Arizona Homecoming
Pamela Tracy
Building on LoveAs a rancher’s daughter, Emily Hubrecht knows a person’s land means family and roots. And being half–Native American, the museum curator also has reasons for preserving the historic sites in Apache Creek, Arizona. So when luxury home builder Donovan Russell begins work at a special location, Emily tries to stop him. The handsome architect bulldozes by her on every occasion, his past keeping him from understanding why the land means so much to her. But when he starts working for Emily’s father and she unexpectedly falls for Donovan, she plans to show him the importance of tradition—and that together they can build a happily-ever-after.The Rancher's Daughters: Sisters find hope, love and redemption in the Arizona desert
Building on Love
As a rancher’s daughter, Emily Hubrecht knows a person’s land means family and roots. And being half–Native American, the museum curator also has reasons for preserving the historic sites in Apache Creek, Arizona. So when luxury home builder Donovan Russell begins work at a special location, Emily tries to stop him. The handsome architect bulldozes by her on every occasion, his past keeping him from understanding why the land means so much to her. But when he starts working for Emily’s father and she unexpectedly falls for Donovan, she plans to show him the importance of tradition—and that together they can build a happily-ever-after.
Donovan was at the library festival?
He smiled at her, then surprised her by turning back to a little girl and reading the scavenger hunt items to her. “I closed the work site yesterday, and I don’t start working for your father until Monday—that is, if he agrees to the contract. I’ve got a free weekend.”
“I’m sorry…” She wasn’t sorry the job shut down, but she was sorry that it affected Donovan. If not for where he built and his not respecting why he shouldn’t build there, she could almost like him.
Almost.
“Once the mystery surrounding what was found at the site is solved, I’m heading out to Ancient Trails Road. I want to poke around a bit, outside of the property, see what I can find.”
“We didn’t find a single artifact,” Donovan reminded her.
“You wouldn’t know an arrowhead if it bit you,” she said.
Donovan laughed. “There were other biting things to worry about.”
She laughed, too, liking the way the sun made his brown hair a tad golden, the way his eyes crinkled.
She liked too much about him, she realized.
PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a RITA® Award finalist and winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.
Arizona Homecoming
Pamela Tracy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
“Let no debt remain outstanding,
except the continuing debt to love one another, for
he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law.”
—Romans 13:8
To every parent who looks out the door waiting for a child—be he ten, twenty, thirty or older—to waltz up the path and be welcomed.
Contents
Cover (#uba83f4dd-8d9a-5c1b-9b19-29b5748680d7)
Back Cover Text (#u22fd2105-0f02-5b11-857f-66d10a4fb698)
Introduction (#u2a6ed71f-6245-5ce9-a08f-871951e96415)
About the Author (#u73e8635d-dd1f-5ac3-bba3-ddbf1a1497a2)
Title Page (#u586111f2-3053-592f-ab75-54e7f9be1c6d)
Bible Verse (#ub9e5a6dc-64f7-5f56-857d-e24f9bada710)
Dedication (#u0fc4f4f6-5d43-5f6c-80e0-5ff7144d52eb)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Dear Reader
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ubfa51402-5d79-5101-ab19-60a9783f2956)
Yellowish-brown shards rose to the surface at the edge of Donovan Russell’s shovel. They were a startling contrast to the hard mud-brown dirt he’d been digging in.
“Should have left well enough alone,” he muttered.
After a few run-ins with local special interests—okay, one rabble-rouser with amazing dark brown eyes, on a mission—the Baer custom-built house was finally back on schedule but a bit over budget. Not that money mattered. Just last night George Baer had called asking for a circular driveway along with one that led to the backyard and a three-car garage. As the site architect and builder, Donovan had merely said, Yes, sir, we can do that.
Looking at the marking paint that now highlighted where the circular drive might go, Donovan decided maybe he shouldn’t have gotten so annoyed at the one spot where the dirt curved upward and kept his imagined drive from being level.
Annoyed was one thing; acting on it another. A backhoe would have been easier to use on this alkaline clay-based dirt that threatened to bend his shovel. Yes, it was that hard.
“I overreacted,” Donovan muttered. Not that there was anyone to hear him. He was miles from the nearest neighbor and living alone in a camper.
Adding a circular driveway would not take that much time, and if he needed to start his next custom job a few weeks late, no one would protest. In his line of work, behind schedule was a way of life. One he personally didn’t appreciate.
Donovan hated when his schedule changed. Still, the change was on Baer’s dime, and Donovan’s goal was to please the customer. Someday, he wanted to please himself, build homes, tree houses, businesses that matched their environment, were one of a kind and affordable.
He had two years left with Tate Luxury Homes. He’d promised to finish his contract and pay off his debt to Nolan Tate, and he’d keep his word. Breaking up with Olivia Tate had been a serious step backward in recovering from a poor career choice. The breakup had, however, been a huge step forward in finding peace.
Not that he’d experienced much peace lately.
His next job was in Palmdale, California. The sun was more polite there. After that, three jobs in Florida. Then, the freedom to choose where, when and how often he worked.
He dug the shovel in a bit deeper, ignoring the sweat gathering at his hairline.
A Nebraska boy through and through, Donovan couldn’t believe that at five in the morning in June the Arizona sun was able to stretch out her fingers with an extremely heated “I’m here for the rest of the day” massage.
Fine, tomorrow he’d start work at four.
Who would choose to live in this heat? Almost immediately, he smiled. His favorite special-interest advocate was a slip of a woman named Emily Hubrecht. She’d shown up at the job site the first day, spouting something about the property next to the Baers’, empty and neglected, that had yielded some Native American pottery a few decades ago. She was sure more was to be found, maybe even a burial ground, and that the home he was building might prevent a historic discovery of epic proportions.
Her words, not his.
He had, however, enjoyed the few weeks she’d poked and prodded the land. Emily was more entertaining than the men working with him. She’d found no proof, and so his permits had been given.
She hadn’t changed her way of thinking.
It was something they had in common. They could see potential even in the dirt on a forlorn piece of the Arizona desert.
When she’d scowled at the permits in his hand and raised defiant eyes to his, he found himself promising, I find any arrowheads, pots, or bows and arrows, I’ll give them right to you. He’d do it, too, because it was the right thing to do.
The dirt gave way to something with more substance as Donovan gently nudged with his shovel.
Bones.
A brief sorrow washed over him at the thought of some long-ago child standing over an aged Fido and saying goodbye. Maybe it was time to get a four-legged companion. Not that Donovan was ever lonely. He was far too busy for that.
At least that’s what he told himself late at night in a tiny camper with one bed, one table, a minuscule kitchen and a bathroom so small that taking a shower meant one foot in and one foot out of the tub.
Except for the heat, Donovan enjoyed his time here. This part of Arizona was rich in history and the kind of rural lifestyle he’d grown up with. Everyone knew each other. He’d not been in town more than two days before the waitress at the Miner’s Lamp knew his favorite meal and the grocery store manager knew what brand of cereal he preferred. Even the Hubrecht family, save Emily, seemed to like him. Her father had built the Lost Dutchman Ranch’s main building and kept asking Donovan for advice on updating.
Then, too, Donovan had received a dozen invitations to church, even from the enchanting Emily, and one marriage proposal. He’d nicely refused them all.
Moving the shovel, he unearthed another bone. The Baer home stood a good twenty miles from its nearest neighbor. Strange place for a dog to be buried. A homeless mutt might have died on the spot, but this was somewhat deep and definitely had been here awhile.
Smokey Begay, the construction crew’s foreman, parked on what would someday be a real driveway. Stepping from his truck, he squinted, and then came to stand beside Donovan. “What are you doing?”
Eerie how the man knew every time Donovan needed something, whether it be advice, a tool or simply another hand to get a job done quicker.
“Baer wants a circular driveway, too,” Donovan explained. “I thought I’d dig a rough outline.”
“Why did you stop digging?”
“Bones,” Donovan said, only this time he wasn’t thinking of a crying boy and a beloved dog.
Smokey took a step backward, his demeanor going from curious to stoic in a blink. “This is not good.”
“I tend to agree.” Over the years Donovan had found old toys, bullets and once a vintage pair of glasses—very Benjamin Franklinish. He kept those on the dashboard of his truck.
Donovan pushed his shovel deeper in the hard dirt, his gut already telling him what he didn’t want to know. “Dogs do have femurs?” he asked Smokey hopefully, his question more a statement.
“Yes, but not even a Great Dane would have a femur like that,” Smokey said.
It took only five minutes to uncover the human skull.
* * *
Emily Hubrecht finished pinning the flyer advertising Apache Creek Library Celebrates Sixty Years to the bulletin. Then, she put up a separate flyer about the hour of Native American storytelling she’d be donating to the library to help with the festivities.
