The Rancher's Daughters
- -
- 100%
- +
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
“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.