Dreaming of a Hero (Heroes Series Book 2)

by Lyssa Layne

  No time like the present to clean the cabin.

  As he walked the stone path to the guest building, he noticed a pair of bright red cardinals on an outstretched arm of an ancient saguaro. One of the birds cocked its head Mike’s way, eyes bright with curiosity.

  At the door, Mike took a deep breath, and turned the key.

  Hurriedly, he lifted the mattress to take it outside to haul to the dump later. A crumpled legal-size envelope fell to the floor, and Mike dropped the mattress back on the bed springs, curious about the envelope. He picked it up and examined it. The address was to Gary James, Tortilla Flat, Arizona. Skeeter’s real name was Gary James? The return postmark was from Las Vegas, Nevada. The envelope was yellowed, almost fragile.

  Holding it for a moment, Mike took a deep breath before looking inside. A few pieces of paper slid into his waiting hands. A yellowed map with one jagged edge, torn in half, a black-and-white picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman holding a baby.

  Mike studied the map, and recognized several landmarks in the desert. But it was meaningless without the other half. He laid it aside and unfolded the single lined sheet. In large, curly handwriting, a woman named Carole told Skeeter she couldn’t wait any longer for him to come to his senses and return home to her and their daughter. They wanted him with them. Let her know what he decided.

  Carefully, Mike folded the yellowing paper and along with the aging photo, returned them to the envelope. Why had Skeeter had chosen the desert, rather than go back to a wife who apparently missed him? Stuffing the letter in his pocket, along with the map, Mike then put the clothes back in the bag. Would Carole James possibly still be listed in Las Vegas?

  He went to his office and Googled her number. In a matter of moments, the phone began ringing, connecting him to Carole James. What would he say? Did the woman on the other end even care about Skeeter anymore? While he waited, trying to decide how to begin, he took the map out of his pocket and laid it on his desk.

  ~*~

  Mallory James dropped her purse, keys, and heavy satchel on the table by the door just as the phone began to ring. It was probably just another solicitor on the other end and she reached for it reluctantly. She recognized the Arizona area code but not the number. “Hello.”

  A cautious male voice on the other end asked, “Carole James?”

  “Who is this?” Mallory’s heart pinched at the sound of her mother’s name. She’d been dead a year, but her loss still hurt.

  “You don’t know me...my name is Mike Malone. I’m here at The Jumping Cholla Resort....”

  “I’m not interested in a vacation right now.” Mallory tapped her fingers on the bar. God, these salesmen were relentless.

  “I’m not selling anything,” the man on the other end said quickly, before she could hang up.

  “What, then?” Mallory knew she sounded rude but she was exhausted. She had a million papers to grade, not to mention a house to clean, groceries to buy, and laundry to do. All before classes on Monday.

  “Are you Carole James?” the man asked again.

  “No. What’s this about?” She sighed heavily. Maybe if she just heard him out, he’d go away.

  “Do you know how to reach her? Are you maybe related to a Gary James?” Mike Malone’s voice had a hesitant quality. Like he didn’t want to be talking to her any more than she wanted to be talking to him.

  Mallory’s knees went shaky and she fumbled for a bar stool behind her. Sinking back onto it, she asked, “Is this some kind of prank? Who are you?”

  “It’s no joke.”

  Mallory’s heart pounded like an out-of-sync drum. “Explain yourself.”

  “As I said, my name is Mike Malone. I own The Jumping Cholla guest ranch in Mesa, Arizona. A man named Skee– Gary James lived here. He died in one of my cabins. There’s a letter in his effects from a woman named Carole James in Las Vegas. On the off chance she was listed, I Googled her and got this number.”

  Her father was dead. This Mike, this stranger, kept talking, but Mallory didn’t hear a word he said. Somehow, she’d clung to the hope her dad would someday appear. Strolling into the house, dropping his dusty fedora on the table by the door, picking her up and swinging her around. He lingered in her memory, frozen in time. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him any other way but the young, handsome man who’d left for work one day and never came back. Never mind that twenty-two years had passed since he’d left both five-year-old Mallory and her mother with no explanation. To her knowledge, he’d never written or called once in all those years.

  “Are you there?”

  Mallory coughed to cover the tears in her voice. “Yes. Please continue.”

  “Who am I talking to? Look, I really need to speak to Carole James. Maybe I could call back at another time.”

  Mallory forced back the sob that rose in her throat. “She’s deceased.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you someone who might know how to reach Skee– er, Gary’s family?”

  “He was my father,” Mallory replied softly.

  A long silence stretched over the wire. Then Mike said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

  “You didn’t know? He didn’t...mention my mom? Or me?” Mallory twirled a piece of her dark curly hair between her fingers, a habit she fell back on when nervous or upset.

  “We weren’t close,” the man replied kindly. “Your dad was a hermit. No one really knew him, far as I know.”

  “I see.” She didn’t really. Hadn’t her dad been attached to anyone? Why had he shut out the whole world to live in exile in the Arizona desert? She’d never have the chance to find out. A hot wave of unexpected grief caught her. She blinked back tears, and swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted desperately to hang up. “Is there anything else?”

  “Uh, actually, well yeah. The body, Skeeter, he was taken to the morgue. About funeral arrangements....”

  “Oh. Of course.” Mallory felt stupid. This man had called to hand over the responsibility of burying a man she barely remembered. “I think I better come down there. You’re in Mesa? That’s a suburb of Phoenix, right? And you own a guest ranch? Do you have accommodations available? Never mind. I imagine you’re very busy right at this time of year. I’ll get a hotel in town.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here. We’re not crowded right now.” A touch of something—irony?—filled his voice. “Call me back with your flight information, and I’ll pick you up at Sky Harbor.”

