Her Hero
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Aimée Thurlo
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Chapter One
Fall-Present Day
As she waited for the gas tank to fill up, Nydia Jim unfolded a small hand-drawn map and placed it on top of the hood of her truck. It had been several months since she’d last visited Four Winds, New Mexico, and although she remembered sketching the route to the medicine man’s hogan, she’d never actually been there. The reasons for her visit had been far different then.
She thought back to her brief meeting with Joshua Blackhorse. As she pictured him in her mind, a twinge of awareness swept through her. Tall, like all of the Blackhorse brothers, with a broad, muscular build, piercing black eyes and an air of unshakable confidence, he was certainly a man any woman with a pulse would find hard to forget.
Not that she’d let him know it when they’d met. She’d acted cool enough, hiding her attraction under layers of professionalism. As an anthropologist, she’d learned how to remain analytical and objective in all kinds of situations. It was a skill she’d had to teach herself over the years, rather than something that came naturally, however. She’d always been more comfortable going by gut feeling than anything else.
Nydia folded up her map and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. It was hopeless. She’d been driving around for hours and still hadn’t seen the hataalii’s hogan. So much for the myth about Navajos never getting lost. It was late afternoon, and she had no intention of wasting the entire day searching just to prove she could find it on her own. Before getting under way again, she’d get better directions to Joshua’s place.
As she approached the counter, ready to settle her bill, the attendant, Charley according to his name tag, was busy speaking to two men. From the conversation, she gathered that the burly military type was, surprisingly, the town’s librarian. The other man, who seemed irritable and annoyed that he wasn’t getting Charley’s complete attention, was the mayor of Four Winds.
She gave him a long, speculative look, aware that his attention was elsewhere as he arranged for the sale of his son’s bicycle and some kind of all-terrain vehicle to Charley.
The man seemed stressed, with the gaunt face of a businessman burning the candle at both ends. In Nydia’s experience, administrative types often became that way. Always pushing to get things done took a toll on a person’s serenity.
Nydia waited for her turn, then, when the mayor was busy writing down a description of the rest of the items he wanted to sell, she managed to catch Charley’s attention. The attendant took one look at her map and laughed.
“The map you have is for his old place. He’s been building a new hogan on some land he and his father own west of town.”
“Can you tell me exactly how to get there?” He started to tell her, but when she realized hòw complicated the directions were, she held up a hand and pulled out a small tape recorder she kept in her purse. It was as much a tool for her work as the notebooks stacked on the rear bench of her truck. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “Speak into this. That way, I won’t have to keep coming back and bothering you.”
He smiled. “No problem. Head back out the way you came in, and drive until the road crosses a little creek. Just past there, as you go up the hill, there’s a dirt road, and beside it is a big boulder with a red X on it. Turn there, then keep going north until you see a water tower. Then turn left and drive farther up into the forest about three miles. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” The directions were the kind she found familiar, since she’d been born and raised on the Navajo reservation. There, most homes were found through landmarks rather than street signs. She wouldn’t get lost again.
Nydia returned to her old Ford pickup, slipped behind the wheel and pulled out into the street, relieved she’d finally be able to find Joshua and conduct her business. She had family back on the rez who needed his healing services, and she’d promised to bring him back with her. Unfortunately, time was working against her. Her father-in-law’s belief in the old ways was so strong that without the ceremony he felt he needed, he continued to grow worse, though the doctors she’d brought in had been at a loss to explain it.
Spotting an elderly man standing by the front of a decrepit-looking Volkswagen van parked on the side of the road, Nydia slowed down. The vehicle had a flat, and the Navajo man trying to change the tire looked almost as ancient as his vehicle.
She pulled off the road behind him and stopped, ready to help. A half hour wasn’t going to be critical to her fatherin-law, but it might be to this old man. “Good afternoon, Uncle,” she said, using the term to denote respect, not actual kinship.
