Emily sat in her father's cozy leather chair and leaned
back wearily, stretching her muscles. His combination
library-office was a total mess. Every inch of the old oak
floor was littered with papers, documents and manila
folders—a leftover from a burglar's visit two days ago,
during her father's funeral. Having learned how to track
during her early teens, she'd followed the footprints
left by the thief, hoping to find a clue. Unfortunately, the
trail had disappeared at the road, replaced by tire tracks.
The official police department search had yielded no further
answers.
She still had no idea what, if anything, had been taken,
except for her father's collection of maps. They'd
been in a folder, but she doubted they were of much value.
Emily looked around her. Daylight was only a memory now, and
the pair of battery-powered lanterns atop cardboard boxes in
two corners of the room were the only sources of
illumination. She'd had all the utilities turned off
yesterday. The main house, where she was currently, was
scheduled to be torn down soon. Though money was tight,
she'd given the construction crew the go-ahead, knowing
her father would have approved.
Time was her enemy now. Her eyesight was becoming
progressively weaker. A month ago she'd been diagnosed
with a rare, genetic and progressive form of macular
degeneration.
Learning that she was slowly going blind terrified her. A
dark wall was descending around her, one that would keep her
trapped behind it. Yet the diagnosis, though dire, still
held out hope. Recent discoveries in gene therapy hinted
that a cure would be found—someday.
After hearing of her condition, her father had encouraged
her to quit her job at an Albuquerque area resort and come
home. His belief in her had renewed her courage, and with
his added financial support, they'd made plans to build
a new future— for her and for him.
She missed her father. His passing, in an auto accident, had
left a hole inside her. He'd been her only living
relative. As she looked around the room, she felt achingly
alone.
Suddenly aware that her isolation would make her an easy
target if the burglars came back now, she stood. The fading
light from one of the battery-powered lanterns was casting
long shadows on the wall, and that increased her anxiety.
It was time to go back to the small trailer she'd
brought in to serve as her temporary living quarters. Emily
slipped out of the main house, locking the door with the
knob button by feel. Using her small but powerful flashlight
to light the path before her, she picked her way across the
grounds.
She was halfway across the yard when she caught the
unmistakable scent of gasoline. Shining the beam about, she
spotted the vague outline of a person moving around the
stack of two-by-sixes the construction crew had left there
earlier. She aimed her flashlight at the figure, hoping it
was her construction foreman, Ken. As the man turned, she
saw that his face was covered with a ski mask.
Emily turned off the light instantly. Taking several quick
steps back, she collided with the side of the shed and
nearly fell.
The man came toward her with raised arms, holding a board
over his head like a big club.
Emily moved to her right, but a second man, also wearing a
mask, suddenly came around the other side of the shed,
trapping her between them.
The first man lunged, swinging the board at her head.
Heart hammering in her chest, she ducked under its arc and
chopped him on the wrist with her flashlight.
As he yelped and staggered back, she picked up the only
close weapon she could find—a cottonwood branch about the
length of a yardstick. It was too light to serve as a
bludgeon, but it would give her some reach, and she could
aim at their faces and target her assailants' eyes.
"What do you want from me?" she demanded, angling
her flashlight at the closest man, hoping to blind and
confuse him.
He remained silent, but continued to inch forward, shielding
his eyes from the glare with a gloved hand.
Without warning, a figure in dark clothes dropped off the
roof of the shed, landing beside her in a crouch, like a
panther. "Stay put," he whispered.
Turning, the newcomer positioned himself between her and her
assailants, and rose to his full height.
Her rescuer's face wasn't masked, but he'd moved
too fast for her to get a clear look at him. Grateful for
any help, she continued to train the powerful beam of her
flashlight on her first assailant, hoping to blind him. From
what she could see, her ally's only weapon was the small
cylinder he held in his hand—even smaller than her
flashlight. Fear pounded through her.
"Back off—while your head's still attached to your
shoulders," her rescuer growled.
His voice made her skin prickle. Deadly intent dripped from
every syllable.
The closest man automatically took half a step back in
response, undoubtedly wondering, like Emily, why anyone
holding such a small weapon would show such confidence.
