On Hallowed Ground: Book 2 in the Grounded Series

By Jansen Schmidt

Noah must decide if the woman who has captured his heart is a cold-blooded killer or an innocent pawn in someone else's deadly game.

On Hallowed Ground received a Readers' Crown Award qualifying it for the prestigious RONE award, InD'tale Magazine's acknowledgment of the very best books in the indie and small publishing industries.

Noah, witnesses a stampede on sacred Native American land that claims the life of a college student. While wild horses race through the canyon below, he spies someone else watching the spectacle from the shadows of a nearby grove of trees.

Fallon Youngblood, half Indian, half Irish healer, and spiritual advisor for the Hidden Springs Apache, has just finished her medicine wheel ceremony near tribal burial grounds. With a stampede bearing down, she climbs the closest mesa to safety. Entering a copse of trees, she notices someone else watching the stampede just a few yards away.

In their brief moonlight encounter, Fallon and Noah both suspect the other of starting the stampede yet are attracted to each other at the same time.

During the ensuing homicide investigation, Noah's attraction to Fallon grows. But, as evidence mounts against her, so does his suspicion about her involvement in the case. When another body is found— shot in the back of the head with a bullet from Fallon's gun—Noah must make a decision: listen to his head or follow his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543971835

Book preview

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2019 by Jansen Schmidt

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover design by Book Baby

ISBN (Print edition) 9781543971828

ISBN (eBook edition) 9781543971835

Library of Congress CIP data applied for.

Praise for On Common Ground

This new author does an amazing job of character development and scenery descriptions ... I felt like I was there! The combination of sizzling romance, mystery, and the realities of ranch life made for a truly enjoyable read.

JW (Amazon Reviews)

The romance is a rollercoaster with lots of steamy moments and a couple twists I did NOT see coming. There were more than a few moments when the scenery completely immersed me into the story and I had no problem imagining myself beneath the endless sky at sunset, listening to the Arizona desert. A great first book from Jansen Schmidt! CJ Burright (Amazon Reviews)

I enjoyed this well written romance novel, which comes with a twist of mystery. I cared about the main characters and became caught up in their back stories and the circumstances that brought them together at the ranch, which is a very cool setting. An excellent debut novel. Lynn Kelley (Amazon Reviews)

The depth of emotion and conflict between the hero and heroine kept me turning pages. I look forward to reading book two in the series! Melanie Atkins (Amazon Reviews)

Jansen caught my interest with the first paragraph. The story is well written and enjoyable. I was pleased that it is a mystery as well as a romance. The book kept my interest until the very end. A good read! Jeanne C (Amazon Reviews)

Jansen Schmidt knows how to awaken powerful emotions in readers. The characters are real and sophisticated. The prose is beautiful. On Common Ground is suspenseful and emotionally rich. This is a story that will entertain and inspire readers. Christian Sia (Readers’ Favorite)

Readers will enjoy characters who are relatable, feisty, sexy, conflicted, and compelling. The descriptions of ranch life feel so real they will make one’s muscles twang and noses twitch. The Arizona landscape is depicted in such enchanting in-depth detail one feels as if they are actually there. The story has just the right amount of mystery and humor to keep one turning the pages. Readers who enjoy westerns and romance will be taken on a slightly suspenseful ride filled with snappy dialogue, inner turmoil, beautiful scenery, and enough sexual tension to make a frosty bottle of beer a must! Tonya Mathenia (InD’tale Magazine)

Acknowledgments

I owe a great deal of thanks to a good many people for assisting this book toward publication. There were too many early readers and critique partners to personally thank here, but you know who you are. Several of my romance writing pals from the Sacramento chapter of Romance Writers of America played a vital part in the very early development stages of this story. Without their input I’d still have a mess to figure out. I need to thank Caroline Tolley for her editing expertise and DJ Cromeans for her eagle eye proofreading skills. Thanks to the creative team at Book Baby for another amazing cover. And I can never get through any project without the continued love and support of my husband.

For Corey with love and gratitude.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter One

Fallon Youngblood guided, Orion, her favorite Tobiano paint gelding, down the steep rocky hillside away from her house snuggled inside the mouth of a cave at the far northern border of Hidden Springs Indian Reservation.

