Free Season of Storm by Sellers Alexandra

from the courts of the country, and he was the sort of man whose word, in other circumstances, she would have accepted at face value. Well, maybe that only showed how wrong her judgment of people could be.
    She said dryly, "And after all this you want me to believe that you weren't trying to kidnap my father?" And had taken her as second best. It was obvious. On the spur of the moment he had decided to use her to blackmail her father and force him to stop the logging in Cat Bite Valley.
    She wondered what her father would do. He was a man who didn't like to be challenged. Kidnap and be damned might well be his reaction.  
    "He doesn't love me, you know," she said, not knowing why she said it.
    "He's a fool, then," commented Johnny Winterhawk, looking at her as though he understood more than she had said aloud. "You're a daughter any man should be proud of."
    Smith blinked and swallowed and dropped her eyes. She couldn't understand where the well of emotion that engulfed her had come from.
    "I kidnapped you, fool that I am," Johnny Winterhawk said, "for the reason I told you earlier. Because I thought you recognized me when you pulled my mask off, and the last thing we need when I'm due to testify before the Cartier Commission is a charge of breaking and entering or attempted extortion being laid against me. First, because we would lose credibility, and second, because it would be difficult for me to testify before the commission from a cell in Oakalla prison."
    Smith looked at him. He must think she was very naive. "There is such a thing as bail," she told him. "And I'm sure a man like you would get bail."
    Johnny Winterhawk laughed again. "Would I?"
    What did that mean? "You're a well-known architect," she said. "And you seem to own enough property."
    "I'm an Indian, too," he said.
    "No," she said levelly, "please don't tell me the statistics about how Indians are treated before the courts. I don't believe that the system is that bad. Anyway, you're very different from the general run—" She broke off, appalled by what she had been going to say.
    "Of no-good Indian?" Winterhawk finished for her. She was silent.
    "That's different, of course."  A dreadful sarcasm threaded his voice. "Of course, the fact that Indians are all lazy and shiftless means it's justice that Indians make up sixty-two percent of the prison population in areas where we make up only twenty percent of the general population, doesn't it? And it's only fair that the suicide rate among my people is six times the national average. After all, what can you expect of worthless—"
    "All right!" she shouted, to drown out that scathing voice. "All right, I'm sorry! I'm an unconscious racist and you've found me out!" She drew in a shaky breath. "I'm also tired and I've been kidnapped and I've been through enough in a day to last anyone a lifetime and if I have to listen to any more I'll go crazy!"
    She was trying to keep her voice calm, but it had climbed to a panicked squeak. She stopped and took a deep breath. "Please, when are you going to let me go?"
    He wasn't going to let her go at all. Smith could see it in his eyes.
    "Please," she begged, "my father is ill—maybe terribly ill. Please don't keep me here."
    There was a pause while they looked at each other across the sun-filled room. Then Johnny Winterhawk spoke.
    "I'm sorry you're here at all," he said flatly. "But there's a lot more than your father's health riding on this. My people are fighting a battle for their way of life and for their lives. It's a losing battle before it even begins." His voice and his face showed he was implacable. "Your temporary peace of mind is not important in the scheme of things, Miss St. John. Nor is my comfort. I don't want you here, either, but here you are going to stay until this thing is over."

 
    Eight

    "Lumber baron Cordwainer St. John was admitted to the Royal Georgia Hospital in the early hours of the morning, after his second heart attack in a few weeks. His