by Pamela Tracy
“Hey, Emily!” Eva had left the house early this morning. Her husband, Jesse, had come along to help set up a Native American loom so Eva could put on a live demonstration. She was dressed in a burnt-red manta, a plain cotton dress with a decorative, beaded belt around her protruding belly and moccasins. One of Eva’s blankets was today’s top raffle prize—all proceeds going to the library.
“Hi, Emily!” Jane de la Rosa was in a booth a little ways down from Eva, selling green eggs and ham inspired by Dr. Seuss. This was, after all, a library event. Jane wore a red floppy hat. Not for the first time, Emily wished Jane would find someone, settle down and have a dozen kids. She was a natural-born mother. The line in front of her was ten deep, and the picnic tables were full.
Behind the library, in a vacant lot, Emily’s father drove a tractor hitched to a wagon stocked with just enough hay bales for seats. The town’s librarian, Lydia Hamm, had asked him to dress up like a classic storybook cowboy. She’d been thinking Sheriff Woody from Toy Story. He arrived in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Lydia probably forgave him because, along with a red neckerchief, he wore cowboy boots and a dusty Stetson. He’d stay until the crowd waned, then head home because he’d left Elise alone at the ranch.
On the other side of the library, where there were no booths, a scavenger hunt was just beginning. Emily checked her watch. She had thirty minutes before story hour, and she knew exactly what she was going to say. Setting her bag of props on the ground against a tree, she went over to Timmy and said, “You need any help?”
“I’m in second grade,” he answered indignantly. Still, he showed her a list.
A Feather—honoring The Indian in the Cupboard
A Bag of Potato Chips—honoring The Very Hungry Caterpillar
Something Round and Orange—honoring James and the Giant Peach
A Mirror—honoring Sleeping Beauty
A Stuffed Beaver—honoring The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
A Wand—honoring Harry Potter
A Packet of Seeds—honoring The Secret Garden
“I promise, after the scavenger hunt, I’ll come listen to your story.”
“What do you win if you find everything?” a familiar voice asked from behind her.
Emily turned to find Donovan Russell. She hadn’t even heard his approach. Now he leaned over, checking out Timmy’s list.
“I get to pick one of the books,” Timmy announced.
“So,” Donovan queried, “you might get a copy of The Secret Garden?”
“No. I want The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Eva says I’ll like it.”
“You will,” Donovan agreed.
“You’ve read it?” Emily questioned.
“Yes, but I liked The Great Divorce more.”
“I don’t like divorce,” Timmy said, and Emily gave Donovan a look that said Don’t go there.
The whistle blew, indicating the start of the hunt. Timmy shot them a look, letting them know they’d delayed him, and then took off running.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Emily said as she went to retrieve her bag.
Donovan didn’t follow. Emily turned and watched as he read the scavenger-hunt list aloud to a little girl too young to decipher the words. When he joined her, he said, “I closed the Baer place yesterday, and I don’t start working for your father until Monday—that is, if he agrees to the contract. I’ve got a free weekend.”
“I’m sorry...” She wasn’t quite sure what to say. She wasn’t sorry the job shut down, but she was sorry that it affected Donovan. If not for where he built and his not respecting why he shouldn’t build there, she could almost like him.
Almost.
“It’s not the first time my plans have changed,” Donovan said.
She nodded, hoping she didn’t look smug about what had happened at the Baer place. Radon gas was not how she wanted to halt building. “Once the mystery surrounding the body is solved, I’m heading out to Ancient Trails Road. I want to poke around a bit, outside the Baer property, to see what I can find.”
“We didn’t find a single artifact,” Donovan reminded her.
“You wouldn’t know an arrowhead if it bit you.”
Donovan laughed. “There were other biting things to worry about.”
She laughed, too, liking the way the sun made his brown hair a tad golden, the way his eyes crinkled and how she had to look up at him. “My dad’s thrilled that you’ll get to work on Tinytown.”
“I’m looking forward to it, too.”
Together, they walked around the last few booths, one for used books and the others for arts and crafts.
“Why don’t you have a booth?” he asked after a few minutes of companionable silence.
“What?”
“Advertising the museum.”
“You mean the museum you’ve never visited?”
“Ouch.” He put a hand over his heart. “In my defense, I’ve been busy. Who’s working it today?”
“I’ll head over there once I’m done here. I’ve a sign on the door telling any tourists—there’s not many in June—that I’ll be back at noon and advising them to come here and enjoy themselves.”
“The curator’s ‘gone fishing’ ploy?”
“You can look at it that way,” she agreed.
“You still didn’t answer my question about why you don’t have a booth.”
“What would I do? The artifacts are too valuable to bundle up and bring over here. I could hand out brochures, but people would just throw them away.”
“What’s in your museum?”
She was a bit annoyed that he didn’t know. “We’ve the traditional arts and crafts, centuries-old artifacts, tools and such. We also have an exhibit on Jacob Waltz, the original Lost Dutchman. We’ve old prospector paraphernalia like spur rowels, drilling steel and one of my favorite pieces, a Spanish crossbow dart.”
