by Aimée Thurlo
“That’s what I want to hear—temptation, a touch of longing, the struggle.”
“I haven’t said anything!” she protested.
He laughed. “It’s your breathing … It changes, though you’re fighting it. And when you paid me a compliment, there was a tiny hitch in your voice.”
“I think you should definitely consider a second job as a CIA analyst—or a psychic,” she said.
The house stayed warm, just as he’d predicted. Uncomfortable, she shifted in place, feeling sweaty. “When you’re ready to take a break, how about letting me buy you lunch?” she asked, thinking that he needed to save money for a new evaporative cooler. Going without wasn’t an option. Summers on the Rez could be brutal. Fans just moved the hot air around. Without a cooler, a home out here in a basically shadeless environment would rival the hottest corner of hell.
“You’re modeling for free, so lunch is my treat,” he insisted.
Pride. She could hear it echo clearly in his voice. “How about if we split the bill? You need funds for a new cooler, and my Jeep’s going to need tires and a tune-up, so I have to watch my spending, too.”
“No deal. Lunch’s still on me,” he said, checking his back pocket for cash.
“How can you tell one bill from another? That’s got to be tough.”
“I put a little fold on my fives, two on the tens, and so on,” he responded.
“Smart guy.”
“Nah. Just someone who knows about survival.”
“I hear you,” Leigh Ann answered. Maybe his mention of survival was a sign he might be open to discuss whatever was keeping him awake at night. She tried to figure what to say next to move in that direction.
“Come on. I’m starving,” he said, covering the figure with a sheet of black plastic, setting it on a shelf, and then reaching for his shirt.
“We’ll come back here afterwards, and you’ll work some more?”
“Maybe. Let’s see how it goes.”
Spending the morning watching Melvin sculpt shirtless … It didn’t get better than that. Since she’d given her hours to Regina, she had the afternoon to look forward to also.
They were just getting into her Jeep when her cell phone rang. She recognized Rachel’s tone. “What’s up, sis?” she asked, answering the call.
“They came to my work, Leigh Ann. I’ll be surprised if I still have a job tomorrow.”
“Who came to your work? Calm down and make sense,” she said, her heart beating in quick time.
“The detectives. They asked me all kinds of questions. They wanted to know about my job, and how much bookkeeping it entailed. I was in the break room, but I know Charlie was listening.”
“They’re just fishing, Rachel, following up on my interview, maybe hoping to get something new. Don’t worry, they can’t touch either one of us because we’ve done nothing wrong.”
“No one wants someone suspected of embezzlement working for their company. Ever since they left, Charlie’s been asking me all kinds of questions about Kurt’s business and why the detectives came to talk to me.”
“Just tell him you don’t know what’s going on.”
“I did, but I don’t think he believed me any more than the cops did.”
“Calm down, Rache. The more nervous you appear, the guiltier you look.”
“Yeah, well, I ran into the restroom and threw up after the cops left. Then I clocked out and I’m on the way home. Only there’s someone following me.”
“Who?”
“I think it’s the cops in an unmarked car—one of those generic sedans. They asked where you were right now, and I said I didn’t know. They must have thought I was lying about that, too. What do we do now?” Rachel added.
“We’ll have to play it by ear. That’s all we can do.” Hanging up, Leigh Ann put the Jeep in gear and got underway. “I’ve got to find answers fast, Melvin, before this mess destroys my life. Getting past all the secrets and finding the truth is like peeling an onion. The closer I get to the center, the more it stinks.”
“Surprises and secrets—that combination usually spells disaster,” Melvin observed.
She heard it again—that haunted quality in his voice. Melvin’s past was a closed book, and maybe that was the way it should remain. If she pressed Melvin with personal questions, she might lose what connection she already had with him.
“Let’s go to lunch and forget all this for now. I’m tired of fighting, of trying to stay strong. I’ve had it,” Leigh Ann said.
