SINS OF THE FATHER Read online

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  SINS OF THE FATHER

  Nina Bruhns

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

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  At last he'd found her.

  Roman Santangelo roared through Lone Pine on his Harley with just one thing on his mind.

  RaeAnne Sommarby.

  He didn't pay too much attention to the way the townsfolk stared at his outrageous hair and leather gear as he floored the bike and pointed it north. Having looked like an extra for the Road Warrior movies for years, Roman was used to being stared at. Even back when he was eleven, his best friend Cole had given him the nickname "Renegade" because of his tough-guy appearance. The name had stuck through his school years as well as the decade he'd spent in the Navy. It wasn't until he'd joined the FBI that he'd reverted to his real name. But the image hadn't changed. It was the reason the Bureau kept sending him out on all those sensitive, risky jobs. His ability to blend in with the bad guys.

  Okay, maybe blend in was the wrong phrase. Perhaps more apt would be that he stuck out like such a sore thumb that nobody in their right mind would ever believe he was the best undercover agent the FBI had west of the Rockies. At least that was his theory.

  And as for RaeAnne, well, like the old song said, she was always on his mind. Had been for the past eighteen years. Ever since he'd walked out on her without a word three months before her high school graduation.

  But this time was different. This time, he'd found her.

  The smells of the high desert spring filled Roman's lungs as he swept down the highway—the scent of sage baking in the bright morning sun, the rich spice of soil growing warm after the long winter rest, the fresh tang of snowmelt flowing into the Owens River in the distance. If his stomach weren't threatening to turn inside out from sheer nerves, he'd be enjoying this May ride up US 395.

  But seeing sweet RaeAnne Sommarby's—now RaeAnne Martin's—distinctive signature on that Forest Service permit at the Lone Pine station after all this time, had him breaking out in a cold sweat. Was it a coincidence? RaeAnne showing up here of all places, within sixty miles of where he grew up and the very spot his father had betrayed everything he'd always stood for? Probably not. More likely it was some kind of weird karma, or cosmic justice, at work. Roman was big on justice, but usually of the more earthly variety.

  He forced himself to throttle up the Harley even faster, devouring the gently curving ribbon of asphalt leading him to his own moment of judgment. Damn, he was shaking like a leaf.

  Would she recognize him? Hell, would she even remember him? True, after what he'd done to her, what woman wouldn't? He just prayed she had it in her to forgive him.

  For that was the whole purpose of this trip. To beg her forgiveness. He'd carried the guilt for eighteen years now, and just like the situation surrounding his father's betrayal, he needed closure. And to move on.

  I'm sorry I broke your heart, he'd say to her. Sorry I ruined your graduation, and destroyed all the plans we had together. I'm sorry I made a mistake and screwed up so badly. I'm so sorry. Then he'd throw himself on her mercy, hoping for a word of forgiveness.

  And if he got it, maybe, just maybe, it would give him the strength he needed to confront his next task—proving to himself that he hadn't turned traitor to his family and his people without good reason. That he'd had no choice, justice had demanded it.

  The miles flew by, and pretty soon he spotted the turn-off that would take him to RaeAnne's small archaeological dig at Cleary Hot Springs. He pondered that bit of news as he swung off the highway and bounced onto the rocky, wash-boarded dirt road heading over the coral-colored hills and up into the steep rise of the Sierra Nevada. RaeAnne an archaeologist. What a surprise.

  Cresting the ridge of a hill, he brought the bike to a stop and gazed up at the magnificent mountains towering above him. Stark, rugged, awe-inspiring, the snowcapped peaks scowled down at him, as though standing guard over the woman whose world he was about to invade, ready to do battle with the man who would surely bring renewed heartache to their gentle explorer.

  "I swear I won't hurt her," he promised the silent sentinels. "All I need is ten minutes. Fifteen max. To explain and apologize. Then I'll be gone and you can have her back again, safe and sound."