Donovan nodded. “So, what you do is set up a gold-panning exhibit. Let the kids pan for fool’s gold. Tell them the history while they’re engaged. Let them keep some of what they pan. Make sure that whatever you store it in has the museum’s name, hours and even a discount coupon to be used during the hottest months.”
Emily bit back her surprise. “What? You have a degree in marketing?”
“A minor. I’m into building and selling homes. You better believe I know how to make a sale. Doesn’t matter if it’s a tangible product or a tourist tr—”
She gave him credit; he’d stopped himself from saying tourist trap.
“Or a tourist’s cultural landmark.”
“It’s an idea,” she agreed. “Too bad the library probably won’t celebrate its sixty-first birthday.”
She opened the library’s front door, feeling the air-conditioning and smelling the sweet aroma of books. She’d spent a lot of her childhood here. She’d read all the Ramona books, sometimes sitting on one of the beanbag chairs in the children’s section. She would reread the parts featuring Ramona’s mother and dream about her own mother. Those were her favorites. Sometimes she’d go back in time with Little House on the Prairie. Ma was a wealth of wisdom. It hadn’t occurred to Emily until she was in high school that none of the books she read had Native American families, Native American mothers.
She’d started writing one but never got past page ten because her imagination always seemed inclined to have the mother die.
She couldn’t write that storyline.
Couldn’t seem to get away from it, either.
So, she started reading Native American textbooks, biographies and history books. She couldn’t create fiction, but she could research fact.
Today she was a hundred pages into her family’s history. Of course, the book had taken a turn and included much of Apache Creek’s history.
Donovan put his hand on her shoulder. “You going to stand here, in the way, or enter?”
“Oh.”
She clutched her bag closer and headed for the bathroom, where she could change. Storytelling was an art form. Her big sister Eva had the loom. Elise had her riding skills. For Emily, it was both the spoken and written word.
When she finally exited the bathroom, attired in a black cotton dress with a yellow beaded belt and yellow boots, the children’s room was full. Timmy was in the front row, his welcoming smile displaying some missing teeth, with three of his best friends surrounding him. Her audience seemed to range from newborns to eighty-year-olds. Didn’t matter. Her plan for today involved toddlers to primary school students. After all, they were in the children’s section.
“Aliksa’i,” she greeted.
“That means ‘most wonderful,’” Timmy informed the ground. “It also means ‘we’re about to begin.’”
Emily opened her bag, took out ten ears of corn and gave them to Timmy to hand out. Then, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the children. Most scooted forward, some reaching to touch her clothes, especially the rainbow-colored dance scarf. She gently guided a few questing fingers away.
“This ceremonial dress belongs to my sister, not me. She shares it with the understanding that I’ll take care of it. Has anyone ever trusted you with something?”
The answers came quickly.
“I’m trusted to not break my mom’s cell phone.”
“I’m trusted to help put in DVDs for my little sister to watch.”
That got a follow-up response.
“I’m trusted to turn off YouTube if it’s something my gramma wouldn’t watch.”
Looking around the room, at each laughing face, her gaze settled on the only person in the room who wasn’t a child, parent or grandparent.
“What are you trusted with, Donovan?”
He paused only a moment before responding, “I’m trusted with not interrupting the storyteller.”
It was the perfect opening. “Corn has always been important in the Southwest. It was a main food crop. How many of you love popcorn?”
Emily taught them how to make a popcorn popping noise, modeling soft versus loud. Then, she wove the story of the Corn Maiden. As she spoke, she introduced hand gestures for more audience participation. In the middle, they sang a song that necessitated the beating of a drum. Half the boys pounded on their knees, the other half received rattles. The girls moved their hands and fingers, pretending to be butterflies. Standing, she danced around them, careful not to step on any tiny feet or fingers, and held a mask up to her face.
Donovan watched her every move. It was a heady feeling having him there. It made her feel graceful, feminine, appreciated. Not what a storyteller needed but definitely what a woman needed.
Then, sitting down once more, she took the last object from her bag and carefully unwrapped it. Holding it up, she made sure everyone could see her kachina.
“The corn maidens were not meant to belong to man, so legend says that they were disguised as kachinas so man would not recognize them.”
“That kachina is not big enough to be mistaken for a real person,” Isabella Hamm pointed out.
“Of course not,” Emily agreed. “I’m telling a story. One that’s been passed down for centuries. You are honored by getting to hear it.”
“Did your dad tell it to you?”
“No, one of my uncles did. And now I tell the story to you.”
Timmy instigated the applause, ever his youngest aunt’s biggest fan. Emily nodded, answered a few questions and then started gathering her props before standing and looking to the back of the room for Donovan.
He was no longer a part of her audience.
She didn’t like the disappointed feeling that swept over her.
* * *
Donovan stepped from the library, found a quiet corner and listened as once again Nolan Tate insisted there was no work until the job started in California at the end of next month.
