On Solid Ground: Book 3 in The Grounded Series

By Jansen Schmidt

Trusting each other is the only way to defeat the evil they face.

The exciting conclusion of the award-winning Grounded Series trilogy.

While tracking illegal immigrants through hidden passageways on Apache land in Arizona, FBI agent Gage Youngblood, stumbles upon a human trafficking operation. Before he can pursue, an unexpected call from Qiana Apachito, his former girlfriend, now heading up the local Indian Affairs Office for the Department of Justice, interrupts his mission. He finds himself grudgingly helping her investigate an unearthed corpse, a corpse they suspect may be the body of a man they pursued years earlier in a clandestine mission; a mission that would be career-ending for them both.

Their quest to identify the human remains and true cause of death leads them to several young girls living in the clutches of a cult leader with sinister plans. While searching for answers, they must reexamine their relationship and deal with unhealed emotional wounds.

Can these ex-lovers, combine their talents and put aside their anger and hurt long enough to bring down the trafficking operation, free the enslaved women and rekindle lost love? Find out in this high stakes, action-packed adventure across the Arizona desert.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098353612

Book preview

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2021 by Jansen Schmidt

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by BookBaby

ISBN (Print edition) 978-1-09835-360-5

ISBN (eBook edition) 978-1-09835-361-2

Library of Congress CIP data applied for.

Table of Contents

Jansen Schmidt Novels

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Before you go . . . .

Coming soon . . . .

Jansen Schmidt Novels

Grounded Series

On Common Ground

On Hallowed Ground

On Solid Ground

Coming Soon

Family Ties Series

The Ties That Bind

Acknowledgments

While writing a novel is, for the most part, a lonely solitary endeavor, no book is ever written without the help of others. While fiction is primarily imaginary stories from the minds of the author, many portions of the work are derived from real people, places, events and experiences. A good portion of a writer’s time is spent researching; everything from weather patterns, to local law enforcement regulations, vernacular, firearms, and the list goes on. I am eternally grateful to the following persons for sharing their expertise and opinions during the developmental phase of this story: Andi Cumbo-Floyd, the ladies from Mississippi Writers’ Anonymous, Jack Burright, Layne Goode, Melanie Atkins, and, of course, my wonderful husband, Corey.

For Dad

Because he always believes in me.

Chapter One

Gage Youngblood checked his compass and expelled a breath. After fighting his way through a dense patch of Catclaw Acadia, that left him scratched and bleeding, he sprawled in a lengthening shadow of an Alligator Juniper. Turkey vultures circled overhead, waiting for the right moment to pounce on whatever putrid carcass decayed below.

Late afternoon sun beat against his shoulders as he perched on a ledge of the steep rocky eastern slope of the Weaver Mountains. Despite it being almost twilight, the hottest part of the day, he’d started his hike late in the afternoon. He needed to be at this forty-five-hundred-foot altitude before dusk. That altitude afforded the best view of the activity happening in the shadowed crevices and canyons below that elevation after dark.

After twilight, small human caravans, moved en masse from shadow to shadow, until they reached their next clandestine destination, usually a cave or long-abandoned mine shaft, where they would sleep throughout the day and move again at night. For several years, Mexican immigrants, fortunate enough to escape discovery at the border, were using Indian reservations to cross through Arizona on their way to California or other states with large sanctuary cities to get absorbed in.

For a few months, Gage’s job had been to scour the hills of central Arizona for caravans like the one he’d been following for the past two nights. Because of his Apache ancestry, he had the freedom to move unrestricted on any of the federally recognized reservations in this area. His job, tracking the migrants, required regular reports to his superiors at Homeland Security, ICE, Border Control, and the FBI so that task force members could be in place along the route to stop the migration.

Gage had strict orders to stay out of sight and not to engage in any way, just report. It was lonely boring work. But, after his latest eight-month, and final, tour in Afghanistan, he welcomed the solitude. At least he had in the beginning. Now? Now he wouldn’t mind a companion on occasion.

Usually the illegals traveled north, but the band he’d discovered two nights ago, moved south, at a much slower pace, as if laden with a heavy burden. After much calculation, he’d chosen tonight’s spot with the hope of getting close enough to figure out why the direction change and why the slow-going. The closer proximity was risky, but he needed to see faces to determine if his gut instinct was right.

