Under The Western Sky

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.