by Jenna Kernan
“Yeah, well, you’ll be sorrier after you meet her. She’s going to eat you for lunch and send me to a nunnery.”
“She doesn’t like Apache Indians.”
“She likes professional men with their own money. You got any money, Dylan?”
“I got this?” he said, lifting the choker of silver and turquoise beads that ringed his neck. “And a claim from my grandfather to get more of the same.”
She hugged him tight. “This will be hard. I don’t usually bring a man home unless I want to get a rise out of her.”
“She’ll think I’m there to upset her, then.”
“Probably.”
“I can play that part. Might enjoy it.”
“You won’t,” she whispered.
Dylan lowered his chin and she lifted up to kiss him. Suddenly the danger they faced slipped away in a haze of desire.
Forrest cleared his throat. Dylan broke away and cast him an impatient look.
“We have to get you two over to the airport.”
“I’ll drive them,” said Jack.
“We’ve got a team in Phoenix. They are in position to surveil and assist, if necessary. Just use the code word and we’ll pick you up.”
Destiny, he recalled. That sent the FBI into attack mode. He hoped he wouldn’t need it. But if they were right, he and Meadow were flying into a lion’s den.
Chapter Seventeen
Meadow pressed her hand over the wire that had been affixed between her breasts with paper tape. The helicopter blades made any conversation impossible, and anything she said into the headset was also heard by Jessie. She felt as if she had dropped down the rabbit hole. Everything seemed familiar but changed when, in truth, only she had changed.
The suspicion tainted everything. As the runners touched down she spotted her father’s Mercedes sedan, big and white and pretentious. He had a Jeep and a Range Rover and also the Ferrari. The Mercedes was the vehicle her mother used for impressing potential donors to PAN and meetings with film producers. She swallowed her dread at the possibility that her mother was waiting behind those tinted windows.
The blades slowed and Dylan touched her wrist and shook his head, glancing at her chest. She dropped her hand. The involuntary action, touching the wire, could get them both killed—if the FBI was right about her father.
Were they?
The FBI said her father was the head of BEAR. Could he head an organization so violent and that had such a bleak outlook on the human condition that they called for a do-over? One that did not include people. They did not just incidentally kill people while protecting the natural world. According to Forrest, they encouraged it.
And the FBI really believed that her father had sent her up there, to the mountains outside Flagstaff, to die.
Her father stepped from his vehicle, his salt-and-pepper hair blowing in the artificial wind of the slowing chopper blades. His hair had once been the same soft brown color as hers. Her brothers and sisters had inherited the thick black hair of their mother, and her deep brown eyes. Her mother didn’t like Meadow’s hair, calling it mousy brown. It was one of the reason she’d died it ocean blue. Not surprisingly, her mother had not liked that any better.
Their eyes met and he smiled, flashing white teeth that now looked dangerous in their brightness. He extended his arms in welcome and she forced down her apprehension. This was her dad, the one who always indulged and pampered her to the point that her brothers’ and sisters’ jealousy hardened into disdain and disapproval. Only Katrina managed to look past her favored status and keep their relationship alive.
When would she grow up? When would she do something with her life?
Her brother Miguel’s lecture ran in a loop in her mind. Well, she had grown up, suddenly and all at once, in that fire shelter when the man beside her had used his body to protect hers. She had come to appreciate her life and found her purpose. She wanted to know the truth, and she was willing to do whatever was necessary to discover who had sent her to die.
She was here to prove her father guilty or innocent, and she really, truly, did not know which he was. Her heart prayed for innocence as her mind spouted facts. He had asked her to film that day. He had sent her up there. Him.
Jessie stepped out first. She waited for him to open her door and then climbed down, keeping low.
“Princess Meadow!” called her father, and met her halfway. He enfolded her in his arms, squeezing so tight she could not breathe. Did he feel the transmitter taped to her torso? “I’m so happy to have you home.”
He kissed her forehead and she pulled away. Dylan was out of the chopper.
She slipped naturally under her father’s arm and motioned to Dylan. His transmitter was inside his truck’s key fob, which had been clipped to the loop of his jeans.
“Daddy, this is my hero, Dylan Tehauno of the Bear Clan.”
The minute she said “bear” her heart skipped. Her father’s arm tightened and then he stepped away to shake Dylan’s hand.
“Bear, huh?” he asked.
“Bear born of Butterfly. My tribe is Turquoise Canyon.”
“Beautiful country, except for the river. They’ve ruined that, the salmon runs, the migrations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I want to thank you for getting my girl out of the fire. I’m in your debt, Mr. Tehauno.”
“My pleasure.”
Her father’s smile hardened. Their hands remained clasped a beat too long as the men sized up each other. Her father’s smile reemerged as he dropped his hand and returned to her side.
“Well, we need to get you home, Princess.” He gave her a squeeze. “Can we drop you somewhere, Mr. Tehauno?”
Dylan’s gaze flicked to her.
“That’s not funny, Daddy.”
Her father’s smile held, but his eyes stayed pinned on Dylan. He didn’t like her new beau and it wasn’t really a joke. He looked like he would love to drop him somewhere. That was certain.
