The actual entrance to the reservation was a wrought iron gate fastened to a high stone wall layered with what looked like mosaic tile. That wall and gate, rimmed by wildflowers and accessible only via a single flat but unpaved road off of RM 1431, had been erected a mere generation before. The twin sections of gate, which had settled into a permanently open position, were today replaced by a tight line of young-looking Comanche lined up arm-in-arm to block access to the reservation by a number of trucks. Those trucks were currently parked amid the tall grass bordering the road, lugging both light and heavy construction equipment. An equally long, straight line of sheriff’s deputies, Austin city cops, tribal policemen, and members of the highway patrol stood between the protesters and construction workers currently milling about, doing their best to keep the peace, while a grouping of spectators and media types watched from a makeshift gallery further back.
Caitlin left her SUV in a makeshift lot of vehicles parked in no particular pattern and approached, figuring Dylan’s father, Cort Wesley Masters, wasn’t far behind after receiving her text message. More than one hundred forty years ago, Jack Strong had probably been one of the few white men to set foot on the land beyond, which was rich with oak-juniper woodlands, mesquite savannas, and riparian brush that rare bird species shared with gray foxes and white-tailed deer. The preserve stood pretty much unchanged and unspoiled from that day, a swath frozen in time, which seemed appropriate given that many of the young Comanche blocking the entrance were dressed in garb better fit for the nineteenth century.
Caitlin could feel the building heat, the closer she got to the fracas, and not from either the sun or the camera lights. The bevy of construction workers looked none too happy about being denied entrance to the land on which their jobs rested, while what looked to be between fifty and sixty protesters, dominated by a dozen or so with painted faces and matching headbands, stood arm-in-arm before them.
Caitlin spotted Dylan Torres smack-dab in the center. His left arm was laced through the arm of one of the painted young Comanche men and his right arm was linked to a young, dark-featured woman whose beauty radiated even in a scene like this. She had long black hair and the darkest eyes Caitlin had ever seen, so full and shiny they seemed more liquid than solid. She boasted athletic lines and was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off the muscle layering her arms, her biceps strung with veins and all three heads of her triceps easily definable. Drawing closer, Caitlin noticed that the Comanche protesters, in their early to midtwenties, wore trousers that looked woven from animal skins, and open vests exposing what looked like blood streaks on their chests.
Now a junior at Brown University, Dylan wore the tapered jeans Cort Wesley hated, stretched over the boots Caitlin had bought him for a birthday that seemed a hundred years ago. He’d let his hair grow out, and it hung in loose waves and ringlets, past his shoulders, the same way it had back when Caitlin had bought him the boots, when he was often mistaken for some rock star whose name she couldn’t remember. His gaze was fixed on the workers congested before the protesters, and Caitlin thought he was the only non–Native American manning the line that those workers looked ready to storm at any moment. Knowing Dylan as well as she did, his proximity to the beautiful Comanche girl made the reason for his presence here obvious.
Oh, man, she thought. Not again …
The boy was no stranger to trouble, almost all of it related to one girl or another. But the dark-haired Native American with whom he’d laced arms was the most beautiful of the lot, features and frame so perfect that she seemed painted onto the equally striking backdrop of the Balcones. Caitlin had intended to wait for Dylan’s father, Cort Wesley, to arrive before she tried to sort things out. But a sudden forward thrust of construction workers, forcing the police closer to Dylan and the other protesters, changed that plan in a hurry.
The officers were barely managing to hold the line when Caitlin circled out behind them and in front of the Native Americans, even with the center, where Dylan and the beautiful Comanche girl stood.
“We’re not looking for trouble, Ranger!” a big man with a scruffy beard, whom she took to be the work foreman, shouted from the other side of the cops.
“Well, sir,” she said, hands planted squarely on her hips, “it looks like you found it, all the same.”
9
BALCONES CANYONLANDS, TEXAS
Caitlin’s Texas Ranger badge glinted in a shaft of sunlight slicing through the shade trees, bouncing the light weakly back toward the workers.
“The trouble’s standing right behind you, Ranger,” the foreman resumed, thrusting a thick, calloused finger toward the neat line of protesters. “I got the permits and copies of the signed contracts in my truck, if you want to see them. And these Injuns got no call to prevent us from doing the job we were hired to do by their mommies and daddies.”
“Did he just call us ‘Injuns’?” asked the Comanche girl standing next to Dylan.
Caitlin turned, ignoring Dylan while fixing her gaze on her. “Let me handle this please.” She turned again toward the foreman. “I’d ask, sir, that you and your people take a few steps back while we get this all sorted out. Nobody wants trouble, but if it comes, it’ll be sure to delay the work you came to do even longer. I don’t think that’s in anyone’s best interests. We on the same page here?”
The foreman scowled but then nodded slowly. “You’ve got your chance, Ranger. It doesn’t work, don’t blame me for what happens next.”
Then he backpedaled, along with the rest of his men, dispersing into smaller groups to continue waiting out the situation.
Caitlin turned back around to face Dylan. “Let’s talk.”