Ted hit the brakes when he saw the painted wooden sign swinging in the wind: Last Chance Lodge. Smiling wryly, he swung the battered coupe into the lane leading to the rustic log structure. Last Chance Lodge—it sounded like the perfect place for a dusty, road-weary traveler who had come to the end of a three-month, cross-country odyssey.
The mud-spattered car showed the wear of the journey west, and so did Ted. He was leaner; his skin was tanned a deep copper; his strong chin was dark with five days’ growth of beard. Instead of the neat trousers, V-neck sweaters, and blazers of his college days, he sported a well-worn pair of dungarees, leather cowboy boots, and a miner’s shirt. Harry Watson wouldn’t know me, Ted thought as he climbed out of the coupe and shook his long legs to get out the kinks. Amanda wouldn’t, either.
Three months had taken the edge off Ted’s bitterness but hadn’t erased it entirely. There were times, though, when he couldn’t believe that he’d ever been a student at Rosse College, belonged to an elite fraternity, fallen in love with and been betrayed by a faithless beauty. Since that night in the Detroit jail, Ted had covered thousands of miles of road. He’d seen mountains and deserts; he’d looked out across the endless blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
Ted’s mother had wired him some money from his savings account; Ted had also written to Harry, asking his former roommate to forward his belongings to Chicago. But other than those brief contacts, Ted’s past life was far removed from him in time and space.
Grabbing his suitcase from the back seat, Ted entered the Last Chance Lodge. Not exactly the lobby of the Palmer House, he observed, but then the Cascade mountain town of Swift River was a long way from Chicago. It looked to Ted as if the lodge’s check-in counter also served as the local bar. A few scruffy characters were perched there on stools, cradling mugs of something golden that looked suspiciously like illegal beer.
“I’d like to rent a room,” he announced to no one in particular, since it wasn’t clear who, if anyone, was in charge.
A grizzled mountain man in grimy jeans and the top of a pair of red long johns hopped to his feet. “The honeymoon suite is occupied,” he joked, “but I’ve got another room I think’ll do you. A cot and a camp stove, shower and latrine out back, five dollars a week.”
Ted stepped forward to shake the man’s hand, getting a strong whiff of alcohol as he did so. “I’ll take it. Thanks, uh...”
“Dick Dawson.” He gave Ted’s hand a thorough wringing. “I can’t give you no key because there ain’t no lock on the door.”
Ted laughed. “I’ve got nothing to lock up anyway.”
“Then take a load off, son.” Dick patted a stool. “I’ll throw in supper—pork and beans, my world-famous sourdough bread, and a mug of cold brew—if you sit awhile and tell us where you’ve been and where you’re heading.”
Ted was glad to. He was bone-tired, hungry, and thirsty. And even, he had to admit, a little lonely. “Well, it’s a long story,” he warned the men.
“They got no place to go!” said Dick. The others guffawed.
“It all started in Chicago,” Ted began, deciding not to share the more painful and still confusing details of his history, such as Amanda’s betrayal and the setup in Detroit. “I was aiming for California, the Napa Valley, where my parents grew up. On the way, I stopped in Nebraska and in the Rocky Mountain ghost town where my great-grandfather, Jake Webster, looked for gold. He found a few nuggets but never struck it rich.”
Dick plunked a heaping plate of pork and beans and a huge hunk of bread in front of Ted, then slid a mug of beer his way as well. “There’s many a man out this way that can tell the same story,” he remarked.
Ted paused for a few bites. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a sip of beer. Then he continued his account. Arriving in Vista, he’d visited Theodore Wakefield’s Manor Farm, now owned by strangers who were clearing out the fruit trees to make room for a vineyard. Ted had also looked up his paternal grandparents, the Brookes, only to find that they’d sold their livery stable and moved from the area not long after the death of their son Edward, Ted’s father. “The last stage of my quest is to track down the Awaswan Indian tribe,” Ted concluded, draining the mug. “They lived in California originally, but according to government records, they were relocated to Oregon in the 1860s.”
“You’ve found ’em,” said Dick. “The reservation is just five miles up the valley. There ain’t no roads, though. You’ll have to hoof it.”
Ted hadn’t realized he’d come so close to the reservation. There were still a couple of hours of daylight left... Ted pushed back his empty plate. “Can I borrow a horse?”
Ten minutes later, Ted and a mule named Pete were trotting along a pebbly path skirting the Swift River. Pete wasn’t the most elegant animal, but he knew the trails; he was footsure and reliable. “You can’t get lost with Pete,” Dick had promised Ted. “He’ll bring you home at sunset, whether you want to come or not.”
