Page 32 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Two weeks later, the desert sunset painted the landscape in hues of amber and crimson, the fading light catching on distant mesas like fire on stone.

Kari sat beside Ruth on the porch of what she now thought of as her home, no longer “her mother’s house” but her own.

The wooden steps still creaked in the same places, the wind still carried the scent of sage and juniper, but something had changed.

Something within Kari herself.

Ruth worked on a small weaving, her weathered hands moving confidently despite the fading light. Kari nursed a mug of cedar tea, content with the comfortable silence between them.

Her phone buzzed—another text from her father.

He’d given her space for the past couple of weeks, for which she was grateful, but now he was reaching out again about dinner with him and Linda.

Maybe she should take him up on it. Maybe spending a little time with her father and Linda wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

“Heard your FBI man gave you credit on the television,” Ruth said finally, not looking up from her work.

Kari smiled, silencing her phone. “Daniels isn’t ‘my’ FBI man. But yes, he acknowledged our department’s contribution to the case.”

What Daniels had actually said, in a press conference that had made national news, was that “Detective Blackhorse’s unique cultural insights proved critical to identifying and apprehending the suspect.

” Coming from the Bureau, it was high praise indeed, if somewhat removed from the reality of what had happened at the ravine’s edge.

“And the professor woman? The one who thought she was becoming yee naaldlooshii?”

“Dr. Redford is undergoing psychiatric evaluation at a secure facility,” Kari said. “The doctors say her delusions may be treatable with the right medication and therapy.”

Ruth made a small sound, neither agreement nor disagreement. “And what do you say?”

The question hung between them, laden with meaning. Kari turned the medicine pouch over in her hands, feeling its weight, remembering how it had affected Redford when nothing else could.

“I think…” Kari chose her words carefully. “I think some experiences exist in the spaces between what we can explain and what we can only understand.”

Ruth nodded, satisfied. “Your mother would agree with that.”

The mention of Anna created a familiar ache in Kari’s chest, but it was softer now, less raw. “Do you really think it was real?” she asked quietly. “The vision you had of her?”

Ruth’s fingers stilled on her weaving. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Kari paused, looking out at the darkening landscape. “I think I don’t know everything. And that’s okay.”

A smile crossed Ruth’s face, brief but genuine. “That’s wisdom, Asdz?′?′ K’os. The beginning of it, anyway.”

Kari held up the medicine pouch. “Can I keep this? It saved my life that night.”

“Of course,” Ruth said simply. “It’s yours now. It was your mother’s before you.”

Kari looked at the small leather bag with renewed wonder. “Mom’s? You never said—”

“You never asked,” Ruth pointed out. “Anna carried it for many years. When she died, it came back to me. Now it goes to you, as it should.”

Kari ran her fingers over the intricate beadwork, imagining her mother carrying this same pouch, touching these same beads. It created a connection that transcended death, a continuity she hadn’t expected to find.

“But to truly make it yours,” Ruth continued, “you must add something to it. Something personal. Something that represents your spirit.”

“What did Mom add?”

Ruth pointed to a small turquoise bead nestled among the traditional patterns. “This. She said it reminded her of the sky between worlds.”

Kari touched the bead gently. “I’ll have to think about what represents me.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Ruth advised. “The right thing will find you when it’s time.”

They sat in companionable silence as darkness claimed the desert, stars appearing one by one in the vast sky. Coyotes called in the distance, their voices rising and falling in ancient conversation.

Kari slipped the medicine pouch into her pocket, feeling its familiar weight against her side.

A piece of her mother, a gift from her grandmother, a bridge between worlds she was only just beginning to understand.

Whatever challenges lay ahead—whatever mysteries remained to be solved—she would face them with both aspects of herself: the detective’s rational mind and the deeper knowing that came from her heritage.

For now, though, she was content to sit beside Ruth as night embraced the desert, listening to the wind that carried stories older than words, newer than breath. Stories that were, in their way, also hers to keep.

Stories that were, at last, leading her home.