Miss Greenhorn. Diana Palmer

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      “I’m sorry, Mr. Lang!” Christy wailed.

      He and the other man got to their feet as she made her way carefully down the small incline, her hand against her mouth.

      Nathanial Lang’s once-immaculate pale blue pinstriped shirt was muddy now, along with the deep blue sports coat he’d worn with it. There was a long trail of mud down one sharply creased trouser leg, and a smear on his creamy Stetson. He stared down at Christy with eyes that she couldn’t meet.

      “Things were so quiet around here before you came, Miss Haley,” he said through his teeth. “And this is only your second day, isn’t it?”

      Christy swallowed down her fear. He was tall and very intimidating, not at all the hero type she’d been hoping to meet. “I’m doing my best, Mr. Lang.”

      “Obviously,” he said without inflection.

      She reached out to brush off a few spots of dust on his jacket, but he caught her wrist. His touch, even firm and irritable, was exciting.

      “Gosh, Mr. Lang, I’m sorry about that,” George, the young student archaeologist, apologized. George had gone down the hill with the older man.

      “Not your fault,” Nathanial said curtly.

      “Not Christy’s, either,” George defended her bravely. He was tall, thin, blond and wore glasses. He was studious and shy and had a habit of going scarlet when he was embarrassed—like now. He managed a smile for Christy and plodded back to his table, where he was sorting and matching pottery shards.

      “A fan of yours, I gather,” Nathanial remarked as he brushed angrily at his Stetson while his slate-gray eyes pinned Christy.

      “A friend,” she corrected. She shifted. He made her nervous.

      “What are you doing out here?” he asked unexpectedly.

      Glad for an opportunity to really talk about her work, she said, “I’m searching for pieces of Hohokam pottery. We’ve mapped this area and we’re doing a pottery search.”

      “I know that,” he said with forced patience. “What are you doing in Arizona?”

      “I had a vacation and I like ruins.”

      “There’s Rome,” he pointed out. “They have lots of ruins over there.”

      “They’ve all been dug up,” she replied. “I wanted to go someplace where everything hasn’t already been discovered.”

      “You might try the North Pole.” He frowned. “On second thought, don’t do it. There’s a theory about the calamity that would strike if it melted. With your background, who knows? You might trip over some forgotten thermonuclear device and blow it up.”

      She glared at him. Anger gave her delicate features added beauty and color, and her green eyes blazed up. “I can’t help having the occasional accident!” she said angrily, wishing she could see him better. He was very tall and his face seemed far away.

      He put his spotted Stetson back on his head and cocked it at an angle across his brow. “I’ll bet your insurance company has prayer every morning.”

      “I don’t have an insurance company,” she managed under her breath.

      “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He tipped his hat and started to walk away.

      “I’m really sorry about your hat and all,” she called after him.

      “Lucky for me that it was a little creek instead of an old mine.” He stopped and turned, his expression very serious. “That reminds me, there are a few old mines around here, so for God’s sake stick to well-traveled areas. If you go down a shaft, you could disappear forever.”

      She sighed. “Okay. I’ll stay where I’m told.”

      “You’d better,” he said firmly and kept walking.

      The thought of a mine shaft opening under her kept Christy nervous for the rest of the day. So far all they’d found had been little bits and pieces of pottery, mostly gray. But the fact that it was over a thousand years old made her giddy. Imagine holding something in her hand that a Hohokam potter had held in his or hers that many centuries ago! She held one shard up to her nose and drank in its earthy, dark scent with her eyes closed.

      They were a very special race, the Hohokam. They’d had irrigation and a unique form of peaceful government here in southeastern Arizona about the same time people were hitting each other over the head with battle-axes in Europe. They had a religion which united and uplifted them, a society which was equal for rich and poor alike. They were a poetic people, with a reverent attitude toward the land and each other. From this ancient people, it was said, the Pima and the Papago (Tohono O’odham) tribes evolved.

      “Exciting, isn’t it?” George asked, squatting down beside her as she laid the shard back down. “I’ve read everything I could find about the Hohokam. What a pity that their way of life had to vanish.”

      “At least there are offshoots of it—the Pima and the Papago,” she reminded him. “The Anasazi left no trace of themselves as far as we know.”

      He sighed. “I’ve dreamed all my life of coming here,” he remarked, his eyes lifting to the surrounding sharp, lifeless mountains and the blue sky. “Isn’t it clean? Like it might have been a thousand years ago.”

      “They have pollution alerts in Phoenix these days,” she said, “and water and soil pollution are just as big a threat. Toxic waste and radioactive debris and chemical spills…”

      George glowered at her. “You’re a real thrill to have around.”

      “Sorry. I have a soapbox. I got hooked on conservation when I was just a little girl. I’ve never lost the fire. I think the Indians had the right idea—to live in harmony with nature. All we’ve managed to do is pollute it out of existence. We’ve destroyed the delicate balance of predator and prey that once sustained the whole planet. Now we’re trying to recreate it by synthetic means. I wish we’d left it alone.”

      “If that had happened, you would be pounding maize to make cornmeal and chewing deerskin to make it soft enough for clothing. I would be hunting buffalo and dodging bullets trying to provide meat for somebody’s lodge.” He grinned. “In between there would be prairie fires, attack by enemy tribes, rattlesnakes, dust storms, floods and droughts and rabid animals—”

      “Stop.” She held up her hand. “I agree wholeheartedly that there are two sides to every story.” She grinned back. “How about helping me organize these pottery shards?”

      “There’s something we can agree on,” he said.

      * * *

      That night, Christy managed not to do anything remotely clumsy at dinner. She sat out on the patio watching the stars, munching a cookie while Hereford cattle grazed and lowed in a fenced pasture just a few yards from where she sat. The gauzy white Mexican dress she was wearing was cool and comfortable, and her long hair was blowing in the soft wind.

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