As she approached, she realized the man wasn’t nearly as old as she’d thought at first. In fact, now that she could see him more clearly, he appeared curiously ageless. His copper skin shone in the sun, accentuating his weathered face. But it was his eyes that held her attention. They were a dark gray instead of black, and they were bright and eagle sharp.
“I have a flat,” he said, his breathing labored as he rolled the spare in front of him. “At least it’s only on the bottom of the tire.”
“I’ll handle it, Uncle.” She smiled at his little joke. “I’m used to this. In my work, I drive on bad roads a lot, and I have to deal with flat tires all the time.”
Fortunately, the man had one of those ancient but very useful cross-type lug wrenches, and with the extra leverage it provided it didn’t take long for her to change the tire. She hadn’t been speaking idly when she’d told him she was used to that type of work. After two years as a widow, she prided herself on being able to take care of almost anything.
Nydia pulled the little scissors jack out from under the van, stood up and wiped her hands. “It’s all done.”
“You must let me give you something in payment,” the man said. “I don’t have much money, but perhaps I have some item in my inventory that interests you.”
Nydia read the sign on the side of the van. Curious Goods-Prices To Fit Every Customer. A shiver of recognition ran through her. When she’d visited Four Winds several months back, she’d come to research a story about a skinwalker bowl. She remembered the story Lanie Blackhorse had told her, of acquiring the bowl from a peddler who’d been traveling through town. She wondered if this was the same man.
Curiosity drove her. As he slid open the side door of the worn vehicle and pulled down a little folding table, she peered inside. Everything on the various built-in shelves looked like inexpensive fifties-era collectibles or ordinary dime-store merchandise like plastic sunglasses and ceramic roadrunners.
“Are you the gentleman who sold a woman at Four Winds a skinwalker bowl last year?”
He shrugged. “I’m getting old. It’s hard to remember things I sold last week, let alone last year. I buy, sell and trade merchandise everywhere.” The peddler reached toward the front of the van and pulled something out of one corner. “You are one of the dineh, our people. Maybe this will catch your eye.” The man unfolded the most beautiful Yei Navajo rug she’d ever seen, one that depicted the Holy People. It was about six feet long, and was divided into three sections, each showcasing a water-sprinkler deity in blue, black or gold. Rainbow-guardian figures protected the borders.
“Uncle, I can’t accept that. It’s not a fair trade. This rug will bring you a good price.”
“From some, perhaps.” He folded it into fourths, then held it out in his arms. “Take it, please. A gift to please an old man. This rug deserves an owner who will appreciate its beauty and value it as a precious thing.”
“I couldn’t possibly…” The rug was simply exquisite, and obviously genuine. She recognized the weaving pattern of her people, and the natural dyes the People used to create distinctive colors. Imitators of the Navajo designs had yet to successfully duplicate the deep Ganado red, a blend of crimson and brown, much like the vibrant colors that covered the ground during a fiery sunset.
She rubbed her hand lightly over the weave, feeling its softness. According to Navajo customs, the lanolin present in wool had been preserved in the yarn, making this rug as soft and supple as a blanket. As she studied the beautiful patterns, she found herself wishing it really could be hers.
“Itis a gift. Take it. The rug calls to you.” he said softly.
She did want it, and there seemed no danger in accepting something like this. It wasn’t like the skinwalker bowl she’d heard so much about, an abomination from the time it was created.
“Let me pay you something for it, at least.”
He shook his head. “It is freely given, and has now been freely accepted.”
Nydia gathered the rug up carefully, and held it, still feeling guilty for having accepted the valuable gift. “Is there something else I can do for you?”
He held her gaze for a long time. “Hear me now, Navajo woman. Be careful with this rug. The weaver who created it was proud of her design, and, unable to mar the perfection of her work, constructed it without a flaw.”
