© 2006

Special thanks go to Norman Koren, photographer extraordinaire, who is always endlessly patient with the photography-challenged; and to Larry DiLucchio, for his wonderfully factual Web site, and his generosity of time in answering questions about Navajo culture. Any errors in the story are undoubtedly due to my not asking the right questions!

“You need to get laid.”

Joe Youngblood shot a narrowed look at Arnie Benally as they crossed the Navajo Tribal Police parking lot toward their cars. Correctly interpreting the danger in his colleague’s glare, Arnie held up his hand placatingly. “Okay, hear me out. All I’m saying is this whole disagreement with your grandfather isn’t like you. Most of us don’t like the Tribal Council’s decision to bring in a belagana to write this book on Navajo culture, but is it really worth being at odds with Charley over? You have different opinions. End of story.”

“And this involves a woman…how?”

“You’re too tightly wound, man.” They paused beside Joe’s unmarked blue Jeep, and Arnie winked. “What you need is a night of hot, mind-numbing sex with some sweet young thing to clear your head. Sex relieves stress. There’s research.”

“That’s charming,” Joe said drily. He dug in the pocket of his jeans for the keys. “Now I can see how you convinced Brenda to marry you. You’ve got the heart of a poet.”

“Brenda would agree with me.” But Arnie cast a quick glance over his shoulder, as if half expecting to see his short plump wife behind him. “She’s even mentioned fixing you up sometime. She’s got a friend who’s…” Meeting Joe’s gaze again, his words trailed off.

But the only sign of Joe’s temper was the tightness with which he clenched the keys in his fist. His voice when he spoke was mild. “I’m capable of finding my own woman. And I’ll take your other suggestion…under advisement.”

“Sure.” Arnie shrugged, and started edging toward his own vehicle. “I-we-just want the best for you, Joe. You know.”

“Yeah. I know.” Opening the driver’s door of his Jeep, Joe slid inside. He slammed the door with a bit more force than necessary, but he wasn’t really angry with Arnie. They’d known each other too long to stay annoyed every time the other man’s mouth ran ahead of his brain.

But the thought of anyone, even his friends, discussing his private life made Joe wince. His separation last year had started the public speculation; the final divorce decree four months ago had fueled it. The Navajo Nation lands encompassed an area the size of West Virginia. But its grapevine was as reliable as Mayberry’s.

He started the car and drove off the lot. He wondered if it was the gossip that had driven Heather, his ex, to move out of Tuba City a few weeks ago. But such conjecture was useless. If he hadn’t been able to figure out what she was thinking in the last few months of their marriage, he sure wasn’t going to be any more successful now. He was long past the point of caring, at any rate.

The only thing he did care about was that she’d taken his son with her.

The familiar burn settled in his chest, spreading. Having joint custody abruptly reduced to every other weekend wasn’t something he planned on accepting. But until the new hearing date arrived, Heather had effectively limited his options.

He smiled grimly, remembering Arnie’s earlier words. The man had been correct about one thing. It was time to make peace with his grandfather. Their relationship had always been too close to let a minor disagreement come between them.

But as for the rest of Arnie’s advice…Joe shook his head. It was a female who’d caused all his problems. The last thing he needed was another woman in his life. For any reason.

It was nearly dusk when Joe pulled up to his grandfather’s log hogan just outside Tuba City. Noticing the single light on inside, he abruptly remembered that tonight was Monday, Charley Youngblood’s poker night. If Joe’s grandfather followed his usual routine, he wouldn’t be back until nearly midnight, after doing his best to fleece those he called his closest friends. Joe may as well head for home. Fence-mending was going to have to wait until tomorrow.

But as he drove away, Joe found the thought of home particularly unappealing. The house always seemed emptier following one of his weekends with Jonny. It seemed filled with the hollow echoes of his son’s voice. His constant questions. His high-pitched squeals and shouts of triumph when he beat Joe, as he was all too apt to do, in a video game. The clever arguments he came up with to avoid bedtime, which showed a devious ingenuity beyond his five years.

Those echoes could ambush a man when exhaustion had lowered his defenses. Could play on his deepest fears and fan them into full-blown panic. Joe wasn’t going to be a weekend father permanently. Some days, clinging to that belief was the only thing that kept him sane.

But it was the threat of those echoes that now had him avoiding home. Rather than taking the turn that would eventually carry him to his house, he veered west, deliberately blanking his mind.

He and Arnie, part of a multiagency task force, were close to an arrest in the crystal meth case they were working and they’d worked later than usual. Dusk was already settling over the area, constructing shadows out of the cottonwoods and juniper trees that posted sentry in the vast space between houses. Housing developments were becoming more common on Navajo lands, but many of the people, including himself, valued a more isolated existence.

He drove nearly ten minutes without passing another vehicle. Lights winked in the distance, and he frowned, slowing. Charley Youngblood owned a handful of rental properties in and around Tuba City. The place ahead belonged to Charley, but Joe knew that it should have been empty. He’d personally escorted the former tenants off the property himself after they’d failed for months to pay rent.

His grandfather had a weakness for sob stories and false promises, but after twelve years on the job, Joe was far more cynical. Either the former tenants had sneaked back in or someone else had decided to take advantage of a vacant building in a remote area.

Joe eased off the road several hundred yards from the house, and cut the lights. Switching off the ignition, he got out and jogged up to the property. There wasn’t a vehicle out front, so he continued around the house. He didn’t find one in back, either.

Silently climbing the porch steps, he peered in the window. He had a partial view into the kitchen, which appeared empty.

Retracing his steps, he circled around the front and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he pounded again, this time with restrained force.

Still no answer.

Joe smiled grimly. If the unlawful occupant inside meant to ignore him, he or she had a very big surprise in store for them. He reached up for the porch roof overhang. Finding the extra key always kept there, within moments he had the door swinging open.

Delaney Carson was lost in a world of her own making, seventies rock screaming through the headphones of her iPod, a computer screen full of images, and her mind flooded with half-formed ideas. Each new project was like this, an exciting, gut-clenching anticipation of possibilities. But this one represented her return to the land of the living, after existing for far too long in a self-induced numbed haze.