flitted across his mind a few times in the past several years; why was he allowing her to take up residence now like a big, white elephant in the corner of his brain? Correction. A dark, sleek panther. A sexy cat of a woman.
He gulped his juice. Once they caught this killer and wrapped up the investigation, she’d go back to whatever kind of life she had in Denver. And that suited him just fine. As long as he could keep her safe while she worked the case.
Pam dropped a single rose into the small glass vase on Dad’s breakfast tray. Gripping the handles of the tray, she hoisted it from the counter and turned toward Rafe. “You don’t believe Rod’s nonsense about that girl, do you? With your father’s health deteriorating, Rod’s had more than he can handle at the ranch. He’s always angry about something, and has a sarcastic tongue.”
Rafe shrugged. Even at eighteen years old, Dana could stand up to Pam…if she’d wanted to. “That was a long time ago. How’s Dad this morning?”
“The flu hit him hard, and it takes him longer and longer to recover from an illness. Doc Parker thinks Ralph needs to retire to a different climate.”
Rafe’s cell phone rang and he checked the display, which flashed Steve Lubeck’s number. His heart skipped a beat. It was too early in the morning for Steve and Dana to have uncovered anything at Holly Thompson’s house. He hoped it wasn’t another body. “I have to take this.”
Pam backed out of the kitchen with the tray almost groaning under the weight of Dad’s favorite breakfast. Pam may have broken up his parents’ marriage, but she catered to his father in a way his biological mother refused to do. His mother hadn’t possessed one nurturing gene in her body. She hadn’t contacted one of them since leaving over fifteen years ago.
Shaking his head, Rafe flipped open his phone. “Hey, Steve, anything new?”
“No, unless you count my burning ulcer. I need to see a doctor today. Do you mind going out to the Thompson residence with Dana to talk to Holly’s mother? We’re supposed to be there at eleven o’clock.”
Rafe pulled up his sleeve to check his watch. “Sure. Were you picking up Dana or meeting her there?”
“I was going to swing by her aunt’s house to pick her up. The Thompson place is on the other side of the reservation from Dana’s aunt’s house.”
“I’ll be there. Did you tell Dana yet?”
“Not yet. Do you want me to call her? I can give her a ring on my way to the doctor in Durango.”
“That’s okay. I’ll call her.” Rafe wanted to gauge her response to working with him. His presence seemed to put her on edge, and he planned to find out why.
A FTER THREE UNSUCCESSFUL phone calls to Dana, a three-mile run and a conversation with Alicia Clifton’s agitated boyfriend, Rafe pulled into the reservation. His patrol car rolled to a stop behind Dana’s rental, and as he opened the door, the wind snatched it from his hand and flung it wide. The winds always kicked up on the reservation. Before the oil money started pouring in, the winds stirred up a lot of dirt from the undeveloped lands. The winds still stirred up dirt, but now it came from the construction sites that dotted the reservation—dumping grounds for a killer.
Rafe’s gaze darted toward the thick foliage where Dana’s attacker had disappeared last night. One of Emmett’s officers had scoured the area this morning, but didn’t turn up one clue. The “Headband Killer,” as they’d secretly dubbed him, seemed to move about silently and stealthily, snatching women, murdering them and dumping their bodies without leaving a trace of evidence.
Rafe stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the sudden chill in the air. If it was their guy who accosted Dana, thank God all he had in mind for her was a warning. But why just a warning? Why didn’t he drag her off and strangle her like all the others?
For some reason, despite her Ute heritage, Dana didn’t fit his pattern. Or he didn’t want to mess with an FBI agent. Or maybe Dana was right—a wannabe attacked her, not the real killer.
He huffed out a breath in the cold air and stomped up the two steps to Mary Redbird’s door. Even though she’d married a Croft, everyone called her Mary Redbird or Auntie Mary. After Dana’s mother died, her aunt had raised her, since her stepfather, Lenny, was useless. He hadn’t been back in town two weeks, and he’d already caused a ruckus at the Elk Ridge Bar the other night.
He knocked on the door and Dana opened it, wearing slacks and a blouse. This time she had a shoulder holster with her weapon tucked inside, not packed away in her purse.
“What are you doing here?” She grasped the door and the doorjamb, blocking his entrance to the house.
“Steve’s ulcer is acting up. I’m going with you to interview Mrs. Thompson.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you were just in the neighborhood again.”
“I tried calling you on your cell phone a couple of times, but it went straight to voice mail.”
“We don’t have the best reception out here.” Her grip on the doorjamb loosened. “You should’ve tried my aunt’s number.”
Rafe jerked his chin forward. “Are you going to invite me inside this time?”
“We need to get going. I’ll get my jacket and…”
Auntie Mary ducked beneath Dana’s arm. “Nonsense. Come on in, Sheriff McClintock.”
Dana’s jaw tightened but she threw open the door, and Rafe squeezed past her to clasp Auntie Mary’s clawlike hand. “You can call me Rafe, ma’am. You’re looking as spry as ever.”
Thumping her cane against the floor, Auntie Mary chuckled. “Spry is only ever used for ancient people who haven’t dropped dead yet. It’s good to see you, Rafe. Haven’t seen much of you since you returned to Silverhill, but I did vote for you for sheriff.”
“That’s good to hear, ma’am. I’m just sorry such sad business brings me to the reservation.”
Auntie Mary shook her head. “It’s a tragedy for those girls and their families. As much as I like having my great-niece here, I hope you catch this killer quickly.”
“We will.” His gaze meandered around the cozy living room, settling on the crackling fire in the grate. He stepped toward the fireplace, holding out his hands. “It’s chilly outside. I think we’re going to have an early winter.”
Leaning forward, Rafe peered at the framed photos on the mantel—Dana’s high school graduation picture, Dana with the FBI director and several pictures of Dana as a young girl.
He reached forward to pluck one of the photos from the mantel and Dana shouted, “Let’s go.”
Jerking his head to the side, he almost dropped the frame. “What’s your hurry?”
Dana held her breath as Rafe clutched the picture of his daughter, Kelsey, in his hand. She should’ve seen this coming. The man traipsed around Silverhill, and even the reservation, as if he owned the place. Obviously, he figured he could show up on Auntie Mary’s doorstep day or night. She should’ve insisted Auntie Mary put away all the pictures of Kelsey.
