Shadow Wolf

She got it switched on, despite the fact that her hands were shaking so badly and were so slick with sweat that she could barely hold the thing. She hit the button to transmit.

“Margie?”

Her area supervisor, Margaret Crocker, answered immediately, as if she’d been holding the radio that usually sat on her desk. “Lea! I’ve been trying to reach you. Radios must remain on.”

Lea didn’t try to interrupt because there was no use. She couldn’t speak until Margie finished and released her transmit button.

Margie’s voice crackled on. “Where are you? Ernesta just called in and that means you’re alone, again. I’ve explained this to you. Everyone rides with a partner.” Her voice went to an angry whisper. “I can’t believe you pulled this today of all days when you know I’ve got the regional director here! I do not need this.”

Finally, Margie stopped talking so Lea could speak.

“Dead,” she squeaked. Was that even her voice? It sounded completely unfamiliar to her own ears.

“What? What was that? Repeat.”

“He shot them. They’re dead.”

“Who’s dead? Lea, where are you?”

She told her.

“Indian land? What are you doing there? We have no stations there. It’s too dangerous. Lea, that’s where the cartels are moving.”

“I-it’s on the map.” She blinked, glancing up at the clear blue sky that had no more pity for her than for the migrants who’d tried to cross the desert.

“What map? Oh, no! Where did you get it?” asked Margie. “Are you hurt?”

A man stepped into view, blocking the sky. He looked tough and dangerous.

The radio slipped from Lea’s fingers as she opened her mouth and screamed.

The door swung open as the air left her lungs. She scrambled onto the seat, bounced off the steering wheel and smacked into the closed driver’s-side door.

“I’m not him,” said the stranger. “Look at me. I’m not him.”

She did look at him. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and a pistol in his hand. He wore body armor and an expression of fury. His dark eyes narrowed as she clung to the door latch, deciding if she should run or face him. He looked fit and heavily muscled and far bigger than she was.

“B-border patrol?” she asked, her voice going all airy and breathless. She felt dizzy as she dragged scorching desert air into her lungs.

He gave a quick shake of his head that sent his single braid flashing over his shoulder before it snapped back like a whip. Then he rotated his torso and tapped the patch on his tan-colored shirt. “Shadow Wolves. I’m with ICE. The good guys.”

Good guys? Right. To some, he was a worse sight than the cartels. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the ones who hunted the immigrants like prey. She knew about the Shadow Wolves, of course. Their reputations preceded them.

“Are you injured?”

The humming in her ears made his words hard to understand. He waited for her reply but she only blinked stupidly at him, past the spots that danced in front of her eyes like fireflies. He reached a large hand in her direction and she pulled the latch, falling backward into space and hitting the ground hard. But not so hard that she couldn’t roll, which she did, under the truck.

This unfortunately put her at the same level as the bodies. My God, she thought, this morning they were alive with dreams and a future. Now they were carrion bloating in the heat. How long before the buzzards found them?

Lea began to cry. The passenger door slammed and the man’s footwear crunched as he took two steps along the side of the truck. He didn’t wear the usual hiking boots or the army boots many of the border patrol officers wore.

Lea stopped crying. She knew those moccasins, or she knew what they represented. The upturned decorative toe-tab marked them and the wearer. The boots were high, to protect against the ever-present rattlesnakes and thorny vegetation, but soft and supple. Cactus kickers, her father called them. The man was not only an Indian. He was Apache, like her.

“How long you gonna stay under there?” the man asked. His voice held a hint of irritation.

She switched to Apache and asked him his tribe.

He squatted, resting on one knee to peer beneath the vehicle at her as he answered in Athabascan, speaking in the formal way of introductions. His voice was rich and deep and held a calm that made it easier for her to breathe.

“I’m Kino Cosen. My parents are Tessa and Henry Cosen. I am Bear Clan, born of Eagle. How are you called?”

“Lea Altaha.” Her voice shook only a little now. She hesitated, her lips pressing together as she decided what to say. “My parents are Oscar and Maria Altaha. I am...” Her words fell off. I am nothing. No one. The familiar shame seized her but she pushed it away.

“Salt River?” he asked, correctly guessing at her origins.

“Yes.”

“I’m Black Mountain,” he said. The two reservations were once one but had been divided east to west. Black Mountain had the higher elevation, good water, terrain and plenty of wildlife. But Salt River had more lakes, one formed by the Salt River dam, and so was considered a fisherman’s paradise. Both tribes had a cultural center, casino and various other forms of tourism. More important, he was Western Apache, where her rez was a mix of Apache tribes.

* * *

SHE MET HIS gaze now, looking into those dark eyes. He wore his hair in a single braid, a traditional style for a man roughly her age.

“I am honored to meet you, Lea,” he said and offered his hand.

She took it and he helped her scramble out from beneath the truck. When she was standing in front of him, she realized he was a good deal taller than she expected and far better looking. He had that rare combination of earnestness and intensity in his gaze that held her captive. His features were classic with a broad nose, full mouth and a jaw that looked strong enough to take a hit. Her stomach fluttered as she realized what was happening between them. The heat and absolute stillness seemed to charge the air, like the electricity before a storm. Their clasped hands tightened as they each stepped closer. Oh, this was bad.

She stepped back, breaking the connection between them and wiping her tingling palm upon the denim of her jeans. This was not the time or place for mooning over a man. She rubbed the hand that so recently clasped his across the back of her neck. It didn’t ease her discomfort. Was it because he stood a little too close?

The jitters came back and she felt as if someone were running an electric current through her. She leaned heavily against her truck but the heat of the metal made her spring away, straight into his arms. He enfolded her against him and she realized to her chagrin that she could no longer stand without his help because her knees had given way. He opened the passenger’s-side door and eased her onto the seat.

She glanced at the carnage all around her and pressed both hands over her eyes. When she removed them, the bodies were still there.

“Someone was shooting at me,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “That was me.”

Chapter Three (#ulink_3d6eaa4e-43f5-575b-8158-316f40f89c6b)

Kino paused, pistol holstered, rifle slung over his shoulder and body armor sticking to his back as he considered what to do with this woman. He should take her in, but that would mean paperwork and he hated paperwork.

The woman stared at Kino as a mixture of shock and fear played across her features. She was smaller than he’d first judged, smaller than most of the women on his rez. And now, as he looked at her face, he saw that even pale and dusty as she was from her ordeal that her features seemed a blending of Native blood with some other race. Even dirty, there was no denying that she was a beauty.

Lea Altaha seemed to be recovering because color was now rapidly returning to her face. Her eyes glittered dangerously. Kino’s body reacted to the challenge in her gaze, though not as he expected. His emotions flicked from anger at her interference to complete awareness of her as a woman. Now, with her color high, her nostrils flaring and her brow sloping down over her large dark eyes, she looked fierce and wild and sexy as hell. The tight T-shirt publicized an aid organization—Oasis—but also served to advertise a killer body. The thin cotton and her tight faded jeans hugged her dangerous curves. She wore high boots, as anyone with sense would out here. She also had a water bottle and a folded utility knife strapped to her tooled leather belt. The buckle was large and silver with a thundercloud symbol on the front. Appropriate, he thought, for clearly there was some kind of storm building between them.

She lifted her hand to point a finger at him as if his words had just registered in her mind.

“You!” She slid from the seat, her voice and posture all accusation as she stood, chin high and brow low. Even angry she was adorable, he thought, like a startled kitten. “You could have killed me.”