Captain Tapahe stared at the used syringe in the plastic evidence bag Joe held, his face creased in thought. “It might have been a lucky break for us that Carson stumbled upon the area. If it’s as remote as you say, chances are we never would have known anything was going on there.”
“Once we get this syringe back from the lab we’ll have a better idea just what kind of operation it was.” Meaningfully he waved the bag at his captain. “Just how long do you think we’ll have to wait for results?”
At Tapahe’s hesitation, Joe felt a familiar frustration. The Navajo Tribal Police was hopelessly underfunded. There wasn’t enough money to regularly update basic equipment, much less purchase new expensive lab facilities. Most of their forensic evidence was sent off the reservation, to languish at the state crime lab for weeks or longer.
“It’s not like this ties in with any of our open cases,” the captain began.
“We can’t know that until the tests are completed,” Joe argued. He hooked a chair with a backward swipe of his ankle and dragged it over to sink into it. The late nights spent on the drug case were beginning to wear on him, coupled as they were by lack of sleep, which had begun to elude him at precisely the same time his ex had decided to run off to Window Rock with his son. “They might find traces of crystal ice in the syringe.”
Tapahe nodded. “We’ll send it in. I just can’t flag it as high priority at this point. That doesn’t mean we won’t still get the results eventually.”
Eventually. Joe swallowed his irritation. Eventually usually meant after a case had gone to trial. He wasn’t going to be able to depend on lab results to help determine what had been going on at that cave site.
“I got something else.” He showed the captain the photos he’d taken of the tire tracks. “I spent a couple hours on the computer trying to match it against the tire manufacturers’ tire tread images, with no luck. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Tapahe studied it. “Looks like a Mexican recap, to me. I did a stint on Border Patrol when I was starting out. I think they still do these in some places down there. You salvage a worn-out tire by replacing the original tread with new rubber. They sort of melt it on, pressing a tread into it when the rubber is still soft.”
“Mexico, huh?” Joe looked at the photo with renewed interest. The crystal ice that had started showing up on Navajo Nation lands was thought to come from there. It was far more pure and lethal than the meth manufactured in the homemade labs in remote areas on the reservation. “I’ve got a friend on Border Patrol. I think I’ll give him a call.”
“Let me know if you get something. In the meantime-” Tapahe cast a look at the clock on the wall “-I better get back to President Taos. He’ll be reassured to hear that the person shooting at Carson probably wasn’t expressing a statement on the council’s decision to hire a non-Navajo for their book project.”
At the man’s dry tone it struck Joe that the captain had frustrations of his own. The difference was, his came in the form of bureaucrats and paperwork.
Joe rose. All things considered, he’d take his daily annoyances over those of his superior any day. “I’ll let you get to that.” The mention of Delaney had him edgy. She’d been silent all the way home. Not the kind of silence that had followed their argument on the trip to the bluffs. No, this time instead of frost there had been misery, real and palpable. He’d wanted to say something to break through it. But he recognized the tilt to her chin, her brittle air and knew instinctively that anything he could have said would have worsened the situation. It hadn’t made him feel any better watching her stride unsteadily from the Jeep to the house.
He knew what it was to be alone. But he didn’t think he’d seen anyone look as solitary as Delaney had as she’d slipped up those steps and shut the door on him and the rest of the world.
“Search warrant should be here first thing in the morning,” Tapahe said. He was already punching the president’s number into the phone.
“We’ll be ready.”
Going to his desk, Joe rummaged through the drawers until he found a small black address book. He and Bernie Silversmith had graduated high school together. They still sometimes got together when the man came back to town to visit family.
Checking the time, he called Bernie at home. The sound of his friend’s voice when he answered brought a smile to Joe’s lips. “Bernie. You back at work yet or are you still milking what’s left of your medical leave?”
“Youngblood? Let me tell you, pal, you can’t rush healing. A hernia is nothing to mess around with.”
