by Ann Charles
“Take a deep breath,” Claire told the girl, whose face had turned a ghoulish shade of gray.
“Did you see that ... that,” the girl crinkled her little, upturned nose, “thing?”
“It’s just a dead rat.” After several frog dissections in Ecology —Introductory Biology, dead animals had dropped several levels on Claire’s Disgusting Shit scale. But maggots still reigned at the top.
“Here.” The girl shoved the tumbler toward Claire. “Ruby told me to give this to you.”
“What is it?” Claire asked as she took the cool, sweaty cup. She didn’t trust strangers offering drinks, especially teenagers. Besides, Gramps and Manny were not above practical jokes.
“Lemonade.” The redhead shot a dismayed look at the tool shed while brushing her hands on her pink cotton shirt.
Claire sniffed the liquid. It smelled like lemonade. She took a sip, tasting sweetened citrus, then gulped down half of it.
Hands in the pockets of her hip-hugger shorts, the girl squinted up at Claire. “Were you actually going to pick that thing up?”
Claire wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. “Maybe.”
“Are you some kind of freak who plays with dead animals?”
While most of Claire’s family considered her to be a few cherries short of a fruitcake, that didn’t mean she had to take any crap from this kid. She glared at the girl. “Who are you?”
“I’m Ruby’s kid.”
That explained the hair and freckles. “You have a name?”
“Jessica, but my friends and family call me Jess.” She batted her eyelashes and offered Claire a want-to-be-my-friend-too smile.
Claire stepped back. The last thing she needed was Ruby’s kid shadowing her. She was having enough trouble keeping her nose out of Ruby’s business as it was.
“Thanks for the lemonade, Jessica.” She handed back the tumbler. The hunt for the drill could wait. With a dismissive nod, she strode toward the fence she’d been working on all morning. If she was lucky, Ruby’s daughter would take the hint and go home.
Jessica jogged up beside her. “What are you doing?”
Claire didn’t slow her pace. “Working.”
“Did you come with one of those crazy old ladies?”
“Nope.”
“With one of the old dudes?”
“Yep.” Claire grabbed several nails from the pouch of her tool belt and bent over a cedar plank that straddled two sawhorses.
“Do you know the old dude with the tight car?”
Tight? Did that mean cool? Either way, Gramps was the only one with a car. “He’s my grandpa.”
“Sweet! Does he ever let you drive it?”
Claire nodded. She positioned a nail’s tip against the wood.
“You think he’d let me drive it?”
Sure, when Tyrannosaurus Rex roamed the Earth again. “Probably not.”
“Bummer. Ruby never lets me drive her truck, either. She never lets me do anything fun.”
Claire paused, the hammer raised. She’d have to be deaf to miss the undercurrent of animosity toward Ruby in Jessica’s voice, not to mention the fact that she kept calling her mom by her given name. Stay out of it, a voice in Claire’s head warned.
“Where’s your grandma?” Jessica asked.
“Dead.” That sounded a bit too harsh even to Claire’s ears. Maybe she should tone it down.
“Mine is, too.” The girl sounded excited, as if she and Claire shared the same birthday.
Claire sighed and pounded the nail until the head sat flush on the wood. Jessica wasn’t taking the hint. “Shouldn’t you be helping your mom with something?”
“Nah. I get on her nerves too much. How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“With those bags under your eyes, I’d guess forty.”
Claire drilled Jessica with a skin-shriveling glare, but the girl was too busy picking the pink polish off her thumbnail to notice. The reason Claire had “those bags” under her eyes was from tossing and turning on two inches of foam covering a rock-hard table.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jessica asked.
Criminy! Did this girl ever stop asking questions? Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t you have any friends to visit?”
“Nope.”
“School pals?”
“I’m not going to school right now.”
“Why not?”
“I got kicked out. Ruby keeps trying to ship me off to private school, but nobody will take me, so she’s stuck with me.”
That sounded downright fishy. “Why don’t you go to school around here?”
Jessica shrugged. “Ruby doesn’t think the school is good enough, so she’s home-schooling me for the rest of the year.”
No wonder Ruby needed help around the place. Jessica didn’t stop talking long enough to let a person think, let alone do any work.
“My dad lives in Ohio, up by Lake Erie.”
Claire raised an eyebrow. So, Jessica wasn’t Joe’s kid.
