Copper Sunrise

by Carol Cox

  Catherine wrapped both hands around his arm and squeezed. “That would be wonderful! I’ll write and let her know. It’ll give them something special to look forward to.”

  Mitch pressed his palm over her hands and smiled down at her. That was a suggestion worth making. Now all he had to do was clear it with Dabney.

  “How are things going at work?” he asked, more to keep listening to Catherine’s voice than from any curiosity about Southwestern’s inner workings.

  “It’s busier than ever. Between keeping up with Mr. Showalter’s correspondence and scheduling meeting after meeting, I barely get a chance to catch my breath.” She laughed. “But I have to admit I love it. It’s going better than I ever expected. What about you?”

  “I wish I could say the same thing.” Mitch started to continue, but his mouth stretched wide in a yawn.

  Catherine turned a teasing look his way. “Not getting enough beauty sleep these days?”

  “That’s pretty close to the truth. I haven’t been sleeping a lot. I’ve been trying to do some investigating in my off hours, but I’m not getting very far. It seems like everywhere I turn, I run into a dead end.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sympathy colored Catherine’s voice. “Would it help to talk about it?”

  “Honestly, I’d rather think about something more pleasant. Have you heard any more news from home?”

  Catherine laughed. “Probably more than you’ll be interested in hearing.” She went on to relate details of family life her grandmother had passed along.

  Mitch contented himself with listening to her happy chatter, glad he’d been able to steer the conversation away from the subject that had been keeping him awake most nights. Not even to Catherine was he willing to voice his suspicions. If it turned out he was wrong, then he saw no point in casting aspersions on the innocent. If he were right. . .the possible repercussions were more than he wanted to think about.

  Right now, it was enough to enjoy the warmth of Catherine’s hand through his sleeve and dare to believe that perhaps not every area of his life was headed for a dead end.

  Eleven

  The clear blue skies of early December gave way to a week of dismal gray. The leaden clouds overhead matched the mood of the scene Mitch strode through. He pulled his woolen scarf tighter around his neck. Winter in Phoenix might be a lot warmer than most other parts of the country, but that chilly north wind still carried a bite.

  Mitch quickened his pace. It was a good thing he trusted his informant. This wasn’t an area of town he would have chosen to visit on his own. The gathering gloom of dusk didn’t help his frame of mind a bit. He stepped past a group of seedy-looking men huddled against a brick wall to keep out of the wind.

  Following the directions he’d been given, Mitch rounded the next corner. A cluster of broken-down adobe buildings came into view. He paused for a moment to take a closer look. He felt sure his information had been passed along in good faith, but he wasn’t about to go waltzing into an isolated place like that without giving it a thorough once-over.

  “I don’t see anything amiss there, Lord. If You do, I’d sure appreciate it if You’d let me know.” He crunched across the gravel and entered the circle of broken buildings.

  “Anyone here?” he called in a low voice.

  Silence. His whole body tensed as he strained to catch any furtive sounds of approach. . .or flight. Nothing stirred save the wind soughing through the holes in the walls.

  I should have known. Mitch jammed his hands in his coat pockets and turned, ready to leave. Then he heard it: faint footsteps scraping across the gravel. He braced himself.

  “Are you Brewer?” a voice behind him rasped.

  Mitch spun around, ducked into a crouch. He let out his breath and relaxed when he caught sight of his visitor.

  The slight man with the wispy gray hair grinned, his lips spreading wide to show a smile that was missing a few teeth. “Don’t guess I look any too scary, do I?”

  Mitch wanted to laugh out loud. The fellow looked like a stiff breeze would carry him into the next county. He wiped his hand across his mouth to hide his smile. “I’m Brewer. And you’re. . .”

  “Elmer Watson. I’m the one who sent word and asked to meet with you. I hear you’re interested in finding out more about who’s buying up all the land around here.”

