Arizona Homecoming

by Pamela Tracy

  Donovan shifted his focus back to the phone. Three emails waited for him. One was from an electrician he’d worked with a year ago. The man wanted a job. Donovan responded with a sorry and if anything comes up, I’ll let you know. Another was from a man looking for someone to build a tree house for his son. Donovan emailed that he was booked for two years but could recommend another builder. The last was from Olivia. It had been over a month since her last text. He opened her missive and studied the photo of her posed on a beach in Aruba. A man stood beside her. The sun was behind them, the waves curving.

  Olivia didn’t include text. Her message was clear: here’s what you’re missing. Smiling, hoping the ground didn’t open up and swallow him, Donovan bowed his head. Thank You, Father. Thank You for bringing me to this place, letting me see what I was missing and putting me back in the company of sane people. Amen.

  Immediately after saying amen, he wondered just how long those sane people would remain his friends should he take Tucker up on his offer.

  Distant laughter echoed. A horse whinnied and then came laughter. Picking up his book, Donovan headed back inside the cabin and looked at the Lost Dutchman Ranch notebook on his dresser. There was a morning ride, supposedly leaving at five thirty. Judging by the laughter, it was still in the prep stage. All he really needed were his socks and shoes, which he quickly tugged on before heading back outside. When he rounded the corner of the barn, Jacob was starting down the trail with seven people following him. Emily was number seven.

  “Got room for one more?” he shouted.

  She reined her horse, nodding to her father, and turned back to him.

  “You know how to ride?”

  “Do you know how to tell a story?”

  She smiled, still looking a bit sleepy eyed. This morning she wore an old DC Talk T-shirt and jeans. Her boots were brown and worn. Her hair, in a ponytail, swayed slightly as she dismounted and looked him up and down.

  “Been a while?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you rate yourself highly experienced, average or low?”

  No way did he want to rate himself average in front of Emily Hubrecht. “I’m experienced.”

  “Had horses on that Nebraska farm?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave him Cinderella.

  “I like her,” Donovan said, stroking the brown nose all the way up to the white square on the horse’s forehead. Some would call it a star, but Donovan figured if it was a star, then it had been stepped on. “Is she the one with focus issues?”

  “Don’t get too relaxed,” she warned him.

  Together they saddled Cinderella and then both nudged their horses to a trot in order to catch up with Jacob, who was well out of sight.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask—” Donovan angled his horse so he was next to Emily and her horse “—have the police spoken with your father any more? They’ve not contacted me with questions in over a week.”

  “Elise says that with no witness to the possible crime and no fingerprints on the knife, there’s nothing that can be done.”

  “Your dad’s probably relieved.”

  She looked ahead of him, at the distant curving line of horses, acting a little more withdrawn than she had yesterday. “He is. We all are. But, the skeleton belongs to somebody’s son, brother, father, husband. We don’t know. That means there’s someone else out there who doesn’t know.”

  “With DNA sampling, it’s likely we’ll have a name soon enough.”

  She shook her head. “Only on television. In real life, it could be years before our skeleton gets tested. Then, too, we don’t know if anyone from his family has ever had their DNA taken. Often, especially with children or those who have no family members who’ve served in the military, you get a DNA profile, but there is no match.”

  She was just as good at talking dead bodies as she was telling stories about corn maidens or pointing out history in her museum.

  They caught up with the other riders and easily took the rear position. Jilly Greenhouse rode ahead closer to Jacob, who was explaining, “In the winter, we take longer rides. I’ve gone on all-day outings that took us from the ponderosa pines to the desert and saguaro cactus. We don’t do that in June.”

  Donovan studied the landscape. He’d gone on only a few escorted trail rides, usually with buyers who wanted to see their purchasing options. He’d never been impressed because he’d always felt that the horses, following the same dirt trail day after day, were moving in rote. The guides, too, although some were better than others.

  Not so with Jacob Hubrecht. The dirt underneath the horses was a path for only the first fifteen minutes. Then, it was a mixture of grass, dirt and sand, whichever way Jacob or even one of the guests decided to go. Jacob was a natural guide, pointing out flora and fauna—juniper, piñon pine and manzanita—as well as animals. Rabbits seemed the most common but about an hour into the ride, they stumbled across three mule deer.

  They came to a shady spot with a downed tree that someone had chopped so it acted more like a bench than anything else. Jacob nodded at Emily and they dismounted, helped the inexperienced riders down, and then took a break.

  Jacob gave everyone bottled water, and Emily handed out fruit and crackers. Two teenagers took off exploring. Their parents did the same. Donovan figured they were really keeping their kids in sight. Jilly and the other rider stayed close to Jacob. Donovan watched as the man, who he figured was an advanced beginner when it came to sitting a horse, asked questions and wrote things down in a small spiral notebook.

  “I think he’s a writer,” Emily shared, sitting on the log with Donovan and opening her bottled water. “We get quite a few. I guess in the romance world, cowboys are pretty popular.”

