Gabe went to the casita door. So many better ways he could have handled the encounter, so many things he had to learn about managing people. Bugs he knew. The environment, he knew. But people often mystified him. Get real, Gabe. Nothing could have soothed Everett’s ire, short of firing Kate O’Shea. Since she’d only spoken—okay, shouted—the thoughts of most members of the guide team, no way could she be let go.
Gabe pulled his shoulders back and cracked his neck. His whole arm hurt. With luck Everett’s jaw felt worse. He moved to the door. “If you’re sure you’ll be okay, I’ll take off,” he said.
Madrone flashed him a big smile. “Better than you, bufón. Get outta here before I have to show you some real moves.” She feinted a punch in his direction.
With a grin, Gabe stooped, grabbed his backpack and headed off into the desert, eager to escape the scene of the crime where he’d again lost control of his temper, not so eager to leave this intriguing woman.
CHAPTER FOUR: Stolen Solitude
M adrone Hunter stepped outside the casita to watch Gabe head into the desert. She brought the fingers of her hand to her lips. He was one of the good guys. Smart, for sure. The trainees teasingly called him “The Prof,” because he’d last been a college professor and retained the habits of a teacher. Those habits would be great when he led tours. College-educated, nevertheless Gabe remained naive when it came to wily, street-smart people like Tripp. Either the two would make great partners and Adventure Calls would thrive or Gabe would quit in disgust over Tripp’s occasional shenanigans. She blew out a breath. Kismet. She enjoyed the job more now that Gabe was around, and not just because he was eye candy, although that didn’t hurt.
She went inside for the SAT phone and re-emerged. She trotted up the hillock to open ground, where she had better reception. She tried Tripp’s number but he didn’t answer. Driving, maybe. She left a page for him to call her. Tripp would concur with Gabe’s refusal to halt the scavenger hunt to mollify Everett Poulsen. But she was unsure if he’d agree to relocate their headquarters from the casita. She sighed. Moving would be a pain, doable, but time-consuming. The casita, with its generator-powered fridge and lights, was a convenience she hated to give up for a tent equipped only with a camp stove and coolers. Oh, well. If she’d learned nothing else in her twenty-nine years, it was that life doesn’t always dole out what you expect. You deal with it or you fail. She wasn’t about to fail, so she’d deal.
This whole initiation-slash-scavenger hunt was ridiculous. Surely there was a simpler, less dangerous way to test the readiness of the eco-guides. She hoped Gabe would convince Tripp to find a safer, saner training methodology. “Not your business, Madrone.” She’d gone through something similar when Tripp first hired her and had emerged with greater self-confidence and no harm. These new recruits would be fine. Holding the heavy phone at her side, she did a slow 360, absorbing the scent of acacia and letting the morning sun warm her skin and quiet her soul. Men and their easily-bruised egos, she didn’t need.
Not many would call her job ideal, with its low pay and the frequent need to soothe feathers ruffled by Tripp’s abrasiveness. But the perks of working outside and visiting incredible historical and geographical sites compensated. When she got her law degree and spent most of her days inside a courtroom, she’d miss spending more time outdoors than in. Of course, given her current income and the small amount she was able to save, finishing college and law school seemed distant. Especially now with Mateo’s addiction problems.
She wriggled her tight shoulders and headed inside. She liked that the refrigerator was a normal size, not one of those tiny under the counter boxes hotels used. It was, she knew, quite expensive because it had extra insulation to keep things fresh even when the generator wasn’t running. Which reminded her. She needed to start the generator. And tie back her hair before she pull-started that stubborn beast. She didn’t want to be known as the woman formerly with long hair.
She’d turned the generator off because it made too much noise for Tripp’s speech earlier that morning but she had become inured to its low roar. Sort of a white noise background, although she regretted that it drowned out the sounds of the desert—the white-wing and mourning doves calling to each other, the chitter of the quail, the cat-like sounds of the cactus wren, and at night, the coyote conversations.
