He remained silent after that, lost in thought, his dark hair reflecting the sun. Finally, he turned back to Leah and jumped from his perch. Almost angrily, he swept his hand toward the stretch of highway that disappeared around a sharp bend in the road. "By the year 2020 this area would have rivaled Branson, Missouri, Atlantic City, or Vegas with casinos, hotels, and theaters. Every family residing on this reservation would have known employment and financial stability for themselves and their children, and their children's children."

Finally, he met Leah's eyes. "Sixty percent of the financing for this initial casino and hotel project was to come from the Apache Consortium, not just the Mescalero but from all the New Mexico tribes. Therefore they would hold the majority control of the running of the business. They mortgaged their homes and businesses. They took what little life savings they had and invested in this dream. Formation Media would invest the other forty percent, plus act as the private money lender to those who mortgaged their homes and businesses or used their homes, businesses, or personal effects as collateral. If, for some reason, the majority failed, one hundred percent of the control and ownership reverted to Formation Media.

"Had everything gone as planned, the building of the resort would have been completed last year. By now this place would have been filled with tourists gambling, enjoying the theme park, swimming, browsing the shops for souvenirs that weren't weren't made in Taiwan. Instead of loitering on parking lots hoping for some white man to toss a few coins their way, the People would be here, employed, productive, proud of their accomplishments and, most of all, realizing their dreams of prosperity for the first time since they were corralled on this land like cattle and forced to become something they aren't. made in Taiwan. Instead of loitering on parking lots hoping for some white man to toss a few coins their way, the People would be here, employed, productive, proud of their accomplishments and, most of all, realizing their dreams of prosperity for the first time since they were corralled on this land like cattle and forced to become something they aren't.

"In 1995 the governor signed gambling compacts allowing the tribes to begin the construction of the resort. What you see here is how far the construction got before your father brought it to the attention of the state and federal courts that the compacts the governor signed were void because he did not get approval for the gambling from the legislature. Under federal Indian gaming law, a tribe cannot legally run a casino without an agreement with the state legislature."

"You can't fault my father for following the law, Johnny."

"I don't fault your father for following the law, Leah. I fault him for continually thwarting our attempts to get the legislature to alter the state's gambling laws. He fought us on every avenue, pointing out how gambling will introduce corruption, exacerbate alcoholism, weaken the Apaches' character further by allowing them an opportunity to gamble away what little money they have, therefore disintegrating the dignity of an already diminished people. He pointed out that the People, as a whole, are lacking the education necessary to successfully manage and maintain such a broad endeavor as we proposed in the building of this casino and resort."

Leah turned away, shaking her head. "You're not making sense, Johnny. My father eventually compromised on the issue and the state, not six months ago, negotiated new compacts allowing gambling-"

"Better late than never?" He shook his head. "Not in this case, Leah. Not when the ownership of the casino and resort reverted to Formation Media when the People could not make their payments when due. Formation now owns this resort, lock, stock, and barrel. They can either build it or walk away and leave it to the coyotes and jackrabbits. If they build they are under no obligation to employ a Native American anywhere on the premises and most likely won't. They'll move in their employees from other resorts and casinos, as they've done in the past."

As Leah frowned and started to speak, Johnny cut her off. "Formation Media is owned by a group of international investors. We're not certain who they are. They go by numbers, not names. They've developed some of the largest and most successful hotel casinos in the world. Most recently they built the Shanghai Vista in Reno. It takes up twenty complete city blocks."

"I've read about the Shanghai Vista, that there's no other casino hotel like it in the world, and to visit is like actually visiting Shanghai in person; every minute detail is authentic. I had no idea it was developed by Formation."

"It's authentic all right, down to the Fuzhau Road that's lined with book shops, gift shops and the Xin Hua Bakery, to Zhongshan'dong Avenue, which looks out over a manmade reproduction of the Huangpu River. There are the same number of slot machines as there are rooms in the hotel. Five thousand. The only thing missing is the mosquitoes and the monsoons."

