Firewolf. Jenna Kernan

       Chapter One

      Dylan Tehauno would not have stopped for the woman if she had not been standing in the road. Her convertible was parked beside her, a black Audi of all things, impractical as her attire. It was impossible that she did not hear him crunching over the gravel road. Yet she continued to stare in the opposite direction, presenting him with a very tempting view of her backside and long bare legs.

      Killer curves, he thought, as dangerous as the switchbacks between him and his destination on the mountain’s ridgeline. Her pale skin had tanned to the color of wild honey. The Anglo woman wore no hat, and only a fool went out without one in the Arizona sun at midday in July. He let his gaze caress her curves again as she sidestepped and he glimpsed what he had not seen beyond that round rump. She was bent over a small tripod that had spindly black spider legs. Each leg was braced with a sandbag. On the pinnacle sat one of those little fist-sized mobile video cameras.

      Her convertible blocked the right lane and her camera sat on the left. There was just no way around her as the graded gravel road dropped off on each side to thick scrub brush and piñon pine. It was a long way from his reservation in Turquoise Canyon to Flagstaff, not in miles, but in everything else that mattered. There were some pines down here, piñon mostly, not the tall, majestic ponderosas. Up in the mountains they had water and an occasional cool breeze, even in July. The McDowell Mountains could not compare to the White Mountains in Dylan’s estimation. The air was so scalding here he felt as if he were fighting a wildfire. He rolled to a stop. The dust that had trailed him now swirled and settled on the shiny hood of his truck.

      He rolled down the window of his white F-150 pickup and leaned out.

      “Good morning,” he called.

      But instead of moving aside, she turned toward him and pressed both fists to her hips. The woman’s clothing was tight, hugging her torso like a second skin. Was that a tennis outfit? She looked as if she had just spilled out of some exclusive country club. The woman wore her hair swept back, a clip holding the soft waves from her face so they tumbled to her shoulders. It was blue, a bright cobalt hue. Mostly, but there were other hues mixed in including deep purple, violet and turquoise.

      It seemed the only protection she did use from the sun was the wide sunglasses that flashed gold at the edges. These she slipped halfway down her narrow nose as she regarded him at last with eyes the color of warm chocolate. She had lips tinted hot pink and her acrylic nails glowed a neon green that was usually reserved for construction attire. A sculpted brow arched in disapproval. Was there anything about her that was not artificial?

      Dylan resisted the urge to glance at her breasts again.

      “Mind moving your vehicle?” Dylan added a generous smile after his request. It was his experience that Anglo women were either wary of or curious about Apache men. This woman looked neither wary nor curious. She looked pissed.

      Had her car broken down?

      “You ruined my shot,” she said, motioning at her tiny camera.

      She was shooting in the direction he traveled, toward his destination, the house that broke the ridgeline and thus had caused so much controversy. Dylan had an appointment up there that could not be missed, one that marked a change in direction.

      “The dust!” she said, and dropped a cloth over her camera.

      “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Dylan’s years in the Marines had taught him many things, including how to address an angry Anglo woman. “But I have to get by. I have a meeting.”

      “I can’t have you in the shot.”

      Was she refusing to move? Now Dylan’s eyes narrowed.

      “Are you unable to move that vehicle?” he asked.

      “Unwilling.”

      She raised her pointed chin and Dylan felt an unwelcome tingle of desire. Oh, no. Heck, no—and no way, too. This woman was high maintenance and from a world he did not even recognize.

      “You’ll have to wait.” Her mouth quirked as if she knew she was messing with him and was enjoying herself.

      “But I have an appointment,” he repeated.

      “I don’t give a fig.”

      “You can’t just block a public road.”

      “Well, I guess I just did.”

      Dylan suppressed the urge to ram her Audi off into the rough. That’s what his friend Ray Strong would do. Ray spent a lot of time cleaning up after his impulsiveness. Right now Dylan thought it might be worth it. He pictured the car sliding over the embankment and resisted the urge to smile.

      “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

      He lowered his chin and bit down to keep himself from telling her exactly what she was. Instead, he shook his head.

      “I’m Meadow.”

      She gave only her first name, as if that was all that mattered. Not her family name or her tribe or clan. Just Meadow.

      He shrugged one shoulder.

      “Meadow Wrangler?”

      He shook his head indicating his inability to place the name.

      Her pretty little mouth dropped open.

      “You don’t know me?”

      “Should I?” he asked.

      “Only if you can read.”

      Charming, he thought.

      In a minute he was getting out of his truck and she wouldn’t like what happened next. He could move her and her camera without harming a blue hair on her obnoxious little head. Dylan gripped the door handle.

      “My father is Theron Wrangler.”

      Dylan’s hand fell from the handle and his eyes rounded.

      She folded her arms. “Ah. You’ve heard of him.”

      He sure had, but likely not for the reason she thought. Theron Wrangler was the name that Amber Kitcheyan had overheard the day before the Lilac Copper Mine massacre. It was the name of the man that FBI field agent Luke Forrest believed was a member of the eco-extremist group known as BEAR, Bringing Earth Apocalyptic Restoration. But what was Theron Wrangler’s profession?

      “I’m not surprised. He won an Oscar at twenty-five. I’m working for him now. Documentary film on the impact of urban sprawl and on the construction of private residences that are environmental and aesthetic monstrosities.” She motioned her head toward the mansion rising above the tree line on the ridge. “I’ve been here filming since construction. Timelapse. Sun up to sun down and today I finally have some clouds. Adds movement.”

      The wind was picking up, blowing grit and sand at them.

      “I still need to get around you,” said Dylan.

      “And have your rooster tail in the shot? No way. Why are you going up there? I thought your people were protesting the building of that thing.”

      She was referring to the private residence of Gerald W. Rustkin, the man who had founded one of the social media sites that self-destructed all messages from either side of any conversation. The man who allowed others to hide had put himself in the center of controversy when he had donated generously to the city of Flagstaff and afterward quietly received his variances to break the ridgeline with his personal residence.

      “My people?” asked Dylan.

      “You’re