Chapter Ten
The sun peeked over the mesa, gilding the frost on the sagebrush in gold as Caleb drove Gia to work the morning after his mother’s funeral. The air was crisp but clean, with the promise of new beginnings.
Which Caleb needed. Tension knotted his shoulders. Last night, he’d let his grief and rage get the better of him. In the light of day, he could see how recklessly he’d waved a red flag in front of the cartel—while he was supposed to be protecting the woman sitting next to him.
Gia wore navy slacks and a pale blue blouse beneath her white doctor’s coat, her long hair confined in a twist. The small navy backpack she used as her work bag sat on the floor between her feet.
The aroma of cinnamon-laced coffee in the travel mug she gripped drifted toward him, rich and spiced.
Her posture was too rigid, her glances in the side mirror too frequent.
Half-truths, evasive answers. Her past a mystery she refused to share.
It wasn’t paranoia—he’d honed the ability to read people in the Army.
Gia’s fear came wrapped in secrets.
And now that he’d confirmed Manuel Ortega’s ties to Espina Negra, he needed answers .
Protecting her served a purpose now—finding out who was responsible for his mother’s death.
Bullshit.
If that were all it was, he wouldn’t notice every time her hands trembled, or her breath hitched. Wouldn’t dream of her scent or the way she tasted when he kissed her.
If she were just a means to an end, he wouldn’t have the urge to bury Vincente Garcia in a remote desert canyon every time fear darkened Gia’s eyes, or she glanced over her shoulder.
No, this was personal now. In more ways than one.
And that was dangerous.
His muscles began to loosen as they drove deeper into the rez. The medical clinic sat tucked in a sparsely populated valley, far enough off the highway that outsiders wouldn’t go unnoticed.
“There’s the clinic. Up ahead.” Gia pointed to a single-story metal building with a ramp leading up to glass doors.
Caleb parked in a space marked for staff and glanced down at his black suit trousers—the only pair he’d packed that weren’t jeans. “As far as your coworkers are concerned, I’m staying a few days to reconnect with family and offered to help out at the clinic given you’re short-staffed.”
His white dress shirt still looked passably clean. He’d packed light, because he hadn’t planned on sticking around. “I’m a trained Army medic.”
She pivoted to stare at him. “Army medic, huh? You neglected to mention that.”
He shrugged. “Special Forces train for a lot of roles. And it’s a decent explanation for my presence—keep people from asking questions. ”
“So many layers to you, Caleb Varella,” Gia murmured, stepping from the Jeep.
Inside, a middle-aged Diné woman with short, black hair and oval, rose-tinted glasses greeted them from behind the white reception counter.
“Morning, Susan.” Gia greeted her warmly. She indicated Caleb. “This is Caleb Varella, President Blackwater’s grandson. He’s volunteering at the clinic for a few days.”
Susan’s eyes lit with curiosity. “ Yá’át’ééh, Caleb. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home. I’m sorry about your mother.”
He kept his expression politely neutral. “ Yá’át’ééh , Susan. Thank you.”
“There you are!” A slender woman in blue scrubs hurried toward them, her long dark braid swinging.
She wrapped Gia in a hug—one Gia didn’t flinch from. “I heard what happened the other night at Lucero’s. I’m glad you’re okay.”
A friend, then.
Gia’s face tightened. “Word travels fast, huh, Jennie? This is Caleb Varella.”
“So, you’re the long-lost grandson.” Jennie Tsosie, RN, according to her badge, offered her hand with a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Shorter than Gia by an inch, she had high cheekbones and long lashes over expressive brown eyes that studied him with open curiosity.
“Not lost.” He held her fingers gently before letting go. “Just not here.”
Gia was right. Despite the vastness of the reservation, gossip rode the wind.
“Jennie’s my head nurse and a good friend,” Gia said .
“Galina Wauneka’s back, room one.” Jennie handed Gia a clipboard. “Her arthritis is flaring again.”
Gia skimmed the chart. “Is she following the anti-inflammatory diet I recommended?”
“I’m sure she did her best.” Jennie’s mouth curved with a soft smile. “Fresh vegetables are expensive and not always easy to come by.”
A delicate flush crept up Gia’s neck.
Caleb kept quiet, silently approving of Jennie’s tactful reminder.
Gia was still adjusting to a lifestyle and culture far removed from her own. The Navajo Nation was a vast, open territory with few population centers. More accessible trading posts and convenience stores often carried cheaper, highly processed, less perishable foods.
He followed her down the hall to a small office. Inside were a dark laminated desk, a black faux leather high-backed swivel chair, and two metal-framed chairs. Wedged into the corner was a set of tan filing cabinets. A black computer monitor and keyboard sat on the desk.
No diplomas. No framed family photos. Nothing that gave away personal information.
