Kylie Brant: The Last Warrior

After two years, it was about damn time.

She’d been afraid accepting the job would be a mistake. That she wasn’t ready. Or capable. A myriad of fears had festered in the last twenty-four months, sly fingers of torment that clawed through every ounce of confidence. She hadn’t conquered all the fears, but she’d conquered the addiction that fed them, and she wanted-needed-to step forward. This had been the step she’d chosen.

The memory card on her digital camera had been full by the time she arrived, and it was those images she sorted through now, already considering a possible organizational format for the book.

Sting was pleading with Roxanne as Delaney peered more closely at the screen. Since her hips were firmly planted in the chair, she moved her shoulders in rhythm to the music as she selected and docked photos. Pursing her lips, she was considering whether to trash a photo with poor light quality when she found herself in the dark. Literally.

Force of habit had her pressing the save command on the computer, heaving a sigh of relief when it did so successfully. Obviously the electricity wasn’t off. Maybe the overhead bulb needed to be replaced. She pushed her chair back and rose, half turning toward the door. Then jumped back, her heart slamming into her throat.

Looming in the doorway of her makeshift office was the shadow of a man. Big. Broad. Powerful. Her mind made the observations in short staccato succession. But it was the gun nestled beneath one muscled bicep that held her attention.

Oh, God. She ripped off the headphones, stumbling a little as she backed away, stopped short by the desk. Her hands searched the surface behind her as she tried to recall if she’d unpacked anything that could be used as a weapon. With a sinking feeling she realized just as quickly that she’d focused on getting her computer and equipment up and running. Her cameras unloaded. Although a knife or pickax would come in handy right now, the most lethal thing on her desk was a bundle of unsharpened pencils.

“You’re in the wrong house,” she said clearly, as she inched her way along the desk. Her camera tripods were in the corner. Short of heaving the computer monitor at him, they were the heaviest objects in the room. Maybe she could hit him with one and bolt through the doorway.

Maybe he’d shoot her before she lifted a finger.

“Are you drunk? Lost?” She prayed her desperation didn’t sound in her voice. Rivers of fear snaked down her spine to pool at the base. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Shrouded in shadows, he appeared only half-human. “You’ll have to leave. You don’t belong here.”

“Now that’s real funny.” His humorless words could have been chipped from ice. “That’s exactly what I was going to say to you.”

He flipped the switch and the room was flooded with light. Her concentration abruptly splintered. The music pouring through her headphones had masked his entrance, so he’d gotten her attention the only way he could. On the heels of that realization came another: the light did little to allay her fear.

He was dressed in jeans, a snug navy T-shirt, boots and an attitude. His eyes were very nearly as black as his hair. Penetrating. Merciless. His expression was as unyielding as the sandstone bluffs that dotted the desert.

She’d been to more of the world’s trouble spots than she liked to recall. Had photographed wild-eyed fanatics, zealots willing to die for a cause, power-hungry warlords. None of those men had scared her as much as the one standing in front of her. She’d known what motivated them, and the lengths they’d go to get it.

It was impossible to tell what this man was capable of.

Recognition of that fact had her moving again. Gracelessly she stumbled toward the corner, grasped the sturdiest of the tripods and hefted it threateningly. “Get out.” Panic morphed abruptly to anger. She’d spent too much time in the last two years being afraid. And she wasn’t going to give him that kind of control over her. “Unless you want to be nursing a smashed skull, get the hell out of here. Now.”

His gaze lingered on the puny weapon she was wielding, flicked to the corner, then to the heap of camera cases piled next to the desk. Taking two long strides to the computer, he stared hard at the images on the screen.

His voice was as sharp as a rifle shot. “You’re Delaney Carson.”

The words were couched as an accusation. His glare was condemning. Neither was reassuring enough to make Delaney set down her makeshift weapon. She shifted her stance, readiness in every muscle. “More to the point, who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

His lips twisted. “You mean my grandfather’s house, don’t you? Charley Youngblood?”

He didn’t look much like the tribal elder who had picked her up at the Tuba City airport that afternoon. But then, that man had at least five decades on the one standing in front of her. That man had been reserved but charming. That man hadn’t worn a gun.

“Let’s see some ID.”

“Grandfather never mentioned that you’d be staying here.”

It wasn’t an apology. Not even close. It barely qualified as an explanation. The tripod was starting to get heavy, so she repositioned it and repeated firmly, “ID.”

His hand went to his hip pocket. Extracting a slim leather case, he flipped it open and held it out to her. She had to inch closer to read the name above the unsmiling picture that was an accurate depiction of the man before her. But it was the gold star below the photo that captured her attention.

“Criminal Investigation?” Giving this man-Joseph Youngblood-a shield and a gun had to be redundant. He exuded threat without either. “What are you investigating?”

“My grandfather never told me he’d be putting you up. I saw the light and thought there might be trouble. It’s isolated out here.” He tucked away the ID and in one continuous movement reached out to take the tripod away from her. Striding over to the corner, he rested it against the others before returning to survey her from the doorway.

Neither of them spoke. It was all she could do to keep from fidgeting under his impassive stare. Delaney was all too aware of her bare feet, the brief shorts and top she’d changed into after she’d showered. The shirt’s narrow straps hadn’t allowed for a bra, and that had been fine with her. The temperature had neared one hundred that afternoon, and she hadn’t planned on seeing anyone this evening. But now she felt naked, exposed in a way that had her skin tingling and her pulse chugging. She was at a distinct disadvantage, and the sensation was unwelcome.

“Unless you’re planning to charge me with unlawfully accepting a place to live, you’re done here, aren’t you?”

He leaned one shoulder against the door frame, folded his arms across his very impressive chest. “Am I?”

She measured the space between him and the doorway with her gaze. The only way through was to squeeze by all that hard sinew and smoldering animosity. Deciding to stay put, she backed up to rest a hip against the desk corner. “How’d you get in?”

He held out a key. “We keep a spare outside. You’ll want to put it somewhere safe. This place doesn’t have more than a standard dead bolt to secure the doors and like I said, it’s pretty isolated.”

“I like isolated.” But she took the key and slipped it into the pocket of her shorts. “I’ll be fine.”

“There wasn’t a vehicle out front. Or in back.”

Her gaze narrowed as comprehension dawned. “How long were you lurking around outside before you decided to invite yourself into the house?”

He didn’t answer her question, a fact that didn’t escape her. “I knocked. But you wouldn’t have noticed if I’d driven a truck through the place with those things on.” He pursed his lips, twisted them to the side in the direction of her discarded headphones, an act she’d already learned was uniquely Native American. The gesture drew her attention to his mouth, to the chiseled lips and the uncompromising chin, and a crazy little spiral of heat arrowed through her.