Arizona Homecoming

by Pamela Tracy

  “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 want
ed 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 retur
ned, 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.