by Aimée Thurlo
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Copyright
He’d never felt like this before…
As Joshua thought of his father’s death, anger seethed inside him. He’d never felt rage like this before, and he wasn’t sure how to handle those feelings now. He’d seen his two older brothers punch a wall in anger or frustration, but he’d never understood what drove them to do crazy things like that. He’d always derived so much satisfaction from staying in control, from finding the pattern and walking in beauty. Without harmony there was only chaos.
He glanced at the woman, Nydia, who had allied herself with him. Try as he might, his feelings toward her were anything but moderate. And a healer needed moderation. Love, judging from what he’d seen of it, seldom led to that. He’d always believed it was the last thing he needed.
Until now.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Four Winds, New Mexico! It’s one of those magical towns where no one is who they seem to be…and everyone has a secret. And the sexy Blackhorse brothers are just the perfect tour guides we need.
Harlequin Intrigue is proud to present the FOUR WINDS miniseries by bestselling author Aimée Thurlo. She’s been called a “master of the desert country as well as adventure” by Tony Hillerman, and a favorite author by you, our readers.
Join Aimee for all the stories of the Blackhorse brothers and the town in which they live. Don’t miss Her Shadow in March.
For a free newsletter, or signed bookmarks, you can write Aimée at P.O. Box 2747, Corrales, NM 87048.
Happy reading!
Sincerely,
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street
New York, NY 10017
Her Hero
Aimée Thurlo
To Debra M. Huntley F. and the staff at Harlequin Intrigue. you are the most supportive and terrific bunch of people in the industry. It’s a pleasure to work with you all.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Nydia Jim—Could the medicine man she found in the small town of Four Winds help her if he couldn’t save himself?
Joshua Blackhorse—How high a price was he willing to pay for his allegiance to the old ways?
Darren Wilson—He ran the feed store, but now he was working hard to become judge, jury and executioner.
Bob Burns—As mayor of Four Winds, he knew the price of dreams and the cost of failure.
Ralph Montoya—As the owner of the town’s newspaper, he knew only too well the power of the press.
Alex Green—The young typesetter was destined to get his name in print-one way or another.
Gabriel Blackhorse—He was responsible for catching his father’s killer. Just how far from home did he have to search?
Chapter One
Fall-Present Day
As she waited for the gas tank to fill up, Nydia Jim unfolded a small hand-drawn map and placed it on top of the hood of her truck. It had been several months since she’d last visited Four Winds, New Mexico, and although she remembered sketching the route to the medicine man’s hogan, she’d never actually been there. The reasons for her visit had been far different then.
She thought back to her brief meeting with Joshua Blackhorse. As she pictured him in her mind, a twinge of awareness swept through her. Tall, like all of the Blackhorse brothers, with a broad, muscular build, piercing black eyes and an air of unshakable confidence, he was certainly a man any woman with a pulse would find hard to forget.
Not that she’d let him know it when they’d met. She’d acted cool enough, hiding her attraction under layers of professionalism. As an anthropologist, she’d learned how to remain analytical and objective in all kinds of situations. It was a skill she’d had to teach herself over the years, rather than something that came naturally, however. She’d always been more comfortable going by gut feeling than anything else.
Nydia folded up her map and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. It was hopeless. She’d been driving around for hours and still hadn’t seen the hataalii’s hogan. So much for the myth about Navajos never getting lost. It was late afternoon, and she had no intention of wasting the entire day searching just to prove she could find it on her own. Before getting under way again, she’d get better directions to Joshua’s place.
As she approached the counter, ready to settle her bill, the attendant, Charley according to his name tag, was busy speaking to two men. From the conversation, she gathered that the burly military type was, surprisingly, the town’s librarian. The other man, who seemed irritable and annoyed that he wasn’t getting Charley’s complete attention, was the mayor of Four Winds.
She gave him a long, speculative look, aware that his attention was elsewhere as he arranged for the sale of his son’s bicycle and some kind of all-terrain vehicle to Charley.
The man seemed stressed, with the gaunt face of a businessman burning the candle at both ends. In Nydia’s experience, administrative types often became that way. Always pushing to get things done took a toll on a person’s serenity.
Nydia waited for her turn, then, when the mayor was busy writing down a description of the rest of the items he wanted to sell, she managed to catch Charley’s attention. The attendant took one look at her map and laughed.
“The map you have is for his old place. He’s been building a new hogan on some land he and his father own west of town.”
“Can you tell me exactly how to get there?” He started to tell her, but when she realized hòw complicated the directions were, she held up a hand and pulled out a small tape recorder she kept in her purse. It was as much a tool for her work as the notebooks stacked on the rear bench of her truck. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “Speak into this. That way, I won’t have to keep coming back and bothering you.”
