Once and Always

  Becky looked at her and took a deep breath. “I’m going to say this only once, Maisa Burnsey. I always thought there’d be time for Doc and me. That there wasn’t any hurry, no need to figure out anything between us.” She let out a breath, a tear trickling down her tough face. “But we nearly ran out of time. Don’t be a dumbass.”

  Becky stalked out of the kitchen and into the downstairs bath.

  Maisa was left staring down at her hands, wondering which would be the bigger mistake:

  Staying for Sam.

  Or leaving him.

  Maisa sighed and threw the dishrag in the sink before wearily tramping up the stairs to Sam’s bedroom.

  “Masha mine,” Dyadya rumbled from Sam’s bed—the only place left to put him when they’d got back. “What worries you?”

  “Nothing.” Maisa tried for a smile, but it wasn’t working. “Now that Beridze is gone, everything’s back to normal. We just have to wait for the roads to clear and we’ll be out of here.”

  “ ‘We’?” Dyadya’s voice was sharp. “I had the idea that you might be staying here with Sam West.”

  “No.” Maisa took a breath, steadying herself. “You don’t have to worry about that. You were right: there’s too much difference between us.”

  “You are sure of this, Masha mine?” His words were so gentle she nearly sobbed.

  She sank suddenly onto the side of the bed. “I really don’t see how he can forgive me, Dyadya.”

  The old man’s hand moved and then it was covering hers. He sighed.

  “You were right. We’re too far apart,” she whispered. “We wouldn’t have worked out any more than Mama and Jonathan.”

  “Such melodrama,” he chided gently. “Do you remember when I told you that sometimes as a man grows older, he regrets decisions he made in his youth?”

  She twisted to look at him. Despite his injuries, Dyadya was looking alert as he lay in Sam’s bed. “Yes?”

  “Well, Masha mine, I fear I have begun to regret things I have done—and not done.”

  She raised her eyebrows. She’d never heard Dyadya voice remorse for his bloody past.

  “Oh, not those actions.” Dyadya waved a hand, dismissing his years as a Russian mafiya. “No, I regret that I never fully told you why your father forced me to testify against Gigo Meskhi.”

  Maisa moved restlessly. “Dyadya—”

  “No, my Masha,” Dyadya said sternly. “You will listen this time, I think. Jonathan Burnsey did not like my closeness to you and your mother, but it was not for the reason you imagine. He worried less for his career and more for your safety.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” He asked softly. “You have years of prejudice, but think as a woman, not a child. I worked for the most powerful mafiya pakhan in the U.S. Is it not natural, then, that a father should fear such a connection? When he forced me to testify, he removed not only Meskhi from you and your mother’s life, but me as well. And I was the original source of this danger, was I not?”

  “But…” Her mind struggled to understand this new view of her history, her life. “But why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Perhaps he knew you wouldn’t listen.” Dyadya shook his head. “I do not know, but I think it is past time for you to talk to your father, Masha mine. You may find that he is not entirely the monster you think him. People rarely are. Too, I think nothing good comes from avoiding discussions such as these. Misunderstandings can live for years, can they not? All avoidable if one has but a little courage to talk over things, eh?”

  Maisa stared at her beloved uncle, too confused to respond for a moment.

  Then someone whooped from downstairs.

  Maisa rose and went to the head of the stairs to look.

  Downstairs Dylan turned from the front door. “There’s a plow coming through. We’re out!”

  She nodded and returned to Dyadya, her mind made up. “We need to get you, Doc, and Doug to a hospital.”

  Chapter Fifty

  “But you wanted me to get a job,” Karl said, wincing as his voice edged toward a whine.

  “Not by stealing our cultural heritage!” Molly had her lower lip outthrust, which wasn’t helping Karl with his thinking, because he just wanted to bite it. Main Street was deserted and the going was slow in the deep snow.

