as she tried to scream. She fought, but her captor was too strong.
“Shh. Be still, Connie. It’s me, Clint.”
She stopped fighting. Her heart was racing so hard that she thought it might burst from her chest. She’d been so afraid that she’d been caught by whoever was smuggling whiskey onto the reservation, and she’d had no idea what they would do to her.
Clint dragged her backward, deeper into the brush and farther away from the river. Connie wasn’t sure why he was here, but she went without protest. When they were far enough away, he stopped and turned her to face him. The clouds had moved in to diminish the light, but Connie could just make out his features.
“What are you doing down here? Did you follow me?” she demanded.
Clint didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was low and husky. “I did. I was out checking on things, and I saw you leave your folks’ place.”
“Must have been God’s timing,” she murmured.
“I agree. Now, what are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t feel comfortable confiding in Clint. “I was planning a midnight swim. I used to sneak off and do that with some of the other girls when I was younger.”
“It’s not safe to do that anymore.”
“Because of those men at the river? When I saw them, I hid. What were they doing?” She tried to sound as innocent as possible.
“I’m not entirely sure, but there’s been a lot of alcohol showing up on the reservation lately, and I was hoping to catch the men red-handed.”
“Alcohol?” Connie paused, trying to figure out how best to move forward. She decided to feign ignorance. “Grand Ronde Indians have never been drinkers.”
“You’ve been gone seven years, Connie. That’s a long time for things to change.”
“I suppose so. How sad. Have they been drinking a lot?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Someone is smuggling it in.”
“I want to help. I know my father would never allow such things.”
The sound of someone approaching caused Clint to pull Connie deeper into the undergrowth. He held her close with his finger to her lips until the sound faded. It was an intimate moment, but Connie didn’t find it at all stirring. She contemplated the past, when she had dreamed about being held by Clint Singleton, but even that didn’t stir her heart. Perhaps the danger of the moment made such feelings impossible.
“It’s not safe for you to be out here, Connie. You could get yourself killed.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea it was dangerous.”
“I couldn’t forgive myself if I let something happen to you.”
“That’s very sweet of you to say, but I’m hardly a child who needs to be watched after.” She quickly changed the subject. “Do you know who those men are?”
“No. Some are obviously Natives.”
His breath was warm against her ear, and again Connie tried to conjure up some fond feeling. But there was nothing except frustration that she’d been found out—and worry for her parents. Maybe that was blocking her ability to feel love for Clint. Then again, there was always the possibility that she’d been more successful at putting aside her feelings for him than she’d ever thought possible. It would make complete sense to have lost her affection for him over the years. Especially if, as he had once said, her love was nothing more than a childish infatuation.
The men were talking again, and Connie strained to hear. They were speaking one of the Rogue River dialects. It sounded like the dialect used by the Latgawa people. The man referenced someone named Smith. They were asking where he was. Then someone began to speak in Chinook Jargon again.
“Come on,” Clint said, moving away from the men.
“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Connie asked. When she was young, Clint hadn’t cared to learn the languages of the people. He hadn’t even wanted to learn the common language—Chinook Jargon, or Wawa, as it was often called. She knew he understood more of the common language now but didn’t believe he was all that good at it, because her father had said Clint often asked for him to translate at official meetings.
“No,” he replied. “I never learned that dialect and very little Jargon. Do you know it?”
Connie wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want to admit she did. “I heard the name Smith, but while the language sounds familiar, I can’t tell you exactly what it is.” She hadn’t really lied. She wasn’t sure which dialect it was.