"Is that my laundry?" Marisa said, pulling the door open.

"I'm afraid not," Jackson Bluewolf replied.

Marisa stared at him, then glanced down in dismay at her bare feet and the washed-out robe she was wearing.

"I thought you were the cleaning service," she mumbled inanely.

By contrast with herself, he was gorgeous in eggsh.e.l.l jeans with a blue Oxford cloth shirt and leather moccasins. His left arm was in a sling and he carried a fringed suede jacket over his right shoulder.

"May I come in?" he asked.

Chapter 3.

"What are you doing out of the hospital?" Marisa asked, stepping aside so he could precede her into the room.

"I discharged myself against medical advice," he replied, turning to face her as she closed the door behind them. "I had to sign all these forms saying that my family would not sue them if I dropped dead in the street, or something like that."

"If I were your lawyer I would have talked you out of doing that," she said dryly.

He fished in his pocket and held up a bottle of pills. "I'm supposed to take two of these every four hours, or four of them every two hours. I forget." He frowned at the printing on the label.

"Please, sit down," Marisa said, sweeping a pile of papers from a chair onto the floor. "I don't want to witness a relapse."

He sat heavily as Marisa hovered nearby. They surveyed each other warily.

"Just give me a minute to change and I'll be right with you," Marisa said suddenly, remembering what she was wearing.

He nodded.

She bolted into the bathroom and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the hook on the back of the door. As she changed hastily, not bothering with underwear, she glanced at the mirror and groaned at her hair. She found a clip in the medicine cabinet and pulled it back, fastening the wavy ma.s.s at the nape of her neck. There was no time for makeup, she would have to do as she was. She reentered the bedroom as he looked up and said, "Too bad."

"What?"

"I liked you with your hair down."

Marisa fingered the clip nervously, resisting the impulse to yank it out and fling it on the floor.

"It was the first time I'd ever seen it that way. In court you're always so b.u.t.toned up and proper. With all that hair around your face you looked like a little girl."

Even if it was a deliberate attempt to charm her, she was helpless. It was working. Marisa looked back at him silently, unable to frame a reply.

"I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here," he finally observed.

"The thought had occurred to me."

"I came to apologize for my behavior when you visited me at the hospital. I can only offer the excuse that I was shot full of prescription drugs and not responsible for my actions." He smiled slightly.

"That's all right. I got so mad at you I forgot to thank you for saving my life."

"That's a bit of an exaggeration."

"Not from my point of view."

"I guess we should call it even then," he said lightly.

"Not even, exactly. That boy Jeff Rivertree is still in jail facing a capital charge."

He made a deprecating gesture. "That's my fault. When I guessed what Jeff was going to do, I rushed to the courthouse but I didn't arrive in time to prevent the incident. I had hoped to get to him first."

"What is he being held on?" Marisa asked.

"Attempted murder."

She winced.

"I hope we can get it reduced to felonious a.s.sault. We're trying to raise the bail right now," Jack said.

"I'd lobby for the lesser charge, but I can't get involved with his case. You do understand that," Marisa said.

He nodded. "I understand."

A silence fell and they stared at each other.

Jack cleared his throat. "There's another reason for my coming here," he said.

"Yes?" she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his good arm across the one in the sling. Instead of focusing on his face she found herself staring at the top b.u.t.ton of his shirt, wishing she could undo it. When she tore her gaze away she realized that she didn't know what he was saying.

"Why this is so important to me," he concluded.

Marisa stared at him, clueless. "I beg your pardon?" she said weakly.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes, fine, I'm just a little tired. Hectic week, you know." She smiled vacuously, feeling a perfect fool.

"Of course. I was just saying that we've been at cross-purposes from the beginning, but I've never had a chance to explain to you why I'm involved here, why my work for NFN has become my life."

"Don't you do anything else?" Marisa asked ingenuously, and then bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that, but I know NFN can't be paying you much."

"Don't apologize, it's a perfectly logical question. As a matter of fact, you're right, my stipend from NFN is very small. I support myself with my writing."

"Writing?"

"Do you read mysteries?"