  Mitch nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the man. “I’m also interested in anyone who wants to talk to me about it. I did some checking, and it’s a funny thing—I couldn’t find a record of Elmer Watson anywhere.”

  The old man’s cackle bounced off the adobe walls. “You’re a sharp one, all right.” He spat on the ground, then leaned forward confidingly. “Truth to tell, I’m glad you figured that out. If I could have pulled something that easy over on you, so could the other side. Maybe you’re worth talking to after all.”

  Mitch grunted at the backhanded compliment. He decided not to waste time. The desert wind was getting colder by the minute, and this place gave him the willies. “So who are you, really, and what can you tell me about what’s going on?”

  The old man stared at him for a long moment, then nodded as if he’d made up his mind. “All right, here’s the story. My name’s Edgar Wheeler, and I own ten acres east of here, over near the Salt River.”

  Mitch pursed his lips and let out a soft whistle. “Interesting location. I’d say you’ll be sitting on a regular gold mine before long. Assuming you’re interested in selling, that is.”

  “Nope.” Wheeler’s watery blue eyes hardened, taking on a steely look in the gathering dusk. “I came here back in ’88 and built me a house out of adobe and river rock. Some sawbones back in St. Joe told me I’d live longer if I moved to a drier climate. Appears he was right—I’ve lasted a good fifteen years longer than anyone thought I would, me included.”

  He peered off toward Papago Peak. “I may not have done much with the place, but it’s mine, and I plan to stay on it until the day I die. That decision was easy enough to make. Getting those yahoos to listen, that’s been the hard part.”

  Mitch’s pulse quickened. “Which yahoos would that be?”

  “Those fellows who keep insisting they’re going to buy it from me, that’s who. They just won’t take no for an answer.” He hitched his pants up higher on his scrawny waist. “If they had any sense, they’d give up and go away, but I’ll outlast ’em, you can count on that.”

  Mitch smiled down at the feisty codger. “You have clear title to the land?”

  “Filed down at the courthouse, all legal and proper. It’s mine, no question about that. The only question is whether those coyotes are going to let me live in peace or keep hectoring me.”

  “What kind of hectoring are you talking about?”

  “So far it’s just been harsh talk and a couple of broken windows. Nothing I can’t handle. But I’m expecting them to up the ante before long, like they did with old Joe Fletcher.”

  Mitch felt his whole body tense. Maybe he was on the right track at last. “What happened with Fletcher?”

  “Those lowlifes came in and offered him a price so low it made him laugh. But then they started coming out to his place every day and trying to get him to sign the sale papers. He kept telling them no—even ran them off with a shotgun once or twice. Then one day he came back from town and found his barn burned to the ground.”

  Wheeler spat again. “That did it for him. He took the measly price they offered him and lit out of town.”

  This is it. It has to be. “Where was his property located?”

  “It’s the place next to mine. Twenty-five acres of desert. Fletcher thought maybe once the dam came in, he could try a little truck farming, but other than that the place isn’t anything to make that much fuss over.”

  Not unless they had reason to expect the value of that property to soar in the near future. Mitch tried to keep the excitement from showing in his voice. “So you’re saying he was forced out by these people.”

  Wheele
r scratched his ear. “According to them, he chose to sell of his own free will. That’s true enough, I guess, if you mean he chose to take what they paid and leave to get them to quit pesterin’ him. Not my idea of having a real choice, though. And as far as I’m concerned, I’ve already made my decision. I’m going to stay there as long as there’s breath in this old body.”

  “Do you know of any others this has happened to? If I’m going to write about it, I’m going to need as many details as you can give me.”

  “So you can check them out, same as you did me and that fake name, eh?” The gap-toothed grin split Wheeler’s face again. “Get your pencil ready, son. I’ve got plenty I can tell you.”

  Voices echoed near the empty buildings. Wheeler swung around, suspicion sharpening his features. “I have to leave. You go ahead and look into what happened to Fletcher. I’ll be back in touch as soon as it’s safe.” With that, he darted through a gaping doorway and disappeared.

