Книга - From Mission To Marriage

From Mission To Marriage
Lyn Stone


Determined to stop a bitter man from decimating a mountain community, Special Ops agent Clay Senate pairs with FBI agent Vanessa Walker. Clay is a loner, but Vanessa's beauty and outgoing personality soon undermine his defenses. It's not long before her appreciation for their shared Native American heritage unleashes a long-denied need in him.Vanessa senses that Clay is hunting for more than just a killer. Accustomed to taming wild animals, she thinks she can tackle both his needs. But as the hunt grows deadly and passions flare, Vanessa faces her most challenging assignment–turning this temporary mission into a lifelong marriage.









“I should check on the fire.”


Clay’s mouth was so close to hers she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.

“Yes…fire,” she agreed. She had felt embers glowing in her midsection even before he’d mentioned the fire. She met his lips and took them with a hunger she had never known.

He suddenly broke the kiss. “I am not making love to you here.”

“Talking to me or yourself?” Vanessa whispered, smiling her wickedest smile.

“Both. I just want to hold you.”

“Liar.”

He pulled the blanket up around them swiftly as they lay side by side. “If I ever make love to you, I want it to be perfect, soft light—”

“The fire’s pretty low,” she interrupted, snuggling closer.

“Sweet music…”

“Crickets will do.”

“Satin sheets…”

“Two out of three…I want you, Clay. More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Right here. Right now.”




From Mission to Marriage

Lyn Stone





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




LYN STONE


loves creating pictures with words. She paints, too. Her love affair with writing and art began in the third grade when she won a school-wide contest for her colorful poster for Book Week. She spent the prize money on books, one of which was Little Women.

She rewrote the ending so that Jo marries her childhood sweetheart. That’s because Lyn had a childhood sweetheart herself and wanted to marry him when she grew up. She did. And now she is living her “happily ever after” in north Alabama with same guy. She and Allen have traveled the world, had two children, four grandchildren and have experienced some wild adventures along the way.

Whether writing romantic historicals or contemporary fiction, Lyn insists on including elements of humor, mystery and danger. Perhaps because that other book she purchased all those years ago was a Nancy Drew.




This book is dedicated to my grandfather,

John David Perkins,

a man of few words, wry humor and a good heart.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15




Prologue


“T his one’s mighty little. Maybe we’d better throw her back.”

Clay Senate wondered if his new colleague was serious. He glanced again at the photos and dossier of Vanessa Walker. The pictures were just in, a news photo of a smiling Walker receiving her badge and a mug shot, with height lines for a background, showing she measured sixty-three inches. She looked pretty. Young. Perky. Obviously Native American. “You know what they say, Cate. Good things often come in small packages.”

“I’m not touching that comment,” Cate teased, laughing as she looked at Danielle Sweet, who was barely five-five. “But okay, I say give her a shot.”

Clay nodded at the vote offered by the first hire for the new COMPASS team, an adjunct of Sextant, the Civilian Special Operations team now being organized by Homeland Security to investigate and neutralize threats at home and abroad.

Cate Olin stood six feet tall and had the strong-shouldered, small-breasted, slim-hipped body of a long-distance swimmer. He watched as she raked a lock of straight white-blond hair back behind one ear. Cate had a degree in criminal justice, was fluent in several languages and had put in six years with the National Security Agency.

Jack Mercier, the agent who would act as director for both teams, had handpicked her. Mercier had the contacts necessary to identify and appropriate personnel. He also had an infallible knack for choosing personalities that would mesh into a cohesive unit.

“What do you think, Dani?” Jack asked Danielle Sweet, the latest hire, a former army brat who could kick some serious butt on the mats at the gym. She was a deceptively dainty brunette with a master’s in international relations from Georgetown. Though people generally underestimated Dani because of her looks, Sweet’s IQ was off the charts, her powers of reasoning were outstanding and she could charm her way into or out of anything.

She graced Mercier with a benign smile. “Excellent credentials. She’s awfully gung ho, isn’t she? Who grins like that for a mug shot?” Then she grinned herself. “But we like gung ho, don’t we?”

“Absolutely.” Jack turned then, silent for a moment as he regarded Clay. “Fine, we agree Walker’s a possible. She’s on a case, Clay, so if you go and give her a hand, you can see how she handles herself. You’ll be pulling double duty here. Recruiting and investigating. I only found out about Walker’s current case because I called to see when she might be available to meet with you. When I identified myself, her Agent-in-Charge assumed I was following up on the report submitted to his superior and promptly filled me in on what’s going on.”

“What kind of case?” Clay asked.

“A bomb detonated at one of the casinos on the Qualla Boundary.”

“That’s the Cherokee reservation in North Carolina?” Cate asked.

“Yes, and technically under federal jurisdiction, at least for a case such as this. Agent Walker was at the scene when it happened. Someone had called her and told her a friend of hers was in trouble at the casino and being held there by the manager. A ruse to get her there, of course. It’s all in the report.

“I got the okay for you to partner with Agent Walker on it while you check her out, Clay. We’ll go with your final recommendation about bringing her on here.”

Clay nodded as he scooped up the folder of information and scanned it briefly for more details.

There wasn’t much. Vanessa Walker had taken a phone call that had come in to the Asheville bureau. James Hightower, a former fishing guide and resident of Cherokee, had been convicted for manslaughter and had served four years. After his release, he’d returned to a small community just outside the boundary and had taken rooms with a woman called Lisa Yellowhorse.

Yellowhorse had made the call to Vanessa Walker, saying she suspected that her tenant was responsible for the bombing and might be planning something worse.

It shouldn’t take long to round up this guy and find some proof, or at least some answers to the allegation. Clay just hoped he was there long enough to get some indication as to how their prospective hire performed.

“Mind telling me what Ms. Walker’s claim to fame might be?” Even though he’d read her folder, he wanted to know her peculiar gift, the one that had prompted Mercier to suggest her above a number of others with equally impressive credentials. No doubt she would have some extra tricks that weren’t in that file. They all did, ranging from excellent instincts to outright telepathy.

Jack inclined his head. “She’s ingenious. Very inventive and thinks fast in a crunch. Her main talent seems to be staying alive against impossible odds. Vanessa Walker keeps cheating the grim reaper on a regular basis. Seems she has more lives than the proverbial cat.”

“No reference to that in her file,” Clay remarked, thumbing through it idly.

“I know,” Jack said, not volunteering how he had discovered the information. He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “You’ll need to determine whether her miraculous escapes are due to luck, skill or premonitions.”

Clay understood what Jack meant. Luck could run out at any time. But if her skills or a talent for premonitions were what kept Walker landing on her feet, COMPASS had found the third teammate.




Chapter 1


Asheville, North Carolina—September 25th

C lay’s ears ached, his head hurt and, after the flight, he was in no mood for a cheerful greeting. He could see he was about to get one, though. The candidate was waiting for him, wearing that same wide smile she wore in her photos. No one had told her yet that she was being considered for COMPASS. As far as she knew, he was only there as a rep from Homeland Security, come to assist her in the investigation.

She held up a hand-lettered sign with his name on it and looked straight at him. He nodded and strode over to her, his most intimidating glare daring her to be chipper.

She stuck out her hand. “Agent Senate? Thanks for coming, sir. I’m Vanessa Walker.”

Cate had been right—this one was small, probably pounds, and she looked about eighteen years old. He knew better, though. She was twenty-seven.

“Agent Walker,” he acknowledged, shaking her hand. Hers felt delicate, but her grip was strong. Not surprising. She had graduated second in her class at the FBI Academy and weaklings didn’t get through there.

She laughed self-consciously and broke the connection, tossed the sign into a nearby trash receptacle and tried to take his carry-on away from him. It weighed a ton, so he held on. She let go with a shrug. “Okay. Off to baggage claim. You have a nice flight?”

He grimaced ahead of them at the young mother dragging the five-year-old with the whine and the twitchy feet, who’d performed a horizontal River Dance on the back of his seat. “Not really.”

“Turbulance?” she persisted, following his line of sight to the kid. She didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle.

“You might say that.”

“Sorry. Would you like a drink?”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

“Can you? Drink, that is?” Perky. Too perky.

“Of course I can drink.”

“Do you?”

“Not much. Why?”

She shrugged. “Some people have a problem with alcohol. I like to identify the ones who do and avoid them in working situations. Got shot once when I didn’t. Friendly fire, too.”

Clay mumbled a curse.

“Don’t get touchy. It’s a fact. Do you smoke?”

“An occasional cigar, never around loaded weapons.”

She laughed, a low sensual sound that did something salacious to his insides. “Ah, a sense of humor. Here we are!” As if reaching the baggage ramp were a feat to celebrate.

They stood silently as they waited for the baggage to begin making its slow circle. But silence seemed more than she could stand for long. She took a deep breath and released it. “So, where are you from?”

“Why?”

Her lips tightened with exasperation. “I’m making polite conversation. Is it a secret?”

He focused on the empty baggage ramp. “McLean, Virginia.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Conoy, Manahoac or Delaware?”

“Do you really need the family history?” God, he sounded grumpy, even to himself. He tried to temper the question with a smile. It wasn’t her fault he was exhausted.

“Nope.” Again she shrugged. “Just wondered. My mother was Italian, by the way. Daddy met and married her when he was in service. Most of us aren’t full-bloods. And with those eyes of yours, it’s pretty obvious—”

Clay couldn’t believe her lack of tact. “Why would you care?”

