by Meryl Sawyer
What he'd discovered pissed him off. She wasn't some two-bit reporter with an imagined connection to Exposé. He couldn't slip out of town without anyone discovering he was the missing Stanfield kid.
"I've been lots of places," he said to break the silence, "but nowhere else looks quite like Sedona. It's … unusual."
He gazed out the window at the craggy rocks glowing blood-red in the setting sun. A contrast to the flat-topped formations, spires of crimson stone vaulted skyward to catch the last rays of sunlight. From the crevices in the mammoth boulders and towering pillars grew tenacious clumps of golden mesquite. Skirting their bases were cactus with leaves like paddles.
Kelly drove with a casualness that said she could have found her way blindfolded, and she turned down a narrow road just off Oak Creek. Here the vegetation was greener, the red sandstone outcroppings flanked by Goliath cottonwoods, and apple trees with branches drooping from the weight of the fruit.
"You're right," she responded, but she sounded distracted. "Sedona goes from high desert to mountains. It's beautiful, yet there's a mystical feeling here. Some people pooh-pooh the vortexes, but there is a certain … something in the air."
He didn't put much stock in the magical powers of vortexes. Some people claimed Easter Island, Machu Picchu, and Stonehenge were vortex sites. They did emit enough electro-magnetic energy to be measured, but Logan refused to buy all the New Age spiritual crap about vortexes.
Kelly turned to him, her remarkable brown eyes studying his face. He'd put the baseball cap on backward and tucked the sunglasses in his backpack. He let her eyes drift over his face for a moment, then he unleashed his killer smile.
His father's smile.
She wasn't impressed, asking, "Do you remember being here when you were a child?"
"How much do you remember from when you were five?"
"Not much. Hazy images." She guided the car around the corner, going down a one lane road.
"Look," he said, spotting a battered cowboy boot on a fence post and changing the subject. "Someone lost a boot."
"It's a signal people use around here. See how the toe of the old boot points toward the house? That means Pop—my grandfather—is home. If the boot pointed the other way, his friends would know not to bother to go all the way to the house because he wouldn't be there."
Everything about this place fascinated him. The unusual, the different called to him. Perhaps, he reflected, because it was an echo of himself.
"You don't remember your life in Sedona. What is your first memory?"
She wouldn't want to know.
Kelly pulled into a driveway near a mission style home. The rambling adobe structure had a flat roof and an overhanging portal. Terra-cotta tiles paved the walkway up to the house. A massive pueblo-style door with forged iron hinges shaded by an ancient cottonwood marked the entrance.
Logan couldn't help comparing it to the Stanfield estate with the clipped hedges and acres of dicondra. Like the Stanfields themselves, the compound had to appear perfect. But the people, their home, seemed pretentious, devoid of real personality.
Kelly switched off the ignition key and looked at him, expecting an answer to her question about his first memory.
"Let's eat," he hedged. "Then I'll give you word-for-word the statement the Stanfields will be releasing."
She hesitated a moment, ready to fire off another question, but something stopped her. They got out of the car and went inside where the air was filled with the mouth-watering smell of roasting chilies and fresh-baked bread.
For once Logan did not crave a Twinkie. His stomach rumbled anticipating a delicious dinner. One lizard—no salt—did not cut it.
A Native American woman gaped at him from the arched doorway that led into the dining room, then she crossed her chest whispering to herself. Hail Marys, no doubt.
Beyond her stood an older man with thick white hair. Although he was extremely thin, Kelly's grandfather held himself erect. The older man's resemblance to Kelly was unmistakable. The high cheekbones, the brown eyes speckled with amber, a certain tilt of the head as he looked at Logan.
"Pop," Kelly said as she gave the older man a kiss on the cheek that made Logan glance away. "I've brought someone special home for dinner."
Special. Sucking up pissed him off big-time. Even though he would like to hop in the sack with her, Kelly was just another reporter after a story. Logan looked the other way as Pop hugged Kelly.