  Mitch picked his way back to his roadster as quickly as he could, then stood watching before he turned over the engine. Nothing moved. No shadowy figures threatened. Nevertheless, Wheeler’s sense of urgency infected him. He started the car and hurried home, already planning the research he would set in motion.

  ❧

  Catherine smiled when she saw Mitch at the bottom of the steps. Having him wait for her and walk her home could easily become a habit.

  “Hi,” she said, and matched her steps to his as they strolled toward her boardinghouse. Sometimes Mattie accompanied them; other times she grumbled about being a fifth wheel, but Catherine knew her complaining was all in fun.

  Mitch didn’t meet her every night. There were the evenings when she had to work late, as well as the times he had to cover a story or go haring off on that mysterious investigation of his. He still didn’t talk about that much and changed the subject every time she brought it up. Her curiosity continued unabated, but she determined not to press him. Surely he would tell her about it in his own good time.

  Speaking of things she wished he would tell her. . . Catherine slanted a look up at Mitch, her heart quickening at the sight of his lean profile. She grew more certain of her feelings toward him every day. Would he ever let her know whether they were reciprocated?

  For the time being, she contented herself with knowing they had become good friends. Well, content might not be quite the right word. Why couldn’t a woman take the initiative when it came to declaring her feelings? Waiting for a man to make up his mind to speak seemed to add an unconscionable amount of time to the process.

  Catherine thought of herself as a modern woman, but she wasn’t about to come right out and tell him how she felt. That would be going too far. Still. . .maybe she could nudge things in the right direction.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she said before she lost her nerve. “Mr. Showalter is hosting a party on Christmas Eve. It’s mostly for his business acquaintances, but he’s asked me to come. I wondered if you would be my escort.”

  As soon as the words were out, she clamped her lips tight and feigned interest in the cracks in the sidewalk.

  “Christmas Eve?” Mitch didn’t sound put off at all. “That could be fun. I’m sure your boss puts on quite a spread.”

  “Then you’ll do it?” She hoped she didn’t sound too eager.

  Mitch chuckled. “Did you really think I’d pass up the opportunity to spend time with my favorite girl? Of course I will.”

  Catherine lost herself in a happy daze then realized he was speaking again. “What did you say?”

  “I said it only seems like a fair exchange. I was going to ask you to have Christmas dinner with me. The Johnsons went to St. Louis to spend the holidays with their son. I thought we’d have lunch at the Bellmont; then maybe we could go for a long drive. . .if that’s okay with you.”

  “That would be lovely.” More than lovely, absolutely wonderful! Catherine congratulated herself for not doing a war whoop right there on the street. Being with Mitch two days in a row and having him all to herself on Christmas Day! It seemed almost too good to be true, and yet there he stood, smiling down at her.

  ❧

  Names and dates. Sales amounts. Property descriptions. Mitch rearranged the slips of paper containing the information he had gleaned, sorting them into new configurations. It truly is like a puzzle, he thought. He had nearly all the data he needed. All he had to do was find the right combination, and the pieces would fall into place.

  If only Wheeler would make contact again! Now that he knew a few more of the right questions to ask, Mitch had the feeling one more conversation with the skittish little man would give him what he needed to tie up all the loose ends.

  Why hadn’t Wheeler sent word? The question had plagued Mitch ever since their interrupted conversation. More than once, he’d cranked up his roadster and headed out toward the old sourdough’s property. And every time he’d turned the car around and headed back to town before accomplishing his mission.

  He needed to talk to Wheeler, needed to glean the final details that would help him piece everything together and shed light on the shadowy figures behind the goings-on. And hopefully put to rest the uneasy questions that had been growing in Mitch’s mind.