The moon, a huge, blue-marbled orb, fully crested the ridgeline of the New River Mountains to the east, flooding the desert floor with milky light. Enough light for her to get around without use of artificial lights; lights that might capture someone’s attention. Horseback, while slowing her down, would provide a modicum of safety. On horseback she’d be able to sneak into a shadowy area amidst the mesas and valleys canvassing this area of the reservation, areas too narrow and treacherous for even an off-road vehicle.

She didn’t spook often, but tonight she’d been spooked. In her deep meditative state, she’d almost missed the barely audible supplication that brushed her subconscious with gossamer strokes. While she’d sat cross-legged on the sandy soil, in a treacherous vortex area deep within the confines of Hidden Springs, she’d been approached, out of nowhere, by a young white girl.

Please. I need help.

The distressed cry had come from behind her, much closer than she expected, too weak to be a threat, but too insistent to ignore. She’d flinched when the young woman crumpled to the ground a few feet away. Twilight had faded and though not completely dark, very little natural light remained. She hadn’t been able to adequately assess the girl’s condition but, instinct told her that she’d been beaten with malicious intent and required immediate medical attention.

As she rode, Fallon breathed deeply, methodically, trying to tap back into the energy she’d absorbed from her earlier visit to the vortex. From the time she’d started school, Fallon knew about her gift, an acute awareness of energy not felt by average humans, a gift she’d inherited from her Apache grandfather.

She used that gift now. To calm herself, she envisioned electromagnetic currents swirling overhead and around her body. She mentally clung to the invisible matter, absorbing it, channeling it through her extremities and core.

Visiting the vortex helped her attune to Earth’s energy field, bolstering courage and strength, the first step of the three-part healing ceremony her grandfather had taught her.

Despite her efforts to the contrary, the plaintive quality of the injured woman’s voice invaded her thoughts, derailing her concentration. Her plea had been surreal, urgent, very human and out of place in the isolated piece of desert between the Colorado Plateau to the north and the Superstition Mountains to the south. Fallon had singled out that exact spot because other creatures avoided it. She always sought solitude when embarking on an odyssey to reach a higher level of consciousness. That first step was imperative when preparing for ceremonies.

Help me.

The haunting human voice should not have been there. A frosty residue of apprehension threaded through her body, intensifying as she made her final descent from the steep slope. Despite the warmth of Orion’s body against her thighs, goose bumps popped out on her arms.

Thoughts of the girl, Telora she’d later learned, refused to subside. When asked what she was doing in the middle of nowhere on an Indian reservation, a place she had no business being, Telora, didn’t even try to make up a story.

Running…away.

From whom?

Ar…Arlie.

An involuntarily shudder consumed Fallon. The small change in posture alerted Orion to her unease. His ears flicked forward and sideways, listening for any sound of danger.

Fallon’s body had reacted the same way when Telora had mentioned Arlie. Arlie Little Bull did this to you? she’d asked.

Y…yes.

Fallon tried to make sense of the scene. She’d kneaded various parts of Telora’s body, taking note each time the young woman had winced or whimpered. Like her grandfather, Fallon could heal by manipulating the electrical and magnetic forces in the body surrounding an injury. Telora’s injuries, however, were significant and widespread. The most Fallon could hope for would be to provide some temporary relief from the pain.

What was Telora’s connection to Arlie Little Bull, a poor excuse for a human? Unkempt, malodorous and ugly comprised his good qualities. To her knowledge, he had no job, no friends and no redeeming attributes.

While she’d had no direct dealings with Arlie in the past, Fallon knew him to be a liar and a bully. Tonight, she added woman abuser to the list.

As horse and rider picked their way across the vast area of high desert and mountain desolation, the muscles in Fallon’s shoulders bunched together. She peered through the gloaming for any sign that she was being watched or followed. Though often consulted for help by abused women on the reservation, the absolute last thing she wanted was to be caught in the middle of a domestic dispute involving a mistreated white woman. Despite her misgivings, Telora’s condition had demanded attention and Fallon had responded accordingly. Like it or not, helping injured creatures was an inherent part of her genetic make-up.

Her decision to help however, required that she be extra vigilant now, in case Arlie Little Bull happened to be looking for her or Telora.