“No reason. I just think it’s good they sent an Indian. You’ll understand what I mean when I say I’ve got a feeling something’s gonna pop.”

“Oh, right,” he said cynically. “That mystical thing we have going. How could I forget all those movies I watched?”

“You like to scoff, don’t you? But you know it’s so. My boss thinks my informant’s just a woman taking potshots, trying to get this guy locked up because she found out he was an ex-con and he scares her. Me? I take it seriously when somebody discovers a possible threat and bothers to call it in.”

She took a breath, something he was beginning to wonder whether she ever needed. “I believe her. Bad vibes on this one.”

“Vibes. Lovely,” Clay muttered.

Her smile had disappeared. “I know Hightower. He’s capable of this.”

“You know him personally? Should be a piece of cake then.”

“Don’t bet on that, but we’ll get him sooner or later. Just hope it’s sooner.”

Clay closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve his headache. With a resigned sigh, he opened them and saw he had missed his bag and would have to either run after it or wait for it to come around again. “Damn.”

“Was that one yours?” She chased it down before he could answer. All that energy of hers was making him tired.

Watching her struggle with the heavy suitcase suddenly struck Clay as funny. Since he’d just returned from an assignment in Seattle, maybe he was spazzed out from lack of sleep. By the time she had thumped it down on the terminal floor, he had sobered. He walked over and picked it up. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

“You won’t need a rental car, by the way,” she told him. “We have an unmarked you can use, or I’ll cart you around since we’ll be working together. I like to drive.”

Yeah, she looked young enough to have just taken her first driving test. Her tailored red pantsuit fit a body any sixteen-year-old would envy, breasts high and firm, waist tiny and hips slender. She wore her ink-black hair slicked back into a braided knot. No jewelry besides the small silver studs in her earlobes. Her nails were bare, short and beautifully shaped. She wore no makeup that he could discern except for a touch of lip gloss.

Either she was a natural beauty or very skillful with the war paint. He suspected the former and approved her apparent lack of vanity. Oddly, that made him wish he could compliment her, but he didn’t. It would be highly un-PC to say anything that might be considered a come-on to a prospective hire or a fellow agent.

His dark mood had improved by the time they reached her vehicle. It was a tan Ford Explorer with only a couple of years on it. Comfy and cool. He stretched his legs, leaned his head back, closed his eyes. To his surprise, she remained quiet for a good half hour. A really good one, during which he grabbed a few z’s. He wasn’t interested in scenery and sleeping kept him from staring at her.

When he woke up and checked his watch, he realized he felt a little better. At least his headache was gone and his ears had popped so he could hear normally again.

“Had you rather go straight to your home away from home or the office?” she asked, sounding a bit tired herself now. She was no longer smiling, no longer perky.

“Office. Might as well get the show on the road. Will I be able to interview your caller today?” It was already midafternoon.

“No problem. She lives in Cool Spring on the way to where you’ll be staying.”

Clay noted the change in his new temporary partner grow even more marked as they approached her place of work. So marked that he felt compelled to ask “Is something wrong?”

“Agent Roan sent me to pick you up but he’ll offer you one of the guys to work with instead of me. Count on it.”

“Because you’re female? That’s ridiculous,” Clay said vehemently. Vehement only because he had already entertained some reservations about her himself since meeting her. Her size, her flagrant optimism, her lack of broader experience in law enforcement. But she was a well-trained agent, and according to her record, beyond simply capable. He hated any kind of discrimination and would not be a party to it. Walker was getting her chance.

He had to work with her. How else would he determine whether she would fit in COMPASS? Even if she wasn’t quite ready, she would have months of extra training to prepare her for that job if he did recruit her. As for her boss trying to edge her out of this investigation, Clay set her mind at rest. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

She shot him a wry glance. “It’s not the boy-girl thing if that’s what you’re thinking,” she admitted. “See, I sort of overstepped my bounds by conferring with the chief out at Qualla about the case. It was hard not to since we’re related. The boss is still ticked off that I discussed it. We butt heads pretty regularly.”

Clay smiled at her moxie. “Nothing scares you, I guess.”

She treated him to a blinding white smile that showed dimples. “Not much, no, but I have to admit, you’re a little scary. I’m glad you’re on my side. You got a wife?”

Damn, she kept throwing him curveballs. “No,” he said. “No wife.”

“Not surprised,” she commented just as they parked. She popped her seat belt and hopped out of the car, energy crackling around her like static electricity. “You’re the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time, but that scowl of yours would terrify the bejesus out of most women.”

But not her, obviously. Clay could only shake his head in wonder. The girl was outrageous, without a smidgen of diplomacy, and sort of exhausting to be around. He imagined the local Bureau would be delighted, or at least a little relieved, if he did steal her away from them.

“Agent Walker?” he called as she started up the steps, intending to advise her to let him do the talking when they went inside.

She stopped to wait for him at the top. “Might as well call me Van,” she said, pausing with her hand on the door. “Everyone else here does. I think they like to pretend I’m a guy.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then they must have excellent imaginations,” Clay said, without thinking that the comment sounded sexist until it was already out there.

“Thanks. May I call you Clay? Not in there, of course,” she assured him, gesturing at the door with a quick lift of her chin.

“No problem.” What else could he say without sounding unfriendly, even pretentious?

A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four o’clock. “Let’s get this out of the way and then get busy. If that informant of yours is not jerking us all around, we don’t need to lose any time on useless networking.”

Her smile flashed again. “Hey, my kind of man.” She swept open the door and indicated he should precede her.



A quarter hour later, Van cradled her coffee cup and sat with one hip hitched up on her desk, trying to hear what was going on in the boss’s office. The walls were thin, but not thin enough to catch the words, only to hear that the argument to replace her was subtle, noncombative, but intense.

Two of her fellow agents, Buddy Dean and Joe Middle-brooks, listened with her unabashedly, watching for her reactions.

In defense of her boss, Vanessa knew half his reasons for disliking her were probably valid. He would be telling Agent Senate how she was too outspoken, too ambitious and that she tried entirely too hard. How those things caused resentment.

Dammit, she had to be an overachiever. How else could she prove herself? Everybody in the world knew that a woman had to work twice as hard to prove herself in a male-dominated field. In a same-case scenario, a man was applauded for his initiative while a woman was labeled overly aggressive and presumptuous.

Not that they meant to be chauvinistic around here. The men she worked with were good people, dedicated and conscientious. They worked hard and made a difference. All she wanted was to keep up with them and gain their respect.

She tried to keep a low profile. Not that she was all that modest and certainly not lacking in ambition, but Van was afraid the boss would think she was trying to beef up her participation into something that might get her promoted. This time she was going all out, begging for the lead on the case, even if it meant working with another agency on it. This threat was very real.

Hightower wasn’t finished. But even with that considered, it had been a homemade bomb, not even a large one. Even she knew it was a local problem, technically not warranting FBI intervention. She wouldn’t be in on it if Lisa hadn’t called her directly and gotten her involved. So Van had to wonder why the powers-that-be had sent Agent Senate down here to assist. Scary as it was, this was not a national threat.

The door opened and Clay came out wearing that scary frown she hoped to have a chance to get used to. Vanessa stood and put down her coffee cup, ready to bow out gracefully if Roan had changed Senate’s mind. Buddy and Joe stood, too, fully expecting to be called to duty in her place.

“We’re burning daylight, Agent Walker. Let’s go,” Senate said, looking straight at her. She caught the almost undetectable hint of a smile in his eyes.

Van gave herself a mental high five and barely contained a whoop. Instead, she calmly picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

The urge to wink at Buddy and Joe almost overwhelmed her, but she refrained. Decorum had suddenly become important, at least until she was outside the building.

On the way to the car, she gave him a pat on the arm and thanked him. He cut those steely gray eyes at her and Van got the distinct feeling she had overstepped again. Maybe he didn’t like to be touched.

On the sixty-mile drive to Cool Spring, she kept her mouth shut except to thank him again, briefly and more circumspectly, for going to bat for her. He muttered that she was welcome and then concentrated on studying the written report of her interview with Lisa Yellowhorse that the chief had provided. Man, could this guy focus.

He had great hair, wore it long and tied back neatly. Though he looked better than presentable in a business suit, she could easily imagine him on horseback, flying like the wind, dressed in feathers, loincloth, leggings and moccasins. She’d seen way too many movies. This guy could definitely play a Hollywood Indian.

His features looked less Iroquois than Plains—sharp angles, square jaw, high cheekbones and a very slight hook to the nose. As large as he was, at least six-two and heavily muscled, he might even have Viking blood for all she knew. His size, height and those cool, gray eyes of his didn’t come out of the Indian gene pool. Neither did the five o’clock shadow he was wearing.

She realized all of a sudden that she was physically attracted to him. Okay, more like bowled over. No point revealing that to him, however. He didn’t like her much and she was definitely not interested in mixing it up with a superior who probably could burn her career if she made a wrong move.

Oh well, he was great to look at and she could enjoy that without feeling bad about it. She kept stealing glances while he was busy reading the report.

He thumped the page with the back of his fingers. “Very detailed. Good work.”

“Thanks.” Van enjoyed the unaccustomed thrill that came with praise, not something she had basked in very often since her college days. “Any questions?”

