Arizona Homecoming. Pamela Tracy

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      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

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