effort proved useless. There was nowhere to go. They were stuck.

      Yet his mother was smiling. “Walker used to do that when he was little, too.”

      “You mean this?” He lifted his milk, bumping Tamra’s elbow, nearly knocking the roll out of her hand.

      Everyone laughed. A silly incident. But it felt good. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

      A few moments later, silence engulfed him. No one could think of anything to say, so they resumed their meal, making noise with spoons and forks and butter knives.

      He glanced at a clock on the wall and imagined it ticking. Like a bomb, he thought. Like the day Spencer had taken legal custody of him and his sister, the day he’d been told that both of his parents had died.

      Charlotte had been too young to understand, to comprehend the cold, harsh reality of never seeing Mommy and Daddy again. But she’d cried just the same.

      Walker stopped eating. His childhood memories were scattered, lost in the darkness of his mind. But not about that day. He remembered it vividly.

      “Why did you do it?” he asked Mary, unable to hold back his emotions, to keep faking this reunion. “Why did you give us away?”

      Two

      “I’m sorry, Walker.” Mary’s voice quavered. “I should have explained everything right