by Ann Charles
“You mean that cave?”
“It’s not just a cave.”
Butch grabbed her hand and led the way toward it, tromping through the grass. She didn’t pull away, feeling like an idiot for the rush that came with just holding his hand.
They stopped at the base of a towering cliff. Kate shielded her eyes and peered at the ruins fifteen feet up in the rock wall. She could see the base of the remains of an adobe structure. “What are those marks on the cave wall?”
“Pictographs.” Butch’s excitement showed in the slightly higher tone in his voice. “You want to take a closer look?”
Of course she did, but archaeological sites were usually fenced off. “Can we?”
“That depends.” Butch let go of her hand and walked over to a pile of cut tree trunks lying in the grass at the base of the cliff and rolled several to the side.
“On what?”
He lifted a wooden ladder that had been hidden under the pile and leaned it against the stone wall. His gaze lingered on her legs before traveling up to her face. “If you can climb a ladder in a miniskirt.”
Kate tried to act as if his interest in her legs didn’t have her stomach feeling like it were full of bouncing lotto balls. “Sure, but you have to promise not to look up my skirt for London and France while I climb.”
His grin spread wide. “How about if I promise to just check for one of them?”
He took several steps back, waving her toward the ladder.
Slipping off her sandals, Kate stuffed them down the back of her skirt inside the elastic of her underwear.
Butch watched, but said nothing.
She grabbed one of the rungs and started up the ladder, making it to the ledge without incident, and then held the ladder while Butch ascended.
“So, what do you think?” he asked as he joined her in the shallow cave.
Kate took in the pottery shards, stone metates, stubby remains of four adobe walls, and faded pictograph paintings on the cave walls. “Does anybody else know about this?”
“Just old man Webber and me.” Butch extracted a leaf from her hair, letting it drift to the floor. “And now you.”
He walked over and leaned against the wall next to the painting of what she guessed was a herd of stick deer. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, before focusing on the valley below.
She gulped. She was supposed to be seducing him, not the other way around. She needed to retreat to Ruby’s, clear her head of this damned crush she’d seemed to have developed for yet another sure-to-be criminal, and come up with a new plan of attack—one that involved less bare skin and more technique.
In the meantime, she might as well explore the last stop on Butch’s tour and try to keep from making a total ass of herself.
Pebbles dug into her heels as she strolled over next to him. “How old do you think this site is?”
“A thousand years, maybe two.”
She started to reach out to touch the painting but stopped, remembering countless museum signs stating the detrimental effects of finger oil. “Why haven’t any archaeologists been here to pick it apart?”
“Because Dick is a tried and true libertarian. He doesn’t like the government—local, state, or federal—snooping around in his backyard. Plus, he’s worried that if he tells anyone about it, he’ll have vandals up here stealing artifacts, destroying the site. It’s been a family secret for generations.”
That reminded Kate of Joe’s little family secret, the one about a mummified hand. Could that hand have been from this site? Had Joe known about this place? If not, had Butch found the hand here, along with the woven bag and little stick figure, and sold them to Joe? Maybe Joe and Butch had been working together, selling items on the black market. What did mummified hands go for these days, anyway?
She turned to Butch. “Did you know Ruby’s husband, Joe?”
“Sure, why?”
“No reason.” Kate glanced away, afraid he’d see more than she wanted him to in her eyes. She tiptoed through a litter of pottery shards over to the remains of the adobe structure. “I just wondered what he was like.”
“He was … interesting.”
“Interesting in what way?” She peeked at Butch from under her lashes. He was still watching her, frowning.
“In the patrons that would come into the bar whenever he was in town. I could always tell when Joe was home.” Butch glanced at his watch and did a double take. “Damn, we need to head back. I’ll hold the ladder for you.”
Kate didn’t want to leave, not when she was finally making some progress—well, not exactly progress, more like digging her hole deeper.
She climbed down the ladder. Seconds later, he joined her on the ground. They hiked back to his pickup in silence.
