Marin Sinclair, Book 2
Date Published: 09/15/2025
Publisher: RabbitHole LLC
deadly conspiracy involving bootlegged alcohol, wolf-witches, an election
campaign, murder, and an unknown bomber, she looks to Navajo Nation Police
Sergeant Justin Blue Eyes and Federal Agent Cullen MacPherson to help protect
Vangie Tso’s son from the dark forces at play.
—“It’s likely the same guys,” Franklin
whispered. “You need to go for help. Get word to Sergeant Blue
Eyes.”
“I can’t go without you,” she said, and Franklin took her
hand and pressed it against his side. When she pulled her hand away, it was
wet and sticky.
“You’re bleeding!” she said, and Franklin’s nod was
dimly visible in the darkness lit only by the fires. “I’ll find
something to help,” Marin said, and crawled through the hogan’s
entrance, searching by feel until she found several pieces of soft clothing or
bedding.
“Hold this over the wound and press,” she said, making a thick
pad. She tied the pad around Franklin using a length of bale twine, and he
gasped, then sat taking deep breaths.
“Sorry, we need to get the bleeding stopped,” she whispered.
Franklin took another breath and gave a low whistle. A horse broke away from
the bunched group and came close to the rails, snorting softly.
“Here is your friend, Otekah,” Franklin said and ducked into the
corral. “You must take her and go.”
“Go where?”
Franklin didn’t answer. He took a rope from a corral post and ran the
rope behind Otekah’s ears, made a quick turn around the mare’s
muzzle, and looped a knot into the side of the make-shift halter. He pushed
the end of the rope into Marin’s hands.
“No,” she said. “I can’t leave you. You’re
hurt.”
“They’ll soon come looking,” Franklin said. “Trust
Otekah to find the way. She’ll be going home.”
“I can’t find my way in the dark!” Marin said.
“She knows the way. There is only one gate to open; our home is near the
canyon’s end. You will be able to climb out.”
“No … ” Marin said.
“Climb up to the rim road. Bring back help.”
“Franklin, I can’t climb the canyon wall!”
“There are handholds to guide you,” he said, and he pushed
something cold, round, and metallic into her hands … a flashlight.
“I shot one of those Indian kids,” said a man’s deep voice
and she and Franklin froze, sinking deeper into the hogan’s shadows.
“He ran over here.”
“Lay off. I’m not about to get trampled trying to find him,”
a second man answered.
“He’s in here, I know it.”
“He’s not going anywhere. He’s got nowhere to run with this
hut built up against the canyon wall.”
“You can either come out or you can bleed to death!” the first man
shouted, and there was a sudden blast of gunfire.
Marin yelped, and Otekah reared, yanking the rope from her hands and whirling
away. Yuma, his gray coat barely visible, whistled shrilly and kicked against
the corral poles until the saplings shuddered.
“I said lay off, you idiot! A pole fence won’t hold half-ton
horses! You’ll get us trampled! You don’t even know if the
kid’s in there.”
The first man raised his voice. “You hear that, Injun boy? We’re
gonna start shooting your horses if you don’t come out!”
“Stow it, Jack! You start shooting and these horses will go crazy. That
kid’s not going anywhere. We need to get back to the prisoners.”
“Prisoners,” Marin breathed when the men walked away. “We
have to stay and help them.”
“No. You must go, shadi,” Franklin said, making a soft clucking
noise until Otekah once more came close, tossing her head as the other horses
restlessly circled the corral, stamping and blowing. “My beauty,”
Franklin murmured, picking up the trailing rope and looping it around
Otekah’s neck.
“This is a bad idea,” Marin said, but she climbed between the
corral poles to lean against Otekah’s warmth. The horses were bunched
together, pressing hard against the gate poles, anxious to escape, eager to
run. Still …
“I’d never forgive myself if you and the others … ”
“You must bring help, tell the Sergeant what has happened.”
There was no one else to go.
When Franklin again pushed the flashlight into her hands, she took it and
shoved it into her waistband, then caught Otekah’s mane and rolled onto
the mare’s back, catching up the rope in one hand.
Franklin murmured something that sounded like a prayer and slid a pole from
the top of the gate. Carefully he lowered one end to the ground, then reached
for the next pole and did the same. Even with only two poles down, the horses
began to push into the gap, Otekah with them, and Marin clutched the halter
rope breathing in the familiar scent of horse—dust, dried grass, musky
sweat.
“I’m not sure I can guide her.”
“Just stay on,” Franklin returned.
Marin wrapped the rope tight around her hand and twisted both hands into
Otekah’s mane, aware of a familiar rush of excitement, that
stomach-clenching tension when Dandy’s muscles had bunched beneath her
the second before the rodeo arena gate flew open and they shot forward.
She’d done this a hundred times or more, and she bent low to
Otekah’s neck, gathering focus.
“Ready … ” Franklin whispered, and he eased the last pole
to the ground.
“Franklin, I … ” Marin began, but Franklin stepped back,
gave a shrill, yipping yell, and slapped Otekah across the rump, waving his
hat as the horses surged forward.—
About the Author
Nation, author Jan D. Payne offers readers a journey into the heart of the
American Southwest in a modern-day romantic suspense series. Writing
characters who navigate diverse cultural influences to explore the lines
between the seen and the unseen, the modern and the traditional, the present
and the past—she creates a world where the impossible becomes possible,
and mythical legends come to life.
Jan is a member of Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West. She
and her husband live in northern Minnesota with their three big
dogs—Kaibab, Rudi, and Orrin. Visit her website at: jandpayne.com