  Donovan might be willing to put on a cowboy hat if Emily were willing to get a little closer.

  “He doesn’t look like a romance writer,” Donovan observed.

  “No, he’s probably true crime or maybe even into the whole Jacob Waltz legend.”

  “You get a lot of people asking about Waltz?”

  “Yes, because my dad named the ranch after the legend.”

  They both watched for a few minutes as Emily’s dad told some story with lots of hand movements and Jilly butted in every once in a while. Jacob didn’t seem to mind.

  Looking away from them, Emily focused on Donovan and said, “You’re not a bad rider. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

  “I had my own horse growing up. Risky Business. I think my dad gave him to me when I was about four. I rode him almost every day until I turned sixteen.”

  “Then you weren’t interested anymore?”

  “No, I was still interested. I rode him three or four times a week, but I wanted to play baseball and go to town more often. Then, Risky developed laminitis.”

  “Did you put him down?”

  “My father did. We didn’t have extra money, and he’d been thinking about the upkeep. The horse was old when given to me. I remember my dad saying he had a good life.”

  She seemed to soften toward him a bit. For a moment, he thought she might reach out, touch his hand. He’d have liked that.

  “Growing up on a dairy farm must have been hard.”

  “I can’t imagine anything that requires more time and energy,” he agreed. “It wasn’t the life for me. Not only do I not want to be tied down, but at heart I’m a city boy.”

  Maybe he imagined it, but when Emily Hubrecht nodded as if understanding what he meant, she looked a little sad.

  And he’d made her feel that way again.

  * * *

  Emily’s dad was still talking. This two-hour ride might turn into three, but none of the riders seemed to care. Especially Jilly, who opened a bottled water and held it out to Jacob, making sure he drank some.


  Looking at Donovan, Emily figured she might as well kill some time. She was stuck with him for about a month and a half, and then the city boy would no longer be tied down to Apache Creek.

  “How did you get into building?”

  “I already told you about the tree house my dad and I built, the one that fell apart.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Probably eight or nine. I didn’t build another until my third year of college. I knew then that I’d be majoring in architecture. I went home with one of my roommates. He lived on a farm, too, in Melbourne, Iowa, except his place was crops only. I got paid as a field hand, and in our spare hours, he and I built his little brother a tree house that was so much more.”

  She knew the details because his best friend now kept a blog. She’d actually found a copy of the newspaper article that showed the elaborate tree house.

  “After that, Keith and I did two more, this time for pay, in the same small town. If I’d have been smarter, I’d have finished college and started my own small business right then. But I thought that working for someone established and building custom homes and businesses would pay more.”

  “Does it?” Emily asked. “Because I found a photo on the web of a tree house you built in Burlington, Iowa, just five years ago, and it looked expensive.”

  “It was, for a tree house, but tree houses don’t take nearly as long as real houses. I’d make up the cost by sheer number of projects. Plus, I’d never get bored.”

  “I’m rarely bored. There’s always something to do here.”

  “I believe you, but will you feel the same in ten years when you realize that you’ll live and die where you’ve always lived, seldom seeing how others lived?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “My dad was born and raised in the house he still lives in. He’s been to Iowa and Illinois. Both times because a close relative passed away. I don’t mind hard work. Matter of fact, my dad taught me its value. But, it’s so much more satisfying to have fun while you’re working hard.”

  “So, to you, building the Baer house was fun.”

  She felt some satisfaction when he took a moment to answer. “Many years ago, I signed on as designer and project manager for a company that built one-of-a-kind custom homes. They were up-and-coming. They hired me on because I told them I’d like to build homes that had tree houses connected to them. Within six months, I joined as a partner. It didn’t mean a raise in pay. The two brothers who started the company were just a little older than me, dreamers, and they’d sunk all their money into it. I knew it was a risk, but, Emily, if it had taken off...”

  It was truly the first time she’d seen him this passionate. “What was the company’s name?” She’d found no mention of it online.

  “Brewster and Brewster. Then, Brewster and Russell. They were trying hard to get a network interested in following one of us as we built a unique home, one meant for families to live in and enjoy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Plain and simple, we went bankrupt. I lost everything.”

  Emily couldn’t imagine losing everything. Part of her wasn’t even sure what everything might be. Probably the worst scenario would be the Lost Dutchman Ranch, but with her father and Eva’s leadership, the place was doing better than ever, even in the summer. And, really, it was a place. What made it special was the people.

  Kinda like church.

  She could lose her museum job. She always worried about that. Unlike Donovan, though, she’d not be heartbroken over lack of funds, because she had the ranch and her storytelling. Well, if the museum closed down, she’d be heartbroken over the loss of history, both current and what she could add in the future.

  “So,” she said, “how did you wind up with Tate Luxury Homes?”

