Desert Heat

by D'Ann Lindun

  ~*~

  Mike pulled up to the front door of the lodge and parked. “This is it.”

  He retrieved her luggage from the back of the SUV, then led Mallory through heavy wooden doors. Their heels clicked eerily on the flagstone floor. She glanced around with a curious expression. He’d lived here for over ten years, and imagined what it would be like to see the ranch for the first time. Through an open doorway sat a game room with a pool table, several video games, three large couches, and a bar at one end. On the other side of the hall were the bathrooms. A little farther, to the right, a dining room was filled with gleaming oak tables.

  At the end of the hall, Mike paused before turning right. He went to the first door and opened it with a master key. He dug a room key out of his pocket and handed it to her. “I hope this is okay.”

  He watched as she walked in and looked around.

  Decorated in a sparse, Spanish-style, the room was meant to sooth jangled nerves and reduce stress. Her room faced a rock patio with a fountain in the middle, other suites directly adjacent from hers. Several strategically placed dark blue hammocks called out an open invitation to relax. Orange and red nasturtiums climbed the walls, a wall of glossy-leafed oleanders blocked the pool.

  Mallory turned and walked toward him. She moved like a desert deer, full of grace. He usually went for curvy blondes, but something about her dark eyes and curly brown hair caught and held his attention. The plain white tee and straight green skirt she wore flattered her tall, rail-thin frame and tanned skin. Pretty in a classical way, she intrigued him. A lot.

  Surprised at the direction his thoughts headed, Mike made an effort to rein them in. The last thing he needed was an involvement with anyone. He had to concentrate on saving The Cholla from the clutches of a group of environmentalists bent on running him out. Because the ranch sat on the banks of the Salt River, they wanted him gone. Although they had failed before, this time the judge had placed an injunction against the ranch’s operations until the next court date, sometime in June.

  Tired of his stubborn streak, and his refusal to give in, Elisha had left him. He hadn’t loved her for her vast family fortune, but when she left, she took the funding to fight the Salt River Protection League. He had enough to live on, to keep up the ranch, including the horses, but much more was out of the question. Fear gripped him—maybe the SRPL was going to beat him this time.

  “I’ll show you where I live.” Mike turned his thoughts away from his grim reality. They went back up to the main hall and crossed to the other side. “The library is right there. Feel free to use it.”

  He unlocked a door, stepping aside to allow her to enter first. A matching hunter-green sofa and chair rested under a bay window that overlooked the pool. The other end held a king-sized bed, two night stands, and a dresser. A TV, stereo, and a collection of CDs covered the dresser. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases took up one wall; an antique roll-top desk swamped with papers dominated the other.

  He moved in front of the desk, and blocked her view of the torn map laying there. “Welcome to my home, Miss James.”

  She glanced around with a puzzled look. “Where do you eat?”

  “I generally have meals with the staff in the dining room. Or at least I did.” Bitterness filled his voice.

  “Where did my dad stay? How could he afford this on a full-time basis?”

  He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Like he had done something wrong,

  instead of something nice. He didn’t know why he was reacting this way to a woman he barely knew. “I let Skeeter stay from time to time, when he needed a place, but he wasn’t around much.”

  “I see.” Her tone suggested she didn’t. “May I see where he . . . died?”

  They walked out, back past her room and down the hall. Going through a door, they came out at the far end of the building. Silently, they went side-by-side down a red gravel path lined with purple oleanders. Finally, the trail opened to a row of small adobe cabins. At the last one, again slipping the master key out of his pocket, Mike unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  With a glance at him, Mallory stepped inside.

  A strong antiseptic odor hit her nostrils. Styled much like hers, the room was empty except for a dresser, night stand, and lamp. There was no bed. Generic desert prints adorned the walls. If she hoped to find some essence of her father here, she was sadly disappointed. “Did he sleep on the floor?”

  “I had to burn the mattress. He laid there a long time.”

  His words cut her heart. “I see.” She took another step into the sterile room. “Did he have any possessions?”

  “Very little. What he had is here.” He indicated a green duffel bag. “Oh, and Nobody.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Skeeter’s little burro. I’ll show you.” He stood at the door, one hand on the knob.

  With a last look in the death chamber, Mallory backed out with her hands over her mouth. She uncovered her nose and sucked in several gasps of fresh, flower-scented air. “I didn’t expect this. I thought he would die on an archeological dig in the Sahara, like Indiana Jones or someone romantic.”

  “You okay?” Mike’s blue eyes were kind.

  She felt like she had been punched. “Yes.”

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Nobody.” Mike took her arm and guided her down another red gravel pathway to a barn and several corrals. Thirty horses stood either munching hay from large metal tubs or resting under loafing sheds, swishing their tails. An ugly little burro dozed. in a pen by himself.

  Mallory touched one long ear and the burro opened an eye. “This is Nobody?”

  “This is him,” Mike confirmed.

  Gently, she stroked the burro’s neck. “Hi, little guy. What are we going to do with you? I don’t have room for you at my house in Vegas.”

  “He can stay here if you want,” Mike offered. He patted the burro’s neck. “I kinda like having him around. And the guests’ kids will love him when they come back.”

