Clay Trujillo wasn’t challenging him, but he was assessing him openly as they shook hands. Luke knew that unlike Shay, Clay recognized his heritage at a glance. He also met his gaze head-on, for they were of a similar height.
“I didn’t know you were home from grad school,” Shay said. “I would have invited you to my birthday party.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Clay replied. “I’ve only been back on the job a few days.”
Luke waited impatiently while they exchanged news, laughing and touching each other with the ease and frequency of longtime acquaintances. Shay’s eyes sparkled with affection and Clay’s grin was wide with masculine appreciation. They looked like they belonged on a fucking toothpaste commercial.
He ground his own teeth together, tearing his gaze away.
It occurred to him that he was jealous, and he hadn’t felt that way about a woman since Leticia. Disturbed by the comparison, he quashed his irrational response to the sight of Shay flirting with another man and gave her a pointed stare, reminding her of their business here.
Catching on immediately, she told Clay about the lion attack and requested permission to trespass on Los Coyotes.
“Let’s go inside,” Clay decided. “Granting a permit to hunt is just a formality, but the attack is something we should talk to the chief about.”
Chief Mortero was sitting behind a polished oak desk, with his brother, Samson, at his side. They were short and round and unflappable, their dark hair going silver at the temples and their faces lined with age. Neither reacted to the news of the mauling, but appeared to absorb the information like a couple of stone sponges.
Luke doubted either of these men had been involved with Yesenia Montes, or transported her broken body off federal land to avoid dealing with the authorities. Even so, he asked a few questions about procedure and invited himself on a tour of the facilities. It wouldn’t hurt to check out their official vehicles, or scout the area for trucks with bed liners.
The chief answered his questions, granted permission for the tour, and wrote up the hunting permit with very little fanfare. After exchanging a weighted glance with his brother, Samson said, “Deputy Trujillo will accompany you on the hunt.”
“Of course,” Clay interjected. “I’d be happy to come along.”
It was the last thing Luke wanted, and Shay must have been able to read the reluctance in his body language, because she shook her head. “Actually, my plan will be easier to execute with fewer men. But thank you very much for the offer.”
Luke realized that the elders were wary of him. He was an outsider, a man from a corrupt city and a hostile tribe, a man whose forefathers had stolen their horses. The Luiseño and Cahuilla had often been manipulated into battle by their white or Mexican “allies.”
His Indian blood was no free pass here, or anywhere.
When Chief Mortero nodded his acceptance, Clay led them down the hall and through the station, explaining their technological capabilities and highlighting every available resource, showing off the new holding cell and recently remodeled garage.
Most of the information Clay shared should have been irrelevant to an interim sheriff, but Luke listened carefully, as if he were considering a partnership between their law enforcement teams instead of trying to rule them out as suspects.
Dylan shifted the weight of his backpack, which was considerably lighter than when he’d first broken into the deserted construction site, and kept moving.
He stuck close to the trailers, taking advantage of the early-afternoon shadows. His sister’s car was parked in a safe location, about a mile down the road, so he still had a distance to travel after he hopped the fence again.
When he rounded the last corner, he made two disturbing observations: the front gate was no longer closed, and he was no longer alone.
“Hey, you,” someone behind him yelled, and he froze.
Judging by sound, the man who’d called out was at least fifty feet away. Dylan didn’t bother to look. He was confident he could outrun just about anyone, but he couldn’t outrun the two-ton pickup truck parked at the fence line. If the man followed, he would catch up with Dylan long before he made it to Shay’s car.
Besides, running made him look guilty. Guiltier than he already was.
He squared his shoulders and turned around.
Oh, fuck.
The man striding toward him was one of the richest, most powerful, and most easily recognizable men in Tenaja Falls. With his ten-gallon cowboy hat, handlebar mustache, and stocky build, Bull Ryan had always reminded Dylan of Yosemite Sam.
