Jack glanced toward the window and swore.
Carter followed the direction of his brother’s fixed attention. Amber was standing in the parking lot before the station alone.
Jack quirked a brow. “Still think she’s innocent?”
Amber stepped from the concrete building that included tribal headquarters and the tribal police station and breathed deep.
The air smelled so different here. She’d almost forgotten the crisp clean taste and the moisture. There was water here. Back in Lilac the earth was scorched and parched and thirsty. The dust was everywhere on everything and everyone. She didn’t think she’d ever be clean again. Now she was. Standing here where she belonged.
Or had belonged.
Relinquished, they called it. Carter said it was irrevocable. She’d checked, of course, called the tribal council offices and asked if a tribe member who had relinquished their membership could reapply. The woman on the phone had been blunt. No, she had said. The decision is not like a reversible blanket. Relinquishment is permanent and irrevocable.
Amber added one more item to the list of things her father had stolen from her. And still he was her father and, as such, deserved to be honored. But not loved. He’d lost that along the way.
She thought of Carter, there when she needed him most, and found herself shaking her head in astonishment. He had a message from her uncle, his shaman. She wondered if the message he carried was from her mother or her father.
She set her jaw and breathed, the cool air calming her. What would she do now? She could not go home to her family or stay here on tribal land. She could not bear to go back to Lilac, knowing what had happened. She shivered, afraid of the ghosts of all the ones she knew, torn from this world in such a brutal and cruel way.
Carter would know what to do. He was always so sure of himself. So sure he did not need to ask her what was true, he just moved forward. Omnipotent. But that wasn’t love. It was some kind of possession. He had been too much like her father, and she would not have one more man controlling her. So she’d ended it. The decision had been hard but right. So why did it still hurt so much?
But oh, he was more handsome now than ever.
He had grown out his hair since his military service, and now he wore it loose and long, so it reached midway down his biceps, the strands shining blueblack in the sunlight as they’d flown in the chopper from Lilac. From her place lying on the gurney she could see him sitting beside his brother Kurt. Carter was a Hot Shot now, according to her sister Kay who sent her letters of the happenings on the Rez. Carter no longer wore his uniform, as he had the last time she had seen him. After three tours in the Middle East, he had been honorably discharged and relinquished the US Marine’s uniform for a pair of snug jeans. He wore them cinched about his trim hips with an ornate red coral and turquoise buckle and a soft chambray shirt that showed his muscular form. She wondered if Carter had made the ornament himself because he was a talented silversmith.
A Subaru SUV pulled into the station. She noticed it because such foreign cars were uncommon up here on the Rez.
The black vehicle circled the lot and came to a stop at the curb before her. The driver put the car in Park but didn’t shut down the engine. His passenger met Amber’s gaze, and a smile quirked his lips as he exited the vehicle.
He wore a gray blazer and dark slacks. His ashy brown hair was trimmed and a shade lighter than the closely cut beard. He looked vaguely familiar, but she did not remember where or when she had seen him before.
“Ms. Kitcheyan? Will you please come with us, ma’am?” He had a strong Texas twang in his speech.
Amber stepped back. He reached in his blazer, and she saw his shoulder holster and the black butt of a pistol. He drew out a leather cover and opened the case, revealing an FBI shield.
“I’m Field Agent Muir with the FBI. My driver is Field Agent Leopold. We’ll be taking you to the police station in Darabee to record your statements,” said the agent.
Amber slipped back as her eyes shifted from the agents and then over her shoulder to the station door. It seemed impossibly far. She did not want to go with this man but thought running would be embarrassing.
She glanced at Muir, trying to understand the deep dread congealing in her stomach.
“If you’ll step into the vehicle, ma’am.” Muir extended a hand, indicating the rear seat that lay behind dark tinted windows. She shivered.
“I can’t. They’re waiting for me inside.” She thumbed over her shoulder.
His smile looked more predatory than reassuring. And then it clicked. He wore a sports coat and pants. Not a suit. A sports jacket. She quirked a brow at that; it didn’t seem right.
“Ma’am,” he said again, his tone carrying a warning.
She didn’t hear Carter arrive, but heard him a moment later and turned as he spoke.
“What’s going on here?” Carter asked.
Muir showed his shield and repeated his request for Amber to step into the vehicle. His partner exited the driver’s side and rounded the fender, his hand on the pistol clipped to his hip. He looked remarkably like Muir, with dark brown hair and aviator glasses that covered his eyes. He wore an ill-fitting black suit that puddled at his loafers.
Carter faced off with Muir.
“You’re on tribal land,” said Carter. “Sovereign land. You can’t take her.”
Muir and Leopold shared a silent look, and Carter spoke to her in Apache.
“These two aren’t FBI.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re not taking her,” said Carter to Muir.
“Wanna bet?” said the driver, Leopold, drawing his weapon.
Horror immobilized Amber as the driver flicked off the safety and pointed the weapon at Carter. She moved to step before him, but he tugged her behind him.
“What’s your name?” asked Muir.
“Carter Bear Den.”
The men exchanged a second look. Leopold gave a lazy grin.
“Get in,” said Muir. “Both of you.”
They headed for the black Subaru SUV. Her eyes narrowed at the vehicle. Federal agents drove American-made vehicles. Impala, Taurus, Dodge Charger. She knew that from working a summer internship in Benson with Public Safety. What they didn’t drive was foreign cars.
Carter was right. These two were not FBI.
She glanced to Carter, but he had his eyes on Muir who had now drawn his weapon.
“Get in,” he said, motioning with his pistol.
Amber stepped up and into the SUV. Carter followed a moment later, and the door clicked shut behind them.
Carter spoke to Amber in Apache before either man got in the vehicle.
“Jack’s watching from inside. He’s seen them take us. We just have to stay alive until he can get to us.”
Muir, or whatever his name was, got in first. He sat facing them, pistol pointed at Carter until the driver returned to the adjoining seat. Then they ordered Carter to lift his hands. The driver snapped a handcuff on one of Carter’s wrists, threaded the chain through the handgrip fixed above his door before clipping the other cuff on his opposite wrist.
Amber swallowed and sank back in her seat trying to slow her heartbeat and think. Carter’s face was grim, and she found no reassurance there.
Was