Marisa shook her head. "I'm afraid that my work doesn't leave much time for reading anything other than legal briefs."

"Well, I write a series of mysteries that features an Indian detective as the main character, sort of a Blackfoot Agatha Christie."

"You're Roger Whitemoon!" Marisa said incredulously. Even she had heard of him.

"Yes," Jack said, smiling. "I do a couple of books a year and that enables me to finance my NFN work, which occupies most of my time."

"The last one was a bestseller, wasn't it?" Marisa asked, impressed. "What was it called? Quiet Prairie?"

"Silent Prairie. Close."

"But your first love is the NFN."

He shrugged. "The books bring in the money, and I do enjoy writing them, but in the grand scheme of things the NFN is more important."

"Why?"

He sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I grew up on a reservation in Oklahoma. My father was killed when I was five and I was raised by my mother and older sister, whom you met."

Marisa nodded.

"You cannot imagine the hopelessness, the emptiness of the life there. Through a combination of circ.u.mstances I was able to escape it, but I never forgot it. I resolved to do what I could to change things for my people."

"But do you really think that the preservation of this cemetery is crucial enough to warrant spending eight million dollars to bypa.s.s it?" Marisa asked him.

His mouth tightened. "It's the principle involved, and anyway, the government can afford it."

"Eight million dollars?"

He stood up so swiftly that Marisa flinched. He began to pace the room and she watched him silently, noticing how the lamplight reflected off his seal black hair and threw his strong profile into relief against the wall.

"Do you think that any dollar amount can make up for the abuses of the past?" he demanded. "There isn't enough money in the U.S. treasury to repay Native Americans for what they've suffered, for being robbed of their homes and their land and being herded onto reservations like cattle. What do I care if it costs eight million or ten million or twenty million? They're not going to get one more yard of Indian land under any circ.u.mstances, and especially not this land, which has been sacred to the Seminoles for centuries." He ran out of breath suddenly and fell back into the chair, his face drained.

Marisa leaped to her feet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this up tonight, you're obviously in no condition to discuss it."

"I'm fine," he said, irritated.

"Can I get you anything?"

He glanced around the room. "Do you have any coffee?"

"I'll order it from room service," she said.

"No, don't bother..." he began, but Marisa was already on the phone. When she hung up and turned back to him he was studying her intently, his dark eyes unfathomable.

"Coffee will be here in a few minutes," she announced.

"You must think me an awful bore," he said wearily, pa.s.sing his hand over his eyes.

"Why do you say that?"

"I show up at your door, fresh out of the hospital, and even with one foot in the emergency room I can't stop berating you about my n.o.ble cause. Why haven't you thrown me out of here?"

"Jackson, you may be many things, but boring is not one of them," Marisa replied lightly.

"I like the sound of that," he said quietly, after a moment.

"What?"

"My first name on your lips. You've gone to great pains to avoid saying it."

"That was before you threw yourself in front of a bullet meant for me," she said.

"Don't be so dramatic," he said dryly. "Reality isn't quite as heroic. I was trying to shove you out of the way and I tripped. That's the truth."

"The result is the same. You saved me." She leaned against the footboard of the bed. "How did you know what Jeff Rivertree was going to do?"

"His mother came to me and told me he had taken her husband's gun from the house. He had been sounding off about you in the bar the night his brother was killed and it didn't take much ingenuity to put two and two together."

"Sounding off about me?" Marisa asked.

"Yes."

"Saying what?"

Jack shifted uncomfortably.

"Tell me."

Jack met her eyes and then looked away.

"Hotshot gringa lawyer on the Washington payroll sent to overpower the impoverished Indians and deprive them of their inheritance?" Marisa suggested.

"Something like that," Jack confirmed.

"Isn't that what you think?" Marisa inquired evenly.

"Not any more," he replied, holding her gaze.

There was a knock at the door and the coffee arrived. Silence reigned as Marisa poured for both of them and Jack drained half his cup in one swallow. "That's better," he said, sighing.

"You really should be home in bed," Marisa said worriedly.

"I've spent the last four days in bed," he said darkly.