Kylie Brant - The Last Warrior

She drew in a breath, then barreled on. “Last night was…” A colossal error in judgment. Amazing. Fantastic. Fraught with complications. “Well, it shouldn’t have happened.” It was difficult to think while pinned by that unwavering stare. She strove for a flippant tone, thought she managed it well enough. “If you’re worrying that I’m going to try to throw all sorts of strings on you, don’t be. It was a onetime thing. You had the good fortune to be seduced by a desperate woman but not one who’s interested in a repeat.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” There was a light in his eyes, a dangerous burn. His grip on her arm had loosened, but his thumb skated over the veins in her wrist, making the skin there tingle. “You didn’t take me anywhere I didn’t want to go. Did it feel like you were alone in that bed? Or against that wall? I was inside you because that’s what I wanted. Not because you gave me permission or because I asked for it. And when I want that again-when we both do-I won’t need to ask permission then, either.”

He released her and she leaned bonelessly against the Jeep, barely feeling the hot metal beneath the material of her thin T-shirt. Her voice, when she found it, sounded irritatingly breathless. “I think it’s best if we keep our interactions to a minimum in the future.”

“Do you?” His smile was humorless. “Then you’re not going to be too happy when I tell you I plan to come over as soon as I speak to my grandfather.”

Anger blessedly cut through her stupor. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough earlier.”

“I think we understand each other.” While she searched those words for hidden meaning, he went on. “You downloaded those pictures today, right? The ones you took yesterday? I told you I want to see them. I’ll be over in a couple hours.”

No. That was out of the question. “I’ll make copies and drop them off at police headquarters tomorrow.”

“I want to see them tonight. I’ll be by later.”

When she finally found her voice again he was already walking away. “No, don’t do that. Joe. Joe!” She was still calling impotently after him when he walked into his grandfather’s cabin and shut the door behind him.

“A delightful woman,” Charley said as Joe closed the door on Delaney’s voice. “But older than her years, I think.”

Joe shrugged. The last thing he wanted to discuss with his grandfather was Delaney Carson. He’d been unable to banish her from his thoughts all day. “How’d you hear about Arnie?” He crossed the room to an easy chair, waited respectfully until his grandfather had poured them both coffee, handed Joe a mug and seated himself. Only then did Joe sit.

“Lucy Bai called me. She and Arnie are Ashiihi. She knew you two worked together and wanted to know if you had been hurt, too.”

Joe nodded. In the Anglo way, the fact that Arnie and Lucy were of the Salt Clan would make them cousins, but Navajos consider members of the same clan as brother and sister. “I’m sorry if hearing the news that way worried you. I’m fine.”

“I long ago came to terms with the danger of your job, Joseph. But I also can’t help but worry. So,” he brought the coffee to his lips, sipped, “Did you catch this man? Lock him up in your jail?”

Joe hesitated. His idea of justice rarely reconciled with that of his grandfather. Charley believed that all bad behavior was caused by the criminals’ disharmony. Rather than prison, the only way to help them was with a Mountain Way ceremony, to drive the dark wind out of them and restore them to hozho, with all their friends and relatives gathered to support them.

“No. There were shots fired. Arnie was hit. The drug dealer who shot him was killed.”

Distress flickered over Charley’s face. But he said only, “You must be watchful, Joseph.” Although it was customary to avoid speaking of it, Joe knew his grandfather referred to the chindi-or ghost that each person releases when they die-an evil force that returns to avenge offenses.

“I will be.” At times it felt like a balancing act to straddle two worlds. And yet he could no more reject one than he could the other. So he lived in the American culture that permeated every part of the country while remaining connected to the teachings of his Diné roots. The resulting mixture wasn’t always one his grandfather understood, but it brought harmony to Joe.

“You’re looking well. You must have succeeded in cleaning out your friends on Monday night.”

Charley chuckled. “I did all right, although not as well as Larry Blackwater. That was fine with me. Now he’s the one the others don’t want back.”

“I came by to see you that night. I forgot you’d be out.” Joe hooked a booted ankle on his knee. “I know we disagree on this photo history project, but I meant no disrespect.”

“We both have strong opinions.” Charley shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. “You’re too much like me. And maybe like your mother, as well. She has trouble hearing ideas that aren’t her own.”

Joe stiffened at the mention of his mother, at the trace of wistful indulgence in his grandfather’s voice. Charley would never stop missing the daughter who derided the very way of life he cherished. Joe had been no more than Jonny’s age when he realized that her infrequent visits to the reservation were always driven more by a need for money than sentiment. Navajo culture was matriarchal in nature, but Joe had little use for the woman who had borne him at seventeen, only to disappear months later. As far as he was concerned, the best thing she’d ever done for him was to allow her father to raise him.

“And what do you think of our Delaney Carson now?”

The non sequitur had Joe freezing, his mind flashing back to an image of Delaney pressed between the wall of the kitchen and his body. He could almost feel the heat of her again, taste her flavor. Just that mental lapse was enough to have his blood thickening, his gut clenching.

“What about her?” He brought the mug to his lips, took his time drinking.

“She told me that the two of you had met. Given her résumé, I had expected someone older. But there’s something about her. I think she’ll win over many of those who opposed her hiring. And others may become convinced when they see what her name means to this book project.”

Joe stilled. “What about her name?”

“She won a Pulitzer Prize for international reporting. I understand that she went back to Iraq after her injuries were treated to continue her work.” Charley paused to drink slowly, savoring the brew. Caffeine was one of the things in his diet that his heart doctor strictly rationed. “This will be the first project she’s undertaken since, so it will receive a great deal of publicity simply because it has her name attached to it. This book could bring a great deal of publicity to the tribe.”

Joe’s fingers clenched tightly on the mug. He was recalling the sight of Delaney’s face after she’d burst from the cave. As she sat, head bowed, staring miserably at the bottle of Absolut on the kitchen table. Something ignited in his chest at the thought of the tribe trading on the very experiences that had scarred her, that still caused her such pain.

He leaned forward, set the mug on the table in front of him, and wondered uneasily where this unfamiliar surge of protectiveness had come from. He barely knew the woman. One night of sex, no matter how hot, didn’t change that. But he knew enough about her to be certain she wouldn’t thank him for his concern.

Last night was a onetime thing.

Her earlier words shouldn’t have summoned an instant primordial possessiveness, one he’d barely recognized. She was right, and he realized that. Getting involved with any woman right now was a distraction he could ill afford.