It had been a while since she’d made time to do what she loved most: storytelling. During the school year she visited the sixth grade for American History Month. Every once in a while, she’d get a call from Phoenix or Tucson asking for her services. In reality, most of her storytelling happened as she guided the museum’s visitors up and down the aisles. That didn’t feel like storytelling, though. It felt more like a documentary narrative.
Outside, gravel crunched, heralding visitors. Emily watched as two people exited the minivan that had parked in front of her museum. She waited for a dozen kids to burst from the doors but not even one pigtailed head showed.
So far today, twelve patrons had signed the museum’s register. Emily wanted, prayed for, a hundred and fifty. How could people not fall in love the with Apache Creek’s artifacts, history and folklore?
She blamed the museum’s name. The Lost Dutchman Museum. Really? Only a small portion of the museum dealt with old Jacob Waltz—nicknamed the Lost Dutchman—and his irrelevant, misguided contribution to the history of the Superstition Mountains. The majority of displays had to do with the ancient and not-so-ancient inhabitants who’d left behind tangible relics and folklore.
The woman from the van was dressed to the nines and didn’t look the type to be impressed with old mining paraphernalia or Native American treasures. She seemed more suited to a Porsche than minivan. Emily moved closer to the window. Ah, a rental.
The man appeared much older, wearing white pants and a suit jacket. Those pants would stay clean sixty seconds in this museum immersed in history and dust.
They entered the foyer with a sense of entitlement. Emily didn’t mind. These were the kind of tourists who might spend money on one of the many books in the tiny gift area, maybe even buy a Native American woven blanket. “May I help you?”
“We’re looking for pieces from old movie sets?” the man answered. “To buy. We heard John Wayne liked this part of Arizona, and I’m a collector.”
“We did have many Westerns shot here,” Emily began. “Not just John Wayne, but Audie—”
“Just John Wayne,” the man said firmly.
Emily shook her head. “I’ve a few things from the days when Westerns were shot here but they’re not on display yet and none are for sale.”
The couple turned away without even glancing past the foyer, heading for the exit.
Emily tried again. “We’ve got Native American artifacts thousands of years old and—”
They closed the front door behind them before Emily could try enticing them with her storytelling skills that would transport them to another era.
“John Wayne would appreciate my artifacts and stories,” Emily muttered and glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. She closed at four, when the sun shot past high and went to burning. Most tourists would be thinking of eating and returning to their hotels for a dip in the pool.
She headed back to the Salado room. It was tiny compared to the rest, with just a few bowls and farming utensils on display. After unlocking the glass cabinet, she pulled a pair of gloves from her back pocket, put them on and then retrieved a tiny reddish bowl with faded black-and-white paint etched on the sides. As she walked back to her office, her fingers gently gripped the bowl, reveling in an artifact from such a distant era.
Who had it belonged to? A young bride, a grandmother, a wife in charge of feeding many? Emily was half–Native American, from the Hopi tribe, and was writing her family’s history. One of her many projects. Her father said she’d get more done if she could settle on doing one job at a time.
She didn’t like the word time. Time was something you could run out of, like her mother had. Emily didn’t want someone a thousand years from today to say, Yes, I’ve heard of the Hopi, but really, all they left were a few belongings we can fit in this tiny corner of the room. Emily wanted the world to know about her mom’s family from the Kykotsmovi Village, near Holbrook. She wanted to paint with words the Soyal ceremony when young girls received their kachinas. She wanted the Hopi Butterfly Dance to live on through storytelling as well as practice.
When she made it back to her desk, she took out a box and started fitting packing paper inside. She was lending the bowl to the Heard Museum in Phoenix. They were doing a display of forgotten tribes and had contacted her just two weeks ago, wanting to find out what she knew.
They read her paper on the Salado. Her first published piece as a college student majoring in Native American studies. The curator hadn’t even known she was a local, hadn’t known she was the new curator of the Lost Dutchman Museum.
A tumbleweed scooted across the parking lot and disappeared down the same road as the minivan.
Emily secured the bowl, sure that it wouldn’t suffer a crack even if the Phoenix Suns used the package for basketball practice, and after taking off her gloves, headed for the tiny break room, thinking she’d eat lunch although she wasn’t hungry.
The phone rang before she managed three steps.
“Emily,” Sam Miller said. He was part of the four-man police team that kept Apache Creek safe.
“What is it, Sam?”
“They’ve uncovered bones at the end of Ancient Trails Road, the Baer place.”
An epic house in the middle of nowhere. There’d been protests, mostly from Emily, who filed petitions about protecting the wilderness and the land that was once home to the Native people. She’d managed to delay a permit until she had a chance to look over the property. She just knew it had been a Native American village centuries ago. All her research pointed to that spot. The architect, one Donovan Russell, had taken to saluting her should she come close, as if she were some...well, never mind that. And, at least saluting was preferable to the irritated look he’d given her the last time she’d filed a protest.
“How old?”
“Old enough. It’s a skeleton, and it’s been there awhile and could be a Native American.” He didn’t sound happy.
She’d been right all along.
The Baers were building right where an ancient settlement had thrived. There had to be a plethora of artifacts just waiting to be found.
What if today was the day?
Emily didn’t smile. Chances were the location had already been compromised. Now, Donovan Russell would have to listen. If he’d damaged the skeleton or anything surrounding it, he’d have desecrated a venerable object.
A felony!
He should have listened to her.
Chapter Two (#ubfa51402-5d79-5101-ab19-60a9783f2956)
Emily stepped from her truck, giving a quick appraisal of the area—brown dirt, cacti and the distant Superstition Mountains—before heading for Officer Sam Miller and royal-pain Donovan Russell.
Sam she’d known forever. He was still the too-tall, never-quite-fitting-his-frame boy, now a man. When he was hanging around her oldest sister, Emily figured he’d turn into a professional skateboarder or something like that. Instead, he’d gone away to college and come back with a degree in criminal justice and hired on as a cop.
“Care to help?” she said to him.
Sam half smiled. He wasn’t overly fond of dead bodies and happily turned them over to her or immigration—usually immigration because this area had more than its share of illegal immigrants hurrying through and falling victim to the weather or bad circumstances. He was much more comfortable dealing with the mundane.
He’d already cordoned off the area around the skeleton. Both he and Donovan stood by the edge of the tape, talking. Judging by the looks on their faces, they’d been discussing her.
“When did you find the remains?” she asked.
“About five thirty this morning,” Donovan answered. She wouldn’t exactly call him welcoming.
“I was roughing out a circular drive,” he continued. “There was an upheaval in the dirt bothering me so I decided to smooth it out. Took me over twenty minutes to get about four inches dug. That’s when I started unearthing bone shards. Next thing I knew, I had a skull.”
“You touch anything?”
“Just the shovel. Once I’d uncovered enough to realize what I had, I called the police.”
Sam Miller added, “Jamal Begay was here.”
It took Emily a few seconds before she responded, “Jamal was here?”
“He got here a few moments before I found the skull,” Donovan stated.
“Bad timing.” Emily knew Smokey. He was a good man, with a family, and superstitious as all get-out.
Both Sam and Donovan nodded.
It was a very clean site. The dirt was packed hard, no footprints. Then, too, this skeleton had been around awhile, so even if there were any disturbances in the area, chances were they’d be recent. She took out gloves and removed two baggies from her jean pockets. Sam came to stand beside her. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Aren’t you going to wait for the medical examiner?” Donovan asked.
“Why?” Emily looked up at him. He couldn’t be more different than Sam. He was taller than she was, but then, who wasn’t? She put him at five-ten, all muscle and what her father would call a scrapper. His honey-brown hair was cut short, and he had an impish smile.
Usually. He looked a little pale right now. Finding human bones tended to have that effect.
“You think I can’t handle this?” She rather liked the displaced look on his face.
“I told you Emily is who we call,” Sam said.
“In case the remains prove to be Native American,” Donovan agreed. “Tell me they’re not.”
She stepped over the cordon tape and bent down next to the remains. “Too soon to tell.”
“But don’t we need a medical examiner to—”
Sam interrupted, “We’re too small to have our own medical examiner. If this turns out to be a crime scene or not a Native jurisdiction,” he nodded toward Emily, “we’ll call the Maricopa County medical examiner’s office.”
“What have you done so far?” Emily asked Sam.
“Photos and call you.”
“What’s next?” Donovan’s voice implied he didn’t want to know.
“Finish digging up the body, take more photos, probably call in an entomologist, sieve the grave, search a grid for belongings.”
“Entomologist?” Donovan queried.
“I’m not skilled enough nor do I have the tools to determine the true postmortem interval. We’ll want to know the time of death.”
“How long will that take?”
Emily smiled. “Oh, you’re going to be stuck with me for a long time.”
* * *
Gloating, that’s what Emily Hubrecht was doing. Turning to Sam, Donovan again asked, “You sure she’s the one you had to call?”