“The doctors on staff share this office.”
Gia must have noticed him staring at the bare walls.
She set down her mug and slung a stethoscope around her neck. “This way.”
The scared woman he knew disappeared, replaced by the calm, focused professional.
She led him to exam room one. “Wait out here. We need Galina’s permission for you to be in the room.”
Through the open door, Caleb glimpsed a tiny, wrinkled elder perched on a chair. Pain grooved her face and shadowed faded brown eyes.
She greeted Gia with a nod, her gaze latching onto Caleb .
“Hello, Grandmother,” he greeted her in the manner of the Diné.
“Hello, Grandson. You look like your mother.”
He quelled a sigh. Before he could even introduce himself, everyone already knew who he was.
Gia explained his role.
Galina nodded her permission and waved gnarled fingers toward the exam table. “I can’t get up there.”
Caleb stepped into the room and offered his hand. When she took it, he lifted her with gentle strength onto the table.
A small whimper escaped her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, grimacing.
She patted his cheek with a wrinkled palm, and for a moment, memory blindsided him.
Sweet, grainy blue corn cakes. The smell of sheep’s wool and dung. His grandmother’s kiss.
He stepped back, breaking the connection to his past, and watched Gia work from the corner.
“Galina.” Gia had stooped to examine her patient’s feet. “How long have you had this dark streak on your toenail?”
Galina peered down and shrugged.
“I’d like to get you an appointment with a dermatologist, if you don’t mind.” Gia’s lips pursed. “It could be nothing, but it could also be a sign of melanoma.”
Caleb waited until Gia finished her exam, and they’d left the room to speak. “Good catch, Doc.”
He still wasn’t sure how she’d spotted the small streak beneath Galina’s pinky toenail—something anyone else might’ve passed off as a bruise unless they were looking closely.
A hint of color touched Gia’s cheeks, but her eyes lit with quiet pride. “I did some reading on signs of skin cancer in the Native American population. Did you know Native Americans have the second-highest rate behind the White population?”
“My grandmother died of cancer,” he told her. “By the time they discovered it, it was too late.”
Maybe if a doctor like Gia had been around back then, his grandmother would still be alive—and his mother wouldn’t have agreed to move to Phoenix.
Every patient that morning allowed him into the exam room, their curiosity outweighing caution. It gave him the chance to observe Gia in her world—respectful, caring, patient. She made recommendations she’d likely made more than once.
Between appointments, she called specialists. Researched affordable medication options. Battled systems bigger than herself on behalf of patients who had no one else.
Caleb’s admiration for her grew.
She only stopped for lunch when Jennie intervened, for which Caleb was grateful. His stomach had been growling for hours.
After eating, he let Gia return to her patients while he commandeered the conference room.
He had tasks of his own to accomplish—a facility risk assessment for the clinic to keep Gia safe at work, and phone calls to Camila Richardson, his mother’s friend, and to Phoenix PD’s Drug Trafficking Bureau.
Scrolling through his phone, Caleb found the phone number for Camila.
Her voice, warm and soothing, flowed across the line. She'd offered to clear out his mother’s apartment—donating what she could, boxing up any personal items she thought Caleb might appreciate having.
She’d been the one to call and break the news of his mother’s death.
“I won’t be back in Phoenix tomorrow as planned,” he told her. “Something’s come up here. ”
“No worries,” Camila assured him. “I found a box with some journals in it. I didn’t want to pry, but they’re in your mother’s handwriting.” She paused. “I think you’re going to want them.”
Journals?
“Yeah, sure. Thank you.” He didn’t know his mother kept journals.
Maybe someday he’d read them. Not now.
Not while his grief was still fresh.
After hanging up, he placed a call to Carson Elliott, the detective in charge of his mother’s death investigation.
“How can I help you, Mister Varella?” the detective answered, his voice impatient.
Caleb tamped down the irritation skating across his neck. “There’s a man named Manuel Ortega. Warehouse manager for Azamex. I need you to find out if he had contact with my mother before she died.”
“What was Mister Ortega’s relationship with your mother?”
“I’m not sure. He knew my father.” A familiar childhood shame burned in Caleb’s chest. He stared blindly at the round analog clock on the wall. “Ortega has ties to both Espina Negra and a motorcycle club in Gallup that may be distributing the cartel’s fentanyl products.”
“Look, Mister Varella,” weariness edged the detective’s voice, “I’ve got thirty open cases besides your mother’s. I’ll pass the information along to the DEA, but you’ll have to be patient.”
In other words, don’t expect much.
Caleb worked his jaw to loosen the tension. “I’ll be in touch.”
He shoved his phone in his pocket and stood.
If he wanted justice for his mother, it looked like he’d have to get it himself.