“Your AIC isn’t convinced Hightower’s behind this. Are you certain Ms. Yellowhorse is being straight? Maybe she’s a disgruntled lover or just scared to have him living with her.”

“Gut feeling,” she replied with a succinct nod. “And it all fits. Circumstantial at the moment, I know, but you’ll see I’m right.”

He turned to look at her fully, remaining silent for a minute. “Tell me about your escapes.”

She laughed. “My what?”

“Roan told me you’ve pulled yourself out of the fire so many times, he feels the urge to bury you under a mountain of paperwork so you’ll survive to see thirty. Details, please. Start with the robbery you interrupted six months ago.”

“He’s exaggerating,” she said with a scoff. “I dodged a few bullets, that’s all. The perps were lousy shots.”

“But you’re obviously not,” he remarked with the ghost of a smile.

Van shrugged. “I have a good eye. It’s probably inherited, but I’ve practiced a lot, too. My grandfather was a sniper in ’Nam. Taught me a few tricks.”

“Enough to qualify for the Olympic team, apparently. What about the fire after that bomb went off in the casino? They thought you were trapped.”

“It was jump off the roof or burn and it was only two stories, not necessarily a fatal leap. What would you have done?” Van hated talking about that. Fire was her worst nightmare and had nearly finished her off. She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and flexed her left leg. “No serious injuries, thank goodness.”

“And you saved two people by pushing them off that roof.”

She shook her head impatiently. “Yeah, but I had to coldcock one and shove him off unconscious. Poor ol’Bobby Rock has a bad fear of heights. I worried that the fall would break his neck, but it was that or let him go up in smoke.”

“What about last year, the hostage thing at the school? You did okay, Roan said. Hard to think with a gun to your head, but you managed to talk the perp into surrendering.”

She made a face. “He was just a kid.”

“With a .45 full of hollow points. You’ve faced death square in the face several times now. I’m interested. Which time destroyed your fear of it?”

“Who says one did? But I will say this, I believe I’ve survived for a reason. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

His look was intense when she glanced over at him.

“Are you a loose cannon?” he asked quietly.

She faced the road again. “No. If we get into a dicey situation, you can count on me to react appropriately. Are you worried?”

“If you’re convinced that you’re destined to do something so great that a higher power is keeping you alive against all odds, then, yes, I am definitely worried.”

She laughed. “Get real. Don’t you think I know God helps those who help themselves?”

“So you’re religious?”

“Most people in law enforcement are. Aren’t you?” she asked.

“Let’s not get into that. Sorry I brought it up.”

“Well, you did, so brief answer, please. Do you believe in that higher power you mentioned, yes or no?”

He paused. “Yes, but if God’s a woman, she could change her mind on a whim. Maybe decide to let someone else perform whatever task you think you’re programmed to do, so I wouldn’t trust fate too far if I were you.”

Van laughed, but it was a little bitter. “My, my, here I was thinking you’re so politically correct and then you come out with something weird like that. Women are inconstant, gods or not, huh?”

“It was a joke to get you off the topic of religion.”

“Well, you can forget comedy, my friend. Some chick dumped you, right? Now you’re down on the whole female gender.”

He was hiding a smile, she could tell. “I’m thirty-six and unmarried. How do you know I ever liked women to begin with?”

“Because when you checked out my breasts, your expression did not indicate envy,” she explained, her reaction deadpan.

He laughed out loud. The sound was new and Van liked it. She was shaking up that stoic warrior image to hell and gone. It was what she did best, making men laugh. Even the boss unbent a little when he wasn’t ready to throttle her about something.

“See? You’re no match for me,” she told him, turning the Explorer down the dirt road outside Cool Spring that led to Lisa Yellowhorse’s house. “We’re almost there. I’ll introduce you, but you do all the talking. I have her on tape and we’ll compare notes later.”

From the corner of her eye, she could actually see him morph into agent mode again. She suspected that was his usual state. She hoped her joking around had helped him to relax a little. After the interview, he had another surprise coming, so she definitely wanted him in a good mood.

On impulse, and because it was more convenient than stashing him in one of the tourist traps, she planned to book him at Hotel Walker, her grandparents’ house.

She had figured that a stranger from D.C. might enjoy soaking up a little Cherokee culture while he was here. She hadn’t known ahead of time that he probably was already steeped to the eyeballs in it. Who would have thought they would send an Indian?

That was okay, though. She would pass it off as hospitality of the People. No way he could refuse that.



Clay found Lisa Yellowhorse to be a plain woman, round-faced and a bit sullen. She wore a mismatched shirt and slacks, a pair of tube socks that had seen better days and no shoes. She had obviously been in the process of braiding her hair after a shampoo; he caught the scent of apples wafting from it. She greeted them cordially and offered them a chair.

She was a practical woman who made her living renting out the upstairs rooms and the basement apartment of the old clapboard her mother had purchased twenty years ago. Clay wondered whether she was the type to take up with a man like James Hightower, and, if she had, was she vindictive enough to frame him for something after a breakup? That scenario didn’t seem likely, but he wasn’t discounting it yet.

Ms. Yellowhorse proceeded to describe her reasons for calling Vanessa. Small bits of what appeared to be detonation cord and other discarded paraphernalia had led to her suspicions. There were empty boxes that had once contained a garage door opener and a set of screws, an empty roll of duct tape and an actual piece of fuse. You had to wonder where a woman like Yellowhorse would get this sort of stuff simply to use for a frameup. No, Clay believed she was legit and had the public’s best interest in mind when she’d called this in.

The woman had called Vanessa because she was aware that Vanessa worked for the Bureau and had been instrumental in Hightower’s former conviction.

“I wanted to stake out the Yellowhorse place just in case Hightower comes back, but Roan didn’t think it was necessary,” Vanessa said as she drove back to the main road.

“He told me what he thinks,” Clay admitted. “You want to fill me in on your history with Hightower?”

“He killed my cousin.”

Clay nodded. “Roan mentioned you might have a little vendetta going against Hightower because of that. Do you?”

“Well, it’s not as if I know Lisa Yellowhorse well enough to conspire with her to frame James for this. If Roan seriously believed that, he wouldn’t have agreed to let me investigate.”

Clay noted she didn’t appear to be upset by his questions, so she’d probably defended herself before on this issue.

She seemed confident. “After the bogus call that got me to the casino for the big blast and Lisa’s finding the fuse pieces, things just sort of fell into place.” She shot him a wry smile. “He’s the one. He has no compunction about killing, I can tell you that.”

“What’s the story on the murder?”

She sighed, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “After four years of getting knocked around and refusing to report him, Brenda had reached her limit and was talking divorce. Surprise, surprise when she accidentally fell out of a raft in white water.” A pause ensued as Vanessa swallowed hard, then she glanced at him with her dark eyes narrowed. “She was not wearing a life jacket. She was not dressed for rafting. She was six and a half months pregnant. What would you conclude?”

“Sounds like premeditation. First-degree homicide,” Clay muttered a curse, shaking his head. “He only did four years?”

She shrugged, still gripping the steering wheel as if it were Hightower’s neck. “Yeah. The D.A. went for first degree, but the jury couldn’t agree on the premeditation. The thing was, she didn’t die right away. Some other rafters happened along, got her out of the water and got her breathing again. But she had a head wound that put her in a coma. She stayed on life support until the doctors thought the baby could make it.”

Clay didn’t ask, but she answered his unspoken query.

“Little Dilly’s alive and well, thriving.”

“Thank God. Her name is Dilly?”

“Delinda,” she explained, smiling for real now, pride showing. “Our beautiful blessing.” She went on about Hightower. “The first bombing is only the beginning. James hasn’t done his worst. That was just to get our attention. He’s out for blood. Mine and probably others who were responsible for his conviction.”

“You didn’t put that in the report,” Clay remarked.

“Because I only put down the facts, not supposition. Even though I know beyond a shadow who did it and why, I can’t prove motive. But I will,” she assured him.

For the first time, Clay saw the determination and drive he was looking for. Gone was the Pollyanna attitude and the youthful exuberance that had characterized her before. Here was an agent with a mission she would die to complete.

“He had the schedule for the annual Indian Fall Fair in October and a layout of the fairgrounds, Lisa said,” Vanessa reminded him. The woman had dwelled on it during Clay’s questioning. “Thousands attend it and they won’t be spread out. Everyone I know and love is involved in one or more of the events, exhibits or concessions. For spectators, we have a festival in May,” Vanessa explained. “This one is usually the first week in October and sometimes called ‘the fair. ’It’s like a country fair, sort of, only we have many more exhibits, local crafts, fancy dances and drumming, stick ball games and so forth. It’s mainly for the residents, but we do have some tourists and dignitaries.”

“Should you even be on this case?” he asked.

“Why not, because I have a personal interest in nailing him to the wall? Nobody minded that we were related by marriage when I found him after Brenda’s death. I took him down and I testified against him, too, for all the good it did. Four lousy years!” She huffed in disgust.

“Are there any other suspects?” he asked, wondering whether she had even considered it.

She shook her head. “Hightower’s our best bet, but I’m keeping an open mind.”

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear. All right, back to business. Extra guards will be hired for a round-the-clock watch on the fairgrounds for any suspicious activity. Can the local force handle that?”

“Yes, and we’ll run the dogs through to sniff out any explosives before anyone’s allowed in, then do gate checks.”