“And what was it that gave you that hernia, again?” Joe wondered aloud. “Lifting all those crates of Twinkies?”
Bernie made a derisive sound and invited Joe to do the anatomically impossible. “I go back tomorrow, as a matter of fact. Against doctor’s orders, I’ll have you know. It was a major operation.”
“Listen, I have something I want to run by you.” He described the tread he’d seen at the cave site. “My captain called it a Mexican ‘recap.’ That sound familiar to you?”
“Sure.” The man’s shrug sounded in his voice. “We see them from time to time. If you want to fax me the picture and the track dimensions, I’ll take it to work, fax it to the other offices. Maybe it will ring a bell with one of the officers.” He reeled off the fax number and Joe fumbled for a pen to write it down.
There was a moment of silence, before his friend said awkwardly, “So how are you doing, Joe? I mean I heard the divorce is final and all.”
Stomach tightening, Joe twirled the pen in his fingers. “I’m okay.” Sympathy wasn’t any easier to take, he’d discovered, for being well-meant.
“Yeah? Well, good. Good. Next time I’m up to see the family, I’ll stop in. It’s been a while.”
“You do that. Bring me a Twinkie when you do.” His friend’s fondness for the treats was a running joke between them. Bernie made another cheerfully rude suggestion and Joe laughed, hung up.
He jotted down the measurements he’d taken of the tracks onto the clearest picture of them and crossed the room to feed it into the fax machine for Bernie. Then, stealing a look at his watch, he winced. Too late to go see his grandfather. With the exception of Monday nights, the man went to bed early and rose before dawn. Joe would have to put it off another day, and the guilt was beginning to eat at him. Charley Youngblood had raised him, and despite the older man’s traditional ways, they were close. Respect for elders was a trait instilled in his culture, and his remorse over this disagreement was growing with every day that passed.
The thought of home wasn’t inviting. He was still restless, from thoughts of the arrest they’d make tomorrow and the discovery he’d made today with Delaney.
Delaney. Bernie would probably be surprised to know that it wasn’t thoughts of his ex that disturbed his concentration these days, but thoughts of a near stranger. After the hours he’d spent with her he had more questions than ever about the woman, questions she’d made quite clear she was tired of answering.
Without conscious decision he went back to the computer and brought up a search engine.
He shouldn’t have come.
Joe stood on the porch of Charley’s rental property and knocked again on the open screen door, knowing it was a mistake. He’d had no intention of coming here. Had given himself half a dozen excellent reasons not to. Yet here he was, peering into the dimly lit house looking for a woman who wouldn’t welcome his presence. Hell, she’d probably gone to sleep hours ago.
He rejected that thought as it occurred. Given the last sight he’d had of Delaney, sleep was the last thing she’d seek. And now that he had a little understanding of what she’d gone through today, sleep would elude him as well until he assured himself that she was all right.
So here he was, a man unused to offering comfort, looking for a woman probably in need of it. He couldn’t imagine a more stupid move.
He almost convinced himself to leave. It was late. Past the time most people would be in bed. But Delaney wasn’t in bed. There was a dim light shining in the kitchen and from where he stood he could see the shadow of her sitting at the table, head down.
Alone. His mind flashed back to hours earlier when he’d noted the solitary air she wore, like a woman so used to the feeling that she didn’t even notice its weight anymore. And he knew he wasn’t going to leave. Just as he knew he was going to regret coming.
Joe reached out, tried the door, unsurprised to find it open. Soundlessly he let it close behind him, walked to the kitchen doorway. She didn’t look up.
“I don’t want you here.” Her voice was flat. Devoid of expression.
“I know.”
“Leave.”
He folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “No.”
“You could top off my day and arrest me.” She nodded to the bottle of vodka placed precisely in the center of the table before her. “Alcohol of any kind is strictly prohibited on the reservation, isn’t it? The seal’s been cracked.”
