Free A Man of His Word by Sarah M. Anderson

bounce, her eyes didn’t blink and he couldn’t tell without staring, but he was reasonably confident that her chest didn’t even rise. When she did speak, it came out as a whisper. A pained whisper. “What do you want?”
    Which was a hell of a good question. But he wasn’t going to come up with an answer sitting in this demon chair. He got up as smoothly as he could and went to the window. She needed a moment to get herself together, he rationalized. “You know Google? The company motto is ‘Don’t be evil.’”
    She snorted behind his back. “That’s noble, but naive.”
    â€œNo, dinner was noble but naive,” he shot back.
    â€œI’m not naive.”
    â€œNot you. Me.” Because thinking he could walk the line between “interested lust” and “cold-blooded scheming” was obviously one of his dumber ideas. And to expect her to believe him? He turned back to her. “It was naive of me to think that me kissin’ you could be a separate…thing from your tribe suing my company.” So much for being good at talking.
    Even sitting in judgment of him, she was beautiful. What he wanted was to ask her out on a real date, to take her someplace far away from this crappy conference room and Cecil’sranch house, someplace where it wasn’t Armstrong Holdings talking to the Red Creek Tribe, but just Dan and Rosebud. He’d love to get her hair out of that braid, get her out of that… For the first time, he noticed her suit. It looked like the same one she’d worn to dinner—and the same one she’d had on last week.
    She only had one suit?
    He must have been staring, because she began gathering up files. The movement did little to hide the embarrassment on her face.
    â€œWhat happened to your copier?” The question was out before he knew where it came from. Somehow, he knew the answer was connected to a lawyer that only owned one suit.
    He could see the tension ripple along her shoulders. “It’s broken.” She hefted the banker’s box and made a break for the door. “Good day, Mr. Armstrong.”
    The door shut behind her.
    As Dan’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight in the parking lot, he noticed the man immediately. The black Crown Victoria, the full-wrap sunglasses and the black suit were hard to miss in this heat. Some kind of law was trying mighty hard to look casual in the middle of the parking lot at four in the afternoon.
    The guy looked a little like a Lakota Indian—right color, but wrong everything else. His hair was short and that suit probably set him back a cool grand. Not the local police. And the man was watching him behind those glasses. Dan could tell by the way his chin moved.
    This place must be throwing him for a loop because right now, Dan felt like he was walking into a trap and he wished with all his might he had his gun.
    â€œDan Armstrong?”
    â€œDepends. Who’s askin’?” Yep. Old-timey talk was just pouring out of him.
    â€œTom Yellow Bird.” He stuck out his hand, his jacket flashing open to reveal a Glock.
    Good grip, Dan thought. Not a grip of dominance, but there wasn’t an ounce of weakness in the man. “What can I do for you, Mr. Yellow Bird?”
    Yellow Bird gave him the once-over. “Depends on what you’re doing here. Heard you were looking into the Donnelly suicide.”
    â€œWord gets around.”
    â€œIt’s a small rez. Going to get a lot smaller if Cecil Armstrong gets his way.” Yellow Bird waited, but Dan was in no hurry to set the man’s mind at ease. Yellow Bird broke first. “You’ve met Rosebud?”
    â€œI have. You know her?”
    â€œKnew her brother.” The way he said it made it sound like he considered Rosebud to be the pesky little sister—always had, always would. For some reason, that made Dan want to smile—but he didn’t. “We lost