Navajo's Woman. BEVERLY BARTON

what we’re doing stealing.”

      “I call it borrowing,” Russ reiterated.

      On the road out of Castle Springs, they met several trucks and a couple of cars, but traffic was slow and no one followed them. Eddie rolled down a window and the cool night wind whipped his long hair into his face.

      He didn’t know what the heck he was doing here, on the run with Russ. Everything had happened so fast, too fast for him to think straight, to reason the right and wrong, the good and the bad. If he’d had any sense at all, he’d have vetoed the idea of going to Bobby Yazzi’s to pick up some beer. Everybody knew that Bobby could provide not only the drug of your choice, but liquor of any kind to underage drinkers. When Russ’s date, Jewel Begay, had made the suggestion to pick up some beer and Russ had agreed, Eddie hadn’t wanted to come off sounding like some scared little boy. After all, he’d had a date to impress. If Jewel hadn’t arranged the double date, he wouldn’t have had a prayer of going out with a girl like Martina. Pretty and popular and from a good Navajo family.

      When his parents found out he’d been at Bobby Yazzi’s, what would they think? God, he hated even imagining their reaction. Their eldest son, of whom they were so proud, involved in a murder!

      Russ flipped on the radio and fiddled with the dials, zipping from one station to another, finally settling on one. A country hit whined down to the last stanza, then news on the half hour began.

      “There’s an update on the murder case we told you about at ten,” the announcer said. “Two Navajo youths— Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, are wanted for questioning in regard to the Bobby Yazzi murder that occurred around eight o’clock tonight. Both Lapahie and Whitehorn were seen running from the victim’s apartment shortly after neighbors heard several shots fired.

      “Lapahie, the son of former Navajo police captain, Russell Lapahie, Sr., is a resident of Castle Springs and well known in town. The other youth, Whitehorn, lives on a sheep ranch between Castle Springs and Trinidad. Police aren’t saying if the boys are suspects in the case, but they have issued an APB on the two.”

      Russ shut off the radio and increased the speed of the truck. “Hell! I knew the police would think I did it. With my record of trouble making and my father’s reputation ruined because your uncle Joe ratted on him, I’m as good as dead.”

      “The police just want us for questioning,” Eddie said. “I think we should go back, turn ourselves in and tell them what happened.”

      “Do you honestly think they’re going to believe us?”

      “They might.”

      “Yeah, well, even if they do—and I don’t think they will—what about the guy who really killed Bobby? He won’t have any trouble killing both of us to keep us quiet.”

      “Jewel can back up your story. She went in at Bobby’s with you.”

      “Jewel was so scared that she ran, didn’t she? She didn’t hang around to see if we got out okay. She’s not going to want to get involved. She could easily deny having seen or heard anything, just to cover her own butt.”

      As much as Eddie hated to admit that Russ was right, he nodded his head in agreement. Being on the run from the police and from a ruthless killer wasn’t what Eddie wanted. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t turn against his best friend, could he?

      “We’re in this together, right?” Russ cut Eddie a sideways glance.

      “Yeah. Right.”

      Joe Ornelas popped the caps off six bottles, placed the open beer on a tray and carried the refreshments out from behind the bar that separated his compact kitchen from his combination dining and living room. Hunter Whitelaw and Jack Parker still sat at the table where they’d been playing cards. Matt O’Brien picked up the TV remote and said something about checking ball scores on ESPN. Wolfe stood by the windows, his back to the rest of the Dundee agents, as he stared out into the rainy Atlanta night. Ellen Denby, their boss lady, came toward Joe, smiling.

      “Need some help?” she asked.

      “Just help yourself,” he replied, holding the tray out to her. “What’s up with Wolfe?” Joe nodded toward the solitary figure by the double windows that overlooked Salle Street. “This is the first time he’s taken me up on my offer to play cards. I had begun to think he was avoiding our company.”

      Ellen lifted a bottle from the tray. “He knows all of us a little better than he did a few months ago. I think working closely with you and Hunter on rescuing Egan Cassidy’s kid might have helped.” Ellen glanced over her shoulder at Wolfe, who seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. “He’s a loner if I ever saw one.”

      “Where’s that beer?” Hunter threw up his hand and motioned to Joe to come to him. “While you’re making brownie points with the boss, I’m dying of thirst.” Hunter laughed. Long, low, deep, grunting chuckles.

      As Joe passed the sofa where Matt sat engrossed in the sportscast, Joe handed him a beer, then headed toward the table. He placed the tray in the center, which only five minutes earlier had held the night’s winnings. After Jack and Hunter grabbed their beverages, Joe picked up the two remaining bottles and walked toward the man who had separated himself from the others.

      “Beer?” Joe held up a bottle in offering.

      Wolfe turned slowly, nodded, accepted the beer and said, “Thanks.”

      “I’m glad you decided to join us tonight,” Joe told him.

      “I appreciate your asking me.” Wolfe lifted the bottle to his lips and downed a hefty swig.

      “Feel free to join us anytime. The players change, depending on who’s in town, and we rotate apartments. Next week, it’s Ellen’s turn.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Joe had thought himself a man of few words, but compared to Wolfe he was a regular chatterbox. The others had speculated about the reclusive agent, who’d been with Dundee’s Private Security and Investigation less than a year. Unlike the rest of them, who’d been hired by Ellen, Wolfe held the distinction of having been chosen by the owner of the agency, Sam Dundee. No one knew anything about Wolfe—not even Ellen. But she had quickly ascertained that the man had undeniable abilities. He was not only an expert marksman, but he had a knowledge of every aspect of the business, from weapons to strategy, from equipment to psychology.

      “Damn!” Matt jumped up from the sofa. “I just lost fifty bucks on the Braves game.”

      “That’s what you get for gambling,” Ellen said.

      “Look who’s talking,” Matt told her. “You lost thirty dollars tonight playing cards. Hell, add the fifty I lost on the ball game to the forty-five I lost here and I’m nearly a hundred dollars poorer.”

      “We had no idea what an expert card player Wolfe was,” Hunter said. “He took us all to the cleaners.”

      “Are you sure you’ve never been a professional?” Matt asked, looking directly at Wolfe.

      Wolfe shook his head. “No.”

      “Ah, the guy’s just good at cards, the way he is at everything else.” Hunter rose from his chair to his full six-four height.

      Joe noted a pained expression on Wolfe’s face, as if Hunter’s comment had somehow hurt him. But surely, no one would be hurt by a sincere compliment, would they?

      “I should be going.” Wolfe placed his half-empty bottle down on the tray atop the table.

      “Yeah, me, too.” Matt downed the last drops of his beer, then tossed the empty bottle to Joe, who caught it effortlessly in his left hand while continuing to hold his own bottle in his right.

      “Yeah, it’s about time I called it a night,” Jack Parker said in his deep, Texas drawl, then scooted back his chair and got up.

      The