  They’d already brought Cookie to Frannie McIntyre, the local vet who lived just outside town. Frannie had a back-up generator on her little clinic and had assured Karl she could patch up Cookie, even as the bitch had been growling nastily at the vet. Good thing Frannie kept a supply of extra strong muzzles just for the sled dogs.

  He sighed heavily as they crossed the street to the Laughing Loon Café, which was missing its front window. Marie was going to be real pissed about that. Sam had asked them to rummage up whatever supplies remained so they could feed their prisoners and possibly keep them from freezing. Karl was of the opinion that freezing mafiya thugs wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but he wasn’t the police, so…

  They both looked up as a white pickup steered slowly around the corner of Fourth and onto Main. It drew to a stop before the Laughing Loon Café. Tick opened the front passenger door and jumped down next to them.

  He slammed the door shut and thumped it. “Thanks!”

  The driver, wearing a baclava and brown insulated coveralls, waved a leather mitten-clad hand and pulled away.

  Karl stared at Tick. “Where the hell have you been, man?”

  “Got stuck out past 52, spent two nights in the squad car, and then hitched a ride into town. You cannot believe the crap forty-eight hours I’ve had. Only half a Snickers and an old granola bar to eat, melted snow to drink. Right out of one of those survival shows.” Tick shook his head. “Hey, what happened to the window of Tracy’s Antique Shop?” He glanced around across the street and did a classic double take. “What. The. Hell?”

  Karl grinned. The municipal building—and indeed most of Main—was looking the worst for wear. “We’ve had a bit of trouble ourselves. Better check on Sam, he’ll fill you in. He’s in the police station.”

  “Uh… sure,” Tick said faintly. He stumbled across the street.

  Karl pushed open the door to the Laughing Loon Café and got back to important business. “I didn’t steal any cultural heritage,” he patiently explained—again. “I made the arrowheads myself, which means—Hey! I’m actually promoting our Native American heritage by making the tools of our ancestors.”

  He turned to grin in triumph at Molly, only to be met by the Stare of Exasperation, which, sadly, he had quite the experience with. “Karl, you’re not promoting anything by making fake arrowheads. It’s got to be breaking some kind of law to sell fake artifacts under pretenses.”

  “I never actually say the arrowheads are artifacts,” Karl pointed out. “Is it my fault that people on eBay see my ad and think the arrowheads are ancient?”

  “Yes,” Molly said decisively. She stepped into the kitchen and began going through drawers, although how she was going to find crackers in there, he didn’t know.

  Karl kicked the floor, which only hurt his toe. “It took me a lot of practice to make those arrowheads. It’s, like, a true talent. Do you want to suppress my natural creativity?”

  She snorted at that, not even bothering to look around.

  He watched her a minute, her hands working neatly and swiftly, as she rummaged through the drawers. A sort of longing welled up in him. He’d give away everything he had—his trailer, his truck, and his dogs—just to have Molly in his life. She was all he’d ever wanted, really.

  “Molly,” he said softly, creeping up behind her. His hands hovered over her shoulders. He wanted to touch her but was afraid of her reaction. “Molly, ’member when we were kids and you showed me how to bait a hook? And I showed you how to catch crayfish in the rocks? Do you remember laying out under the stars and you could name every one?”

  She’d stopped rummaging, stilling as she listened to him. “Not every star.??
?

  “It seemed like every star to me,” he said low and he dared to lay his hands on her shoulders. They were just the right height. “You knew the planets and the constellations and… and everything, Molly.”

  She breathed quietly under his hands.

  “You’re the prettiest woman on the reservation. Or even outside it,” he said, going all out. “The prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She turned, her brows knit and her voice sounded impatient. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, you are to me.”

  Her eyes widened, and he felt for the first time in days that she was actually listening to him.

  “I’m not educated like Walkingtall,” he admitted. “And I’m not as tall as he is—”

  She snorted again. “I don’t care about that.”

  He smiled. “Good. I know I’m not everything you want me to be, but Molly, I can try to be. For you.”

