by Pamela Tracy
She didn’t find him.
Probably, she told herself when she left Main Street and aimed her truck for the museum, he was holed up in some corner with his cell phone. Sometimes, she wished the device had never been invented. Other times, like when she needed it to find an out-of-the-way address, she thought it a better invention than ketchup.
She pushed Donovan from her thoughts—it took the entire drive—and pulled into the museum’s empty parking lot.
She wished just one car waited for her, a happy family hoping to explore the past. One that wouldn’t even care that her note specified her return time and that she was a solid thirty minutes late.
“Should have grabbed some green eggs and ham to go,” she muttered to herself, taking down the notice and flipping the sign to Open. She stashed her bag in her office. No way did she want something to happen to her kachina or Elise’s things. Then she settled her purse in the cabinet up front.
Before she could do one more thing, her stomach growled.
She’d settle for what she had in the employee office, which came with a small refrigerator and a microwave. A moment later she finished a banana, followed by five crackers and a bottle of water. Times like these, she wished the museum gift area was more than just a few items for sale by the cashier. A candy bar would be perfect just now.
Of course, that would add one more job description to her already-full agenda: curator, cleaning staff, accountant, cashier.
She turned on the lights, adjusted the temperature and went around checking the exhibits. Today as she walked, her prayers were focused on giving God praise for what He was doing with the library. She thanked Him also for the attentive children who’d been so taken with her story. Then, she segued to her family, especially Eva, who’d looked so cute, so very pregnant, kneeling before the loom. Emily ended with a prayer request for the museum and its future.
When it was winter, she actually had volunteers helping out. The snowbirds donated a few hours a week to welcoming visitors and walking them around. Emily did maintenance, caught up on record keeping and wrote.
June through September, she was alone.
Still, she was doing better than her predecessor. He’d worked the museum for twenty-five years and not one thing had changed.
The barn had been storage for junk. What a waste of space.
She had a dozen ideas, but no budget and even less time. What she really wanted was to stop waitressing at the Lost Dutchman Ranch unless her family was truly in a pinch. But the money she made there enabled her to pay her bills and pretty much do what she needed to do—like attend the Native American History Conferences and buy items for the museum. It gave her time to write articles that challenged how Native American history was represented in museums around the United States.
Sitting down at the front desk, she stared through the door that led to the main room and thought, This is my museum. I will make it the best it can be.
She just needed more visitors and the funds to do more than pay the bills. She turned on the computer and went right to email. Her last report to the board showed they were not running on a deficit. Thankfully, the Lost Dutchman Museum was not a million-dollar structure with high costs. The city of Apache Creek owned the building and land outright. If not for the museum’s high electricity costs, they’d turn a profit. Still, at least one board member, Darryl Feeney, argued that the number of visitors kept dwindling and the electricity bill kept escalating.
Right now, Emily’s biggest fear was they’d close the museum in the summer and only open for the winter. If that happened, she’d become a part-time employee.
“I need an endowment,” she muttered.
The words had barely left her lips when a truck pulled into the parking lot.
Donovan Russell.
Emily stood and made sure no cracker crumbs peppered her dark blue Lost Dutchman Museum shirt. She’d had it made a few months ago when her father ordered more uniform shirts for the Lost Dutchman Ranch. She’d ordered three extra for the volunteers who would start in a few months.
Donovan stepped down from his truck and squinted in the sun before moving her way.
She met him at the door. “Festivities in town over?”
“No, but they’re winding down. I watched your dad driving the tractor with the hay wagon down Main Street. Timmy was with him.”
“Dad loves the tractor and Timmy loves my dad.”
A shadow crossed his face. She looked up to see if there were clouds, but not a one.
“I have a free afternoon, so I came to see your museum.”
“It’s not exactly mine.”
“That’s not what I hear.” His smile was indulgent, his eyes kind.
“Don’t go all sweet on me,” she cautioned. “I’m still charging you admittance. That will be five dollars.”
He pulled a leather wallet from his back pocket and paid. “I take it I get a private tour.”
“Until our next visitor arrives.”
“Which won’t be until after the library event ends?”
The odds of any townies making their way to the museum were slim to none. The adults had already seen the displays. The children would be on a sugar high from the library function, and a museum wasn’t a place to work off energy.
“Maybe.” She started for the door to the main room but paused to let him finish reading a plaque about the museum’s beginning as well as two framed newspaper articles highlighting special events, both orchestrated by her.
“Last year you had a Civil War reenactment?” He sounded surprised. “I guess I’ve never really connected Arizona with that time period.”
“Briefly, very briefly during our territorial days, we were Confederate. Not my area of history, and I’ve nothing in the museum from that period. But, I have a friend who’s on the Arizona Civil War Council. He convinced his group to do a performance here. We had a flag raising and the reenactment, but what brought the most guests was the period weaponry. We had live demonstrations. I even got to fire a Colt revolving rifle.”
