Under The Western Sky
Laurie Paige
HE HAD THE KIND OF SMILE THAT DID THINGS TO A WOMAN…until he arrested her. Julianne Martin had come to New Mexico' s canyon country on a mission of deliverance. But now Special Agent Anthony Aquilon had just accused the compassionate nurse-midwife of making off with priceless Native American artifacts!Tony' s alluring thief-at-large was no common criminal but an uncommon woman born to warm the cold places inside a man. A modernday warrior who' d defend those he loved to his last breath, Tony longed to place his trust in Julianne…and more. Could a simple case of mistaken identity lead to the perfect match?
“Kiss me,”
Julianne demanded. “Kiss me and don’t stop until…until…”
“We turn blue?” Tony said, feeling laughter and being surprised by it. Inside, he was serious, very serious.
“Until there’s no more hunger,” she whispered.
“If the hunger is satisfied, then we’ll be lovers in every sense of the word,” he warned her. “I’d kiss you until we both went crazy. If we were lovers.”
“Yes,” she cried softly. “Yes.”
“Would you melt in my arms? Would you yield to me? Give me anything I want?”
She forced her weighted eyelids to open, to meet his challenging stare. “What we both want,” she reminded him.
“If we were lovers,” he said roughly.
“If we were lovers,” she echoed in agreement.
Dear Reader,
I found out how effective a coyote fence was the hard way—I backed into one while trying to get the best picture of an impressive rock formation. The fence was made from cactus canes nailed side by side on a wooden structure. My hostess, who had a lovely flower and vegetable garden, said it also kept rabbits and other critters from sneaking in and eating the plants. I asked how she got the cactus nailed up without getting stickers. Her answer: “Very carefully.” I’m not saying this incident was the sole inspiration for Tony and Julianne’s story, but it certainly seemed to fit into their investigative efforts!
Best,
Laurie Paige
Under the Western Sky
Laurie Paige
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAURIE PAIGE
“One of the nicest things about writing romances is researching locales, careers and ideas. In the interest of authenticity, most writers will try anything…once.” Along with her writing adventures, Laurie has been a NASA engineer, a past president of the Romance Writers of America, a mother and a grandmother. She was twice a Romance Writers of America RITA
Award finalist for Best Traditional Romance and has won awards from Romantic Times BOOKclub for Best Silhouette Special Edition and Best Silhouette in addition to appearing on the USA TODAY bestseller list. Recently resettled in Northern California, Laurie is looking forward to whatever experiences her next novel will send her on.
This story is for Ali, Becka, Susan, Kris and Merry, who
wanted to know what happened to the three orphans.
Contents
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 One
Julianne Martin matched the address on the store-front to the label printed in block letters on the box of pottery she was to deliver. Yes, this was the place.
Something about the building—probably its rundown state—induced a definite sense of caution in her.
This wasn’t the most practical part of town to try to sell tourist goods. The Chaco Trading Company out on I-40 was a better location, with plenty of travelers heading west to the Grand Canyon and other national parks, and West Coast residents heading east for family reunions or a tour of the Four Corners and Mesa Verde areas.
Well, it was none of her business. She was just the delivery service…in more ways than one.
She smiled at the thought. As a midwife-nurse-practitioner, she’d been delivering babies on her own for three years. Happy years, she mused in satisfaction, filled with work that she loved.
Two days ago, out near Hosta Butte, she’d helped deliver a darling little boy to a Native American couple. The delighted father had asked her to bring his pottery into town and leave it at this store, which was located on a side street of Gallup, New Mexico. Since she lived only a couple of miles from town, she’d readily agreed.
In this part of the country, with its vast distances people helped each other when they could. Today was Saturday, the first day of October, and the earliest moment she’d had enough free time to keep her promise. She peered in through the open door of the shop.
“Hello?” she called, going inside and pausing while her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
The place was crammed with Indian blankets, baskets and carvings depicting Western themes, all in a helter-skelter fashion. A good dusting and some organization would help sales, in her opinion.
She grinned to herself. Her bossy ways were showing themselves, her brothers would have said. True, she admitted. She liked things to be in good order.
“Whew,” she said when she had the heavy box safely on the floor. “Anyone here?”
“Sure.”
A man appeared in the doorway behind the cluttered counter. He looked to be close to her own age, which was twenty-six.
No, older, she decided upon inspecting him more closely when he came forward and stopped beside the cash register. He had hair that was almost black and eyes to match. His face was lean and angular. So was his body—tall and wiry and muscular—definitely a man who kept himself in shape. He was perhaps an inch over six feet. He wore faded jeans, a T-shirt with a logo of Ship Rock on it and a billed cap advertising a local bar.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice a rich baritone with a gravelly roughness that was oddly pleasing.
His eyes took in everything about her—from her white cotton blouse and khaki cargo shorts to the woven leather huaraches on her feet. He lingered for the briefest second on her legs, which were nicely shaped, if she did say so, then his gaze returned to hers.
The impact of that probing stare did a couple of strange things to her. One, her sense of wariness increased. Two, so did her heartbeat. He made her nervous for no reason that she could pinpoint, but there it was—a hard beating of the heart, tension in every nerve, a quickening deep inside.
Then he smiled.
Awesome was the description that came to mind. His teeth were very white in his tanned face. The smile did nice things for him, relaxing the stern set in the line of his jaw and the frown line between his eyebrows, adding friendly creases at the corners of his eyes.
The dark eyebrows rose slightly in question as he glanced from the box to her.
She stated her business. “I have a box of pottery for you. From Josiah Pareo?” she added when he didn’t respond.
“I see.”
She sensed something in his tone or a subtle change in manner—she didn’t know what, but she felt a sharpening of his attention. Her own sense of caution caused her to quickly survey their surroundings. She saw nothing out of place. When he came around the counter and frowned at the box, she instinctively stepped back.
“Uh, you were expecting the delivery, weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s take it to the office. We can inventory it there, then I’ll pay you.”
She nodded and followed when he lifted the heavy box as if it weighed no more than a pound cake. She glanced at her watch. Past noon. She was tired and ready for a nap since she’d been called out on a delivery at five that morning.
Babies always chose the most inconvenient times to arrive, but all had gone well with the birth. Now she wanted to go home. Food and sleep. She needed both, she admitted, unable to suppress a huge yawn.
“Have a seat,” he said, interrupting the yawn and giving her a speculative once-over.
She wondered what he was speculating about. Maybe her eligibility? She almost grinned at the ridiculous idea. The handsome shopkeeper was all business as he set the box on the floor. Ah, well.
“Sorry, I was up early this morning,” she said when he caught her yawning again.
His cocoa-dark eyes slid over her once more, then returned to his task. He opened the cardboard flaps and began placing the pots and vases on a table next to the desk in the messy, crowded office.
Watching his hands, Julianne was reminded of an artist she knew in her hometown of Albuquerque. His fingers were lean, too, the backs of his hands sinewy. Strong hands. Capable. Confident.
This man’s were the same. There was also sensitivity in his touch as if he was aware that, in this pottery, he handled the creation of someone’s mind and heart. He therefore treated it with great care.