  She looked distressed at that, and he wondered what he’d said wrong until she laid her mittened hands on his chest and said, “You don’t have to change for me. I just want you to live up to your full potential.”

  “But I am,” he said, very earnestly, because maybe she didn’t see. “I know I don’t make a whole lot of money, and I probably never will, but I help out. I fixed Mrs. Thompson’s kitchen sink and didn’t charge a dime, although I did eat the stew she made for me. I brought Crazy Ole a mess of sunnies just last week and even stayed to hear his war stories. I volunteer-coach midget hockey, and we might even win a game this year. I might not be a lawyer or a doctor, but I don’t know that the rez needs more lawyers or doctors. Maybe it just needs people to help out. People like me.”

  “Oh, Karl,” Molly said, sounding helpless and tender.

  And he brought it home, leaning in to whisper, “I’ll give up my arrowhead making, I’ll give back the twenty-five thousand to that guy I already sold a couple of arrowheads to. Hell, Molly, I’ll even give up my mushing if you want. Just… just give me a chance.”

  He kissed her and it was just like in the movies, if the movies took place in a back kitchen without any heat, but that didn’t matter because between them they made heat, Molly and him. He saw stars, he heard trumpets, and he was pretty sure he was on his way to heaven when Molly pulled back.

  “How much did you sell those arrowheads for?”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “What do you mean she’s gone?” Sam stared, stunned, at Becky.

  Becky shrugged as she laid some kind of reheated hotdish in front of him. He was dog-tired. He’d spent the remainder of the day on paperwork and talking to bureaucrats who wanted to know how one of the most notorious Russian gangsters had ended up blown to pieces in a small-town Minnesota lake. He’d arrived back at his cabin hoping to spend some time with May.

  Only to find that she’d up and left.

  “She and Stu took them all to the hospital up in Alexandria,” Becky said softly, pouring him coffee. He never drank coffee for dinner. “I would’ve gone, too, but there was no more room in Stu’s truck. ’Spect I’ll go up tomorrow when the roads are clearer. Maisa called and said Doc was resting comfortably. They’ve got him on an antibiotic IV and he’s well enough to complain about the food. Apparently Doug actually likes hospital food, so Stu says he’s happy.”

  “Well, why didn’t she call me?” Sam pushed the plate away.

  Becky shrugged. “I don’t know, Sam.”

  He laughed. “She’s running again. God damn it, I thought we were over this.”

  Becky frowned. “A lot has happened in the last couple of days.”

  “Yeah, it has,” he snapped back. “I thought I’d started a relationship.”

  “Give her time, Sam.”

  He liked Becky, but he couldn’t help scoffing at that.

  Otter came over and pushed his nose into Sam’s palm.

  Becky moved quietly around the kitchen.

  Sam didn’t know where everyone else had got to—probably home, now that some of the roads had been cleared. All except Ilya, still dozing in his chair. Damn. Maybe he’d ended up with a permanent Russian mobster roommate. Except he was pretty certain that the government types he’d been talking to all afternoon had plans to make Ilya turn state’s evidence.

  “I’m sorry, Becky,” Sam sighed. The older woman hadn’t needed to stay and make him dinner, and he’d thanked her by taking out his anger over May on her.

  “How you doin’, Sam?”

  “Fine.” He took a half-hearted bite of the hotdish. God, he was tired. “This’s good.”

  She gave him a look. “You’re gonna have to go after her.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve done that before and it doesn’t seem to’ve made a difference,” he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “She’s scared, Sam.”

  He laughed at that. “May’s the least scared person I’ve ever met. She faced down a crazy Russian mobster today.”

  “Yes, she did,” Becky said. “That’s a woman worth working for.”

  “I have worked for her,” Sam said hard and low. “She said she’d work on this with me, and now she’s gone again. And I’ve reached my limit. If May wants this, she’ll have to come after me this time.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  It was well past midnight by the time Maisa made it back to Sam’s cabin and all the windows were dark. She sat in Stu’s borrowed pickup for a moment, gathering her nerve. The sled dogs were gone, the other vehicles missing. Only Sam’s big truck sat in the driveway. As far as she could see everyone else had gone home.