Families gave him the willies. They were always hugging and kissing.
"Logan Stanfield," the older man said as he came toward him.
"Logan McCord," he corrected. No way was he using the Stanfield name. Not now, not ever. "I hope my coming to dinner isn't causing a problem."
"Uma always makes more than we can possibly eat," he assured Logan.
Logan glanced at the Native American woman named Uma. She stared down at her moccasins and crossed herself again. Great! He hadn't managed to wrap Kelly around his little finger the way he did most women. Now this woman wouldn't even look at him.
What the hell. He didn't want Kelly's approval. He needed her to put his "spin" on this story.
"I'm Trent Farley," Kelly's grandfather said, shaking Logan's hand. "Call me Pop. Everyone else does."
Logan found himself smiling, his first sincere smile during what had turned out to be one of the longest, most miserable days in his life. He honestly liked Trent Farley, and gave him credit for accepting the situation instead of gaping at him like a Neanderthal time-warped onto the space shuffle.
Kelly disappeared into the kitchen with Uma, and Logan let Pop guide him into a den filled with family photographs. The older man opened a cedar plank sideboard that served as a bar.
"Scotch?" Pop asked as he pulled out two glasses.
"Got any tequila?"
"Sure," he responded without missing a beat. "Herradura Anejo."
"You're on!" Logan had been in South America long enough to appreciate pure blue agave tequila. Pop understood premier tequila, all right—a stand-up guy.
* * *
Kelly sprinted through the kitchen and out to her casita. Her Hasseblad was on the table where she'd left it after she'd returned from the hogan. An amateur photographer since high school, Kelly developed the photographs herself.
She picked up the Hasseblad 500 CM, a gift to herself after Daniel's death, and loaded the camera with a roll of Kodak Tri-X.
"Go find Pop," she told Jasper when he greeted her at the back door. He dashed across the kitchen, tail beating the air, and Kelly rushed after him. She spotted Pop with Logan sitting on the terrace having a drink. Without letting them see her, she opened the door and Jasper bounded out.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Uma said from the stove where she was making fry bread. "Jim Cree was right. That man is a skinwalker. He looks exactly like Haywood Stanfield looked years ago. Only witches can change themselves like that."
Kelly smiled at Uma's mixture of Native American beliefs and Catholicism. She'd been brought up in the church, yet she retained their own beliefs. It hadn't occurred to Uma that Logan was Haywood's son.
Native Americans did not indulge in elaborate deceptions like the adoption of a child who was actually the man's own son. They were honest and forthright. When something couldn't logically be explained, witches—skinwalkers—were often blamed.
Through the open window, Kelly watched Logan react to Jason's appearance. Like most people, Logan grinned at the friendly golden retriever. His smile wasn't the calculated smile he'd unleashed on her earlier. This was a relaxed, genuine smile that lit his face, making him—if possible—more handsome.
Kelly adjusted the lens for a shot that would include Jasper. This was a priceless opportunity to get a series of natural, unposed shots for her story. She hated being sneaky, but there was something so … guarded about Logan. After she developed the shots she would show them to him.
She clicked away, thrilled at the pictures she was getting. Now if she could j
ust get his story as easily. Why had Logan McCord come to her? Was it just her "guts" in coming out to the hogan, or did he have some hidden agenda?
The camera loved every inch of Logan's face. It wasn't difficult to imagine one of these pictures on the cover of Exposé with a small inset of him as a child. She envisioned the headlines her article would generate. Could Haywood Stanfield take the pressure, or would his presidential fortunes plummet and never recover after the reappearance of his illegitimate son?
She took the camera back to her casita and quickly changed her clothes. Later, she would develop the film, then decide which pictures to overnight to Matt with the article. She joined them on the terrace that was gracefully suspended over Oak Creek.
"Honey, you look great," Pop said. "How about a glass of merlot?"
"Perfect," she replied, taking a seat at the table across from Logan. "You said you were hungry. Brace yourself, Uma is serving shrimp and her special fry bread."
