Free Tribal Law by Jenna Kernan Page A

truth of her father’s words. “Yes.”
    â€œGood. ’Cause he don’t want you, girlie. He’s sniffing around, but not for a wife.”
    She was about to tell her father that Gabe was a gentleman. That he was not like that. But then she remembered his hands on her hips, lifting her up as his body pressed her down to the cold vinyl of his rear seat.
    That was not the way you treated a woman you cared for. That was the way you treated a...
    â€œStay away from him,” her father said. “They don’t know about you two and if they find out they might just kill him or you or both. If they hear we were there when that stupid junkie Jason Leekela and his friend got shot trying to rob their brother’s shipment...” Frasco groaned and pressed both hands to his temples.
    â€œThere is nothing between us now.”
    Her father dropped his hands and aimed a finger at her. “The past is between you. Keep it there.”
    â€œYes, Dad.”
    â€œState police called.” He lifted a scrap of paper.
    She’d told him about the state police last night after Gabe had told her. Her father didn’t look any happier now than he had been then.
    â€œThey want to interview us both. They’re coming this afternoon, which means we need to get out of here before then.”
    â€œYou’re on house arrest. They’ll report it when you’re not here.”
    â€œLet them. They already know we’re working with DOJ. If they have a leak, we’re dead anyway.”
    Her father placed a foot on the sofa and released the tracking device that was supposed to insure he stayed put and then dropped it on the coffee table.
    Her father grabbed his coat and Selena followed him out. The sound of snow crunching under tires brought them both around. At first she didn’t recognize the driver behind the wheel of the blue SUV pulling into their drive. But her father clearly did.
    â€œHoly hell,” muttered her father dashing past her and then scrambling to replace the anklet.
    â€œWho is that?” asked Selena, standing in the open door.
    â€œMy parole officer. Drop-in visits, remember?”
    * * *
    S ELENA STARED IN horror at the man she had met yesterday morning, when her father had returned from prison.
    Ronald Hare was an Apache case manager from the Salt River Reservation to their south. He’d said he had more than a few parolees up here in Black Mountain and that not all his visits would be announced. But Selena had not expected him to drop by the very next day.
    â€œWhat do we do?” asked Selena. Her instinct was to call Gabe. But was he really there for her or, as her father had said, after only one thing? No, Gabe was an honest man who did his duty first, last and always.
    Mr. Hare had gotten out of his vehicle and was moving toward them. He was an attractive young man with a broad smile on his handsome face. He had a small goatee. His hair was chin length and slicked back. He wore boots, jeans and an open, knee-length topcoat that reminded Selena of the dusters cowboys wore in inclement weather. But one look at the man’s spotless clothing told you that this Apache did not work with cattle.
    He called a greeting and her father gave a wave from the steps, his anklet now back in place. Hare was halfway to the house when a second car roared down the street, its performance exhaust system announcing its arrival before it came into view. Her father groaned.
    Hare turned and Selena glanced past him as the yellow Ford Mustang made its appearance. Selena had seen the car in Black Mountain and heard it more than a few times, but she had never seen the driver because of the illegally tinted glass.
    Selena gripped the railing as she watched the sports car come to a stop in the drive. The muscle car was the color of an egg yolk and just as shiny. The tailpipe extended beyond the fender with glistening chrome and the car’s sides were stenciled with black