Clay nodded his approval. “Let’s get with your chief and the council, maybe round up a contractor to put in cement barriers to prevent crashing the fences with a truck bomb.”

Vanessa remained quiet, but the air in the car was thick with unspoken argument.

“Okay,” Clay said. “What?”

She cleared her throat and flexed her hands on the wheel as she drove. “We need to locate Hightower before he strikes again, not just set up to react. Word’s already on the grapevine that everyone should keep an eye out for him and notify us when he’s spotted. That’s one great advantage to living in a community with only a few thousand people. Like Cheers, everybody knows your name.”

“Clever, involving the citizens.” Clay smiled. She was rapidly justifying a chance with COMPASS. So what if she was mouthy, nosy and had a warped sense of humor? He had put up with worse from the Sextant crew. He didn’t know the members of the COMPASS team very well yet, but she’d probably fit right in.

“Hungry?” she asked, braking as they reached the paved road and waiting for his answer.

“I am. Is there somewhere around here we can grab a few burgers before you take me to my hotel?”

She put on the left blinker and began to turn. “Oh, we’ll do better than that. How about barbecue, beans and fry bread? My grandparents eat at five, a blood-sugar thing, but there’ll be plenty left.”

Clay frowned. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Not feed you and put you up? What are you thinking? If I don’t bring you home, the tribal council will haul me into court for sedition or something, not to mention that the grans would skin me alive.” She shook her head fiercely. “Uh-uh, no way you can get off the hook, so deal with it.”

“Put me up? Stay with them? No, I couldn’t—”

“You don’t understand. You have to unless, of course, you want to insult the whole tribe. And discredit yours while you’re at it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, knowing the time had come to make things clear to her. “I don’t have a tribe.” It was true. He could not remember his mother’s people and his father refused to tell him who they were. The first few years of Clay’s life were a blur, spent at a place only God could identify, because Clayton Senate Sr. had gone to the grave with that secret six years ago.

She flashed a saucy grin. “Well, you have one now, brother, whether you want one or not. Tsi lu gi. That means welcome.”

Clay huffed out a breath of resignation and muttered, “Wa do.”

“My God, you speak Tsalagi?” she asked with a laugh of delight. “You’re Cherokee! Why didn’t you say so?”

He didn’t tell her he also knew Navajo and several other Native American tongues. He had a way with languages and these were simple to learn, a relative hobby, compared to Russian and Arabic.

Wherever you went in this business, it paid to talk the talk, or at least to be able to listen to it.

He normally kept his mouth shut and did just that, but this woman had a strange effect on him. In one afternoon, she had slipped under his guard, caused him to reveal a hell of a lot more about himself than his best friends knew, and had even made him laugh out loud.

For the first time, Clay sensed how dangerous Vanessa Walker was going to be to life as he knew it. And yet, he also realized he would not avoid her even if he could. Running scared was not his way. Father had called him a brave countless times and, while it had been meant as more insult than compliment, Clay did his damnedest to live up to the name.




Chapter 2


A fter driving for about half an hour, Vanessa turned off on a nearly invisible, unpaved side road that led up one of the mountains. “The grans are expecting us. I phoned them about it this morning,” she explained while easily negotiating the twisting path with its overhanging branches and low visibility.

“Take me back to a hotel, will you? I really need to process these prints and fax those and Hightower’s old license photo to—”

“No problem. You can fax from the grans place. They love company. Today is barbecue day. Maybe goat, maybe pork, maybe both.”

Clay’s apprehension grew. Primitive accommodations and food cooked over an outdoor fire didn’t bother him in the least, so he didn’t quite understand this niggling sense of unease in his gut.

“Don’t worry. I promise you won’t get the third degree. Now you might if they got the idea I was bringing you home to get their approval as a potential husband. The tribe’s pretty strict on consanguinity rules, so they’d politely insist on your background if that were the case. But I’ll explain you’re only here on business. I’ll make that very clear.”

“Consanguinity?” He knew what the word meant, of course, but what the hell was she talking about?

“Oh yeah,” she said with a chuckle. “No relatives considered, goes without saying. Also, I can’t marry within my own clan whether there are blood ties or not. Usually there are, to some degree, but it’s not a problem.”

“Yet you aren’t married,” he observed. “Must cut down on the number of potential candidates.”

“Not really. There are seven clans to choose from. But I’ve never felt the urge to go looking.”

“Why not?” And why did he insist on prying into her life as if it were any of his business?

She shot him a saucy look. “Ambition outweighed lust. Simple as that.”

That raised his eyebrows. “A virgin, at your age?” God, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He bit his tongue. “Sorry.”

She laughed again, this time a low, seductive sound that sent a ripple of desire straight to his groin. “I never claimed that,” she quipped as she wheeled around a curve and pulled up in front of a two-story log house. “But they probably think so, so let’s end that topic before we get out of the car.”

She tooted the horn, unfastened her seat belt and opened the door all in what seemed one motion, exiting before Clay could pry any further.

Not that he would. What business of his was it if she had a lover? He didn’t even want her to tell him. He’d known the woman barely half a day and had already violated every rule he’d ever made about conversations with the fairer sex.

He couldn’t get over how different she was from every woman he had ever known, how off balance he felt around her. This was not good, and still he knew he would seek her out again, even if something separated them right this minute. If Mercier recalled him and ordered him never to come back here, Clay knew he would disobey orders just to see her, to explore this weird, unsettling connection or whatever it was. It made no sense at all.

“Hey, Du-da, my man! What’s cooking?” Clay heard her cry as she took the stone steps two at a time. He watched as she embraced a gray-haired man who was frowning at Clay over her shoulder.

This wasn’t what Clay had expected. The house impressed him with its charm, slate roof and sturdy construction. The Walkers weren’t poor, that was for sure.

Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. Oak rocking chairs and a swing graced the porch. The view up here was fantastic, the air sweet, the landscape lush even this late in the year.

The old man didn’t fit Clay’s preconceived image, either. Though probably pushing seventy, he looked like an aging adventurer who kept in excellent shape.

Vanessa turned and beckoned Clay up on the porch. “A-gi-du-da, this is Clay Senate, an agent from Virginia who has come to help me out on one of my cases.” Her manner was polite now, bordering on formal. “Clay Senate, meet my grandfather, John Walker.”

Clay extended his hand and gripped the gnarled one, several shades darker than his own. “Mr. Walker, my pleasure.”

“Welcome,” the man said simply. No questions, just as Vanessa had promised. Well, none yet, anyway.

“Where’s E-ni-si, in the kitchen?” Vanessa asked, linking her arm with her grandfather’s. The man grunted and nodded, gesturing for them to accompany him inside.

Clay held the door for both of them and entered last. Vanessa threw him a reassuring smile over her shoulder. “Smell that? Du-da’s been cooking it out back in the pit for a couple of days. Mouths are watering in the next county, I bet.”

The grandmother stood in the doorway of the kitchen regarding Clay with frank curiosity. She was a beautiful woman, probably around sixty-five, though her face was virtually unlined and her hair barely striped with strands of silver. This was how Vanessa would look in about forty years, Clay thought. He offered the woman his best smile.

“Clay Senate, my grandmother, Rebecca Walker,” Vanessa said. “E-ni-si, Clay and I will be working at Cherokee for a week or two, at least until the festival.”

“Then you both must stay here,” the woman said with a decisive nod. “Please make yourself at home, Mr. Senate. We will feed you first, then my granddaughter will show you where you will sleep.” Then she looked directly at her husband, a question in her eyes. The old man shook his head.

Clay assumed the unspoken query had to do with his reason for being here, that he had not come to offer for their beloved Vanessa. He experienced a surprising little stab of regret at their obvious disappointment. He seriously doubted Vanessa brought many men here, probably for that very reason.

A sharp tug on the back hem of his jacket distracted him. Clay turned slowly, expecting to see a dog. Instead it was a child. Bright brown eyes peered up at him, disappeared behind impossibly long black lashes for a blink, then reappeared. “You Daddy?” she whispered.

Clay’s heart melted. He squatted to her level to answer. “No, not Daddy. My name is Clay.”

She frowned. “Like red dirt?”

He smiled. “That’s right.”

She poked her pink-clad chest. “I’m Dilly.”

He nodded. “Delinda. Like beautiful?”

She smiled back. “That’s right.”

Vanessa scooped her up in a hug and swung her around. “Hey, squirt. What’s happening?”

“Bitsy had kittens. You wanna see?” She twisted in Vanessa’s arms and craned her neck at an impossible angle to include Clay. “You can come, too, but you can’t touch ’em.”

“I promise,” Clay assured her. He had never met a cat he liked and touching one was about the last thing he would want. Still, he followed Vanessa to one of the outbuildings with her little cousin riding on her shoulders, listening as they sang a silly little song about counting cats.

“She’s charming,” he commented to Vanessa as the little girl squatted to run her fingers over the mother cat’s head. “So she lives with your grandparents?”

“Not all the time. She stays the weekends with my cousin Cody and his wife, Jan. Cody is Brenda’s brother. When I take a few days off, Dilly stays with me.”

“Who has custody of her?” Clay asked.

Vanessa frowned. “We do. All of us.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, if you mean legally, on the books, Cody and Jan, but they both work. I guess when she starts school, she’ll stay with them most of the time since they live in town. For now, though, this is a good place for her to spend the bulk of her time.”

Clay could not imagine the child not having a permanent home. Strange that he should feel such an affinity for this kid, only having just met her. Maybe it was because they had something in common—mothers who had died too soon.