"So what are you insinuating, Johnny? That my father manipulated this entire fiasco so that Formation could get their hands on this project? My G.o.d, this is small potatoes compared to the Shanghai Vista."

"Not if you look at the big picture, Leah. The only thing that kept Branson, Missouri, from hurting Vegas or Atlantic City was the fact that they don't have gambling."

"And what, exactly, would my father get out of it?"

"That's pretty d.a.m.n obvious, isn't it? Money. Lots of it. Enough to finance his next campaign. Or maybe he simply wants a bite of the action."

As usual, the senator had acquired the best table La Hacienda had to offer. Situated on a private balcony, it offered a panoramic view of the entire valley and the river that reflected the sky and clouds like a flawless mirror. There had been times during her childhood when the three of them-her mother, father, and herself-had come here to celebrate certain occasions. Her birthday, Mother's Day, graduation. She always ordered Enchiladas Mexicana. Her mother varied: Tacos el Carbon, fajitas, sometimes nothing but a vodka and tonic, depending on how the conversation had gone in the car on the way over.

Leah's father raised his gla.s.s of wine to her, drawing her attention back to the present. "To my beautiful, brilliant daughter. Here's hoping that the future will bring us much closer."

She touched her gla.s.s to his, but did not drink. Instead, she placed it aside and sat back in her chair. "What's this all about, Dad? The last time we had dinner together, Mom was still alive. Gee, that must have been four years ago, when the two of you flew down to College Station for my graduation."

"You're my daughter, for G.o.d's sake. I have a right to see you occasionally." He laughed. "Is there some law against it?"

"Senator, you never do anything without a motive. Remember? You're too busy to fit such normalities as having dinner with your family into your hectic schedule."

"Good Lord. You sound like your mother." He gave her a thin smile and a slight narrowing of his eyes. "The two of you were always blessed with a razor-sharp wit, not to mention an equally destructive tongue. But tonight I bow to you. I did not, regretfully, spend enough time at home with my family."

Foster finished off his gla.s.s of wine. "So how is the new job going?"

"I haven't actually started practicing yet. Simply a.s.sisting Jake. Until my state license comes through I don't dare even take a horse's temperature."

"But the money is good?"

"It's steady and reliable. The work is hard and occasionally heartbreaking. That, however, is nothing new."

"Which brings me to the basic reason for asking you here tonight."

"Ah. I knew there had to be some ulterior motive. What do you want from me, Senator? Don't tell me you've decided to get back into the horse business. Perhaps you want me to do a prepurchase exam on an incredible Arabian stallion you found in Cairo? I warn you, I'm not cheap. And I don't lie. I'm known in the business, at least in Dallas, for being brutally honest."

"No horses, Leah. I'm done with that. Besides, your mother was far crazier about the horses than I ever was. This time I'm going to do something for you. you. What would you think about working for me, in Washington? I need someone trustworthy and dedicated, someone willing to look out for her old man's tail when it gets in a crack. I could start you off at fifty thousand a year, living accommodations included. Of course, it would mean your moving permanently to Washington, rubbing elbows with men in high places." What would you think about working for me, in Washington? I need someone trustworthy and dedicated, someone willing to look out for her old man's tail when it gets in a crack. I could start you off at fifty thousand a year, living accommodations included. Of course, it would mean your moving permanently to Washington, rubbing elbows with men in high places."

"I've heard there is a lot more getting rubbed in Washington than elbows these days."

"I'll point out that D.C. offers certain advantages for your son."

"His name is Valentino, Dad; just in case you forgot."

"Of course I haven't forgot. For G.o.d's sake, Leah, why must you always get so defensive every time I bring up the boy?"

"The fact that you haven't asked about his welfare since I sat down here thirty minutes ago might have something to do with it."

"Sorry. I've not been blessed with the gift of idle chitchat. You know that."

