by Jenna Kernan
“Where are we going?” asked Dylan.
“Flagstaff.”
“I want a lawyer,” said Meadow. Then she turned to him and said, “Don’t you say a thing to any of them until I get you an attorney.”
She still didn’t understand. All her money and power and influence flowed from her parents and that tap had been shut off. Meadow now had only her reputation and her fame. It wouldn’t be enough.
They were met en route by the Flagstaff police and escorted to the station. Once there, they were greeted by news crews with cameras and microphones pointed at them like artillery.
For the first time in his life, Dylan found himself on the wrong end of the law. He had always done what was expected, what was right and legal. He’d helped Ray Strong out of more situations and scrapes than he could count, but Dylan had never been the one facing a prison cell.
They were separated for processing. Dylan’s one call at six that evening was to his grandfather, who said he would send help. Dylan asked him to get to their shaman, Kenshaw Little Falcon. He then spent much of the next day refusing to answer questions. The police did furnish him with some information. The vehicle they had taken was found to have carried explosives. Some of the blasting cord was still in the back. They told him that they believed he was one of the eco-extremists involved with the theft down at the Lilac Copper Mine. They were testing the explosives and expected a match. He did not confirm or deny his ownership of the Humvee, but it didn’t matter, because the registration bore his name. Clearly, he and Meadow had more than just terrible timing. They were the fall guys for this and were supposed to die like good little patsies. He expected someone would be sent to get to them. That was what had been done to the Lilac mine shooter. The hit had been made as the mass gunman was transported to the police station in Darabee. Sanchez had been assassinated by one of Dylan’s own people, and whatever Sanchez had known died with him.
The police needed the guilty and BEAR needed a scapegoat. Dylan thought they had found two. And the fact that he had been driving the vehicle and that Meadow’s brother headed PAN, the organization known in the Southwest for Protecting All Nature, and that her father was an environmental documentary filmmaker did not help her cause. She came across as some Patty Hearst–like character. The rich-girl-turned-terrorist. Oh, boy, would that sell papers.
Dylan wondered how long they would keep at this. It seemed like hours since he’d arrived, but in the windowless interrogation room it was difficult to tell.
The interrogating officer started asking him the same questions again from the beginning. Dylan exhaled his frustration and kept his mouth firmly shut.
The impact from something heavy shook the building. The detectives stood and looked at the door.
“What was that?” asked the younger detective.
“See what’s up,” said the one with the sprinkling of gray in his short stubble of hair.
“Felt like a bomb.” The man already had the door open when they heard the sound of automatic weapon fire. The older man shot out the door and then turned back to the junior man and aimed a finger at Dylan.
“Watch him!” Then he vanished from sight.
The younger detective watched him go and so did not see Dylan rise from his seat and charge him. The impact of that attack brought them both out into the hallway, where Dylan landed on top of him. He stood preparing to stomp the guy if he needed to, but the officer had the wind knocked out of him, giving Dylan the moment he needed to retrieve the man’s wallet and the handcuff key. That was where his friend Jack Bear Den kept his key. Dylan also took the guy’s car keys. If the fob was right, the guy drove a Dodge. Dylan had one wrist out of the cuffs when the detective reached for his gun. Dylan hit him in the jaw and then dragged him back into the interrogation room. Then Bobcat went hunting for Meadow.
Where was she? He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew who they were after—him and Meadow, the loose ends that could ruin their plans.
The police returned fire now. Automatic weapon blasts mingled with the discharge of shotguns. Dylan checked one room after another. He found her in an interrogation room with a wide-eyed female officer. Dylan ordered her back and she went for her weapon. Meadow was up and diving for the female officer, causing her to fall to the ground and her pistol to skitter across the floor.
Dylan dragged Meadow off and hustled her out. Her hands were cuffed, but he didn’t stop to address her captured wrists.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Don’t know.” He turned away from the gunfire and made it to the end of the hall that led to an emergency exit and then stairs. The Flagstaff joint police and sheriff building had only two floors. They were halfway down the flight when they heard the door above them open. Dylan glanced up as they made the turn around the landing and saw Vic Heil, one of the two men who had crashed the gatehouse.
“They’re here,” Vic yelled over his shoulder.
Then Vic aimed the automatic weapon at them. Dylan pushed Meadow to the wall as the blast of gunfire hit the concrete stairs above their heads.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Guy from the gatehouse. Run, Meadow.”
They burst out the side door, triggering another alarm. Dylan blinked at the bright sunlight and the blast of hot air.
Meadow stumbled, her hands still cuffed behind her back. Dylan kept a hand on her elbow to assist her balance as they darted into the parking lot. Meadow was quick and they made it out the door to the rear parking area. They darted between the closest cars and kept low as Dylan retrieved the fob and pressed the door release. They heard a beep and headed for the sound as the back door of the building banged open. Their pursuer had reached the parking lot.
Chapter Twelve
Dylan did not hit the lock release again for fear of alerting the gunman of their destination. Instead, he searched for Dodge vehicles. His second try found a car that was unlocked. He got Meadow into the passenger seat and then ducked around to the driver’s side, praying that this was the detective’s vehicle and not just an unlocked car.