She harbored no regrets for bringing the young woman to safety yet worry wove a crooked path across her weary body. Although she’d never had to use it, she carried a Mossburg 500 shotgun in her Hummer every day. Almost everyone living in the desert carried some sort of weapon for protection against dangerous animals or snakes. Wife-beaters fell under both categories. Perhaps she should have brought the gun.

Chapter Two

Noah Pacheco, Tribal Liaison for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, traveled across Hidden Springs Reservation to the final dig site on the hand drawn map he’d received from Mikota Youngblood. Yesterday, Mikota, the long-time spiritual leader of the Hidden Springs Apache, had requested a meeting, giving no explanation for needing to speak with him in person.

Because Mikota happened to be the grandfather of Noah’s colleague and good friend Gage, he’d agreed to meet with him this morning. He’d hoped that the meeting had something to do with three unsolved missing persons cases from over a year ago. Such had not been the case.

As he traversed the endless miles of mostly barren land set aside by the federal government for Apache use, the western sky had changed from apricot to yellow to green to gray, terminating around midnight into a deep shade of blue. Now, the moon, a huge alabaster ball, pushed its way up from the east and bedazzled overhead as he parked his Land Cruiser several feet shy of what Noah assumed was the X on Mikota’s crude map.

He’d spent the past few hours driving and rehashing the conversation he’d had with Mikota inside a house that could only be described as utilitarian at best. Only the most necessary pieces of furniture and furnishings occupied space in the small abode. No rugs covered the floors, no curtains graced the windows, no decorative paintings or works of art hung on the walls.

Because it lacked air conditioning, he’d removed his suit jacket and folded it over the arm of an old upholstered sofa, where he’d sat with one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Mikota chose to face him, sitting all regal-like in an antiquated Queen Anne style chair, totally out of place in the otherwise rustic room. For what felt like an eternity, Noah had fought with his fidgeting foot while he waited for the old Indian to explain why he’d been summoned.

He remembered how Mikota’s shoulders had inched upward as he inhaled a long draught of air. His gaze cut to Noah’s. There are crimes being committed against our land.

Against the land? Noah replayed the brief conversation back in his mind again, wondering if perhaps the old man was going senile? I’m not following you, Noah had said, trying not to sound disrespectful.

Mikota explained, in the formal manner that Noah discovered years ago was his usual mode of speaking. Three times this week, heartless acts of vandalism have occurred on Hidden Springs land. Someone is digging up the earth, building illegal campfires and leaving garbage and gaping holes behind.

Mikota’s faded jeans and t-shirt, that bore a logo long since washed and worn to oblivion, mirrored the frugality of his home. Mostly gray hair parted down the middle and plaited below his ears, framed cheeks etched with fathomless wrinkles. But the shiny black eyes focused on Noah’s had been alert and clear, a bit unnerving in their intensity.

Mikota had elaborated with a slow sad voice. The most recent incident occurred near ancient burial grounds. Sacred land. Land sanctified by the blood of our ancestors.

While not superstitious by nature, or prone to sensitivity with encounters of the supernatural kind, Noah had squirmed a little on the threadbare couch. Nobody in their right mind messed with Indian burial grounds.

After leaving Mikota’s house, he’d grabbed a bite to eat and checked out the first two X’s on the map. Besides some faded tire tracks and partial footprints, nothing caught his attention as unusual, suspect or worthy of investigation. The remnants of a campfire and what appeared to be a prayer stick upended in the ground at the second site were the only clues that someone, an Indian by the looks of it, had been there. Nothing whatsoever to even consider opening an incident report.

Still, Mikota’s cryptic warning gave Noah pause. Indians were a superstitious lot by nature—always had been. Although full-blooded Apache himself, Noah didn’t buy into most of their hocus-pocus beliefs.

As if sensing his skepticism, Mikota had added, There is a certain order to the universe that, if disturbed, could forever destroy the delicate relationship between the living and the spirit protectors. Someone is ruining areas revered for centuries by my people. It must stop. Order must be restored.

In order to mask his skepticism, Noah had put on his best cop face despite being rusty at it from months of disuse. How ridiculous that Mikota believed a little digging in the dirt would result in his people experiencing hard times or revenge by angered gods. But he knew from Gage that Mikota had been taught by his parents and grandparents before that to respect and retain the old ways and customs, using traditional methods for communicating with celestial deities. While the philosophy seemed absurd to Noah, it wasn’t his job to judge other people’s religious beliefs or practices.