She turned to look at him, and held out her hands, wrists together. “Gonna cuff me, Youngblood? Throw me in the drunk tank?” There was mockery in her voice, but he knew it wasn’t aimed at him. He would have preferred it if it were.
“I’d hate to have to make another trip into town.” She wasn’t drunk, he noted. And although the seal on the bottle was cracked, it looked full, or nearly so. Which didn’t explain why she’d been sitting in the near dark staring at the bottle as if it held all the answers she sought.
Or the oblivion she craved.
“You should have told me. Today. At the cave.” She just stared at him, making it difficult to string together a logical sentence. “You didn’t have to go in there. I would never have expected you to if I’d known.”
She looked away. “Just a little claustrophobia. Nothing to tell, really.”
It burned, more than it should have, that she lied to him. He could understand the need to show strength rather than weakness to a man she had no reason to trust. But the horrific news stories he’d read on the Internet made the offhand manner she attempted a travesty. Buried alive for more than two days with seventy-one corpses. It was a wonder she’d still been coherent after running from the cave.
It was a wonder she’d gone in to begin with.
Silence stretched, long enough to have her glancing at him again. What she saw in his eyes had her swallowing hard. “Did a little research tonight, did you?”
“I didn’t think you would tell me.” Didn’t think he had a right to ask.
Pushing back from the table, she spread her arms wide. “Are you kidding me? My life’s an open book. Well, for a year or so there it was an open bottle, but…” Her mouth twisted. “Didn’t find that in the news stories, did you? Did the press leave out a few details? Do you have a couple more questions to round out your profile of me?”
Her tone was goading, but that wasn’t the reason for the sudden flare of temper igniting in his chest. “You shouldn’t have gone inside today. What was the point? You had nothing to prove, not to me.”
Her mouth twisted. “Maybe I had something to prove to myself, did you ever think of that?”
Comprehension slammed into him. No, he hadn’t thought of that, but he should have. He knew all about testing himself, forcing himself back into situations he’d prefer to avoid. At least professionally. In his personal life, once burned, he steered clear of matches. It was pretty clear to him that Delaney Carson was a blazing torch.
Once again he considered getting out of there. What did he hope to accomplish? If he’d learned anything in the last few months it was that sympathy, even well-meaning, just made things worse. But he couldn’t let her sit there, feeling as though she’d failed. Walking into that cave after what she’d been through in Baghdad had taken more sheer guts than he could even imagine.
“I’d say you proved it.”
“You’re kidding, right?” The laugh she tried failed miserably. “Unless your definition of success includes crumpling in a heap, sweating and shaking. Or being afraid to go to sleep because the flashbacks weave past and present so tightly it’s like suffocating, trying to break through them again.” The look she shot him then was bitter. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Youngblood? You’ve never felt weak. I’ll bet you’ve never failed at anything in your life.”
He thought of the shambles his marriage had become, in large part because he’d been unable to find a way to make Heather happy. Or maybe, at the end, he’d been unwilling to try. And he thought of Jonny, and his fear that one day he’d have to choose between being close to his son or staying to dutifully care for the grandfather who had taught him what it meant to be born Navajo. “You’re wrong,” he said softly.
“I don’t think I am.” He recognized the mercurial change in her mood, as anger chased the self-loathing from her expression. “Why did you come here?” She shoved away from the table, closed the distance between them. “To see if I’d fallen apart completely? Or out of some kind of misguided pity? Because I have to tell you, I’ve never been much for pity.”
“I’ve never seen a woman less in need of it.” She was close, now. Too close. Her eyes weren’t clouded by alcohol. They were bright with anger, and other emotions he couldn’t identify. Didn’t want to identify.
“Or maybe you came here for this, hmm?” Her hands slid up his chest, then did a slow teasing descent. “Did the big, strong, stoic investigator think the little woman was in need of some comforting?” She ran the tip of one index finger along his stomach, where his T-shirt met the waistband of his jeans. Beneath the cloth, his stomach muscles jumped.
