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Three sets of eyes turned his way. Dark. Assessing. Caleb nodded. They dismissed him and resumed their conversation.
He took a seat on a cracked vinyl stool. Propped his elbows on a wooden counter that needed a fresh coat of varnish. Behind it, liquor bottles stood on glass shelves like soldiers in formation.
It had been a long day, escorting his mother’s body five hours north from Phoenix to the Navajo reservation. He’d raise a glass to her tortured soul, curse his father’s, and brace for tomorrow, when he’d bury hisamáand face the family he hadn’t seen since he was twelve.
Including his grandfather. President of the Navajo Nation.
“What can I get you?” The bartender eyed him with mild suspicion. Caleb’s black hair, copper skin, and brown eyes broadcast his Native and Hispanic roots. Common in the Southwest. But in this bar, he was still an outsider.
Caleb scrutinized the liquor bottles. They all tasted the same—more medicinal than pleasure. He rarely drank more than an occasional beer.
“Johnny Walker.”Shit.Now he’d have to choose. “Red. Neat. Got any food?”
“Navajo tacos are pretty good.” The bartender jerked a thumb at the swinging door beside the counter. “Wife makes them.”
“Perfect.”
The bartender poured the whiskey, set it on a cocktail napkin, then vanished into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned to his spot with his buddies.
The liquor scorched Caleb’s throat, igniting a fire in his chest. Harsh. Like the memories trying to push their way forward.
Lillie Blackwater Varella had made him promise to bury her among the Diné—the Navajo word for themselves that translated to The People.
Why, he’d never understood. Still didn’t.
He’d been her only family. His grandfather hadn’t reached out, not even after Caleb’s father died, when Caleb was sixteen, and it had been just him and his mom struggling to survive. As soon as he turned eighteen, his paychecks from the Army had kept his mother housed and fed.
Now he protected high value individuals and got paid handsomely for it. He’d made sure his mother wanted for nothing.
Except his time.
He took another, larger swallow and observed the men in the corner. Navajo. Like her. The whiskey soured in his stomach. Maybe he shared their blood, but he didn’t belong any more than the tourists who bought trinkets at the trading posts off the interstate.
Lifting the glass, he studied its contents. Honey gold. Not top shelf, but it did the job. Tomorrow, he’d do what his mother asked. Bury her on Diné land. Treat his grandfather with respect, undeserved as it might be for a man who abandoned his only daughter.
And leave with his past firmly in the rearview mirror.
Forever.
Maybe he’d head to the cabin in the mountains of North Carolina that he owned but rarely visited.
Or maybe he’d take the lead on the protection job coming up in New York so his boss, Ryder, could stay in London with his fiancée, Nathalie. She’d just started art school.
The door swished open. Cold air gusted in, cutting through the beer and cigarettes.
He sipped his whiskey and flicked his gaze to the mirror behind the bar.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Dark brown hair fell in waves just past her shoulders, brushing a burgundy hip-length leather jacket. Blue jeans molded long legsending in brown ankle boots. The woman tucked a strand behind her ear. A diamond stud winked in the light.
Classy. Too classy for a place like this.
Tense shoulders. A careful sweep of her gaze.
Like she was searching for threats.
Caleb sat straighter. He knew that look. Had seen it too many times during his deployments in war zones, and even now, protecting people whose money, status, or celebrity made them targets.