Shay laughed at the compliment, touching his arm. “Luke, this is Clay Trujillo,” she said, introducing them. “Clay, this is Sheriff Meza.”
Luke shook the other man’s hand with reluctance, stifling the urge to tighten his grip and turn the introduction into a pissing contest. He hadn’t felt this defensive since he was eighteen, but he hadn’t been on a reservation since then, either.
He was proud of his culture, but not his past. As a kid who wasn’t Indian enough for the streets of Pala or white enough for the Vegas suburbs, he’d engaged in more than his share of brawls. Too often, he’d felt as though he had to prove himself with his fists, to show his Native American blood by spilling it.
It had taken him a long time to learn how to walk away from a fight.
Clay Trujillo wasn’t challenging him, but he was assessing him openly as they shook hands. Luke knew that unlike Shay, Clay recognized his heritage at a glance. He also met his gaze head-on, for they were of a similar height.
“I didn’t know you were home from grad school,” Shay said. “I would have invited you to my birthday party.”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Clay replied. “I’ve only been back on the job a few days.”
Luke waited impatiently while they exchanged news, laughing and touching each other with the ease and frequency of longtime acquaintances. Shay’s eyes sparkled with affection and Clay’s grin was wide with masculine appreciation. They looked like they belonged on a fucking toothpaste commercial.
He ground his own teeth together, tearing his gaze away.
It occurred to him that he was jealous, and he hadn’t felt that way about a woman since Leticia. Disturbed by the comparison, he quashed his irrational response to the sight of Shay flirting with another man and gave her a pointed stare, reminding her of their business here.
Catching on immediately, she told Clay about the lion attack and requested permission to trespass on Los Coyotes.
“Let’s go inside,” Clay decided. “Granting a permit to hunt is just a formality, but the attack is something we should talk to the chief about.”
Chief Mortero was sitting behind a polished oak desk, with his brother, Samson, at his side. They were short and round and unflappable, their dark hair going silver at the temples and their faces lined with age. Neither reacted to the news of the mauling, but appeared to absorb the information like a couple of stone sponges.
Luke doubted either of these men had been involved with Yesenia Montes, or transported her broken body off federal land to avoid dealing with the authorities. Even so, he asked a few questions about procedure and invited himself on a tour of the facilities. It wouldn’t hurt to check out their official vehicles, or scout the area for trucks with bed liners.
The chief answered his questions, granted permission for the tour, and wrote up the hunting permit with very little fanfare. After exchanging a weighted glance with his brother, Samson said, “Deputy Trujillo will accompany you on the hunt.”
“Of course,” Clay interjected. “I’d be happy to come along.”
It was the last thing Luke wanted, and Shay must have been able to read the reluctance in his body language, because she shook her head. “Actually, my plan will be easier to execute with fewer men. But thank you very much for the offer.”
Luke realized that the elders were wary of him. He was an outsider, a man from a corrupt city and a hostile tribe, a man whose forefathers had stolen their horses. The Luiseno and Cahuilla had often been manipulated into battle by their white or Mexican “allies.”
His Indian blood was no free pass here, or anywhere.
When Chief Mortero nodded his acceptance, Clay led them down the hall and through the station, explaining their technological capabilities and highlighting every available resource, showing off the new holding cell and recently remodeled garage.
Most of the information Clay shared should have been irrelevant to an interim sheriff, but Luke listened carefully, as if he were considering a partnership between their law enforcement teams instead of trying to rule them out as suspects.
Dylan shifted the weight of his backpack, which was considerably lighter than when he’d first broken into the deserted construction site, and kept moving.
He stuck close to the trailers, taking advantage of the early-afternoon shadows. His sister’s car was parked in a safe location, about a mile down the road, so he still had a distance to travel after he hopped the fence again.
When he rounded the last corner, he made two disturbing observations: the front gate was no longer closed, and he was no longer alone.
“Hey, you,” someone behind him yelled, and he froze.
Judging by sound, the man who’d called out was at least fifty feet away. Dylan didn’t bother to look. He was confident he could outrun just about anyone, but he couldn’t outrun the two-ton pickup truck parked at the fence line. If the man followed, he would catch up with Dylan long before he made it to Shay’s car.
Besides, running made him look guilty. Guiltier than he already was.
He squared his shoulders and turned around.
Oh,
The man striding toward him was one of the richest, most powerful, and most easily recognizable men in Tenaja Falls. With his ten-gallon cowboy hat, handlebar mustache, and stocky build, Bull Ryan had always reminded Dylan of Yosemite Sam.
Running was not an option, now that he’d shown his face, so he took a hesitant step forward. “Mr. Ryan?” He extended his hand. “I’m Dylan Phillips.”
If Bull knew who he was, he didn’t show it. He probably couldn’t keep track of his son’s girlfriends, much less their little brothers. “What d’ya want?”
“I’m looking for work.”
“Don’t work on Sundays,” Bull said, opening the door to one of the trailers and ducking inside. “Come back tomorrow.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Jesse Ryan’s dad didn’t know who he was, and unless he looked into his backpack, he would never know what he’d been doing here. But instead of walking away, Dylan followed Bull into the makeshift office. “I have school tomorrow,” he said. “And basketball practice until three.”
“Don’t have much use for you, then. Quittin’ time’s at four.”
There was only one chair, and Bull took it. Dylan had no choice but to remain standing. He was never sure how to act around men like this, brawny types who lived by their fists rather than their wits. Adopting a tough-guy attitude, he widened his stance and blanked his expression, because nobody had ever liked his smart-ass face. “I bet you don’t leave at four,” he said. “You probably got paperwork and stuff to do.”
“So?”
“I could do cleanup,” he said. “Put tools away. Whatever.”
Bull didn’t look very interested. “You free Satur days?”
“Yessir.”
The older man gave him another halfhearted onceover.
“I’ll work for minimum wage,” Dylan said in a rush, not sure why he was taking the ruse so far. He should have been happy to escape without getting arrested. “You can hire me on a temporary basis. If you’re satisfied, I can work full time in the summer.”
“Summers here are hell,” Bull said bluntly. “No shade. Never one drop of rain. A hundred fifteen degrees. You wouldn’t last a half day.”
Dylan just stared back at him in silence, thinking he could endure a lot more than anyone gave him credit for. He was so tired of being ignored, dismissed, and discounted. Or worse, treated like a brain, useless in all physical pursuits. Even the guys on the basketball team thought he was weird. Too cerebral. He approached the game as though the court was a mathematical grid, an infinite combination of probabilities, a series of lines and angles.
“What part of construction are you interested in?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Demolition.”
“Not much to tear down on this site,” Bull commented.
“There’s hills.”