The key turned and the motor engaged. His relief was short-lived as he saw the gunman’s head turn in their direction. An instant later, the gunman was running. Dylan saw him clearly now, the younger man from the gatehouse—Vic Heil. Behind him came a second man that Dylan did not know.
Dylan threw the muscle car into Reverse and flew backward in the Dodge Challenger. Thank goodness the detective liked fast cars. This one was a V-8.
Dylan burned rubber and fishtailed on his exit from the lot. Meadow looked back, yelped and ducked low as bullets peppered the trunk.
Vic had missed the tires, Dylan realized as he made the main road and screeched out into traffic amid the sound of horn blasts. They barreled away from the station. Dylan didn’t know where he was headed yet. He just wanted to put distance between him and the men who hunted them.
“Hit men,” said Meadow. “Honest-to-God hit men.” She let her head sink back to the seat and turned to look at him. “You saved my life again.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and cast her a grin. He drove them out of the city before stopping to release the second side of his cuffs and set Meadow free.
“Where should we go?”
“Two choices. Your family or mine,” he said.
“My family has financial resources.”
“They also might have sent those men to kill us.”
“I’ve always wanted to see those reservoirs in the mountains,” she said. “And the ridge of turquoise you spoke about.”
With the destination decided, Dylan set them in motion. Twilight found them driving south. It was well past dark when they reached Indian land. Dylan thought it was the first time he had taken an easy breath in two days.
Dylan drove straight down I-17, the
fastest way home from Flagstaff. He stopped to make a phone call at a truck stop east of Phoenix and reached Jack. His friend met them at the boundary of their land. He flashed his lights and escorted them toward tribal headquarters. Their tribe was small—only a little over 900 members living on the rez—so the tribal seat included a small police station in a wing of the building, but it was enough for the nine officers on the payroll.
Dylan needed a shower, a hot meal and a warm bed. The thought of bed made his gaze slide to Meadow.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Exhausted. Do you think he’ll interrogate us again?”
“He’ll have questions, but I’ll handle them.”
She levered her palm under her chin as if she needed to brace herself to keep her head up. Her yawn triggered one of his own.
He pulled into tribal headquarters behind Jack. His friend Detective Jack Bear Den stepped from his vehicle. Meadow’s gasp at the sight of him was audible.
“He’s...he’s...” She was pointing now, leaning forward.
“I know. He’s big.”
“Big? That’s a giant. He’s Apache?”
“There’s some debate about that,” he muttered.
She turned to him, her voice conspiratorial. “Really?”
Dylan must be more exhausted than he realized, revealing Jack’s business.
“He has brothers, but he doesn’t really resemble them.”
She nodded, those pretty brown eyes wide. “Gotcha.”
Jack was at her door now, drawing it open.
“Miss Wrangler?”
She nodded.
“Welcome to Turquoise Canyon. I’m tribal police detective Jack Bear Den. I’m sorry to hear of your troubles.”
He extended a hand. Dylan could not explain why it pleased him that she looked to him before accepting. He nodded and she took Jack’s hand, her small one all but disappearing into his.
“Thank you,” Meadow said.
Dylan got out of the car to join them as they made their way into the station.
“I ordered some food,” said Jack. “Should be waiting.”
Dylan wanted a shower, but he thanked his friend. Jack was a fellow member of Tribal Thunder and a warrior by nature. It was because of Jack that his brother Carter had survived the insurgent attack that had killed their translator and their friend Hatch Yeager. Carter had rescued their sergeant, and Jack had passed the wounded man to Dylan, then grabbed a hold of Carter to keep him from charging into the enemy forces that had already overtaken Hatch’s position. It was exactly the kind of cool thinking under pressure that made Dylan so relieved to have reached the tribe and Jack’s protection.
Jack escorted Meadow into the station and then introduced her to his police chief, Wallace Tinnin. Once in the staff room, Dylan was greeted by three members of the tribal council. As was custom, they spoke of generalities until their guest was fed. Only after their meal did they speak of what had happened, and they chose to speak in Tonto Apache.
The short version was that they believed Dylan was innocent of all charges and were prepared to protect him from any and all Anglos. Meadow was a different story, however. They looked at her with suspicion and feared that this outsider would bring trouble. It was only through Dylan’s refusal to desert her that she was permitted to stay.
Dylan made the decision to take her to his home. Jack arranged police protection for them. Dylan knew resources were tight and appreciated Tinnin approving the decision.
His home was in a remote area, past the tribal community of Koun’nde. Access was via a single road. One way in. One way out. Jack escorted him home and Dylan was relieved to see his place was empty. He’d been half-afraid that his mother, sisters and grandfather might be there to greet him. He loved his family, but his energy was waning. He needed rest.
Jack went in first while Dylan and Meadow waited outside.
“He’s like a pit bull,” said Meadow.
“Just bull. No pit.”
“He’s in your warrior society?” she asked.