Sam nodded as they watched Emily head back to a Lost Dutchman Ranch truck that rivaled Donovan’s in size. One foot on the back bumper, she hopped twice on the other foot in order to swing her body over the tailgate. Emily might claim to be five foot four, but Donovan knew better. He’d put in enough cabinets to gauge who could reach the top shelf and who couldn’t. Emily was a footstool short, making her a hair over five foot three.
She opened the tool chest that stretched across the bed of her truck, pulled out a large black canvas bag and tossed it to the ground before jumping down to retrieve it. She handled it with ease and was already standing beside the skull before Donovan thought to offer to carry it for her.
“She worked up in South Dakota restoring an Indian burial ground that grave robbers had desecrated,” Sam said. “She has a degree in cultural anthropology and knows more about bones than anyone else in town.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Small town?
“And why—”
Sam interrupted, “It also makes her qualified to help work a crime scene. If we have one.”
“Might not be a crime scene,” Emily said. “Could be somebody who just lay down and died of old age.”
Donovan looked at the area that had already been cordoned off. “Why here? It’s the middle of nowhere.”
She gave him a look only a female knew how to form. “This wasn’t always the middle of nowhere.”
Of course she’d bring up her supposed village and how the home he was building encroached upon the remnants. Those had been her words.
“She’s especially good with old bones,” Sam said. “The department keeps her on retainer.”
Oh, how Donovan wished he’d found a dog.
They watched her for a moment as she took photos and drew a few pictures in a small notebook. There was something intimate, respectful in her movements. But just the thought of working so closely with a skull, let alone the makings of a whole skeleton, gave Donovan the heebie-jeebies.
He cleared his throat—no way did he want Sam to think him a wimp—and quietly asked, “So, Navajos avoid the dead?” He wasn’t really thinking about Smokey; he was thinking about Emily. She was Native American but must not be Navajo because she wasn’t leaving. It didn’t surprise him that she was the one who Sam had called.
“Something about the good leaving with the soul and the evil remaining with the body.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, clearly honoring what Smokey and a few of the other construction workers believed. He wondered if it was what she believed, and if so, why she’d chosen such a career path.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t quite certain what her career path was. At first, when she’d been all over him with petitions and threats of cease and desist, he’d thought she was some sort of activist. But, when she had finally handed him a business card, it stated that she was a “storyteller.” Whatever that was. Then, he’d found out she was also the curator at the Lost Dutchman Museum. Two weeks ago he’d gone to the Lost Dutchman Ranch for dinner, and she was waiting tables. If not for her, he’d have made it his favorite stop. The locale was perfect, the food great, and he liked Jacob, the owner and Emily’s father. But, quite frankly, he didn’t trust her not to put really hot sauce in his food.
“Who are you today?” he asked.
She blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Curator? Waitress? Storyteller? Pseudo medical examiner?”
“Civilian forensic consultant to the Apache Creek PD.”
He almost chuckled, almost asked her if she was old enough. Wisely, he didn’t. He was already on her bad side, and annoying her wouldn’t get him back to work any quicker.
Donovan knew exactly what Emily hoped to find. He just couldn’t remember the name of the tribe she was so enamored with. He thought a moment. It wasn’t one of the common tribes. He’d never heard it until she’d started poking around, getting in his way, insisting that Baer was building on a historic gold mine.
At least that’s how she’d put it after she accused him of encroaching on her remnants.
Sam’s phone sounded, and Donovan heard just enough to know that the police officer had obtained some sort of search warrant for excavating the body.
This was going to turn into a major hassle, Donovan just knew it. He headed back to his company truck and snagged a bottled water from his cooler before leaning against the door to study Emily. To think, just an hour ago he’d been happy because everything was on schedule. Now, he was down to a... Donovan tried to stop thinking the term skeleton crew.
He couldn’t.
Smokey, acting as if he was late for an important meeting, had left the premises not two minutes after the bones surfaced. He’d called his two cousins, coworkers, and they weren’t coming back any time soon. Only one of Donovan’s team showed up. John Westerfield had arrived ten minutes before Emily. He’d spent most of the time sitting in his truck, talking on the phone and no doubt trying to convince his wife that it wasn’t his fault he wouldn’t be working today. This wasn’t the type of job that paid if hours weren’t put in. He’d not been a happy man when he drove away.
Donovan would have to ask Emily how to get his crew back and working.
“So,” Sam Miller said, hanging up his phone and going to one knee by Emily, careful not to disturb anything, “you find any personal effects yet?”
“Not yet, but I’ve just begun.”
“You find bodies often?” Donovan asked. George Baer had extolled the lack of crime in Apache Creek. It was one of the reasons he and his wife were retiring here.
“Enough,” Sam said. “We’re what you’d call a high-intensity drug trafficking area.”
“Marijuana?”
Sam shrugged. “Along with whatever else will sell.”
“So,” Donovan said, “I might not be looking at a burial ground but instead a drug deal gone wrong?”
“Could be. I’ve never discovered a burial ground. I’ve also never discovered a whole skeleton. When I find drug deals gone wrong, they’re usually a bit more ripe.”
Emily made a face. Donovan looked over at his camper. All one would need was a pair of scissors to break in. Not something he wanted to think about. He decided to change the topic somewhat. “Would Smokey be just as put off by Anglo remains as Native American?”
“Pretty sure,” Emily said. “Good and evil don’t care the race.”
Donovan nodded, took out his cell phone and walked toward the home. The sun followed him, burning his arms and reminding him that it was high noon and well past break time. He’d been doing nothing but standing around the past hour or so. No reason to be tired.
Stepping inside he took in the fresh-paint smell, the hint of wood and the white dust particles that were everywhere. Sometimes when he got off work and showered in his camper, the top of his head looked like the before commercial for a dandruff shampoo.
Yesterday he’d been inside the house working on baseboards with a portable evacuative cooler blowing on him. His crew, all locals, had been painting and making fun of him. Didn’t bother him. They didn’t turn red three minutes after working in the sun. Three of his crew were Navajo and then he had John. They were all good workers, talented and easy to get along with. They all thought the house going up at 2121 Ancient Trails Road a bit extravagant for the parts, but didn’t care. They were working.
Exactly what Donovan wanted to be doing at this moment. Usually, when it got to this stage in the process, he relaxed.
But, he realized, he’d not relaxed at all during his time in Apache Creek. It had been one thing after another. Thanks mostly to Emily Hubrecht.
Quickly, he called George Baer and told the man about the skeleton. George’s only questions were “Can they halt progress?” followed by “Can they reclaim the land?”
“I’m pretty sure they can halt progress, temporarily. You’ll need to contact a lawyer for more information. The officer in charge of the case doesn’t think they can reclaim the land. You might, however, be responsible for the cost of moving the body and anything else discovered.”
Silence. Anyone else, and Donovan would assume they were assessing cost. Not George Baer. He’d be thinking about time and possibly media exposure. The man liked his privacy. Thus the end-of-the-road residence in out-of-the-way Apache Creek, Arizona. It was a custom-build situation unlike any Donovan had ever worked on before.
After Baer told him to do what he had to do, Donovan disconnected the call and stayed in the kitchen, looking out the window at the talented Miss Hubrecht. Even on her knees digging up bones, she managed to look beautiful. Long black hair was caught back in a ponytail that swayed while she used both a brush and a small shovel-like tool to free the skeleton without damaging it.
Nothing about this build was ordinary.
He’d been working for Tate Luxury Homes for the past three years, mostly because he’d fallen in love with Olivia Tate. After a while, he’d realized she was a bit like the luxury home he was building for George Baer: all show and no heart.
Donovan hoped that Olivia found the right man for her. He wasn’t that man. Before he’d even started dating Olivia, Donovan had borrowed money from Nolan Tate, her father, and now it would take at least five homes and two years to repay the debt. What was best about the current location was, while uncomfortable, it was far away from Olivia and her tantrums.
Maybe uncomfortable was too kind a word. George Baer’s house, so far, had no electricity, no plumbing and no urban comfort.
Emily looked up, caught him watching her and looked away. He felt a moment’s disappointment. Why? He’d be out of Apache Creek in a little over a month.
But, unable to resist, he glanced back at her, mesmerized by the fire in her eyes and thinking that such a look shouldn’t be there because of a skeleton.
Her hands kept moving, gently uncovering what Donovan wished had stayed buried. Then, when he could see she had dug well past the ribs, she stilled.
He took one step in her direction, half pulled by curiosity and half pulled by the instinct to be there if she needed him.
Sam got there first. “What did you find?”
“My guess, based on his teeth and the condition of the bones, is we have a male skeleton between twenty-five and forty years old. I can only estimate how long he’s been buried here. I believe, though, an entomologist would agree with my findings. If I were going through missing-person reports, I’d focus on at least the last fifty years.”
Donovan let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Not an ancient burial ground.
