Dana picked up her tote bag, then joined him by the door. “Are you sure you won’t let me give you a ride home? I’d be more than happy to do that.”

“No, it’s not necessary. A friend drove me here, and another will swing by shortly to pick me up.”

Hastiin Sani knew almost everyone on the reservation. Although calling him by his Navajo name, “Old Man,” might have seemed disrespectful in some cultures, here on the rez, it was the opposite. She looked at him fondly. He was almost like family. She remembered her mother telling her not to be taken in by his easygoing personality, that Hastiin Sani was far more than he appeared to be… Then again, her mother had never had a firm grip on reality.

Dana locked the door behind them, then walked with Hastiin Sani down the hall and out the side door of the building. All the students and most of the teachers were gone now, so the parking lot was nearly empty.

“I wish I could have done more to help you and your mother,” he said softly, falling into step beside her.

She stopped and met his gaze. “You did more than you realize. The art patrons you sent us put food on our table more often than not.”

He smiled and nodded. “I have always been your friend. I’m very proud of you, did you know that?”

Dana stared at her shoes, and cleared her throat. She’d never really known how to take compliments.

“Here’s my ride now,” he said, pointing with his lips, Navajo style.

She saw the shiny blue pickup pull up just beyond her own white VW bug. A second later, a long-legged, tall and lean Navajo man stepped down off the running board. Some men were made to wear jeans, and the way this man fit into his would have made any sane woman drool.

His dark eyes fastened on her as he walked toward them with long strides that spoke of confidence and purpose. She nearly sighed as she watched him, but she caught herself in time and quickly pretended to cough.