Dylan nodded and stretched his tight muscles.
“What’s his spirit animal? Wait, let me guess. Buffalo.”
Dylan shook his head, his smile turning sad. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Bear?” she guessed.
“No. Our shaman, Kenshaw Little Falcon, did not choose an animal for Jack. Jack was given the medicine wheel.”
Her brow wrinkled. “That’s what?”
“It looks like a compass, divided into the four directions. But the symbol is more inclusive, with many meanings.”
“Why did he choose that?”
“I do not know. I only know what Jack told us, that Kenshaw said it would help him find which direction to go.”
Dylan was about to tell her that there was one more difference between Jack and the three other newest members of Tribal Thunder. Jack’s tattoo was not on his right arm, but emblazoned on his back, between his shoulder blades. But somehow that seemed even more private than the mystery of his birth, so he remained silent.
Jack’s return ended Dylan’s internal quandary.
“All clear,” said Jack. “See you in the morning. Kenshaw wants to speak to you tomorrow.”
Dylan stiffened. He had never had any trouble with their shaman until February, when Jack had mentioned his suspicions that Kenshaw was an active member of WOLF.
WOLF, which stood for Wilderness of Life Forever, was the less extreme of the two groups. Their aim was the same as BEAR, but they made all efforts to preserve human life while BEAR made efforts to destroy as many lives as possible in their efforts to protect and preserve nature.
If their shaman was an eco-extremist, seeing him might put Meadow in danger.
Dylan switched to Apache. “Do you still suspect he is a member of WOLF?”
“No. I no longer suspect. I know he is.”
Dylan lifted a brow.
“I will not put her in danger.”
Now Jack lifted a brow, and Dylan found it hard to hold his gaze.
“Really? Do you know what you are doing?”
“I used to think so.”
“You saved her, so she is your responsibility. But be careful. Even I have heard of this one.” He inclined his head toward Meadow, who seemed to know she was the subject of conversation as she looked from one to the other.
“I am always careful,” said Dylan.
Jack smiled. Did he think he was speaking to Ray? One or the other of them was always reminding Ray to be careful. To follow the rules. To do as he was told. No one had ever felt the need to issue such advice to Dylan. Suddenly he understood the sour look he always gleaned when he gave his unsolicited advice to Ray. He glared at Jack and switched to English.
“We will see you in the morning.”
“I’ll call first.” He let that one sink in and then tipped his cowboy hat to Meadow. “Sleep well, Ms. Wrangler.”
They watched him walk away.
“He doesn’t like me,” said Meadow.
Dylan didn’t deny it. But what mattered was that Dylan liked her. She wasn’t what she believed herself to be. He recalled her tackling the female officer in Flagstaff and running through the parking lot. Meadow was a warrior and a survivor, just like Dylan. But there were so many differences between them. Too many, he reminded himself. Still, reason didn’t stop him from admiring her, and, if he was honest, he’d admit his feelings did not end with a growing respect. He was beginning to like her. And for the first time since he had met her, they were safe and alone together.
Chapter Thirteen
Meadow explored his living room, feeling his gaze follow her as she moved through Dylan’s space. The furniture was sparse, nearly Spartan with the exception of a lo
ng, sagging couch and an upholstered chair and ottoman. The back of the sofa was draped with a woolen blanket in a bold geometric pattern that reminded her of a Navajo rug. Behind the chair sat a floor lamp angled to pour light on the occupant. On the ottoman were three stacks of books and on the floor, in the place where an end table might be, sat another pile of books reaching up to the level of the armrest. She saw mysteries, thrillers, books about American history and a travel guide on fishing in Alaska. Dylan had more books on his ottoman than she’d read in the past six years. She hadn’t read anything much since her schooling ended and she no longer had to state the theme of the fish in The Old Man and the Sea or describe the meaning of irony using Lord Byron’s Don Juan. She looked to the place where a television would be and found only a speaker system that attached to an MP3 player and a charging station for digital devices.
“You don’t watch TV?” she asked.
“On my tablet, sometimes. I like college hoops.”
“News?”
“Online mostly. Can I get you a drink?”
“Wine would be wonderful. Red, if you have it.”
He glanced away. “I don’t. Never drank alcohol.”
She did not succeed in stifling a gasp. “Never?”
Now she wondered if he had a problem, but he’d said he never drank, not that he didn’t drink or didn’t drink anymore. She had given up hard liquor while in detox, after a late-night swim lead to an indecency charge. She now only drank wine and held herself to a two-glass limit.
“Because you’re Native American?”
He smiled. “Because alcohol is bad for you and makes you do things you later regret.”
“That’s true.”
“No one in my family drinks.”
“Is everyone in your family Apache?”
“Yes, all.”
“And you only date other Apache?”
“That’s a small gene pool. I don’t limit myself or discriminate by race. Though my mom would prefer...” He glanced away and made a face.
He didn’t have to finish. His mother wanted a nice Native American girl. She certainly didn’t want a spoiled white girl with Smurf-blue hair whose main talent seemed to be generating income for the tabloids.