A chill shuddered through her body. The coyotes, ever survivors, would learn to exploit Everett’s new development, dining well on stray kitties and Chihuahuas, but many other desert dwellers would lose out, their populations cut by half at least when the new homes were built.
After she finished stowing leftovers and washing dishes, she went outside, emptied the rinse water pan on a nearby desert-willow and sat down with a cup of coffee. She’d get to the generator later. For now, coffee, strong, black, and essential after three hours of sleep. She’d stayed too late at Tripp’s party last night and left early to arrive before the rest of the team. No regrets, though. It had been fun spending relaxed time with the team. Later, she’d take a nap.
If she didn’t have to relocate, she would look forward to the next twenty-four hours, alone for the most part, ready for emergencies that probably wouldn’t occur.
A cottontail rabbit hopped from behind a rock where a spiny lizard sunned himself, doing tiny push-ups. She splashed a little water into a dip in a nearby stone. Maybe the lizard or the rabbit or the dove would appreciate it. She settled back into the camp chair and let her eyes close.
Madrone jerked awake, slopping now-cool coffee out of her cup. Something out of synch with the desert sounds roused her. She remained quiet and listened. There. The crunch of boots on gravel. Or one helluva big coyote. Maybe a jaguar, up from Mexico? She stood.
She kept a folding snake stick and binoculars in a bag attached to her lounge chair. She extracted the binocs but before she could raise them to her eyes a man strode out of the brush that surrounded the clearing. Wimpy class of trainees, if they’re already coming back. Then she recognized the stride of the newcomer, silhouetted against the morning sun. Odd that she hadn’t heard his car, only his footsteps.
Now there was a reason for her snake stick! She returned to her seat. She’d be danged if she’d wait on Everett, even if she was a guest on his land.
He spoke as he neared her. “Hey, Madrone.”
“You’re back.” Her luck had soured. “The coffee’s still on the stove. Where’s Lorraine?”
“We have an office outside Benson. I dropped her off.” Everett brushed his hand across her shoulders as he passed her. An intimate gesture she didn’t appreciate, but so brief that voicing a complaint would be petty. Echh. The man believed himself privileged.
He returned with a filled mug, pulled another camp chair close, and sat. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t scare me. Just surprised me. If you’re checking up, I phoned Tripp but he didn’t answer. Left a page for him to call me.”
He smiled. “I got voicemail, too. That’s the Madrone I love. Efficient. Loyal.”
She forced herself to stay calm, to breathe normally. Why was he back? “I didn’t hear your car.”
“I can trek lightly.” He put his hand on her knee. “Seeing you last night and again this morning made me realize how much I’ve missed you. We had something good going.”
“What we had last year was a hook-up. A few weeks of—” She stopped. Giving their fling a name dignified something tawdry.
“It was good for me. Was it—”
“Don’t even go there, Everett. What we had is over. Truly over.”
“Pity.” He finished his coffee and stood. “I’ve got a much bigger . . . wallet than your friend Gabe. Left teaching to become a tour guide. Not much future. But a tainted past. Want to hear about it? ”
Madrone jumped up and stepped within four inches of Everett’s face. Tall and strong, she had no fear of the man. She stopped herself from spitting in his face. “I do not. Madre de Diós! It isn’t about the size of your
penis or your wallet. You are married. Not ‘separated’ as you told me last year. Even if you weren’t, I am not interested. We are over. So very over. You scratched an itch and the itch is gone. And Gabe’s past is his business, not mine.” How could she have seen anything remotely attractive in this slimy reptile? Regret tasted far more bitter than the coffee.
He smiled, as if pleased he’d gotten to her. “Watch your tongue, Madrone. A word from me and your job would be toast. Tripp and Gabe want their precious guides to have impeccable morals. You should take time to listen to my proposition.” He leaned forward to stroke her cheek. “Not telling them about your brother’s recent problems might cause them some concerns about your honesty.”
Madrone stilled. What did Everett know? Tripp had hinted that he was very close to Everett so he could get more dirt on the development. Could Everett really make her lose her job? She couldn’t let him know his threat scared her. She willed her face to show no expression. “I wonder what a word to your wife might do. No worries, though. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I cared.”