He eased into a sitting position in the shade of a nearby Emory Oak, ripe with dangling clusters of new green flowers. Keeping one hand on the field glasses, he guzzled half a bottle of water from his backpack. The turkey sandwich and bag of chips he’d also packed called to his growling stomach, but food would have to wait.

Squinting through his binoculars, rotating his head in a slow arc, he spotted his targets. What the hell?

What he saw through the lenses confirmed his suspicion. He scooted closer to the ledge being careful not to dislodge any pebbles. Something much more sinister than a band of fleeing Mexicans was being smuggled through the high country.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He hadn’t checked in yet today. Probably one of his bosses, wanting an update. He glanced at the caller ID.

Qiana? He let it buzz another time. What the hell does she want? He should have removed her number from his phone two years ago when she’d ripped his heart from his chest, but for some reason—a reason he didn’t care to explore—he hadn’t.

His finger hovered over the ignore button as his eyes followed the trail of people picking their way through the thick underbrush on the steep cliff about a hundred yards below. Screw it. Without taking the binoculars from his eyes he answered the call, being careful to keep his voice low. Whatever you want, I’m not interested.

I need to see you.

Well, give me ten seconds, I’ll text you a selfie.

A sigh preceded her response. It’s important.

He lowered the binoculars, sat up and leaned against the knobby trunk of the tree. I’m not at your beck and call anymore.

It’s about Rogan Lone Eagle.

Rogan Lone Eagle? There’s a name he hadn’t heard in a while. Three, maybe four years ago? His stomach did a little quivery thing that sent anxious adrenaline coursing through his veins culminating in an accelerated heart-beat and sweating palms. Not good.

You still there? Qiana asked.

"Yeah, I’m still here, which is at least two hours away from you." Two hours without adding in the hour downhill trek on foot back to his car.

I’ll wait.

Keeping his voice low in the twilight quietude, he growled. I’ll come by your office in the mor—

I’d really like it to be tonight.

I don’t give a shit what you’d really li—

Please?

Fuck. He would have sworn that sultry voice had no hold over him any longer but, here he sat like an eager pup anxious to do her bidding.

They found his body, she added.

Double fuck.

Chapter Two

Qiana Apachito paced in front of the living room window, eyes glued to the horizon for any flash of light that, due to the lateness of the hour, could only be Gage. She wasn’t sure he’d come, given the way she’d dumped him two years ago, out of the clear blue sky with no explanation. But, the discovery of the body on Hidden Springs Apache Reservation could be career-ending for them both. He knew it as well as she did. He’d come.

When she saw headlights, she checked the mirror in the hallway one more time, smoothing her hair for the umpteenth time and rubbing a tiny dab of lip gloss off her front tooth. She shouldn’t try so hard to look good for him, knowing that he hated her, and this was the absolute last place he’d want to spend a Thursday night, but she made the effort anyway. Because, damn it, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop caring about him or wishing she’d made different decisions two years ago.

The doorbell rang. Heart racing, she sucked in a huge breath and counted to three before releasing it back into the universe. She opened the door and all the oxygen left her lungs. She’d thought it impossible for Gage Youngblood to get any sexier. She’d been wrong. His hair was still too long and his ego still too big, but her girl parts seemed quite excited about the whole package including the stubble darkening his jaw.

Hey, was all she managed to eke out.

Gage didn’t even try to be subtle when his gaze slid down her body and back up. She felt naked and on fire and, for the first time in a very long time, desirable. When his eyes connected with hers, he squinted for a fraction of a second, almost as if he’d expected a different face on her familiar body.

You look like shit. He brushed past her into the living room.

She closed the door and braced her forehead against the smooth solid surface, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. Even though it had been eight months since her final treatment, her skin still retained a pasty quality giving her an ashen tinge. And she’d only gained back four of the thirty pounds she’d lost since surgery. Take the high road, Qiana. You broke his heart and he’s out for vengeance. It’s good to see you, too, she replied when she’d composed herself.

What the hell did you do to your hair? It looks ridiculous.

The impulse to touch her head could not be quelled. She ran her fingers through the short locks hugging her scalp. Don’t react. Thanks for coming. She headed toward the kitchen. Can I get you a cup of coffee or a beer?

He flopped onto the couch. This isn’t a social call.

She paused. I’ll make coffee.

