Desert Heat. Kathleen Pickering

a morning routine? Stop for coffee before work? Work out? Walk a dog?”

      Meg answered in clipped tones, “No pets. Has a gym at home. Doesn’t drink coffee. We’ve covered all that.”

      Taking a fortifying breath, Tico gestured to Bill and Meg. He was about to ruin their day asking a question they wouldn’t want to hear. “I understand your impatience. It must feel like hell sitting here when there are three women missing and no leads. The pressure can make a detective edgy—especially when another woman goes missing after two years of investigating the ring. Can you handle this case?”

      Bill’s face grew stone cold. Meg’s jaw dropped. She turned to Longwood.

      “Chief, are you going to let him insinuate that we are incapable of conducting this investigation?”

      Longwood brushed his fingers along his mustache. “I know we’ve been over this, Meg, but I’d like to hear you answer him.” He nodded toward Bill. “You, too. For the record.”

      Meg scoffed. “For the record? I’m sure Mr. Rattlesnake here knows all the details from his discussions with you before he got here.”

      Bill sat straighter in his chair. “Is this really necessary, Chief?” When Eric didn’t answer, Bill turned to Tico. The cut in his voice made it perfectly clear that he’d been insulted. “My neighbor and two other tribal elders were murdered by passing drug dealers while they were harvesting ceremonial plants in the desert last year. Meg and I tracked and caught the bastards without shooting a bullet or losing a man. Do you seriously think I need to answer your question?”

      Meg pointed to Tico. “And you want us to be nice to this guy?” She leaned back in her chair. “Look, Detective Butler. We are working against all odds here. We know it might be too late to rescue these women. But I believe their captors still have them holed up locally, waiting for a window of opportunity to funnel them to safer ground.” She stared at Tico as if he were a dung heap. “As you know, the women are probably being drugged to keep them docile. Once the abductors get them away from here, they will be raped, beaten and tormented to break their spirits.”

      Tico didn’t flinch. “I understand your concern better than you think, Detective Flores. However, you didn’t answer my question.”

      He saw her decision to hate him flick like a switch in her eyes. The tension in her face drew those full, kissable lips into a fine line. He watched her, unblinking. This was what Longwood had hired him to do. He’d dealt with anger, death threats and his share of fights. Yet, seeing her animosity rise was like swallowing battery acid. A new reaction. The feeling jolted his senses. That irritated him something fierce.

      The other men might recognize that he was only doing his job, but this woman and Mewith were taking his question personally. He had to admit—he’d do the same if some out-of-town show-off tried to take over his investigation when he had so much at stake. But Tico already knew Mewith’s story. He also knew that Meg’s family had lost women to human trafficking. He needed to make sure these two could be impartial, not caught up in a vendetta. Feeling everyone’s eyes on him, he watched Meg Flores while tension thrummed the air, waiting patiently for her to answer.

      * * *

      MEG SEETHED INSIDE but she kept her expression as neutral as possible. No wonder they called Butler the Rattlesnake. He’d sat perfectly still during the case discussion. Only the flash in his eyes had warned her he’d been about to strike. This son of a bitch pushed her buttons on first contact. She didn’t need a ruggedly sexy jerk from New York pointing out the possibility of her own shortcomings in front of her boss and her team.

      Sure, this case was critical. Sure, Butler had street know-how that her team could use. But damn it all. She didn’t want to have to answer to him. She was the team leader—and now she was feeling as emotionally unfit as he suggested she might be. Yes, she was pissed.

      This investigation needed to move forward—and now. Everyone around this table needed to quit flexing their muscles. Someone had to give, but Meg couldn’t relent. Not yet. Not until she knew that she could trust this one-time gang leader from New York. Rumor had it that he didn’t even have the required high school education to get into the police academy. Guts alone and the recommendation of his mentor had gotten him accepted, and not without a fight.

      Could she trust a man like that? The only way to find out was to not back down.

      Meg closed her file. Laying a hand on the folder as if it were a Bible, she looked pointedly at Butler and said in a low, controlled voice, “I am more than capable of executing my duties in bringing these women home quickly and efficiently. Do you have a problem with that, Detective?”

      Tico closed his file, returning the stare. “Not at all, Detective. That’s all I wanted to know.”

      Butler swallowed. The movement had Meg staring at his neck. Corded. Defined. His collar, open at the neck, hinted at muscles beneath the denim shirt with her boot print still shadowing the front. His black hair, pulled into a ponytail as with most Judumi men, glistened beneath the overhead light. That intrigued her. If the man was as set against his heritage as he seemed, why did he imitate his people, who believed long hair enhanced their senses? His dark eyes seemed dangerous, probing, and watched her with an unsettling curiosity.

      Lines etched around his eyes and mouth betrayed his expressiveness. A scar crossed his jaw. He had a nice mouth. Good teeth. Gawd! She was checking him out as if he was horseflesh. Worse, he realized she was staring and simply stared back. The room had gone quiet while these two appraised each other.

      Eric Longwood cleared his throat.

      Tico kept his attention trained on Meg. His voice lowered. “Okay, then, Detective. What’s your plan?”

      Just like that? He was giving up after putting her and Bill on the spot? She shook her head. This guy was not going to manipulate them into cooperating by intimidation.

      “Is this a test, Detective Butler, or are you already out of ideas?”

      Tico smiled. “I’m full of ideas, Detective. I’m simply wondering if you are ready to listen to them.”

CHAPTER THREE

      MEG PRACTICALLY TURNED her white pickup on two wheels into the quarter-mile drive for Rio Plata Ranch. A cloud of dust rose behind her. The open, arid land on either side of the road passed without notice. Meg couldn’t get her mind off the meeting at the precinct, where Tico Butler had invaded her world. Her concentration had been shot for the rest of the day while she’d stewed over what to do.

      The answer had struck like lightning. Now she headed for her parents’ house. The only way she’d be able to get Butler off the case was to ask for her father’s help. Don Francisco Flores was mayor of Adobe Creek. Next to the Judumi reservation, Don Francisco was the largest landholder in the county. He also owned the Rio Plata silver mine in Mexico on which he’d built his fortune. Don Francisco knew every public official within a one-hundred-mile radius and had funded the Adobe Creek unit against drug and human trafficking years ago. If anyone could send Butler packing, Don Francisco could—and would if Meg asked him to.

      Meg reduced her speed to lessen the dust as she passed the cabins for the ranch hands. Two horses were still in the split-rail corral next to the courtyard and cantered to the fence at the sight of her truck. Her parents must have been riding before dinner. Nice. They really knew how to enjoy their life now that they’d both retired from the mining industry. Well, her father would never truly retire. But Meg’s brother was doing a fine job of running the business in Mexico, which freed Don Francisco to concentrate on his twin passions—politics and Adobe Creek.

      Pulling her truck up to the courtyard leading to the front door of the low-slung, rambling adobe ranch, Meg caught sight of a silver Harley-Davidson parked in the shade of a mesquite tree. Her breath caught in her throat. The bike had a New York tag.

      She froze. “No way in hell.”

      She pushed