He smiled. “No problem. Head back out the way you came in, and drive until the road crosses a little creek. Just past there, as you go up the hill, there’s a dirt road, and beside it is a big boulder with a red X on it. Turn there, then keep going north until you see a water tower. Then turn left and drive farther up into the forest about three miles. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” The directions were the kind she found familiar, since she’d been born and raised on the Navajo reservation. There, most homes were found through landmarks rather than street signs. She wouldn’t get lost again.
Nydia returned to her old Ford pickup, slipped behind the wheel and pulled out into the street, relieved she’d finally be able to find Joshua and conduct her business. She had family back on the rez who needed his healing services, and she’d promised to bring him back with her. Unfortunately, time was working against her. Her father-in-law’s belief in the old ways was so strong that without the ceremony he felt he needed, he continued to grow worse, though the doctors she’d brought in had been at a loss to explain it.
Spotting an elderly man standing by the front of a decrepit-looking Volkswagen van parked on the si
de of the road, Nydia slowed down. The vehicle had a flat, and the Navajo man trying to change the tire looked almost as ancient as his vehicle.
She pulled off the road behind him and stopped, ready to help. A half hour wasn’t going to be critical to her fatherin-law, but it might be to this old man. “Good afternoon, Uncle,” she said, using the term to denote respect, not actual kinship.
As she approached, she realized the man wasn’t nearly as old as she’d thought at first. In fact, now that she could see him more clearly, he appeared curiously ageless. His copper skin shone in the sun, accentuating his weathered face. But it was his eyes that held her attention. They were a dark gray instead of black, and they were bright and eagle sharp.
“I have a flat,” he said, his breathing labored as he rolled the spare in front of him. “At least it’s only on the bottom of the tire.”
“I’ll handle it, Uncle.” She smiled at his little joke. “I’m used to this. In my work, I drive on bad roads a lot, and I have to deal with flat tires all the time.”
Fortunately, the man had one of those ancient but very useful cross-type lug wrenches, and with the extra leverage it provided it didn’t take long for her to change the tire. She hadn’t been speaking idly when she’d told him she was used to that type of work. After two years as a widow, she prided herself on being able to take care of almost anything.
Nydia pulled the little scissors jack out from under the van, stood up and wiped her hands. “It’s all done.”
“You must let me give you something in payment,” the man said. “I don’t have much money, but perhaps I have some item in my inventory that interests you.”
Nydia read the sign on the side of the van. Curious Goods-Prices To Fit Every Customer. A shiver of recognition ran through her. When she’d visited Four Winds several months back, she’d come to research a story about a skinwalker bowl. She remembered the story Lanie Blackhorse had told her, of acquiring the bowl from a peddler who’d been traveling through town. She wondered if this was the same man.
Curiosity drove her. As he slid open the side door of the worn vehicle and pulled down a little folding table, she peered inside. Everything on the various built-in shelves looked like inexpensive fifties-era collectibles or ordinary dime-store merchandise like plastic sunglasses and ceramic roadrunners.
“Are you the gentleman who sold a woman at Four Winds a skinwalker bowl last year?”
He shrugged. “I’m getting old. It’s hard to remember things I sold last week, let alone last year. I buy, sell and trade merchandise everywhere.” The peddler reached toward the front of the van and pulled something out of one corner. “You are one of the dineh, our people. Maybe this will catch your eye.” The man unfolded the most beautiful Yei Navajo rug she’d ever seen, one that depicted the Holy People. It was about six feet long, and was divided into three sections, each showcasing a water-sprinkler deity in blue, black or gold. Rainbow-guardian figures protected the borders.
“Uncle, I can’t accept that. It’s not a fair trade. This rug will bring you a good price.”
“From some, perhaps.” He folded it into fourths, then held it out in his arms. “Take it, please. A gift to please an old man. This rug deserves an owner who will appreciate its beauty and value it as a precious thing.”
“I couldn’t possibly…” The rug was simply exquisite, and obviously genuine. She recognized the weaving pattern of her people, and the natural dyes the People used to create distinctive colors. Imitators of the Navajo designs had yet to successfully duplicate the deep Ganado red, a blend of crimson and brown, much like the vibrant colors that covered the ground during a fiery sunset.
She rubbed her hand lightly over the weave, feeling its softness. According to Navajo customs, the lanolin present in wool had been preserved in the yarn, making this rug as soft and supple as a blanket. As she studied the beautiful patterns, she found herself wishing it really could be hers.
“Itis a gift. Take it. The rug calls to you.” he said softly.
She did want it, and there seemed no danger in accepting something like this. It wasn’t like the skinwalker bowl she’d heard so much about, an abomination from the time it was created.
“Let me pay you something for it, at least.”
He shook his head. “It is freely given, and has now been freely accepted.”
Nydia gathered the rug up carefully, and held it, still feeling guilty for having accepted the valuable gift. “Is there something else I can do for you?”
