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  She turned to face the man she had once believed to he not only the person she would one day marry, but the hero of her heart.

  Despite his years away from the reservation, Joe Ornelas looked every inch the proud Navajo. Just the sight of him created unwelcome quivers inside her. Leftover mementos of a time when she had thought herself falling in love with him. Wasn't it perfectly natural for her body to react in such a way?

  Joe came toward her. Slowly. Hesitantly. She waited. Holding her breath. He was as handsome, as utterly masculine, as he had been the day they first met. Never before had she felt such an instant attraction to a man.

  Never before did she have to fight so hard to deny it. . . .

  SILHOUETTE BOOKS

  ISBN 0-373-27133-6

  NAVAJO'S WOMAN

  Copyright © 2001 by Beverly Beaver

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office. Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

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  Printed In U.S.A.

  Books by Beverly Barton

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  The Outcast #614 Sugar Hill #687

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  *Guarding Jeannie #688 The Wanderer #766

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  *A Man Like Morgan Kane #819 Nothing But Trouble #881

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  Emily and the Stranger #860 A Child of Her Own #1077

  Lone Wolf's Lady #877 †His Secret Child #1203

  *Keeping Annie Safe #937 †His Woman, His Child #1209

  *Murdock's Last Stand #979 †Having His Baby #1216

  *Egan Cassidy's Kid#1015

  Her Secret Weapon #1034 *The Protectors

  *Navajo's Woman #1063 †3 Babies for 3 Brothers

  Silhouette Books

  36 Hours Nine Months

  The Fortunes of Texas

  In the Arms of a Hero

  3,2,1. . .Married!

  "Getting Personal"

  BEVERLY BARTON

  has been in love with romance since her grandfather gave her an illustrated book of Beauty and the Beast. An avid reader since childhood, Beverly wrote her first book at the age of nine. After marriage to her own "hero" and the births of her daughter and son, Beverly chose to be a full-time homemaker, aka wife, mother, friend and volunteer. The author of over thirty-five books, Beverly is a member of Romance Writers of America and helped found the Heart of Dixie chapter in Alabama. She has won numerous awards and made the Waldenbooks and USA Today bestseller lists.

  To some strong, brave ladies, who have recently

  gone through a trial of fire, each in her own way. My friends, Marilyn Elrod, Wendy Corsi Staub, Jan Powell and my dear sister-in-law, Winnie Bradford.

  Prologue

  Bobby Yazzi lay on the floor. Dead. Blood from two fatal bullet wounds covered his yellow shirt and stained the handwoven rug beneath him. Russ Lapahie stood fro­zen to the spot, his body partially blocking Jewel Begay, who waited in the shadows several feet behind him. If the killer could see her in the semidarkness, he probably wouldn't be able to tell anything except that she was fe­male. With a backward wave of his hand, Russ warned her to escape while she could.

  Suddenly he heard the sound of running feet and the outside door slamming shut. Momentary relief spread through him when he realized that she had understood his signal to get the hell out of there. But that relief was short­lived. Across the room, hovering like a fire-breathing dragon preparing to emerge from his den, Bobby's mur­derer narrowed his gaze and aimed his weapon once again. Light from the lone lamp shining in the living room of Bobby's apartment hit the metal of the gun, which glimmered like diamonds.

  Russ had seen the killer's face and recognized him. He was a witness to the murder, and the killer couldn't allow him to live. If he moved, he'd be shot. But if he didn't move. . . Hell, he was damned no matter what he did.

  "Russ, what's going on in here?" Eddie Whitehorn called out as he came barreling through the front door. "Jewel just came out, got in the car and she—" Eddie came to an abrupt halt at Russ's side when he saw the body lying in the middle of the living room floor.

  The next thing Russ knew, the dragon emerged. A cou­ple of shots rang out. He and Eddie hit the floor. Crawling. Then they jumped up and ran as fast as their legs would carry them. Breathless. The cool night breeze enveloped their warm, perspiring bodies. Air on dampness. Cold on hot.

  "Where's the car?" Russ screamed, in order to hear his own voice over the drumbeat of his heart thundering inside his head.

  "Jewel and Martina left us." Eddie ran to keep up with Russ.

  Each trying to catch his breath, the two boys hid behind a car parked across the street. Porch lights began coming on. Window blinds and shades came up. A couple of doors opened and several brave residents emerged from their homes.

  "We've got to keep running," Russ said. "We have to get out of here before he comes after us."

  "We need to call the police," Eddie replied.

  "Yeah, sure. And have them ask us what we were do­ing at Bobby Yazzi's. They'll think we went there for drugs. Man, they're liable to think we killed him!"

  "But we didn't—"

  "We can talk about this later." Russ grabbed Eddie's arm. "We have to go before he comes after us. I'm telling you, I'm in big trouble. The guy saw me. He knows I can identify him."