The proprietor’s air of concentration surprised her. He examined each piece of pottery as if it were a rare and precious find. There were six pieces in all.
She looked more closely at the wares. They were black glazed, a type that was popular with tourists, with an allover pattern intricately detailed in a way that few potters did nowadays since it was time-consuming.
“How much do you want for these?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She’d assumed that was all taken care of. Josiah hadn’t mentioned a price. “How much do you think they’re worth?”
“A thousand.”
At the quick, flat statement, she was totally taken aback. “Really? That seems like a lot. But I actually don’t know,” she added, not wanting to cast doubts on Josiah’s abilities.
She’d had no idea he could get prices like that, especially in a place like this. She glanced around the dusty, cluttered office and shrugged. The tourist trade must be more lucrative than she’d thought.
“Cash or check?” he asked.
She considered. She was pretty sure the couple didn’t have a bank account. They’d paid her twenty-five dollars a month for eight months for the delivery of the baby. “Cash.”
He counted out ten crisp one hundred-dollar bills and held them out to her. When she reached for the money, his other hand shot out and he snapped a handcuff on her wrist.
She froze in terror. Like images from a horror movie, scenes hurtled through her mind—broken glass from a patio door, a pool of blood, death, the bewilderment of the child who stared at the horrible sight.
In the next instant, the training from years of self-defense courses kicked in, overriding the fear. Instead of struggling to get away, she crashed into the man, using her head to butt him under the chin, since she wasn’t tall enough to reach his nose.
She twisted her captured hand, turning his wrist back so he had to let go of the other end of the cuffs. With the heel of her left hand, she slammed into his nose and felt a satisfying crunch of cartilage.
“Ow,” he yelled, dropping the cash.
When he tried to recapture her hand, she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could, ignored a sharp pain in her big toe as a result and stomped on his instep as she brought her foot down. Then she ran.
Tony Aquilon cursed a blue streak, but that didn’t stanch the blood pouring from his nose. Ignoring his wounds—not the least of which was to his pride—he started after her at a dead run. He could hear the fugitive shrieking as she ran down the street.
“Fire!” she shouted. “Fire!”
A mechanic, wiping his hands on a grease rag, appeared at the door of the garage next door. A couple peered out from the used-furniture store across the street. Two beer-drinking, taco-munching patrons at an outside table of a tiny cantina hardly bothered to look up.
Tony grimaced at this new ploy by the damn sneaky female. He went after her as fast as his limp would allow.
“Call 911,” she yelled.
Nobody did anything. Live and Let Live was the motto of the folks in this neighborhood, he could have told her.
“Stop. That’s an order,” he bellowed, feeling like a fool with his damn nose bleeding all over the place.
She flashed a calculating glance over her shoulder and slowed down a bit.
He caught her halfway down the block just before she scrambled into a car, managing to wedge his arm and body in the opening without getting his fingers or other important parts mangled in the process.
“Got ya,” he murmured.
Again she didn’t fight fair. Instead of pulling away, she threw herself at him, trying to break his hold.
“Man, you’re just full of tricks, aren’t you?” he muttered. Holding her was like grasping a maddened wildcat.
While he enjoyed wrestling around with a woman, this wasn’t exactly the situation he’d envisioned, he thought with fleeting humor. He had a second to appreciate the strength in her slender curves before she tried to pound his head against the car. He grabbed her hands, spun her around so her back was to him and got her under control. Sort of.
He barely had time to note the tight little butt that nestled into the groove where his lower body joined his legs before she lifted her arms over her head and tried to choke him with the handcuffs across his throat.
His defensive move was easy due to his much greater upper-body strength. He grabbed her wrists and forced her arms down, trapping her hands across her waist, his arms wrapped around her. Now he simply held her while she squirmed against him like the proverbial worm on a hot rock.
They stayed there panting, their minds busy with plans, hers obviously on escape, his on holding her without further injury to his nose, pride and other vulnerable parts.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m going to ease up. No tricks,” he warned and stepped away from her, acutely aware of her well-toned body, her feminine shape and her heaving bosom that had lightly touched his upper arm with each breath. He astutely kept her trapped in the triangle of the car, its open door and his body.
She pivoted toward him and tried to poke his eyes out with two fingers.
“That isn’t ladylike,” he informed her, grabbing the cuffs and managing to get both her hands secured at last.
“Please, call the police,” she called to the men at the cantina where the cook had joined the two diners.
“For God’s sake,” Tony snapped. “I am the police.”
“You think I’d believe that for a minute?”
He ignored her sarcasm. “You’re under arrest.”
“What for?”
“Resisting arrest for one. Passing stolen goods for another. Assaulting an officer. Leaving the scene of a crime.” He gave her a grin, starting to feel good about the situation now that he had her subdued. Somewhat subdued, he added to himself, wary of another attack from her. “You’re good for twenty years to life, honey.”
She then gave one of the best performances of shocked outrage he’d ever witnessed. “Resisting…stolen goods…assaulting an officer,” she spluttered incredulously. “You were the one doing the assaulting. I was merely defending myself. Besides, you don’t look like any policeman I ever saw.”
Using one hand and keeping the other on her, he got out his badge and flipped the cover open.
“Anthony Aquilon, Special Investigator, National Park Service,” she read aloud. “We’re not in a national park. You don’t have the authority to arrest anyone.”
“Guess again. Those were very old, very rare Native American artifacts stolen from the new dig site up in Chaco Canyon.” He gave her another grin as he put his badge away, then pressed a handkerchief to his nose. Most of the bleeding had stopped in spite of the chase and the fact that adrenaline was kicking through his veins at mach speed.
Using his cell phone, he called in reinforcements in the form of his counterpart with the state cops, Chuck Diaz.
Chuck was one of the good guys. Forty-six. Overweight by fifty pounds. Sneaked smokes when he thought no one was looking. Worried about his wife leaving him and his teenage daughter getting in with the wrong crowd. He was also conscientious about doing his job.
Tony heaved a sigh. With this perp he might need the cavalry to assist in the arrest. Where was John Wayne when a guy needed him?
After making the call, he glanced up and down the street. Now that the threat of danger was past, interested citizens watched the action from every doorway.
Gingerly wiping the remains of the blood on the hankie, he sighed again. It was Saturday. He had a date that night with an attractive woman introduced to him by a friend. He would have to cancel it or else he was going to make a great impression with a swollen nose and blackened eyes.
He tossed a glare at the perp. She tossed it right back.
The sound of sirens interrupted the sensual awareness of the lithe, very feminine body trapped between him and the modest compact vehicle she’d tried to escape in. Warmth radiated from both of them. Sweat dripped from their faces, soaking his T-shirt and her blouse. He kept a hand in the middle of her back in case she pulled a sudden move.
Intensified by their combined heat, his aftershave mingled with the heady aroma of the floral perfume she wore. The scent filled his nostrils as he took a slow, deep breath. Reinforcements arrived before his senses were completely swamped by images that were definitely not appropriate to the circumstances.
“Thank goodness,” his prisoner muttered. “The real police. Now we’ll get this straightened out.”
