A Man of His Word by Sarah M. Anderson

embarrassed way again. “If I recall correctly, there was a lot of crying.”
    â€œI think I like your mother.”
    He chuckled, like maybe he agreed with her. “Between all the cryin’ and the community service—I scrubbed a lot of garbage cans—I saw the light. A man doesn’t like to upset his mama, you know.”
    â€œNot a good one, anyway.” He shot an appreciative look at her.
    This whole conversation had an air of the unreal to it. Rosebud should be holding on to this info, saving it for when she needed the leverage against Dan during negotiations, but instead, they were just talking. “So?”
    â€œSo, I grew up and joined the family business. Some of my old friends grew up and joined ELF.”
    She flipped through her notes. “The same ELF that targeted seven Armstrong Holdings derricks?”
    â€œThe very same. After the second time, when the police were still coming up empty, I started doing a little digging and all the signs pointed to my old buddies.” He shook his head. “They knew it was my company—just punishing a traitor, I guess. I busted them red-handed one night. Oil derricks are a long way from Dumpsters, but they couldn’t argue with a shotgun. They chose to negotiate instead of the alternative.”
    â€œDuly noted.” She couldn’t tell if that meant he had been willing to shoot, or if he’d have just turned them in to the authorities. She shivered. Her mind flashed back to that day in the valley—she’d never been sure if he’d had a gun on him or not. The what-if loomed huge in her mind. “So what was the truce? Take this exit, by the way.”
    He was silent as he took the exit that led to Bob’s Roadhouse Bar and Grill. A bright red neon T-bone blinked above the sign advertising Rapid City Rollers Live Tonite. A line of motorcycles took up half the parking lot in front of a long, low building that looked like it was slouching to the left; a line of trucks filled the other half. Two people she hoped were only kissing backed up against a pickup truck, and anothergroup was standing in a circle. Were they cheering? A flash of movement caught her eye, and she realized that a fight was going on in the middle. She shuddered.
    Suddenly, Rosebud remembered why she’d never been here before. It was one thing for Tanner and Tom to go into a place like this—rough and gritty and full of people who were happy to throw a punch or three, all in the name of a good time. Tanner had always liked a game of pool and a loud band, and Tom—well, he’d never been afraid of anything, including what might happen to a couple of Lakota Indians in a white man’s bar. The two of them wouldn’t have had any trouble attracting plenty of feminine attention—or holding their own during the inevitable fights. Because the fights were inevitable.
    She hated the way Tanner would come home with his face a bloody mess, telling her all about how he and Tom had shown those “racist wasicu, ” those white devils, what a true Lakota warrior could do. Tanner may have lived clean and sober, but he had still itched for the fight and lived to count coup on his enemy.
    As if his face wasn’t warning enough, Tanner had always lectured her on staying away from places like Bob’s. “Promise me,” he’d say, his eyes serious as she patched up his cuts. “Promise me you won’t go to a place like that. It’s too dangerous for you.”
    He’d made her so mad back then. Always trying to tell her what she could and could not do. He’d been the one who’d sent all the cute boys packing because no one was good enough for his sister. He had been the one who’d told her she had to go to law school. And every time he told her to make that promise, she’d wanted to strangle him. “Oh, you’re the only one allowed to do stupid things?”
    But every time,