“You’ll want to call Maricopa and the medical examiner, though,” Emily said. “There’s a knife next to the body.”
Donovan breathed in. His custom-built home had just gone from burial ground to crime scene.
At least if it had been a burial ground, Emily Hubrecht would have provided a diversion.
Chapter Three (#ulink_53b5ac28-cc9c-53c6-9e86-94300049d203)
“Find anything?” Jane de la Rosa asked when Emily walked through the museum’s front door.
Emily couldn’t remember Jane or Jane’s mother not being a part of her life. Jane’s mother, Patti, used to work at the front desk of the Lost Dutchman Ranch. She’d been let go a few years ago. Jacob, Emily’s father, said it was because his girls were doing more. Emily knew it had more to do with Patti’s attempts to become more to him than just an employee.
Jane often filled in at the museum when Emily needed someone to spell her. What Jane didn’t know about history, she made up for with enthusiasm.
Hesitating and maybe just now letting it all sink in, Emily slowly said, “Yes.”
“Because you look like you dug all the way to Tucson.”
Since no cars were in the parking lot, meaning no visitors, Emily felt free to share, ending with “The skeleton was no more than two feet down right in the middle of nowhere. Not even close to the old trail leading to the Superstition Mountains.”
“Poor man.” Jane immediately bowed her head, engaging in a silent prayer. Emily followed her example, reminding herself that what she’d found today had been someone’s son, possibly husband, maybe father, maybe friend, and deserved respect.
“Find anything else?” Jane asked.
The skeleton had waited decades to be discovered. The Maricopa County medical examiner would no doubt make him wait a few more days. After all, the skeleton wasn’t going anywhere. Sam Miller hadn’t even bothered telling Emily not to talk about the discovery. Already, four construction workers knew and probably four wives and maybe even a child or two. In Apache Creek, when a girl sneezed, the bless you might come from three miles away. That’s how fast news traveled.
“I stopped digging when I got to the pelvis, which let me know I had a male. There was a knife right next to the hip bone.”
“Recognize it?” Jane’s eye lit up.
“Of course not. I left it half-buried. No way do I want to compromise a crime scene. All I’d need to do is anger the wrong official and suddenly my position identifying local Native American sites would be in jeopardy. I told Donovan Russell not to build there.”
It was true, too. Quite a few people wanted the past to be the past and let progress reign. Case in point, Donovan Russell and the absent George Baer, who’d employed him. Lately, it felt as if she and the townspeople of Apache Creek were in opposition with the mayor and a few other major players, like business owners and Realtors. Their little town was in danger of losing what Emily considered its heart. Others might call it quaintness. Not Emily. Apache Creek’s history set it apart from every other small town. How could people not appreciate it?
“Those acres of land have been for sale since before you were born,” Jane said. “You can’t be mad because someone finally purchased them and is now building. You’ve given Donovan enough grief.”
“You’re sticking up for him because he’s a good tipper.”
“And careful with his money, an overall nice guy. Besides, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. You get your teeth in something and you don’t know when to let go.”
“I’m right more than I’m wrong. And—” Emily wagged her finger “—when I was in diapers you were just eight years old and thought Batman was real.”
“He is real,” Jane teased before sobering. “You’ve got to accept that change happens, and for a reason. I can understand you wanting to preserve a two-hundred-year-old Native American village, but I don’t see a village there. Sometimes you go too far.”
Emily knew where this was going.
“You,” Jane continued, “need to forgive Randall Tucker for tearing down the Majestic Hotel. It stood empty for more than twenty years.”
Now greeting visitors who turned off the highway was an apartment complex that looked like a million others. Boring. And she’d purchased the remnants of the Majestic’s history on her own dime or they’d have been lost. It was history. Apache Creek used to be a favorite shooting location for Hollywood Westerns, and the Majestic had been the hotel the actors, directors and such had stayed at. She had old movie posters, props and even an old script from a Roy Rogers flick.
It wasn’t that she loved Roy Rogers—she didn’t remember him. Or that she loved old Westerns. She didn’t. But, when looking at history, the way the movies depicted culture and mind-set was priceless, a teaching opportunity.
The couple that had been here this morning hadn’t had a clue. They loved the persona of John Wayne, not the real man or the real history.
Looking in her mirror, she had to laugh. She could be right out of an old Western herself, with a dark smudge across her nose, sunburned cheeks and mussed hair. Jane hadn’t been far off when she’d questioned how much dirt Emily brought back with her. She just wished her time spent had done something to halt Donovan’s progress.
One custom-built home, with a backdrop of the Superstition Mountains, would surely lead to another until soon there’d be a gated community—pimples marring the mountains’ beauty.
Jane already had her purse on her shoulder when Emily returned to the front. “Two families stopped by. They loved the place.”
Yeah, Emily loved it, too, but she needed a thousand more people to show a little love if the museum was going to survive.
* * *
Donovan looked at the calendar: Friday. Exactly one week since he’d uncovered the bones. He hated being behind schedule. Once Emily had determined the remains were fairly recent and a crime scene, she’d filled out a report, turning it over to the medical examiners.
What a show that was. The medical examiner and his crew had arrived this past Tuesday—guess Monday was a busy day—with what looked like tool chests. The remains were carried away in individual labeled bags on Thursday.
“What now, boss?” John Westerfield asked, bringing Donovan’s attention back to the present.
“Not a circular drive, that’s for sure.” Donovan glanced at the cordon tape still waving in the tepid Arizona wind. In the past week, what they’d accomplished was piecemeal at most. He’d found it distracting to deal with the various law-enforcement personnel as well as reporters looking for clues that clearly weren’t there.
Except for the knife.
Since the discovery, he and John had done indoor work with lots of interruptions that had Donovan—who’d been instructed by Baer to cooperate fully but not to mention his name—saying, “the homeowner” this and “the homeowner” that...
Smokey and his cousins had taken the whole week off and Donovan could only hope they’d show up on Monday. When, according to Sam Miller, they could resume work with no one interrupting them.
Donovan was disturbed by quite a few things, and they weren’t all work related.
At five, he called it a day. John picked up his lunch box and drove off.
Donovan had other plans. He headed to the camper behind Baer’s not-quite-finished home and quickly showered and changed clothes before heading for the Lost Dutchman Ranch. Exactly one week after Emily predicted, You’re going to be stuck with me for a long time, he pulled into a parking spot in front of a huge barn and walked the path to her family’s restaurant.
He hadn’t been stuck with her. No, he’d been stuck with a dark-haired, fortysomething male medical examiner with two trainees, who showed up in a white van, carrying rakes, sifters, trowels and brushes. They weren’t afraid to get dirty, but Donovan got the idea that his crime scene had taken a whole day longer than necessary because the ME was using it as his trainees’ hands-on classroom.
The only thing Donovan had overheard was the ME showing his students evidence of severe arthritis in the bones.
Donovan wasn’t really in the mood to eat at the Lost Dutchman Ranch’s restaurant. It would have been easier to eat on Main Street at the Miner’s Lamp. No, not true. Every diner would be looking at him. A good number of locals would have headed over, hands out for a shake or slap on the back, and started a conversation with, “So tell me about...”
At least here, at the Lost Dutchman Ranch, most of the patrons were from out of town, if not out of state. Maybe they’d not heard yet.
Truth was, he’d been summoned. Jacob Hubrecht wanted to hire him for some odd building job, and Donovan was intrigued.
Stepping from his truck, he took a deep breath, smelling mulch, plant life, animals and most of all barbecue. It was ten times better than the dust, particle board, glue and paint he smelled at work.
When he grew close to finishing the Baer place, the landscapers would swoop in. He couldn’t help but think George Baer had made a mistake. The man wanted artificial grass and even a putting green. To Donovan’s way of thinking, Jacob Hubrecht’s ranch was the real beauty. The house was original—Donovan’s favorite kind of building—and complemented its surrounding. Emily had grown up in a breathtaking place with vibrant colors and personality.
His parents’ place had been about this size, too, but they’d used the land for cattle, not horses and vacationers. Thus, no pool, no pretend schoolhouse and no covered-wagon decor. It had been an all-work-and-no-play kind of place, especially for Donovan, an only child.
Nebraska didn’t have anything that equaled the Superstition Mountains. But suddenly he missed the Mytal sunset and the taste of his mother’s mashed potatoes and his father’s baritone voice singing a gospel song.
There were no skeletons buried in their yard. That was for sure. Just a deep love and appreciation for the family, for the land and for the Lord. Donovan rarely went home and struggled with a sense that he’d failed when it came to the commandment “Honor your father and your mother so that you may live long in the land your God has given you.”
Probably why Donovan had stopped attending church: guilt.
His dad would say the land was the Russell Dairy Farm. Unfortunately, his choice not to take over the family business had festered into a permanent wound that neither father nor son could heal.