“In we go.” He motioned to his limo and the man in uniform who held open the back door.
“Where’s Mom?” asked Meadow, feeling both relieved and disappointed her mother had not come to greet her.
“She’s working, Princess. But we’ll see her tonight. Big welcome-home dinner just for you. Your brothers and sisters will be there, and some of your friends.”
Dylan wondered if that might be worse than confronting the man. As it turned out, he would have been happier battling a wildfire on the line with Ray. At least then he would have had a clear escape route.
Dylan remained silent as Wrangler and Meadow conversed about the revised version of events since she had left to film.
“What about the camera?” asked her father.
Meadow looked away to lie. “Gone.”
“Well, no matter. Great footage. Best you ever shot.”
And it had nearly killed her. Dylan felt sick as he saw Meadow beam with pride. They used the highway to circle the outskirts of Phoenix and then headed up into the gated luxury communities that lay south of the city in the pine forest and mountain meadows. The Wranglers’ home sat on a golf course, which Dylan found ironic. The log-and-stone exterior included a huge portico, where they were greeted by staff. Dylan trailed behind Wrangler, who looped his arm in Meadow’s as they strolled through a home larger than his tribe’s headquarters. The interior was rich with polished wood, flagstone and wrought iron. Sculptural glass pieces filled niches above the fireplace, and he spotted a beautiful Navajo rug draped over a leather couch that looked as if no one ever sat on it.
In the back of the house, between the golf course and the huge outdoor seating area was a lap pool. It was there he met her mother, who had been “working” on her tan.
Lupe Wrangler floated on a pink raft in the sha
llow end in a two-piece neon-orange suit that showed a full figure. Her raven hair was pulled into a ponytail that fell over the visor shading her eyes and onto the headrest of the float. Mrs. Wrangler did not bother to leave the pool as they appeared but paddled to the stairs, where she stood in knee-deep water to meet Meadow with a perfunctory kiss, accompanied by a cutting comment that she still smelled of wood smoke. Likely, Dylan thought, from the fire in the tribe’s meeting house. She did not bother to greet Dylan but lowered her glasses down her nose to stare.
“So this is the latest. Interesting choice.” The glasses slid back into place. The woman exited the pool and dragged on a sheer cover-up that did little to hide the neon-orange bikini beneath. Her dark skin came either from her lineage or a dedication to tanning. With her black hair and deep brown eyes, she did not look like the mother of the fair-skinned Meadow. Suspicions rose immediately in Dylan’s mind.
Meadow resembled her father, Dylan realized, and perhaps someone else?
“Your father insisted on a party,” said Lupe Wrangler. “I told him that the less attention we draw, the better. But you know your father.”
Dylan watched as Meadow’s smile became brittle and her eyes glassy. Lupe sank into her lounge chair with her drink. She did not offer her daughter or her guest a drink or ask them to join her. It made him think of the adage his grandmother often repeated: Assume that your guests are tired and hungry and act accordingly.
“You’ll want to clean up and dress before dinner,” said Lupe, lifting a magazine.
Meadow remained where she was. Her mother glanced at her and a raven brow lifted above the tops of her sunglasses.
“Well?”
“This man saved my life, Mother. He’s not an interesting choice. He’s a hero.”
Her mother frowned. “Don’t be dramatic, dear. Your father told me all about it. All he did was stop to pick you up. Anyone would have done the same.”
Not here, Dylan thought. She’d have driven right by Meadow. Maybe over her. Was she intentionally trying to be cruel?
Lupe flipped the pages of her magazine, dismissing her daughter and ending the conversation.
Meadow’s face reddened but she said nothing, just turned and retreated into the house.
Her father waited there, arms folded as he watched the exchange.
“She was worried about you,” he said.
“Yes. I can see that. Did she miss a manicure waiting for news?”
Her father’s smile seemed sad to Dylan. Lupe Wrangler was beautiful and cold as an ice sculpture.
Theron walked them through the foyer, the polished wood tile echoing with their steps.
“Guests are arriving at eight. That will give you some time to rest. Have a swim.”
Dylan thought of swimming in front of the ice queen and found the prospect left him cold.
“If you need anything, Mr. Tehauno, please just ask—something more appropriate for dinner, perhaps?”
Dylan gave a half smile. “I’ll be wearing this.” He plucked at his cotton shirt, causing the heavy multistrand necklace of turquoise mingled with silver beads to thump against his chest.
“Of course.”
Meadow took him upstairs, and they spent the afternoon resting in her suite of rooms. The sitting room and bedroom looked like a magazine spread but nothing like a home. Meadow selected a silver dress from her cavernous closet and tossed it on the bed. Then she slipped out of the shirt he had given her and into the metallic sheath, transforming before his eyes from the woman he had come to know to the party girl she had claimed to be. The low-cut cocktail dress accentuated her slim figure and revealed her long legs. He wondered if the dress was selected specifically to irritate her mother. She applied a generous coating of makeup, a red lipstick and silver earrings that brushed her shoulders. She waited until eight thirty to leave her bedroom suite. One of the waitstaff stood holding a necktie and blazer out for Dylan. He accepted the jacket and refused the tie. Together he and Meadow descended the grand staircase with her arm in the crook of his elbow. Meeting the guests, Dylan felt as out of place as a fish in the Mojave Desert.