Nighttime, even with a full moon, was not conducive to crime scene investigation—if you could call what he saw before him a crime scene. He should wait until morning to conduct a more thorough search of this final spot. But since the first two sites, which happened to be on opposite ends of the reservation, offered little or no evidence with which to build a case, he’d decided to see the last place while still on the Rez and be done with it.

Because Mikota had warned of possible danger in this area most recently vandalized, he took note of his surroundings.

We have dangerous vortexes, Mikota had explained. Vortexes that could result in a person’s death.

While Noah had scribbled notes, his mind checked off all the times as a boy he’d heard about the vortexes, used for centuries by the natives as epicenters for spiritual quests. He’d underlined the word vortex, while his unbidden brain filled in the definition: an ectoplasm field where magnetic forces converged, whirling around an unseen axis.

Noah leaned his head against the headrest in the Land Cruiser, his brows puckering. Why the interest in Hidden Springs land, especially the burial grounds?

After admitting to Mikota that he’d grown up in Albuquerque and therefore wasn’t familiar with this part of Arizona, he’d asked why this vortex was dangerous.

Most of the vortexs have upflow currents that defy gravity, Mikota had said. Water pours up instead of down. People can do unnatural things there, like walk sideways. But some of our vortexes have down draft currents that cause confusion and fear. People get disoriented, lost, hallucinate. That area is renowned for its negativity and potential danger, especially at night.

At this very moment, Noah wasn’t disoriented, but he couldn’t say for sure that he wasn’t lost. He thought he could find his way back to the paved road. He thought he could.

He remembered how his gaze had wandered, on more than one occasion, through the glass on Mikota’s front window to the red clay mountains in the distance, an enduring geological record comprised of horizontal lines of sediment stacked upon each other in colorful layers. By light of day, one might say those mountains were pretty. Right now, while awash in bluish light from a preening moon, everything looked the same. Every mountain peak a big black alien formation. Every canyon a gaping toothless wormhole to the underworld. Every shadow a creature with ill-intentions.

Get a grip Pacheco. He must be too close to the wonkadoodle vortex and the bad juju was messing with his head. He most definitely was not superstitious. And he hoped with a passion that he was not lost.

He blew out a breath, contemplating his next move. More important work waited on his desk in Phoenix and he couldn’t afford another day away to pursue a trivial case that he wasn’t even qualified to conduct even if something turned up worth pursuing.

And, it looked like something just might have turned up at this location.

Chapter Three

From his vantage point atop one of two low mesas dividing two canyons, a lone man studied the activity going on below him. Fortune sided with him tonight. A new group of misguided miscreants unloaded camping gear from the back of a mid-sized pick-up truck, a couple hundred yards from the paved road. The man came across them earlier today, as they’d started their wild goose chase for an alleged cache of buried ancient coins.

He’d known for weeks now, thanks to his addle-brained son, that college students—wanna-be archeologists from the University of Arizona—were making regular treks to Hidden Springs in search of phantom legendary treasure.

He did not condone this activity.

However, their presence tonight played right into his plan.

He’d never imagined his presumed role within the tribe would be threatened by anyone, much less a woman. A half-breed woman at that. A woman so far down the line, both by blood and birth order, to even consider inheriting leadership. A woman, who by all accounts presented a bigger threat than he ever dreamt possible. The only person standing in his way of being elected tribal leader. A Goddammed half-breed woman.

Fallon Youngblood, sacred child, hailed as a Phoenix rising from the barren desert to save the entire Apache Nation from doom and destruction. Or so, the old man would have you believe. Despite the fact that most of the real men on the Rez were tired of her blasphemy about domestic violence, child abuse, and chauvinism, she’d managed to build a following. A following that was growing in strength and number, and not just from sympathetic Apache women.

As her campaign gained momentum, so did his commitment to remove her from the competition. His efforts to date to intimidate, discredit and belittle her seemed to have had the opposite effect. He needed to employ a different, stronger tactic. He needed her gone.

In an effort to prove that she was qualified to be leader, she’d been visiting each of the areas the treasure-seeking students had dug up, deeming it her duty to purify the land and restore balance between earth and sky. Performing ceremonies, approaching the gods, and righting wrongs, spiritual or otherwise, were all expectations placed upon the leader of their tribe. And, since the old man had taken such a special interest in her from the time of her birth, he’d been tutoring her in ancient traditions, including healing ceremonies like the one she’d perform tonight at the dig site.