“Hey, what’s happening?” Chuck asked, getting out of the state-supplied SUV after a dramatic halt in front of her car to block any escape attempt.
This time her act was one of self-righteous indignation. “This mule-headed investigator with the park service has gotten things totally confused. He thinks I tried to sell stolen goods. He’s wrong, but he won’t listen.”
Chuck’s blue eyes widened in surprise at her heated announcement and turned to him.
Tony shrugged and heaved an exasperated breath. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she managed to outfox all of them and take off in the police cruiser. He clamped a hand firmly on her upper arm and shot his partner a questioning glance when two young state patrolmen pulled up behind her vehicle.
“The way it sounded when you called, I thought we could use some backup,” Chuck explained. “I, uh, see you have the suspect apprehended, though.”
“I am not a suspect! I haven’t done anything wrong,” she stated with great dignity. “I want to speak to whoever’s in charge of this…this person.”
Tony ignored the diatribe, sucked in another breath and backed away slowly, never relaxing his vigil for an instant. “Watch it,” he said. “She’s deadly.”
The cops looked him and the prisoner over.
“Yeah. Deadly,” Chuck agreed with a suppressed chortle.
While the two state cops remained to guard the store, Julianne was informed of her Miranda rights, put in the back of the cruiser and taken to the nearest state police office. No one paid the slightest attention to her protests.
“Save it for the judge,” her captor told her.
She was led inside the squat concrete block structure, still handcuffed like some kind of dangerous lunatic. She couldn’t believe she was under arrest for doing a favor for someone.
A tiny trickle of fright shivered along her spine as she stood inside the cool lobby of the building. She quickly suppressed it. As soon as Josiah came and verified her story, all would be resolved and she could go home.
Another thought came to her. She probably should inform the tribal chairman of her predicament. “I need to call my boss,” she informed the National Park detective, who kept a hand on her arm.
“In a minute,” he told her.
She first had to answer a lot of questions about herself—name, age, date of birth, address, occupation—then be fingerprinted like a common thief. She just barely held her indignation in check.
“This is stupid,” she said to the handsome bully who’d arrested her and who was apparently well-known to the local officials.
Aquilon. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t say why. The other police officers acted as if he had done something heroic. Their glances at her were sort of smirky, she thought.
“It’s all a mistake,” she added.
“That’s what they all say, kid.” The detail sergeant handed her a paper towel to wipe her fingers. He was also in charge of evidence. He inventoried the box of pots, numbered it and gave the arresting detective a receipt. He bagged her purse, watch and sterling silver earrings and handed the receipt to her.
“Good job,” he said to Aquilon, much to Julianne’s dismay.
The sergeant led the way down a short hallway and into an interrogation room. She’d been in one of these before but for pro bono work in dealing with a young culprit who’d stolen food for his sick mother. As the home-health nurse on the case, she’d testified in his defense.
“The charges will be dropped as soon as my boss gets here,” she informed her captor, who leaned against the door frame and observed her with no expression in his dark eyes. Unease flittered through her again. There was no way those silly charges would stick, she assured her sinking spirits, not for doing a good deed. She needed only to remain calm until the situation was cleared up.
“Who’s your boss?” the superhero asked.
“Chief Windover. He can vouch for me. He’s head of the tribal council. I have a contract to provide health services for the people,” she explained, using the name the tribe preferred in referring to themselves. She sat at the table and scrubbed at the black residue on her fingers.
“Are you Hopi?” Aquilon demanded. He and the desk sergeant exchanged glances.
She realized if she answered in the affirmative she would probably be turned over to the tribe for them to deal with the crime. However, while she was one-eighth Native American on her maternal side, she didn’t belong to the local tribe.
“No, but as a nurse-midwife, I do prenatal and delivery care for the tribe. I also run a clinic three days a week and do home visits in special cases.”
After her explanation, the sergeant nodded to the investigator and left the room. The inquisition continued.
“Why were you transporting and selling artifacts?”
“I wasn’t. Those were Josiah’s pots, not artifacts.”
“Guess again. All six are priceless antiques stolen from the new dig down in the canyon.”
“Chaco Canyon, yes, you said that earlier. But I’m sure you’re mistaken. Josiah wouldn’t—”
“What was your cut?” he demanded, startling her by suddenly leaning across the table and getting right in her face while he gave her a really mean stare.
“Nothing. Didn’t you hear me? This is some kind of misunderstanding. Those pots aren’t priceless.” She tossed the paper towel on the table and crossed her arms. “Get an expert in here. Dr. Jones from the museum will set you straight.”
The older detective came in. He set a cup of coffee in front of her and kept one for himself. “Here. Sorry, we’re out of cream and sugar.”
“Thank you.” She took a sip of the coffee that tasted as if it had been made a week ago and left on the burner ever since. Nonetheless, she didn’t complain.
“Tony, here, is an expert on Native American art, including the ancient stuff,” the older man continued, pulling up a chair and sitting across from her.
“Him?” she said skeptically.
“That’s right,” the man called Chuck assured her. “He’s practically a professor.”
They both looked at the younger man, who leaned against the dingy wall. “Not quite,” he said with an irritated glance at the other man, as if Chuck had given away secrets he didn’t want to share. “I still have the dissertation to complete.”
“For your Ph.D.?” she questioned in open disbelief.
“Yeah.” His steady stare dared her to make something of it.
“I’m impressed,” she said, but with a sardonic edge she couldn’t quite conceal.
She tried to picture him as a staid professor of antiquities. The image was too stiff and formal to associate with the dynamic man who’d wrestled with her, arrested her and now observed her in an impassive manner as if her protests of innocence made no impression on him at all.
Tony Aquilon. Where had she heard the name?
She sighed. “I don’t know anything about ancient artifacts or any finds in Chaco Canyon or anywhere else. The couple needed money and asked me to take the pots to town. I said I would since they live over an hour from here and had just had their first child. He needed to stay with the mother and baby. It was the cutest little boy—”
A snort from the younger detective cut her off.
Okay, so she did love babies and tended to go on and on about them. But they were so sweet and trusting, something she hadn’t been in a long time.
Not since she was ten years old.
At that time two men had broken into her home and raped and killed her mom. She’d come home from school and found the horrible crime scene. Since that day, her father had made sure she and her two brothers learned self-defense, sending them to more advanced courses each year until they’d passed them all. Lots of noise and surprise tactics were the keys to escaping an enemy.
Her training hadn’t stopped her captor from arresting her, though. Recalling the strength in his embrace as he’d locked her in his arms, she was somewhat stunned as she realized he’d been incredibly gentle with her, not hurting her at all during the struggle.
She examined her wrist. Not a mark on it, not even a bruise from the handcuffs. Studying the special investigator covertly, she had to admit he was an enigma—a man who applied his strength with care instead of brute force.
“If you’re innocent, why did you run?” the special investigator demanded. He gingerly felt his nose.
“Because that’s what a normal person does when a stranger tries to nab you,” she informed him. “You need to put ice on that. It’ll stop the swelling.”
He gave her a narrow look, considered, then headed out of the room. “I should take a bath in the damn stuff,” she heard him mutter just before the door closed behind him.