Donovan walked toward the dining room, thinking that big-city people didn’t know what they were missing. This was a happening place, a joyful place, with family portraits and wall decorations that were Native American heirlooms or present-day rodeo memorabilia instead of plastic or mass-produced knickknacks. He spotted Jacob sitting with Emily and another dark-haired woman, and headed for the rancher’s table, arriving before he was spotted and just as Jacob Hubrecht was saying, “That would be like putting a Band-Aid on a broken dam. You can’t stop Donovan from building any more than you can stop progress. Apache Creek is going to grow.” He looked out one of the windows and nodded toward the panoramic view of the Superstition Mountains. “You can blame them.”
To Donovan’s surprise, Jacob—without taking his eyes off the mountains—added, “Right, Donovan?”
Not exactly the way Donovan wanted the evening to begin. “That’s correct, sir.”
Jacob grinned as he looked at Emily, who made a face as if she’d just swallowed a pickle. She had the same glimmer of passion in her eyes that she’d had last week while examining the skeleton, and there was a little smudge of brown under the left side of her chin, letting him know she’d been playing in the dirt again.
Instead of asking her whose dirt she was digging in today, he said, “I didn’t come here to change Apache Creek. It’s perfect the way it is. I’m building one home. I’m a builder, not a developer. And I’m not the home owner.”
“If you want to stop more homes from going up, you’ll need to buy the land yourself.” This advice was aimed at Emily and came from a tall blonde woman.
Emily frowned, and Jacob stepped in. “Donovan, you’ve not met all my girls. It’s a rare occurrence they’re all here. Eva’s my oldest and will take your order. I hope you’ve not eaten.”
Now Donovan saw the resemblance. Eva looked a lot like Jacob, light haired, while Emily and the other sister must take after a dark-haired mother. And Eva was obviously pregnant. Her advice about buying the land was sound, and Donovan wondered if Jacob could afford to do so.
“I’ll take iced tea and help myself to your pulled-pork sandwich with homemade chips.” It was what he’d had last time he ate here. The aroma had lured him the moment he stepped out of his truck.
“No one can afford to buy all the land that needs to be preserved in this area,” Emily protested, “and no one should have to. It should be made into a state park, part of the Superstition land trust.”
“We didn’t find Native American remains,” Donovan said, claiming the only vacant chair, which happened to be next to Emily.
“You could have. He wasn’t buried very deep. Decades of wind could have covered him up. And just because he’s not more than a century old doesn’t mean he’s not Native American, and—”
“Emily,” the sister at the table said gently.
While Emily continued talking, ignoring her big sister, Donovan studied the other female, a taller, more slender version of Emily. When Emily finally stopped her impassioned tirade with a harrumph, the woman held out her hand and said, “Since no one is going to introduce me, I’ll do it myself. I’m Elise.”
“Donovan Russell. I met your fiancé Cooper a few days ago. I stopped by his outfitters store. He told me all about gold panning.”
She looked at her little sister with an indulgent expression, and then back at Donovan. “And my little sister has told me all about you.”
“All good?” he joked.
“I like to judge for myself. I’ve been keeping up with what the house you’re building looked like. So far, I’m not sure.”
Donovan doubted she’d be impressed, considering where Elise lived. The Lost Dutchman Ranch blended in with its surroundings, making a visitor take in the whole package: house, land, mountains. George Baer definitely wanted visitors to notice only his house.
No, not the house, but his money.
“Then, I went to your website,” Elise continued. “You’ve done some impressive homes.”
“Back in Omaha? Or the last three years?” he asked.
“Definitely back in the Omaha area.”
Made sense. There he’d not been building true luxury homes. He thought back to the first house he’d worked on with Tate Luxury Homes in Springfield, Illinois. It had been a fourteen-thousand-square-foot split-level mansion with marble floors and two elevators. The master bedroom had a fireplace and a waterfall! Two of the bedrooms were for little girls and had castles with stairs and a tower, jutting from one wall.
For show.
There’d also been a two-tiered Jacuzzi with a flat-screen television and its own bar.
“And you build tree houses.” A young boy spoke right in Donovan’s ear before pulling a chair over to sit next to him. Excitement emphasized each word.
“My nephew, Timmy. Eva’s stepson,” Emily introduced.
Here was the type of future homeowner Donovan wanted to build for. The boy promptly set some Legos on the table and started creating as he spoke. “Emily found some pictures of your tree houses. Grandpa saw them, too, and he wants you to build us Tinytown.”
Tinytown?
Emily had looked at his personal website?
“Timmy, I hadn’t had a chance to get around to discussing business with Mr. Russell,” Jacob chided without sounding the least bit perturbed.
“You searched for me on the internet?” Donovan asked Emily.
“Elise did,” Emily said. “But my motto’s always been Know Your Friends but Know Your Enemies More.”
“What?” Donovan couldn’t help but laugh. He had a few proverbs he’d like to spout, too.
Emily didn’t seem to appreciate his mirth.
“I’m not your enemy. I’m a custom-home builder hired to do a job. As I told you the first day you introduced yourself, the property is paid for, the permits are up to date and the inspections are either finished or arranged for.”
She didn’t appear to have a response.
“Never a dull day in the Hubrecht clan.” Elise stood and started gathering plates and glasses from the table. She gave Emily a look that clearly said, You plan to help? but Emily shook her head and frowned at Donovan.
“So,” Jacob interjected, “about the tree houses we saw on your website. Your blog said that a typical tree house takes a week and that you do small jobs between big projects?”
“Sometimes,” Donovan allowed.
Jacob’s eyes lit up.
“I didn’t see any trees around here big enough for a tree house,” Donovan remarked.
“Don’t want a tree house, exactly,” Jacob said. “Timmy and I were talking, and we want a child-size village, you know, with houses the size of small sheds, perfect for our guests in the age range of three to maybe twelve. Not just houses, mind you. We’d want a child-size fire station, a store, a movie theater, a school and a hospital. It could be a little bigger. Not only could Timmy and his soon-to-be little brother use it, but many of our guests bring children—”
“Whoa.” Donovan appreciated the man’s enthusiasm, but the picture he was painting would take a lot of time. Time Donovan didn’t have. “I’m not sure you’ve thought about the real time and cost of such a project. I’m booked solid for the next two years. And if I do it when I have a free week, you’ll be getting a new building once every six months, plus paying travel.”
Donovan was now a week late on the Baer house, which was okay because he always calculated in extra time, but come the beginning of August, he was heading for California and his next job. Building a child-size village wasn’t on the schedule. “Plus, you’re a builder, too. You built this place.”
“I was a lot younger then. And, I never did the detail you put into some of those houses. Timmy was quite impressed. I don’t figure the cost would be much different than the tree house you made over in Colorado last year,” Jacob said.
Donovan knew the exact one Jacob spoke of. It was connected to two trees, had two porches—front and back—and was made of cedar. Much bigger than a shed.
“I figure you’ll charge me a little less, as it’s easier to build on the ground rather than in a tree.”
“You’re still talking about five or six buildings,” Donovan responded.
“Give me a ballpark figure, thinking maybe six structures?”
Donovan shook his head. “The tree houses are a passion of mine and I love building them. Unfortunately, I don’t...”
Timmy’s lips pursed, making him resemble his aunt from a few minutes ago.
“No.” Jacob only said one word and Timmy stopped pouting.
Donovan figured this would be a good time to head for the buffet and fill his plate. When he returned, he quickly took a bite so he wouldn’t have to say anything else right away. He thought about the offer. The tree houses weren’t exactly what Donovan would call small jobs. They were intricate and had personality, and he wished he could build them full-time. Their owners, usually between the ages of six and sixteen, appreciated them in a way a wealthy seventy-something, like Baer, couldn’t.
Jacob waited until Donovan’s plate was almost empty before suggesting, “Could you maybe work in just two small houses between the end of this job and your next one? Emily is handy with a hammer. She’s responsible for the good condition of our fencing and the remodels in the barn and bunkhouse. If she helped you, she might be able to finish the job.”
“No.” Emily sounded a lot like her dad.
No way did Donovan have time. But working with Emily...might prove very interesting. Maybe, just maybe, he could manage one.
Before any more discussion, Sam Miller walked in. He didn’t look around, just headed to their table.
“Go find your mother,” Jacob told Timmy. “Tell her we just might have an idea that works. Then, build me two houses out of Legos, so I can see your design ideas.”
“Okay, Grandpa!”
Sam took Timmy’s place, even going so far as to finish the lone cookie the boy left behind. From the look on his face, Donovan figured he’d need more than a cookie to put him in a good mood.
“Have you found out anything new?” Emily didn’t wait for Sam to stop chewing.
“The medical examiner said there was no sign of trauma on our victim but his bones showed deterioration from arthritis. He thinks that’ll make identification easier,” Sam shared after swallowing. “He hasn’t found proof that the man died from a stab wound, but he admits the skeleton has eroded so much that it might not be possible to establish the cause of death.”
