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At any cost.
Gia’s fingers kept drifting to her lips as she unzipped her suitcase.
Caleb had kissed her.
And she hadn’t been afraid.
She hadn’t kissed a man since Vincente.
Hadn’twantedto.
Her white medical coat hung back in the closet. A few shirts, a couple of work outfits, a handful of underwear—all back in her closet or drawers.
The rest she’d left packed, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Because even though she’d said she’d stay—and wanted to stay—if Vincente’s men tracked her down, she’d have no choice but to leave.
Her fingertips brushed the tight weave of her Navajo bedcovering, the rough texture grounding her. Bought at a trading post, the woman who’d handwoven the blanket had told her each pattern told a story.
If someone wove a blanket of her life, what would it say?
Unlike the Diné, she had no community, no culture, no symbols of her beliefs.
The thought of endangering them if she stayed turned her stomach.
The mistakes she’d made were her problem. Hers alone.
Running scared the hell out of her. She had no new identity to fall back on. Little cash left in her reserves.
If she ran, she’d have to cut ties. She’d never know the results of Florence Begay’s CAT scan, and if she was getting the treatment she needed. Or if Billy Nakai would actually follow through with the diet and exercise recommendations he needed to get his blood pressure and diabetes under control.
No goodbyes to Jennie. Zach. President Blackwater.
And Caleb.
God, Caleb.
There was no denying the attraction. His dark eyes and quiet strength had drawn her from the first moment at Lucero’s Lounge.
Then he’d appeared in the parking lot, handling those men with a ruthless efficiency that should have terrified her.
Only it had made her feel safe. Protected.
If Caleb ever knew the whole truth, he’d never look at her the same.
He’d see her for what she was—a liar, a coward, a woman who should’ve known better than to fall for a devil with a silver tongue.
She’d ignored the signs.
Until the night she couldn’t anymore.
No amount of running would wash away the blood. She’d slept in the bed of a murderer. Trusted him.
Her gaze darted back to the closet. To the clothes she’d unpacked.
Fear seized her lungs in a viselike grip.
What was she thinking? She should never have agreed to stay.
She should never have whispered Vincente’s name.