“I think you bruised his pride,” the older detective said in a kind manner. “Who was it you said we should call?”
“Chief Windover. I have a number for him.” She gave the man the information. Once they checked her credentials, they would realize they had made a mistake and she would be free to go home.
The older man nodded. “Okay. I’ll see if we can’t get this straightened out.”
After he left, Julianne slumped into the chair. While she hadn’t been injured, she felt sore and just plain beat. Well, no wonder, after all that running and then wrestling around with the superhero.
Okay, so he was a special investigator with the National Park Service and the other cops obviously knew and respected him. That he was also an expert on ancient artifacts and a hunk was rather intriguing.
So?
So she didn’t know, except he made her feel…funny. Studying her wrist, she conceded he’d used no more force than necessary to subdue her, while she’d used every evasive maneuver she knew.
“Ohh,” she groaned, recalling all she’d done to get away. The judge would probably lock her up forever for breaking his nose.
Which he deserved for scaring the devil out of her by yanking out those handcuffs and trying to clamp them on her without warning. If he’d explained himself, then she could have explained her part in the supposed crime and all would have been resolved.
She was still frowning when he returned, holding an ice pack to his nose. Seeing it made her feel somewhat guilty for being the cause. But only a little bit, she added, since it was his fault in the first place.
“Chief Windover is gone for the weekend,” he said.
“Oh, that’s right. He’s taken his family camping and fishing at Many Farms Lake.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s where I heard of you.”
“I haven’t been to Many Farms Lake, wherever that is.”
“Arizona, near Canyon De Chelly. However, it was while I was in the chief’s office that I heard of you. He got a call from the park service. Your name was mentioned. He said he would alert the tribal police. I assumed you were an escaped convict.”
“I let the authorities know I was investigating a case and would be on the reservation at times. I needed a counterpart with their law enforcement department to work with me.”
“Like Officer Diaz with the state police here?”
“Yeah, like Chuck.”
“Well, that explains everything,” she said, standing. “I’m glad we had this chat. Now I need to get home and—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he informed her.
She tried for calm. “Now that you know who I am and that I’m not guilty of anything, aren’t you going to let me go?”
“No way.”
“Why not?” It came out a belligerent snarl.
“Until we contact the chief, we have no one to vouch for you.”
“That is the stupidest thing I ever heard. You have my driver’s license and address. You can call anyone on the council or one of the clinical staff. Surely that’s enough to check out my identity.”
“Maybe, but the law doesn’t work that way. Your being a nurse doesn’t mean anything. There are serious charges against you. Transporting stolen goods for one. Selling priceless artifacts, for another. You also resisted arrest, which I could have added to the list but didn’t,” he stated as if he’d done her a huge favor, his thick eyebrows drawn into a severe frown above the ice bag.
“If you’d shown me your badge first and told me what was happening, we could have talked it over without all that, uh, hassle.”
“Hassle?” he said. “You bruised my nose and stomped my foot. That was just the beginning. Once I caught you, you tried to choke me with the cuffs, not to mention the attempt to poke me in the eyes. Hassle? It was assault and battery in my book.” He waved an arm expansively.
“That was self-defense,” she told him hotly. “It’s very frightening to a woman to be grabbed by a strange man. Keep that ice pack on your nose.”
He clamped the bag back on his face and winced in pain. “Anyway,” he continued, “you’ll have to stay here until we can check out your story.”
“Here, as in jail?”
“Yeah.”
She couldn’t believe this. It was just too, too absurd for words. It belatedly occurred to her that she might actually need some professional help. “I want to call my brother. He’s an attorney. He’ll tell you who I am.”
“You’ll have to ask the D.A. if you can have another call.” He started for the door.
“I haven’t had the first one yet.”
“Chief Windover. That was who you asked for.”
“I demand to see somebody. Where is this district attorney?”
He shrugged. “The office is closed for the weekend. You’ll have to wait until Monday to talk to him. Also,” he added when she started to protest, “the courthouse is closed, too. There’s no judge to listen to your case and set bail. Not that I would recommend bail. You’re a prime candidate to flee, in my opinion.”
“Which you would just have to give, wouldn’t you?”
His smile was barely visible under the ice pack. “It would be my civic duty.”
With that, he left her alone in the narrow ugly room with its scarred table and three chairs, one of which had a broken leg. The anger, sarcasm and just plain disbelief faded. She blinked back unexpected tears, feeling as abandoned as a two-year-old lost in a department store.
Not that she considered him a savior. The handsome, albeit unreasonable, detective was the one who’d gotten her into this mess. Well, Josiah, too. She had a thing or two to say to that innocent-acting young man.
The grizzled sergeant stuck his head in the door. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Am I free?” she asked in surprised relief.
He gave her a look that said she wasn’t.
“What about my car? It isn’t locked. Someone could steal it.”
“After it was searched, it was towed in.”
“Searched? Towed?” she repeated indignantly.
The officer wouldn’t be drawn into further conversation. He shrugged off her questions, took her to a cell and locked the door after she was inside.
She was a prisoner.
Chapter Two
After canceling his date, Tony drove home, staring at the road while the late-afternoon sun began its glide into the evening. He examined the swelling across his nose and under his eyes. On the way to his temporary home, a room in the local park headquarters barracks, his thoughts strayed to the jail. He wondered what the captive was doing at this moment. Probably giving an earful to whoever happened to be handy about her wrongful arrest.
She’d probably sue him if she was innocent.
At the long, low residence barracks, he parked in front of his unit, which was one big room with a bed, sitting area and kitchen consisting of an under-thecounter fridge, a two-burner hot plate, a sink and a microwave, and went inside. He had his own bathroom here, unlike some hostels he’d stayed at during his college years while working for the park service.
All the comforts of home.
The nosebleed returned when he took a shower. Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, he held a new batch of ice cubes to his nose while he studied the contents of the cabinets.
As usual, his choices ran to cereal, sandwiches or soup. Not exactly a gourmet selection, but better than the food the suspect would likely get in jail.
He suddenly wished he could confide the happenings of the day to his foster uncle. Jefferson Aquilon—his mom had once been married to Uncle Jeff’s brother, so the older man was sort of a stepuncle—had always treated him and his sister, Krista, as if they were his own flesh and blood, the same as Jeremy, a nephew who was also an orphan and their stepcousin. Uncle Jeff was a good listener.
Tony needed some advice on his own confusing reactions to the suspect. The fact that he halfway believed her story probably meant he was ready for the loony bin.
Strangest of all, he regretted that she would have to spend the weekend in jail and wondered if he should call the D.A. and judge at home to see what they thought should be done with her.
Man, what was he thinking? After what she did to him, she didn’t deserve any special treatment. No way.
He selected a can of soup and made a ham sandwich, then settled in front of the television to catch the news while he ate the solitary meal. With the summer help gone from the barracks and the information office closed, he had the place to himself.
The world news didn’t distract his thoughts from the prisoner, he found. It was probably scary to be locked in jail. Especially if she was as innocent as she proclaimed.
Not that he was considering taking her side. He wasn’t that gullible to her charms, although she’d felt pretty good nestled against him. As if she belonged there.