He held her gaze for a long time. “Hear me now, Navajo woman. Be careful with this rug. The weaver who created it was proud of her design, and, unable to mar the perfection of her work, constructed it without a flaw.”
“A flaw?” The notion sounded vaguely familiar, like a story she’d heard long ago but couldn’t quite remember. She tried to clear her thoughts, but she couldn’t look away from the peddler’s penetrating gaze, or push back the cobwebs that encircled her mind.
“Spider Woman first taught our weavers to create beautiful blankets, then later, rugs, as today. At first, as a tribute to her, a small hole was left in the center of each blanket or rug, resembling the spider hole in the center of Spider Woman’s web. Later, a thin line from the center to the edge became a traditional part of such work. It is said that Spider Woman became angry that the weaver of this rug denied her the tribute, so she spun webs in the weaver’s mind, clouding her reason. It is also said the rug’s owners will share a similar fate until the time when the curse ends or the blanket is destroyed.”
Nydia came to her senses slowly, blinking several times. She had no idea how long she’d stood there. She vaguely remembered the peddler saying goodbye. But all she could see now was his van disappearing over the horizon.
Suppressing a shudder, she went back to her pickup and stored the rug carefully behind the seat. “Good trick,” she muttered. The peddler had wanted to add a touch of mysticism to the gift, and he’d done an admirable job of it. If the story was true, it had probably come about because the weaver and subsequently the elders who’d owned it had succumbed to dementia at some point in their lives. As an anthropologist, she knew stories often grew into legends that way.
Chiding herself for having lost almost another hour, she hurried on toward the singer’s, or medicine man’s, hogan. Nydia had hoped to complete her mission and be on her way home before dark, but the sun had nearly set now. So much depended on her. The life of her father-in-law and the trust of her own child hung in the balance. She had to find Joshua Blackhorse and bring him back with her as quickly as possible.
Nydia passed the water tower but, after fifteen minutes of driving through the pines, she pulled to a stop. Somehow, she must have taken a wrong turn. There was certainly no sign of a hogan anywhere. She’d have to backtrack. The question was how far.
Everything was quiet except for the rustle of the wind through the pine trees. As she put the truck in reverse, she heard a whisper-soft voice coming from within her. It was like her own thoughts, yet not. Her heart began to pound.
A Navajo man is about to become involved in murder.
She heard it as clearly as if it had been spoken, though there had been no audible sound. She shook her head. The peddler had probably put some hypnotic suggestion in her mind, which also explained her earlier distortion of time. She shouldn’t have lowered her guard and allowed him to give her a gift. She’d suspected him of being the one who’d given Lanie Blackhorse the bowl. But accepting the rug had seemed so inconsequential, she hadn’t counted on him playing mind games with her.
Once again the whisper-soft voice in her head warned her, There’s going to be a murder.
Nydia shook her head, trying to free herself from the annoying, persistent thought. This was ridiculous. She’d been reading too many mysteries lately—dthat was all.
As Nydia turned around and drove back up the hill toward the water tower, two closely spaced rifle shots cracked through the air. Nydia hit the brakes, slid to a st
op and glanced around quickly. About a hundred yards ahead beside a pine, she could see the outline of a man aiming a rifle. The man fired again, and the blast reverberated in the confines of her truck.
Nydia pushed down hard on the truck’s horn. It wasn’t deer season. Maybe the man was a poacher. As the horn blast echoed through the forest, the shooter ran off into the woods. The man was clumsy in his haste to escape, stumbling and almost falling down twice.
Nydia drove over the ridge, wondering what he’d been shooting at. In a small clearing below, she could see a blue pickup and a nearly completed log hogan partially hidden by a cluster of pines. Another vehicle was in the trees farther away.
Nydia drove down the hill, her heart pounding, dreading what she might find. As she entered the clearing, she saw a man lying on his back beside the blue pickup, his shirt soaked with blood.
She wasn’t squeamish. She’d been raised in the country, where people hunted or butchered livestock, but she’d never seen anything like this before in her life. She stopped the truck, reached under the seat for her first-aid kit, knowing instinctively that it was woefully inadequate to meet the wounded man’s needs.
Nydia went to his side. The dime-sized wound in the center of his chest made her breath catch in her throat. This man needed an emergency medical team right now. Nydia noticed his face as she crouched down. His strong good looks reminded her of Joshua, but his age suggested he was Joshua’s father or some other relative of that generation. She knew it wasn’t either of the singer’s brothers; she’d met them when she’d been in Four Winds a few months ago.
Through the open door of the blue pickup, only a dozen feet away, she saw a portable phone on the seat and a rifle in a rack below the rear window. Glancing around to be certain she was alone, Nydia ran toward the vehicle. The elder Blackhorse must have been shot as he’d tried to reach the truck to arm himself and call for help.