  Sucking in air hurriedly, the boys eased out from be­hind the car and ran between a couple of houses. As they passed, Russ caught a glimpse of two men on the porch of the nearest house. The boys didn't linger, didn't slow their pace. Running faster and faster, Russ could think of nothing but getting away from the man who had killed Bobby. He had never seen a human being killed. Shot down. Never watched the blood drain quickly from a body until the heart stopped.

  He couldn't let Bobby's murderer find him. And he couldn't call the police. With his reputation as a teenage delinquent, they'd probably lock him up and throw away the key. He had only one choice. Run and hide. And since those people back there had seen Eddie with him, had seen both of them running away from the scene of the crime, then his best friend was in almost as much trouble as he was. If they were going to stay one step ahead of the killer and the police, they'd have to stick together.

  Chapter 1

  Andi Stephens wandered about inside her house, mean­dering from room to room in search of something to do—something to occupy her mind. Maybe she should have stayed at the store and taken inventory or priced items for the upcoming sale, but her assistant Barbara Redhor
se usually took care of those matters. When she had decided to remain in New Mexico after her initial visit over five years ago, she had needed something to do, something that would occupy her time and also involve her in learn­ing more about her Navajo roots. Her good friend, Joanna Blackwood, had been the one to suggest opening a Native American Arts and Crafts store in Gallup. So, she had delved in to her sizable inheritance from her grandfather and invested in a local business, which actually turned a profit the very first year. But today even her flourishing store couldn't keep her focused. Having been restless and slightly on edge for the past hour, she couldn't seem to relax. She had taken a shower and changed into her soft cotton pajamas, hoping that would put her in the mood for sleep. But she was too wired. And the odd thing was, she wasn't quite sure why. It was as if something was wrong, but she didn't know what. She had been prone to having uneasy feelings ever since she'd been a child. Not that she possessed psychic abilities or anything like that. Not really. She just occasionally got a sense of forebod­ing. And nine times out of ten, she was right.

  She was worried enough to have called to check on her mother, who lived in South Carolina. But Rosemary Ste­phens had been entertaining a group of society friends and hadn't had time to say more than hello and goodbye. Andi had been tempted to telephone her stepmother who lived on the nearby Navajo Reservation, to check on her and Russ. And she had even started dialing her friend Joanna Blackwood's number before common sense took over and she hung up the phone. Joanna was expecting her fourth child, and although the pregnancy had been perfectly nor­mal, there was always the chance that—

  Stop this! an inner voice ordered. Do you hear me? Stop borrowing trouble. If something is wrong, you'll find out soon enough. No need to make yourself sick.

  Andi found herself in her small kitchen—a bright, light room, with oak cabinets, cream walls and uncurtained windows that overlooked an enclosed backyard. Tea. She'd make herself a cup of herbal tea.

  Within minutes, she removed the cup of water she'd heated in the microwave, added a raspberry tea bag and dunked it several times. She preferred her tea mild and plain.

  Now what? she asked herself. Try to read? Listen to music? Watch TV? Finding herself back in the living room, she sat in her favorite seat, an oversize, hunter-green leather chair. She stretched her legs out atop the matching ottoman, took a sip of tea and considered her choices. Glancing at the mantel clock, she decided to catch the late-night news and weather.

  The remote lay under a couple of magazines on the side table at her right. After several clicks, she found the local channel. But while she drank her tea, her mind wandered, so she paid little attention to the series of commercials that flickered across the twenty-six-inch screen. Ever since she'd had lunch with Joanna this past week, she'd been thinking about Joe Ornelas. Joanna had casually men­tioned that Joe, her husband J.T.'s cousin, had sent her a baby gift, with a sweet note attached.

  "I can't believe he picked out that adorable little frilly dress himself," Joanna had said.

  "Maybe his girlfriend chose it," Andi had replied.

  "Maybe. But J.T. says that Joe doesn't have anyone special in his life these days."

  Yeah, sure. Like she'd believe that. Joe Ornelas wasn't the type to live without a woman. Perhaps there was no one he considered special, but she'd bet every dime of her inheritance that living there in Atlanta, Georgia, Joe had women swarming around him like bees. She figured he probably had to beat them off with a stick. After all, Joe was a hunk. And a lot of women had a penchant for handsome Native Americans.

  Oh, great! You're batting a thousand tonight, aren't you, she scolded herself. You go from being disturbed by uneasy feelings to mooning over a man who walked out on you five years ago. Andi Stephens, you need to get a life!

  Suddenly the news story on the television caught Andi's attention. She thought she'd heard her brother's name mentioned. Surely, not. The newscaster was talking about a murder case.

  After turning up the sound, she focused on the screen. The female news anchor switched over to a live report from the scene of a shooting in Castle Springs, a small town northeast of Gallup and situated within the bound­aries of the Navajo Reservation.

  "According to his neighbors, Bobby Yazzi, the murder victim, was believed to be involved in selling drugs," the male news reporter said, while the camera-man gave a wide-angle shot of the victim's apartment and of residents milling around on the street. "Although the police haven't released any information about the murder itself, our sources have told us that some neighbors saw two young men running out of the duplex-apartment and into the alley behind their houses. The police have not confirmed this, nor have they identified the young men, but we're told that the eyewitnesses know who the men are and identified them as Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, both Navajo youths."

