“It’s not what I do. Not normally.”
Brody was still upset with her. “So you say.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
“Why should I? You embarrassed me in front of my employer—”
“Trip said—”
“Trip is a great guy. But he has limits, just like everyone else. He told me about your phone call.” Brody shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“I didn’t keep it from you. I told you I’d talked to Trip. I was trying to help.”
“Stop. Please. Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to get a real job since I left prison?”
She shrugged.
“People don’t like labels. Especially when you’re labeled a murderer. Even when there was cause for such a thing.”
“There’s never cause for murder,” she shot back.
“You’re right. But an accident is still an accident.”
She felt the rise and fall of her chest as she tried to hold her composure.
“It was manslaughter,” she said quietly.
“Involuntary manslaughter. But people still see a dead man and come to their own conclusions of who I am. They don’t care about what Doug was doing to Marie.”
“You wanted him dead. I heard you say as much in court.”
“In the heat of the moment when I saw him shooting up my sister, yes, I wanted him dead. But I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted him to stop hurting my sister. I knew she was on drugs and I’d been trying to get her clean for a while. She’d managed to get off the drugs for a few months, or so I thought until I found him feeding them to her. You know that’s true, even if you won’t admit it.”
“I know it’s true,” Tara said quietly. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But it’s true. Doug was sick. He was going to end up dead one way or the other. By needle or by force from someone trying to stop him.”
“I drew the short straw.”
“I know. Ten years ago, I never would have been able to admit that to myself much less you, Brody. But I can now. And I’m sorry I embarrassed you with Trip. I truly was trying to make up for what I’d done.” She thrust the package wrapped in silver and white paper at him. “Here. Please take it.”
Brody took the package and frowned. “What is it?”
“Open it. Unless you want me to leave so you can look at it alone.”
“No, I’ll open it now.”
He pulled at the wrapping paper, but didn’t unwrap it completely. He tore just enough to be able to see what the gift was. The sound of paper tearing caught the attention of the one of the horses a few stalls down and made him whinny.
“It’s a bowl,” Brody said, looking over it.
“Yes, made by a woman from one of the local tribes. I know you have people who do pottery on the reservation where you lived. But this woman does beautiful work for my shop.”
He glanced at her and she fought to blink back the tears that had formed in her eyes.
“It’s nice,” he said. “You really didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t know how to make it up to you after I... You just moved into the bunkhouse. I’m sure it’s pretty bare of color.”
He smiled. “It’s a guy thing. Besides, it’s not the bunkhouse. It’s the ranch manager’s house.”
She nodded. “Oh. Congratulations. That makes me feel even worse that I could have made you lose that good of a job.”
“It’s water under the bridge.”
He was being much more gracious than she’d been to him. “I have a lot of nice things at the shop. Some that aren’t even broken.”
Brody laughed and then shook his head. “I hope you had insurance.”
“Yes, already claimed. Things will be replaced. But things like this piece can’t be. I know Shana worked hard on this bowl. She puts a lot of love into her work. There is always some story that goes with her pieces. Some things can never be replaced when they’re destroyed.”
* * *
Brody took in the thoughtful expression on Tara’s pretty face as she talked about the bowl. So many business people thought of fine art and crafts as being simple items that were attached to dollars and cents on the bottom line. To Tara, it was personal.
“Do you know the story to this one?” he asked.
“Yes. There should be a slip of paper in the bowl.”
She looked on the floor as if to make sure it hadn’t dropped out when he’d unwrapped it.
Brody reached in the bowl and his fingers connected with a slip of card stock paper. He pulled it out and read the handwritten note that was signed by the artist.
No river can return to its source, yet all rivers must have a beginning.
“That’s nice. I’ll be sure to thank Shana if I get a chance to meet her.”
“I thought it was fitting,” Tara said. “If you look at the bowl when you unwrap it completely, you’ll see the river. And when you look at it long enough, you’ll see many rivers.”
“Many beginnings.”
She offered him a smile so sweet it nearly leveled him. He’d never seen Tara Mitchell look at him with anything other than hate and annoyance. He liked seeing her smile. Something inside told him it would be like music to hear her laugh. But that was not to be today.
“Shana comes into the shop to show me her work about once a month. I usually get to choose first from her inventory and then she sells the rest at events on the reservation. But I missed her today when she stopped by. She left me a few pieces to sell though. This was one of them.”
“How did you meet her?”
She hesitated as tension and shame filled her eyes. “She knew my brother.”
He hated that she still felt that way after all these years. He understood it. Shame was something everyone carried around in some measure for one reason or another. But in her case, she was