“A flaw?” The notion sounded vaguely familiar, like a story she’d heard long ago but couldn’t quite remember. She tried to clear her thoughts, but she couldn’t look away from the peddler’s penetrating gaze, or push back the cobwebs that encircled her mind.
“Spider Woman first taught our weavers to create beautiful blankets, then later, rugs, as today. At first, as a tribute to her, a small hole was left in the center of each blanket or rug, resembling the spider hole in the center of Spider Woman’s web. Later, a thin line from the center to the edge became a traditional part of such work. It is said that Spider Woman became angry that the weaver of this rug denied her the tribute, so she spun webs in the weaver’s mind, clouding her reason. It is also said the rug’s owners will share a similar fate until the time when the curse ends or the blanket is destroyed.”
Nydia came to her senses slowly, blinking several times. She had no idea how long she’d stood there. She vaguely remembered the peddler saying goodbye. But all she could see now was his van disappearing over the horizon.
Suppressing a shudder, she went back to her pickup and stored the rug carefully behind the seat. “Good trick,” she muttered. The peddler had wanted to add a touch of mysticism to the gift, and he’d done an admirable job of it. If the story was true, it had probably come about because the weaver and subsequently the elders who’d owned it had succumbed to dementia at some point in their lives. As an anthropologist, she knew stories often grew into legends that way.
Chiding herself for having lost almost another hour, she hurried on toward the singer’s, or medicine man’s, hogan. Nydia had hoped to complete her mission and be on her way home before dark, but the sun had nearly set now. So much depended on her. The life of her father-in-law and the trust of her own child hung in the balance. She had to find Joshua Blackhorse and bring him back with her as quickly as possible.
Nydia passed the water tower but, after fifteen minutes of driving through the pines, she pulled to a stop. Somehow, she must have taken a wrong turn. There was certainly no sign of a hogan anywhere. She’d have to backtrack. The question was how far.
Everything was quiet except for the rustle of the wind through the pine trees. As she put the truck in reverse, she heard a whisper-soft voice coming from within her. It was like her own thoughts, yet not. Her heart began to pound.
A Navajo man is about to become involved in murder.
She heard it as clearly as if it had been spoken, though there had been no audible sound. She shook her head. The peddler had probably put some hypnotic suggestion in her mind, which also explained her earlier distortion of time. She shouldn’t have lowered her guard and allowed him to give her a gift. She’d suspected him of being the one who’d given Lanie Blackhorse the bowl. But accepting the rug had seemed so inconsequential, she hadn’t counted on him playing mind games with her.
Once again the whisper-soft voice in her head warned her, There’s going to be a murder.
Nydia shook her head, trying to free herself from the annoying, persistent thought. This was ridiculous. She’d been reading too many mysteries lately—dthat was all.
As Nydia turned around and drove back up the hill toward the water tower, two closely spaced rifle shots cracked through the air. Nydia hit the brakes, slid to a stop and glanced around quickly. About a hundred yards ahead beside a pine, she could see the outline of a man aiming a rifle. The man fired again, and the blast reverberated in the confines of her truck.
Nydia pushed down hard on the truck’s horn. It wasn’t deer season. Maybe the man was a poacher. As the horn blast echoed through the forest, the shooter ran off into the woods. The man was clumsy in his haste to escape, stumbling and almost falling down twice.
Nydia drove over the ridge, wondering what he’d been shooting at. In a small clearing below, she could see a blue pickup and a nearly completed log hogan partially hidden by a cluster of pines. Another vehicle was in the trees farther away.
Nydia drove down the hill, her heart pounding, dreading what she might find. As she entered the clearing, she saw a man lying on his back beside the blue pickup, his shirt soaked with blood.
She wasn’t squeamish. She’d been raised in the country, where people hunted or butchered livestock, but she’d never seen anything like this before in her life. She stopped the truck, reached under the seat for her first-aid kit, knowing instinctively that it was woefully inadequate to meet the wounded man’s needs.