“You have a hard fight ahead, Leigh Ann, but don’t forget that you’ve got plenty of backup. The trading post folk are a tough bunch. You can count on them—and me.”
“Thanks, Melvin,” she said softly. “I’m glad we’re friends.”
As she spoke, she saw his expression tighten. He wanted more, and so did she, but fear had built a wall between them. That was the problem with people who’d been to hell and back. Life had taught them how rare it was to find a friend who really cared, one you trust to the end, and some things were just too precious to risk.
— ELEVEN —
Jo sat alone in her kitchen. It was late and she was tired, but she still couldn’t sleep. Her stomach had been upset all day. As soon as the teakettle whistled, she brewed another cup of the herbal tea her teacher had recommended.
Lost in thought, she stared at the teacup. Gray sunflower, the Navajo name for the herb, not only helped with stomach upsets, it was used as a good-luck plant. It was said that Horned Lizard had become frightened during a very bad thunderstorm, and had run under Gray Sunflower for protection. Although lightning had struck all around them, neither plant nor lizard had been harmed.
Considering what Ben was going through, she wondered if she’d be allowed to send him a medicine pouch with that herb. The plant wasn’t illegal.
Glancing at the clock, she was surprised to discover it was one in the morning. If she didn’t get some sleep now, she’d be dragging later for sure. With a sigh, she got up and walked to her room, turning off the lights as she went.
The silence in the house enfolded her and assured her that all was well. In contrast, Ben lived in the middle of chaos. She vividly recalled what she suspected were explosions as they’d spoken via Skype. How did he cope and stay sane?
Lying down, Jo took a deep breath and shut out those thoughts. Unless she focused solely on her breathing, she’d never get any sleep.
She wasn’t sure when she finally drifted off, but it seemed to her that she’d only just fallen asleep when she woke abruptly. A glance at the clock told her it was four in the morning. She lay still, wondering what had awakened her and trying to calm her pounding heart and get back to sleep.
Just as she started to drift off, a squeak jolted her awake. Someone was walking across her wooden front porch. She listened closely and heard the footsteps again, along with another, more muted sound she couldn’t quite identify.
Bringing out the rifle she kept beneath the bed, she levered a shell into the chamber, then picked up the phone and called the police. She made her report quietly, moved silently to the living room, then held her rifle up and ready.
Jo flipped on the outside lights and called out loudly. “I’m armed and you’re trespassing.” She’d found out a long time ago that the more confident she sounded, the more of an advantage that gave her.
There was no response.
Jo went to the window, approaching from the outside edge of the curtain, and peered out. If the intruder was also armed, she wanted to make sure she didn’t turn herself into an easy target.
Hearing a rush of footsteps, she pushed the curtain aside slightly and saw a figure wearing a hoodie running away down the road. He raced around the curve, and the piñon and juniper trees along the road quickly blocked him from view.
Jo waited and listened. Soon she heard a car engine rev up and a few seconds after saw dust rising from the road in the moonlight. Rifle still in hand, she looked through the peephole and tried to iden
tify the odor right outside her door. Something sure stunk out there. The scent was familiar, too.…
She unlocked the door and stepped out onto the porch. In the next instant she realized she was smelling kerosene. A red gas can, lying on its side, was glugging its contents onto the porch.
Reacting quickly, she immediately set it upright. Knowing kerosene could ignite from just a spark, Jo raced to the garden hose coiled up beneath the outside faucet. Leaning the rifle, barrel up, against the wall, she began washing down the porch, using a coarse spray from the adjustable nozzle, just like she’d done with the paint and the loading dock. This was getting old.
She worked methodically, taking care not to splash kerosene onto the wall of the house. Once the scent dissipated, she turned off the hose, grabbed her rifle, and went back inside to wait for the police. Out here, response times were often half an hour or more. There were too few tribal officers and their patrol areas were enormous. Since Tom Stuart’s murder last year, she’d taken to keeping a loaded rifle handy.