Shaking his head at the fantasy, he finished the meal and cut a huge slice from a chocolate cake he’d bought at the grocery that morning. It seemed an age since he’d blithely gotten up, done the shopping and gone down to open the souvenir store at nine o’clock.
And arrested one of the most fascinating suspects he’d ever met after a tussle that lingered in his mind with as much stubborn determination as she’d displayed in her attempts to escape.
Taking the last bite of cake, he savored the chocolate flavor, then wondered if prisoners got dessert.
Twenty minutes later, after a change of clothing, Tony pulled up in front of the state patrol building. He was still arguing with himself about the wisdom of being here when he went inside. He’d decided to use the treat to soften up the suspect and get some info out of her about her contacts with the gang of thieves looting the Chaco sites, assuming there was a gang and the thefts over the past year were related.
“I, uh, brought the nurse something,” he said to the sergeant at the desk. It wasn’t the same one as earlier in the day.
“What nurse?”
“The suspect I brought in this afternoon. I figured she might need some nourishment after having dinner in here.”
“Hey, we have the meals catered,” the night-duty officer declared.
“Yeah, right.”
After a chuckle, the man said, “I’ll have to check what’s in the bag.”
Tony waited, feeling more and more foolish as the cop opened the bag, examined a plastic fork, then the napkin and removed the top from the plastic bowl. “Man, that looks good,” he said.
“Sorry, I didn’t bring any extra,” Tony told the sarge with a sardonic smile. “Got any fresh coffee?”
“Yeah, I made a pot when I came on duty less than an hour ago. Want me to bring you some?”
“That would be great.”
The officer repacked the treat. “I’ll buzz you in. She’s in cell number one.”
The television set mounted on the wall outside the cell was turned on, but Julianne wasn’t listening to the news. She was still wound up from the ordeal with the police.
In spite of being dead tired, she couldn’t get into the mood to sleep. If she’d been at home, she would have tried aromatherapy. Lavender was supposed to be soothing when steeped in hot water. Chamomile tea was a sleep aid, but she doubted the jailer had any on hand.
A loud buzz startled her. The door to the cell block opened and a man walked in. Her heart knotted up in alarm, then relaxed as she realized who he was.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. She rose from the hard bunk. Glaring between the bars on the door, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”
Her nemesis from the tourist shop stopped in front of her. “I brought you a present.”
He held out a brown paper bag. She eyed it as if it might explode any second.
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “It’s cake.”
“Cake,” she repeated suspiciously.
He gave her a quick but thorough perusal as he slipped the bag between the bars. “It’s safe,” he added with an ironic grin before grimacing and touching his swollen nose.
Twin bruises under his eyes gave him the masked look of a raccoon. She frowned at the pang of guilt that assailed her and reminded herself she’d acted in self-defense.
“Look,” he said, “I felt kind of bad about the hassle we had earlier, I thought about the jail food, so I, uh, brought you some dessert. Chocolate cake.”
She took the treat and sat on the cot. “You’re weird,” she told him. “I know it’s a slow night since there’s no one else in jail, but I’d have thought you could find something more interesting to do on a Saturday evening than hang out at the jail.”
He snorted. “You’re in the women’s cell block. There are several inmates in the men’s section.” He glanced at the two empty cells. “I guess they don’t get many woman criminals around here.”
She ignored the anger that demanded she refute his calling her a criminal. Instead, she gave him a fulminating glance, then opened the brown bag and removed the container.
The fury receded somewhat when she saw the contents. Chocolate was one of her favorite things. She wisely decided not to throw the cake in his face.
When the night-duty officer brought in two cups of coffee, she accepted one of those, too, and thanked the man. Taking a bite of the dessert, she closed her eyes, savoring the rich flavor.
“I have a question,” her captor said, pulling a chair closer to the bars and taking a seat. “Who taught you how to take defensive action?”
For a second she remembered being ten and coming home from school, excited because she’d gotten a perfect score on her math test, then going into the house and finding her mother.
It wasn’t until she’d been in nurses’ training and a rape victim had been brought into the emergency room during her rotation there that she’d realized what her mother must have gone through that terrible afternoon.
Julianne locked the memory away as ancient pain careened around her chest, but it was still a moment before she could speak. “My father sent me and my two brothers to self-defense classes while we were growing up.”
She could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he considered the information. Earlier in the day, when she’d given her personal information, she’d reported her father as her next of kin and her mother as deceased.
“Was there any particular reason he thought you needed them?” he asked.
Replacing the bowl and fork in the bag, she faced him without allowing any expression in her tone. “Our home was broken into when I was ten. My mother was killed.”
For a second his face took on the fierce expression of a warrior who would defend his tribe to his last breath, then it softened and she recognized other emotions—a certain kindness for those who’d been hurt, a touch of sympathy, maybe pity.
Pity was something she didn’t want and didn’t know how to handle when it was offered. She usually mumbled something about life going on and changed the subject, but now her throat closed and she couldn’t say a word. Old emotions, heightened by the events of the day, threatened to overcome her. She swallowed hard and refused to give in to them.
“Were you there when it happened?”
She shook her head.
“Did they find whoever did it?”
Again she indicated the negative.
“Crimes by total strangers are not often solved,” he told her, his tone gentle as if she were still that hurt child of long ago. “There’s no connection or motive for police to follow as there is with husbands or boyfriends.”
“Yes, that’s what the detective said who handled the case.” She returned the bag to him, having eaten three or four bites of the treat. She took a drink of coffee and noted that it was much better than the brew Chuck had given her earlier. The warmth eased the cold spot in her chest, and she relaxed once more. “Thank you for the cake. That was thoughtful. Now I have a question. Why did you bring it?”
“Well,” he drawled, “I know that jail food comes from the lowest bidder.”
That made her laugh. “It wasn’t so bad. We had spaghetti and rolls and a piece of lettuce with a sliver of carrot that was supposed to be a salad, I think.”
After that they talked about the worst meals they’d ever had as if they were acquaintances who were fast becoming friends. He told her the three kids in his family had to take turns preparing meals once a week. He had her cracking up over his description of recipes made with green stuff like lime gelatin or broccoli. His cousin Jeremy would clutch his throat and accuse him of trying to poison them.
“Your family sounds like mine,” she told him. “I took nutrition classes in college, but I could never convince my brothers that green, leafy vegetables were really good for them. They now send me magazine clippings that extol the value of blueberries.”
“Ah, smart men,” he said.
Laughing, she glanced at him, then away. Then, pulled by unexpected forces stronger than her will, she met his gaze through the dull glint of the steel bars. Their eyes locked. The laughter faded.
Something was happening to her. She felt it as a primal shift somewhere in her soul. He felt it, too, she thought. His chest lifted and fell in a slow, careful breath as if he, too, were on shaky ground.
She looked away, wondering how they could have gone from laughter to something profound and infinitely challenging in a heartbeat.
Maybe arresting people did that, although it wasn’t what she would call a bonding event. Recalling his arousal as they struggled, she felt heat creep up her neck. That had certainly been a new and different experience for her.
