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Chapter One

Breanna Quine followedthe red and blue lights as they flashed in the dark night. Tears welled in her eyes as images of the teen flitted through her mind. When Breanna had received the anonymous call telling her the address where she’d find Chenoa—one of her clients—she rushed out of her house, not even thinking of any possible danger. And when she’d entered an abandoned building on the outskirts of town, junkies huddled in corners, whispers wrapped around her, and the semiconscious body of Chenoa McVickers had greeted her. She’d rushed over to the young woman and noticed a syringe, rubber tubing, and a dirty spoon strewn around her. Breanna checked the teen’s pulse, then dialed 911.

She gripped the steering wheel as she turned the corner too sharply, St. Joseph’s Hospital looming ahead of her. By the time she parked her car and went through the security check, she was a basket case. Her insides twisted as she opened her purse, took out an antacid, and popped it in her mouth. She ran her hand through her long blonde hair as she walked in circles around the emergency waiting area. Breanna took out her phone and dialed Chenoa’s mother for the sixth time, and again, it went to voicemail. She didn’t have Chenoa’s father’s number in her case file, so she took a deep breath and dialed the only other number she had—the teen’s paternal grandmother.

“Hello?” a shaky voice said.

“May I please speak to Mrs. McVickers?” Breanna crossed her fingers, hoping the number she had in the file was still the correct one.

“Speaking,” the woman said slowly.

“Mrs. McVickers, my name is Breanna Quine and I’m your granddaughter’s caseworker. I’ve been trying to contact her mother for the last hour without any luck. There’s been an accident. Chenoa is at St. Joseph’s Hospital.” Her stomach lurched when she heard the older woman’s gasp over the phone. She always hated this part of her job—informing family members that their loved one was hurt, or worse, dead. “I just need to contact one of her parents. Do you have her father’s phone number?”

“Is she going to be okay?” Sadness and fear seeped through the phone.

Breanna exhaled. “I don’t know. I need to have one of her parents here.”

“I’ll call my son.” The phone went dead.

Breanna stood staring at the black screen, wondering if she should call back.

“Ms. Quine?” a strong voice boomed out.

She whirled around and saw a man in a white coat with a folder in his hands. “That’s me.” She went over to the middle-aged man.

He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Sanchez.” She took it and nodded. “Have you been able to contact Ms. McVickers’s parents?”

“Not yet. I’ve just spoken to her grandmother and she told me she’d call her father. How is Chenoa?”

“We’ve stabilized her. You got to her in time, but it’s too early to tell if there will be any physical or mental issues. We’re monitoring her.”

“I really thought she was making progress with her addiction. She’s a really good kid.” Breanna blinked rapidly.

The doctor nodded. “You can go in and see her. We’re waiting for a room to transfer her to. Since you’re her caseworker, you can stay with her until one of her parents gets here.”

Breanna followed Dr. Sanchez through the double steel doors and down the sterile hallway until he stopped in front of a door that was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and gestured for her to go in. Breanna muttered her thanks under her breath and walked into the dimly lit room.

Chenoa lay in the bed wrapped in white sheets and a blanket with tubes stuck in her veins and nose. Several machines hissed and beeped as bright numbers in lime green and red displayed intermittently on their monitors. Breanna padded over to the bed. The teen looked so peaceful, yet Breanna knew a storm was brewing inside her. She ran her hand gently over the young woman’s cheek while her gaze fixed on the angry red lines on the girl’s thin arms. Anger wrapped itself around the social worker’s spine.

I want to kill whoever sold Chenoa heroin. How did it get to the reservation? Why isn’t the sheriff doing anything about this?

To Breanna, it seemed as if heroin had started appearing in the county late the previous year. She could pinpoint the date based on when her brother had started showing up at her house begging for money. She shook her head. She’d been hoping that law enforcement would’ve had a handle on it before it made its way to the reservation.

The door banging against the wall startled her and she looked up, then sucked in her breath. Before her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man who exuded blatant virility and rebelliousness. The leather vest he wore clung to his bare, toned chest, revealing menacing inky images. Outlaw patches filled his leather cut. On his face, a wicked scar paled against his tanned skin, a silent testimony to the world of violence in which he lived. It looked out of place amid his high cheekbones and sculpted nose, which momentarily captivated her.

He had long black hair that he wore loosely around his shoulders, and several silver earrings in both ears gleamed under the light. Her gaze dropped to his corded legs, encased in black denim, and then to the bulge in his crotch. She quickly raised her eyes, meeting his dark green ones, and she gasped. His eyes were the color of the forest right before sunset; they were the kind of green that distracted a person from everything around. They were simply gorgeous. And at that moment, they glared at her. His whole expression was fiercely arrogant, and there was an aura of danger about him.

She smiled weakly.

He crossed his arms, his biceps bulging. “Who are you?”

She took a few steps forward and shoved her hands in her gray hoodie. “I’m Breanna Quine. Who are you?”

He took a few steps toward the bed, his eyes softening when they landed on Chenoa’s body. In two strides he was near her, bending down and placing a kiss on her forehead, whispering to her in a language Breanna couldn’t understand. After several minutes, he looked up. “I’m Chenoa’s father. Steel.”

“It’s good to meet you. I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t get a hold of her mother.” She extended her hand. “I’m Breanna Quine, your daughter’s caseworker.”

Ignoring her hand, he stiffened. “Her caseworker? Where the fuck were you when this happened?” He glared and jerked his arm over his daughter.