  “Isn’t it about time to start riding again?” He stood, finishing the last of his water and looking around. Emily stood, too. The reporter was sitting, leaning against the tree and writing all by himself. Her dad and Jilly were walking together, following the path the family had taken.

  Emily and Donovan were pretty much alone.

  “That’s one of the great things about the Lost Dutchman Ranch,” Emily said. “We’ve schedules, but they’re not so strict that they cannot be deviated from.”

  “You’re blessed.”

  “If you don’t want to discuss working for Tate, you don’t have to. I’m just curious.”

  He walked back to Cinderella, a bit slowly, which gave her an opportunity to change the subject.

  “It’s been a while since you’ve ridden.”

  “Quite a while.” He stuck the empty water bottle in the saddle pack. “I like Cinderella. Which horse are you on?”

  “This is Snow White. She’s a registered Arab quarter horse. I’ve had her since I was four.”

  “Which makes her?

  “Old enough to know better than share her age.”

  Donovan half smirked. “I think you’re between twenty-five and thirty.”

  “Thirty!”

  “Aww, closer to twenty-five. I’m thirty-four.”

  She already knew that. His information was on the Tate Luxury Home website.

  He looked her up and down. “You went to school, and even got a master’s, which means you probably didn’t leave academia until you were twenty-six. You’ve already stated that you can’t imagine living anywhere else. I know you’ve been here two years because the museum’s website says when you were hired. That makes you twenty-eight.”

  “You’re right.”

  In the distance, Jilly laughed, an echoing sound soon joined by her father’s baritone. Emily spun around and muttered, “You may be right about those two, also.”

  “They seem to get along, have the same interests,” Donovan observed.

  “She’s nothing like my mother.”

  “Your mother’s the one in the portrait above the entrance to the main dining room. Right?”

  “I was four in that portrait, just turned.”

  “So, that’s one of the last family portraits?”

  “It was the very last. She died two months later from a very aggressive form of cancer.”

  “She must really have been something for your father to stay single all these years. It’s been twenty-four years.”

  Emily hadn’t really thought about that. There’d been a time, very brief, when her father had taken Jane’s mother out. Patti de la Rosa had been single, with a daughter—who happened to be Eva’s best friend. What Emily remembered was Patti stepping in when they needed costumes for school pageants and such. Jacob had a habit of hiring his buddies to work the ranch. Both Cook and Harold Mull, their head wrangler and foreman, were ex-rodeo buddies. Often, the hands they hired were sons of Jacob’s friends or troubled youth.

  Their dad was even known to hire an ex-con or two. If he knew their history and that a helping hand, a step up, might make a difference.

  None of the above knew how to sew an angel dress or make wings. Patti had stepped in. Pretty soon she was an employee.

  “Jilly does like horses,” Emily murmured to herself.

  Donovan nodded.

  “Nothing like my mother,” Emily repeated, this time trying to convince herself.

  “What was your mother like?” Donovan walked over and sat down beside her, this time sitting closer. She could feel his warmth, imagine the way his cheek would feel under her palm.

  “My mom was a lot like me—short, slender, brown skinned and strong.”

  “I could tell that from the portrait.”

  Emily thought for a moment before allowing, “Maybe. I’ve always thought I was a mixture.”

  Growing up, she’d often studied her sisters. It was true, Emily did look the most like Naomi. She’d gotten Na
omi’s height as well as her coloring and hair. But, where her mother was all angles, compact, what her dad called lithe, Emily was soft. She’d constantly battled the extra fifteen to twenty pounds that wanted to find a home on her not-so-slight frame. Elise was the daughter who’d inherited her mother’s athletic ability. She had climbed her first tree at three, had gone on two-hour-long trail rides at four and now could eat a large pizza by herself and not gain so much as an ounce.

  There were times that neither Eva nor Emily thought much of the middle child. It was called sibling rivalry.

  “I’m a fixer like her dad,” Emily said. “And the keeper of tales like my mother.”

  She had no memories of her mother’s voice, scent or even touch.

  All she had were the tales, nearly all of them secondhand. Eva had shared a few, what a twelve-year-old girl remembered. Things like going to the state fair and to movies. That was about all Emily really knew. Oh, there were a few vague memories of being at a swimming pool in shallow water and swimming toward a woman who was an arm’s length away. She also remembered sitting in the backseat of the car, kicking her feet and singing. Sometimes Emily imagined seeing a dark-haired woman turn and smile, but usually she accepted that that was what she wanted to remember, not an actual event.

  “You’ve seen the brown, orange and beige woven blanket we have on display in the lobby.”

  “The one in the big glass case?”

  “My mother made it. It’s the only one she kept. All the others she gave away. Dad said she’d have made one for each of us for our weddings, but one day she had a stomachache, the next day she went to the doctor and the same day she went into the hospital. After that, I remember going into their bedroom, my mom and dad’s, and seeing her lying there. All I remember is a white blanket and I could see her nose.”

  Donovan nodded but didn’t say anything.