  It was absurd talking to mountains. He knew it was absurd. Though full-blooded Paiute, he wasn't one of those mystical Native Americans who went around speaking to totems and spirits and such. He'd been brought up in the bustle and chaos of Southern California, and was firmly rooted in modern reality. He was an FBI agent; it was his job to stick to the tangible facts. But at that very moment, a chilly wind kicked up, lifting the ends of his long hair below his helmet, sending a shiver up his spine, and he could almost feel the mountains hunker down to watch his penance. To make sure he kept his word.

  Giving himself a firm mental shake, he gunned the bike down the back side of the hill, and made the final turn, following the Forest Service guy's directions. The last leg was just a track, barely two shallow ruts which led down into a hidden valley.

  But what a valley! It was one of those magical places only California could produce, a tiny, secret paradise harbored in the nexus between lush alpine forest and the living desert. Tall pines and budding cottonwoods blended in an open tapestry with winnowing grass, fragrant sage, and colorful Indian paintbrush. And there, nestled next to a gurgling creek in the midst of this peaceful Shangri-La, was RaeAnne's ancient stone cabin.

  No wonder she had picked this spot for her solitary dig. A person could easily fall in love with this place and stay forever.

  Suddenly the tranquil air around him was shattered by a loud yell in a crude male voice. Roman whipped off his helmet and snapped his head toward the sound. A series of whoops and shouts shrilled through the narrow valley, making his blood run cold.

  RaeAnne!

  Gunning the Harley into action, he instinctively felt for the stainless steel Colt Python holstered at the back of his waistband, then reached down and flicked the snap off his boot-knife's sheath. Within seconds he was peeling around the cabin, tires spitting gravel and dust.

  His heart nearly stopped at the sight that greeted him.

  A half-dozen angry youths were running around in a frenzy, shouting and hoisting cardboard boxes into two dilapidated trucks. A woman stood under a tree, screaming and jerking at the ropes that held her wrists, which were tied over her head to one of the tree's low branches.

  The woman was RaeAnne.

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  RaeAnne Martin banked her fury with an iron will and screamed again at the boys who were ruining eight hard weeks of work and possibly destroying bits of their own history in the process.

  "Toby! Listen to me—you have to be careful with that stuff! Don't—!" Oh, jeez, she cursed silently as another box of fragile archaeological finds was slung into Toby Benson's rustbucket truck. "You are so going to regret this!" she screeched.

  "Yeah, sure. Tell it to your sheriff," Toby yelled back. "Have him come and arrest me."

  RaeAnne ground her teeth at both the reference to her sheriff—Sheriff Philip O'Donnaugh was not hers, at least not officially—and at the inference that he'd be able to do squat. Big Pine Reservation was out of the sheriff's office's jurisdiction, and they all knew it. If the kids made it to the reservation, the only ones who could mete out punishment to these hooligans were the Tribal Council and the FBI. RaeAnne was well aware of the chances of interesting the FBI in her measly archaeological artifacts—slim to none. That left the Tribal Council, and there she was sure to lose. Didn't matter if she had al
l the right government permits and married Sheriff O'Donnaugh to boot.

  Wonderful. Two years of planning and eight thousand bucks in grants down the drain. Not to mention the black eye to her professional reputation.

  "You don't understand," she yelled at Toby. "I am not messing with Indian burials. This was just a hunting camp, shared by both Paiute and whites. That skeleton is Caucasian!"

  "You know that for sure?" he shot back.

  Honesty compelled her to answer, "Ninety percent. We'll know for certain when it comes back from the lab."

  "No way. My ancestor ain't gettin' sent to no damn white man's lab to be desecrated."

  She was completely out of patience. Hanging from a tree by her wrists tended to drain what little she possessed. "Goddammit, Toby, he's not your ancestor! He's got a bullet in his skull!"

  "Oh, and that would be so unusual?" Toby mocked, five hundred years of evidence to the contrary clearly written in his youthful bronze face.