He let out a low whistle.
“But I preferred the saber.”
He whistled again, leaving the framed articles and coming to stand way too close to her.
The air conditioner kicked on and Emily felt the tiniest of goose bumps prickle her arms. Good thing she could blame the air-conditioning.
“This area is all part of the Pearl Ranch. Used to be a huge operation. I don’t even know the Pearl who owns it now. This tiny section was given to the city of Apache Creek a long time ago by a woman named Mary Pearl. She owned a lot of what we have on display in the gem and mineral room. I think she just wanted the world to see her collection. She died before I took over as curator.”
“How long has the museum been here?”
“Just over forty-two years.”
“Did she give funds to maintain the museum?”
“She did. They ran out a long time ago, though. For the last thirty years, there’s an organization called Friends of Apache Creek. They started a campaign, somehow got a more-than-decent grant and really rejuvenated the museum. It was a labor of love. In the nineties, it took off and they hired the first curator.”
“Not you.”
She laughed. “No, I’m the third one. First one was a New York transplant who lasted about four years. He couldn’t seem to get excited about the desert landscape.”
To her surprise, he really looked interested as he walked behind her and soon beside her.
“It probably didn’t help that back then they had a live rattlesnake as part of the display, and the curator was expected to feed it.”
Donovan shook his head at the display of teeth next to a hypodermic syringe. “I’ve met a dozen of these guys up close and personal out at the Baer place.”
�
�Hiding under shrubs, huh?”
“I’m not sure they were all hiding. I made sure to keep an eye out last Monday as we walked around collecting evidence.”
“True,” Emily agreed. “Rattlesnakes like heat.”
“Fun.”
“And Arizona has more rattlesnake species than anywhere else.”
“I don’t think anyone told George Baer.”
Emily’s eyes lit up. “Why didn’t I think of putting that on one of my protest flyers?”
They left the rattlesnake display, went to the Jacob Waltz exhibit and finished with the Salado.
“This room’s small, lots of empty space, but I’ve been following a couple of private collectors and I think I might be able to really make something of this display if I can get them to loan me a few artifacts. People love to see their names, gold plated, as benefactors.”
“Are the Salado and Hopi related? You’re Hopi, right?”
“Half-Hopi. The Salado are ancient. The term Hopi came about in the sixteenth century, not ancient. Before that, we were Pueblo.”
“I see.”
“Hopituh Shi-nu-mu, Hopi, it means ‘the peaceful people.’” She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or laugh with him, so she simply smiled and began telling him her five-year plan.
That’s when the phone rang.
“Excuse me.” She hurried to the front, leaving him to admire the faded black-and-white pottery.
The phone didn’t ring that often. If someone called the number listed, they first heard the hours and address. They had to wait until the end of the spiel before getting to press Zero for any other questions. Most of the people who needed her help had her cell.
That reminded her. She’d never turned on her cell after story hour. Even as she reached for the museum’s phone, she opened the cupboard where her purse was and pulled out her mobile.
Seven messages.
* * *
Donovan was more interested in the Hopi than the Salado. Probably because he was interested in one particular Hopi. Their exhibit area took up both sides of one aisle. Like the Salado, they had their tools and pottery—earth tones of brown, black, yellow and orange seemed to be the colors of choice. Also, the Hopi were mask makers, and Donovan was enthralled by the differences. Some masks boasted feathers, others horns and no two were alike. One display was of a loom—much like Eva had used this morning. Then there were the kachina dolls.
Emily was correct. Benefactors did like to see their names displayed. More than five different cases had gold-plated placards stating On Loan from the Family of Naomi Humestewa.
When Emily came around the corner, he started to ask her about the Humestewas, but the look on her face stopped him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Elise just called, and I need to close for a while and go check on Karl Wilcox.”
“The older gentleman who lives right before the turn to your place?”
“Yes, he’s not answering his cell phone. Elise has been trying him all morning.”
“Why doesn’t she go check on him?”
“She’s alone at the ranch and apparently it’s been one thing after another, including a pipe breaking in one of the cabins.”
“I hope it’s not the one your dad is giving me.”
“What?”
“Ah, you didn’t know.”
She shook her head and turned for the door. “Everyone else is still at the library event. I really need to check on Karl. He fell a few weeks ago. He’s pretty special to our family. Last year, he befriended Cooper’s little brother at a time when Garrett needed a friend. The fall scared us more than it scared him, and that’s worrisome.”
“Mind if I tag along?” he asked.
To his surprise, she didn’t hesitate. “If Karl’s fallen, you might be a big help.”
“You coming back here afterward?”
She looked at the clock. “It’s already two thirty. We close at four. But this might be a simple there and back, so yes, I’ll come back to work.”
“Then I’ll ride with you.” He’d offer to drive, but some of what they’d cleaned up at the job site he’d tossed in his truck. He needn’t have worried; her truck wasn’t much better.
