Arizona Homecoming (13 page)

“And me,” Garrett said from the backseat.

“I don’t intend to hurt anyone,” Donovan responded.

“You hurt Emily the first day you arrived, building that big old house out on Ancient Trails Road,” Garrett reminded him.

Donovan finished closing the door. Bad enough that others were giving voice to the attraction he was feeling toward Emily, but to be threatened by a high school senior!

* * *

Donovan’s third night in the cabin was really a morning. It was after midnight when he finally kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed.

Then, he couldn’t sleep.

His mind skimmed over the day’s events. He’d been dragged along with the Hubrecht family as they oohed and aahed at Naomi, then he’d gone to Eva’s room—even though visiting hours were long over. He’d never seen such happiness, not all at once, not so contagious.

Emily positively glowed.

And Donovan had been noticed noticing.

He wondered if Jacob realized what was happening.

Donovan figured that Jacob had enough on his mind. To keep it that way, Donovan didn’t dare go back to the hospital. He needed to keep his distance, finish the Tinytown project. Do his job.

He’d start late afternoon tomorrow, since he’d already volunteered to help around the Lost Dutchman while Jacob did Grandpa duties, even taking over a trail ride in the morning. Yes, he’d hobbled around a bit, sore because it had been a while since he’d ridden. Good thing so much had happened yesterday that no one had time to tease him.

If they’d noticed.

When sleep finally came, it offered dreams he didn’t want to have, promises he couldn’t afford to make.

His alarm rang just before five. He rolled out of bed, dressed, brushed his teeth and hurried—albeit in a still-sore half hobble—to the barn where Harold Mull already had a few horses saddled.

“You’ve got four riders this morning. One is a family of three. The father rode as a child. Neither the mother or son have ever been on the back of a horse. Pay attention to them. The other is an adult male, average rider. If you think you need help, let me know. I’ll call the vet and tell him to come a different day.”

Harold probably thought the only reason he wasn’t in charge of the ride had to do with a pending visit from the vet. Not so. Jacob shared that while Harold was the best horseman in the state, his people skills were a bit lacking. Meaning he could take a trail ride out, not speak a word except for
don’t let the horse lead you
and return to the stables. Most of the Lost Dutchman guests wanted a bit more communication.

Thanks to Emily’s storytelling, Donovan could share the area’s history and no one would guess he’d only been around a few months.

On the Lost Dutchman, Harold was probably the person Donovan knew least. He seldom sat at a table in the restaurant and shared conversation. He ate and left, preferring to be with the horses. What Donovan did know was that man had rodeoed with Jacob, so they were about the same age. Donovan guessed, just by Harold’s appearance, that Harold was older.

Before yesterday’s ride, it had been almost twenty years since Donovan worked with a horse. Still, when the guests showed up, almost on time, it felt natural. The ride went without a hitch and, an hour and a half later, Donovan was back at the barn helping Harold loosen cinches and cooling down the horses.

Donovan would never get used to the Arizona heat. It stuck like glue, making him feel as though he was in an oven. Worse, even on a ridiculously early morning ride, the horse underneath him had been a heating coil.

“You go on up to the main house,” Harold said. “I’ll take care of the grooming.”

Donovan figured he could eat three breakfasts. The water and granola bars he’d passed out to the four riders hadn’t been filling. They all had grabbed breakfast beforehand, as the brochure suggested. Smart people.

Jacob wasn’t around.

“Already at the hospital,” Elise supplied without prompting as Donovan headed for the breakfast bar.

“And Emily?”

“She went to work early. Said something about leaving things undone yesterday.”

Very few people were in the restaurant. Donovan filled his plate and sat at a table against the back wall. Never had he eaten alone at the Lost Dutchman. From the first day, he’d been surrounded by people who welcomed him. Even back when he was going full steam on the Baer house. Only Emily had raised her pretty little nose in the air and chosen a different table. Unless she was serving him. Then, she didn’t say any more than necessary—how hard that must have been for her—and refilled his tea without a smile.

Elise brought over a full saltshaker.

“You’re pretty empty this morning,” Donovan observed.

“Probably the note posted last night encouraged people to hold off until Eva comes home. When she does, our business will triple. Everyone will want to see the baby, and no one will want to wait until Sunday.”

Donovan couldn’t even imagine the mind-set that would have a man like Jacob close down his operation because of something so simple, so mundane, as a birth.

He didn’t think his dad would have.

Of course, watching the Hubrecht family last night, they didn’t view it as mundane.

And in Donovan’s dad’s defense, he’d see nursing a sick cow to health while his grandson was being born as making sure there’d always be food on the table and a roof over the child’s head.