For the first few miles of the ride, the river cut through a narrow gorge. Water rushed on one side of the trail while granite cliffs rose straight on the other. Soon, however, the valley widened into a broad expanse of lush green. It was here that the Indian reservation was located.
Ted hadn’t known quite what to expect—tepees and feather headdresses, perhaps, like in the movies. Instead, he saw a village of small log cabins that looked a lot more comfortable than his room at the Last Chance Lodge. There were plots of land planted with vegetables, and paddocks and pens for horses, pigs, goats, and chickens. Ted dismounted and led the mule toward the settlement. Two little boys with fishing poles scampered across the path, darting curious glances in his direction. “Can you tell me where Ten Horses lives?” Ted shouted after them.
According to Dick, Ten Horses was an Awaswan chief who knew as much tribal lore and history as anyone. The boys pointed to a cabin and ran off. Tethering Pete, Ted approached the cabin and knocked tentatively. A deep voice called out something in a language Ted didn’t understand. Assuming it was Awaswan for “come in,” he pushed the dooropen.
The one-room cabin’s windows were small, and the interior was somewhat dim and smoky. When his eyes adjusted to the shadows, Ted detected two figures seated on a woven rug. One, an elderly man, beckoned him forward with a gnarled hand. Stepping closer, Ted was surprised to see that the second figure was a young white woman with a small notebook on her lap and a pencil in her hand.
Both the man and the girl stood up. Ted explained his intrusion. “My name is Ted Wakefield,” he said, addressing the chief. “I’d like to speak with you, Ten Horses. I was hoping to learn something about my great-grandmother, Owl Feather, who was born among your people.”
The old man peered at Ted, his gaze hawk-sharp. “Yes,” he murmured in English, “I see it. In your eyes, I see the Awaswan. Sit with us.”
The girl, who was dressed like a cowboy in dungarees and a flannel shirt, remained standing. “Ten Horses, I’m leaving now,” she said. “We can talk more tomorrow, if you have the time.”
“I have time for you, my daughter,” Ten Horses replied.
The girl left the cabin with a backward glance and smile at Ted. Watching her, Ted was momentarily distracted. She was beautiful, with sky-blue eyes, wheat-blonde hair hanging in a glossy braid down her back, and long, slim legs. He shook his head to clear it of her image. He hadn’t come out west to find love, he reminded himself. As a matter of fact, after what had happened with Amanda, he was through with romance altogether.
He took a seat at Ten Horses’s side. “Owl Feather,” Ten Horses mused, reaching for a pipe. “She was probably born in the eighteen-forties,” said Ted. “When she was a young woman, she left the Awaswan to marry a white gold prospector named Jake Webster. She never returned to the tribe.”
“Yes.” The chief nodded. Ted’s heart leaped. “Her story is known to me. Others have forsaken the tribe to become white people, but Owl Feather’s departure is remembered because she had been promised to the chief for his bride.”
Ted was surprised. He didn’t think Dancing Wind had known this part of her mother’s history. “You see,” continued Ten Horses, “Owl Feather’s father was Redwood Spirit, a medicine man of legendary powers, the spiritual leader of the tribe. It was believed that a union between Redwood Spirit’s most beautiful daughter and Chief Fist-of-Thunder would bring new strength and luck to the tribe, which was then experiencing the first encroachments of the white man. When Owl Feather ran off with her white husband, Fist-of-Thunder was furious. Redwood Spirit had many other children, and he offered to give the chief another of his daughters. But the chief wanted no one but Owl Feather.”
“And she was gone,” said Ted.
Ten Horses sucked on his pipe. “There are those who say the tribe’s ill fortune dates from Owl Feather’s departure.”
Ted shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t expected his great-grandmother’s tale to be so dramatic. Maybe his particular connection to the tribe made him a less-than-welcome guest.
“But now Owl Feather’s great-grandson has come back to us, along with Paper Voices,” Ten Horses mused. “Perhaps this means our luck will turn again.”
“Paper Voices?” asked Ted.
“Julia.” Ten Horses nodded at the door. “Go now. She waits for you.”
Ted hesitated; he had more questions. The chief seemed to read his mind. “Return tomorrow and you can meet the other descendants of Redwood Spirit.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that.”
Not knowing how to bid goodbye to an Awaswan chief, Ted bowed and then left the cabin. Walking back to where he’d left the mule, he saw that Julia was indeed waiting for him, as Ten Horses had predicted.
Without preamble, Julia held out her hand. “Julia Marks. Did Ten Horses have any information for you, Mr. Wakefield?”
