The Morning-After Proposal

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“So do I. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I come out here, have a beer and watch the stars.”

“I can hear the horses from here.” The soft whinny of a broodmare, she thought. “That’s nice, too.”

“They make you feel alive, don’t they? I specialize in AQHA, all-around and working cow horses.”

“I’m glad you agreed to help with the fundraiser. Henry was right about your background. It should make a difference.”

“Yeah. Malibu reeks of money.”

“Malibu?” JJ went on alert. “As in California?”

“Didn’t I mention that before?” He opened the food cartons and offered her a Mexican meal, sliding the combination platter in front of her, along with plastic utensils. “That’s where my high-society clients live.”

“The ones who have the parties? No, you didn’t mention that.”

“I guess I must have told Henry.”

“But both of you neglected to tell me? Like a couple of good old boys who forgot about the female in the bunch.”

He chuckled. “Good old boys? I’m only twenty-nine.”

“Don’t get smart. You know what I mean.” She grabbed her drink, used the straw and sucked out a swig. She was only twenty-eight. “Someone should have told me. I thought the parties were here.”

“In this modest little town?”

“Your ranch isn’t modest.”

“No, but it’s not a mansion in Malibu, either. Wait until you see those places. Houses as big as castles, stables that overlook the beach.”

“The beach,” she parroted.

“Yeah. You know…” He grinned, waggled his eyebrows. “The sand, the surf, muscle-bound guys, girls in itty-bitty bikinis.”

“Knock it off.” Now she was nervous about traveling to California with him, about jet setting to such a glamorous location.

He quit smiling, quit goofing around. “You’ll do fine, Julia.”

She scowled at him, hating that he’d tapped into her insecurities. “I’m not Julia,” she shot back, wishing she hadn’t given him permission to keep using her old name.

“You could have fooled me.” He pointed to her food. “Now eat your dinner.”

She glanced at the beef tamale, chile relleno and beans and rice he’d ordered for her. It was her favorite Mexican meal, her favorite combination platter. But he knew that, didn’t he? He knew because it must have come up in his investigation. “Is this from Casa Maria?” she asked, referring to a local restaurant she used to frequent.

He nodded. “See? You’re still Julia. You still like the same food, the same diet cola with extra ice, the same everything.”

She wanted to throw her dinner at him, but she was too darn hungry not to eat it. “Next time I want carne asada.”

“Carne asada gives you indigestion.”

“So do you.” She plowed into the tamale, and he had the gall to laugh. She huffed out a breath. How annoying could he be?

“Did you know that my last name means thunder in Spanish?” he asked.

“Dylan Thunder?” She went after a scoop of rice.

“Dylan Curtis Thunder.”

She liked his name, but she wasn’t about to compliment him. “I guess I’d know that if I’d investigated you.”

He shook his head, indulged in his food. He was eating soft tacos and nachos on the side, with a slew of hot sauce.

Enough to make her mouth burn without even tasting it.

“You need to calm down,” he said. “To relax.”

“And you need to stop telling me what to do. To stop being so aggressive.”

“I can’t change who I am anymore than you can.”

“You can try,” she argued.

“But I don’t want to.” He smiled, cracked a joke. “It’s the warrior in me.”

She decided that he wasn’t far off the mark. “What tribe are you from?” she asked, unable to curb her curiosity.

“White Mountain Apache.” He sat back in his seat, the amber glow from the outdoor lighting casting a soft, shadowy ambience. “My parents are originally from the rez, and I’m a full blood, but I wasn’t raised in an overly traditional way.”

To her, he seemed rooted to his heritage. She’d seen signs of it all over his house. On his person, too. “So do your brother and cousin live close by?” JJ recalled that that they’d been involved in her case.

“They live in L.A. You can meet them when we go to California. Oh, wait. You already know my brother’s fiancé.”

She started. “I do?”

He nodded. “Carrie Lipton. Her parents own the motel where you used to work.”

“Carrie? She was divorced when I knew her, from a man named—”

“Thunder,” Dylan supplied, laughing a little. “That’s what everyone calls my brother. They were married when they were teenagers, divorced for twenty years, and now they’re engaged again.”

“Wow.” She hadn’t made the connection. “What about your parents? Where do they live?”

“About ten miles from here. You can meet them, too.” He sat forward again, shifting in his chair. “Everyone in my family has been worried about you.”