Arizona Homecoming

by Pamela Tracy

  “What? You don’t like small?”

  He hesitated before sharing, “I grew up in a very small town in Nebraska. It was over an hour’s bus ride just to get to school.”

  “Cool,” Timmy said.

  “Not when you had to get up at four in the morning to help with the cows, and then get dressed, eat breakfast and get to the bus stop by six in the morning. By the time the school bell rang, I’d been up four hours.”

  “You were raised on a dairy farm?” Emily asked. She’d researched him when he moved here to build the Baer home, and then again when her dad starting talking about hiring him. She’d known he was from Nebraska, but she hadn’t realized how rural or that he’d been raised on a dairy farm.

  “I was.”

  “That’s surprising.”

  He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Because I’m so debonair now?”

  “What’s debonair?” Timmy queried.

  “It means he thinks he belongs on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine or starring as James Bond.”

  “Who’s James Bond?”

  Emily held up a hand. She knew how long this game could go on. To Donovan, she said, “I can’t think of many jobs harder than dairy farming. It’s 24-7 with no holidays.”

  “You pretty much summed it up. Add to that we lived in the middle of nowhere. There were three families within easy driving distance. None of them had kids my age.”

  “You didn’t like living on the farm.”

  “I didn’t like it, and I went off to college and never turned back.”

  “When I was in college,” Emily shared, “I traveled as far as South Dakota in order to complete my graduate studies. I enjoyed every minute, but I had to come home to visit at least every three or four months because I missed my family.”

  “I don’t make it home much. I’ve been busy building a career. My family understands.”

  She couldn’t argue with the busy part. She’d found a whole list of projects during her search, some started while he was a freshman in college. He’d been part of a group that helped rebuild a small village in Mexico after a tornado destroyed most of it.

  Just a few months ago, she’d thought this the only thing they had in common.

  After college, he’d worked for a firm that built homes in the Omaha and Council Bluffs, Iowa, area. They weren’t quite luxury homes, but they were close. They were upscale suburbia.

  And they didn’t compare at all to the Lost Dutchman Ranch.

  “How long has it been since you’ve been home?”

  He hesitated, and Emily could almost imagine him counting his fingers. “Three years.”

  Three years! She’d wilt if she were separated from Apache Creek for that long. She’d die if she were separated from her family.

  “And that wasn’t really home. I met my parents in York, Nebraska, at a restaurant about an hour’s drive for them. I wanted them to meet my fiancée.”

  “Elise is a fiancée,” Timmy put in. Emily had to admire how he’d been trying to keep up with the conversation. “It means you’ll be getting married.”

  “You’ve been in Apache Creek for months. Why hasn’t your fiancée come to visit?” Emily tried to sound interested, very afraid her voice would sound creaky.

  What was wrong with her? She had no hold on Donovan Russell. She’d only been on friendly terms with him for a week, ever since he’d gotten the “step down” order from Tate Luxury Homes. She’d been a bit more impressed when he’d helped her comb the Baer land looking for evidence. He’d even had John Westerfield help out.

  Then, there’d been yesterday.

  It had been a long time since she’d liked someone from the male species.

  Too long.

  “Olivia and I broke up quite a while ago. We—” he hesitated “—we weren’t good together. Very different.”

  “You liked her well enough to introduce her to your parents.”

  “It was the right thing to do. I’d proposed, she had a ring and we were planning a future. My parents needed to meet her.”

  “But you didn’t take her home? Why not?”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a half smirk. “Olivia Tate on a dairy farm. Not happening.”

  “Tate,” Emily said slowly. “As in Tate Luxury Homes.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’d go visit a dairy farm in a heartbeat.” Emily noticed something in his eyes, a faraway look. She didn’t know if he was thinking of Olivia or his youth. She hoped it was his youth. “What was the best thing about it? There has to be something.”

