But not her.
Earlier, she’d reined in her anger, knowing it would do her no good. Bitterness still burned like coal in her gut. She’d been here at the start of all of this mess. She deserved to see it through to the end. They kept saying that she had to bear the consequences of her actions like a woman, yet still treated her like a child.
She popped another nut in her mouth, grinding it between her teeth. She was used to being left behind. So why should today be any different? Why should she expect anything more from her uncle?
But deep down, she had.
“That guy’s sort of intense.”
Kai turned to find Jordan Appawora standing in the doorway. He’d changed out of his suit into cowboy boots, a faded blue T-shirt, and black jeans held up by a belt with a large silver buckle in the shape of a buffalo head.
“So Painter Crowe’s your uncle?” he asked.
“Distantly.” At the moment she was ready to sever their blood ties entirely.
Jordan stepped onto the porch. He held a cowboy hat in one hand and juggled a small fistful of steaming piñon nuts in the other, trying to cool them. He must have taken them straight from Iris’s pan. He noted her attention, flipping one into his mouth.
“They’re called toovuts in Paiute,” he said as he chewed the kernel. “Do you want to know what they’re called in Hopi?”
She shook her head.
“How about in Arapaho or Navajo?” he asked, now grinning. He came closer. “It seems our host is willing to share all she knows about piñon nuts. Did you know the pitch from piñon pine trees was used as chewing gum, or that it also acted as a balm on cuts and wounds? Seems the sticky stuff was both the Trident and Neosporin of the Old World.”
She hid a grin, turning away.
“I had to get out of there,” he whispered conspiratorially, “before she started teaching me the Hopi rain dance.”
“She’s only trying to help,” Kai scolded, but could not hold back her grin.
“So what do we do now?” Jordan asked, donning his cowboy hat. “We could take a hike to Three Finger Canyon. Or Alvin’s grandkids left their mountain bikes . . . we could take a ride to Black Dragon Wash.”
She glanced to him, trying to ascertain his motives. His tanned face, with high cheekbones that made his dark eyes shine, seemed innocent and open. But she suspected there was more to the invitation than exercise and sightseeing. She’d caught him staring a bit too often her way. Even now, she felt a blush heating her cheeks and stepped toward the open doorway. She already had someone interested in her, someone important to her.
She pictured Chayton Shaw back with her friends at WAHYA. It would feel like a betrayal to go out with Jordan. She’d already compromised herself enough. She still stung from the e-mail she’d read earlier. She didn’t intend to make things worse.
“I better stick close,” she said, heading inside. “In case my uncle calls . . .”
It was a lame excuse, even to her own ears, but he didn’t call her on it, which made it that much harder to turn her back on him and head inside. Still, she glanced over a shoulder, staring at Jordan as he stood silhouetted against the morning’s brightness. She couldn’t help but compare him to Chay, whose fierce activism was all too often blunted by peyote, mushrooms, or weed. Though she’d known Jordan for less than an hour, there was something purer and more honest about his tribal pride, the way he doted on and supported his grandfather, the way he listened patiently to Iris’s teachings.
Seeming to sense her attention, he began to swing around. She hurried away, bumping into the table, almost knocking over a tray of cooling piñon nuts. She headed to the back room, needing some privacy.
She stood in the darkness and covered her burning cheeks with her palms. What am I doing?
Across the room, the closed laptop’s idle button glowed like a green cat’s eye in the dark. Painter had left the satellite hookup and one of his linked sat-phones, in case he needed to reach them. She was thankful for that.
Needing something to distract her, she crossed to the desk, sat down, and opened the laptop. She feared seeing a second note from John Hawkes, but she had to check. She called up her e-mail account, and after an interminable wait, saw she had no new mail. She reached to close the laptop, but her eyes drifted to the saved note from WAHYA’s founder. Scrunching up her face in determination, she opened it again. She wanted to read it once more, maybe as some sort of punishment, maybe to see if it was as bad as she remembered.
As she read it again, she felt no despair as she had felt last time—instead, anger slowly built with each line. Already bitter from Painter’s abandonment, she recognized that John Hawkes was trying to do the same. To shuck her off when there was the least bit of trouble.
After all I did . . . all I risked . . .
Before she could think otherwise, she hit the reply button. She didn’t intend to send the response. She just needed to vent, to get it off her chest. She typed rapidly, unloading her fury through her fingertips. She wrote a long, rambling letter, declaring her innocence and explaining how she was actively clearing her name without any help from WAHYA. She underlined that last part. It felt good to do so. She expressed her disdain for the lack of loyalty and support shown to one of their own. She listed all of her accomplishments and contributions to the cause. She also let John Hawkes know how much WAHYA meant to her, how this betrayal and mistrust of her wounded her to the marrow of her bones.
By the time she typed those last words, tears were welling up in her eyes, blurring the screen. She knew they came from somewhere deep inside, from a wound that would not heal. She wanted to be loved for who she was—for the good, the bad, the noble, and the weak—and not to be tossed aside when her presence grew inconvenient. In the end, she recognized a truth about herself. She wanted to be loved like her father had loved her. She deserved that. She wanted to scream it at the world.
Instead, she stared at the screen, at the letter—and did the next best thing. She reached out, moved the cursor, and allowed her finger to hover. Painter said the Internet connection was vigorously encrypted.
What could be the danger?
Taking back a bit of control over her own life, she hit send.
9:18 A.M.
Salt Lake City, Utah
Rafe smiled as the in-box chimed with new mail. He checked his watch. It was hours earlier than he’d anticipated. Matters were moving forward splendidly. He straightened with a luxurious stretch, wearing a plush hotel robe and slippers, his hair still damp from a shower.