He drew out his phone and sent a text. By the time she had settled into the passenger side, adjusted both the seat and safety belt, he received a reply.
“It’s there now,” he said. The photo appeared a moment later and he plastered his hand across his mouth to keep her from seeing his grin. Axel slipped behind the wheel and performed an illegal turn on a double solid, a privilege of his position, and took them back the way they had come.
“Why are you whistling?” she asked.
Was he? Perhaps. It was just that such moments of glee were hard to contain. By the time they reached the sign indicating the border of the Mohawk rez, she caught sight of her vehicle.
Someone had poured red paint over the roof and it was dripping down over both the windows and doors on one side. There were handprints all over the front side panel.
“My car!” she cried, leaning forward for a good look. Then she pointed. “That’s damaging federal property.”
“Looks like a war horse,” he said, admiring the paint job. It was so rare that people got exactly what they deserved.
Rylee Hockings stood beside the surly sheriff with hands on hips as she regarded the gooey paint oozing from the metallic door panel of her official vehicle and onto the road. She struggled to keep her chin up. Her first field assignment had headed south the minute she headed north. When her boss, Lieutenant Catherine Ohr, saw this car, she would be livid.
Her vehicle had been towed and left just outside the reservation land and abandoned beneath the sign welcoming visitors to the Kowa Nation.
“Maybe the paint will fill in the bullet holes,” offered Sheriff Trace.
His chuckle vibrated through her like a call issued into an empty cave. Something about the tenor and pitch made her stomach do a funny little tremble. She rested a hand flat against her abdomen to discourage her body from getting ideas.
“I could use those prints as evidence,” she said to Sheriff Trace.
“Or you could accept the life lesson that you might be the big cheese where you come from but to the Kowa, you are an outsider. Up here, your position will get you more trouble than respect. Which is why I offered you an escort.”
And she had turned him down flat. Despite his mirthful blue eyes, extremely handsome face, brown hair bleached blond from what she presumed was the summer sun, and a body that was in exceptionally good shape, something about this man rubbed her the wrong way. The sheriff seemed to think the entire county belonged to him personally.
“I need to call Border Patrol.” She left him to gloat and made her call. Border Patrol had lost their suspects after they entered Mohawk territory yesterday, Sunday, at three in the afternoon and had had no further sightings. Now she understood why they ceased pursuit at their border of the reservation and called her field office. They had set up a perimeter, so the suspect was either still on Mohawk land or had slipped off and into the general population. The chances that this man was her man were slim, but until she had word that the package and courier had been apprehended elsewhere, she would treat each illegal border crossing as if the carrier came from Siming’s Army.
Her conversation and update yielded nothing further. The perimeter remained in place. All vehicles entering or leaving the American side of the Kowa lands were being checked. They had not found their man.
She stowed her phone and returned the few steps to find her escort watching the clouds as if he had not a thing to do.
“They tell you they wouldn’t go on Mohawk land?” he asked.
She didn’t answer his question, for he seemed to already know their reply. “So, anyone who wants to avoid apprehension from federal authorities just has to make it onto Mohawk land as if they had reached some home-free base, like in tag.”
“No, they have to reach Mohawk’s sovereign land and the Mohawk have to be willing to allow them to stay. The Kowa people have rights granted to them under treaties signed by our government.”
They had reached another impasse. Silence stretched, and she noticed that his eyes were really a stunning blue-gray.
“You want me to hang around?” he asked, his body language signaling his wish to leave.
“Escort me to a place that can get this paint off,” she said.
He touched the paint and then rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. He wiped his finger and thumb on the hood, then tapped his finger up and down to add his fingerprints to the others.
“Stop that!”
He did, holding up his paint-stained hand in surrender. “Oil based. Can’t use the car wash. Body shop, I suppose.”
“You have one?”
“Not personally, but there is one in town.”
“I’ll follow.” She used her fob to open the door and nothing happened.
He lowered his chin and lifted his brows. The corners of his mouth lifted before he twisted his lips in a poorly veiled attempt to hide his smile.
Had the vandals disconnected her battery or helped themselves to the entire thing?
“Tow truck,” he said.
She faced the reservation sign, lifted a stone from the road and threw it. The rock made a satisfying thwack against the metal surface.
He placed the call and she checked in with her office. No messages.
“Tow truck will be here in twenty minutes. Want to wait or grab a ride with me?”
“What do I do with the keys?”
“Tow truck doesn’t need those,” he said.
She nodded. “I knew that.”
Did she sound as green as she felt? How much more experience in the field did Trace have? He’d been an army MP and now was a sheriff.
“How did you decide to run for sheriff?” she asked.
His mouth tipped downward. He didn’t seem fond of speaking about his past. She decided to find out why that was. She’d missed something in her hasty check.
“My friend and mentor, Kurt Rogers, was retiring. He held on until I got out of the service and threw his support behind me. Been reelected once since then.”
Rylee managed to retrieve her briefcase and suitcase from the trunk, half surprised to see them there and not covered with paint. They walked back to his sheriff’s unit side by side.
“Must be hard to be popular in this sort of work.”
He cocked his head. “I don’t find it so.”
He helped her place her luggage in the rear seat and then held the passenger door for her. She had her belt clipped as they pulled back on the highway.
They did not speak on the ride into town. The air in the cruiser seemed to hold an invisible charge. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he rubbed his neck.
“Motel or the body shop?” he asked as they hit the limits of the town of Kinsley, which was the county seat.
“Motel.”
It bothered her that, of the three possible choices, he took her directly to the place where she was staying. She didn’t ask how he knew.
The sheriff pulled to a stop and she retrieved her bags.
He stood on his side of the vehicle, staring across the roof at her. “You feel like telling me where you’ll be next,