She busied herself in the kitchen, measuring coffee grounds and pouring water into the coffee maker. She didn’t have to turn around to know he’d followed her. Her traitorous body wanted to run to him and wrap around his strength and warmth. She closed her eyes. Get a grip.

The legs of a chair scraped against the tile floor when he pulled it away from the table. She took two mugs from the cupboard and opened another cabinet for sugar and powdered creamer even though she knew he drank his coffee black. The more busy-work she could create, the less time she’d have to spend pretending his nearness didn’t affect her.

She took spoons and paper napkins from a drawer. She felt his dark eyes bore into her back, but she refused to look at him until she could contain the zealous hormones zipping haphazardly through her body.

The coffee pot sputtered, spewing steam. Gage fiddled with whatever items she’d left on the table. With nothing left to prepare, she bundled together the creamer, sugar, spoons and napkins and turned around. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice her shaking hands when she put the items down.

His eyes met hers but not before she caught him reading the label on a prescription bottle he’d helped himself to from her collection of medications. He clasped the orange plastic bottle between his thumb and forefinger. How long you been taking Tamoxifen?

Oh, God. She clutched the coffee fixings to her chest so they wouldn’t fall to the floor. She didn’t want to talk about this. Why didn’t I stay in the living room?

Because you wanted to put some distance between your pathetic needy self and the hunk-a, hunk-a burnin love you crushed like a bug because you were too terrified to tell him the truth, that’s why.

She shrugged one shoulder. A few months.

Behind his dark-eyed gaze—the same one she used to get lost in when he’d brought her to the peak of passion—she saw him mentally calculating the days and weeks and months from the time she ended their relationship to the present.

She pressed her hips into the table and slid the items in her arms toward the center, creating a barrier of sorts between his chair and the empty one across from it. When she turned to pour the coffee, he grabbed her wrist.

Their eyes connected. Her breath hitched. She swallowed, blinked several times.

Sit down, he rasped.

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it again when he tugged on her arm. He inclined his head toward the vacant chair. She complied, crossing her arms under her reconstructed breasts. So, Rogan Lo—

We’ll get to that. First, we’re going to talk about this. He tapped the prescription bottle against the table.

They stared at each other for what must have been less than a minute but might as well have been an hour.

When were you diagnosed?

She bowed her head. He knew the answer. The time had come to suck it up and tell him the whole hideous truth. What she should have done twenty months, two weeks and six days ago.

You’ve never lied to me, Qiana. Why’d you lie about this?

It was stage four breast cancer. She wondered if he even heard the whispered response.

"So instead of telling me, your boyfriend, the man who loved you, the man who would have moved mountains for you, would have swallowed burning coals for you, would have walked barefoot across a pit of vipers for you, you . . . you what? Broke up with me? That was your first plan of action?"

No. Her brain screamed. I was trying to protect you. Her fingers were driven by instinct to grip the golden wolf pendent with a deep royal purple sugalite stone that lay against her chest. She slid it back and forth along the custom-made golden chain around her neck. The necklace had been a gift from her great grandfather as a protective talisman for strength and wisdom. "I was given a death sentence, Gage. The doctors gave me a five percent chance of survival. Five percent! I should have died in a month. How does anybody deal with that?"

Well, by pushing away the people who love you of course.

Dammit, now he’d pushed her pissed off button; triggered the hot spot that always made her defensive. She had to get mad right back otherwise she’d blubber like a two-year-old, begging him to take her back. Yes, I pushed you away. Her response was brusque. It needed to be, or she’d have a complete melt down. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I was scared shitless. I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. How does anyone prepare for death? I couldn’t have any complications.

His brows practically touched his hairline. "Complica—? I was a complication?"

Distraction then. Whatever, she wailed.

Distraction. We’d spent almost two years practically inseparable, but I was just a distraction?

Tears threatened to spill. She never used to cry, and never in front of anyone. Until her surgery. Now she cried at every little inconsequential thing. The pills were supposed to help with mood swings and other menopausal symptoms associated with loss of estrogen, but being around Gage skewed everything sideways, inside out, and upside down. She swallowed. "Gage. Please. Stop. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. If you want me to say I’m sorry, I’ll say I’m sorry. I admit that breaking up with you was the wrong thing to do. It was stupid, okay. But, please understand . . . I was so scared."

He pushed his chair back, balancing on the back legs, and folded his arms across his chest. He studied her through narrowed eyes. You didn’t think I could handle it?