Running was not an option, now that he’d shown his face, so he took a hesitant step forward. “Mr. Ryan?” He extended his hand. “I’m Dylan Phillips.”
If Bull knew who he was, he didn’t show it. He probably couldn’t keep track of his son’s girlfriends, much less their little brothers. “What d’ya want?”
“I’m looking for work.”
“Don’t work on Sundays,” Bull said, opening the door to one of the trailers and ducking inside. “Come back tomorrow.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Jesse Ryan’s dad didn’t know who he was, and unless he looked into his backpack, he would never know what he’d been doing here. But instead of walking away, Dylan followed Bull into the makeshift office. “I have school tomorrow,” he said. “And basketball practice until three.”
“Don’t have much use for you, then. Quittin’ time’s at four.”
There was only one chair, and Bull took it. Dylan had no choice but to remain standing. He was never sure how to act around men like this, brawny types who lived by their fists rather than their wits. Adopting a tough-guy attitude, he widened his stance and blanked his expression, because nobody had ever liked his smart-ass face. “I bet you don’t leave at four,” he said. “You probably got paperwork and stuff to do.”
“So?”
“I could do cleanup,” he said. “Put tools away. Whatever.”
Bull didn’t look very interested. “You free Satur days?”
“Yessir.”
The older man gave him another halfhearted onceover.
“I’ll work for minimum wage,” Dylan said in a rush, not sure why he was taking the ruse so far. He should have been happy to escape without getting arrested. “You can hire me on a temporary basis. If you’re satisfied, I can work full time in the summer.”
“Summers here are hell,” Bull said bluntly. “No shade. Never one drop of rain. A hundred fifteen degrees. You wouldn’t last a half day.”
Dylan just stared back at him in silence, thinking he could endure a lot more than anyone gave him credit for. He was so tired of being ignored, dismissed, and discounted. Or worse, treated like a brain, useless in all physical pursuits. Even the guys on the basketball team thought he was weird. Too cerebral. He approached the game as though the court was a mathematical grid, an infinite combination of probabilities, a series of lines and angles.
“What part of construction are you interested in?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Demolition.”
“Not much to tear down on this site,” Bull commented.
“There’s hills.”
“Come again?”
“Those hills,” he said, jerking his chin toward the window, indicating some rocky dunes a short distance away. “You need to get them out of the way, right? You could use explosives.”
Bull stroked his long mustache, following his gaze. The method wasn’t particularly revolutionary on a job this scale, so perhaps the option wasn’t viable. Dylan knew there were environmental sanctions and cost issues to consider.
He just liked the idea of blowing shit up.
“Hmmph,” Bull said, looking away from the window. “I need diggers. Graders. Guys who will shovel until their backs ache and their hands bleed.”
Dylan turned his palms faceup. They were already calloused from handling a basketball so much, but he wasn’t so naïve as to think working at a construction site wouldn�
��t affect his playing in a negative way.
“I can do that,” he said, liking the idea of blood on his hands.
9
Dylan left the construction site with a spring in his step. The day was turning out better than he’d hoped. His experiments had gone well, he hadn’t gotten caught, and the interaction between him and Bull Ryan was an unexpected bonus.
He was actually looking forward to starting his new job. Shay wouldn’t approve, because she wanted him to focus on his grades and excel in sports, but the basketball season was wrapping up and the last few months of high school would be a breeze. Seniors couldn’t concentrate for shit this time of year, and most teachers planned accordingly.
Before he reached Shay’s car, the day took an abrupt turn for the worse. Garrett Snell’s cruiser was inching down the dirt road, driving slowly to avoid kicking up dust. For a guy who never seemed to do any actual police work, Garrett managed to be everywhere at once.
“Motherfucker,” Dylan said under his breath, quickening his pace. If he could get to the car, he might have a chance to stash his pack. Unfortunately, the deputy had already spotted him. He sped up, flashing his siren and jerking to a stop behind Shay’s car.