“She’s lucky to have family,” he said, wondering what it would have been like if he had been absorbed into his mother’s tribe after her death. For one thing, he probably wouldn’t be feeling like such an outcast at the moment.

“Here,” Dilly whispered, rubbing his hand with a tiny ball of fur. “Don’t squeeze, though.”

Instinctively, Clay opened his hand and accepted the tiny white kitten as she laid it in the palm of his hand. “I thought you said we couldn’t touch them.”

She tilted her head to one side, her small fists resting on her jean-clad hips. Then she reached up and placed her small hand on his wrist, just touching. “Me and Bitsy trust you. Put her back at her mommy’s tummy when you get done. That’s her dinner.” In a bouncing flash of pink and denim, she skipped away and disappeared.

Vanessa relieved him of the wriggling fuzzy kitten and placed it back in the nest with the others. “I’m guessing you’re done, Mr. Red Dirt?” she said with a laugh.

Clay brushed his hand against his coat. “I guess so. Is she always that mercurial?”

That question raised her eyebrows. “Mercurial? What a perfect description of Dilly. And most four-year-olds, come to think of it. You haven’t been around kids much, have you?”

Not ever. There was the Cordas’ new baby, but it was too small to be called a kid yet. It looked so fragile, he always declined to hold it when the opportunity arose. Joe and Martine might trust him with their lives on a mission, but he sort of doubted that faith extended to their infant.

He rubbed the area just below his shirt cuff that still felt the featherlight imprint of the little girl’s fingers. Somehow, the child had touched more than his wrist with that gesture of her trust.

As they walked slowly back to her grandparents’ house, Clay found himself wondering what the future would hold for young Delinda and whether she would ever feel stigmatized by sins of her father. Was it in anyone’s power to save her from that?



The meal was superb and the food plentiful. Clay had to work hard not to overeat. The tender pork with its spicy sauce went well with what tasted like German-style potato salad and the fried, flat bread he couldn’t seem to resist. He had thought the food might be totally comprised of Native American fare, but it was a delicious mix of what he was used to and what he had only heard about. Fry bread, for instance. Until today, he had made it a point never to go where they made it. Perhaps he’d had it once when he was very young and the memory was lost.

“Eat more, please. A large man needs filling.” Rebecca Walker expressed her pleasure in his enjoyment of her cooking with a warm smile. “We have pie. Do you like peaches?”

“Peach is the best,” Dilly declared, jumping with anticipation.

He didn’t like peaches at all, but said he did just to keep the smiles going.

Mrs. Walker was so like Vanessa, but minus the almost frenetic energy, the endless pressing for information and the ready laughter of the younger woman. And the concentrated version of Vanessa that was little Dilly.

Had his mother been like Rebecca Walker? Clay hoped so, because she appeared the soul of contentment.

He finished every crumb of the pie and found it delicious. Had he only imagined an aversion to peaches? These were different, wonderful. “My compliments, Mrs. Walker,” he said sincerely, placing his napkin beside his plate. “That is the best meal I’ve had in years.”

“Years?” she repeated with a soft chuckle. “Doesn’t your wife feed you well, Mr. Senate?”

He tossed Vanessa a sly look that said, Here it comes, that third degree you promised I wouldn’t get. Out loud, to her grandmother he answered dutifully, “I’m not married. In our business, it is difficult to maintain a normal family life. We travel too often.” Had the woman sensed his concealed interest in her granddaughter? He hadn’t betrayed it by so much as a look in Vanessa’s direction. At least not that sort of look.

Rebecca inclined her head and poured him another glass of iced tea. “A shame there is no one for you to come home to. Maybe someday you will find this. My husband liked the comfort of it.” The old man nodded indulgently and shot his wife a knowing grin.

“You traveled a lot, sir?” Clay asked politely.

The old man nodded. “War. Then business school. I used to buy up inventory for some of the trading posts. Retired now.”

Vanessa sipped her tea and expounded on her grandfather’s meager answer. “He purchased lots of stuff from some of the smaller reservations out west and up north who haven’t the tourist trade we have here.” She smiled at her grandmother. “E-ni-si and other locals with creative talents make baskets, pottery and paintings to sell. I’ll take you by the co-op shop so you can see.”

“You’re an artist?” Clay asked Rebecca. He could not believe how many questions he was asking. He rarely did that unless it had to do with investigations, but found himself interested enough to break a few more rules.

The grandmother ducked her head in a show of modesty. “I make baskets.”

“Those ones,” Dilly said after gulping her mouthful of pie. “Up there, see?” She pointed.

Clay reevaluated the row of baskets sitting along the top of the kitchen cabinets. One particularly beautiful, intricately woven example sat on the granite countertop holding a bunch of green apples. He decided he would buy one like that from her before he left. Something priceless to remember these people by.

“Well, come on with me if you’ve finished eating,” Vanessa ordered. “We’ll get your things settled in your room, then take a walk to wear off some of these calories.”

She dropped a kiss on her grandmother’s head as she passed by her chair. “Thank you, E-ni-si. Great meal, as always.” She winked at her grandfather who solemnly winked back.

Dilly laughed with delight as she tried unsuccessfully to wink and instead, gave Vanessa a playful swat as she passed the youth’s chair.

“It’s bath time for you, button nose. Better be clean and have those dollies in bed by the time I come in to say night-night. There’s a bedtime video in it for you if you don’t flood the bathroom, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dilly agreed. “Ni-si will make me behave.”

Clay felt his eyes burn a little as he witnessed the open affection among these four. A pang of envy struck him like an arrow through the heart.

The child was precious, a true ray of light, and so secure in the love that surrounded her. So was Vanessa, he realized. He envied them that.

How would that feel, being accepted and loved so unconditionally? He wondered where Vanessa’s parents were and if she had been raised by these two from an early age. But he wouldn’t ask. Maybe some of the manners of the elder Walkers had rubbed off on him.

Vanessa’s natural bearing and self-confidence attracted him almost as much as her lithe figure and her lovely, animated features. The swing of her hips wasn’t meant to be enticing, but her unconsciousness of that made it all the more so. He was sweating like crazy.

He followed her out to the Explorer where they retrieved his two bags. She insisted on hefting his carry-on. She led him up the stairs to a bedroom containing a large dresser that looked handcrafted and a queen-size four-poster. It cried out for testing his weight. Along with hers. Clay sucked in a deep breath and released it with a huff of self-disgust. He had to stop this. Stop thinking about her that way.

“Bathroom’s in there. We’ll be sharing that. My room’s on the other side. The grans’ room is downstairs, and Dilly’s, too, so you needn’t worry about noise.”

Noise? Oh, and didn’t that just plant a vision in his head?

“No TV up here,” she said, pointing, “but there’s a radio with a CD player and a few CDs. Mostly flute music, I’m afraid. Cousin Eddie plays and we have to support the family endeavors.”

“Flute,” he repeated. Apparently he was to get a good dose of native culture whether he wanted it or not. “That’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Not the flute, the fry bread or the unfamiliar customs like tribal hospitality and ingrained politeness. He knew now why he had felt so apprehensive about coming here, aside from sharing a house with a female agent who stirred him up the way she did.

Since he could remember, Clay had flaunted his Native American heritage, though he knew very little about it. Raised by his white father, away from any vestige of his mother’s culture since she had died, Clay had used his Native American looks as a form of rebellion against the man who had given him no choice about his upbringing and refused to discuss his mother or their marriage.

Clay had grown his hair long and adopted an attitude of stoicism and silence that he knew very well was stereotypical. Early habits died hard. Even when it no longer served any purpose to provoke Clayton Senate Sr., Clay had not let up. The image had suited him. Until now.

Vanessa and her grandparents made him feel whiter than the Pillsbury Doughboy. That was what bothered him. He had no mask to hide behind when it came to these people because they knew that his mask was about as authentic as a Sioux war bonnet on a Cherokee chief. He did not want Vanessa to see him as a caricature of their people. Or rather, her people. He wasn’t precisely sure he could, in all good conscience, claim either side of his family.

He felt a sharp need to fit in that he had not admitted to since he was eight and had realized he was rapidly forgetting what little he knew of his mother and her people. He had lost any stories, dancing, religion, belonging. His very identity.

“C’mon, let’s go meet Brother Billy Bear,” Vanessa said, catching his hand in hers as she strode past him to the door. “You can give him his daily Coke.”

Clay followed wordlessly, afraid to ask.



Vanessa giggled shamelessly as Clay held the old soft-drink bottle she had filled with the vet’s equivalent of Ensure for her grandfather’s pet. Billy accepted his daily dose with a grunt, bracing the bottle between his paws and sucking down the contents with expertise.

“I’ll be damned,” Clay muttered as he stepped back from the fence. “Where did you get it?”

The old bear was so rheumy-eyed and arthritic he offered no threat at all, but Clay obviously was a city boy with a healthy respect for what he saw as a wild animal.

“Old Billy did his time downtown back in the day, performing for the tourists until Mack Bowstring decided to close up shop. Since Billy was my very favorite attraction, my grandfather offered the man five bucks to take the bear off his hands and give him a good home.” She didn’t confess that she’d been required to work off that five bucks washing and drying dishes for a month in addition to feeding Billy every day until she’d left the mountain at eighteen.

“How old is he?” Clay asked.