After last night’s group of treasure-hunters had been run off the Rez, he’d made damn sure Fallon became aware of the dig site. All he’d needed to do was wait for the perfect moment to ambush her. He’d made all the arrangements to make it look like an unfortunate accident. He intended to mourn her loss with the rest of the tribe, then assume the role he was destined for.

It had been a lucky coincidence that tonight’s group of outsiders had set up camp very near the spot last night’s group of imbeciles had camped. His location on the bluff afforded him visual contact with both places, last night’s dig site where Fallon would be soon, and the new campers by the road. Neither party could see him or the others from their positions in the valleys below him on either side. He couldn’t have planned a more perfect alignment than what had occurred naturally by pure happenstance.

When the moon shone directly overhead, he’d facilitate one small act of God, and get rid of two nuisances at once.

Chapter Four

Renewing her efforts to concentrate on the next portion of her ceremony, Fallon envisioned the necessary symbols and shapes to create the medicine wheel required by their celestial guardians as atonement. She sought redemption for the brutal vandalism inflicted on ancient burial grounds by outsiders with no respect for Mother Earth or the sanctity of traditions regarding Apache interment practices. Because of this dig site’s close proximity to the burial grounds, the ceremony would require more vigor and resources than the ceremonies she’d conducted at the other vandalized areas.

She had no idea why people believed there was buried treasure at Hidden Springs, a small out-of-the-way community, not even a dot on most maps, but she intended to find out. This wave of destructive interest by outsiders on reservation land had to be driven by some unfounded rumor.

When the dig site came into view her eyes misted. The earth’s magnetic pull and macabre cry for help crept into her already distressed subconscious. She scanned the tortured earth with heavy heart, sickened and angry at the devastation around her. Random holes pocked the ground. Haphazard piles of dirt surrounded yawning cavities. Empty beer bottles, cigarette butts and other trash littered the area.

The digs were getting bigger and the perpetrators less careful. This time, human bones could have been uncovered or broken. Her ritual tonight was necessary to undo the egregious desecration committed against her beloved hallowed ground yet again.

Unbalanced energy gushed around, crashing into itself in a frantic search for harmony. Her long, unbound hair crackled with static electricity. Even Orion deviated from his usual calm demeanor and pranced around the destruction. Her insides twisted up like the cord on her grandfather’s old rotary phone.

She slid from Orion’s back. It’s okay, buddy. She laid her palm flat on the horse’s neck. I feel it, too. Go wander while I fix it.

Fallon flipped the reins across Orion’s mane as he sidestepped away from her. The horse flung his nose upward, no doubt eager to be gone from the chaotic mass of energy.

Lifting her face heavenward, she allowed her body to sync with the earth’s rhythms. She initiated the ritual with a prayer. Great Spirit my father, creator of all things, I come to you with clean hands. Heat radiated from her neck and face. She blinked several times to ward off dizziness, yet somehow managed to reach steady hands into the small beaded bag tied around her waist. She extracted her wand, a six-inch twisted mesquite branch, walked into the center of the damaged area of earth and, using the pointed end of the stick, drew a large circle in the ground around where she stood. She replaced the wand for another mesquite branch, thin and straight with a razor-sharp point.

I honor the earth, our mother. She stuck the sharp point of the second branch into the ground in the center of the circle then stepped to the outside of the ring and knelt before one of the holes. I honor all with whom we share your great abundance.

She extracted two braided smudge sticks and an eagle feather from the bag. Closing her eyes, she relaxed her shoulders and undulated, whispering more of the ancient Apache prayer. May the sun give us energy, the moon restore us.

A fleeting vision of Telora drifted along the inside of her eyelids, moonlight illuminating grotesque shadows on her battered face and bare arms, Telora struggling to sit up.

Oh. Telora wrapped her arms around her abdomen and pulled her knees close to her chest. My baby.

Baby?

Now, like then, chimerical clumps of stinging nettle twined upward like kudzu vines, squeezing her esophagus shut. She tried to quiet the warning sirens reverberating in her skull by mentally connecting with the energy around her. No indication of immediate danger swirled in the currents, yet the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.