  “One summer my dad and I built a tree house. It lasted maybe a year before it fell apart, and Dad didn’t have time to build another one. I tried by myself, but I think my idea of what the completed project should look like far exceeded both my skill level and the tree’s perimeter.”

  “I’d love a tree house,” Timmy said.

  “How long,” Emily asked, almost in a whisper, “since you’ve been home and stared at the tree where you tried to build a tree house?”

  Donovan didn’t answer. Instead, he finished the last bite of pancake and Emily’s dad walked into the restaurant, checking his watch for the time and giving Timmy a nod that they needed to hurry.

  “We’ll wait for you if you want to come to church with us.” She really hoped he’d attend.

  “No, I’ve got some things to do today.”

  “You could build me a tree house,” Timmy said. “That would be a good thing to do today.”

  “Probably not today.” The faraway look was back in his eyes, but Emily saw a hint of the boy he’d been.

  “We need to get going,” her father hollered across the room.

  “Coming, Grandpa,” Timmy said.

  Emily stood, starting to gather up their dishes, but Donovan put a hand over hers. It was warm, strong, with long, calloused fingers. “I’ll take care of this. You look much too nice to risk spilling something.”

  Like the half-full glass of milk Timmy had walked away from.

  She thought she heard him say something as he headed toward the dish window. She thought she heard him say, “Twelve years.”

  Twelve years!

  Why?

  * * *

  The Miner’s Lamp, a more or less rustic café, was the second building on Main Street. At eleven, it was fairly empty: too late for breakfast, too early for the church crowd. Donovan took a big corner booth, checked the time on his cell phone and then went to messages.

  He had none. Reading his old messages, he realized that 100 percent of his conversations were work related. Not a real friend in the bunch. That was part of being a traveling man.

  “Here you are. I’ve been running a bit late all day.”

  Randall Tucker, Donovan knew, was in his sixties, called New York home—although he rarely stayed there—and had been born and bred in the real estate world.

  Randall easily slid into the booth, placing his briefcase beside him.

  Last night, after talking with the man, Donovan did his homework and looked at the Tucker Organization website. At first glance, the real estate portion of Tucker’s company wasn’t obvious. Randall’s father, Rudy Tucker, had started the business. Rudy seemed more inclined to promote his political moves, television appearances and self-help book than the business that had made him a multimillionaire.

  Randall had two older brothers. They looked to be following in their father’s footsteps: aggressive, shrewd and rebounding well.

  Randall was a bit of a black sheep, not in behavior, but in business leanings. For the past twenty-odd years, he’d been in the business of tearing down the old and putting up the new and always in small towns. There was an odd four-year gap, just a few years ago, where he’d simply lived in San Diego and apparentl
y backed away from the real estate business.

  “Just got here myself,” Donovan said, noting that the man hadn’t said sorry.

  The waitress, Jane de la Rosa, placed water and menus in front of them and walked off without asking if they were ready. The faintest pursing of her lips told Donovan that she disapproved of their meeting.

  No doubt she’d be texting Emily.

  A friend, not a business acquaintance.

  “Glad you could meet me,” Randall said. “I went out to the Baer place yesterday and walked around. I’m surprised you weren’t at work. It’s been cleared, what with the body and all.”

  Donovan didn’t know if Randall was fishing, clueless or already knew that Baer no longer wanted to live in Apache Creek. “Things are a bit up in the air right now.”

  Randall didn’t even pause. “I ate at the Lost Dutchman Ranch earlier in the week. Jacob showed me the plans you drew up for Tinytown. Impressive.”

  “It will be a nice change. I like being creative.”

  “Karl told me you thought his place would be perfect for a belowground-level home.”

  “I shared with him a gut reaction when he mentioned that he might sell. I’d have to do some preliminary studies to see if such a structure would really work there.”

  “It would work.” Randall raised his hand, beckoning Jane over. Quickly he ordered, and then looked at Donovan, clearly expecting the same.