She inhaled, somewhat calmed by the fresh-brewed coffee aroma filling the room. At least he wasn’t shouting any more. She stifled the impulse to reach out to him, to hold his hand or something. But he’d closed himself off. I didn’t want you to have to.

His focus, so intent, made her look away. She huffed. If you’ll recall, we weren’t getting along very well anyway. And, you had to go to Afghanistan. I wanted your sole focus to be on staying alive—not getting blown up—and coming home in one piece. I didn’t want you worrying about me.

Hmmpft. I guess sending me to the sandbox angry and reckless because I no longer gave a shit about anything was a far better idea.

She stood and walked to the sink, planting her hands on the counter. She wanted to throw something or scream, or both. Life had not been fair, and she’d been stupid, but she couldn’t change the past. She’d been down the why me trail and the road of remorse dozens of times over the past couple of years. She refused to go there again. That’s just it, she said. I wasn’t thinking. About anything. Except dying. She turned and glared at him. And, I’m sorry for that. I truly am.

It was his turn to look away. When the chair landed on all fours again, his shoulders slumped. She knew that most of the steam had blown out of his system. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. Silence—taut with regret and words that should have been spoken years ago—swelled between them. Gage cleared his throat. So . . . are you . . . okay now? Or. . . .?

They removed both breasts. And some lymph nodes. There were . . . complications, but they’re pretty sure they got all the cancer. Now it’s just a waiting game.

His gaze fell to her chest, like she knew it would. She avoided the urge to turn away, instead she let him ogle. She wondered what he was thinking. Wondered what she’d do if he came to her. Held her. Kissed her. Touched her breasts. Would they respond to him like they used to?

She shivered, unable to stifle the direction of her thoughts. She turned her back to him, poured a cup of coffee, took a sip, set the cup on the counter. She hadn’t heard him move, but she felt the warmth of his presence at her back. He cupped her shoulders with large strong hands. Memories of other times those capable hands had roamed all over her skin flooded her brain.

She shivered. In that instant, she had her answer. Her body would respond to even his slightest touch.

I’m sorry. He raised one palm and stroked the back of her head. My smartass comment about your hair. I was out of line.

You’re mad at me. You have every right to be. I hurt you.

Yeah. You did. But still . . . I shouldn’t have said what I did.

It’s okay. I knew you were lashing out.

He rested his chin on the top of her head. It’s no secret that I’m a world class asshole.

She fought the urge to lean back into him. You have your moments.

When he squeezed her shoulders, she thought he was going to hug her. Instead he sighed and released her. He leaned his butt against the counter next to her, hip-to-hip, she facing the window, he facing the kitchen. Close, but not touching. We’re going to re-visit this. But I need some time to . . . process everything. So, don’t think you’re off the hook. There’s no way I’m letting this go. I’m still mad at you. But it’s late and I left my post early to come here. Tell me what you know about Rogan’s body being found.

Chapter Three

Where did they find him? Gage asked after containing the urge to wrap her in his arms and never let go.

Qiana unhunched her shoulders. He wondered if it was the change of topic or the fact that he’d stopped touching her that made her relax. She’d been wound up tighter than a tumbleweed in a tornado since he’d arrived. Even an old man with cataracts and advanced glaucoma could have seen the desire in her eyes when she’d opened the front door. Her dilated pupils, parted lips and husky hello, had been hard to resist. He’d almost kissed her senseless right there on the spot, anger be damned.

Once he’d reined in his libido, he’d homed in on her obvious jumble of conflicted emotions loosely bundled together and threatening to unravel at any minute. Very un-Qiana-like.

Then he’d seen the prescription bottles on her dining room table and his entire world skidded to a screeching halt. Qiana—his beautiful Qiana—had cancer? No wonder she looked like she’d been through hell. She had.

When questioned about the medications, she’d been as skittish as a newly hatched butterfly testing its wings for flight. At one point he thought she might even cry. Not Qiana-like at all. Thank God she hadn’t, or he’d have headed for the hills. Female tears were his kryptonite.

At Hidden Springs, she replied. Where they broke ground on the casino.

He crossed his arms and blew out a breath. Then it’s not him.

Qiana snatched up her cup and returned to the table. It’s him.

It can’t be. I searched that whole area that night. The blood trail stopped. There was no body. He wasn’t there.

Then whose body is it?