There was a seductive quality to the smile he gave her. No doubt, he'd coaxed more than his fair share of women into bed with his adorable grin and sexy blue eyes. Here was a man who knew what he wanted—and he knew how to get it.
"Sounds better than what I had for dinner last night, lizard."
"A lizard tastes like chicken," she said, trying to joke. "Right?"
"Nope. Lizard is chewy like rattlesnake. It's lousy without salt. Last night I didn't have any salt."
Kelly almost gagged. Again she asked herself what kind of man was this?
* * *
The sun melted behind an imposing butte, firing the brushstroke clouds with gold and scarlet while steeping the Red Rock country in shadows. In a few minutes it would be dark, and the exterior lights would automatically come on. Taking advantage of the concealing shadows, the man slipped into the bedroom suite through the patio door.
He eased the door shut without making a sound, but didn't reach for the light switch. The plush carpet cushioned his footsteps and muffled any noise as he walked toward her bed.
Over the years, he'd come into her bedroom countless times. By her body language, he could accurately gauge her mood. Sometimes she indolently lounged across the bed naked. At other times, she would be in one of her expensive Natori negligees that she loved to buy, then wear once.
He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, and saw she was in one of "those" moods. She was fully clothed and sitting upright, her back against the headboard of the bed.
"You promised Logan wasn't going to be a problem," she said when he sat down beside her.
"You saw how he acted when he showed up here. Logan swaggered in like he owned the place. He claimed he wanted to keep his name, McCord and live his own life. Bullshit! He was just pretending not to be interested in the money."
"I believed him until he returned, saying Kelly Taylor knew about him. Kelly Taylor—of all people!" She punched one of the silk butterfly pillows on her bed. "That is just a little too convenient. Logan fed Kelly the information, so he'd have an excuse to come here again."
"I agree. He was lying about wanting to rejoin the Cobras. Who in hell would want to piss their life away traipsing around third-world countries hunting terrorists?"
She leaned so close to him that he could smell the perfume she always sprayed between her breasts and thighs. "What if Logan knows the truth?"
"That's impossible. He was barely five when he disappeared."
She put her hand on his thigh and his cock responded with a surge of heavy heat. "I don't trust him."
He loved her more than any other person on this earth, but she was a bit dense and self-centered. "Neither do I. While you were napping, I phoned Washington. I had to call in a few favors, trying to get Logan's file."
"Good idea. His background might show some weakness we can use."
"If Logan has an Achilles' heel, I couldn't find it. His file has been electronically deleted. It'll take time and money to find a private investigator to work on this."
"Logan is after the Stanfield money. I just know it. He'll stay here and worm his way into Haywood's heart." She squeezed his thigh, her long nails pressing into his linen slacks. Her graceful fingers inched upward, then traced the hard length of his shaft. "I say Logan should have a terrible accident—before the press conference."
"Logan has disappeared. I have no idea where he is. But if I can find him before the barbecue tomorrow, he's a dead man."
"Be careful," she cautioned, her fingers gloving his sex. He sucked his breath in, then held it.
He let out his breath. "Killing Logan won't be as easy as murdering Suzanne."
Suzanne's name caused her beautiful face to contort with fury. "Suzanne thought she could marry into this family and take over, but we showed her."
"True," he conceded as her fingertips explored his erection. "But this won't be as easy. Logan is a trained killer himself."
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Logan resisted the temptation to stroke Jasper's head, suddenly aware of how much he missed never having had a dog. Actually, he'd never had a pet unless you counted the chickens they raised at the camp.
As a young child, he'd been lonely, desperate for someone to play with him. He made friends with the chickens, and hand-raised one from the time it was a chick. Fancy would follow him around the camp, paying attention to him when no one else did.
Zoe had deliberately chosen Fancy for dinner because Logan loved the chicken. She grabbed the back of his neck and forced him to watch as she lopped off Fancy's head with the rusty hatchet used for chopping wood. Fancy hopped around for a minute, headless, then dropped. As her blood seeped into the dirt, he bawled, realizing his only friend had been butchered.