Forty minutes after she’d placed the call, a Navajo tribal police force white-and-green SUV pulled up outside. Jo stepped out to greet the officer, who was clad in the department’s khaki uniform.
Jo felt calmer, but as she set her rifle against the wall again, she realized her hands were still shaking. She jammed them into her jacket pockets and walked over to talk to the officer, who’d parked about twenty-five feet from the porch. He was tall, in his mid-thirties, and fit.
“Miss Buck? You called 911 about a prowler?”
Jo quickly filled him in, pointing to the can. “I had to set it upright because it was still spilling kerosene everywhere. I also hosed down the porch.”
“Kerosene is easy to find on the Rez,” he commented. Looking around and spotting the cap in the dirt, he picked it up with a gloved hand and screwed it back onto the can. He returned to his vehicle, placed the can upright into a small plastic cooler, and jammed in a cheap drop cloth to keep it from tipping over.
“Any body secretion or foreign substances that might leave latent fingerprints on the can were probably washed away by the spilled kerosene, but maybe we’ll get lucky with the top of the cap,” he said. “Did you get a look at the man’s face?”
She shook her head and gave him the best description she could. “It may have been Edmund Garnenez. He’s been causing trouble for me and my teacher.”
He nodded. “I read up on the complaints you and the hataalii have filed, including one about the paint that someone threw against the trading post wall. This could have been a lot worse. I’ll check on Garnenez’s whereabouts tonight and stop at the Ponderosa Mercantile and see if anyone there remembers who bought kerosene lately.”
“Why the Mercantile? Most of the places around here carry it, including The Outpost.”
“The bottom of the can still has part of the price tag—with the Ponderosa pine logo.”
“I didn’t catch that. Good eyes, Officer…”
“Atencio,” he answered. “Can you think of anyone else who might have a grudge against you or the trading post? There was that nasty business just last year at your place. You think it could be connected to those events?”
Jo shook her head. “No, that’s over. I can’t think of anyone who might be targeting The Outpost specifically now. We run an honest business and you couldn’t ask for a better bunch of employees.”
He nodded slowly. “So I’ve heard. My great-aunt is Esther Allison. She’s always spoken highly of you.”
The link didn’t surprise her. Navajos always had relatives nearby. That was one advantage of the clan system. Everyone knew, or was related to, someone else nearby, and clan lineages could be traced back many generations.
“Esther’s part of our trading post family,” she said.
He nodded. “She feels the same way about the crew there,” he said, getting back into the tribal SUV. “I’ll look into this, ask around, and see what I can find. If I learn anything, I’ll turn it over to the detectives.”
“Thanks for your help,” she said.
He looked at the rifle resting near the porch door. “You know how to shoot that?”
“I can hit a coffee can at fifty yards.”
He nodded once. “Keep it close, then.”
“Always do.”
After he left, Jo locked up and went to her room, placing the rifle back under the bed. She wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight, and she’d be paying the price for that later at work. Although she loved the dark skies and the uninterrupted sounds of nature at night, she was beginning to feel that she should move into the Stuart house behind The Outpost. The place belonged to Ben now, of course, but she had the keys and knew he wouldn’t mind. Under the circumstances, he’d probably insist, but she’d ask first.
The Stuart cottage was one of Jo’s favorite places. Every once in a while she’d go inside just to look around and take a breath. Even though Ben had been overseas for months, the place somehow retained his essence, including the masculine, outdoorsy scent that so defined him. Going there was the next best thing to being in his arms.
Next time they spoke she’d ask his permission to move in temporarily, but she’d have to find a way to do it without alarming him. Despite the fact that he was half a world away, Ben was attuned to even the slightest nuance in her tone.
“I miss you, Ben. Take care of yourself and come home to me,” she whispered to the darkness.
* * *
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when Leigh Ann saw Ambrose pull up in front of The Outpost in his restored classic Ford pickup, painted candy-apple red. She smiled. It was impossible not to like Ambrose John. He had a grin that could stop hearts—or restart them. His hair was long, warrior style, and his body all muscle.