  But Wheeler’s jitters had been no act. Mitch felt sure his informant honestly believed himself to be in danger. If he had gone to all the trouble of setting up a clandestine meeting in a shady part of town, he wouldn’t appreciate having Mitch show up on his doorstep. No, he would just have to wait for Wheeler to make contact in his own time, no matter how much the delay frayed his nerves.

  That skullduggery was afoot—and on a large scale—he had no doubt. Every scrap of evidence he turned up only served to confirm it. Land was being purchased at rock-bottom prices, on friendly enough terms if the owners went along with the proposed sale, or by whatever means of persuasion necessary if they balked.

  Mitch understood the “why” of it. As soon as Taft signed the statehood bill, those tracts of land would multiply at least tenfold in value. For a relatively small investment, its owners stood to make a sizeable fortune. While he decried the motive behind it, it didn’t surprise him in the least. Greed had been a common sin as long as man had inhabited the earth.

  It was the “who” of the matter that puzzled him. Try as he might, he couldn’t pin down the identities of the men responsible for the purchases. Despite his best efforts and repeated trips to the county courthouse, the men remained shadowy, faceless figures who seemed determined to operate unseen, hidden by a paper trail of holding companies and multiple transfers.

  His relentless research had brought a few facts to light, though. And despite his intent to search for the truth, Mitch almost wished he hadn’t dug so far this time. He pulled his notepad over to him and reviewed the notes he’d taken. The ownership of properties shifted from individuals to land developers to holding companies and back again. And in sorting out the maze of transfers, one name came up again and again: Southwestern Land and Investments.

  Did Nathan Showalter have any idea his firm was being used as a front for something so underhanded? Mitch found it hard to believe the man could be totally unaware of any connection with what amounted to land fraud on a grand scale. But given the impression he had formed during their interview, he found it equally difficult to swallow the notion the developer could be guilty of complicity with such a scheme.

  He needed to talk to Showalter. The man deserved to know he was being used as a pawn. Mitch pushed back his chair, prepared to crank up his roadster and head straight to Showalter’s office.

  But what was he supposed to do when Nathan Showalter asked him for proof? This sorry mess had to involve people he knew, people he trusted. He wouldn’t accept such wild claims without concrete evidence.

  Mitch settled back into his chair reluctantly, ready for action yet unwilling to set in motion events he might regret. He needed the solid proof Wheeler promised to give him, and he needed it now. Where wa
s the man?

  What about Catherine? The thought struck him with the force of a blow. Should he mention his suspicions to her? He toyed with the idea, turning it this way and that. Would it be to her benefit to know? No, he decided. It would be a mistake. She worked closely with Showalter and sat in on all those after-hours meetings he held. If she suspected one of the men he was involved with and let those suspicions show. . .

  If the people behind this had no qualms about strong-arming other men, what would they do to a woman? He couldn’t say a word to her until he had every fact in place.

  Everything hinged on being able to get that information from Wheeler. Assuming he ever got back in touch.

  Twelve

  “Are you sure you’re warm enough?” Mitch furrowed his eyebrows.

  “I’ll be fine.” Catherine settled the lacy shawl around her shoulders and tried not to let him see the laughter that bubbled up inside her, remembering the Christmas Eves of her youth. She wouldn’t be surprised if snow already blanketed the ground in Prescott. A Phoenix winter night seemed positively balmy in comparison. And even if the thermometer had registered a temperature worthy of the frozen north, Mitch’s look of tender concern would have created warmth aplenty.

  She allowed him to escort her to his roadster idling at the edge of the street. He cupped her elbow in his hand and matched his steps to hers. His attentiveness made her feel like a China doll, fragile and precious.

  A light breeze touched her cheek, bringing an unexpected shiver. Maybe she was getting acclimated to the warmer climate after all. Or was it from the excitement of spending this special evening in Mitch’s company?

  They reached the car, and he helped her up onto the running board. His fingers felt warm through the thin fabric of the shawl, and another shiver ran down her arms to her fingertips. Catherine knew then: That chill wasn’t due to the temperature at all.