  “I’ll just have iced tea,” Donovan told Jane. Then, he mused, “It probably would work, but would it sell, be low maintenance, increase in value?”

  “Not in the current economy and locale.”

  “What’s the occupancy ratio of your apartment building?” Donovan asked.

  “Forty percent. Apache Creek is a slow-growth area, and I’m confident that in the next two years we’ll go to a hundred percent. Plus, this isn’t a migrant area. People who move in will stay. There won’t be a high turnover.”

  “You make money from high turnover,” Donovan pointed out.

  “Only if there’s someone next in line to rent.”

  Jane came and put drinks in front of the men.

  “You didn’t call me to talk apartments,” Donovan said. “Why did you call me?”

  “I’m in the process of buying land for a development. I have my own people, but, quite frankly, I think if I’d made the apartment complex match the historic feel of Apache Creek, I’d have sixty percent occupancy. I can gloat over projections, but I’m used to a quicker return for my investment.”

  “And?”

  “I know George Baer personally.”

  That answered one question. Randall wasn’t fishing or clueless. He knew about the radon gas and why Baer had halted construction.

  “I’ve been in both his other homes.”

  Donovan had, too. They were lavish, ridiculous and seldom occupied. Sterile was the word that came to mind.

  “I could tell,” Randall continued, “how you influenced his choices of open space and options. The other two homes, the builder gave George whatever he asked for. You, however, managed to convince him that quality is better than quantity.”

  Since the Baer home was fifteen thousand square feet, quantity was a given and quality secondary.

  “I thought about making Baer an offer,” Tucker said, “but the radon gas made the newspaper. It will be a while before the stigma disappears. Never mind that every house has radon gas.”

  Donovan hated to think of the Baer home being a half-finished monument, a pimple on the skin of...

  Whoa, he was starting to think like Emily.

  “I’ve sent George Baer some ideas on how to bring the levels down,” Donovan shared. “He’s not answered yet.”

  “If I know Baer,” Tucker said, “he’ll move on to bigger and better things. In this case, not better—you built a beautiful home—but he’ll go bigger.”

  Emily would be happy about this news.

  “Here’s the thing,” Tucker continued. “I’ve got plans for this little town. The place is ripe for a subdivision or two, reasonably priced of course.”

  Donovan looked out the restaurant’s window. For the most part, this section of Apache Creek was dirt colored. The Main Street hosted a convenience store, bar and grill, fast food restaurant, an auto repair shop, and a park. A lone tumbleweed crossed the road, a time traveler from a distant era.

  “Even for Arizona, this town’s Western. I don’t see a growth spurt in its future. For one thing, no jobs, and for anoth—”

  “I’m not really thinking of families. I’m thinking more of retirees. If you look across this portion of Arizona, we’ve got lots of retirement communities. There’s Sun City, Scottsdale, Prescott.”

  “All have a cost of living much higher than here.”

  “My point exactly. If you look at where people are planning to retire present day, you’ll see Yuma, Nogales, places much like Apache Creek.”

  “You do see the big picture,” Donovan admitted, pausing as Jane set breakfast in front of Tucker. Now that he thought about it, Tucker’s plan made perfect sense. “But, why are you telling me? I work for Tate Luxury Homes, and I’m not planning on quitting anytime soon.”

  “Not for two years.”

  Donovan finished his tea in one long gulp. “I take it you know Nolan Tate, too.”

  “His father and mine are friends. I can’t say that I’m overly fond of him.”

  “He’s my employer, and I have a few contracts to finish before I can even think about a career move.”

  Tucker nodded and took a few bites of his biscuits and gravy. Then, he said, “I’d like to pay off your debt to him, put you in my employ and let you design my masterpiece. I’ll give you plenty of say. I like the originality you put into the homes you built in Cannes, Nebraska.”

  It had been a long time since Donovan thought about Cannes. He’d designed three blocks of homes, all virtually the same size and all different. The town’s critics didn’t appreciate how just one neighborhood didn’t fit into the cookie-cutter mold. The people who purchased the homes loved that they wouldn’t accidentally pull into the wrong driveway at ten at night because every house looked the same.

