in the back. Her drab gray button-up shirt did not quite hide the flak jacket beneath, and her practical lace-up nylon boots showed salt stains on the toes. Fully erect, she didn’t even reach Clyne’s chin. Her blond hair had again been yanked back into a severe ponytail but the March wind had tugged the side strands away and they now floated down about her pink face. If she were Swedish, he did not think her skin could be any paler. Outwardly, they were completely different, but they had one thing in common. They were both fighters. So why did his chest ache every time he forced himself to look at her?
She seemed ready to spit nails. He lifted one of the fists he had been braced upon from his desk and motioned her forward as a Tai Chi master summoned his next challenger.
Walker’s fine golden brow arched and her pointed chin dipped. He lowered his chin as well, as one ram does when preparing to butt heads with another. He thought he welcomed the fight, but her proximity raised a completely different kind of anticipation. He identified the curling tension of sexual desire and nearly groaned out loud. Not for this woman. No. Absolutely not.
Her stride was staccato and devoid of any female wiles. So why was he breathing so fast?
Now he noticed how her eyes seemed not quite sapphire, but more ocean blue and flashing like a thunderstorm.
She marched into his office with her coat clutched at her left hip, leaving her gun hand free.
“Just so we are clear,” said Clyne, “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Good afternoon to you, too, Councilman.”
He ground his teeth. Something about her made him forget his manners. He had a reputation for charm but this woman stripped away that veneer like paint thinner on varnish. He felt about as enchanting as a prickly cactus. He glared at her, deciding if he should retreat, advance or return her greeting.
“I don’t need protection,” he said.
“I have a slug in my body armor that says otherwise.”
“That was down there in your world.”
She lifted a brow. “Well, I really don’t own the whole thing. I’m just a renter.”
He scowled because if he didn’t he feared he might laugh.
“So do you want to tell me if your problem is with my world, the FBI or just me?”
“You don’t have that kind of time.”
“Try me.” She folded her arms and braced against the door frame.
“Well, let’s start with single white women adopting poor little Indian children.”
She sucked in a breath as his first blow struck home. “I was married when we adopted our daughter.”
That announcement set him back and he didn’t think he hid the surprise. Clyne quickly reevaluated. He’d assumed she was one of those career women who wanted it all and had decided that if she didn’t want the physical inconvenience of being pregnant, she could just buy a baby.
“Was?” he said.
FBI personal records were sealed. Even Gabe, the tribal police chief, could find very little information about her. That put him at a disadvantage here because she likely knew a great deal about him. Perhaps his brother was right. They should know what kind of a woman had raised their sister.
Was she one of those modern women who thought life came as an all-you-could-eat buffet? Clyne knew better. Life was all about difficult choices.
Should he press or drop it? He studied her body language, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle as she braced against the solid wooden frame. She was in full-out protective mode. But he was off balance now, fighting with a hand tied behind his back.
“Yes, was,” she said.
“So you are now unmarried?”
She inclined her head like a queen consenting to give a response.
“But you have sole custody. Jovanna’s only guardian?” asked Clyne, refusing to use the word parent as he considered the possibility of having to go through another custody battle with her husband.
“Guardian? I’m her mother. And yes, I am her sole guardian.”
“Then you should take a desk job,” he said. Her flashing eyes made it clear what she thought of his suggestion.
“Risk comes with living. Your mother’s death should have taught you that. And this reservation doesn’t have magic properties. You’re not safe hiding up here on this mountain, either.”
“We aren’t hiding. We’re living and we choose to be separate. To preserve our culture and teach our children where they come from and who they are.” Even to his own ears his words sounded like a speech given from rote.
She had uncrossed her arms and now tilted her head. Her hair shone yellow as corn silk. He saw something in her eyes.
“Doing fabulously well by all accounts. What’s the teen pregnancy rate now?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Not if you have a teenage daughter it isn’t. And where you come from is not as important as where you end up,” she said. He’d heard the sentiment before, frequently from those who did not know where they came from or needed to forget. Which was she? A terrible childhood or one without roots?
“Does she even know about us?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed and that cool demeanor slipped. “She does.”
“And about the challenge?”
“Yes, again.”
What did Jovanna think about that, to learn she was not an orphan but had an entire family waiting for her? Did she feel betrayed that they had not come for her sooner?
They had gotten little information from their attorney about their sister’s life. Mainly facts. Nothing that would tell him how she felt or if she had been happy.
Jovanna had been removed from the vehicle after their mother’s death by a state trooper, who had turned her over to child welfare, who had seen her in her dance competition dress and turned her over to BIA. The trooper’s writing, “One survivor,” had been transposed to read “No survivors” and they had learned, incorrectly, that they had lost both their mother and sister to a drunk driver.
Jovanna had disappeared into the system. Only after their grandmother had insisted they place a stone lamb on Jovanna’s grave to mark her tenth birthday, had they learned that only their mother was buried in that grave. The search had begun. He had flown to South Dakota and hired an investigator. Gabe had used his badge to get more information. Kino had followed the procedures to open the adoption and Clay now waited for a ruling from the judge on their motion.
But during those nine years, Jovanna had been listed as a member of the Sweetgrass tribe of Sioux Indians. No kin had come forward, so she was placed in an orphanage at age two and then in a foster home with a Sioux family at age three. Then Jovanna had been adopted just after she turned four.
“We want to meet her,” said Clyne.
Her hand settled on the grip of her pistol and her eyes met his. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will only make it harder when we leave.”
Leave? Where was she going? And then he remembered what his uncle had said about his new partner. A hotshot. A firecracker. Destined to be promoted and transferred to a major field office. And if that happened, they might lose Jovanna again.
“You’re leaving?” he asked.
She nodded. “Just as soon and as far from here as possible.”
He took a step in her direction, leaving the authority of his desk. She sidestepped until she was beyond his grasp. He lifted his top from the coat rack, his attention