open palm against the wind. A fresh coolness rushed inside the cuff of his denim jacket and plaid cotton shirt. A few weeks after the blizzard, there were still patches of snow on the shady side of the street and at the curbs where the snow plows had piled up little mountains. Today’s temperature was already in the fifties. By noon, it would be sixty. The weather felt like spring. His favorite season. He felt like a kid instead of a thirty-three-year-old man, felt like he should stick his head out the window like a collie and let the wind blow through his hair.
He ran his fingers through that thick, black hair which was seriously in need of a trim, then turned toward Patrick. “Tell me, my friend. Did Emma the fortune teller predict that you’d fall in love with Bree Hunter?”
At the mention of his fiancée’s name, the big tough sheriff melted like chocolate in mole. “Emma isn’t that kind of psychic. She doesn’t read a crystal ball.”
“Exactly what kind of bruja is she?”
“She’s not a witch,” Patrick said. “There are scientific theories about paranormal abilities and mediums. Why are you so threatened?”
“She’s no threat. Just a waste of my time.”
He’d already done a thorough analysis of the vehicle abandoned by Aspen Meadows. From the skid marks left by tires and a high-impact dent on the rear bumper, he determined that Aspen’s car was forced off the road into a shallow ditch. He’d found no fingerprints or other trace evidence in the car, other than those of Aspen and a few close friends, which led him to believe that she’d climbed out from behind the steering wheel and took off running—probably searching for help or trying to divert her pursuer from harming her baby.
Then Aspen disappeared. She was either purposely in hiding or dead. No matter what Emma Richardson said.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Do me a favor. Don’t tease Emma.”
“Why not? The bruja is sensitive?”
“Aspen is her cousin. They’re close. They grew up together on the rez.”
The nearby Ute Mountain Ute reservation took up thousands of acres on these high plains. Patrick’s fiancée, Bree, was a detective on the tribal police force. “I didn’t know Emma was Ute.”
“Partly. She doesn’t look it. Her hair is brown, not black. Her eyes are blue.”
It must have been tough to live on the rez and not look like everybody else. Miguel would have felt a twinge of sympathy if he hadn’t thought this whole psychic thing was crazy. “I won’t give her a hard time, unless she asks for it.”
“She’s a good woman. When I told her about Aspen’s disappearance, Emma stepped up and took responsibility. She’s the temporary guardian for Aspen’s baby.”
“What about the father?”
“Aspen never said who he was.”
“We could run the baby’s DNA,” Miguel said. “The father might be in the database.”
“The guy obviously doesn’t care. Baby Jack is better off with Emma.”
The sheriff pulled into the driveway of a pretty little ranch-style house, white with black trim and a shake roof. The lot was huge and well-landscaped with indigenous pines and spruce. Empty flower boxes at the windows waited for their spring planting.
“Nice place.” The cleanliness and normality surprised him. He’d halfway expected a haunted house with cobwebs draped across the windows and a graveyard in the back. “What does this medium do to earn her living?”
“Some kind of consulting or editing. She works at home on her computer.” Patrick issued one last warning. “Be nice.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior, and that’s saying a lot. I used to be an altar boy.”
Like that churchgoing boy from so many years ago, he trudged along the sidewalk, dragging his feet. He’d rather be somewhere else. Back at the lab, he had work piling up and a new piece of audio analysis equipment he wanted to play with. He waited on the front stoop while Patrick rang the bell. From inside, he could hear a baby crying, which didn’t exactly reassure him about Emma being a good mother substitute.
The door swung open. Miguel found himself staring into the huge blue eyes of a slender woman with straight, silky brown hair that fell across her forehead and was cut in a straight line at her sharp, little chin. He saw hints of her Ute heritage in her dusky complexion and high cheekbones. Her lips pulled into a wide, open smile as she greeted Patrick. Though she balanced the fussing baby in her arms, she managed to shake his hand when the sheriff introduced them.
“Pleased to meet you, Miguel.”
“Same here.”
His first impression was all good, muy bueno. As he entered her house, he studied her more closely. As a CSI, he was trained to notice details. Her silver earrings and the necklace around her long, slender neck had a distinctive Ute design. Her beige turtleneck, almost the same color as her skin, and her jeans resembled the typical outfit worn by most people in the area at this time of year. But the fabric of her turtleneck was silk. He didn’t know much about women’s clothing, but he suspected that she shopped in classy boutiques.
In her sunlit kitchen, she offered them coffee.
With a glance at Miguel, Patrick said, “We probably shouldn’t waste any time.”
“No rush,” Miguel said.
“Oh, good,” Emma said as she bounced up and down with the whimpering baby, gently stroking the fine hair on top of his head. “Because it’s time for Jack’s feeding. I just finished heating the formula.”
“I’ll take the baby.”
Miguel held out his arms. Back home, he had a growing herd of nieces and nephews. Though his family lived only a few hours’ drive away from Kenner City, his schedule didn’t leave much time for visits, and he missed them.
When she handed over the baby, dressed in footed pajamas, he wrapped the blanket snugly around the infant’s tiny legs and cradled him in the crook of his arm. “Hush, mijo.”
The baby looked toward him. As soon as Miguel took a seat at the kitchen table, the fussing stopped. “How old is he? About three months?”
“Eleven weeks.” Her jaw literally dropped. “How did you get him to settle down?”
“He’s curious. Is that right, mijo? You’re figuring out who I am before you start making noise and complaining.”
“Let’s get him fed before that happens.”
She maneuvered in her kitchen with a graceful economy of motion. Her age, he guessed, was probably about thirty—the prime of womanhood, old enough to be done with girlish giggles and young enough to be open to new experience. The more he saw of Emma Richardson, the more he liked her.
After she handed him a bottle full of formula and placed two coffee mugs on the kitchen table, she said, “I made notes of what I remembered about my vision. I’ll go get them.”
As