Swearing, Dylan shrugged out of his backpack and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Garrett moved at a deceptively lazy pace, but he was out of his car with time to spare, standing in Dylan’s way and blocking his exit route.
“Why do you always hassle me?” he asked, exasperated.
Garrett stared at him, his black eyes flat. “Because you deserve it. Now drop the backpack and put your hands on the hood of the car.”
Dylan’s stomach pitched. “I didn’t even do anything! You have no right—”
“I have every right,” Garrett claimed. “Folks said they heard gunshots.”
“Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath. But Dylan wasn’t stupid, so he cooperated, letting his backpack fall to the ground and placing his hands on the hood of the car. It was blazing hot.
“Spread your legs.”
Dylan gritted his teeth and did as he was told. It wasn’t the first time the deputy had patted him down, and he was pretty sure Garrett enjoyed it. Not because he liked boys, but because he liked humiliating him. His touch was swift and impersonal, brushing along the undersides of his arms and around his waist. When he dropped down to check Dylan’s ankles, and moved up to the baggy crotch of his pants, Dylan couldn’t take it anymore.
“Does your wife know you love balls?”
Garrett grunted at the insult and continued frisking him. Dylan thought he was going to get away with the comment until Garrett brought his knee up and rammed him forcefully between the legs.
The pain was instantaneous, debilitating, excruciating. Dylan fell forward against the hood, letting out a pathetic, strangled sound. Agony spread through his lower abdomen, making him nauseous. He slid down the wheel well and collapsed in the dirt, curling up in the fetal position with his hand cradled between his legs. He was only vaguely aware of Garrett unzipping his backpack and rifling through its contents.
“Does your sister know what you’ve been up to?”
Dylan retched and spat on the dirt, ridding the bad taste from his mouth. “Fuck you,” he moaned.
“You’re going to blow your pecker off.”
That prediction brought another round of nausea. He struggled not to vomit, not to cry. Bits of dirt and gravel cut into the side of his face, but it was a minor discomfort compared to the ache in his groin.
Instead of arresting him, or confiscating the stuff in his backpack, Garrett tossed it on the hood of Shay’s car. “Don’t come around here anymore.”
Tears seeped out of his eyes. “Have to,” he said from between clenched teeth. “I’ve got a job now.”
Dylan felt Garrett’s beady little eyes on him, relishing his pain, assessing his weaknesses. “Bull hired you? To do what, suck dicks?”
“No,” he panted. “He said you took care of that for him.”
He braced his body for another blow, waiting for Garrett to kick him in the stomach, or make him eat gravel. Nothing happened. Dylan knew he had a dirty mouth, and his inability to control it caused him no end of trouble. When he thought he could open his eyes without losing his lunch, he squinted up at Garrett in trepidation.
The deputy wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring out past the construction site, toward Cahuilla Ridge. Where Shay had gone with the new sheriff. “Give your sister my regards,” he said, and left him there, lying in the dirt.
Luke had been acting weird ever since they crossed the border into Los Coyotes. He was aloof with Clay and indifferent toward the elders. After the tour, he’d asked a few questions about trucks and custom bed liners, of all things, a few more about the new casino.
“When did you leave Pala?” she asked, forming the words as soon as they popped into her mind. They had a thirty minute drive before they reached the trailhead to the tenajas, so she might as well make conversation.
“A long time ago.”
“How old were you?” she persisted.
“Three.”
“So you moved to Vegas with your family?”
“My mother and I went.”
“What happened to your father?”
“What happened to yours?” he returned.
She rested her head back against the seat, feeling weary. “He’s a truck driver.”
“Tenaja Falls has roads.”
“Not ones he travels.”
His hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “My dad stayed in Pala. They’re divorced.”
She could only guess he associated the reservation with whatever had gone wrong between his parents. It wasn’t difficult to look around Los Coyotes, or Tenaja Falls, for that matter, and see only life’s failures, hard luck and harder times. “You didn’t come back to visit?”