  “I couldn’t possibly impose any further.” She slid her slender fingers over the burro’s soft nose.

  “It’s no trouble. Look, he’s used to it here. Trailering him to Las Vegas would be expensive, far more than he’s worth. I feed a lot of horses; one more small mouth isn’t going to make a difference. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do it.” Mike met her troubled gaze. “He’s earned a nice retirement. Let me provide it.”

  “Please let me pay his board. You’ve already done so much.”

  “Not a chance,” he said with a smile.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like to rest? Swim?” He glanced at a watch on his wrist. “It’s nearly noon. How about lunch, then a siesta?”

  “Please, Mr. Malone? Mike? I’m not on vacation. Don’t feel you need to wait on me. I’m sure you have guests who need looking after. I’m fine on my own.”

  His mouth tightened. “Haven’t you noticed, Miss James? You’re the sole visitor on The Cholla.” He waved a hand in a wide arc. “There’s not a single paying customer on the place. In fact, there’s virtually no one here. I have less than a skeleton staff on board.”

  “What?” She gaped at him. “Why on earth don’t you have tourists? This is a guest ranch? Isn’t this the busiest time of year for you? I thought it seemed slow, but I assumed everyone had a day off or something.”

  “Normally we should be at capacity right now.” He fought to keep the anger from his voice. “But I have legal issues which prevent me from operating until we get them untangled. So, you see, it wasn’t a hardship to have Skeeter stay here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Until I get a matter settled, I’m prohibited from running my business.” In spite of his effort not to let bitterness show, it filled his voice. “Thanks to a bunch of busybodies with nothing better to do than harass me, there isn’t a single guest on the premises.”

  “Then I shouldn’t be here,” Mallory sa
id, turning toward the lodge. “I’ll make other arrangements.”

  Mike grabbed her wrist and warmth spread through her. “Yes, you should stay here. I’m not allowed to have paying customers, but I can have a personal guest. God knows I need something, anything, to do to keep me from going crazy.”

  Although innocent, his words heated her insides. “Are you certain?”

  “Positive.” He let go of her. “Come on, let’s have lunch. You can leave after you eat.”

  She bit her lip as she decided. “Okay then. On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you tell me every single thing you know about my father.”

  ~*~

  Mallory leaned against the industrial-sized sink and watched Mike prepare two ham and cheese sandwiches. When he’d opened the huge, silver refrigerator, she’d seen enough food to feed fifty. Although she wanted to pry, find out what the group he mentioned could possibly hold over him to keep him from his work, she kept her questions to herself. Whatever had happened, it was none of her business.

  “We can eat on my patio, if you like,” he suggested, carrying both plates.

  They sat together, the February sun warm on their backs. Mallory eyed her plate appreciatively. Along with making sandwiches, he’d halved a cantaloupe, using it for a berry bowl. He’d also brought along a pitcher of iced tea and poured them both a glass. “This is lovely. If only this were just a vacation.”

  “I’m sorry for the reason, but you’re welcome to relax while you’re here,” Mike offered. “You’re more than welcome to use the pool, the horses, anything you like. Although, if you do decide to ride I have to ask you to stay out of the desert. You can go down the roads.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She bet his business ran very successfully if this was the way he treated paying customers. Although she did wonder why she couldn’t go to the desert. Taking a deep breath, she said, “What I’d really like is to hear about my dad.”

  He frowned. “What do you want to know?”

  “You apparently knew my father. That’s more than I can say. He left my mother and me when I was only five years old. We never heard a word again. My mother was frantic to find him. They hadn’t fought, had no problems to speak of, and wham, he just disappears without a trace. About six months later, we got one letter that said he needed time to figure some things out, but that was it. Not another word.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you.” A small frown played around his mouth, and she wondered about it. Didn’t he want to talk about her dad?

  “Anything. I would like to know the smallest details. When did he come here? How did he get here? What drew him to you?” In spite of her determination not to let her anger show, a tinge of old hurt spilled into her voice. She’d spent twenty-seven years trying not to let her father’s abandonment hurt, but it did. A lot.

  Mike shrugged. “There’s not much I can tell you. Our head wrangler came in from a trail ride one day a few years ago with the news that he’d seen an old man with a burro on one of the trails. That wasn’t earth-shattering news. The Cholla’s land is bordered by Tonto National Forest on three sides, and people often use the land to ride or to hike. What seemed different is that this guy—your dad—looked like an old-time prospector more than a casual tourist.”

  Mallory leaned forward, intrigued. “Then what happened?”

  “Nothing.” He stared into the distance as if he could see her father there. “We spotted Skeeter now and then, but he minded his own affairs, and so did we. He didn’t bother anyone so we left him alone. He came in once in a while to rest for a few days or bum a meal or two.”

  “When did you become acquainted?” She rested her chin in her palm. “And why do you call him Skeeter?”

  He looked at her. “I took a ride by myself one day and I found Skeeter—that’s what he called himself—digging Cholla thorns out of his hand. I offered to help, and though he declined, he began to talk.”

  “What did he tell you?” Mallory held her breath.

