The Stronghold. Lisa Carter

mind.” She crossed her arms over her yet-to-develop chest. “You want to race or what, Torres?”

      Alex threw down the shovel. “Any time. Any place.”

      “There.” She pointed with her lips to the mesa towering behind the Torres hacienda. “To the top. Whoever gets there first, wins.”

      Alex swaggered alongside to peer at the gigantic outcropping.

      Her nerve endings zinged as his shirtsleeve brushed against the bare skin of her arm. He smelled like leather and sandalwood.

      “Wins what, Cater-Pilar?”

      Byron frowned. “Why did you call her Cater-Pilar?”

      Alex grinned. “Like a caterpillar. ’Cause when I leave her to eat my dust, she’s going to look a whole lot like her name.”

      She tossed her head. “When I win, I get to knock you down a peg or two.”

      Alex passed his hand over his dark, short-cropped curls. “And what happens if I win?”

      She pursed her lips. “Trust me, you won’t.”

      He didn’t.

      Feet pounding, she soon pulled ahead on the trail fit only for mountain goats. Jumping over rocky boulders, zigzagging along the switchbacks, she quickly outdistanced this sea-level grandson unused to the altitude.

      Groaning, Alex bent over, hands on his knees in a vain attempt to breathe. His pace more sedate, Byron caught up to them.

      Pilar let out a whoop and gyrated. “I win. I win. I win. Alex Torres runs like a boy.” She reached her hands over her head and did something Abuela once described as the Watusi.

      “Seriously?” Alex glared. “An Apache war dance?”

      Byron laughed. “Not tribal. Her version of a victory dance.” He flicked a glance at the struggling-to-inhale Latino. “Not bad for a first-timer. You interested in playing football this year at high school?”

      Alex nodded. “Love to, though I’m more into basketball. And next time, I’ll beat her.”

      Byron’s barrel chest rumbled. “Next time, I bet you still won’t. Not Sister. She’s like the wind.”

      She smiled. Byron’s superpower was loyalty.

      “Who’s the caterpillar now?” She sauntered over to the drop-your-jaw-handsome—but winded—young man. “I’m a butterfly, and I flew right past you, Alejandro Roberto Torres. I win. Time to pay up.”

      He straightened. “Pay wha—?”

      She socked him in the gut. He doubled over.

      “All gas, no beans.” She moved toward the trail. “Like I said, Byron. You’ve got training to do with this one if you want him on the team. I didn’t even hit him hard. He’s soft.”

      “I’ll show you soft, Mia Pia.”

      She skidded to a halt. “What did you call me?”

      “Maria Pilar. And mia in Spanish means mine.” He gave her a crooked smile that set Pilar’s sturdy knees aquiver. “Because someday soon, I’ll demand a rematch and victory will be mine.”

      She stretched on her tiptoes into his face. “Any time. Any place.”

      But before that, as Alex Torres predicted, he and Byron became best friends.

      She tagged along everywhere to Byron’s disgust and Alex’s quiet tolerance. Alex, in fact, often urged Byron to just let her come along to save them the hassle of sending her home to Abuela.

      Then Pilar’s cat went missing.

      It was Alex who helped her search the sprawling ranch. Alex who spotted the tabby in an arroyo, killed by a wild desert creature. Alex who dug a hole and held a funeral for Calico. Alex who brought another stray kitten from Saguaro Gulch for Pilar.

      Alex who became her hero and champion. Until he and Byron started high school at summer’s end. Until she and Byron uncovered Alex’s other not-so-hidden talent—a way with the female gender.

      ’Cause Alex’s superpower was his charm.

      Chapter 4

      4

      By the time Pilar arrived at the public housing complex, the perpetrator was long gone, and the woman whose face would resemble a checkerboard of bruises tomorrow refused to name her abuser or bring charges.

      Pilar returned to the cruiser and radioed her location before heading to the station. She only hoped the next call to this address didn’t involve a homicide.

      After clocking out at the end of her shift, she changed out of her uniform into well-washed jeans and flats. Pilar retrieved her personal vehicle from the back lot, stowed her weapon in the glove compartment, and headed for the tribal youth center.

      Two decisions she’d never regretted—becoming the custodial parent to her deployed brother’s son. And becoming a tribal cop.

      But after all these years, to come face to face with Alex in the line of duty . . . she’d not seen that coming when dispatch sent her to investigate a reported homicide in the desert barrens at the edge of the rez.

      With any forewarning, she would have . . . would’ve what?

      She frowned at her reflection in the glass-fronted door of the tribal teen center. She’d have taken time to neaten her cop bun. Maybe not enough time to lose those last five irritating pounds, but she certainly wouldn’t have inhaled the diet-destroying fry bread omelet this morning.

      Her mouth flattened. Like any of that mattered. Or changed what happened between them so long ago.

      Stop being stupid, Pilar.

      Taking a deep breath, she seized the handle and threw the door of the teen center wide. The phone call informing her that Manny had been expelled from school merely put the cap on what was shaping up to be a total in-the-toilet day.

      And when she got through giving Manny a piece of her mind—grounding him in his foreseeable future—he’d be wishing he was back to solving algebraic equations.

      While Manny wouldn’t grieve over missing freshman algebra, she’d bet burritos he’d not be so willing to skip out on his current favorite pastime—the after-school cultural activities.

      Manny had always been fascinated with Apache customs and lore. Until this year, he’d been an energetic if bookish child. And then, the hormones hit and being smart was suddenly geeky for the teen whose only aspirations revolved around making the high school basketball team.

      He spoke better Apache than she, thanks to the linguistics electives the school offered. Kids were taught to be proud of their heritage. To embrace their identity.

      Unlike the stigma she and Byron endured. When her brother and Alex Torres were best buddies. And she and Alex—

      Her heart beat a furious clip at the thought of the filled-out, grown-up version of Alex Torres. Always tall, the gangly young man she’d known—and loved—had fulfilled his physical potential. A goofball back then, his charm and quirky sense of fun had also hidden a sharp intelligence.

      A lot of things had changed since last they laid eyes on each other. But fundamental things had not. Including the effect Alejandro Torres had on her heart rate.

      “Manny’s not here, Miz To-Clanny.”

      Pilar’s eyes adjusted from the desert glare to the florescent-lit teen center. Thirteen-year-old Reyna Bui sat atop a white laminate table. Her jean-clad legs dangled.

      The child’s sneakers were ragged, and with dusk approaching, Reyna’s threadbare gray sweater would soon prove inadequate. “You waiting on your mom?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Reyna’s dark eyes slid away. “She’ll be here soon as she finishes her