Her mind churning, Kate wondered how well Butch had gotten to know some of Joe’s “interesting” patrons, if he had ever been involved in any of Joe’s jobs, and if those artifacts Claire found in the safe were from Dick Webber’s land.
Butch held the passenger door open for her.
“Thanks for the tour,” she said and climbed into the cab.
“Tomorrow, I have an appointment in Tucson. But if you’d like, we can go out again Friday morning.”
Was his appointment with his lawyer?
“Friday sounds great.” This time, she’d don boots, a pair of jeans, and bug spray.
“Great.” He shut her door and came around, slipping behind the wheel. “We’ll start the tour with the house where your sister got shot.”
* * *
“If you two are going to start talking about women again, I need a drink,” Claire said, dropping to the ground beside Manny’s lawn chair.
Chester handed her a cold bottle of hard lemonade, still dripping from the slushy mix of ice and water in the bottom of the cooler.
She twisted off the bottle cap and washed the inside of her throat with the bittersweet alcohol, then held the bottle against her cheek. Sweat soaked her body, from the rim of her Mighty Mouse cap to the toes of her filthy socks.
If only those dark clouds to the east were drifting her way instead of hovering over the Tres Dedos Mountains. The afternoon heat had eased slightly as the thunderstorm cruised by, but the sun had served up a plate of extra hot rays today, and nothing short of an arctic front was going to break the heat’s chokehold on the land.
Chester belched. “The fence looks good, girl. You may have a nose for trouble, but you have the hands of a carpenter.”
“Si, bonita.” Manny lowered the binoculars and smiled at her. “You can’t even tell an idiot backed into it this morning, especially since you added that coat of paint.”
“Good.” Claire took off her cap and shook her damp hair doggy-style. Fixing the fence had been bad enough in the blistering sunshine, but restacking ten-plus cords of wood had her daydreaming about lynch mobs. She wished she’d nabbed the asshole driver before he’d happy-trailed on out of the R.V. park.
The sound of shoes crunching on the drive snared her attention. Tossing her hat on the ground, Claire shielded her eyes at the sight of a pair of ladies approaching in matching red tennis shoes, blue knee-length shorts, and white shirts. Their silver curls gleamed under their identical navy visors.
Claire wondered if the other members of the Fourth-of-July parade float knew these two had escaped.
Each carried one plastic bag from the General Store. The woman on the left batted her eyelashes behind her rose-colored sunglasses. “Hi, Chester.”
With a grunt, Chester struggled up from his chair and took the woman’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Milly.” He kissed her wrist.
“I’m Tilly.” The lady giggled.
Chuckling, Chester winked. “I mean, Tilly.” He turned to the twin. “Hi, Milly. No hard feelings, I hope.”
Milly crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a “hrumph!”
“Buenos dias, Señoritas.” Manny’s voice was thick with his Julio Iglesias brand of charm. He hovered next to Cheste
r. “My name is Manuel.”
Tilly’s smile widened. “So you’re Manny. Chester mentioned you last night. It’s nice to meet you, isn’t it, Milly?” She elbowed her pinched-faced sister.
Milly’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’re a two-timer too.”
Manny’s smile wobbled at the corners. “Uh, no. One woman is all I need.”
Right, Claire thought. Make that one woman per hour. According to Gramps, Manny held the record for the most dates in one night. Claire couldn’t remember the details, but it had something to do with Dallas, a Mary Kay convention, and a naked bowling tournament. Or did Manny get kicked out for getting naked at the tournament?
Milly grabbed her sister by the arm. “Come on, Tilly. My marshmallows are melting.”
As Milly dragged her sister away, Tilly blew Chester kisses and waved at Manny.
“I’d like to melt her marshmallows again myself,” Chester said under his breath.
Manny whirled on Chester as soon as the girls were out of earshot. “Dios, mio. Please tell me you didn’t sleep with Rebecca’s friends.”
