Apache Nights by Sheri Whitefeather Page A

female relative,” she suggested. “Or an old lover.”
    â€œI made them. I’m crafty that way. Domestic slob that I am.”
    He was more than crafty, she thought. He was a loner. A man who’d learned to cook and sew to prove that he didn’t need a woman tending to his needs.
    As for cleaning…
    â€œYou should hire a housekeeper,” she told him.
    â€œMy grandmother thinks I should find a wife.”
    Joyce sucked in a breath. Like the troubled woman she was, her mind strayed in a husbandly direction. Why did it matter how Kyle lived his life? She’d known he was a suspicious character when she’d first met him.
    â€œThe grandmother with the robe like mine?” she asked.
    â€œYep, that’s her.” He flashed a silly smile. “Grandma Ugly Robe.”
    She looked at him, her emotions still acting up. Why did his lifestyle matter? Because she was sleeping with him. And because in her own stupid way, she was getting attached.
    â€œMy baby sister thinks I should invite you to our parents’ anniversary party,” she said, wanting to clear the air, to admit that she’d told someone in her family about him.
    â€œReally? So are you going to invite me?”
    â€œIt depends on how honest you are.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œCriminal activity.”
    For a moment, he merely stared at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    â€œDon’t play dumb, Kyle. The FBI has a file on your Warrior Society.”
    â€œOf course they do.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his faithful rottweiler sat down beside him, aware of his agitation. “The feds don’t trust guys like me.”
    â€œThen why should I trust you?”
    He stared at her once again. “I never claimed you should.”
    She held his gaze. “Is that an admission of guilt?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe FBI has been speculating about your activities.”
    He wrapped up his half-eaten sandwich and shoved it into the duffel bag. “Who told you that?”
    â€œSpecial Agent West. But before you start cursing him, he wouldn’t tell me what those speculations are.”
    Kyle crossed his arms. “Why? What’s his agenda?”
    â€œI don’t think he has one. Other than not wanting to betray you to the woman you’re sleeping with.” She glanced at the spray of rainbow flowers, wishing they were real, wishing they could give her comfort. “He also thinks that if you cared about me, you’d tell me the truth.”
    â€œThat’s not right.” He looked around the fake meadow, too. Avoiding her gaze. Avoiding the discomfort between them. “West shouldn’t have said that.”
    â€œNo, I suppose he shouldn’t have.” But he did, and the words made her ache. As foolish as it was, she wanted Kyle to care about her.
    Â 
    Kyle couldn’t sleep. He sat up in bed and glanced at the clock: 2:24. He picked up the phone, then set it down. He couldn’t call Joyce at this hour. Could he?
    He got up, went down the hall to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He looked like hell, like a man haunted by a woman.
    When he returned to his room, the clock said 2:25.
    Screw it. He climbed back into bed and grabbed the phone again. He was going to call her. With a frown, he punched out the numbers.
    The ringing on the other end of the line made his stomach jolt. Finally she answered.
    â€œHello?” She sounded anxious, as if she were expecting an emergency. Or a homicide-oriented call, something related to her job.
    Which wasn’t that far off the mark. She would probably want to kill him for interrupting her sleep.
    â€œIt’s me,” he told her.
    â€œKyle? Do you know what time it is?”
    He stole another glance at the clock: 2:27 and counting. “Yes.”
    â€œAnd?” she pressed, waiting for him to explain.
    He envisioned her sitting up in bed, too. Only