“Talking to Lorraine would not be wise. Listen, all I want is for you to keep your ears and eyes open. I’m not sure I trust Tripp and his new partner Gabe. I want to know what they’re up to here. It shouldn’t be hard for you of all people to pick up on it. A little pillow talk?”
Pendejo. Moron. A-hole. Madrone wished she’d never met him. She hoped one of the trainees would find something that stopped the development, caused Mr. Arrogant a load of problems and lots of his precious money. Decide to leave southeastern Arizona. In fact, if no one found anything, she’d head out on her own next week to see what she could discover. Not wise to threaten me, you pompous, pushy, pig.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. These people are my employers, my friends. I will not tell tales on them.” She turned toward the casita, her pleasure in the morning erased. “I have work to do.”
“So do I, chica. So do I. Just remember, I’m expecting to hear from you. I’m sure you’ll forget those ridiculous scruples to save your job. And possibly your baby brother’s future.”
CHAPTER FIVE: Illicit Encounter
G abe sucked water from the tube that ran from his Camelback pack. Ahh. Tepid but delicious, not to mention essential. What kind of ironic gods would let him die out here, now that he had some direction for his life? If his quest to prove himself in this new business venture ended up with him toast on the desert, he’d have certain proof life wasn’t fair. It also might irk Tripp, who no doubt deserved to be irked, but still. How would he prove himself to his father? And Madrone? Would she miss him?
To think he’d wondered at the necessity of lugging the huge, water-carrying backpack with him. So much to learn. No digging for a hidden spring here, as he had on occasion in Colorado. He’d be digging till he died of dehydration, even though those familiar with the desert could often find water in the ravines. He’d trust the Camelback.
April on the desert offered surprises to Colorado-bred Gabe. Tiny little purple flowers scattered the earth, almost like ground cover between blooming cacti. He stooped to sniff at a brilliant gold bloom and got a mix of tangy and sweet. Back home, snow, as likely as sunshine, swelled rivers teeming with cutthroat and brown trout. Here most riverbeds ran dry, but plant and animal life flourished.
The hillsides bloomed yellow: palo verde, brittlebush, some lingering Mexican poppies. Scattered with boulders and buckbrush, cholla and prickly pear cactus, the landscape here touched his soul. The stillness, the sheer vast openness of the desert calmed him. Contentment inched in, struggling to overcome his anxiety about proving himself.
Tripp had placed the hidden caches within a ten square mile boundary, some on Everett’s land, some on BLM land. Less than half the size of Mountain Shadows, if it ever became fully developed. Even if Everett’s touted plan for a development that “blended with the environs,” it would be a deadly assault, any way you looked at it.
He shook himself like a wet dog. Back to the present, to surviving Tripp’s orienteering challenge. His weeks in southeastern Arizona hadn’t yet acclimated him to its weather. April, my ass. Color him a hardboiled egg, cooked through. No, more like a hot dog left way too long on the grill. “Oh, suck it up, Gabe. It gets hot in Durango, too.”
Today he’d followed the map to two caches well-hidden by Tripp. He’d seen one other trainee, Kate O’Shea, the young woman who’d called Everett on his hypocrisy at the group’s party the previous night. So focused on her map and compass that she hadn’t seen him, she’d been no more than five hundred yards away. He almost called out, to make contact with another human in this barren expanse, but he remained quiet. He’d spent weeks in the wilderness alone in Colorado and Montana. Plus, he did not want to be alone with the beautiful young female guide.
The first cache he found contained a Payday candy bar, melted to a glob of goo and peanuts seeping from the wrapper. It also contained a small laminated card, fortunately not gooey, with a quote:
Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, and as vital to our lives as water and good bread. A civilization which destroys what little remains of the wild, the spare, the original, is cutting itself off from its origins and betraying the principle of civilization itself. Edward Abbey
As if he hadn’t read Desert Solitaire. One thing Tripp wasn’t, was subtle. How could he worry that Gabe wouldn’t join him in opposing Everett’s development? They’d certainly talked about it before signing the partnership papers. Guess Tripp enjoyed preaching to the choir.