All Donovan’s life, he’d wanted to escape a way of life that was so restricting.

What was it he’d heard last night in the waiting room?
Running
away only makes things worse.
The context had been Billy Wilcox. It was one piece of a conversation. That Elise said it, and not Emily, didn’t lessen the impact.

Was that what he’d done all those years ago? Run away?

He’d thought of it as striking out on an adventure, taking charge of his own life.

For the first time in a long time, Donovan thought about his broken engagement. Had he run away from that, too?

No. The fact that he worked for her father, repaying his debt, swayed in Donovan’s favor.

Why was he wrestling with this now? Maybe because he kept comparing the two: Olivia and Emily.

Emily took his breath away.

Olivia had done the same thing, but she’d choked the breath from him.

Finished with breakfast, he headed back to the stables, thinking about what the next few hours would bring and wishing Emily were here.

Donovan could be himself alongside Emily.

He thought about the two, with Olivia paling in comparison, and realized he was being unfair. Olivia had never misrepresented herself. She was Nolan Tate’s daughter through and through. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. Stepping on people never bothered her. She kept her eye on the prize and ignored what was happening around her.

Emily knew what she wanted too. And her goals all centered around others. Not herself.

Donovan thought about last night and the whole family gathered in the hospital’s waiting room. Olivia’s older sister had gone into labor while Nolan was negotiating some prime real estate. Donovan had been sitting on his right and Olivia had texted him, wanting to know how long he and her father would be. She’d never even asked if he could come now instead of later when it was all over.

Donovan considered his debt to her father, who’d almost become his father-in-law. For the first time, Donovan truly understood why he’d broken up with Olivia and the relief he’d felt after it was all over.

Even though it put him in binding debt.

Debt was a lot easier to deal with than marrying for the wrong reasons.

Chapter Thirteen

T
hree hours of sleep was not enough. Emily parked her truck in the back of the museum, walked around to the front and unlocked the door. In college, she’d learned that it was always best to open a museum’s door in plain sight because back doors didn’t offer as much protection.

Stepping inside, she switched on the lights and took a deep breath. The place smelled slightly of wood, some recent visitor’s perfume and aged things.

Until yesterday, it had been her favorite scent.

Today, her favorite scent was baby.

She locked the door behind her and quickly stashed her purse in the cabinet up front. Then walked up and down the aisles—she hadn’t had time to finish yesterday—and made sure all was in place. The most valuable piece, pricewise, was a kachina believed to be over seven hundred years old. She didn’t tell her visitors its worth. And she truly believed that if the museum’s patrons had to guess the most valuable display, they’d easily skip over the aged kachina. Unlike some of its showy neighbors, all secured in stabilizing stands and behind glass, it was very simple, almost looking as if it was made on a flat piece of wood and drawn by a child. Its neighbors were all from the 1920s up to the 40s. Emily was constantly on the lookout to find one from the early 1900s—to be donated, of course. The museum’s budget would not stretch to purchase.

Once she ascertained that all was right with her world, she checked her emails. After a dozen waste-of-her-time messages, she read one from a museum in Albuquerque. Its curator had visited the Heard Museum last week, studied the display on forgotten tribes and now wondered if Emily had anything else from the Salado that she’d be willing to lend. Reading between the lines, Emily could tell the woman wanted the tiny reddish bowl with faded black-and-white paint etched on the sides that Emily had lent to the Heard. And more if she had them. She had five more bowls and a few farming utensils.

Lending them out and providing their history not only promoted the Lost Dutchman Museum but allowed her to share the Salado with a whole generation who might not learn about them if not for her efforts.

Quickly, she searched the internet for the museum, as well as the name of the curator asking for the favor. Okay, the request wasn’t coming from a huge museum, one she’d heard of, but it was coming from a facility that had been around more than sixty years. Good, she wouldn’t need to worry about bankruptcy.

Another plus was the curator had included the date she wanted to open the exhibit, agreed to pay for shipping and had the date she’d return the objects.

Since the curator was aiming for August, Emily was inclined to consider the request. Of course, she’d need to put it before the board.

Skimming the Albuquerque museum’s offerings, she looked for something she might ask for in exchange. She needed something to wow Apache Creek and encourage the locals it was time to visit again, something new to see.

When she figured out exactly what she needed, she sat back, feeling both exhilarated and skeptical. The museum in Albuquerque actually had a traveling dinosaur collection. The reviews from the schools in the state were stellar. Apparently, the replicas not only looked real, some built to scale, but even
moved
.

Not only that, but it was a hands-on exhibit.

The Lost Dutchman had no bones, none belonging to ancient Native Americans, lost miners or even their mules.