Donovan wasn’t surprised when Nolan hung up without saying goodbye. The man was angry. His only daughter had been set to marry Donovan. Nolan had spent tens of thousands of dollars booking the country club, caterers and photographers, as well as buying his daughter and her groom a home.
Olivia hadn’t liked the house her daddy purchased. She wanted to live in the home she’d grown up in. So, her daddy prepared to move.
When Donovan said he preferred to choose a house and pay for it themselves, Nolan laughed.
So did Olivia.
Just six months before the wedding, Donovan knew he was in trouble. Now, he was paying his almost father-in-law back for the down payments as well as money borrowed when Donovan first joined Tate Luxury Homes. The agreement was done under the guidance of the company’s lawyer. It was the only way Donovan could keep his reputation as well as his honor, since he’d called off the wedding.
“Donovan!” Jacob Hubrecht came around the library corner just as Donovan slipped the phone into his back pocket. “Good to see you here.”
“I closed down the Baer place yesterday. Got the paperwork turned in this morning.” Checking his watch, Donovan continued, “I’m planning to visit the Apache Creek Desert Oasis in a while to see if I can rent a spot for a month and a half. I don’t think it will be a problem.”
“That’s right,” Jacob said. “You’re living in an RV. Guess I hadn’t considered that you’d need to move off the Baer place. Why don’t you park the RV behind my barn and I’ll put you up in one of the cabins? We’re seldom full in the summer. Consider it part of your pay for building Tinytown.”
“You don’t have—”
“I know I don’t have to. It’s just a sensible solution. Think—you won’t need to worry about meals or travel. You’ll finish faster. You did say your next job starts next month, right? In California?”
“Palmdale,” Donovan agreed. “I guess it does make sense. You mind if I head over later today?”
“I’ll tell Eva. Come on.”
What Donovan really wanted to do was head back into the library and catch the rest of Emily’s storytelling. There was something about a woman dancing around two dozen children that made him want to see more.
He caught up to Jacob, who was already standing a few feet from Eva. They waited while she explained her technique to three little girls who were clearly itching to get their fingers on the yarn. “You know, everything you suggested was American small town. Why don’t we do something to celebrate Emily’s heritage? We could build a tepee or hogan...”
Jacob frowned. “It’s a fine idea, but you’d have to square that with Emily or even one of my brothers-in-law.”
“Dad, aren’t you still doing the hayride?”
“Cooper took over to give me a break. We’ll probably be at it a while longer.”
The three girls in front of Eva stood up. “Bye, Miss Eva.”
“Speaking of needing a break.” Eva reached out for her father so he could help her up. “Kneeling for hours while nine months pregnant isn’t much fun.”
“Your mother said the same thing.”
A look passed between the two, something that tugged at Donovan’s heart. Clearly Jacob’s wife had been loved and was still missed.
“I ran into Donovan,” Jacob said. “He’s bringing his RV over this afternoon. We’re going to put him up in one of the cabins while he builds Tinytown.”
“Oh, Timmy will be thrilled. Where is he, by the way? I’ve not seen him for a good hour.”
Donovan spoke up. “He was just in Emily’s story time. She gave a talk about the Corn Maiden.”
Jacob’s eyes twinkled. “Her mother’s stories. Emily’s pestered both Eva and her uncles since she was little. Now she knows more
than anyone else. She’s passing them down. There was a time she was writing them, but that girl’s got more on her plate than a casserole at a church potluck.”
“I don’t bring them to life like Emily does. She’s always been a storyteller.” Eva, hands on her back, paced back and forth. “She could spin a tale. Got her in trouble more than once. In kindergarten, she pulled another little girl’s hair and then told her teacher that Coyote made her do it.”
“Coyote?”
Eva grinned. “The Trickster. In Hopi legends, he causes all kinds of trouble. Hang around Emily enough, you’ll know them all.”
“Not just the Hopi legends got that girl in trouble,” Jacob added. “She got quite a few ideas from Harold Mull, our foreman. You’ll meet him later today. In first grade, during recess, she stuck a bunch of little rocks in her mouth. Whoever was on recess duty told her to spit them out, and she wouldn’t. By the time I got to the school, she was in the principal’s office, tears streaming down her cheeks, and tired of all the small rocks in her mouth but too stubborn to spit them out.”
“Harold,” Eva continued, “told her that if she were ever thirsty, to just suck on stone. Apparently, the recess teacher wouldn’t let her go in for a drink, and Emily decided to take care of the issue in a unique way.”
“I paid for the installation of drinking fountains outside,” Jacob said. “Don’t know why they weren’t there already. This is Arizona.”
By the time Donovan left Eva and Jacob, story hour was over and Emily was gone. Leaving Donovan feeling that he’d once again fallen victim to a missed opportunity.
Chapter Six
Emily left the library festival a good twenty minutes later than she meant to. She had nobody to blame but herself. She’d hurried out of Elise’s clothes and went looking for Donovan.
