Reason To Believe Read Free Page B

particularly the Great Plains." She smiled, accepting his low, ostensibly appreciative whistle as an indication that he was duly impressed.
    He was, but not necessarily with her academic pursuits. She had several assets going for her besides the legs. He liked the way her lips were shaped like a dime-store valentine. And he was glad she wasn't a social worker. They could be damn meddlesome.
    She offered a handshake. "I'm Clara Whiting. Mr. Pipestone's expecting me." She glanced briefly over her shoulder, reconsidering the distant two-lane highway. Not a car in sight. "Maybe I took a wrong turn somewhere. The directions were—"
    "Where you comin' from?"
    "Bismarck."
    "Not too many turns between here and Bismarck," he drawled, deliberately reeling out the words as though he couldn't spare too many. "Pretty hard to get lost."
    "But it's a long drive. I hope I don't have to..." She unfolded the paper and quickly scanned its contents. "If you could just tell me..."
    "If you could just tell me why Clara Whiting would be lookin' for Dewey Pipestone, I might be able to help you." She looked at him expectantly. "The name's Ben Pipestone. You're lookin' for my dad."
    "Oh." She acknowledged her relief with another pleasant smile. "Good. I didn't think I could've missed the turn. There was only—"
    "Dewey's away from his desk right now," he said, tucking his thumbs into his belt as he eyed the wispy steam rising from her car hood.
    "Pardon me?"
    He chuckled. "He's not home."
    "He must have forgotten, then." Her gold wrist-watch glinted in the sun. While she checked the time, he glanced at her car, which was still running. Barely. "Of course, I am a few minutes early. Maybe he..." Changed his mind didn't seem to be a possibility. "Do you know when he'll be back?"
    "When he's done what he set out to do, I guess. Have you met him, face-to-face, or did somebody point you in his direction?"
    He wondered if she realized that the steam wasn't a real good sign.
    "I met him at a powwow," she said absently as she glanced down the road again. "I hope I've got the right day. I'm sure I do."
    "You hope you do, you're sure you do." Ben smiled. Just because Dewey Pipestone was well beyond prime didn't mean he didn't enjoy looking. And Clara Whiting was a damn sweet eyeful, from the curve of her lips to the curve of her hips. The ol' man would have her thinking he was the be-all and end-all of Indian wisdom. "He'll be here."
    "You're sure?"
    "Oh, yeah." He tipped his head to the side as he stepped back and checked out the puddle gathering between the dry clay ruts under the front of her car. "If you're gonna wait around for him, you might think about shuttin' your engine off. Looks like you're runnin' pretty hot."
    "Hot?"
    He indicated the telltale steam with a chin jerk, and she finally turned to look. "I'm also sure you're overheating, Clara Whiting."
    "Oh." She said it as though he'd told her she'd dropped a nickel. "You know, I thought there was something funny going on, but I wasn't sure."
    "Sure enough. Funny as hell."
    "Not funny ha-ha. Funny strange." Accordingly, she approached the car with caution, checking to make sure Ben wasn't far behind. "And something really is going on. It's steaming, isn't it? I thought maybe it was a mirage." She shook her head and gave a merry little laugh that tickled his ears and made him smile outright. "I'm afraid I don't know much about cars except how to get places in them."
    "And this one got you all the way here without its gauges going nuts? It must love you." He nodded toward the driver's side. "You wanna pop the hood once? I've gotta see what's under there." His sly grin was meant to tease. "An engine or a bleeding heart."
    "I always forget about those gauges," she muttered as she opened the door and reached inside to shut the ignition off. She bent down a little more to pull the release latch, accentuating yet another of her assets.
    He took his time about retrieving an oily rag from his toolbox. He