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Her eyes softened. Sympathy replaced caution. “I’m sorry. Is she a member of the Navajo Nation?”
Simple question. Complicated answer.
“Yes.” Caleb left it at that. “What about you?”
Doc—he still didn’t know her name—glanced at the door and took another measured sip of her drink. “No. I work at a clinic about forty minutes away.”
He did a quick mental calculation. Forty minutes in either direction was a whole lot of nothing. “On the rez?”
She flinched. Bit her lip. “Yes.”
Truth.Reluctantly delivered.
“You said your mother was Navajo.” She set her glass down. “Did you grow up around here?”
“Not really.”
Her brows knitted together.
He elaborated. “We moved to Phoenix when I was twelve. I joined the Army after high school. Haven’t been back much.”
Why was he telling her this? He kept his business to himself.
You don’t want her to leave.
He’d sit and talk all night if she wanted. It beat going to a hotel room alone and thinking about how shitty the next day was going to be.
He glanced at her hands. No rings, and no evidence a ring had made itself at home on her left finger.
“Another club soda, Doc?” Billy aimed a scowl at Caleb.
“No, thanks. I need to head home.”
Billy nodded and sent another squinty-eyed glare in Caleb’s direction before he returned to his buddies.
The door opened, ushering in more chill night air and a stranger.
Around five-eight. Dark eyes. Salt and pepper hair. A drooping Winnfield mustache.
Doc’s fingers tightened around her glass, knuckles turning white.
A doe scenting a predator.
Caleb gave the newcomer his complete attention. With his faded jeans, worn cowboy boots, and a long-sleeve flannel shirt, he could have been a day laborer looking for a beer after a hard day’s work.
Except his clothes were too clean, too tidy, and his demeanor was anything but casual. The flannel shirt hung loose, like it was concealing a weapon.
Caleb’s fingers flexed, inching toward his concealed carry Glock.
Dammit.
Which he’d locked up in the Jeep while he was at the funeral home.
There was something familiar about the guy. Recognition teased the edge of Caleb’s memory.
The man locked eyes with Doc, and the air in the bar shifted to something unspoken.
Dangerous.