She saw Gail Amberson peeking over her husband’s shoulder, and pitched her voice so that the woman would be sure to hear what she was saying, even through the double-pane glass of the stormdoor. She could not see Gail well enough to read her expression, but her husband’s was a mixture of guilt and anger, just a flash of it. The same kind of expression she saw on the faces of people who had bought “hot” merchandise.

Then it changed, turning first calculating, then complacent. I’ve handled your type before, bimbo, she all but read. You’re just a woman and a stupid Indian. You can’t prove I have the stuff; you can’t prove anything. I hold all the cards here, and you don’t even have a bluff hand.

But he kept tight control over his manner; his voice held a world of haughty disdain that she knew she was meant to hear. “I’m afraid you have the wrong information, miss,” he said, clearly and precisely. “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.”

He was using his height, race, and male authority to try to intimidate her, but sometimes an equal show of authority would make someone like Ralph back down. It was worth a try. “I’m talking about some Lakotah artifacts your wife, Mrs. Gail Amberson, just inherited from her grandfather, Thomas Robert Gentry,” Jennifer persisted, taking slow, deep breaths of the stifling air, and fully aware that this man was not going to allow her inside his house where he stood in air-conditioned comfort. “Those artifacts were obtained illegally, and—”

“And even if I knew what you were talking about, you have no way of proving that,” Ralph interrupted. Then he smirked—which she was also meant to see. She found herself pitying any woman who worked for him; sometimes intimidation was worse than harassment, for it left the victim feeling utterly worthless. His tone hardened. “Now I suggest that you take yourself back to whatever reservation you came from. You’re trespassing on my property, and I’m fully within my rights to call the police if you don’t leave.”

And with that, he shut the door in her face, and only the air pressure between the inner door and the storm door prevented him from slamming it.

She counted rapidly to ten in Osage, then in Cherokee for good measure. “Fine, jerkface,” she muttered to the closed door. “Then we’ll see you in court. Hope you enjoy spending money on lawyers.”