How the hell should I know? Where you getting your information?

My office got a call from your sister, of all people. A courtesy call from the new tribal leader. Just in case the remains aren’t Indian, she wanted me to have a heads up.

Gage swallowed his mounting frustration. He poured a second cup of coffee and joined her at the table. "Just in case? You don’t even know the body is Rogan’s? You called me on an assumption?"

Her jaw clenched. Her chin wrinkled. The way her hands cradled her mug suggested she knew more than she was letting on. Or is she just scared? Presuming the latter, he leaned forward and covered her hands with his. We’ve been over this at least a hundred times, Kia. You didn’t kill him.

Then, where is he? If he’s alive he’d have shown up somewhere by now. It’s been three years.

Her eyes glistened. Tears? This is not the Qiana he once knew and loved. That Qiana laughed in the face of danger, scoffed at fear of any kind. She lived life on the edge, took chances, sought out danger. She definitely did. Not. Cry. "Look, I know you’ve been worried ever since that night, but trust me, you didn’t kill him."

I stabbed him. Twice.

Her wobbly voice pierced the armor around his heart. Again, he battled the overwhelming desire to hug her. He leaned closer, close enough to kiss her. Relax.

Her gaze found his. She pulled her head away a fraction of an inch.

Breathe, he whispered. He released her hands and leaned away. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll visit Grace tomorrow and see if I can find out what’s going on.

Please don’t tell your sister—

I’ll be discreet.

What are we going to do if it’s him?

He studied her face for several seconds. She worried her jaw from side to side, her nostrils flared with each intake of air. Hey. He waited until she looked at him. We’ll deal with it. Everything’s going to be okay.

She expelled a ragged breath. We should have gone to the police.

Yeah, well, shoulda, woulda, coulda, it’s all history now. What were we supposed to do, report a murder but not produce a body or a crime scene or a murder weapon?

I could have made a report against him for assault.

He laughed. "I suppose you could have if he had attacked you."

He stabbed me!

Yeah, after you put a choke hold on him.

She huffed. Well, we should’ve done something. Now we look guilty.

Well, you attacked a guy you thought had something to do with your missing sister. Then, when you thought you’d killed him, instead of calling the authorities, you called me. Then, I went in search of his body for the purpose of getting rid of it. I hate to say it sweetheart, but that makes us guilty.

She leaned back in her chair and emitted a low growl.

The part you’re forgetting, he continued, is that there was no body and no knife. Therefore, no murder. Zilch. Nadda. And no one’s filed a missing person’s report. You’re getting all worked up over nothing.

Unless it is him.

Gage gulped coffee. I’ll go see Grace in the morning. While I’m on the Rez, I’ll go over to the construction site and take a look around. I’ll talk to whoever’s got loose lips and try to find out where they took the body. Okay?

She hunched in her chair with downcast eyes. He didn’t think it was possible, but she looked even paler than when he’d arrived. He kneeled next to her and curled an arm around her shoulders letting his forearm rest on the back of her chair. I can’t promise anything. You know that. Even if I can get my hands on the autopsy report, which is doubtful, it won’t be ready for a few days. Hopefully, dental records will provide a positive ID before that, but there’s absolutely no reason for anyone to give that information to me. The best we can hope for is that that information will be provided to the tribal council and my sister, as tribal council leader, will be willing to share it with me. But again, there’s no reason for her to do that, and, if I press too hard, she’s going to wonder why I want to know.

I know, she whispered.

He didn’t think she was even aware that she’d leaned into him and now rested her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his other arm around her and cuddled her closer. She’d lost so much weight that she dang near disappeared inside the circle of his arms. She sniffed. He clasped her shoulders and held her away from him. Are you crying?

She untangled herself from his embrace and swiped at her eyes. Yeah, Gage, I’m crying. I do that sometimes.

No, you don’t.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears continued to stream down her cheeks. Just go.

He gaped at her, unsure how to proceed. He should hug her or provide some sort of comfort, but he was afraid that if he touched her one more time, he’d say and do things he’d regret; like admit that he still loved her and that he’d do anything—anything—to ensure she never cried again.

She grabbed the coffee mugs and dumped the remaining contents into the sink. I’m sorry, she said. I don’t mean to be emotional but I’m very . . . fragile right now. My body is still trying to get rid of all the poison they pumped into me. I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep, my hormones are all whacked out, nothing tastes good any more, all my hair fell out, my breasts are—

Okay, okay, shh. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, being careful that his forearms were well below her breasts. He kissed the top of her head. Stop.