Nydia went to his side. The dime-sized wound in the center of his chest made her breath catch in her throat. This man needed an emergency medical team right now. Nydia noticed his face as she crouched down. His strong good looks reminded her of Joshua, but his age suggested he was Joshua’s father or some other relative of that generation. She knew it wasn’t either of the singer’s brothers; she’d met them when she’d been in Four Winds a few months ago.
Through the open door of the blue pickup, only a dozen feet away, she saw a portable phone on the seat and a rifle in a rack below the rear window. Glancing around to be certain she was alone, Nydia ran toward the vehicle. The elder Blackhorse must have been shot as he’d tried to reach the truck to arm himself and call for help.
Nydia was almost to the telephone when a hand clamped onto her wrist. The manaclelike hold effectively immobilized her entire arm. Unable to see directly behind her, she reached back desperately with her free hand, aiming for his face. Her arm was forced away firmly, and brought down beside the other. Quickly, her captor shifted both her hands into one of his. Terrified, she struggled wildly.
“Stop fighting,” he commanded, then as if to make his point, jerked her back toward him.
Nydia slammed into a man’s bare chest. It was solid and hard, and felt a bit like running into a brick wall. As his breath touched her cheek, her skin prickled, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. “What…what do you want?”
“I want you away from the truck,” came the reply.
His voice was low, and held a velvety smoothness that affected her more than it had a right to. Without further word, he moved her aside as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. His strength amazed her.
At last his grip eased, and taking advantage of the moment, Nydia jumped away. As she turned to face him, she inhaled sharply. The man who had held her was Joshua Blackhorse. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached down and retrieved a rifle on the ground at his feet.
As she remembered from their first encounter, Joshua possessed a mesmerizing quality that made him totally unforgettable. His shirt was open and hung down over a pair of faded jeans. His chest gleamed with perspiration, and small scratches crisscrossed his bronzed skin. An intense virility defined him.
As his eyes gleamed down on her, a shiver raced up her spine. Yet on a level she wasn’t sure she could explain, even to herself, she sensed something dark and deadly within him.
“You have nothing to fear from me, now that I know who you are,” he said, and went directly to the man on the ground.
Nydia rushed back to the truck and lifted the other rifle out of the rack. She’d heard of Navajo singers turning bad before. It was said that by taking the life of a close relative, they could gain the powers of a skinwalker. “Stop where you are.”
Joshua glanced back at her, but ignored her order. “My father needs me, woman.”
“Set down your weapon or I will shoot you,” she said, her voice shaky but determined.
“The rifle you’re holding is my father’s. It’s not loaded.”
Nydia’s stomach fell, fear spiraling through her. She opened the bolt action, and the chamber and clip below were empty. She took a step back, wondering if Joshua would come after her now that she’d angered him. But his attention was focused solely on his father.
Nydia forced herself to calm down. Had he wanted her dead, he could have killed her by now. She’d never heard him approach. And if Joshua had wanted his father dead to gain skinwalker powers, why was he helping him now? She recognized the herbs that Joshua had taken from a pouch on his belt and was applying to his father’s wound. They were ones commonly used on the reservation to stop bleeding. Then she heard him start a powerful sing. His voice was like a raging fire that robbed the oxygen from her lungs. She understood now why he was so sought-after as a singer and why so many of the People placed their trust in him. It was more than charisma. His prayer was vibrant, as if he possessed the magic that could summon the Earth Mother herself.
As he glanced up, she saw that his eyes now blazed with pain. Unable to bear the raw emotions there, Nydia looked away. As her gaze fell on the rifle by his side, she felt a cold chill envelop her, and common sense returned.
She had no way of knowing what had happened here. What she did know was that she needed help, and so did the gravely wounded man. She used the phone in her hand and dialed the operator, uncertain if 911 would work here. Joshua didn’t try to stop her. As soon as help was on the way, she announced that the police and medical help would be there soon.