  “Not much,” Mike said. “He rambled on about the gold, but he never found any.”

  “What gold?” She leaned forward. Maybe this was what she was looking for. The reason her father had left her.

  “I had the impression he thought he was on to something,” Mike said with obvious reluctance. “But you have to understand, Skeeter was odd. He’d get excited about the smallest things. An arrowhead, a jackrabbit’s track.”

  “You didn’t believe him?” she pressed.

  Shrugging again, he looked uncomfortable. “There’s a million legends about lost gold in the Arizona desert, but rarely has any loot been found. Hundreds, maybe thousands have hunted for the famous Lost Dutchman mine with no success.”

  “I’ve heard of that one. It’s close by, isn’t it?” She was intrigued by the idea more than she cared to admit. Her father’s blood ran in her veins in spite of his absence.

  He nodded, then pointed to the purple and blue horizon. Those are the Superstition Mountains. Supposedly Jacob Waltz, the Dutchman, mined a fortune in gold out there, but died before he revealed the exact location.”

  “Is that what my father was looking for?” Anger boiled in her stomach. A myth had stolen her father from her?

  “I don’t know. Probably. Maybe.” He fiddled with his fork.

  “When did he first stay here?” She picked at the fruit, her appetite gone. Her father had abandoned his family and career to chase ghost mines across the Arizona desert? That hurt more than she cared to admit.

  “Many years ago. The head wrangler and he were friends. Skeeter and he would shoot the breeze for hours.”

  “And would you have allowed him to use the phone?” She knew the answer before he gave it to her.

  “Of course.” Mike avoided her gaze.

  Mallory didn’t press any more. Her throat was too tight to force another word out. Her dad could’ve called her, yet didn’t bother. Nothing to make a girl feel less than loved. She would not go down this road. She could not.

  “One of the wranglers bumped into him last fall,” Mike said. “Skeeter was sick, pneumonia, I think, and he needed to be inside, out of the weather. I invited him to stay until he felt better. He was reluctant, but he really needed medical attention and follow-up care. But as soon as Skeeter felt better, he went back to the desert. He was like a lizard or a desert rat, happiest alone out there. I got so I’d pick up supplies for him when I went to town. Once in a while he’d stick around for a day or two.”

  “And he was ill again this last time?” A pang tugged her heart. Sad that her own father didn’t have anyone to care for him. Mike Malone, a virtual stranger. Not his family.

  “Not to my knowledge. I think he was just worn out. He didn’t say anything.” Mike’s tone held regret.

  “He didn’t say much at all, did he?” Mallory didn’t try to disguise her anger this time.

  “I’m sorry,” Mike offered.

  “He never mentioned me or my mother?” Although Mike had already told her as much, she wanted to hear it again. Maybe if she heard it enough times she would believe it.

  A flash of pity crossed his face. “I’m sorry, no. I had no idea Skeeter had a family.”

  His pity made her want to scream. Or rant. Something, anything, to make all the sadness go away. “Apparently he forgot us altogether. Did he ever tell you what he had been doing for the last twenty-two years for money? He had to have some kind of income, some way to survive. Even a bum has to eat.”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “What about when you picked up supplies? How did he pay?” she pressed.

  “With cash.”

  “So he had to have some kind of work. But what?” Mallory shook her head, her glasses sliding down her nose. Absently, she pushed them back in place. “I wonder if I could find out more.”

  “What good is this going to do you?” Mike asked gently. “Unraveling your father’s past won’t bring him back.”

  “
You don’t understand,” Mallory said almost desperately. “If I find out who my dad was, maybe I’ll figure out some things about myself.”

  “Such as?”

  She glanced at the nearby mountains, unwilling to tell him she was exactly like her dad– unable to sustain a meaningful relationship for more than a short time. That she didn’t get close to people because they’d only leave her in the end. “How to stick around, I guess.”

  Chapter Three

  “I don’t want to trouble you,” Mallory insisted.

  “You’re not bothering me,” Mike said. “Trust me.”

  Uncomfortable with the warmth in his blue eyes, she changed the subject. “I need to make plans. I first thought I should take my dad home and bury him next to Mom. Instead, I made arrangements to have his body cremated. I need to find a place to scatter the ashes.”

  “I have an idea,” Mike said. “If you’re done eating I’ll show you.”

  Pushing away her food, Mallory said, “I’m ready.”

  After stowing their plates in the dishwasher, Mike led her back outside. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far.” He went to the SUV. “Get in and I’ll show you.”

  He drove the opposite direction of the ranch, down a twisting, narrow dirt road deep into the desert. In a few minutes, the lane opened up to a mesquite-shaded area. Mike turned off the engine and got out, motioning for Mallory to follow. He went to a low, falling-down adobe fence. “Come see this.”

  Together they walked to an ornate iron gate and went through. Mallory paused and glanced up. Intertwined among roses and vines was a cross, two arms broken off. She stepped inside and was surprised to find herself inside what must’ve been a garden at one time. She glanced around. There was no grass, no fountains or statues and only a single palo verde tree shaded one corner. A bright red cardinal flitted by. This spot was a perfect place for a desert rat. “What is this place?”