“How long has he been buried there? How old is he?”
“Nothing definite, but the ME thinks we have a Caucasian male who’s been buried there for around thirty years, give or take a few, and who was between twenty-five and forty when he died.” Sam never took his eyes off Jacob while he talked. Donovan glanced at Emily. She was oblivious, but Donovan wasn’t. There was a reason Sam had shown up tonight, and it wasn’t just to share details.
“The knife adds to the mystery.” Sam continued watching Jacob. “Or, solves it. Good news is that it’s not a generic knife found in any box or convenience store. It’s hand tooled. We’ve been researching it and think we’ve found a match. Back in the sixties and seventies there was a family over in Wickenburg who had a silver and leather shop. They did quite well. The business fell apart, however, years later when the father died. They pretty much stopped making saddles and knives after that.”
Sam pulled a photo from a folder he carried and held it out. The knife was stunning. Donovan knew good quality, even as tarnished as this knife was, when he saw it. There was some kind of stone near the handle, maybe ruby. Then there was a raised silver swirl design that stopped at the initials.
J.H.
“Maybe you’ve heard of the Rannik family. They made knives for a lot of carnivals, festivals, rodeos. I spoke with their youngest daughter. She is the last one working the trade, specializing in jewelry. She emailed me their client list, along with purchase dates and transactions. There was only one name I recognized.”
It was the first time Donovan had witnessed Emily speechless. Jacob, for his part, paled a bit. Then, giving Sam a look that Donovan hoped he was never on the receiving end of, Jacob stood and left the room.
Emily got her voice back. “Of all the fool ideas, Sam. You know my father is not involved. He catches lizards and lets them go loose outside. He—”
“Had a life before he met your mother and started a family,” Sam said quietly.
“He’s an elder at our church.”
Donovan knew that “our” church meant hers as well as Sam’s. The church he’d been invited to but hadn’t attended.
“I don’t like this either, Emily,” Sam said, “but questioning is what I do. Right now, I’m just venturing out. It could be nothing.”
“It is nothing.” Jacob returned and tossed something on the table. It was a knife. The same knife as was in the baggy. Ruby, initials and all.
Only this knife wasn’t tarnished.
Chapter Four (#ulink_8061a9f8-8750-5e64-9a15-ddc735af15bf)
The Lost Dutchman Museum was on the edge of town, and Emily always came out on her days off. Sometimes she spent hours in the barn, working on the back section that was considered storage. She wanted to open it up to Apache Creek history, and she had enough pieces from the Majestic for one display that would appeal to people interested in both small-town and movie lore.
Just not John Wayne.
She also had remnants from Apache Creek’s first church, school and post office. If she could talk the trustees into going to the city for more funding, she’d buy a few acres from the Pearl family. They owned most of the land around the museum. At one time, there’d been a Pearl Ranch. Now it was open space and for sale.
Emily hoped no one ever bought it.
Another reason she came in was to make sure everything was where it should be. Twice she’d deterred tourists from breaking in to the barn where exhibits were.
Even adults thought it okay to pull away boards and pick or break locks just so they could see. Once, she’d just missed a vandal who’d spray painted graffiti on the barn housing a replica of Jacob Waltz’s cabin. The paint had still been wet! Officer Sam Miller had filled out a report. She’d repaired the damage.
Emily noted now how quiet the museum was first thing in the morning. Usually she felt a little jog of excitement when she opened the door and entered. Her world. She felt privileged and amazed. How blessed she was to have a career she loved. She cared for the past, brought history to life and made sure an imprint remained for the future.
Today, the woven blankets and pieces of pottery didn’t speak to her. The air in the museum felt different, quiet and unassuming.
She was being ridiculous. And she knew it. Turning on the lights, she adjusted the temperature and went around checking the exhibits. Nothing was out of place.
No, it was her life that had been trespassed on, and she wasn’t sure how to restore peace.
She walked through the aisles of the main building, whispering prayers while straightening photos and realigning displays. She did not believe her dad had a connection with the body discovered last week. Still, her prayers felt ineffective.
Sometimes the present was more important than the future, especially when it involved her dad.
She’d made it through only one room when someone knocked at the front door. She ignored it. Hours were posted and she wasn’t in the mood for giving a private tour. She didn’t dare go to the window and try shooing a visitor away. For one thing, it felt rude. For another, twice when she’d done that it had been church members with family in town. Thus, the private tours.
Her phone buzzed. Taking it out, she checked the caller ID.
Elise’s name displayed. She swiped her thumb across her phone to answer it, and said, “What’s happening?”
“They’ve taken Dad in for questioning.”
“I’ll meet you at the police station.” Emily turned, wanting to grab her purse from her desk drawer.
“Sam says it’s routine. I’m on my way to be with him. Of course, he says he doesn’t need me. Eva’s handling everything here. Are you sure there’s nothing you overlooked at the Baer place?”
“I’m sure, but I only looked at a certain perimeter where the body was found.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I stayed within about one hundred and forty-four square feet.”
“Paint me a picture.”
“The size of your bedroom.” Already, Emily was thinking ahead. She needed to look farther. The man had somehow arrived at his burial spot. He’d either walked or been carried. It would take a while, but she might be able to discover the path.
Yeah, right.
“I’m heading to the Baer house now,” Emily promised, entering her office to grab her purse and then locking the door on her way out.
But as she stepped onto the front stoop, she found the one person she wasn’t in the mood to see. Randall Tucker.
“I’ve been meaning to check out the museum. Any chance you could show me around?”
“I’ve an appointment. We open at nine tomorrow.”
To his credit, he didn’t brush past her and enter. Instead, he studied the building. Emily couldn’t help herself. She looked, too. The exterior was roughly sawn ponderosa pine. The museum sign was lighter wood and the words Lost Dutchman Museum appeared to have been burned in.
Emily smiled. Her museum looked at home nestled against the backdrop of the Superstition Mountains. The barn distracted from it a bit, but the cook shanty to the left helped.
“This is a great location,” Randall said. “You get much traffic?”
“We get plenty of traffic. We, however, are closed on Monday. Come back on a different day, and I’ll show you around.”
He scanned the main building. “Solid foundation. How old?”
“About fifty years. It was built in the sixties.”
“Private or state?”
She’d learned a long time ago that losing her temper only made things worse. “When you come back, I’ll get you a brochure. Or, you can go to the website. I update it every week.” She gave one last tug on the door, making sure it was locked, and then headed for her truck.
On the drive to the Baer place, a good fifteen miles, she deliberately pushed Randall Tucker from her thoughts and focused on the events involving the body, in order.
She, along with Donovan, had been among the first to see the bones. He wasn’t her first choice for a comrade, but he might do. She needed to talk to him some more because while she’d found the knife, it had been the medical examiner who declared the site a crime scene. Donovan, no doubt, had been present through every step.
She needed to talk to the medical examiner, too. She knew the man was a stickler for details and rarely missed a clue. Even though her perusal of the area turned up nothing else in the vicinity that might point to who the skeleton was and how he died, maybe the ME had noted something.
Besides the knife.
Nothing in the perimeter would vindicate her father. Yesterday, he hadn’t been worried. “My word has always been truth,” he said a dozen times at church. It was half a scripture. He was good at that.
She wondered if he was worried today.
She was, and she wasn’t exactly sure why. She knew her father hadn’t been involved in a murder.
Turning onto Main Street, she noted that the Miner’s Lamp was doing a steady breakfast business. No doubt, the skeleton’s discovery would give the people of Apache Creek something to talk about for weeks, maybe months.
Especially since suspicion had fallen, if only for a brief second, on her father.
Jacob Hubrecht, Emily thought as she drove past the park, still believed a handshake was binding. It had been decades since he’d lived outside Apache Creek. Before that, he’d been a bull rider, and she knew, having met most of his friends from those long-ago days, that they’d had their own code of honor.
A cowboy’s handshake.
She didn’t trust such casual contracts. She’d been across the United States, even working in South Dakota, where her job had been to return stolen artifacts to local tribes. Legislation claimed that it was necessary “to secure, for the present and future benefit of the American people, the protection of archaeological resources and sites which are on public lands and Indian lands.” Yet, some of the most grievous offenders were fined in the three digits while they’d earned in the five digits from their stolen loot, no jail time or restoration.
The Natives called it erosion of justice.
She called it misplaced trust.
A handshake worked in her father’s world, but just as the knife by the skeleton was eroded, so might be justice. This corpse was an intruder to George Baer, who thought a monstrosity of a house belonged on sacred soil.
The sign designating Ancient Trails Road was fairly new and looked out of place. She made a left and then slowed down so she could study the Baer house without anyone noticing. She no longer thought the soil so sacred.
Some secrets should stay buried.