He could have hurt her, but he hadn’t. Instead of fury, she’d seen self-mocking humor in his eyes when he’d told her to quit thrashing about.
Though she’d been frightened until he’d shown her his badge, their struggle had been oddly exciting, too, she decided after she thought it over while sitting here in the cell. Other than her father and brothers, she knew she had a problem with trust of the male half of the population.
The fact was that men always expected more than she was willing to give at the moment. Just when she was starting to feel comfortable with the guy and with kisses and caresses, then, well, things moved too fast, becoming too demanding. One date had accused her of holding out.
She’d been left feeling humiliated and in the wrong for reasons she didn’t know. It certainly hadn’t increased her comfort level with the opposite sex.
Glancing at her captor’s hands as he linked them together between his knees, his gaze on the floor as if deep in thought, she realized that no matter what defensive move she’d made, he’d countered with only enough force to halt it, but not once had he bruised her in any way.
When he’d folded her into his arms and pulled her against him, it was as if she’d been wrapped in a protective cocoon and all he’d wanted to do was keep her from getting hurt. It was such an odd thought….
Staring at the dull green wall, she admitted she was mystified by his visit, by their shared laughter, by the intriguing currents that ran between them that were almost as disturbing as her arrest.
“It’s late,” he said. “I should leave and let you get some rest.”
“I don’t think I’ll sleep very much tonight.”
He nodded. “I was still wound up after the day’s excitement, too.”
“I’d have thought arresting people was old hat to a special investigator for the National Park Service.” Her tone was mildly sarcastic.
He grinned, then winced and touched his nose. She was at once sorry she’d been so rough, even though it was his fault for scaring her.
“Hardly,” he said. “Mostly I authenticate archeological finds for the department and set up security, especially on ancient sites like the dig up at the canyon. I investigate thefts and other problems at various national parks. They send me wherever they need some help.”
“I see.”
Regaining her equilibrium, she decided his work sounded like an easy job to her, nothing that called for springing handcuffs on innocent people without warning.
Gazing at his nose, which was noticeably swollen, she forgot her indignation over the arrest and advised, “You should ice your bruises for forty-eight hours, then switch to four minutes of heat followed by one minute of ice three or four times a day after that for two or three days.”
“I kept an ice pack on it most of the afternoon.”
“Good.” After observing him for a moment when he made no move to leave, she asked quietly, seriously, “What are you really doing here? I think you came because you want something from me.”
Before answering, he drank the last of the coffee. He crushed the paper cup and tossed it in a waste-basket near the door, then studied her for several seconds. “I want you to take me to the guy you said gave you the pottery.”
“Tonight?” she asked incredulously as disappointment hit her. She realized the cake, the kindness and the easy laughter had been a method of softening her up before he made the request.
“No, but soon. I don’t want him to get word that something funny went on at the store.”
Leaning against the wall behind the cot, she took a drink of coffee and noticed he was dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt informally open at the neck and well-shined loafers. She’d already noticed his aftershave, the fragrance familiar to her from their earlier encounter.
So, he’d cleaned up before coming to the jail. Was that part of the ploy to win her confidence and encourage a sense of camaraderie between them?
Tired and discouraged, she regretted letting herself drift into familiarity, especially the sharing of her past. It was something she rarely talked about, but he’d seemed truly concerned, as if he already knew that she’d been injured by events of long ago.
“How far is his place from town?” he continued.
“Over fifty miles, off Standing Rock Road.”
“I’ll be here around eight in the morning to pick you up.”
“Will they let me out of jail?”
“You’ll be released into my custody.” His tone implied it would be no problem.
“If we find Josiah and he confirms my story, will I then be free?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll talk to the district attorney on your behalf. He’s the one who’ll decide whether to charge you with a crime or let you off if you cooperate.”
“I’ll cooperate,” she assured him coldly. “I want to clear my name as soon as possible and put this experience behind me.”
And you, she added silently. She wanted him out of her life. He was a threat, although she couldn’t say how.
When he rose, she, too, stood. He rattled the doorknob, the buzzer sounded and he walked out, leaving her standing behind the metal bars of the tiny cell. She immediately experienced the sense of abandonment again, as if he was her only savior in a world she no longer knew.
She rubbed her wrists, but there were no purple marks from fingers digging too harshly into her flesh. She remembered how careful he’d been when examining the priceless pottery and the way he’d stared into her eyes as if looking directly into her soul. She’d never felt that before. For the briefest moment, she wondered what it would be like to have him wrap her in his arms again, to feel his lips on hers…
She blinked, appalled at the strange path her mind had taken. Pressing her hands against her eyes, she felt dismay, anger, exasperation and other feelings too tangled to comprehend.
Glancing around the cell, she made up her mind to fight fire with fire. She had to smile. She knew just who she needed to get in touch with. Special Investigator Aquilon might be a force to be reckoned with, but she wasn’t without resources of her own.
“Sergeant,” she yelled. “Sergeant, I need to talk to you.”
Chapter Three
Tony hit the snooze alarm twice before he could drag himself out of bed and into Sunday morning. After washing up and dressing, he wandered into the kitchen and poured a cup of fresh coffee, which was ready thanks to the modern marvel of a timer on the coffeemaker.
What the heck was he doing up at six-thirty when this was the one day of the week he could catch up on his sleep?
Oh, yeah, the prisoner. He had work to do today.
He thought about going over and taking her to breakfast before they went searching for the man who gave her the pottery to deliver. If there was such a person, he added, frowning at his tendency to believe her story without any corroborating evidence.
Except for the earnestness of her gaze when she’d looked him directly in the eye. And the set of her mouth, which turned up at the corners in the most alluring way, when she’d stated she wanted to clear her name.
He groaned under his breath as his body went into full alert. Last night his dreams had been so hot it was a wonder the bed hadn’t caught fire. Without having to think about crimes and arrests, his subconscious had been free to consider other delightful things a man and woman could do when they were in such close proximity.
A cold—very cold—shower helped get things calmed down. After a quick breakfast, he headed for the station house. While she was technically his prisoner, there were papers to fill out before he could whisk her out of jail.
One of the problems with his line of work was jurisdiction. When it came to ancient artifacts, who was the authority—the park service? The tribal police? The local state and/or county officials? It was always a pain to sort through and often only a very fine, blurry line separated the legal powers. In this case, because Chuck had been in on the arrest and the Hopi claimed all artifacts as part of their culture, it made the question even more contentious.
However, he’d found he could usually work through the system with a little diplomacy. Since Julianne was cooperating, he didn’t see any reason to keep her in jail.
Neither did a lot of other people.
Bedlam reigned when he arrived at the state police headquarters. He had to push his way through a mob to get to the desk.
“What’s going on?” he asked the detail sergeant from the previous day when he and Chuck had brought in the suspect. At that moment he noticed Julianne standing to one side, her purse in her hand. “Who let her out?” he demanded. “Who authorized it?”
“The county judge,” the sarge replied. “Apparently her brother called the chief of the tribal council. The chief called the tribal attorney, who called the county judge. The judge’s assistant came in with a release order this morning, along with about fifty members of the Native American Women’s Advisory Council and one of the tribal elders. She posted bail, so she’s free.”