  “That’s very generous, but unnecessary. I don’t want to impose, Mr…..I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.” Hot tears burned in her throat. All she wanted was to hang up and cry.

  “It’s Malone, but call me Mike. And I want to help.” He sounded so sincere she wanted to trust him.

  “That’s very kind,” she murmured.

  He seemed to sense her hesitation. “Look, you can check me out on the ’net. Mike Malone, Jumping Cholla guest ranch. Or call Deputy Tim Burkhardt at the Mesa sheriff’s office, he’ll vouch for me.”

  “If you’re certain—”

  “It’s the least I can do, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  They talked for a few more minutes finalizing plans, then hung up.

  For a long time after Mike Malone’s call, Mallory simply sat and stared at the phone. Grief stabbed her, although for the man she barely knew or her own lost dreams, she couldn’t say. She’d never have the chance to tell her dad how much she missed him, how much he meant to her, how she’d wanted to be just like him, or how mad she was at him. But most of all she wouldn’t have the chance to tell him how much she still loved him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mallory found Mike Malone easily. His picture on the website hadn’t done him justice. Tall, blond, well-built, and wearing a bright red and white Arizona Cardinals windbreaker, he was hard to miss. She grinned as two women went by and did an obvious double take.

  She approached him. “Mr. Malone?”

  He held out a big hand. �
��Call me Mike. And you’re Miss James?”

  She nodded, suddenly overly conscious of her rumpled appearance. She hadn’t taken time to apply makeup and her unruly mop of hair probably needed a comb. It usually did. Her black-rimmed glasses rested halfway down her nose. “I’m Mallory.”

  His warm hand enveloped hers for a moment. She resisted the urge to leave it there. “Do you have more stuff?”

  Mallory took her hand back and nodded. “A little bit. I didn’t know if it was hot here, or not. Sometimes it gets cold in Vegas . . .”

  He headed for the conveyor belt. “Let’s pick it up then and head to the ranch.”

  “Do you have to pick up other guests?” Mallory glanced around as she walked at his side, but saw no one who looked like they were here for a week of R and R.

  “Just you.” He sounded angry.

  Surprised by his tone, Mallory only nodded.

  A few minutes later, they stowed her bags in the back of a new black SUV with The Jumping Cholla Resort painted across the door in gold letters. The interior smelled like an expensive pair of leather gloves she’d once owned. They quickly left Sky Harbor behind and merged onto I-10.

  Mallory leaned back into the luxurious seats and tried to relax. Although more tired than the night before, her nerves skipped, making her skin feel too tight.

  “Did you have any problems getting here?” Mike broke into her thoughts.

  Mallory jumped. “What? Oh, no. The flight was routine.”

  Silence stretched between them as he navigated the crowded streets. Mallory took in the view. Phoenix’s suburbs seemed similar to those of Vegas. A lot of mini malls, nice homes, golf courses. There were more palm trees in Phoenix, but the hovering cloud of ugly, black fog seemed the same. Even the horizon looked similar. Cactus covered foothills with large, expensive houses springing out of them at every turn. If her dad wanted a change of scenery, she didn’t know what had brought him here.

  “Have you visited Phoenix before?” Mike asked.

  “No.”

  “The city is growing by the day,” he continued, apparently not catching her reluctance to talk about it. “Snowbirds flock here by the hundreds of thousands every year. I grew up on a guest ranch right there.” He pointed to a cacti-covered lump. “Under Camelback Mountain. It’s a golf course now, surrounded by million-dollar homes.”

  “Have you ever lived anywhere else?” Mallory glanced at his profile. Strong nose, cheeks, and jaw defined his face. He shot a glance at her, his bright blue eyes piercing.

  “Only the U of A and the Cholla. Never wanted to be anywhere else.” His features settled into a hard line. “Nothing will ever force me off my land. They’ll bury me there.”

  Mallory’s tightened her lips. He sounded just like her father, a man her mother had always described as someone who put his own wishes first.

  She relaxed a little as they left the rush of Phoenix, then Mesa behind. The city streets gave way to Bush highway; two lanes of winding asphalt lined by a forest of cactus. Mostly cholla, but hundred-year-old saguaro and palo verde trees grew there, too. As a professor of Environmental Studies, she sometimes took her students into the field for research, but the Nevada desert wasn’t covered as thickly with cacti. It was open and far more barren. She didn’t see how anyone could make their way through this one.

  Her thoughts were diverted when Mike flipped on his blinker and slowed. He turned under a sign that said Welcome, Guests. Then under that, The Jumping Cholla, est. 1905. And, strangely, several hand-painted posters with messages stop destroying our desert! and earth murderer! strewn about.

  Mallory turned to ask Mike about them, but his jaw was set in such a hard line that she decided not to pry. They drove down a long, winding dirt lane that finally opened to an oasis. A large adobe lodge rose from the desert floor like a red sand castle on a beach. A quarter-acre or more of closely cropped emerald green grass circled the building. At the edge of the lawn, a pristine pool glistened in the morning sun. Several picnic tables and beach chairs, shaded with bright blue and yellow striped awnings, surrounded the aqua depths. Several smaller haciendas, a barn, and horse corral stood off a ways from the lodge.

  ~*~

  Mike pulled up to the front door of the main building 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 all his life, 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 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 to the main hall and crossed to the other side. “The library is right there. Feel free to use it.”

  He opened 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 t
he 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 and daring.”

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

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

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you Nobody.” Mike took her arm and guided her down another red gravel pathway to a barn and several corrals. Twenty 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.