Two trucks were parked where a driveway would one day be. Emily recognized one as belonging to John Westerfield, who had been out of work for almost two years. He’d have probably shown up even if they’d found a mass grave. The rest of Donovan’s crew appeared to be missing. She knew Smokey quite well. It would be a while before he ventured back.
The other truck was Donovan’s.
She edged her foot onto the gas and then braked, slowing, suddenly sure that driving out here was the wrong thing to do. She’d wanted to shut the construction down, but not this way.
Unfortunately, Donovan stepped out the front door, giving her no choice but to park, exit her truck and head for the house he was building.
* * *
“Everything okay?” For the most part, their paths had been crossing via controversy, but Donovan—thanks to his ex-fiancée, Olivia—knew how to recognize a damsel in distress.
Olivia had perfected the art; Emily not so much.
“I hope so,” she managed. “My dad’s at the station for questioning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. So strange that there would be two knives. Did your dad ever remember how he came to have that one?”
“Right after you left. It was his prize for finaling in a Prescott Rodeo.”
Donovan nodded, thinking it made perfect sense. “You want to come in? I’ll show you the guts of this place. It’s not as bad as you make it out to be.”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen this house a million times, usually in a gated community on an upscale street in a big city.”
“You haven’t seen this house,” Donovan protested. “It’s one of a kind, and I designed it.”
She looked at the Baer house again. He did, too, pleased with what he saw. Even without the doors, windows and cabinets in place yet, he could visualize how they’d complement his creation.
He was bringing his drawings to life.
“A million times,” she muttered. As if to prove her point, she questioned, “Two-car garage with a workshop attached?”
“Yes.”
“Four bedrooms, each with its own bath?”
“Yes.” Now he was getting annoyed.
“A study and dining room?”
Had she seen his plans? “Yes.”
“I forget anything besides the kitchen and family room?” she queried.
“Baer specifically asked for a hallway that would serve as a gallery.”
“Ah,” she quipped, “that must be the custom part.”
“The arrangement, proportions and style make it custom. Plus, when we finish with the landscape...”
She pointed behind him. He turned, seeing the Superstition Mountains in all their glory.
“You can’t compete with that,” she said simply.
“I don’t want to. I just want Baer to be able to sit on his back porch and enjoy the view.”
“The view he’s wrecking.”
Ah, now the Emily Hubrecht who’d first approached him was totally back.
“This house is not on a hill. There are no neighbors for miles. He’s not infringing on anyone’s view.”
“You mentioned style. What style would you call your design?”
He answered without thinking, because he knew the style and had answered the question a million times. “French Country.”
“French Country in Arizona. That’s different.”
“It’s what Baer wanted.”
For a moment, he thought she’d protest. Then she nodded before following him through the door. “Big” was all she said, walking through the foyer and living area to the kitchen. “And there will just be two people living here?”
“Just two.”
She shook her head, sitting in a camp chair while Donovan pulled a bottle of water out of a small cooler. She took a long drink. “This house could be made of gold, and I wouldn’t like it. Until you showed up with your plans and permits, my life was perfect.”
“Perfect? I don’t think anyone’s life is perfect.”
“My life’s not perfect now.”
He decided to give her a break and change the subject. “If you know the exact rodeo, can you find out if someone else finaled, maybe in a different event, and had the same initials?”
“We hope. Sam is checking. I guess they want to authenticate it. See if it’s the knife made for my dad by the Rannik company. Both knives that is.”
“Who did the initials?” Donovan asked.
“They did, at least on Dad’s. He says it’s common for a company to have a booth right at a rodeo event.”
“That’s good. Because it means anyone could have purchased the knife and asked for the same initials. Not just the winners.”
“The difference is Dad’s knife also has the logo of the rodeo branded into the handle.”
“Does the one we found have the logo?” Donovan thought about the mound of dirt no longer cordoned off but still as the medical examiner left it.
Her sudden look made him rethink what he’d said.
We.
It wasn’t the word but how he’d said it. Making them more or less a team.
* * *
“Sam won’t tell us.” For a moment, she thought Donovan was going to scoot his chair closer, reach out for her. That was silly. He was the enemy. If not for this house, there’d be no body and no knife.
She shook her head a little harder than she meant to. Those kinds of thoughts did no good. “Dad having that knife physically in his possession was really...” Her words tapered off. She didn’t know how to finish. Her dad wasn’t under suspicion, not really, especially for a crime where there were no witnesses and the body hadn’t even been identified.
“Amazing,” Donovan said. “And all because the home owner decided he wanted to add a circular driveway.”
Around him the house loomed, like a monster ready to engulf whatever got in its way, whether land or human.
After a moment, when she didn’t respond, he queried, “Museum closed today?”
Emily nodded. “It’s closed every Sunday and Monday. Monday because of numbers and Sunday for a day of rest.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Do you work on Sunday?” she asked.
“If I need to.”
“Did you work yesterday? I didn’t see you at church.”
He laughed, but she caught something in his eyes, maybe sadness. “You’ve never seen me at church. I don’t attend.”
“Did you ever?” This was not the conversation she meant to have. She was here to look for clues.
He took a long gulp of his water before answering, “Yes, a long time ago I went to church. Why are you asking?”
“It was at church that I found out you were building this house.”
“You mean people were praying for me before I even arrived?”
“No, more like people were talking about you. I heard about it from your mailman.”
“That’s a first. I don’t think I’ve received any mail here.”
“It was added to his route. He mentioned it to me and said he’d driven by this lot after delivering mail nearby. I almost fell out of the pew when he described some builder out at Ancient Trails Road already making decisions about where to put utilities, a septic system and driveway.”
“Still not doing so well with driveways,” Donovan mourned.
“And I am not doing so well in stopping you.” She’d offered God a dozen apologies throughout that day because after what the mailman shared, she’d not heard a word of the sermon.
Emily had lost valuable time. The land had already been sold and paid for, making her protests too little and too late. Donovan Russell had been a brick wall when it came to reason.
She’d always been more of a husky, taking hold and shaking until she got her way. And she hated losing.
“You’ve stopped me now. I still don’t have a full crew and I’ve been advised to leave the area around the grave alone, just in case it’s a crime scene.”
“That’s why I’m here.” She finished her water and stood. “I want to see if there’s anything I missed.”
He stood, too, but didn’t move toward the door. “I don’t think there’s as much as a rock left. They bagged everything.”
“I want to see if I can figure how he got there—”
Donovan finished her sentence. “Vehicle, animal, footprints or shoe marks.”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“They did all that.”
“What did they decide?”
“That they agreed with your original assessment that the body had been here more than thirty years.”
“I really wish it had been here two hundred and thirty years.”
“Life’s not always fair.”
* * *
Emily wasn’t telling Donovan something he didn’t already know.
He followed her back through the living room and foyer and out to the crime scene. Except for the cordon tape and markers, it was just a hole.
“I’d think it was ready for a hot tub if it wasn’t in the front yard,” Donovan tried to joke.
She, apparently, didn’t think he was funny.
“So, what are we going to do first?” he queried. She didn’t answer, just stood looking down at where the skeleton used to be.
The whole thing spooked Donovan somewhat. He just wished he could, in good conscience, fill the hole back in. Without meaning to, he stepped too close to the edge of the hole so a few kernels of dirt fell back into the grave.
Emily’s eyes grew big.
“What?”
“I can’t help but think of Ecclesiastes and ‘the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.’”
He nodded, thinking she was a whole lot more connected to the earth and to family than he was.
“Just think,” she said softly, “some mother, wife, sister, daughter, might be waiting for the return of a man who no longer lives. He’s been buried in this shallow grave and forgotten.” She never ceased to surprise him. Compassion was a trait he knew he needed to develop.
“The only clue to his identity,” she continued, “a knife that looks identical to one my father owns, down to the initials.”
“A knife your father still has,” Donovan reminded her. It somewhat amazed him that their roles had switched, and now he wanted to stop work and help her. The woman whose job it was to ruin his day, either by producing a five-page petition with the names of Apache Creek residents who didn’t want their view marred by a minimansion, or by going to her knees next to what could have been the ancient bones of a Native American, claiming there might be more and gloating that she’d be here a long time.
He almost wished it had been a Native American skeleton. Then, her father wouldn’t be under suspicion.
“It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” she muttered.
“Hey, I grew up on a dairy farm in Mytal, Nebraska. I know a lot about haystacks. I know which cow needs to maintain her weight, and where to spread the hay, and—” For the past two months, she’d been a thorn in his side always ready to battle. He liked that Emily better. This dejected one was out of character. Still, his attempt to encourage her didn’t seem to be working.
Her expression was so serious that he knew he had to help. It surprised him, the sudden need. “I watched the authorities all last week. I know where they looked and where they didn’t.”
It took her a moment. He watched as she inhaled, a big breath that seemed to fill her. Then she drew herself up to her full height and nodded. “Let’s do it.”