“Did he ever!”
Julia smiled. “He knows absolutely everything. He’s been a gold mine for me. By the way, are you heading back to town? Because if you are, I could use a lift. I hiked out this morning,” she explained, “and didn’t mean to stay this long.”
Ted nodded. It was nearly sunset; if she went on foot, she wouldn’t reach town until well after dark. “Ol’ Pete can probably carry us both. But I’m going to have to exact a toll.”
“A toll?”
Ted’s eyes twinkled. He’d strike a deal with her like the one Dick had made with him earlier. “A ride to town for a story.”
Julia put her hands on her hips. “What kind of story?”
“Oh, how did Dick Dawson put it? ‘Tell me where you’ve been and where you’re going.’ ”
“Dick Dawson?” Julia burst out laughing. “You’re not staying at the Last Chance, are you?”
Ted grinned. “The finest accommodations in town.”
“I like roughing it, but that’s too primitive even for me,” she said. “If you get a hankering for indoor plumbing, try Miss Mittelstadt’s boardinghouse half a mile up the road from Dick’s. And as for your toll, I’m happy to oblige you. Stories are my line.”
Ted mounted Pete and helped Julia swing up behind him. “Stories are your line, eh?”
Without any urging from Ted, Pete set off for home at a brisk trot. “That’s right,” Julia confirmed. “I’m a journalist.”
“You don’t say! Why, so am I. At least, I was,” Ted corrected himself.
“Really?” Julia looped one arm around his waist for balance. “What kind of writing do you do?”
“I was a columnist for a couple of different Midwestern newspapers. I covered the jazz scene.”
“Why the past tense?” Julia asked.
“The toll,” Ted reminded her. “Your story first!”
Julia laughed. “You won’t get off the hook entirely,” she warned. “Let’s see... it all started in New York City. That’s where I grew up. My father’s a Wall Street financier. I’m an only child.”
Ted put two and two together. “You’re filthy rich, huh?”
Julia laughed, clearly amused by his frankness. “You got it. I certainly can’t complain. Daddy’s always given me everything I wanted, everything money can buy. I’ve been very lucky.”
“But it’s not enough,” Ted guessed.
“No, it’s not. You see, I always wanted to be a reporter,” said Julia. “And when I graduated from high school last spring, I looked for a job. I didn’t have to work, but I didn’t want to just live the high life in Manhattan, sponging off my father. I wanted to earn my own way.”
“Well, you came an awful long way to find something to report on,” Ted observed. “Isn’t there any news in New York these days?”
“There’s plenty. But every city paper I went to would take one look at my résumé, or rather my name, and assume there was only one thing I was capable of covering—the social scene.” Ted could hear Julia’s indignation, and feel it in the arm circling his waist. Without thinking, she gave him a little squeeze to punctuate her words. “Ugh! Can you imagine writing about nothing more important than who wore what and danced with whom at the most recent debutante ball?”
“Nope.”
“Well, neither could I. I realized I had to get out of New York, for a while at least, if I didn’t want to be pigeonholed just because my name is Julia Marks. So I headed west. I figured that maybe out in this big country I’d find a big story—one that would establish my credentials so I could get jobs covering foreign events or serious domestic issues.”
Ted was filled with admiration for her boldness and ambition. “Have you found it? The big one, I mean.”
“I’m onto something, but I’m not sure yet how big it’s going to be. Here’s the background.” Julia told Ted that she’d come to Swift River to investigate allegations that the United States government had reneged on nineteenth-century treaty promises regarding land and mineral rights for a number of Indian tribes, including the Awaswan. “I’ve gotten my hands on some official documentation, and the Indians themselves are ready with oral testimony. But there are still a few pieces of the puzzle missing.”
They reached the Last Chance. “Let me ride you to the boardinghouse,” Ted offered.
“No, no,” Julia insisted as she jumped down from the mule’s back. “I’m fine from here.”
Ted dismounted, and they stood for a moment looking at each other. Julia seemed to be summing him up with her intense blue eyes. “I paid your toll, Mr. Wakefield,” she said. “Now how about doing something for me?”
“Name it.”
“Consider getting back in the journalism business and giving me a hand breaking this story. That is, if you’re planning to stay in Swift River for a while.”
With her curiosity and journalistic ambition, her beauty and zest, Julia reminded Ted a little of both Amanda and Samantha. But she was also distinctly Julia Marks. Promising himself he wouldn’t get involved with her, he realized he had nothing else to do right now, nowhere else to go.
“Will we share author credit?” Ted asked, his eyes twinkling.