“I didn’t.” Chester dropped into his lawn chair. The cooler lid creaked as he grabbed another beer. “I just had sex with ‘em.”
Claire cringed and chugged more hard lemonade to wash away the image of those two and Chester.
Manny rattled out a string of curses in Spanish. “I told you to talk to them, find out what kind of men Rebecca dates. Not play house with them.”
“Hey, I can’t help it that women find me irresistible.”
“What did you do to piss off Milly?” Claire asked.
Chester reddened slightly. “Nothing. We just played a little game of peek-a-boo on the couch, and then she went to the laundromat to get her clothes from the dryer.”
Claire didn’t buy his act. “So why does she want to string you up by your testicles and bat you around like a piñata?”
Chester smiled from ear to ear. “Tilly came home while she was gone.”
Smacking his forehead, Manny said, “Don’t tell me you used the same couch.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault. I offered Tilly some gin and platonic, but she insisted on a little scotch and sofa.”
“Let me guess.” Claire sat forward. “Milly walked in and caught Tilly and you doing the Poke-a-dance.”
Straight-faced, Chester and Manny both stared at her, not even the hint of a grin on their lips.
“What?” Claire chuckled at her own wit. “Come on, you two. That was funny.”
“No, that was just plain lame, Claire,” Chester said.
“Is that the best you can do, chica? Your grandfather would be so disappointed.”
“Speaking of Gramps.” Claire pointed at Gramps, who was striding toward them with her mother hot on his heels.
Deborah was still wearing those ugly red boots. Gramps was wearing an even uglier frown.
“Uh, oh.” Manny lowered back into his chair.
Chester murmured, “Who popped his balloon?”
Gramps stopped in front of Claire, glaring down at her. “Is this what you call working? Lazing on your butt in the shade, drinking beer? What do you think Ruby pays you to do all day?”
Claire sat there in stunned silence, her chin hitting the ground. She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d nested in front of her and squeezed a golden egg out of his ass.
“Really, Claire.” Deborah joined Gramps’s choir. “If I didn’t already know, I’d never even guess there was a girl under all of that dirt. You’ll never get a gentleman smelling like that. Oh, my God, is that stubble on your legs?”
Claire sniffed her pits, making sure her deodorant was still fighting the battle. Maybe she still stunk like skunk juice after all.
“Cut her some slack, Deborah.” Chester defended Claire. “She’ll wash up before Mac gets back from Tucson. Besides, some men like their women a little hairy. It adds friction, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows at Claire’s mom.
While Claire appreciated Chester’s attempts to help, the wide-eyed, horrified expression on her mother’s face confirmed that he’d only made matters worse.
Ignoring her mother’s criticism, Claire frowned up at Gramps. “What in the hell is your problem? You know I spent all afternoon restacking a shitload of wood and mending that damned fence. And while I appreciate that Ruby is helping me out financially, I’m not exactly making union wages here.”
Gramps yanked three envelopes from his back pocket. “These are my problem.” He tossed them at her. “How long have you known about these? And why in the hell didn’t you tell me about them?”
Staring down at the envelopes in her lap, Claire played the clueless card. “What are these?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Gramps reached down and flipped over the top envelope. “You’re the only one I know who draws reading glasses on her smiley faces and rabbit ears on her hearts.”
Claire saw the doodles she’d made while talking on the phone to Mac. “Shit.”
“Where did you find these?” Claire looked up to find Manny and Chester both leaning down to see what she was holding. She flipped the envelopes over so they couldn’t see Leo M. Scott’s name, or the letters spelling Attorney at Law.
“Your mother found them on the bar in the rec room.”
Claire fell back onto the crispy grass and stared up at the cobalt sky, wishing the U.S.S. Enterprise would beam her up now. Ruby and Mac were going to kill her for leaving the letters out. She’d forgotten all about them when she’d heard that damned toilet was overflowing again.