Joshua nodded and went on with his sing. Finally, he paused to replace the herb and met her gaze. “Regardless of how it seems, I didn’t do this,” he said. “But I willpunish whoever did.”
“If you didn’t shoot your father, who did?”
“There was a man up on the ridge. He’s responsible for this. When my father can talk, he’ll confirm what I’m saying.”
Nydia didn’t respond. As Joshua renewed the sing, she once more sensed the raw power that came from him. She watched him apply pressure to certain points around his father’s chest, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood that continued despite the herbs.
She was no doctor, but it didn’t take a degree in medicine to see that the man on the ground was dying. As the blood drained away the elder Blackhorse’s life, Joshua’s song became distorted by loss and dark despair. It seemed to lose its vitality, as if the healer’s faith was slowly being shattered.
Nydia felt his anguish with each mournful phrase. She felt the moisture gathering in her lashes and tried to push the emotions back. If there was ever a situation that called for staying cool and analytical, this was it. She couldn’t afford to forget the look in Joshua’s eyes when he’d first appeared. There had been something dark and frightening there. It might have been directed at the attacker, if Joshua’s story was true, but she had no way of knowing for sure.
As the dying man’s breathing became shallower, Nydia heard Joshua redouble his efforts, singing and applying herbs with a desperation that she couldn’t believe would ever come from a murderer.
A ragged gasp came from the wounded man. The next instant, there was only silence.
Joshua’s hands curled into fists as he leaned over his father’s body. The strangled, desperate cry that he uttered came from his soul.
Nydia mourned his loss, but with a burst of will, forced herself to think clearly. Moving quickly, she picked up Joshua’s rifle from the ground.
When Joshua rose back to his knees, he saw her holding his weapon. He stood slowly. “Woman, my father is dead, and his murderer is out there, running free. Give me that rifle. I have a killer to hunt down.”
“No,” she said calmly. “You’re not going anywhere until the sheriff arrives.”
“As we talk, the killer gets farther away. It’ll be completely dark soon.”
Nydia hesitated. She wanted to believe him. There was something about Joshua that made it nearly impossible to think him capable of such a crime. But the facts were less plain. She finally shook her head. “You’re staying. I’m honestly not sure what’s going on here, but that’s not up to me to decide. You’ll have to settle this with the sheriff.”
“I’m a healer. I don’t take lives, especially my father’s.”
She sensed the truth in his words, but she just couldn’t be sure. He was charismatic, and his voice had an oddly compelling timbre that would make anything he said sound plausible. “What happened, then? How could someone sneak up on you? It’s so quiet.”
“My father and I did hear a vehicle approach, but neither of us was concerned. A lot of fishermen come out this way. Then, fifteen minutes or so later, someone fired two shots at us from up on that ridge. I was closest to the trees, so my father told me to go into the forest and outflank the sniper. I almost had him, too. But then you drove up. The sniper fired once more, hitting my father, then ran when you honked the horn. I couldn’t catch him, but I picked up the weapon he discarded. It’s my own rifle.”
“Are you’re telling me that the murder weapon belongs to you?”
“I reported it stolen last week. I’ve never even fired it. Now, you have to give me the rifle and let me go. You’re playing right into the murderer’s hands by keeping me here while he escapes. Don’t help him get away twice.”
The words stung. If his story was true, then in her effort to help, she’d given a killer the opportunity to escape. But that was no answer. She couldn’t fix what had already happened. It was the present she had to worry about. “I can’t let you go. It may have happened the way you said, or it may not. In either case, you have to talk to the sheriff first.”
The gathering darkness around them seemed to concentrate into the obsidian eyes that held hers. The impact of his strength of will and determination almost overwhelmed her. She felt the battle going on within him and his struggle to control his emotions. For one wild moment, she felt a primal desire to touch him and soothe his anguish. Though he didn’t realize it, she desperately wanted his story to be true, if only to help those who were counting on her. Everything she had ever heard about Joshua Blackhorse supported her belief in his innocence now. Unfortunately, the facts were less clear.