"Walk away while you still can," the first man
responded, coming up. His voice was artificially low,
clearly disguised. He didn't have the board now, but his
gloved fists were huge.
With a flick of her ally's wrist, the stick in his hand
clicked with a low, metallic ring and suddenly became three
times as long.
What happened next was a blur. Emily saw her newfound friend
rush her closest assailant, and in a heartbeat, that man
crashed to the ground. The second one leaped into the fight,
but was struck behind the knee and fell face forward.
"Run!" one yelled to his partner. Both men scrambled
to their feet and raced away into the brush.
As her rescuer turned around to face her, Emily's mouth
went dry and her heart began to pound. Although her night
vision was poor, her heart filled in all the small details
her eyes were unable to pick up.
"Jonas," she managed to gasp at last. "What are
you…?"
He smiled. "Emily. After five years, you still
remember?" His voice was smooth and caressing now.
"How could you think I'd ever forget? You saved my
life— then, as well as now," she declared, her heart
lodged at the back of her throat.
"Get inside, quickly," he urged, collapsing the
metal baton and jamming it into his jacket pocket. "I
want to take one last look around and make sure nothing here
can catch fire. Then you and I need to talk. You're
still in danger."
Ten minutes later, Jonas Slowman sat on a small bench— what
was really a storage bin in the trailer—as Emily prepared
them something hot to drink. Though it was mid-March and
nearly spring, the temperature at night was still in the low
forties.
Jonas gazed at her appreciatively. Emily was as beautiful as
ever. He pushed back the thought quickly and forced himself
to focus. As a member of the Navajo tribe's elite
Brotherhood of Warriors, he'd worked many missions, but
this promised to be the toughest yet.
Seeing Emily again was more difficult than he'd
originally thought. She'd been a part of his dreams
since that night on the mountain years ago. He'd stayed
away from her for that very reason. But his orders were
clear—protect her at all costs—and there was no room for
emotions on a mission.
"It's decaf coffee. It's all I've got,"
she said, turning her head in his direction.
He saw her gaze drift down to his hands, and wondered if
seeing his bruised knuckles bothered her. Then, noting the
faraway look on her face and the ghost of a shiver that
rippled through her, he knew she was remembering the
pleasures of his touch. The knowledge bit into him hard.
Finished assembling the four-cup percolator, she came to
join him. "Those men…" she began, then took a shaky
breath and looked away.
"Are gone and can't hurt you," he said flatly.
"Nothing in my life makes sense anymore—even the fact
that we're sitting here face-to-face," she
whispered, taking a seat on the folding chair across from
him. "I never thought I'd see you again. Over the
years, I almost convinced myself that you were a dream."
"I'm not a dream. What we had was real."
He held her gaze, though it cost him. Everything about Emily
was made to tempt a man. Dark brown hair spilled over her
shoulders, and those soft hazel eyes spoke of gentleness— a
quality sadly lacking in his life. But there was more to her
than the sum of her parts. The stubborn set of her chin
spoke of pride and an independent spirit. And that was the
woman he remembered—the one who'd haunted his dreams.
"When the snowstorm ended and you took me back to the
lodge, everyone was so excited I'd turned up alive they
just closed in around me. I tried to push people back so I
could find you again, but you were gone. And I didn't
even know your full name. I described you to everyone there,
but no one remembered seeing you."
He nodded. Disappearing into the shadows was his specialty.
It was a skill he'd learned in the Rangers and had
perfected after becoming a member of the Brotherhood of
Warriors.
"Once I had a chance to think things through, I
understood why you didn't stick around," she
continued. "Navajos aren't supposed to show pride,
and you didn't seem the kind of man who'd be
comfortable getting a million thank-yous. But you never got
in touch afterward, not even to say a quick hello."
He heard the trace of disappointment in her voice and, as he
met her eyes, felt the tug on his senses. He could still
remember every detail of their first meeting—the tiny nylon
tent, a woman close to death, one sleeping bag and the heat
that brought life.