  It was just the two of them now.

  Okay. She could do this.

  Maisa got out of the truck and trudged up the drive to the door. She’d swiped one of the spare keys on the hook by the door when she’d left for the hospital, and now she tried it in the lock.

  The key turned easily and she opened the door to find Otter dancing on the other side, his tail wagging madly.

  “I’ve only been gone a couple of hours,” Maisa whispered to him, but his enthusiastic greeting made her feel better.

  That is until she looked up and found Otter’s owner staring at her. Sam wore a pair of boxer briefs and nothing else. Well, beside the gun he held by his side. “What’re you doing here, May?”

  Not exactly welcoming.

  Maisa carefully hung the keys by the front door. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  He gave her a look and then turned and walked back upstairs.

  At least he hadn’t tossed her out. She shed her coat and boots and followed him up. Otter, too.

  When she got to his bedroom, he’d donned his jeans and turned on the lamp. He was sitting, propped up on the bed’s headboard. “Why’d you leave without talking to me, May?”

  “Because I was scared.” She shifted from one foot to another, then thought, The hell with it, and crossed to sit on the bed next to him. “You have to understand, I’ve only had my mother and Dyadya for such a long time… it’s like I’ve forgotten how to let other people in.”

  He didn’t say anything, just watched her.

  She inhaled. “And I was ashamed of how I treated you this morning. I… I didn’t trust you to save Dyadya. I stole the diamonds—or thought I did.”

  He looked away at that. “Yeah, well, I guess I see it from the other end: I took the diamonds from you because I didn’t trust you not to do something stupid.”

  She winced at the stupid but raised her chin. “And you were right. I betrayed your trust.”

  “Did you?” For the first time he smiled, a small, wry twist of his lips. “Here’s the thing: I don’t know if I consider it a betrayal for you to love your uncle so much that you did everything in your power to save him. Sure, if you were a heroine in some old movie, one that never swore and never did anything wrong at all, then it might be a betrayal. But you’re not some made-up character. You’re May, sweet and sharp and abrasive and gentle and real.” He took a breath, running hi
s hand through his short hair. “Maybe I’m the one in the wrong. I almost let my rage at Beridze, my wrong-headedness over not letting him get those damned diamonds, get the better of me.” He looked up at her. “It was never the diamonds, May, you know that, right? I love you. That was the only thing I could think about out there on that ice. I love you and I’d let Beridze walk away a thousand times over if—”

  But she couldn’t wait to let him finish. Maisa launched herself at him, catching his face, pulling it to hers. “I love you.” She kissed him, trying to convey all the power of her emotion, because three simple words weren’t going to do it.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight, his face angling under hers, his lips hot and possessive.

  When she pulled back to gasp for breath, he made to chase her lips, but she placed her fingers on his mouth, forestalling him. “I need to tell you. I’ve stopped running, Sam. I’m going to stay here and stick it out for whatever this is between us, but I know I’m not going to get any easier. I’ve got a temper and I’m going to say or do the wrong thing sometime in the future, and I’m sorry—”

  But he was already shaking his head. “As long as you stay. As long as you let me talk it out with you. We’re going to be good.”

  “No,” she whispered against his lips. “We’re going to be wonderful.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  DAY ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  Sam West sighed as he pulled his cruiser tight behind the black Volkswagen Beetle and got out. Death, taxes, and speeders up on 52—some things were eternal.

  Especially this speeder.

  He strolled to the Beetle’s side, motioning for the driver to roll down her window.

  The window opened to reveal Maisa Burnsey peering at him over the top of her cat-eyes sunglasses. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

  He fought to keep his lips straight. “I’m afraid so, ma’am. You were speeding.”

  She widened her eyes in exaggerated shock. “Was I?”