“Over thirty now and thirty-five’s about the max for black bears.”

“Better he’s here than in a zoo, I guess,” Clay commented.

“Definitely. He was too domesticated to release in the wild and nobody could stand to have him put down. Gran pulled some strings to get permission to keep him. Uncle Charly’s a vet and keeps a close check on him.”

“I take it you have a large family,” Clay said as they watched Billy licking the bottle, exacting every last drop of the sweet nutritious liquid.

“Huge,” she admitted. “You?”

“Not so huge. I guess you’d never want to leave here, your family, this place.”

Vanessa turned, wondering why he’d ask such a thing. “I already left. I went to college, then the Academy and the job. I have an apartment in Asheville. I make it back most weekends to visit the grans. You thought I lived here?” She glanced back at the house, not minding the junky old mower, overgrown flower beds and the listing tree of gourd birdhouses. Rustic was the look and she loved it.

Clay tore his gaze from the bear and walked a few steps away, his back to her, his hands in his pockets. “I’m here to recruit you.”

Vanessa stared at him, lost for words. Recruit her? For what?

As if he’d read her mind, he answered, “We’re organizing a team of agents and you’ve been recommended for it. COMPASS, or Comprehensive Analysis of Stateside Security is affiliated with Homeland Security and deals with terrorist threats within our borders. I’m supposed to observe how you perform, see how you’d fit, both professionally and personally. If you’re not interested, I need to know.”

“So you can leave and not waste your time?” Vanessa asked. She made him uncomfortable and she knew it. She hadn’t made it to this age without recognizing the signs of physical attraction. She had probably been throwing out a few signals herself. He was ready to get out of here and this was his opportunity. All she had to say was no, she was not interested.

He turned, his expression unreadable. “No, I won’t leave until we’ve concluded the investigation. The thing is, if you can’t see yourself as a candidate for the team, then it’s merely business as usual and I won’t need to do an assessment on you.”

Vanessa considered that. “Where would I have to live?”

“In McLean, Virginia. At least for the first year. There would be extra training involved, connections to make. It would mean travel, but mostly to your southern sector, with occasional calls to other areas to assist fellow agents. We follow the trouble wherever it goes. Sometimes overseas.”

“I see. Is McLean where you live?”

“Yes.”

“It’s expensive there, isn’t it?” she asked.

“More so than here.” He looked off toward the mountains, her beloved Smokies. “You’d jump a couple of pay grades, get a cost-of-living increase and a hefty clothing allowance.” He sighed and shrugged as if he didn’t expect her to care about all that, as if he didn’t himself. “Same basic benefits as you have with the Bureau. Hazardous-duty pay for certain assignments.”

“Would I be the token redbird?” she asked without any bitterness. She knew all about equal-opportunity employment by the government. Had to have those minorities and women.

He smiled. “That plays into it, sure, but your qualifications weigh much more heavily in this instance. Not just any old Indian will do to meet the quota, if that’s what you’re asking. Nor would any female who could shoot straight and speak three languages. The requirements on paper are quite specific and you meet them. Interested?”

She paused for a full minute before she spoke. “You know some people aren’t crazy about being called Indian anymore. Think it’s not politically correct.”

“Does it offend you?” he asked, really curious.

“The majority of people called Indian are satisfied with it. Know why?” Her dark eyes shone with mischief.

“Why’s that?”

“Because the majority really are from India,” she said, laughing. “Gotcha!”

“Cute. Seriously, what do you prefer? Native American? Indigenous person?”

“Cherokee works for me. I guess you have a problem there, don’t you, since you don’t know which tribe to claim.”

“Yes, but I don’t obsess over it. You know we’re digressing here, and I think you’re doing it on purpose. You want time to consider what the job entails, right? But you’re not saying no.”

She frowned as she nodded reluctantly. “I’d be a fool to say no.”

“Would you?” Again he looked around them, taking in the wildness of the landscape, the beauty she usually took for granted, and drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She saw this place through his eyes now. Could she leave for good?

“You’re worried about living so far away from your people?” he asked.

She nodded. “A little. I feel I have a responsibility to the tribe. If I stay in Asheville, at least I can act as a liaison when something like this pops up.”

His steel-gray eyes both challenged and warmed her with that piercing gaze of his. “Have you ever thought that maybe the world could be your hunting ground, the people of it, your tribe? They need you, too, Vanessa. Be a Cherokee, but be a world citizen, too. Could you handle that?”

“Interesting thought. How long do I have to consider it?” she asked. What he said intrigued her. Maybe he was right and she did need to broaden her horizons, give more than she was giving here.

“Until we finish this,” he replied.

“Then I guess you’d better take some notes on me just in case,” she advised. “Could be that I’m not what you’re looking for after all.”

“I think you’re exactly what I’m looking for,” he replied. For some reason, Vanessa thought that sounded personal. Or maybe she was just reading her own fantasies into it. This guy really was every woman’s dream. Unfortunately, all she could afford to do was dream that fantasy, not act on it.

His eyes met hers, their unusual steely color warming. “You could try bribing me with another piece of that peach pie. Maybe a cup of coffee to go with it? I’d probably support you for president.”

She grinned. “Whoa now! Don’t tell me you’re still hungry.”

He nodded, smiling, though his expression faltered a bit, leaning toward sadness. His cynicism and professional distance seemed to desert him all of a sudden. He looked vulnerable to her, almost lost, before he turned away, pretending to focus on the empty birdhouses.

Vanessa could sense his hunger, but it wasn’t for food. It appeared to be a soul-deep need she wasn’t sure she knew how to feed, but she wished she could try. Her grandmother had warned her time and again that she took things too much to heart, that she shouldn’t think she had to try to fix everything and everybody.

Maybe, like old Billy, this man just needed someone to show him they cared and that he had a place in the world. She could do that much, surely. It had worked wonders for the bear.




Chapter 3


C lay felt the change in Vanessa’s attitude since telling her about his real reason for being here. It wasn’t anything abrupt, just an obvious softening. He would have thought it might intensify that eagerness to please she had exhibited earlier, but somehow it had the reverse effect.

Now she seemed more at ease with him, and as if she were trying to take him under her wing or something. The odd thing was, he didn’t mind.

They sat in her grandparents’ den where earlier he had used the fax to send the information to McLean. The child had been in bed for hours and the older folks had retired at ten, leaving Clay and Vanessa alone.

“We’ll go into town in the morning,” she was saying, verifying the thought he’d just had. “You’ll need to meet the chief, the council and our local force. Jurisdiction’s not much of a problem, because we keep the lines of communication open.”

“Cooperation, that’s the new byword, isn’t it? That’s what my team is all about. We have agents from six different diciplines and so far, it has worked out to our advantage.”

“Things are improving at the top levels, but also on the local scene,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair and watched her dark eyes shine as she continued in earnest, obviously proud of her role in law enforcement.

She had beautiful eyes, large and black fringed, beneath perfect eyebrows. Her voice had a quality about it that fascinated him for some reason he couldn’t quite explain. He could listen to her forever. Why had he ever thought she talked too much?

“Generally speaking, we go by North Carolina laws here on the boundary, but we have our own court system, our own police and everything. As I’ve told you, I spoke with the chief already and touched base with the sheriff. But even though you and I are already on it and will handle it anyway, protocol dictates that we be invited to run this investigation. It’s a formality I think we should observe.”

Clay nodded, attempting again to focus his attention more closely on her words instead of her mouth. It was bow-shaped, naturally rosier than her skin, not too full or bee-stung, but refined, sort of ethereal. Malleable. Kissable. With a sharp shake of his head, he yanked his thoughts back to the business at hand. “It will be your op, Vanessa, but I agree. You should go by the rules, even the unwritten ones, whenever possible.”

And so should he. Especially that one about not coming on to fellow agents, Clay decided.

He had a great deal of respect for her already. She was determined to share all she knew in order to help him understand how things were done here. Listening to her and getting her personal perspective sure beat having to research all of that.

She should be the one to set things up, show him how she interacted with local law enforcement, which she would certainly get plenty of if she took the job with COMPASS. Cooperation was the cornerstone of success in a multilevel investigation.

Along with the politics, she continued to salt in local customs and unwritten rules the Eastern Band lived by. She bragged about the tribe’s success in establishing the current constitution, their thriving new compost business and the added revenues from Harrah’s casino. A woman so proud of her community, she glowed with it.

“And that,” she said, clapping her hands once as she leaned forward, facing him over the ottoman, “is enough of local history for now.”

Clay leaned forward, too. And he kissed her.

Surprised at first, she stilled, then slowly began to participate. Her lips tasted exactly the way he’d expected, soft and generous, flavored with peaches, which he now loved, and hot, sweet coffee.

For all of two blissful seconds, she responded, opening to him like a flower to rain. Suddenly she backed off, breaking the kiss, her dark eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she rushed to say, touching her fingertips to her bottom lip. “Really!”

“You didn’t do anything,” Clay said with a gusty sigh of regret. “I did.” He sat back, hands carefully clasped in his lap. He wished he’d grabbed a sofa cushion to better hide the evidence of his feelings. “And I didn’t mean to, either. I apologize, Vanessa. It was…just an impulse. A mistake.”

“Yeah, huge error,” she breathed. “We’d better not do it again, huh?”

Clay released a self-deprecating chuckle and shook his head. “No, unfortunately. Better not.”