Yet looking at Emily now, he saw more than the lost girl
he'd rescued back then. There was maturity and new
strength in her. Clearly, she could handle herself. He'd
seen it in the way she'd fought those men, though
she'd been armed only with a stick and a flashlight.
That had taken guts. To win the fight ahead, all Emily
needed was an edge—and that's exactly why he was here.
Seeing the long, thoughtful look she was giving him, he sat
back and waited for her to speak.
"After all this time, here you are again, out of
nowhere, and right when I need you," she said. She
pressed her palm to his heart, and felt it beat against her
palm. "You're real."
He placed his hand over hers. "I'm flesh and blood
just like you." He heard the small catch in her breath
and gave her a thoroughly masculine grin.
She took a step back. "How… why?" she stammered,
confused.
"I was sent by the tribe to help you out, and make sure
you stay safe. Your father was our friend, and we take care
of our own."
"You're a tribal police officer?"
"No, not exactly. But even if I were, this would be out
of my jurisdiction. Right now what you need to do is report
this incident to the sheriff's department. When you do,
give them my Anglo name—Jonas Slowman."
This was the first time she'd heard his full name. He
watched her whisper it as if getting a feel for it, and
savoring the knowledge. Navajos didn't readily give out
their names, which were said to have power an enemy could
use against a person. But on her lips, Jonas's name
became a caress, a promise.
"I'll be back in a minute. My phone is on the… bed."
As Emily walked down the short passage to pick up the cell
phone, he watched her hips sway gently. His body tightened
as memories of the past collided with their inescapable present.
Cursing himself, he looked away. The past was gone. This was
now and he had a job to do.
Emily ended the call a few minutes later, then returned to
sit across the table from him. "They know you at the
sheriff's office," she said.
"Some do, some don't. Who did you speak to?"
"A sergeant named Charlie Nez."
Jonas nodded. "He's Navajo. We went to Shiprock High
together… back in the stagecoach and wagon train days."
She laughed. He was trying to get her to relax and it was
working. "They said they'd send out a deputy later
to take our statements—long distances, and not so many
officers, I guess."
Emily sipped her coffee. Her pulse had slowed to a normal
rate, and now that she could think clearly, she knew there
was more to Jonas's visit than he'd told her. He
hadn't just shown up—he'd been watching her
property. But for how long?
Minutes of silence stretched out between them as questions
circled in her mind. Tired of waiting for him to fill in the
gaps, she decided to probe for answers. "My father had
many clients, and he never discussed their business with me,
but I get the impression that the work he did for the tribe
had many layers."
She allowed what she hadn't said to linger between them.
Working as an innkeeper at a mountain resort east of
Albuquerque had taught her that people often talked to hear
the sound of their own voices, or to make sure their
opinions still mattered. All you had to do was be willing to
wait, and listen.
Yet rules didn't seem to apply to Jonas Slowman. When
her patience finally stretched to the limit, she continued.
"Was it me you were watching, or the men who attacked
me? Just exactly what kind of work do you do for the tribe?"
Jonas leaned back in his seat and regarded her for a moment.
"I'm what's best described as a vindicator—one
who defends a cause—at least that's the English
equivalent. My work enables the tribe to continue to walk in
beauty."
"How does that connect to my dad?"
"Your father handled some delicate matters for our
tribe. The circumstances surrounding his death have raised
some questions for us, and I was sent to provide any help
you might need."
She sat up abruptly. "Are you telling me that the tribe
doesn't think that what happened to Dad was just an
accident?"
Jonas remained quiet for several long moments. "We have
no proof to the contrary, but questions remain. For example,
your father was the last person to see one of our people—a
man who's now missing. We believe he may have been in
your dad's car when it crashed."
"You mean, somebody wandered off badly hurt and is out
there somewhere?"
"A search was conducted the day and night following the
accident, and is still going on, but there's been no
sign of him. He may have caught a ride along the highway—or
not. So far, we have nothing to go on."
"Who's the missing man? Anyone I know?"
"The tribe has its own reasons for wanting to keep his
identity a secret for now."
"But the tribe thinks his disappearance might somehow be
connected to what happened to Dad?"