Tony turned to Julianne, whose innocent smile would have melted the heart of an iceberg.
“How did your brother get word?” he asked, giving her a narrow-eyed scowl.
“Last night after you left, the sergeant let me use my cell phone to call him…after I explained the governor would hear about my arrest and false imprisonment as soon as Chief Windover returned.”
The tribal elder, wearing a traditional Hopi braid and two eagle feathers, stepped forward. He looked old enough and wizened enough to be an artifact from the dig.
“The tribe has jurisdiction in the case,” he informed Tony. “The council had an emergency meeting last night and decided Julianne was to be freed.”
“Well,” Julianne said. “I’m ready to go. Since I have my car, I can lead you to the spot, then return home while you arrest everybody,” she said brightly.
“You’ll ride with me.” It was time for him to take charge. “I have authority in this case,” he told the elder and the two older women lined up beside him. “I was planning on releasing her this morning. She’s cooperating in the investigation.”
“Of course she is,” one of the women said. “She’s a wonderful person. She saved my grandson’s life when he stopped breathing shortly after he was born.” Her glare dared him to contradict her statement.
He sighed and turned to the desk sergeant. “Give me the custody papers. I’m taking charge of her.” He doggedly filled out the papers in spite of protests from the NAWAC. “She’ll be free to go home as long as she doesn’t leave the state,” he told them.
“It’s okay,” Julianne spoke up when the women looked as if they might attack. “He and I are working together on this. Thank you so much for coming down and helping me out. I really appreciate it.”
Tony watched as she hugged the elder and his two primary sidekicks. After promising to kick butt if there was more trouble, the elder and the NAWAC departed.
“Are you ready?” he asked sardonically.
“Yes. Is it okay if I drop my car at my house?”
He nodded, feeling very gracious considering she was in his custody and had nearly gotten him staked out on an anthill by her defenders. He followed her out of town and onto Highway 666, which was where her house was located.
Hmm, 666. Wasn’t that the symbol of the devil?
Yeah, and it suited her to a tee.
He would have laughed but it hurt his nose to move his facial muscles that much.
Outside, Julianne flinched at the brightness of the sun on the eastern horizon. She was aware of the park service vehicle that stayed on her tail as she drove out of town.
Two miles up the highway, she turned into the driveway of an adobe two-bedroom cottage that was part of her work compensation. She was thinking of buying it if the council extended her contract. She parked under the lean-to carport and hopped out.
The morning air was like a magic elixir as she inhaled deeply. Freedom. She’d never take it for granted again. Although she felt like laughing and running before the breeze like a bird, she approached the SUV sedately. “Would you mind if I showered and changed clothes before we left?”
The chill of the night lingered on the desert. She rubbed the goose bumps from her arms while she waited for his decision. “I’ll make you breakfast,” she added when he didn’t answer right away.
“I’ve eaten. But I could use a cup of coffee while I wait.”
Her eyes widened with pleasure when she realized he’d given his approval. “Sure. Coming right up.” She rushed to the front door. “Uh, you can come in.”
After putting on a pot of coffee and showing him where the cups were, she dashed into her bedroom and closed the door. She took the fastest shower in history and returned to the kitchen in fresh slacks and a tank top with a matching overshirt. He stood at the back door that opened onto a covered patio and drank from a coffee mug, his eyes on the arroyo, dry now because there’d been no rain in over two weeks, that wended its way along the edge of the property.
“I’m ready to go, Special Investigator Aquilon,” she said, smiling.
He gave her a wary glance. “My name’s Anthony. Everyone calls me Tony.”
“I’m Julianne, Jules, rhymes with mules, to my smart-mouth brothers.” She hadn’t a clue as to why she’d added this bit of family information.
“One of those smart-mouth brothers got you out of jail.”
“Calhoon,” she told him. “Cal’s the oldest, I’m the middle and Sam’s the youngest in our family. Dad used to tease the boys, saying we three kids were like an Oreo and I was the sweet in the middle.”
Her guest carefully touched his nose, which she thought looked much better, hardly any swelling at all. “Yeah,” he said, “real sweet.”
When she laughed, he shook his head, but the corners of his mouth turned up a bit.
“Where does your family live?” he asked.
“Albuquerque, which is where I was born and raised. My brothers live there, too.” She filled a travel mug with coffee. “Well, I’m ready for the great adventure.”
He looked heavenward as if asking for patience.
“I’ve never arrested anyone before,” she explained.
“You’re not now. I’m the arresting officer.”
“Whatever,” she said blithely. Nothing could ruin her exuberance at being out of jail.
He led the way to the SUV and saw her inside before climbing in the driver’s side. “Which way?”
“North.” She watched his hands as he put the truck in gear and backed out.
She’d thought of him last night before she fell asleep, of the strength in his hands and how his body had felt against hers, pinning her in place against the dusty car. The long, hard ridge in his jeans had been unmistakable.
Like yesterday, a strange clamoring rose in her, as if a dormant part of her had awakened and demanded attention. She’d always been cautious, though, so this internal heat was surprising.
After they were on their way, she asked, “Are you still pressing charges against me? I was told I would have to report to a judge for a hearing.”
He flicked her a probing glance. The man had a way of looking a person over as if he could dig out the truth no matter how much she tried to hide it.
“If your alibi holds up, then we’ll see,” he said.
“What alibi?”
“If Josiah Pareo confirms your story, then the onus will be on him to come up with a good explanation for having those artifacts.”
“He will,” she said. “He and his wife. They were a nice young couple, very concerned about their new baby and its welfare. I’m sure he’ll straighten this out.”
“Hmm,” the special investigator said.
It was a cop’s duty to be skeptical, so she decided to forgive him for his doubts.
“How far up this way?” he asked, once they were on the highway heading toward Ship Rock.
“Take a right when you get to the Coyote Canyon Road. Go almost to the turnoff to Standing Rock. Turn left—”
“Okay, alert me when we get to the left turn,” he interrupted, a frown line creasing his forehead.
She missed his smile, she realized, as he reverted to the stern investigator of yesterday. Yesterday! Less than twenty-four hours, yet she felt as if she’d lived an eon since then. Studying his handsome profile, it seemed odd that she’d only just met this man.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“I was wondering if we’d met in another life. You seem awfully familiar.”
“Yeah, right.”
She laughed at his sardonic tone, then concentrated on the road so she wouldn’t miss the dirt track to the couple’s trailer after he made the correct right turn. “It’s coming up. Here. Turn left here.”
He made the turn. A dust trail rose behind them. It was slow going for the next two miles due to the ruts. They rounded the last curve. The coyote fence was there, but the yard was empty.
“It’s gone,” she said. “The trailer is gone.”
Julianne went inside the gate, which had been left open, and walked around the rectangle of yard. A dry creek bed and two rows of stacked rocks indicated where the house trailer had once stood. Faint traces of wavy lines were barely visible in the gritty dirt.
“He used a piece of brush to mark out the tire treads,” Tony told her, squatting on his haunches to study the ground.
“Why?”
“To cover his tracks.”