  “Masterpiece, huh?”

  Emily, Donovan knew, wouldn’t call it a masterpiece. She’d called it a monstrosity.

  “Let me show you,” Tucker said. He opened his briefcase, took out some blueprints and soon Donovan was looking at the type of development that was a dime a dozen in almost every city.

  “Tract housing,” Donovan noted.

  “It’s easy, it’s affordable, it’s quick,” Randall shot back.

  “Like your apartment building with forty percent occupancy.”

  “See,” Randall said, “that’s why I’m talking to you. I think, together, we can come up with something that will do this town good.”

  “I don’t do the Levittown concept.”

  “And, if we can come up with a plan, I’d like to stay away from that concept myself. Think about it. Quite honestly, somewhere in this town, I’ll establish a housing development. With or without you. If you sign on, I promise I’ll listen to your design ideas.”

  “So, instead of being in debt to Nolan Tate, I’d be in debt to you.” Donovan didn’t phrase it as a question but as a statement.

  “Difference being, I like your style. I might even hire you to build me a tree house. Also, someday I’ll be wanting a partner and I guarantee, I’ll not go bankrupt. If that was going to happen, it would have happened by now. Also, I’ll garnish your wages for repayment, but when you’ve paid off the debt, if you’re not happy, you can walk away knowing that the places you built had your stamp on them and that it wasn’t just the wealthy who could afford them. Difference being, you won’t have to constantly deal with an angry almo
st father-in-law.”

  Donovan wanted to say better the enemy you know than the enemy you don’t, but held his tongue. He’d gotten further in this business than some of his peers by not reacting rashly. “Let me think about it.”

  Chapter Nine

  Monday morning, no need for an alarm clock, Donovan rolled out of bed bright and early. Some habits were hard to break. Five was way too early for breakfast but perfect for soul-searching. He dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed the thriller he’d started a good month ago, and headed outside to sit on the porch in the early hour. A somewhat cool breeze greeted him, bending a few limbs and rippling the grass. From what he’d heard from his crew and now the Hubrechts, in a few weeks the cool would cease to be.

  The rocking chair creaked under his weight as he pushed it close to the porch railing so he could put his feet up. Setting his book on the ground, he turned on his phone and checked his emails. Nothing from Nolan Tate. If the man wanted, he’d have Donovan clocking in. There wasn’t a crew that couldn’t use a good worker. This was just a way to prolong the agony and let Donovan know who had the power. Didn’t matter. Donovan was doing the right thing, paying off his debt, being the bigger man. There was nothing from Randall Tucker, either. No surprise. Donovan figured the man would wait until Donovan came to him. And how he wanted to. Imagine severing his connection to Nolan Tate, not having a constant reminder of Olivia and having a little more say in what he was doing. Tucker was correct. Apache Creek would be an awesome place to retire. The Superstition Mountains alone were worth the move. Add to that the Lost Dutchman Ranch, the museum and the sixty-year-old library... And a five-foot-nothing dark-haired beauty who’d hate him forever if he built a tract of residential homes right next door to her.

  Donovan shook his head. He was getting soft. He’d only been on her good side for less than a week, so keeping on her good side shouldn’t be an incentive. She was buried all the way to her knees in Apache Creek’s soil. He was more a shake-the-dust-from-the-bottom-of-his-feet kind of guy. As much as she spouted the Word, he doubted she’d appreciate the comparison. Come to think of it, he didn’t appreciate the comparison. If he was shaking the dust from his feet, it meant he found the place, the Lost Dutchman Ranch, unworthy, lacking, doomed. He remembered more of his childhood Sunday school than he’d thought. His parents couldn’t get him home from after-school baseball practice or to games, so he didn’t get to play. But every Sunday morning—except for life-or-death matters—they were at church.