"I never considered asking about the welfare of your only grandchild nothing more than mere chitchat." She reached for her wine, her throat growing tight with emotion. "Let me save you the trouble. Val is doing beautifully. He's beginning to read. His speech has improved tremendously. He'll never walk, of course, but the therapy he receives every day helps his hand coordination tremendously. We finally managed to get the seizures under control; the medication for that is astronomical, but necessary. There are medications available now that help to relieve the rigidity of the muscles. They're still in a somewhat experimental stage..." She drank again, more deeply, before adding, "The series of shots is given every three months: seven shots in each arm and leg, directly into the muscles, at a cost of two thousand dollars a series. And there's no guarantee that they'll work for every case. But when they do, the results allow the individual a much greater range of movement and balance, not to mention comfort.

"Val enjoys school very much. He's the teacher's pet. He's attending summer school now, where the emphasis is more on social activities rather than studies. There are swimming activities and games that help with coordination and sportsmanship. What's most important is the time he spends with other children like himself. It a.s.sures him that he's not alone in the world. That there are others, like him, who are ... special. Of course, the program isn't subsidized by the government, but by private donations. Which is why Sh.e.l.ley Darmon contacted you, in hopes you would propose to the state legislature the possibility of the state footing the bill for the program. The rattletrap bus they are forced to ride is inadequate, to say the least. It's continually breaking down. It's not air-conditioned. And while there have been alterations in the bus to accommodate the special needs of the children, it's still lacking the appropriate appointments to guarantee their safety one hundred percent."

"I'll look into it," he said in his typical dismissive tone that told her he would not look into it, that as soon as they walked out the door the subject would be buried in his mind.

The waitress appeared to take their order. As her father quickly perused the menu one last time, Leah sat back in her chair and watched him, the same way she had often observed her mother studying him: with a sense of curiosity and confusion, disappointment and frustration settling like stone in her chest. When, she wondered, had her father become the cold, remote, and indifferent man who now sat before her? Had he always been so emotionally unattached to everything but power? Surely not. Knowing her mother, who thrived on attention, Leah could not imagine the woman marrying for any other reason but love.

"What happened between you and Mother?" she asked when the waitress retreated. "When, exactly, did you fall out of love?"

If he was surprised by the suddenness of her unusual question, he didn't show it, just wiped his mouth with the white linen napkin and laid it in his lap. "Your mother and I had different interests. That didn't necessarily mean we didn't care for one another."

"I never saw you touch her. You slept in separate bedrooms since I was ten."

"I lived a very hectic and intrusive life, Leah. Always getting calls in the middle of the night. I simply didn't wish to disturb her. Besides, it afforded both of us much greater freedom."

"Did it matter to you that she took lovers?"

He laughed. "Sweetheart, your mother was welcome to entertain herself any way she wanted ... as long as it kept her pacified and sober and away from the American Express card."

She supposed she should have been surprised by his blase att.i.tude. But she wasn't. Just irritated that he didn't have the decency to indicate even the slightest annoyance over the fact that his wife had been unfaithful, which only proved all the more that he had not cared a whit about her.

"You were never jealous? Not even a little?" she pressed.

"I simply expected her to be discreet, and to exhibit a modic.u.m of selectivity in the men she chose to sleep with."

"Is that why you hated Jefferson Whitehorse so much? Because you didn't like Mother f.u.c.king an Indian?"

For the first time in her life Leah watched her father's face flood with dark color. He sat back in his chair, shoulders squared, jaw bulging. Even the whites of his eyes turned blood red as he fixed her with so smoldering a look she wondered if he would actually explode in this room full of prospective voters.

Bingo! she thought. At long last she had finally discovered his Achilles' heel. A spiteful satisfaction surged like a bubble in her chest. she thought. At long last she had finally discovered his Achilles' heel. A spiteful satisfaction surged like a bubble in her chest.

"For the love of G.o.d, Leah, is that any way to talk? I thought your mother had taught you better etiquette."

"My mother taught me several four-letter words, some of which would make your blood pressure go up even more. Would you like to hear them? They were mostly directed at you anyway."