When he walked into the store, carrying a briefcase, he flashed a brilliant smile at Leigh Ann and Jo, who were standing close together at the front counter. “Hey, pretty ladies.”
Ambrose was one of the best-looking men around. He was also gay, a fact many a woman had mourned over the years.
“Do you have a minute for me?”
“I hope you brought us some jewelry,” Jo replied, nodding. “Your pieces sell at lightning speed. You’re the best silversmith around.”
“Yes, that’s common knowledge,” he said with unabashed arrogance.
Jo and Leigh Ann chuckled. “What’s up, Ambrose?” Jo asked.
He stepped closer, and keeping his voice low, replied, “I’ve heard that both of you are having some, let’s say, ‘security problems’ right now. So I figured I’d hang around, maybe set up a table on the porch outside, and do some finish work here. I can keep my ears open and maybe help you figure out what’s going on and who’s responsible.”
Leigh Ann remembered how much business Ambrose had attracted the last time he’d set up shop on the premises. She looked at Jo and nodded. “I think you and Ben were in Juarez on business the last time Ambrose came here to work on his jewelry. We had record-breaking traffic that day. People would drive by, look at him, and come back to check out … his wares,” she said with a tiny smile. “Does that sound horribly sexist, Ambrose?”
“Darling, if I hadn’t wanted people to look, I wouldn’t have put on a show—red headband and shirtless.”
“Well, actually, you had your shirt on—just unbuttoned and opened wide,” Leigh Ann said.
“Ah, you remember every detail, do you?” he said, flashing her that devastating grin.
Leigh Ann sighed loudly. “What’s not to remember? You’re quite an eyeful.”
“Thank you, girl,” he said. “So what do you say, Jo? Shall I get set up out there? All I’ll need is a table, a chair, and an extension cord.”
Sam had just come up from the back of the room. “I could help Mr. John,” she offered.
“Great,” Jo said. “Leigh Ann, I need to talk to you in my office.”
“Sure,” Leigh Ann replied, then watched Sam glancing around for a suitable table. �
��Make sure it’s a sturdy one,” she called out.
* * *
Sam helped Ambrose get set up, and before long, he was buffing a finished piece with a rouge cloth while she laid out the extension cord. “I saw the last pendant you made with the green turquoise, Mr. John, the one that looked like it was resting on a silver shell. It was gorgeous.”
“I’m surprised you liked that piece, Samantha. I would have thought something smaller … maybe earrings … would have been more your style. And call me Ambrose or A.J. Mr. John’s my father.”
Sam chuckled. “I usually just wear a watch, a ring, and my silver posts. That’s it. I’m not a jewelry person. I’m more of a horse person. When I’m not working with a computer, I want to be on horseback.”
He smiled. “That’s the kind of answer I expected.”
“But my grandmother Esther loved that pendant. That one was way above my pay grade, but I’m wondering if maybe we could trade services? I could configure software for you to keep track of your business—everything from the status of merchandise under consignment, to business expenditures and taxable income. Does that sound like something you could use, Mr.… Ambrose?”
He set down the cloth and looked at her. “I’m interested. Keep talking.”
“What kind of bookkeeping system do you have now?”
“A ledger, a number-two pencil, and a pocket calculator.”
She blinked owlishly. “You’re not serious.”
“Sure am.”
“Wow,” she said softly. “Haven’t seen anything like that in, well, never.”
“You’re making me feel like a dinosaur,” he said, and laughed.
“I can make things a lot easier for you,” Sam said, “especially around tax time. You don’t have a laptop, do you?”
“Sure do. It’s the latest, with all kinds of software.”
“Great. I’ll teach you how to enter things onto an electronic spreadsheet.”
“Okay. How about you design the system and keep my books until, say, January? In exchange, I’ll make a pendant for Esther—but it won’t be exactly the same as the one you saw. All my jewelry is one of a kind.”