She turned and burrowed her face into his chest. I don’t want to go to jail after all I’ve been through.

Stop talking. He hugged her as close as he dared, not knowing if she was in any pain or discomfort from the surgery. So many questions about her surgery, recovery and prognosis swirled in his head. How he wished he’d been here to help her through the whole horrible ordeal. The realization that he hadn’t been the man she’d needed hit hard. Maybe, if he’d. . . .

He squeezed a little tighter, reveling in the feel of her unbound breasts against his chest. Don’t cry. We’ll get this figured out. One way or another.

You need to look for the amulet.

What?

She pulled away, but kept her arms looped around his waist. Maline’s amulet. The one she wore around her neck. Like mine. She curled her fingers around the wolf and sugalite amulet and extended it away from her body so that Gage could see it.

The one Rogan was wearing the night you attacked him?

It was my sister’s. There’s no way she’d have given it to anybody. He had to have taken it. She paced the kitchen on bare feet. Our great-grandfather gave them to us. He had them made specifically for us. The orange tourmaline crystal in hers was wrapped in eighteen karat gold wire formed in the shape of moose antlers. He saw a moose in his dream about a week after she was born. That’s how he chose her spirit animal. Even the gold chain it hung on was custom made. Like mine. The chain was missing, but I know that amulet was hers. Rogan had it around his neck on a leather cord. I know he knew what happened to her.

Gage studied her through narrowed eyes. He remembered the night Qiana had called him saying that she’d seen Rogan Lone Eagle wearing an amulet around his neck that she thought belonged to her sister. Instead of waiting for him at the convenience store about ten miles from Hidden Springs where she’d called him from, she’d followed Rogan on her own.

The amulet should still be there, she said.

He scratched the side of his neck. Let’s assume the body is Rogan’s. He darted a glance in her direction before continuing. Anything found near the remains would have been picked up by a forensics team by now. Anything still on the body would be at the morgue. I’m not on the forensics team, the investigation squad, or the payroll at the morgue. Which means, I’m not privy to that information.

She whirled to face him, arms akimbo. Never mind then. I’ll call Noah.

She made a beeline for the living room. He followed. Will you calm down.

I can’t calm down. If it’s Rogan, then I’ve lost the only lead I’ve ever had in finding my sister.

He blew out a breath and approached with caution, settling his hands on her shoulders. Please give me a few hours to do some snooping around. Okay?

She wouldn’t look at him, but neither did she pull away. He slid his palms down her arms clasping her hands in his. It’s almost midnight. I won’t have enough time to get back up Mingus Mountain tonight anyway so I’ll—

Mingus Mountain? That’s the middle of nowhere. What’re you doing there?

That’s need to know.

She rolled her eyes. Pfft. Whatever.

Listen. He patted their joined hands together a few times. I’ll go out to Hidden Springs first thing in the morning. See what I can see. I’ll talk to my sister and whoever else will give me the time of day. You call Noah and see what he knows. Not only is he the Tribal Liaison, he’s Grace’s boyfriend, remember? I’m pretty sure he’ll be more inclined to talk to you than Grace will be to talk to me. You are his boss after all.

She slipped her hands out of his grasp. I’m the Director of the Indian Country Crimes Unit. I was appointed by the Department of Justice. He’s the Tribal Liaison for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. While we both work for the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division, I’m his counterpart, not his superior.

Semantics. My point is, if Grace tells him anything—and you’ve got to believe she does—he’d be inclined, maybe even obligated, to share it with you.

"Obligated is a stretch. We work independently of each other."

Red-tape bureaucratic bullshit.

"Well, yeah, he could share information with me. She hugged her abdomen and faced the window, At least until they discover my DNA on the body."

Chapter Four

Qiana went to bed more exhausted than she’d been in weeks, yet sleep refused to come. She tried to convince herself that it was the discovery of a body on the casino construction site that kept her thoughts occupied and not the close encounter of an erotic kind with her former lover, Gage Youngblood. Before his arrival, she’d made every effort to mentally gird herself against his potent male pheromone effluvium. But, as soon as she’d opened her door and seen him standing in the porch light oozing sex appeal all over her threshold she’d been reduced to a mindless puddle of quivering, tingling goo. So much for girding oneself.

