From Mission To Marriage

“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.