"Fine," he snapped. "As long as you want to bring up the Foster women's penchant for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Indians, why don't you enlighten me as to your plans with Johnny Whitehorse?"

"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to Johnny."

"You've been seen with him."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Maybe Shamika is right. Maybe you have have planted a bug under my bed." planted a bug under my bed."

"How could you," he said through his teeth, glancing around to make certain his tone had not caught anyone's attention. "You know what that son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h is trying to do to me, and yet you still..."

"What is he trying to do that any activist who truly cares about a cause wouldn't do? You screwed over his people, Senator. You bankrupted an entire populace. Why?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about, Leah?"

"I'm talking about the game you played with the gambling issue. Your stalling the legislature's legalizing state gambling until the tribal investors of the Apache Casino and Resort rolled over, giving Formation Media full ownership of the development."

Foster tossed his napkin on the table, and, for an instant, looked as if he would spring from his chair and make a quick exit from the restaurant. "How dare you," he uttered under his breath, pinning her with his blue eyes that, despite the fire of anger in his face, looked frigid. The look set her back and made her heart skip with disconcertment. A chill as cold as icemelt sluiced through every vein and bone and muscle.

"Fine, sweetheart. If that's the way you want to play this, fine. Give your boyfriend a message for me. I won't stand for his slandering me. I won't tolerate the charges he's made about collusion. If he thinks he's going to unseat me the next election he'd better be prepared to lock up his closets, because I don't intend to leave any rock unturned in my efforts to smash his character and reputation-starting with the death of Dolores Rainwater."

As steadily as possible, she said, "You still haven't answered my question, Senator. Exactly what was your motive behind stalling the gambling issue?"

He pointed one trembling finger in her face. "I've offered you a job, Leah. A new beginning. Financial stability. If I were you I would consider it. On the other hand, if you take a stand with Whitehorse against me, in fact, if you continue to see him at all, I sever all ties between us. You are no longer my daughter. Think about that while you enjoy your dinner."

Sc.r.a.ping back his chair, Foster stood and exited the restaurant.

TWENTY.

TaliazDancinDarlin was the favorite for the night's biggest race, offering the highest purse of the season so far: Forty-five thousand, the winner taking sixty percent. A groom had found her on her side that morning in her stall, obviously having been rolling; not a good sign. That meant colic. By the looks of her beat-up hocks and the bruising on her head, she'd been floundering in her stall for the better part of the night.

They had pumped enough mineral oil through her gut to grease a Boeing 747. Had there been an obstruction it should have pa.s.sed by now. Instead of showing signs of improvement, the mare appeared to be growing worse. Respiration, heartbeat, temperature were climbing.

Both Jake and Leah suspected a gut twist, which meant surgery. But even that outcome was iffy, certainly no guarantee that they could save the suffering mare. Especially if the gut had been twisted for a long period of time.

Jake shook his head. "I can't do anything else for her without opening her up, Mr. Davison. Or we can put her down. That's your call, of course. Either way, this mare isn't running tonight or anytime in the foreseeable future."

Bill Davison closed his eyes briefly, and his shoulders slumped. Behind him, his wife Betty began to cry. Both in their late fifties, they had spent their lives breeding for the horse that would make their farm respected in the business. TaliazDancinDarlin, named after their granddaughter, Talia, had shown every promise of doing just that. She had broken her maiden the first time out, going on to win five of the next seven races.

"Will she ever run again?" Bill asked.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Founder usually follows this kind of colic, and that means lameness. If she survives, she might make you one h.e.l.l of a brood mare." Jake ran his hand along the mare's sweating neck. "She's a nice horse. She's made you some decent money. If she was mine, I'd open her up. Give her every chance."

"Easy for you to say. It ain't as if I've got five grand ready to toss down the c.r.a.pper if she dies."

The mare's trainer laid his hand on Davison's shoulder. "You gotta do what you gotta do, Bill. There will be other horses. Don't beat yourself up over this."

