Breaking Free: A Colorado High Country Crossover Novel, Pamela Clare [i can read book club .TXT] 📗

Now, they sat on the back of his truck, tailgate down, the pizza devoured, the sun dipping behind the high peaks.

“Isn’t it beautiful up here?”

He could barely take his gaze off her. “Yeah. Incredible.”

It was beautiful and peaceful, the air crisp and fresh, the scent of pine on the wind. He couldn’t even hear traffic from here or see a single power line or a house or a road. She’d told him there was an old silver mine a little farther on and that Joe and Rain had their home somewhere up here, but, apart from the road, he couldn’t see any sign that people had ever lived or labored up here.

“Why did Naomi ask you about baskets?” She’d been changing Shota’s diaper and had missed most of the conversation.

“O’odham women are known for weaving beautiful baskets. She wondered if I knew any artists who might want to sell baskets through her store. I told her I’d ask around.”

“Your grandmother made them, right?”

“She did. She was a master.” Jason pulled out his phone, scrolled through his photos. “These are hers.”

Winona leaned closer. “Oh, Jason. They’re beautiful! Your grandmother had talent. That one looks just like your tattoo.”

Jason scrolled until he came to a photo of his grandmother. “My grandmother had a hard life. Her father married her off when she was fourteen, but her first husband died falling off a horse soon after. To be honest, I think she was relieved. Then she met and married my grandfather. She gave birth to eight children at home, no medical help, no pain relief. They all died before she did.”

“That must have been so hard.”

“Grief took its toll on her, but she always had a smile for me.”

“Grief took a toll on you, too, losing your parents so young.”

That was the truth.

“She and my grandfather lived by the old ways—farming, hunting, harvesting food from the desert. She made baskets, and he hunted. After my parents were killed, I was consumed by rage. I lost myself for a while. But they took me in, taught me traditional O’odham skills, taught me our history, our stories. They saved me, stopped me from becoming a statistic.”

“They must have loved you very much.”

Jason slipped his phone back into his pocket. “My grandfather passed first. My grandmother lasted for almost two years without him. As she lay dying, she made me promise not to abandon my O’odham people. I knew that she wanted me to keep our family name and our culture alive by passing on everything they’d taught me. My sisters took off, so I’m the last one in our line still living in Sells.”

“That’s why you won’t leave the reservation.”

“Yeah.” The word was bitter in Jason’s mouth.

He had made that promise to his grandmother at a time when he couldn’t imagine wanting to do otherwise, when he and Elena were together and it had seemed like the path for the rest of his life was laid at his feet. He would never have imagined that the promise might one day come at a cost. But now…

Another twist in the road, another unexpected turn.

For a time, they sat there, neither of them speaking, the mood changed.

Wind in the pines. The hooting of an owl. The distant bugle of a bull elk. The warmth of Winona’s hand in his.

“We should go.” Winona released his hand and hopped to the ground, her tone of voice light, her gaze averted. “I need to check on the bear cub, and we’ve got an early morning.”

“Right.” He stepped to the ground, closed the tailgate, then opened her door.

“Thanks.” She started to climb in, then stopped. “If you hadn’t made that promise, would you at least consider spending time here with me?”

It hurt even to imagine that scenario, but he understood why she was asking. She wanted to know whether she meant anything to him beyond sex.

“I would. Hell, yes, I would. I care about you, Win. But I did make the promise, and nothing can change that.”

“It’s getting chilly.” Making a valiant attempt not to seem upset, she climbed into the passenger seat.

But Jason knew her better than that. He closed her door, walked around the front of the truck to the driver’s side, at war with himself, a sense of guilt twisting in his chest. But why should he feel guilty? He’d been honest with her from the beginning. She’d known he couldn’t stay.

You knew she’d get hurt if you got involved with her, but you did it anyway.

His next thought stopped him mid-stride.

What you didn’t know was that you’d get hurt, too.

Fuck.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned up the heat. “Let me know if you’re still cold.”

Then he headed down the mountain and back into Scarlet.

Fighting a sense of gloom, Winona gave the bear cub antibiotics and morphine, then cleaned its enclosure, speaking softly while she worked. “I’m so sorry, little one.”

It sniffed, watched her, bawled, in pain and missing its mother.

While the morphine kicked in, she mixed bear feed with seeds and wild chokecherries and thawed venison scraps in a bowl. At this age, the cub had been weaned off its mother’s milk and ate bear food—bugs, carcasses, berries, mice, wild honeycomb. When it had healed, Winona would move it to an outdoor enclosure, isolated from other staff, and help it learn to forage so it could be released into the wild next spring.

She gave the bear its food and went to check the other animals. The beaver and the raccoon seemed to be having a conversation, the raccoon trilling and cooing, and the beaver making little humming noises that sounded almost human.

“That’s why the Ojibwe call you ‘little talking brother,’ right?” She was happy with how the beaver’s lacerations were healing. She would be able to remove the splint from the raccoon’s leg next week. “You’ll both be ready to leave me soon, won’t you?”

She meant the words one way when she said them, but they resonated in an altogether