She scooted back in her chair and tucked her feet under her. “If I kissed you—seriously, I mean—you might think I was trying to persuade you to choose me for that team of yours.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But you could think I was offering the job in exchange for sexual favors. Which I am definitely not doing,” he added with emphasis.

“No sex on the table, huh? Well, flattering to know the thought occurred to you somewhere along the way. But you’re right.” Her lips turned up at the corners. “Boy, we sure know how to gum up a situation, don’t we?” She sighed. “Okay. No kissing. No sex. We should just forget this happened.”

Fat chance of that. Clay could not believe what he’d done. Mercier would fire him on the spot, probably see he never worked in the field again if he found out about this. But he then remembered how Mercier had met his wife on an op in France. That was different, though. Solange had been a civilian.

Same deal with Joe and Martine Corda. Then there were Holly and Will Griffin, who actually were fellow agents and partners on some assignments. Their getting together had almost caused a serious flap and they still had problems to iron out because of it. No, no good precedent in favor of his pursuing Vanessa Walker existed. He had to leave her alone. Besides, he wasn’t looking for a relationship. Never had, really. Bad time to start.

His own composure was so rattled right now, he had the urge to run out of here and down the mountain as if his pants were on fire. In fact, that was close to the truth. But despite the wrongness of it all, he wanted nothing more than to crawl across that damn ottoman and kiss her again, harder, longer and without stopping.

“Well, I guess I’ll say good-night now,” she said, hopping up from the chair and pulling the lapels of her jacket together. But not before Clay saw the beads of her nipples, erect as they could be, showing through her shirt and bra. No way he could hide his response to her. So with as much aplomb as he could muster, and without standing, he simply said, “Good night, Vanessa.”



Clay’s cell phone chirped at five o’clock in the morning, waking him. He fumbled around on the nightstand for it and answered. It was Mercier. “Don’t you ever sleep?” Clay asked, rubbing his eyes. “What’s so urgent?”

Ten minutes later he was dressed and knocking softly on Vanessa’s door. When she opened it, he almost forgot why he was there. He watched, breathless, as she hitched the thin strap of her nightgown back onto her smooth, bare shoulder and raked a wealth of silky black hair off her brow. Her dark eyes were slumberous and a little unfocused.

“Clay?” she murmured, “Anything wrong?”

He cleared his throat and looked past her into the room, trying to regain his equilibrium. “I got a call from my office. About Hightower.” Clay put his hand on her arm, touching her before he thought about it. “He’s former military, you knew that, right?”

She frowned and stepped away from his touch, raking both hands through her hair and fanning it out around her shoulders. “Sure, he went in the army right out of high school.”

“Guess what he did while in the service,” Clay said rhetorically, then answered, “EOD.”

Her gaze locked on his. “Explosive Ordnance? That I didn’t know. I thought he was a ground-pounder.”

“Apparently he knows his stuff. Not the amateur I wish he was,” Clay admitted.

Clay braced his hands on the door frame, needing the support to remind him not to take her in his arms to reassure her. She was a woman, yes, but a professional in law enforcement, one whose strengths he was supposed to be evaluating, not shoring up.

He spelled out his greatest concern. “There was a reported theft last month, a shipment of C-4 used in training exercises at the EOD school over in Alabama. No viable suspects until now. Hightower trained there and would have known the probable location of the substance and how to gain access to it.”

She nodded slowly. “So he’s saving the good stuff for the big bang. The little homemade device with the dynamite was only the prelude.”

He gave the only answer that made any sense. “He’s probably got things wired to blow that we haven’t even thought about yet. He has a boatload of this stuff, Vanessa. He could blow this whole county off the map, little by little or all at once.”

She looked so small and vulnerable. And way too sexy. “I bet he wants the judge, jury and everyone else who had a hand in punishing him.” Her shoulders drooped, causing the gown to slip dangerously low.

Clay cleared his throat and tried to look away. His eyes just wouldn’t cooperate. She quickly caught up the front of her nightgown in a fist. “So get out of here and let me get dressed. We’ve got to go find the bastard and take him down.”

Clay reached to close the door even though she had already turned and was striding to her walk-in closet. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

In the mirror of her dresser, he caught her reflection. Her back was to him and she had already shucked her gown. The glimpse of her totally naked, pale light from the window bathing her in its soft glow, nearly did him in. With a major effort, he pulled the door shut and closed off the sight.

Rubbing a hand harshly over his face, Clay attempted to erase the tactile memory of her lips on his, the vision of her nude and the raspy sound of her sleepy voice when she had murmured his name. Waking dreams weren’t that easy to banish.

The real nightmare they faced ought to do it, but it didn’t.



Two hours later, Clay stood in the background and remained silent while Vanessa spoke with the Eastern Band chief, the sheriff and three deputies.

He noted how she laid out her plans for the bomb search as if they were only suggestions, then carefully listened to everyone who wanted to give input. She nodded and made changes on her notes.

“You are certain James Hightower is the man responsible?” the sheriff asked.

“No proof yet, sir,” she answered. “But he is the most viable suspect at this point. We need to find and interview him at any rate.”

He detected no patronization on either her part, due to the fact that she was FBI, or on theirs, because most were her elders and had probably known her as a child. Her quiet deference surprised him a little. Their obvious respect for her did, too. This was a matriarchal society, but guys the world over were well-known for wanting to control the ball no matter what history dictated.

“Vanessa’s blessed,” a quiet voice said in a confidential whisper. Clay turned slightly and saw the stern visage of Lance Biggins, one of the senior deputies who stood beside him at the back of the room.

“How so?” Clay asked.

“Look at her,” Biggins suggested. “We haven’t seen a woman like her since Nancy Ward.”

Clay was familiar with the tales surrounding the Cherokee heroine from the early nineteenth century who’d taken up arms for the People. “That’s some comparison,” he commented.

“Yeah, Van’s quite a girl. Even back in grade school, nobody messed with her. She’d kick your butt in a heartbeat.”

Clay smiled. Apparently, the deputy was still nurturing a schoolboy crush combined with a heavy dose of heroine worship. “I hear she still kicks.”

Biggins nodded, pursing his lips. He looked straight at Clay then with a warning in his jet-black eyes. “So don’t mess with her. Okay?”

Clay turned back to watch Vanessa and decided not to answer. He had already sort of messed with her and maybe he needed a butt-kicking for it, but it wouldn’t be by this guy.

He understood Biggins’s protective urge, though. Clay felt the same way about her and imagined most men did, especially those she was conversing with right now.

They might look on her as blessed somehow, given the number of her recent narrow escapes, but no one discounted the possibility that she might take one chance too many and the gods would cease to smile.

Vanessa continued with her proposal for the manhunt. Clay noted the sheriff’s reluctance to commit all his resources to searching for Hightower. His response to Vanessa’s suggestions was cool. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree, either.

Clay sauntered to the front where Vanessa and the sheriff were standing, going over the plans. “You have doubts, sir?” Clay asked, since Vanessa was barreling ahead with her orders as if she had full backing already.

The dark, fathomless eyes of the older man examined Clay’s curious expression, probably for any antipathy. Clay felt none of that. The sheriff seemed capable enough, just hesitant. Vanessa paused, too, when Clay asked the question. Both waited for the sheriff to speak.

He took his time, worried his upper lip with one finger for a minute, then shook it at Vanessa. “You were responsible for Hightower’s arrest before. We know he got much less time than you thought he deserved for what he did. Now you seem to have convicted him of these bombings already. Suppose he’s not the one you should be after.”

Vanessa blew out a breath of frustration, then shook her head. “Sheriff, I know he’s the one. Who else would be doing this?”

“There were a couple of guests at the casino who might have been targets that had nothing to do with Hightower. As a matter of fact, we know they are loosely tied to organized crime here in the South. I think they were hoping to muscle in on our action, or at least check it out to see if it was worth their while. They certainly have enemies within their organizations. I asked your people to pursue that line of investigation since it falls within the Bureau’s domain.”

“That’s in the works,” she assured him. “But it’s considered a real long shot, Sheriff. I’m telling you, James Hightower has plenty of reason to do something like this and he did. I’m sure of it.”

The sheriff pursed his lips and inclined his head. “Okay, I’ll give you the manpower to do the search, but let’s try to keep an open mind. Hightower’s got no business being back here on the Boundary anyway, but unless you can prove he’s committed some crime, all we can do is send him packing. Even that will take some doing.”

Clay could see Vanessa working up to an argument and quickly intervened before she could let it fly. “Thank you, Sheriff, that will be fine. Just catch him and let us question him. We’ll take it from there.”

The sheriff raised a dark brow and gave Clay another once-over. “You are convinced he’s our man? Do you have some information you haven’t shared?”

“No,” Clay admitted, “but Agent Walker’s concerns seem legitimate to me. We need to find this man and we need your help.”

He nodded. “All right, but I can’t commit every man available. I’ll give you six deputies and three cars.”

Vanessa looked outraged, but she knew when to hold her tongue. She realized that was as much cooperation as she was going to get. Clay added prudence and self-control to her attributes and would mention those in his report on her to Mercier. She also knew how to make do.

It was sometimes necessary in the business to work with what you had and make the most of it. Bureaucracy and limited manpower and funding often altered an operation and agents had to adjust and compensate for that.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said, schooling her features into a more pleasant expression. “We appreciate it.”