They’d only briefly touched a couple of times, but long-suppressed emotions and dormant desires flooded her body the moment he’d brushed past her into the inner sanctum of her home. In her mind they’d been naked and in the throes of passion the entire time he’d been in her house, making concentration almost impossible.

She flung the covers back and padded down the hallway. Moonlight poured into the living room bathing the hardwood floors with bluish light. She stood in the shadows staring out the window, fingers caressing the amulet around her neck. A coyote yipped. Then another. Then a series of whiny howls erupted from the pack. She leaned against the doorway leading to the kitchen and listened to the yowling for a few seconds. She wondered if Gage was lying in bed asleep or if he too lay awake restless, yearning and unfulfilled, listening to coyotes.

She pushed away from the doorjamb with a sigh and poured a glass of water. Further attempts at sleep would be futile so she flicked on the light. Her gaze landed on an old two-drawer metal filing cabinet wedged between the end of the counter and the dining table. She withdrew a dog-eared manila folder from the very back of the bottom drawer, a file that hadn’t been opened in more than two years.

Three months after being appointed to her current position by the Department of Justice, she’d made it a priority to review the police file on her missing sister. Because it was well within her job description to be aware of all police activity on federally recognized lands in her jurisdiction, she now had the perfect excuse to review the case. While it could be argued that she didn’t have the authority because her sister had not lived on a reservation, and the obvious conflict of interest, the last place Maline had been seen was Hidden Springs, thereby making it an Indian related case. For days following receipt of the data she’d poured over the scant information looking for clues of any kind as to her sister’s whereabouts or what happened the night she went missing.

The file contained a two-page, fill-in-the-box report and one color photograph. She caressed the glossy image of her little sister, then skimmed the type-written report even though she knew the information by heart.

Tourmaline Maline Willow Apachito, Native American, female, seventeen years old, reported missing by parents Lequoia and Akule Apachito. Tears filled Qiana’s eyes. How sad that a person’s life was so easily reduced to a few stark impersonal statistics. She located a pen in the bottom of a junk drawer and wrote on the inside of the folder: sweet, caring, kind, smart, funny, beautiful.

She sniffed and continued reading. Last seen at a party with a girlfriend, also missing. Possible runaway. Runaway. Qiana had never been able to accept that theory as truth. She probably knew her sibling better than anybody, despite the thirteen-year age gap separating them. There’s no way Maline ran away. She wasn’t unhappy, depressed, bullied or afraid. She had a job she liked. She’d been accepted to the University of Arizona in Tucson where she planned to major in sustainable architecture. She’d been seeing a new guy and claimed to be in love, although she hadn’t introduced him to the family yet. That piece of the puzzle always created red flags, but without a name, no one had any way of tracking the mystery boyfriend down. Even her friends and co-workers claimed ignorance with regard to Maline’s new love interest.

She read the names of everyone the police had interviewed, a much-too-short list in her opinion. Family, friends, co-workers, everyone who attended the party that night.

Dammit. She shouldn’t have confronted Rogan Lone Eagle alone. She of all people knew how quickly a seemingly harmless situation can get out of hand, which is exactly what happened that night when she’d seen him wearing Maline’s necklace. That’s the first line of questioning any detective would pursue when interrogating her; why did someone with her legal education and experience in law enforcement and military training decide to go rogue? She’d been a strategist for the FBI, a combat training leader, and an instructor for the Safe Trails Task Force. She knew better than anyone not to let her emotions get the better of her. Or to go into a potentially volatile situation without back-up.

She closed her eyes. Negative thoughts prodding from every angle. For several long minutes, she paced, reliving that night over and over until she wanted to scream.

She smacked a palm against her forehead. Stupid.

Hoping to channel her energy into something positive, she went back to the living room, gathered a legal pad from her desk drawer and returned to the kitchen. With one more glance at her sister’s photo, she slid the photocopied police folder to one side.

As thoughts blipped through her mind, she jotted them down. Dinner with Gage at a new Mexican restaurant along State Route 87 not too far from the abandoned mining town of Sunflower. Gage getting a call and having to leave. Some kind of new development that blew a case wide open. She’d paid the bill. On her way home she stopped for gas at a convenience store where she spotted a young American Indian man wearing Maline’s amulet. He was getting ready to leave.