“I’ve been running from one place to the other,” she apologized. “I keep meaning to clean.”
In the front seat she had a small drill, a socket wrench, a dark blanket—after seeing her with the skeleton, he wasn’t about to ask what she used the blanket for—a fire extinguisher, two flashlights and a clipboard. A dozen pens and pencils were propped in the second cup holder.
Donovan felt strangely pleased. He could respect a woman with a front seat like this, and he’d already seen the tool chest she kept in the back.
“You’ve driven by Karl’s.” She climbed in, still needing the extra hop, and started the engine. “It’s one of the oldest homes in the area, what you’d probably consider a historic ranch house circa 1933. His father built it. It’s four rooms and a porch.”
Circa? What kind of female said circa?
The kind of female he liked, he decided, answering his own question. Now that they weren’t on opposing sides, she wasn’t so prickly. She was soft, engaging, alluring.
And he’d be living on her daddy’s ranch for a month and a half. Plus, he’d worked for the father of the last girl he’d fallen in love with. It was probably the only thing Olivia and Emily had in common.
It was enough.
The museum was on a gravel road that turned into pavement two blocks down. She drove with one hand on the wheel and gestured with the other as she talked.
“It needs some work.”
“I’ve been wanting to see the place.” His fingers itched to inspect the old walls. Even from a distance he could tell—
“I just hope Karl’s all right. He’s over eighty.”
Donovan thought of his own father. He still lived on the dairy farm his family had owned for as long as Karl Wilcox had lived on his. Donovan was the last of his line. Right now, a neighboring farmer was renting the fields because his dad could no longer do the work.
If something happened to Raymond Russell, Donovan’s dad, could his mother lift him? Could help get there in time?
“He’ll be fine,” Donovan said, unsure if he meant Karl or his own dad. “Tell me a bit about the house.”
“It’s a typical small ranch, nothing special.”
He figured that meant nothing in it belonged in a museum. “Small living room?”
“Yes, one big window.”
“Dining area just big enough for a table and four chairs?”
She nodded. “With floral wallpaper.”
“Kitchen bigger than the dining room with linoleum floors and appliances from the 1950s?”
“Yes and no.”
When he raised an eyebrow, she shared, “We’ve been updating the kitchen appliances for the last year because Garrett, Cooper’s little brother, lives there off and on, helping around the ranch. He’ll be a college freshman this coming semester. And he, uh, doesn’t really cook so we needed a microwave, toaster and stove that worked.”
Definitely a house he wanted to study. “You had to update the wiring, too?”
“Yes.”
“Two bedrooms, both with room enough for beds and not much else.”
“How’d you know?” she asked.
“You go back a hundred years ago, and for the most part, people were more concerned with working their land than working on their home. They built only what they needed.”
There were maybe four or five houses, spread out, before they reached the end of Main Street. None of the houses added anything to the personality of the area. They were all one-level dirt-brown structures, with desert landscaping. One had at least
four old cars in various stages of disrepair and a trampoline off to the side. Trash was piled on top of it.
Donovan loved Main Street. It was three blocks of businesses. What impressed him most was how a modern convenience store shared a parking lot with a restaurant clearly built in the 1950s. Right next to it was the record store where he’d recently purchased Abbey Road by the Beatles. It looked to be a first edition.
She turned just one block short of city limits and drove down another two-lane road past the high school. Once she left city limits, she apparently adhered to the belief that no speed limit posted meant no speed limit. She trailed a spiral of dust behind her and turned onto yet another two-lane road that would eventually, in just over a mile or two, lead toward her own place, the Lost Dutchman Ranch. The drive boasted only two other homes. They had personality to spare. The one closest to the Lost Dutchman Ranch was in the process of being remodeled. Donovan had already introduced himself to Jilly Greenhouse, the owner. She’d invited him to come see her middle-of-nowhere Victorian, but he’d yet to make the time.
Emily drove through the entrance of the first one, a century-old ranch house, and skidded to a stop next to an old, splotchy blue Ford.
“You can’t always see the other house from the road,” she said. “Up until four months ago, he had a family living there. The dad had been unemployed, and Karl wanted to help them out. We didn’t worry so much then because he was never alone.”
“Why’d they leave?”
“The dad got a job in Phoenix that paid more. His wife didn’t think much of living this rural.”
Remembering his own childhood, Donovan could understand. He’d lived his life around cows and corn. The corn had been for the cows. The cows were a 24-7 commitment. It didn’t matter how close the Russells’ nearest neighbor was, there was no time for visits.
Donovan never wanted a rural life again.
“The second building probably housed migrant workers at one time. I think it’s a little close to the main house.”
“You’ve been inside it?”
Emily nodded. “It’s one room. Karl told me he added the bathroom back in the 1960s. His uncle was staying there at the time, and the city said he had to install it.”