  This was not the time to get into a debate over Indian-white relations, or the historical accounts of the Cleary Hot Springs shoot-out. "You've read the stories about what happened here—"

  "Stories!" he spat out. "Bull—"

  Suddenly a huge black motorcycle came careening around the cabin into the clearing, spewing a shower of rocks as it roared to a halt.

  "Hey, what's going on here?" shouted an equally huge man as he dumped the bike and sprinted toward the boys.

  Stunned, RaeAnne could only watch helplessly as the kids jumped whooping into their trucks and jammed them to life. The man waved his arms, trying to head them off, making the silver chains dangling from his black leather jacket shimmer and tinkle.

  The stranger's hair was outlandish—short on the sides but long on the top, hanging halfway down his back. When he turned his head, a single long braid swung from over his ear. The man looked like an outlaw!

  A sudden spurt of fear pierced her daze. The kids were leaving. Leaving her there, all tied up and alone with the stranger. They might be punks, but they were nonviolent punks.

  "Toby!" she screamed. "Don't you dare leave me like this! Come back! I swear I'll—" She stopped, realizing she was yelling at a cloud of dust. Where the hell was O'Donnaugh when you needed him?

  The outlaw slowly turned to faced her. A tremor went through her whole body, leaving her knees weak and her mind numb. He was watching her, closely, in the way a mountain lion might eye a fluffy kitten. Focused, fascinated, wary. Not sure whether she was friend or foe. Whether to walk away … or eat her for breakfast.

  Oh, God, please don't let him hurt me.

  RaeAnne swallowed the knot of panic lodged in her throat. "Who are you?"

  "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

  "No, I'm—" her words stalled when he whisked off his leather jacket and tossed it at the bike, then reached down to his boot. When he straightened, he held a dull black dagger in his hand "—fine." The word came out in a thready whisper.

  "You sure?"

  She swiped her tongue over suddenly parched lips. "What are you going to do to me?"

  His eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened around the dagger. "Cut you down."

  Sounded reasonable. So why was she still trembling?

  He took a single step toward her, then stopped. Treating her to a full, unhindered view of his body.

  It was impressive. Tall, broad-shouldered, biceps rippling under a sleek black T-shirt. Trim waist, lean hips, long, muscular legs encased in tight black leather. Oh, God. The man was gorgeous. And the most dangerous-looking man she'd ever seen in her life. Despite the balmy morning, she was suddenly freezing.

  He continued to stare at her. She shut her eyes. Tried desperately to get her knees to start working again. So she could run like hell when he cut her down.

  If he cut her down.

  She refused to go down that path. Just as she refused to think about how her own body was reacting to him. Traitorous, capricious flesh. How could shivers of fear turn so easily to quivers of excitement?

  She burned with shame and embarrassment, yet there was something oddly familiar about this stranger. Something that spoke to her on a deeply elemental level, telling her that he didn't threaten her life, but her peace of mind. Or worse.

  Nonsense. Dangerous nonsense. There was nothing familiar about him. She'd never seen him before. Had she? Surely she would remember someone who looked like this man.

  The soft crunch of footsteps approached, halting directly in front of her. She squeezed her eyelids tighter.

  "RaeAnne. Don't be afraid," he whispered.

  She whimpered, telling herself she didn't know that voice. That deep, gentle rumble of tones. Didn't know his touch. Those strong, steady fingers skimming up her arms. Or the press of his hard male brawn against the yielding softness of her breasts.

  No.

  She took a shuddering breath, wanting, needing, to deny it all. And found herself filled, surrounded, by the unique, musky spice that would forever haunt her memory. Her senses saturated with the scent of the boy who had taken her young world and crushed it so thoroughly she had never fully recovered. The one man in the world she never wanted to see, ever again.

  "Roman."

  His name tore from her lips, half curse, half supplication. He cut her bonds and she collapsed into his arms, unable to stop the flood of emotions that turned her limbs to liquid.

  "Yes, it's me."

  A million conflicting feelings raged through her. Joy, despair, love, hate. A whole rainbow of every emotion she'd experienced over half a lifetime, all centered around this one horrible, wonderful, deceitful man.