She shook her head in disbelief as she stared at the ground where once a home had been. “I was here two days ago. No, three. The baby was born on Thursday. I filled out the papers and did the baby’s footprints for the birth certificate so I could file it with the tribal records office.”
“Well, they’re gone now. Someone must have gotten word to them that there was a sting operation going down. Did you get prints on the parents?”
She nodded. “The tribe has us do thumbprints.” Her eyes widened as she realized the implication of his words. “The shop was a fake?”
“A front,” he corrected. “We set it up and let it be known we wanted Indian goods. Good Indian goods,” he added with a significant glance at her.
“The pottery,” she murmured, disappointed in the couple who’d certainly played her for a fool. “I can’t believe they stole those things.”
“Believe it,” he said. “What about the prints? Did you keep a record of them?”
“No. You can get a copy from the tribal office.”
“Fine.”
She observed while he looked over the site.
A large section of coyote fence, which was made from the canes of the infamous ocotillo nailed side by side onto wooden supports, had been loosened and pulled aside in order to drive the trailer through to the dirt lane.
The tracks were brushed out on that side of the fence, too. She recalled something. “He drove a blue pickup,” she told the special investigator. She described the make and model and a dent in one fender.
“What else do you remember about them?”
“Well, they were young, both twenty-one. They belonged to the Hopi. He was a mechanic.”
“Ah,” the detective said.
“Ah, what?”
“Did he work at the garage near the shop?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes narrowed. “Maybe the mechanic who watched the big chase scene alerted him to the bust. I’ll check on that tomorrow.” He made a note in a little spiral pad, then searched around once more. “There’s nothing here, not even a trash pile,” he finally concluded.
“You’re very thorough.”
Those dark eyes cut to her like the flick of a whip on bare skin. “That’s my job,” he stated, and headed for his vehicle. He didn’t seem to think she was much help.
She trailed behind him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when they were on the road.
“I’m worried about them and the baby.” She sighed. “Life can be so hard. They don’t have much money. Probably someone promised them a large cut of the profits if they would sell the artifacts. They didn’t mean any harm.”
“Yeah, they were innocents.”
She sighed again. “I don’t think that. Every population has its share of good people and bad. The couple must have desperately needed money, though.” She studied him. “You know a lot about artifacts. Is your interest because you have Native American ancestry?”
He nodded. “My great-grandmother was Sioux.”
“I see.”
“You got time to go out to the dig?” he asked, stopping at the county road.
She was surprised by the invitation. “Yes. It sounds very interesting.”
“I’d planned on coming out and checking over the security at the site this morning. Since we’re this close, it would be simpler to go there now.”
He turned left instead of right and headed past the rock formation that gave the area its name. There were two Chaco culture sites, he told her. He took the road to the second one, which was farther north from where they were.
“Have you been here?” he asked as they neared Pueblo Bonito.
“Once, a long time ago with my father and brothers. I loved exploring the village. It reminds me that people haven’t changed that much in hundreds or thousands of years. They needed shelter and ways to make a living in order to provide food and clothing for their families back then just as we do today.”
“And they built apartment buildings and lived in towns, too,” he added, driving down a road that was off-limits except for park service personnel. “Like the Roman roads, theirs were built to last.”
“Yes,” she agreed. When they arrived at the main ruins, she murmured in awe of the multistory dwellings that backed up to a sandstone cliff, and tried to recall all she’d read about the people who built them. “I’ve forgotten when this area was occupied.”
“The Chaco culture flourished from around 850 to 1250 A.D.,” he told her. “We know of at least thirteen major pueblos. This one, Pueblo Bonito, was one of the leading pre-Columbian villages outside Mexico. It was a hub of commerce, administration and ceremony. See the great house?”
She peered in the direction he pointed as he drove slowly along the canyon. “Yes.”
“It’s four or five stories high and has over six hundred rooms and forty kivas, which were ceremonial chambers. The whole settlement was planned and executed in stages. Can you imagine the knowledge in engineering, architecture and masonry required for such an undertaking?”
“All without powered tools,” she added.
“Yes.”
“What happened to the people who lived here?”
“They’re still around. The Pueblos and Hopi have oral histories of migrations from this area. The Navajo, although they aren’t considered Puebloan, also trace some of their clans back to Chaco.”
Julianne stared at the ruins and imagined the bustling community going about its daily business. Although the park wasn’t crowded, she noticed two groups of people being led through the stone rooms by park rangers. One of the rangers spotted them and waved. Tony waved back.
The road became increasingly rutted. She held on to the grip above her head and tightened her seat belt.
“Not long now,” Tony said.
They arrived at the end of the dirt road. He parked under the shade of a tree and waited at the front of the SUV for her to join him. He held the No Admittance tape up while they ducked under it.
After walking up a shallow arroyo they came upon a cliff. It was not as high as the one back at the village but beautiful in its pastel desert colors. She could see the stone buildings partially revealed under the talus that had fallen on the dwellings over a long period of time.
A shiver danced down her spine as she realized they were the only two living people there. The wind whispered through a copse of willows and cottonwoods, sounding like the sibilant groans of ghosts who still occupied the site.
“You hear it, too,” he said.
“What?”
“The voices of the dead.”
The hair stood up on her arms. She rubbed the chill away and stepped out of the shadow of the trees into the sun. “It’s an eerie place.” She spoke in a soft voice.
He nodded. “Come on.”
Taking her hand in his big warm one, he led the way over the rocky debris. She was glad she had on sturdy sneakers. The going was treacherous.
At the archeological dig, string marked depths and boundaries that had been explored. Tony muttered a curse.
“Anyone could walk in here and take anything they wanted,” he said in disgust. “I told the site manager they needed evening and morning surveillance at the very least.”
Around the side of the cliff, out of sight of the main research area, they found another pile of displaced stones. It was obviously the work of thieves, the digging showing signs of being hurried, the culprits uncaring of those items they destroyed in the process. Tony picked up several pieces and fitted them together into a partial vase. His face took on a grim expression.
Julianne laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged before carefully wrapping the pieces in the shirt he removed, then he trudged on.
She couldn’t help admiring the portrait he presented against the rugged landscape. He was built like one of the wild mustangs that roamed the West—lean but muscular, streamlined as one should be who raced the wind….
“The local tribes have been advising us on the excavating,” he said after a couple of minutes of silence. “They believe each thing has its time. When that time is finished, whether for a village, tree, animal or person, it should be left to return to the earth. We’re doing a very limited exploration here, then we’ll backfill the ruins and leave them at rest.”
They explored a couple of rooms that had been cleared before he unlocked a nearby trailer that held mostly potsherds and flint tools. There were photos of a few preserved baskets.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned. “This site predates construction of the great houses,” he explained. “It’s an example of the early villages as clans moved into the canyon. It’s called the Basket-makers III period. The name comes from the Pecos classification of Pueblo cultures.”
“Isn’t it unusual to find so many intact utensils?” she asked, looking the treasures over and resisting the urge to pick them up for a closer study.
“Yes. I think the people abandoned the site due to a significant rock fall. Lots of stuff got buried.”
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