Clay wanted to reassure her. He kept getting the urge to do that for some reason. Why? She was just as capable of understanding all the ramifications of this op as he was. Why was he seeing vulnerability in her that probably didn’t even exist?

She began laying out a plan for the use of the limited resources available to her.

If he had his way, she would become a great addition to COMPASS, and Mercier would be thanking Clay for his assessment before James Hightower even came to trial. And he would, Clay thought. Vanessa would get her man one way or another. For what it was worth, her gut hunch about Hightower seemed right on the money to him.

He just hoped for all he was worth that personal prejudice wasn’t creeping into his evaluation of Vanessa. The pride he felt in her didn’t seem wholly of the professional variety and it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He truly liked her as a person and that was okay. But he was also powerfully attracted to her as a woman. And that was not okay. He would need to ignore that. If he could.

She nodded to the sheriff and the others who were present, thanked them again, then closed her notebook. “Okay, that does it. Sheriff, if you will divide up the search teams and assign areas to be canvassed, I’d appreciate it.” She turned to Clay. “You and I are on the radio and will act as control. That okay with you?”

Clay shrugged and followed her out the door, closing it behind them. “It’s your op. I’m just here to advise and lend a hand.”

“And grade me,” she added with a wry grin. “They’re setting up a small conference room over at City Hall for a command post. I asked one of the deputies to outfit it with maps, get a copy of James’s trial transcript and mark where his possible targets live and work. The EOD and other visiting personnel can use the place to coordinate.”

“A-plus, so far,” Clay told her. “I like the way you handled everything, how you interface with local authorities.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t handling them if that’s what you think. They’re wise people with good ideas. It pays to listen and learn, even when you don’t fully agree. I do wish the sheriff had bought into this a little more, however. We’re going to be stretched pretty thin.”

“You show respect where it’s due,” he said with a smile. “I like that.”

She replied with a succinct bob of her head. “Now, if you want, I’ll take you to Karen’s Kitchen and we’ll get some breakfast. I’m starved.”

He followed her out to the car and got in. “Don’t tell me. Karen’s another cousin of yours?”

She hopped in the driver’s side and slammed the door. “Nope, but she cooks the best hominy you ever had.”

“Hominy? Is that like grits?” Clay wasn’t sure he wanted a taste of that, but Van hadn’t led him wrong so far when it came to food. “I’m going to need some way to work out,” he told her. “If I don’t watch it, I’ll soon be too overweight to keep up with you.”

“We’ll run off some calories this evening,” she promised, wheeling the Explorer to the left and crossing the bridge to the other side of town. “Nothing like hauling it around a mountain for about five miles to keep trim.”

“Five miles?” He wanted to wheeze already. Because of his Seattle assignment, it had been over a week since his last run and he felt out of shape.

“Don’t tell me you’re a candy-ass, Senate,” she teased, laughter sparkling in her dark eyes as she looked over at him. “I had you pegged for going at it nonstop until I cried for mercy.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed at the picture her words painted. He surely didn’t need that image in his head.

“About the grits or whatever it is,” he muttered, trying to change the subject before he betrayed what he was imagining. “What else is on the menu?”

She laughed merrily and wheeled into the parking lot of a glass-fronted diner. With a flourish, she pushed the gearshift into park and sat back, looking at him with an impish expression. “C’mon, man, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Okay, okay, I’m working up to it,” he said, feigning resignation. He liked it when she snickered. Or when she frowned. Or when she looked pensive or delighted or disgusted or uncertain.

Lord, he was in trouble and hadn’t a clue how to avoid the train wreck that was certain to happen when they both stopped fighting whatever this was arcing between them like summer lightning.



The search that day netted nothing. Clay had hoped against hope they would find Hightower, he would confess and this would be over. Then he could go back to McLean and give his report. If he stayed much longer, he knew there would be trouble that had nothing to do with the job. And everything to do with it.

The Walkers made him feel welcome that evening, treating him exactly as they would a member of the family instead of a guest. They obviously didn’t know any other way. He ran with Vanessa, marveling at her endurance. How could she look so damn fragile and possess such strength? She just fascinated the hell out of him, though he was careful not to show it in any way. But his dreams that night drove him crazy.

When morning came, he found himself in the midst of a family gathering that started immediately after breakfast and looked as if it might last all day.

Clay stood on the back deck of the Walkers’ home feeling totally out of place. The house and yard had filled with family. They were celebrating a month’s worth of birthdays all at once. Apparently, this was a tradition. He had counted three cakes on the kitchen table before he’d been gently ousted by the women and herded outside.

Poor Vanessa seemed to be everywhere at once, looking harried but happy. She looked about fifteen in her low-slung jeans, orange tank top and short denim jacket. Her long dark hair, usually confined in that sedate little bun, was caught up in a ponytail today.

Clay had watched her dart across the yard hauling a tray of meat for her grandfather to put on his grill, then dash back inside to help her grandmother and the other women.

She had been pausing frequently, as she was doing right now, to carry on cell-phone conversations with the search teams looking for Hightower and the explosives. She frowned as she tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket and hurried over to him for the current report.

“Still nothing,” she told him. “You know what I think?”

“That he’s deliberately waiting until the last minute?” Clay guessed.

She drew her dark brows together. “You think so, too?”

Clay shrugged. “In his place, that’s what I would do. Wait until everybody stops looking. By that time, you won’t have much credibility left with the locals. He’s letting you cry wolf.”

She pounded a fist in her palm. “Dammit, I’m playing right into his hands. But how can I not order searches when we know he’s got the C-4? There are so many places he could plant it. The concessions, the exhibits, even turtle-shell rattles carried by the dancers! Who knows where he’ll choose?”

“Want a suggestion?” Clay asked, planning to give it anyway.

She nodded enthusiastically since she wasn’t a prima donna who insisted on calling all the shots. He really appreciated a woman who was willing to listen.

“Use the Explosive Ordinance Disposal teams to search the vehicles, homes and workplaces of those involved in his trial and conviction. He’ll set those first. Do the fair only after everything’s set up and ready to go.”

“That’s pretty much what they’re doing now, except that I asked them to go ahead and clear the bleachers.” She shifted from one foot to the other, obviously antsy. “I should be over there, doing something myself.” She threw up her hands in frustration.

“Not today. Not unless they find something.” Clay handed her a soft drink from the cooler on the deck. “Here. If you hover, they’ll be insulted and feel like you think they don’t know what they’re doing.”

She was already nodding, muttering the word delegate to herself. Clay smiled, knowing that was her weakest point, the ability to relinquish even a little control. But she was working on it.

Her cousin, Cody, wandered over. “What are you two looking so grim about? Am I interrupting something?”

“You live to interrupt things,” Vanessa teased. Laughing slyly, she poked his concave chest with her finger. “Look at him. He’s got a coyote-mischief look on his face, doesn’t he? That wicked, sneaky little look!” She poked him again, harder, then handed Clay her drink can. “I can still take you, cuz. Show me what you got!” She backed off and beckoned, taunting him. “Scared of little girls, cuz…zin?”

To Clay’s surprise, Cody rushed her. She grabbed his arm and, using his momentum, flipped him neatly onto the grass. He rolled to his feet growling in mock anger and rushed her again. They fell in a heap, laughing like loons.

Clay cleared his throat and looked away, checking to see what her grandfather and the others milling about the yard thought of the horseplay. He didn’t much like it himself. Undignified, he thought. Then he wondered if that was really what he thought. Maybe he just didn’t like seeing her make physical contact with another guy, especially one who seemed to be enjoying it so much.

Cody Walker was whipcord lean, not much taller than Vanessa and they were pretty well matched physically. Still, Clay didn’t like how the man had grabbed for her as if he meant business. Twice. Because of his own size, Clay was used to pulling his punches when he trained with women. He avoided doing so whenever possible.

“How about you, cowboy?” she asked him, jumping to her feet, dusting the grass off her jeans. “How’s your hand-to-hand?”

Clay pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow as he assessed her size. “I’ll pass. It wouldn’t be much of a contest.”

“Ah, come on, scaredy-cat. Give it your best shot,” she said. “Afraid to get those new jeans dirty? Or are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” She was biting her bottom lip and grinning. “You lead such a sedentary life, Senate! How do you keep your job?”

Clay grabbed for her, intending to toss her over his shoulder and show her how easily he could overpower and sweep her off her feet.

She ducked, whirled one leg, hit the backs of his knees and, in a blink, was on top of him with the heel of her hand right under his nose. With a sharp shove, she could have easily embedded the bones of it into his brain. He looked up at her and smiled. “Uncle.”

With a roll of her eyes, she got up. “Well, you’re no fun at all!” She shook her head in disgust. “And I am not paying any taxes ever again if you’re the best the government can hire.”

They had drawn quite a crowd. A snickering, pointing crowd. Clay thought maybe he’d better get into the spirit of the thing before he dishonored male agents everywhere.

He slowly rose to his feet, gave her fair warning, then went for her again. This time, he figured precisely what she would do, blocked her move and had her over his shoulder in less than a second. She cried out as if wounded. Clay quickly set her on her feet to see if he had really hurt her and found himself flat on his back before he knew what had happened.

She pranced comically around the yard, preening in her victory, bowing low to the boos and cries of “Unfair!”

Clay was laughing at her antics along with the others, not minding at all that his jeans were grass-stained and the sleeve of his shirt was ripped. “This is worse than touch football,” he complained.





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