He grabbed her hand in his, his grasp tighter than he intended. “Don’t.”
“Why not? I don’t need soothing but I wouldn’t mind a distraction. You’d make a hell of a distraction, Youngblood.” She went on tiptoe, nipped at the lobe of his ear, before breathing into it, “Joe.”
That throaty whisper had his brain fogging, his entire system heating. She lined his jaw with a string of stinging kisses, each one scorching a path straight to his groin. He felt himself harden, and dropped her hand to take her by the waist, push her away. She stepped into his arms as if it were an embrace, her lips brushing his. And the contact had him freezing.
She traced his mouth with the tip of her tongue, before slicking it across his lips. She tasted foreign. Exotic. Forbidden. It hadn’t been so long for him that common sense could be overridden by any willing woman. He told himself that even as his fingers curled into her waist, kneading the curves lying beneath thin stretchy fabric.
His lack of participation didn’t discourage her. She sampled his mouth with hers, taking his bottom lip between her teeth, not quite gently. She tugged the shirt from the waistband of his jeans, and her cool smooth hands slid up his sides, across his chest, lower.
At his involuntary shudder he felt her lips curve against his, and his discomfort switched abruptly to anger. Maybe she thought she could drive him away by issuing an invitation neither of them had any intention of accepting. Or maybe she really wanted to use him to rid herself of her demons. Either way, he had no intention of obliging. But he would show her the danger of dancing too close to the fire.
Deliberately, he brought her closer, dropping his hands to her hips and pulling her hard against him. She stilled, her eyes widening, and he recognized the wariness that flickered in their depths as he closed the slight distance to her mouth.
He was capable of finesse, but he didn’t bother with it. He pressed her lips apart and his tongue swept in, a carnal invasion. It tangled with hers, before sliding along the slick surface of her teeth.
She seemed just a little stunned at his abrupt transition to aggressor, but she didn’t pull away. Her lips seemed to soften against his, before parting further in a way that could only be construed as an invitation.
Her hands tightened around his neck and her mouth twisted against his with an unmistakable response that served to fuel his own. A reckless sort of hunger leaped, and reason receded. For a long moment, he allowed himself to set aside responsibility and judgment to indulge in the unexpected riot of sensation.
He turned without releasing her and moved her backward until the wall was at her shoulders. His mouth feasted on hers, drawing out the pleasure to be had from a woman who gave freely, at least this much. Deliberately he pressed her knees apart, stepped between them to press against the inviting notch between her thighs. Dimly it occurred to him that the tiny fleece shorts and skimpy top she wore would be all too easy to dispense with.
Heat flared, sudden and urgent, in the pit of his belly, and he tore his mouth from hers in an effort to salvage his deteriorating control. His lips were distracted by the surprisingly soft skin beneath her ear, and he moved his hand to her nape to hold her still while he investigated the spot that made her shiver against him. Baby soft hair brushed against his knuckles and his fingers delved into the silky waves that she usually scraped up into a knot on the top of her head. Unbidden, an erotic image flashed across his mind of those silky curls brushing against his bare chest. His stomach. Lower.
He had to pull away, to gulp in a needed breath that would summon control once more. But that attempt was shattered as she cupped his face in her smooth palms, ran a light finger across his mouth.
“So serious.” A sad little smile curved her lips. “Everything doesn’t have to be so serious, does it, Joe?”
The question was its own kind of invitation. If she was offering to keep sex casual between them he could have told her it was too late for that. He hadn’t felt casual about her since they’d met. Now was the time to walk away. To justify the decision that had brought him here when every instinct had screamed at him that he’d been making a mistake.
But it was getting increasingly difficult to touch her and recall all the reasons this was wrong. She didn’t feel wrong. She felt satiny smooth where the curve of her shoulder met the base of her throat; soft where her breasts flattened against his chest; sleek where waist curved to hip; firm in the long length of thigh pressed against his own.