Right now, Emily wasn’t too fond of bones. The last she’d seen had belonged to Billy Wilcox.

But, if she could bring the traveling dinosaur collection to Apache Creek, the animatronic replicas might not only put them in the black for months to come, but also allow her to purchase a few more much-needed displays.

She could expand.

Before she could formulate a return email, someone knocked at the front door. She looked at the time in the top right corner of her computer screen and jumped up. They’d officially been open for thirty minutes.

She quickly unlocked the door. Randall Tucker stood just outside.

“Are you open today? I heard the restaurant was closed last night...”

“We’re open. I got busy and forgot to unlock the door.” She stepped aside. The curator in her wanted to welcome him, but the naturalist wanted to slam the door in his face. The Christian in her said, “Are you here to visit the museum, or did you need to see me?”

“I’d like to see the museum.”

He’s just another person
, she told herself as she took his payment and led him into the main room. Ten minutes later, a family of three—all senior citizens—had joined the tour, and she led them out of the museum and to the side.

Tucker jumped right in with the others when they started asking questions. In just under an hour, they’d been introduced to Jacob Waltz, as well as the Salado, and even Native American artifacts on loan from her family.

Tucker mentioned the Naomi Humestewa connection, and she downplayed it. Later, he listened attentively to the byplay between her and the other visitors about the various gems, minerals and copper discovered in the area.

Between the museum and the barn was a replica of a shanty as well as two crumbling Conestoga wagons. It proved too hot for the seniors, who went back inside to purchase Lost Dutchman map souvenirs. Emily followed them to the gift shop and rang in their purchases. They nodded their thanks before heading to their vehicle.

“About how many visitors do you get a day?” Tucker asked when she rejoined him outside.

“It’s the end of June and getting hot, so not many. We get more during the winter months. Why?”

“Just curious. I heard in town that you’ve some of the auctioned items from the Majestic. Mind if I see?”

“They’re in the barn.”

He followed her, admired the ancient sign and key cubbies and asked to see the ledger book. “My mom was an Elvis fan. Saw him in concert once.”

Emily shrugged and led him back outside, moving toward the parking lot and where the cars were. She really wanted him to go.

“What are your plans for all this?” He didn’t get the hint.

“I want to grow the museum.”

“Inside looked pretty full. You plan to convert the barn? It has good bones.”

There was that word again:
bones
.

“Maybe.”

“Plans already made?” Tucker asked.

“No, right now it’s just a dream.” She didn’t really like answering all his questions because she didn’t trust him. It didn’t matter that he’d appeared interested while touring the museum.

“I understand having dreams.” He looked around. “How far back does the property go?”

“All the way to the base of the mountain.”

Tucker whistled and finally got into his car, waving as he drove away as if he were a typical visitor.

He. Was. Not.

Two more visitors showed up. Emily showed them around and answered questions. They were more lookers than listeners and were ready to leave in under twenty minutes. They didn’t buy any souvenirs.

Finally, she managed to sit down and shoot an email off to the museum’s trustees as well as an “I’m interested” nod to the curator in Albuquerque.

By the time she closed down at four, she had a meeting with the trustees scheduled for the day after tomorrow, Thursday evening, here in her office. She’d need to clean the table off. Tomorrow, between visitors, she’d put together a proposal. She’d wow them.

When she got to the Lost Dutchman Ranch, she hurried to her room and changed out of her khakis and into a pair of jeans. Looking around her room, for a brief moment she went back in time. This was the room of her childhood. Schoolbooks still cluttered the shelves amidst the mysteries and romances. Her Bible was open on the bedside table. She’d been reading Matthew, and now was seriously behind.

Her computer waited on a desk. Last time she’d used it, she’d been researching Kykotsmovi, Arizona, her mother’s birthplace. Man, had she really been so busy these past few months that work on her manuscript had been forgotten? Snapping her jeans, she walked to the computer and looked at the notebook open beside it. Her uncles were mostly silversmiths. She’d been researching how far back.

She’d gotten so busy living in the present that she’d forgotten how much she loved the past.

Her phone pinged. She’d been getting messages all day, mostly from her dad and sister. She already knew that Eva loved breastfeeding, that her dad thought Naomi was going to be left-handed like her grandmother had been and that Naomi liked to sleep.

That seemed obvious and a silly thing to text, but Eva wasn’t even a full day recovered from a twelve-hour labor. She could be forgiven.

Checking her texts, she read one from Eva:
Jesse is not sharing when it comes to holding Naomi. Be ready to fight.
Dad texted for Emily to make sure the sign saying the restaurant was closed went back up. Elise texted,
The baby smiled at me!