  Andi set her tea aside, then listened carefully, trying to absorb every tidbit of information. How was this possible? What were Russ and Eddie doing anywhere near a man like Bobby Yazzi? Russ might be a bit of a hell-raiser, but he really wasn't a bad kid. He was a boy without a father. At sixteen, he was rebelling against his mother, his Native American heritage and anything that even hinted of adult authority.

  Five years ago, her half-brother's life had been vastly altered, just as hers had been, when their father committed suicide. Andi had suspected that Russ wanted to distance himself from what friends and family considered his fa­ther's shame. Now this had happened. What could it mean?

  She had to contact Doli. If her stepmother didn't know about this, then Andi would have to be the one to break the news to her. Poor Doli. She'd felt lost and confused trying to raise a strong-willed boy without a man to guide him. She would blame herself for any trouble Russ had landed in this time, as she had numerous times in the past.

  "This just in," the newscaster reported. "The police have put out an APB on Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn. Both young men are wanted for questioning in the shooting death of Bobby Yazzi."

  Poor boys, Andi thought. They had to be frightened. Scared out of their minds. If they had witnessed the mur­der, then whoever killed Bobby would know that her brother and Eddie could identify him.

  Just as Andi stood, the telephone rang. With an un­steady hand, she lifted the receiver.

  "Hello."

  "Andi, this is J.T. By any chance, have you been watching TV or listening to the radio?''

  "Yes, I heard. Russ and Eddie are wanted for ques­tioning." Andi gripped the phone tightly. "What were they doing at Bobby Yazzi's apartment? Neither of them are into drugs."

  "I have no idea," J.T. said. "Have you spoken with Doli?"

  "No, I was just going to call her, but— Have you spo­ken to Eddie's parents?"

  "Yeah." J.T. paused, took a deep breath and continued. "I'm on my way over to Castle Springs now to meet Ed and Kate at the police station. Do you want me to contact Doli?"

  "No, I'll call her and then I'll drive over to the reser­vation and stay with her until we find out what's going on.

  Andi said goodbye, hung up the receiver and huffed out a long, loud sigh. Her uneasy feeling had proven to be right, once again. Her unerringly accurate premonition of trouble had been fulfilled. That sense of foreboding had, in the past, forecast sickness, death and accidents, usually involving someone close to her. She wished that just this once she could have been wrong.

  Russ hot-wired the old truck, a rusty relic from the fifties, but one that purred like a kitten when the motor turned over.

  "Damn it, Russ, this is stealing!" Eddie, who sat alongside his friend in the cab of the truck, looked from side to side out the windows, then glanced over his shoul­der.

  "Hey, we have to get some kind of transportation, don't we?" Russ shifted gears, eased the truck backward and quickly maneuvered it onto the road. "We can't get very far on foot and we can't keep hiding out here in town. We're taking Mr. Lovato's truck in order to save our lives."

  "Yeah, well, the police will
call what we're doing stealing."

  "I call it borrowing," Russ reiterated.

  On the road out of Castle Springs, they met several trucks and a couple of cars, but traffic was slow and no one followed them. Eddie rolled down a window and the cool night wind whipped his long hair into his face.

  He didn't know what the heck he was doing here, on the run with Russ. Everything had happened so fast, too fast for him to think straight, to reason the right and wrong, the good and the bad. If he'd had any sense at all, he'd have vetoed the idea of going to Bobby Yazzi's to pick up some beer. Everybody knew that Bobby could provide not only the drug of your choice, but liquor of any kind to underage drinkers. When Russ's date, Jewel Begay, had made the suggestion to pick up some beer and Russ had agreed, Eddie hadn't wanted to come off sound­ing like some scared little boy. After all, he'd had a date to impress. If Jewel hadn't arranged the double date, he wouldn't have had a prayer of going out with a girl like Martina. Pretty and popular and from a good Navajo family.

  When his parents found out he'd been at Bobby Yazzi's, what would they think? God, he hated even imagining their reaction. Their eldest son, of whom they were so proud, involved in a murder!

  Russ flipped on the radio and fiddled with the dials, zipping from one station to another, finally settling on one. A country hit whined down to the last stanza, then news on the half hour began.

  "There's an update on the murder case we told you about at ten," the announcer said. "Two Navajo youths— Russell Lapahie, Jr. and Eddie Whitehorn, are wanted for questioning in regard to the Bobby Yazzi murder that oc­curred around eight o'clock tonight. Both Lapahie and Whitehorn were seen running from the victim's apartment shortly after neighbors heard several shots fired.

  "Lapahie, the son of former Navajo police captain, Russell Lapahie, Sr., is a resident of Castle Springs and well known in town. The other youth, Whitehorn, lives on a sheep ranch between Castle Springs and Trinidad. Police aren't saying if the boys are suspects in the case, but they have issued an APB on the two."