Her fingers slipped beneath his shirt and his blood slowed in his veins, thickened. She pushed up the fabric and leaned to kiss the flesh she’d bared.
Sparks detonated beneath her lips, and he hissed in a breath, his decision, such as it was, made. After Heather left, it hadn’t been difficult to find females willing to help burn off pent-up lust if he’d chosen it. But this was the first he’d wanted, with a savage sort of hunger that had alarms shrilling in the back of his mind. That sort of power made this woman dangerous.
He released her to find the hem of her top, drag it upward. She raised her arms so he could tug it over her head in one continuous movement, then shed his T-shirt. That first sensation of flesh against flesh had a low satisfied growl escaping him.
The initial sense of satisfaction was short-lived. He stepped back far enough to cup her breasts, to learn the shape and weight and texture of her. To stroke her velvety nipples, coaxing them into taut sensitive peaks before lowering his head to take one of them in his mouth.
The taste of her was a kick to the system, a sinful flavor that pumped straight to his blood. He gathered her closer and sucked strongly, gratified by her gasp of pleasure.
Her hands streaked over his biceps and shoulders, lingering to test muscle and sinew with clever, teasing fingers. He scraped her nipple lightly with his teeth and it beaded more tightly in his mouth. Her nails bit into his skin in response and something primal inside him exulted at the hint of savagery.
Impatience surged through him. He wanted to touch her everywhere, now, at once. He wanted to find the places that made her shake and sigh, to discover the scent of her in every sweet, secret place. He wanted, more than was comfortable, to take her outside herself, to free her from the past that wove its iron net around her and in the process lose himself in her, just for a little while.
He scraped his thumb over her other nipple, as his tongue tormented its twin. He felt her hands at the waistband of his jeans, and he shifted his hips away from her frantic fingers. She was becoming a fever in his blood, scorching away any thought of restraint. But he didn’t want this to be over. Not yet. There was too much he hadn’t touched. Tasted. Experienced. There would be plenty of time when his blood had cooled and reason had returned to consider the ramifications of these moments. There would be time then for regrets. He didn’t want one of them to be that it had been over too quickly.
Her breasts were high sweet mounds whose firmness drove him a little crazy. He slid a hand to her thigh, swept down its length and back up again. Felt the whisper of muscle beneath the silky skin and that excited him, too.
She managed to get his jeans unbuttoned so he caught both of her hands in one of his and held them above her head, out of the way. “No,” he muttered against her mouth before pausing for another long deep wet kiss. “Wait.”
His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hoarse, almost guttural. Nothing about his reaction to her was normal. He didn’t recall ever wanting to steep himself in a woman before, to press so close that it was hard to tell where her sensations stopped and where his began.
She twisted in his grasp and panted, “Dammit, Joe.”
Primitive satisfaction had him smiling at the frustrated desire in those two words. “Soon,” he promised, sliding his hand down the outside of her leg. He reversed course and she caught her breath as his fingers grazed the sensitive skin inside her shorts, traced the crease where thigh met pelvis. He drew his head back to watch her, and something clenched hard in his chest.
Delaney’s eyes were heavy-lidded, the gold expanded around the iris like twin jewels. Her lips were swollen from his, her hair tangled from his fingers and he felt a primordial surge of pleasure at the sight. With one deliberate finger he stroked her, damp heat beneath lace, and she jerked helplessly in response.
There was a roaring in his system, like thunder crashing atop a butte, and watching her pleasure magnified his own. He cupped and stroked her, coaxing her hips to match the rhythm of his movements. Her throat arched and he was driven to test the delicate cord of her neck with his teeth in a primitive taste for flesh.
He slipped his fingers inside the elastic of her panties and covered her mound. His fingertips were moistened with her desire and he slid them over her in a motion meant to torment. Something like a sob escaped her and he increased the pressure, bending to take a nipple in his mouth.