But that didn't satisfy Zoe. She made him pluck every feather off Fancy, then she cut up the carcass and fried it. Nothing Zoe did could make him take one bit of dinner that night. Nothing.
It had been such a long time ago that it almost seemed as if it had happened to another person. Those years had been miserable beyond description, but he had become stronger than most men because of the experience.
The primary lesson was not to become attached to animals like Jasper. Or to people.
He took a swig of the premium tequila, aware of how intently Kelly was watching him. Unlike most women, she was immune to him. Who cared? He didn't want her to fall for him.
All Kelly had to do was be first with the story—his version—then the Stanfields could go to hell. As soon as they staged their stupid press conference, he was out of here.
"I was just telling your grandfather about my arrival at the Stanfields' place." He couldn't help smiling, recalling his own father standing in the door slack-jawed with astonishment. Okay, he'd been blown away, too, but at least he'd kept his cool. "I'd called from Argentina, and the senator invited me here. He just wasn't quite expecting what he got."
"Hadn't you ever seen a picture of Haywood Stanfield?"
"No. How many state senators can you name let alone recognize?"
"Not many," she conceded, "and I'm a reporter. I probably know more than most people."
"You might have noticed the resemblance if Woody ran for president."
"Maybe, maybe not," he answered Pop. "I work out of the country. Sometimes I go undercover and don't see a newspaper or television for months."
Kelly nodded, then asked, "Was the whole family there when you arrived?"
"Yes. Benson Williams had wanted to have the press there, too, but I talked him out of it."
He didn't add that Williams was a real tight-ass. He'd hated the prick from that first telephone conversation when he'd called from Argentina. At first, Benson had flat refused to allow him to speak to his father.
"I thought I could come here and meet the family, then rejoin the Cobra Force."
"With your picture everywhere, it won't be possible to do that. Terrorists will know exactly what you look like."
The sympathetic tone in Pop's voic
e told Logan the older man truly understood how difficult this was for him. He might hbe forced to give up the life he loved all because some computer discovered his real identity and sent him back to a family who didn't give a rat's ass about him.
The Native American woman delivered a platter. She put the warm appetizers in the center of the table, never once looking at him. Kelly explained they were cactus, baked, then rolled in cilantro and Mexican cheese before being sliced into bite-sized pieces.
"Uma, this is Logan McCord," Pop said, then he turned to Logan. "Uma Begay is practically a member of the family."
"Pleased to meet you," the older woman said. She kept her eyes downcast and shuffled off to the kitchen.
"Guess she doesn't like me," Logan said as he reached for a cactus appetizer.
Kelly sipped the wine Pop had given her. "It isn't that Uma doesn't like you. Navajos consider it rude to stare or point. They don't look you directly in the eye until they know you as well as their own family."
"Hm-m-m," Logan muttered as he ate the appetizer. It gave Twinkies a run for their money. He hadn't eaten any junk food until he'd enlisted. He discovered Twinkies in a vending machine at the base, and they'd become his favorite snack. "She's a helluva cook."
"She certainly is," Pop agreed. "Uma's fantastic. She helped me raise Kelly."
"Who raised you?" Kelly asked him.
"Do you want me to recite, word for word, the statement Benson Williams is going to read at the press conference, or should I explain my past in a way that doesn't make the Stanfields sound like heroes?"
Kelly took the bait. "I want to hear your story, not some spin doctor's version."
"Same here," Pop said. He snapped his fingers and Jasper deserted Logan, obediently going to the older man and sitting beside his chair.
"I don't remember failing into the ravine, or the McCords finding me," Logan began, looking directly at Kelly. He didn't plan to tell anyone the whole truth, but this explanation fit the situation. "My earliest memory is my mother teaching me to swim in the pond out behind our place. I loved to swim, so I begged her to take me every day."