“Every summer.”
“How was it?”
“Not too good,” he said, surprising her with honesty.
“What was he like?”
“Strict.” After a short pause, he added, “Rigid.”
“Hmm,” she said, studying the way he held himself, ramrod-straight, and the military precision of his uniform. “I can’t imagine that.”
He leaned back in his seat, distancing himself from the comparison. “He also drank a lot. And he put me to work on his property. I guess he thought he’d make a man out of me.”
“Did he?”
For a moment, she thought he was going to admit that being a man had nothing to do with physical labor. Instead he said, “Maybe. But I resented it, and I never got to know him very well.” He glanced at her. “How well do you know Clay?”
“What a ham-handed segue,” she murmured, brushing a stray wisp of hair off her forehead.
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Do you go out with him?”
She wondered if he had any idea how proprietary he sounded. Although he must have a point to this line of questioning, one that had nothing to do with staking a claim on her, she felt her heart beat a little faster. “No.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged, not wanting to explain the situation because it involved Jesse. Clay was Jesse’s half brother and Shay would never come between them. She left that role to Jesse’s wife, who had been Clay’s girl once upon a time. Jesse had no compunction about lying to, cheating with, or stealing another man’s woman. After Clay left for college, Jesse set his sights on Tamara, probably just to see if he could take her away from Clay.
Catching a female at a vulnerable moment was a Jesse Ryan specialty.
Family connections aside, Clay was younger than Shay and there had never been anything romantic between them. She couldn’t help but notice he’d grown up tall and strong and very fine, but they were just friends.
Besides, Clay was in love with Tamara Ryan. Always had been, always would be.
“Why are you so interested in my dating habits?” she asked, batting her lashes. “If
you want to ask me out, Sheriff, stop pussyfooting around and get on with it.”
She’d been joking, of course, but his eyes dropped to her mouth as if she’d said something suggestive. That made her look at his mouth, and remember how his lips felt against hers yesterday, in the split second before he pulled away. She wondered what would have happened if he’d gone ahead and kissed her, if his tense mouth would have softened or stayed firm, if he’d have let his weight press down on her or held himself taut, if his hands would have gentled or moved fast and rough all over her arching, aching body.
He looked away first, turning his attention back to the road, leaving her bereft, empty, unsatisfied—again.
The tenajas were inaccessible by automobile, but one could get within a few miles by traversing a wickedly bumpy 4×4 trail. Luke’s truck was well equipped to handle the ride and he didn’t bother to take it easy on the shocks. Shay spent the remainder of the trip braced against the dashboard, trying to avoid being tossed about inside the cab.
When they reached the trailhead, she loaded up her pack and strapped on her tranquilizer gun in silence.
Tenaja Trail ran along the eastern edge of Los Coyotes, where Dark Canyon left off, and the two areas had similar habitats. Both were in the shadow of Palomar Mountain and reaped the benefits of fresh snowmelt. Deep Creek flowed year-round, although in late summer it petered down to a trickle, but Tenaja Creek, like the pools themselves, was seasonal. In April it had a steady flow; by October it would be dry as a bone.
In this drought-prone climate, water made all the difference. While Dark Canyon was mostly woodland, Los Coyotes was hilly chaparral, sagebrush and sumac as far as the eye could see. During wildfire season it was a 100,000-acre tinderbox.
Although the tenajas were evenly dispersed along the trail, Shay headed toward the summit. The brush there grew thick, with a number of rocky outcroppings and a couple of live oak trees. It wasn’t an ideal location for a den, but it was a perfect spot for an ambush, as it afforded plenty of cover and enough open space to watch for an approach.
It was early afternoon by the time they reached the clearing near the summit, and the sun was blazing. Like yesterday the Santa Anas were out in full force, blowing wind so hot and dry her sweat evaporated before it had a chance to cool her off. She drank more than half her water supply and watched to make sure Luke did the same.
Set the Dark on Fire Page 11
