His gaze lingered on the puny weapon she was wielding, flicked to the corner, then to the heap of camera cases piled next to the desk. Taking two long strides to the computer, he stared hard at the images on the screen.

His voice was as sharp as a rifle shot. “You’re Delaney Carson.”

The words were couched as an accusation. His glare was condemning. Neither was reassuring enough to make Delaney set down her makeshift weapon. She shifted her stance, readiness in every muscle. “More to the point, who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

His lips twisted. “You mean my grandfather’s house, don’t you? Charley Youngblood?”

He didn’t look much like the tribal elder who had picked her up at the Tuba City airport that afternoon. But then, that man had at least five decades on the one standing in front of her. That man had been reserved but charming. That man hadn’t worn a gun.

“Let’s see some ID.”

“Grandfather never mentioned that you’d be staying here.”

It wasn’t an apology. Not even close. It barely qualified as an explanation. The tripod was starting to get heavy, so she repositioned it and repeated firmly, “ID.”

His hand went to his hip pocket. Extracting a slim leather case, he flipped it open and held it out to her. She had to inch closer to read the name above the unsmiling picture that was an accurate depiction of the man before her. But it was the gold star below the photo that captured her attention.

“Criminal Investigation?” Giving this man-Joseph Youngblood-a shield and a gun had to be redundant. He exuded threat without either. “What are you investigating?”

“My grandfather never told me he’d be putting you up. I saw the light and thought there might be trouble. It’s isolated out here.” He tucked away the ID and in one continuous movement reached out to take the tripod away from her. Striding over to the corner, he rested it against the others before returning to survey her from the doorway.