John Westerfield chose that moment to make the mistake of coming outside to see what they were doing. Donovan should have texted him and warned, Avoid front of house until I call you.
“You can help,” Emily informed John, running to her truck and retrieving trash bags that she quickly handed out.
“She’s always been a bit high maintenance,” John said.
Donovan believed him. For the next two hours, they walked a square mile, what Emily called a grid, slowly. She told them to pick up anything that didn’t belong, anything suspicious. He doubted the old shoe, candy wrappers, beer can or piece of tire he’d stowed in his garbage bag was going to help.
John’s contribution was a page from an old newspaper, ripped in half, and a dozen bullet casings, which he wanted to keep.
Her cache wasn’t much better. She also had candy wrappers, plus ten beer cans, what appeared to be a section of tarp and thirty-five cents.
Still, she looked quite happy.
When she drove away, he realized he’d only seen her smile twice, when she first saw the bones and now leaving with her trash.
He slowly walked back to the Baer house. He understood ceramic tile more than he did women.
* * *
Tuesday morning, Emily got to the museum early. She had a lot to do. At the trustees meeting, she’d been encouraged to plan some kind of activity to get people to the museum, similar to the library’s celebration of its sixtieth birthday this coming Saturday.
She knew for a fact that the library had more funding than she did—maybe because they made money on overdue books.
She also knew that unless she got more private funding, the museum would be in danger of closing down. Her biggest enemy was its location. The Lost Dutchman Museum was part of eighty acres of land and only this tiny portion had been donated to the city. The rest belonged to the Pearl Ranch, and Emily didn’t know the Pearl who still owned the land. He or she didn’t live in Apache Creek, hadn’t in decades.
After walking the museum’s main room and ascertaining that all was well, she sat at her computer and researched other museums in Arizona. Comparatively, she curated at a very small one. Most of the museums that had special events were bigger, and in every case those events called for bringing exhibits from other museums in. The Lost Dutchman Museum was so tiny that lending a small Salado bowl was really something. She’d only be able to ask for something small in return.
That wouldn’t generate visitors.
If she were to have some sort of event, it had to be museum themed.
Unlocking the door, she flipped the sign to Open and wished there were a line waiting.
Back at her computer, she checked emails. Some were from college students who’d been passed her name by their professors. She answered a few questions and for the others, she provided names of people who could help.
Two people queried about job openings.
She managed not to laugh.
The Heard Museum sent her a photo of her Salado bowl. It looked lost among the others being displayed.
At the end of more than three dozen emails came a query that surprised her. In the United States there were very few museums that centered only on Native American artifacts. Her final email was from the curator at the Native American Heritage Museum, asking if she was looking for work and included a job description that advertised a salary three times larger than what she was making in Apache Creek.
Not wanting to be rude, she sent a thank-you.
Not even for three times the money did she intend to move. Apache Creek was in her blood, and her blood lived in Apache Creek.
With that, she looked up and smiled at the museum’s first visitor of the day.
Six hours later, at four, she closed and locked the door. On the computer, she filled in the daily accounts, entering the number of visitors, what souvenirs sold—the Lost Dutchman Gold Map was the top seller, followed by pens shaped like a pickax—and her hours.
Then she headed home.
“You working the floor tonight?” Elise queried her at the front desk. Emily’s whole life she’d walked through a dude ranch front desk and down a hallway to where the family lived. The family was getting smaller, though, with Eva, and soon Elise, moving.
Granted, both weren’t moving far.
“Yes.”
“I rented out two of the cabins as well as one of the rooms. I expect we’ll be a little busier tonight. Did Sam call and say if anything you found yesterday while walking the Baer place was helpful?”
“No, he hasn’t called.”
Elise shook her head. “I spent a long time talking with Cook. He has no clue if he attended the Prescott Rodeo all those years ago. He says they all blur together after a while.”
“Probably for Dad, too. What year would that have been? Did Dad remember?”
“He says nineteen seventy-eight or nine.”
“Sounds about right. Dad would have been in his twenties.” Emily took off down the hallway. On each side were photos. A few were of a twenty-something Jacob. Her favorite showed him on a horse in full gallop heading for the camera. His hat was on, but you could see his longish hair breezing from the sides. He leaned forward slightly. His face was mostly in shadow, but no one could fail to notice its beauty.
She’d said that once to her dad, almost to the very word.
Men aren’t beautiful, he’d responded.
Mom thought you were beautiful, Eva had piped up. If Emily remembered, that had been the year Eva went off to the university, driving back and forth every day to Tempe because she couldn’t bear to leave the ranch.
Elise and Emily were a little more willing to spread their wings, but both had flown back.
In a matter of minutes, Emily was out of her museum shirt and khakis and into her blue Lost Dutchman Ranch shirt and jeans with a black apron tried around her waist.
The dining room was at the back of the main house. Picnic tables held guests, visitors and employees. The atmosphere was meant to be fun and relaxed. They did not serve a four-star meal. Tonight’s menu was barbecue pork, beans and potato chips. All homemade by Cook, who’d traveled with Jacob on the rodeo and retired at an early age to work at the Lost Dutchman. His specialty was Mexican food, but actually there wasn’t a food type he couldn’t produce.
Meals were served buffet style with only one server walking around, taking orders, and making sure all the guests had what they needed.
At the back of the restaurant was a game room, mostly a kids’ area, complete with a television for watching movies or playing video games. This late in June, as hot as it was, they didn’t get many kids.
An hour into her shift, Emily’s cell sounded. She took it out and checked the screen: Jane de la Rosa. Looking around, she noted her dad sitting at his favorite table with one of the families who’d checked in today—strangers becoming friends—and Jilly Greenhouse, who lived in the house closest to the Lost Dutchman Ranch. Ducking into the kids’ game room, she answered.
“You’ll never guess! Never,” Jane said.
“Aren’t you working?”
“Yes, though we’re pretty slow tonight.” Jane worked at the Miner’s Lamp, the rustic restaurant in town. It had been around even longer than the Lost Dutchman Ranch.
“What do you want me to guess?”
“I waited on a man tonight. He’s still here. He’s an EPA inspector out of Phoenix—don’t ask me what EPA stands for—who came to check some sort of levels at the Baer house.”
“Okay...” Emily tried to figure why this was news. Since the groundbreaking, Donovan had had one inspector after another at the Baer place.
“Well, I heard this guy on the phone. I guess the levels of something called radon gas were high.”
“And that’s bad?” Emily queried.
“Bad enough that when Donovan called Baer with the news, Baer apparently said to halt construction.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe for good,” Jane said. “The inspector was on the phone with his boss. He sounded a bit surprised. I’m wondering if Baer’s getting fed up. I mean first it’s you protesting, then it’s a skeleton and now this.”
Emily should have felt elated, should have jumped for joy, but all she could picture was the brown-haired man who’d walked in the hot sun for hours picking up an old shoe and plenty of beer cans just because she’d asked him to.
Chapter Five (#ulink_aabd9de6-352e-5251-a63d-aa1138cb6351)
Donovan called it a day. Even with the evac cooler, it was too hot to do much more than complain. It annoyed Donovan that he, out of everyone, did most of the complaining about the heat.
The floors were scheduled for next week; he’d call to reschedule. Surely Baer would come to his senses soon. There wasn’t a house in Apache Creek that didn’t have radon levels. The inspector had even taken the phone and spoken to Baer personally.
But George Baer said to wait. And, Donovan heard something in the man’s voice that hadn’t been there before. A subtle annoyance, the slapping of hands, sounding very much like a silent I’m done.
Donovan very much wanted to be done. He wanted to get back to the life he’d planned for himself: traveling, building the types of structures he wanted to build, adventure. But the phone call he’d made to Nolan Tate hadn’t changed Donovan’s situation. According to Tate, there was no place to put Donovan, so he could just wait.
Great. Every day he worked for Nolan Tate was one step closer to paying his debt to the man. Being out of work meant no debt eliminated and Donovan working for the man longer than he wanted to.
Turning on the camper’s generator, he stepped inside, shed his clothes and hopped into the tiny shower.
Looking for evidence had been hot and tiring. Emily hadn’t been bothered by the heat at all. She’d managed to look as if being outdoors, slow roasted, was an everyday occurrence. He’d checked the weather in California, the location of his next scheduled job if Tate didn’t change his mind. If everything worked out, Donovan would be there at the end of July, beginning of August, about the time Apache Creek, Arizona, went from slow roast to extreme grill.
And there was nothing else for Donovan to do for over a month until the California project.
He wanted to laugh. It was almost too funny. He’d had to take this job with Baer, had compromised his talent for money and now was stuck in small-town Arizona living in his camper.
He’d need to find an RV park soon, now that he was no longer employed. June in Apache Creek, that shouldn’t be a problem. Snowbirds—those who sojourned in this part of Arizona because of the mild winter weather—didn’t start arriving until late September or early October.
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