No fair.

Quickly, Emily donned a new shirt and hurried out of her room, down the hallway, through the lobby and into the restaurant. The signs were up, but the restaurant wasn’t empty.

Donovan stood where the game center was, watching the television and motioning for her to join him. Something about the way he stood worried her. She could hear the television now. He was watching the news. Something she never did because it depressed her.

“Emily, hurry.”

She made her feet move quickly, stopping next to him and not protesting when he put his arm around her, his eyes still riveted to the screen.

“Age progression,” she breathed, “on Billy Wilcox.”

* * *

If not for a wealthy homeowner and a builder with a few minutes of time on his hands, Billy Wilcox would still be buried. Donovan wanted to look away from the television. This kid, because twenty-four was still a kid, had been buried where Donovan had worked. He looked at Emily, so sensitive, hurting even. What had she said about the skeleton, even before they knew who it was?
The skeleton belongs to somebody’s son, brother, father, husband. We don’t know. That means there’s someone else out there who doesn’t know.

“I took a class,” Emily said softly, “at Arizona State where an instructor had us read a case history about an eight-year-old girl taken from her Native American family in the 1920s. The girl went missing when she was ten. Eighty years later she was reunited with her family thanks to age-regression photos and DNA.”

“Amazing.” It was the only thing Donovan could think of to say.

“We looked at faces all the time in South Dakota. At first, I wasn’t interested in forensics. But, after digging up all those bones, I wanted to see their faces, try to imagine their stories.”

“Did you ever identify one of the skeletons you unearthed?”

“No, we registered them with the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, but there were too many and no reason. Unlike Billy, there was no murderer to bring to justice.”

Someday he’d ask her to tell him more.

“What they’ve done with Billy’s likeness is fascinating. On one hand,” Emily said, “it would be easy for a forensic composition specialist to progress him agewise. His last school photo would have been at seventeen, so the shape and appearance of his face wouldn’t change drastically.”

“He looks a lot like Karl,” Donovan observed. “A much younger Karl.”

Emily stilled and then pulled out her cell phone. Soon Donovan heard her ordering Elise to “make sure Karl doesn’t watch the news alone. He does not need to be caught by surprise watching his son age on television.”

The conversation was quick, so Donovan assumed that Elise must have hurried into Karl’s room. The news story changed from Billy to a weather report.

Donovan turned off the television and said, “I’m impressed with how quickly they got this progression done.”

“Digital age,” Emily mused, “but then there wouldn’t be any digital photos. They’d have to use a print. I wonder if there’s an archive somewhere that automatically keeps up with the likeness of missing children.”

“Only for a brief time did the news show Billy as a child.” Donovan had paid attention. “It mainly showed what Billy would have looked like when he died, about age twenty-four. His nose was bigger than it was in his school picture, and a little bit of a mustache shadowed above his top lip.”

“I don’t think Karl ever had facial hair.”

“And,” Donovan added, “they flashed a phone number three or four times, asking people to call if they recognized the young man.”

“So they never said his name?” Emily asked.

“They didn’t.”

Emily walked from the room, turning off a few lights and checking the doors.

“You heading for the hospital?” Donovan asked.

“I am. Want to come?”

“No, there’s a few things I need to do tonight. I’ll be in Phoenix, though. If I finish early, I’ll come by.”

She shrugged, the casual kind of shrug that meant to relay little to no concern. Donovan knew, though, that she was curious. No way did he want to tell her he was having dinner with Randall Tucker.

* * *

The only reason Donovan wanted to meet in Phoenix was to get away from prying eyes. Since the Sunday lunch at the Miner’s Lamp, he’d been expecting Emily to ask him about his meeting with Tucker and the blueprint the man had spread across the table.

Either Emily’s friend Jane had been in the kitchen the whole time Tucker had been showing the blueprint—possible—or she hadn’t had time to tell Emily—more likely.

This time, thanks to the news story, Donovan arrived five minutes late. Tucker had chosen an upscale restaurant, one where a sixty-dollar tab for a party of two was the norm. Thankfully, it was also one where you left feeling as though you wouldn’t need to eat for a week.

Tuesday night wasn’t busy. Tucker had snagged a corner booth. He already had a salad in front of him and was on his cell phone, but he motioned for Donovan to sit across from him.

Donovan did, picking up the menu and giving the man time to finish the call.

Apparently, Tucker had a daughter, one who exasperated him in ways only a female could manage. “I’d love for you to come to Apache Creek,” Tucker said, “but there’s nothing to do. Why don’t you go stay with your aunt and uncle at the beach house? You’ve always loved doing that.”