With renewed vigilance, Fallon opened her eyes, lit the smudge sticks, and continued reciting the prayer in Coyotero, the most common of several native dialects spoken at Hidden Springs. She waved the smoking ends over the line, inside the circle then out, until a thin layer of ash covered the entire circumference.

She etched symbols into the ground giving equal time and attention to all four directions. She focused on the stream of energy swirling overhead, around and beneath where she worked. When the medicine wheel was finished, the energy flow evened out. Her shoulders slumped. Calmness descended.

In the center of the circle, she tied the feather to the top of the prayer stick with a thin leather cord then placed four polished stones at the base. I leave these humble offerings and ask that you accept them in reverence to you.

A cool breeze wafted across the desert floor, fluttering the feather on the gentle current. No longer hot or nauseous, Fallon sighed. Order had been restored to the universe. Wheel finished and gifts offered, she needed to bathe in one of the sacred pools to cleanse her body, the purification portion needed to complete the three-step ritual.

Come on, Orion. She tiptoed over the ash-covered circle and surrounding symbols, extending a chunk of apple, the final item in her beaded bag, to the horse. Let’s go to the spring.

As the gelding trotted to her side and nibbled his treat from her palm, Fallon gathered up her ceremonial tools and tucked them into her pouch. She picked up the trash and stuffed it into a plastic sack. With both bags secured around her waist, she grasped a handful of Orion’s mane swung up on to his bare back and encouraged him to make the descent to the steaming pool, nestled in a low area of the Tonto National Forest, near the convergence of the Verde and East Rivers.

About five minutes later, she dismounted and secured the reins to a low-hanging tree branch. By the light of the moon, she prepared for her ablution by shedding her clothing, draping each item on top of a flat rock near the water’s edge. Her sinuses constricted when the sulfuric steam from the underground natural hot spring filled her lungs.

She lay statue-still in the warm calm waters of the spring-fed pool, staring up at the black velvet canopy overhead, alive with glittering stars. Filmy tendrils of clouds flirted with the three-thousand-foot summit of the Mogollon Rim. The early autumn breeze, a pleasant contrast to the warm clear water in which she lay, whispered through the copse of pine trees sheltering the spring.

Fallon closed her eyes, trying to clear away the upsetting events of the evening. While doubtful, she hoped Telora’s baby had not suffered injury as a result of Arlie’s rampage.

Swishing her arms, she propelled herself farther into the pool. Like a silent movie, images of upturned earth and discarded trash played out in her mind. Her brain reeled with the same question she’d been asking for two weeks, since the sudden influx of unwelcome visitors at Hidden Springs—why? Why here? Why now?

With the exception of her grandfather, that she was aware of, no one else at Hidden Springs possessed the ability to attune with nature and recognize the discord created by the digging. She, however, could not ignore it.

Who is crazy enough to dig up Indian burial grounds? An even more perplexing question since the graveyards were not accessible by most vehicles, even those equipped for off-road travel.

She’d asked several people on the Rez if anyone had heard of any rumors surfacing about buried treasure at Hidden Springs, but no one claimed to know anything. The only other scenario she could conjure in her mind included a supposition that a new college fraternity required some kind of satanic ritual be performed before admittance into the fold. Or perhaps it involved a dare that potential new members spend a night on the Rez and bring back a souvenir or proof that they’d been here. She even considered for a brief moment that the holes had been dug as shallow graves.

Tendrils of long black hair fanning her head began to swirl, tugging at her scalp as the water rippled. The direction of the breeze changed against her face. Standing in the shallow water, she turned her head toward a muffled rumbling in the distance. As the sound drew nearer, she walked toward the edge of the steaming body of water, squinting through the moonlight for a sign of approaching danger. Energy quickened around her, snapping with tension and urgency.

She stepped onto the gravely soil. Moonlight glistened off a cloud of smoke or dust billowing from the canyon to the east. Better able to discern sounds, now that she was out of the water, she hastened to dress. The sacred pool occupied the lowest part of the narrow passageway separating two sandstone mesas, smack dab in the middle of the path of the herd of wild horses barreling down on her. In a couple of minutes, the stampede would charge through the canyon.

Orion pranced, his ears cocked sideways toward the disturbance growing louder from the canyon. Fallon drew on