The dual assault had her twisting against him, in a sensual struggle that honed the keen edge of passion, sharp as a blade. And when he stroked one finger inside her dampness, and watched her shatter, the greedy hunger rocketed through him, demanding a release.
He freed her for the moment it took to shed his clothes and had her back in his arms before her eyes had fluttered all the way open. The look in them was dazed, drugged, and his touch was a shade rough as he pushed her shorts over the curve of her hips, down the silky length of thigh and kicked them away.
He cupped her bottom and lifted her, stepping between her open thighs and barely managed to restrain himself from entering her with one urgent thrust. The passion was pounding in his veins, careening through his blood until his every sense was focused on the burning need to bury himself in her. He pressed her back against the wall, and positioned her legs, growling when she locked her ankles around his hips.
Her fingers found him then, in one lingering firm stroke that had his vision hazing and his senses fogging. He pressed against her sweet yielding flesh and buried himself to the hilt. There was a stunning moment of clarity where he was aware of every individual heightened sensation. The trickle of perspiration on his back, the blood hammering in his veins, the bite of Delaney’s nails on his shoulders, the sweet clutch and release of her inner muscles working against his hardness.
And then clarity exploded in a wash of savage hunger and he surged against her, control lost, over and over, trying to get closer. Deeper. His vision narrowed until she was the only point in it as flesh slapped against flesh and she strained and shuddered against him.
He heard her cry out and he pounded into her faster, frantic now. Then pleasure abruptly slammed into him, spun him up and over the edge into a vortex of sensation.
Fingers of sunlight were slanting through the blinds and across Delaney’s face, creating enough heat that she awakened, uncomfortably warm. She opened one eye to glare balefully at the offending blind, before dragging open the other eyelid. As always upon awakening, her brain was sluggish. The first thing she was going to buy, she vowed, was some room-darkening shades. She sat up, kicked at the sheet twisted around her ankles and yawned. Maybe even a small window air conditioner. One that would keep her cool enough that she wouldn’t haven’t to sleep nude.
Nude. Her gaze bounced down, widened. Leaning over she yanked at the sheet and pulled it up, her mind in shock. She shouldn’t be nude. She’d had shorts on. A shirt. She distinctly remembered…
She fell back on the bed with a mortified groan. She distinctly remembered all but inviting Joe Youngblood to tear her clothes off of her. And if memory served, it hadn’t taken all that much coaxing for him to do just that. She yanked a pillow over her face to shut out the humiliating recollection. But it wouldn’t be so easily banished. The problem with orgasms was that they only wiped the mind clean for a few moments. Well, substantially longer if people knew what they were doing and could, somehow, string round one with rounds two and three so smoothly that it felt like one long, mind-shattering free fall into pleasure.
Joe Youngblood had definitely known what he was doing.
Do I need a condom?
She shivered at the recollection of his voice. It had been a little late to ask since he’d carried her from the kitchen to the bed and had already been buried deep inside her again. But at least he’d summoned the brain-power to think of protection eventually. She hadn’t even given it a moment’s consideration, which made her ever-grateful for the contraceptive patch on her hip. Apparently she’d undergone more changes than she’d thought in the last couple years if she could so easily forget basic sexual safety.
The pillow was tossed aside, and she stared at the ceiling broodingly. One of the only positives for having made her share of mistakes is that it gave her a point of reference. Sleeping with Joe Youngblood wasn’t the worst error she’d ever made in her life. But God help her, it ranked right up there. She’d spent the night having mind-blowing sex with a man she barely knew and who was going to be darn hard to avoid in the future.
But she hadn’t dreamed.
She hadn’t struggled beneath an oppressive blanket of PTSD nightmares that could suck her into their vortex and leave her feeling weak and frightened and hopeless. She supposed she had Joe Youngblood to thank for that, but somehow she couldn’t summon a speck of gratitude.