Davison turned his gaze to Leah where she stood at Jake's side, her heart in her throat as she wondered to herself if she would ever get used to witnessing the pain on her clients' faces when confronted with life-and-death decisions regarding their animals, and, more often than not, the end of their dreams.

"It's a h.e.l.l of a thing, isn't it?" Bill said. "You pour your heart and soul into raising these beauties. You pamper them like they was the Queen of England, invest half a lifetime of money and dreams. One minute they're fine, on top of the world, the next they're useless for anything other than Jell-O." He ran one hand through his hair and cleared his throat. "I'll call my brother, see if he can loan me the money."

Davison, his wife, and the trainer headed for the door, and Jake gave his a.s.sistants orders to prepare the mare for surgery.

"Shouldn't you wait until Mr. Davison returns?" Leah asked, raising her voice to be heard over the roaring of the lifts that would move the anesthetized horse onto the operating table. She followed Jake into the scrub room, grabbed up a surgical gown that was sterilized in plastic bags and began to slide the garment on over her clothes.

Jake turned on the water and began to brush his hands with disinfectant. "There isn't time to wait," he said as she moved up beside him and began to scrub. "I suspect we'll be lucky to save her as it is."

"But the money-"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Doctor. I've known Bill a long time. He'll come across with the money. It might take a while, but he'll pay me."

Within fifteen minutes the mare was on the table, flat on her back, tubes running out her nose and mouth, her feet supported by chains from the overhead lift. Leah prepped the mare's belly, shaved away the hair with a #40 surgical clipper blade, and swabbed the skin down with Betadine scrub. Then Jake stepped in and opened her up.

Leah gagged and turned her face away.

Jake cursed, flinging the scalpel to the far side of the room.

Leah had not wanted to be present when Jake broke the news to Bill and Betty Davison that their horse was dead, that the colon had been twisted so long it had ruptured, spilling poisons throughout her body cavity. Sitting in a lawn chair outside the clinic, the sun hot on her face, Leah closed her eyes and did her best to will away the stench of peritonitis that permeated even her hair. She wanted to go home and spend a long, lazy Sunday afternoon with Val. They would cuddle in the hammock hanging from the pine trees out back of the house until the heat got too unbearable, then they would put on their swimsuit and play in the blue wading pool until their shoulders became sensitive to the sun. They would nap, snack on microwave popcorn, watch old G.o.dzilla movies and laugh until their sides hurt.

Or she could march into the clinic and tell Jake that she was taking tomorrow off because she was flying to Las Vegas with Johnny Whitehorse-yes, Johnny Whitehorse-and they were going to get married in some tacky little chapel with a justice of the peace who looked, talked, and dressed like Elvis. In all probability she would not return to work because she would no longer need need to work to pay for her son's therapy, medications, wheelchairs, and thousand-dollar bathtub seats that were nothing more than molded plastic and which Val would outgrow in another three months. to work to pay for her son's therapy, medications, wheelchairs, and thousand-dollar bathtub seats that were nothing more than molded plastic and which Val would outgrow in another three months.

Jake would say in his typical dry manner: "You're joking, right? Allow a man to take care of you? I thought you were a millennium kind of girl, too independent to rely on a man." Then he would remark: "What about the senator? How is he going to take the news that his only daughter has gone over to the enemy?"

Her father the enemy. Even after their meeting last night she couldn't bring herself to believe Johnny's innuendos that her father was in bed with Formation Media. That he had, in some way, played a part in the bankruptcy of the Apache Casino and Resort.

Then she reminded herself that the fallout of the bankruptcy didn't affect just the resort, but an entire state of people who had sunk their entire lives into a dream that had left thousands dest.i.tute.

Granted, Senator Foster might never win Husband or Father of the Year, but she refused to believe that he was the kind of man who would destroy another for financial gain.

"Mind if I join you?"

She looked around as Jake sat down beside her, a diet cola in one hand, his stethoscope in the other. He had changed out of his surgical smock. His shirt was pale blue and his jeans were faded to the point of being white. He needed to shave. His eyes looked weary and sad. "How did they take it?" she asked.