Her friends were all Anglo, well-educated and oh-so-careful to appear socially conscious and forward thinking as they surreptitiously checked their text messages every few minutes. Her brother Phillip was short and fat and old enough to be Meadow’s father. Dylan found him to be a blowhard and his handshake seemed to be compensating for something. He let Dylan know how important he was by spouting statistics like a whale spouts water as he yakked about their operating budget, his staff and the very necessary efforts and successes PAN had managed as cocktails were served and appetizers offered by the waitstaff.
He was seated for dinner between Katrina and Rosalie, Meadow’s attorney sisters, who interrogated him like a witness to a crime, and so far across the enormous table that he could not touch or speak to Meadow. Dessert was served in another room entirely but at least he could leave the witness chair and return to Meadow. As the evening dragged along, her friends grew louder and her mother more catty. Lupe Wrangler cornered him in the dining room after dinner.
“You won’t have her for long. No one does.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“You must think you died and went to heaven.” She swept her hand about in the air, indicating the opulence all about them.
“Should I?”
“Of course. I’ve visited some of Arizona’s reservations. Garbage everywhere, filthy little hovels of houses. The government should be ashamed.”
“Should they?”
“I think so. I don’t know why you don’t rise up against them.”
“We tried that in the 1870s. Didn’t work out.”
Her lips curled in a mirthless smile.
“Well, you’re more interesting than her usual fare, I’ll give you that. My girls tell me you fight wildfires.”
The gathered intelligence had already been received, he thought.
“Yes. I’m with the Turquoise Canyon Hotshots.”
“Do you ever think that fire is nature’s way of cleaning the palate?”
“I’ve heard that argument. But nature doesn’t start most of the fires I fight. Men do.”
Her smile never faltered as she inclined her head as if giving him a point. Catlike eyes regarded him then swept away.
“It’s mine, you know?” she said, surveying her home over the rim of her glass. “My husband is a self-made man, but he was wise enough to marry money. My money.”
“Good to know.” Dylan glanced around for rescue.
“Dirty money mostly,” said Lupe. “Great-Granddad had oil-drilling companies in Mexico before they nationalized. My grandfather built offshore drilling platforms for the Mexican government. One of them had a blowout and the oil ignited. Massive spill in 1979.” She paused and lifted her brows expectantly.
He shook his head.
“Too young to recall it, then. Wish I was, but time marches on.” She stroked her hand under her jaw as if judging the texture of her skin. “I don’t do anything much except invest in my husband’s films and follow the golden rule, Don’t Touch the Principal.”
Dylan thought he understood why Lupe might marry a man with an environmental agenda. She had a family legacy that would give anyone pause. He looked about for Meadow, but she was nowhere in sight.
“Do you know Kenshaw Little Falcon?”
“Yes.” He tried not to tense.
“He did some good work stopping the land swaps. We couldn’t have prevented that Canadian mining company from coming in here if not for the efforts of the Turquoise Canyon and Black Mountain tribes. I hear he’s negotiating the water rights up there in Turquoise Canyon.”
“He’s very active in a number of worthy causes.”
“He came down here to prot
est that house breaking the ridgeline. Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“What do you think about the encroachment of housing into wild places?”
Meadow rescued him. Her mother’s expression went sour the instant she spotted her youngest.
“Here she comes. The prodigal child returns.” She slipped an arm around Meadow and gave her shoulder a little pat. Then she leaned in and whispered, “What are you wearing?”
Meadow ignored her. “I’m going to steal Dylan. I want him to meet my friend Veronica.”
Her mother waved her away.
“Sorry about that,” said Meadow. She steered them up the stairs to the balcony over the portico. The breeze was absent and the night so much hotter than up in his mountains. They looked out at the city of Phoenix twinkling in the distance.
“Do you want me to meet your friend?”
“Not really. But you will. My friends are all curious about you.”
They had only a few minutes of peace before Rosalie and Katrina found them and the interrogation resumed. If he did not know, he would not have guessed these two were Meadow’s sisters because she was taller, lighter in skin tone and a completely different body type. Where Meadow’s frame was model thin, her sisters had full figures and wore clothing that hugged those curves and revealed enough cleavage to make a man lose his concentration. They were short, and even the high-heeled sandals did not bring them eye level with their youngest sister.
He tried to ask Rosalie about the projects she oversaw at PAN and to discover what kind of fund-raising Katrina organized for her parent’s upcoming release, but they carefully steered all conversation to his rescue of Meadow and his work with the hotshots. They barely acknowledged their little sister. When they finally glided away on four-inch heels he felt as if he’d just survived running the rapids on the Snake River.
He blew out a breath.
“That goes double for me,” she said. “Want something to drink?”
“Water with lemon.” He didn’t drink and, though tempting, he wasn’t starting now when he was in a nest of vipers.