“Look, if nothing else, you are the last person who should be tracking the killer,” she said.
Joshua said nothing and remained rock still, but that stillness was too pronounced to pass as natural. It was more in line with a man who was conserving his energy.
“Tell me this,” he said. “Did you see anyone when you came over the hill?”
“There was someone.” Nydia searched her mind for a clearer image of the person she’d seen standing in the shadows. If memory served her right, it had been a much smaller man than Joshua. But she couldn’t be one hundred percent certain.
Hearing a vehicle, Nydia turned her head for a second and saw flashing red-and-blue lights approaching. By the time she glanced back at Joshua, he’d moved toward the road and was standing there waiting. She lowered the rifle. Had he wanted to, he could have easily made his escape then, not just moved. More to the point, once again he’d never made a sound. She remembered the clumsiness of the gunman she’d seen by the tree, the man who’d fired the shots. Comparing the two men in her mind, she became certain they couldn’t have been the same person.
A minute later, the sheriff pulled up and stepped out of his Jeep. She recognized Gabriel Blackhorse from her last visit to Four Winds.
Grim faced, Gabriel went directly to his father’s side and knelt by the body. Finally, he looked up at his brother. “What happened?”
Joshua gave his brother the same story he’d told her, pointing to the spot where the gunman had hidden. “Whoever it was is long gone now, probably. But I may still be able to track him.”
Gabriel looked at Nydia curiously, as if wondering what she was doing here, but focused on the more vital question. “Can you confirm my brother’s story?”
“I came here to look for the hataalii, because my fatherin-law is sick. When I drove up, I saw the gunman briefly, but not clearly enough to identify him. Your brother was not with your father when I reached him, but arrived shortly after I did.” She recapped what she’d found upon her arrival, and what had happened subsequently.
Joshua’s voice was taut as he glared at his brother. “I am the best tracker, but time is slipping by. I have to get going before the man covers his trail.”
“I can’t let you do that.” Gabriel said. “This is my job, and you have to trust me to do it the right way.” Turning to Nydia, he said, “Mrs. Jim, I want you to take me to where you saw the sniper.” When she nodded, he turned his attention back to his brother. The sheriff met his younger brother’s fierce gaze. “We’ll catch whoever did this, but not by going off half-cocked. You, of all people, should know the value of patience, Tree.”
Nydia looked at Joshua, wondering now if her errand of mercy to Four Winds would become nothing more than a waste of time, a dream that, like so many others, faded into nothing when one got too close. The emotions flickering in Joshua’s eyes now had nothing to do with harmony and balance. There were some very unhataaliilike emotions there, and she sensed that until he restored his inner balance, Joshua could not act as a healer. Despairingly, she thought of the errand that had brought her here. Joshua was the only known keeper of the ancient song needed to restore her father-in-law’s health.
She thought of her son, John, and the faith he’d placed in her when he’d asked her to bring Joshua back to his grandfather. She couldn’t fail him. But before she could fulfill her promise to John, this matter facing the hataalii would have to be resolved.
As the flashing lights of another vehicle appeared at the top of the hill, Gabriel motioned to his brother. “Ride back with them. I need to have gunpowder-residue tests run on your hands to prove that you didn’t fire the rifle. That will clear you in the eyes of the court.”
“I’m not guilty and you know it. What we need now is to work together to catch our father’s killer. Let’s get going while the trail is still there.”
“No, Tree. Clearing you is the first order of business. Do as I say.”
She heard the whisper in her mind once again. Stay on your guard, the inner voice warned. As she saw Joshua stick his hand absently into his pocket, a cold chill ran up her spine and she stepped back. In a heartbeat, the air was filled with a red powder that made her eyes sting. She began to cough, unable to stop. By the time the spasm passed and her eyes cleared, Joshua was gone.