  "I don't believe it," she murmured.

  Elation, passion. Anguish, hurt.

  "I don't quite believe it myself," he quietly answered.

  Especially hurt. Pain razored through her heart, making her gasp with the agony. Even the breath in her lungs stung with bitter misery.

  Reaching deep down into herself, she somehow found the strength to take a step backward, out of his arms.

  She looked him in the eye. "Well, I hate to cut short this touching reunion, but I've got to go after my artifacts."

  Forcing herself to turn, she strode toward her Jeep, which was parked at the side of the cabin. Damn. Keys. She veered to the door and reached inside to grab her purse.

  "Wait."

  She stopped, but didn't look at him. She couldn't do this. It was taking all her willpower to walk away. "What?"

  "I need to talk to you."

  But she couldn't talk to him. Didn't want to rip open all those old wounds that had taken her so long to heal over. It would kill her.

  "It's been a long time, Roman. There's nothing to talk about."

  "Please, Rae. Let me say this. Then I'll go."

  If possible, the pain cut an even bigger swath through her heart. After eighteen years, she only rated a few words, then he was just going to take off again. Just as he'd done back then. A minute or two, then, so - long - sweetheart - catch - ya - in - another - eighteen.

  Well, what did she expect? That he wanted to reminisce over old times? Find out what she'd been doing since he disappeared so utterly and completely from her life? Or maybe that he'd finally seen the light, realized he loved her, and had come to beg her to go back to him?

  Yeah, right.

  She fisted her hands around her purse and turned to face him. "Okay. What is it?"

  She hated that his eyes were plaintive, twin pools of raw vulnerability. He had no right to be vulnerable. He was the hard one, the one who had thrown away everything they'd had for no reason she'd ever been able to discern.

  "I'm sorry, Rae. I'm so damn sorry. I was wrong to leave you without a word."

  "Okay. You're sorry." She made her leaden legs move to the Jeep. Away from him. "Apology accepted."

  His sculpted lips parted. "But I want to explain—"

  "No need," she interrupted. Too late. Years too late.

  "Yes, there is. I have to explain.
I need you to forgive me—"

  "No problem," she said over her shoulder as she jumped into the Jeep and raised a hand, as if flicking away, a pesky fly. "Bygones. Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but I really have to catch those guys before they make it to the rez."

  Firing up the engine, she caught a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. Slack-jawed, uncertain, pale as her own skin. She thought about what she'd gone through because of this man, about the incredible losses she'd suffered, and steeled herself against feeling sorry for him. He didn't deserve her sympathy. Not one minute of it. Not after—

  She stopped the thought before it even formed. She would not put herself through that particular hell. Not now. Not in front of him. He'd long since forfeited the right to know about her private burdens.

  The Jeep lurched forward under her shaky foot. She had to get out of there. Fast. Before she did something she'd regret. Like break down. Or consent to listen to a single word Roman Santangelo had to say. Either way would be her undoing. Either way would prolong the number of minutes and seconds she had to spend in his company. Would exponentially increase the chances for true disaster.

  Grinding the gears from reverse into first, she headed for the road leading away from the cabin. And prayed Roman Santangelo wouldn't climb onto his damned motorcycle and follow her.

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  Naturally he followed her. But not on his motorcycle. To RaeAnne's alarm, Roman shook himself out of his stupor and loped after the Jeep, his long legs making short work of the small head start she'd gotten on him. In a lithe motion worthy of a Hollywood stuntman, he jumped cleanly into the passenger seat.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded, slamming on the brakes.

  "Coming with you," he said calm as pudding. "I'm a witness."

  "Witness to what? This was just a little misunderstanding. Toby and I are friends."

  "Misunderstanding?" He looked at her incredulously. "Woman, you were tied up and left to an uncertain fate with a possibly dangerous stranger. If nothing else, the kid deserves to have the tar whipped out of him. And I didn't exactly get the impression he had permission to take those boxes."