“Well?” Gramps prompted, bending over her, his head blocking out the sun.
“Did you read them?”
He nodded.
“Then you know as much as I do.” That was almost the truth.
“Bullshit!” Gramps squatted, his face close enough for her to see the vein pulsing under his right eye. “Claire, I swear, if you don’t cough up the truth right now, I’ll …”
“What?” Claire sat upright so fast they almost knocked foreheads. “What are you going to do? Ground me? Give me a time out? Send me to my room?”
“Maybe.”
“Here’s a novel idea.” She pushed to her feet. “Why don’t you ask your fiancée about the letters?”
“I’m telling you, Dad. This is just the tip of the iceberg. If Ruby’s been hiding these letters from you, what else will come out as soon as you slip that ring on her finger?”
Claire reeled on her mother. “You need to keep your big mouth shut! This is none of your business. This is between Gramps and Ruby.”
Deborah’s cheeks turned a mottled pink at Claire’s words. “How dare you speak to me like that, Claire Alice!”
“How dare you speak to your father like that, Deborah Marie!” Claire shot back.
“Claire.” Gramps warned, his tone tired. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I appreciate your help, but you shouldn’t talk to your mother that way.”
“Fine!” Claire scooped up her hat and slammed it on her head. “From here on out, I’m done speaking to both of you.”
With a nod to the boys, she grabbed another full bottle from the cooler, and strode away, heading for the hills.
Or maybe just the shower.
* * *
An hour later, Claire’s temper still smoldered as she minded the store for Ruby.
“Claire, Mac’s on the phone,” Gramps called from the kitchen.
“I’ll take it in the rec room,” Claire yelled back, turning to Jess. “Will you watch the store?”
“For a dollar.”
Claire growled in her throat, but agreed with a nod.
Jess hopped on the stool behind the counter and proceeded to blow grape-scented bubbles while perusing the latest teeny-bop magazine.
On the other side of the curtain, Gramps stood at the bar, holding the cordless phone toward her.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”
“I’m not.” She grabbed th
e phone. “Starting right now.”
He snickered as he disappeared through the curtain.
“Hey, Slugger.” Mac’s voice sounded slightly tinny through the receiver. “Why aren’t you talking to Harley?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Does it have anything to do with why he asked me what I know about Leo Scott?”
Claire’s shoulders scrunched as she braced herself for Mac’s anger at her stupidity. “Yes. I accidentally left those letters out on the bar yesterday and Mom found them.”
Silence pulsed through the line for several seconds. “And I’m sure Deborah wasted no time showing them to Harley.”
“She waited until she could catch him alone—after Ruby left for Yuccaville and Jess was busy minding the store.”
Mac sighed. “Damn.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You’re not to blame for this mess, Claire. We both know Ruby should have told Harley about this as soon as she got that first letter. If only she wasn’t so damned stubborn. Has Harley confronted her?”
“No, she’s not home yet. But he made sure to roast my ass over the coals until it got good and crispy.”
“Is that why you’re not talking to him?”
“Something like that. Are you sure you can’t get off work a day early and come whisk me away from here?”
“I have a lunch meeting on Friday.”
Claire grabbed a can of soda from the mini-fridge Ruby kept behind the bar. She cracked it open and slid down the wall, stretching her tired legs out in front of her.
“Have you found out anything more about the mine?” She kept her voice low, just in case Gramps or Jess had their ears pressed to the curtain.
“Yes, but it opens a door I thought I’d closed.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ruby isn’t the first owner to have someone use the courts to try to steal the Lucky Monk away. Fifty years ago, the Copper Snake Mining Company alleged that the mine belonged to them, stating that the then-current owner, Levi Taylor, had a forged copy of the claim and they had the original. Unfortunately for them, Levi fought the litigation all the way to the state supreme court, proving in the end that the mining claim was given to him as a form of compensation from the previous owner—an old miner who seemed to have an addiction to poker chips.”