The second cache held a packet of dried fruit and nuts and another quote: “We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come.” —Joseph Campbell
This one he liked. It sounded like encouragement from his new partner, who had concluded that a former college professor could become an entrepreneur. True, Gabe brought money and a wealth of environmental knowledge to the partnership, but also brought risk. Nice that Tripp trusted him.
The quotes seemed customized for him. What had Tripp come up with to challenge and encourage the other trainees? As demented as the scavenger hunt-slash-final exam seemed to Gabe, Tripp put a lot of thought into it.
The memory of his morning encounter with Everett Poulsen taunted him throughout the day like indigestion. No matter how pissed off he’d been, how could he have lost control that way? Was he like his brawling brothers? Like his father, who strode through life ready for a fight? No. He was the peaceable Ramsay, above petty scrapping. The middle child, between his older brothers and his younger sisters. What would Tripp say about Gabe’s loss of control? Tripp’s speech to the new guides this morning had made clear he wanted Mountain Shadows stopped, but his feelings about Everett himself remained a mystery.
He took a short siesta in the shade of a huge boulder during the heat of the afternoon. When he awoke, it took a while to orient himself. A symptom of heat exhaustion? “Naah, you’re half-asleep.” He took another couple of sips from the Camelback to wet his furry tongue, resettled his pack and started off again. The directions on his orienteering guide and map headed him across a dry, barren stretch of desert without even a desert-willow’s scant shade.
In training, Madrone had continually warned them all to make sure they drank enough water to make them sweat. What she didn’t mention was that in the heat of the day, that meant consuming a lot of liquid and that the sweat dried almost as soon as it exited his body. His hat protected his head, but at the same time it added to the stifling feeling that consumed him. Walking created a tiny breeze, a reason to keep moving in the heat.
Mirage lines appeared before the nearest hills. Easy to imagine a woman wandering out there on the plain in front of him, beckoning him closer. A siren? Leading him into what? Quicksand? The path of a puma?
One day out here and he was hallucinating. He shook his head. Stared again at the mirage, and realized that
indeed a woman strode toward him. No mirage.
Frances O’Shea, the oldest trainee and grandmother to outspoken Kate O’Shea, paced toward him. She gazed slowly all around her before she spoke. “I’m used to being alone, but this is one heck of a big living room.”
“And kitchen and bedroom and bathroom, too. Talk about your open floor plan.”
Frances chuckled.
When he first met Frances, he’d assumed the sturdy older woman would be a steadying, grandmotherly influence on the younger guides. Very soon he’d kissed that fantasy goodbye. Frances was mouthy, grouchy and unsympathetic. But she knew the Arizona wild country and its odd and well-adapted fauna by heart and could captivate listeners with her stories of early territorial history. Their clients would love her. She also exhibited fierce protectiveness of her granddaughter Kate.
Gabe approached Frances. “You know we’re breaking the rules by meeting and talking. Tripp catches us . . . ”
“Piffle on Tripp. I need to talk to you. I’m worried about Kate.”
Oh, crap. He so did not want to become Frances’s confidant and best friend forever. He couldn’t help her with her granddaughter. He could barely help himself. He wouldn’t mention he’d seen Kate. To forestall the dreaded conversation, he said, “Let me tell you what’s got me worried.” If the woman wrote him off as a self-centered toad, so be it. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to her concerns about Kate. “I have had this rotten ear worm since we left the casita this morning. It’s driving me nuts. He began to sing “Cool Water,” a song about a man lost in the desert searching for water.
Frances joined in, her alto strong and rich.
When they stopped, Gabe spoke. “Not such an original ear worm, I guess. But who sang it?”
“Who didn’t? Sons of the Pioneers, Marty Robbins, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams and even Joni Mitchell.”
“You’re a regular expert on it. Okay, is Dan the guy’s horse or his friend or what?”
Murder, Sonoran Style Page 2