“I haven’t been there yet, but when he hears that I’ve been kicked out of school and Ruby doesn’t want me around, he’ll send for me. I just know it.”
Gramps was right, Claire thought. Trouble had found her soon enough, this time in the form of a lonely teenage girl. But Claire wasn’t in the mood for drama today. “Well, good luck with all that, Jessica.” If Jessica didn’t pick up on that dismissal, her head had to be full of marshmallows. Claire placed another nail against the cedar plank.
“You can call me Jess.”
Warning bells clanged in Claire’s skull. She’d just leaped from stranger to friend in record speed. “It’s been nice chatting with you, Jess.” She tried again to dismiss the girl.
“Ruby says Dad doesn’t want me around and I have to learn to accept that, but I think he’s just busy with work.”
Claire stared down at the grooves in the weathered-gray wood. The poor kid.
“When I’m eighteen, and Ruby doesn’t have control over me, I’m going to go stay with him for good.”
With a sigh, Claire set down the hammer and nails and looked at Jessica. The girl stared back, a determined glint in her eyes.
“When was the last time you talked to your dad?” Claire asked, lifting her hat and rubbing her forehead to see if she could feel the word SUCKER etched in her skin.
She hated it when Gramps was right.
* * *
Later that evening, Claire sat at the table in Gramps’s R.V. The five cards she was holding made up the shittiest hand she’d had all night. “What do you mean Art’s dead?” she asked, waving cigar smoke out of her face. She dropped her cards facedown on the orange tabletop and frowned at Gramps, who sat diagonally across from her.
Gramps plucked his cigar from his mouth. “I mean he’s pushing up daisies.” He log-rolled his ashes into the ashtray.
“He kicked the bucket,” Manny mumbled around the cigar he was lighting.
“Cashed in his chips,” added Chester Thomas, who sat on the bench seat next to her. He gulped down some beer and let out a window-rattling belch.
Claire cringed. Another one of Gramps’s old Army buddies, Chester had shown up for the boys’ Flesh Fiesta earlier that afternoon, parking his decrepit Winnebago Brave next to Gramps’s Chieftain. He’d been married four times, but never long enough to celebrate a one-year anniversary.
“Okay, I get it. He’s dead.” Claire said, wondering why in God’s name she’d ever agreed to sit in as Gramps’s partner for a few hands of Bid Euchre.
For the last hour, she’d been squished next to Chester, who kept noisily decompressing after eating a whole bowl of chili con carne for supper. All the while, Gramps repeatedly snapped at her for playing the wrong damned cards, and Manny told raunchy love stories from his glory days in the service. Thumbscrews would have been less agonizing.
“What I want to know is when did he die?” She glared at Gramps. “And how come you never told me about it?”
She hadn’t seen Art in years, but it seemed like just yesterday he was telling her about his daughter’s acclaimed peanut butter pie.
“Eight months ago,” Gramps answered, throwing a Jack of hearts on the table to lead the round, “and you never asked.”
“After his wife died,” Chester said, tossing a ten of hearts on top of Gramps’s card, “he just kind of withered up inside and out. When we were here last year, he couldn’t even focus on the game enough to remember what suit was trump thirty seconds after he’d called it.”
Gramps shook his head. “I knew he was a goner when he mentioned selling his collection of Wonder Woman comic books. He’d saved those from when he was still wet behind the ears.” He frowned as Claire laid an Ace of hearts over Chester’s card. “Now what’d you go and throw that out there for?”
Claire ignored him. She would be hoarse by now if she defended every card she’d played all evening.
“Ah, Wonder Woman.” Manny shuffled the cards around in his hand. “I’d like to have been the man who polished her brass b—”
“Manny!” Claire kicked him in the shin. “There’s a lady present, remember?” She picked up her own cigar and took a few puffs, savoring the flavor of tobacco mixed with a hint of spice.
“What? I was going to say her brass buckle.” Manny laid down the King of hearts. “I thought you quit smoking. Weren’t you wearing one of those nicotine patches earlier?”
Claire blew out a smoke ring. “Cigars don’t count.”
Besides, the patches did something to her brain that made her feel extra anxious, so she only wore them when the cravings really had her climbing walls.
“Art’s heartache is all the more reason to find a woman to keep my bed warm every night,” Chester said as he watched Gramps collect the cards piled on the table.
“You know there’s more to being married than just having someone around to warm your bed,” Claire said, setting her cigar down in an ashtray with Viva Las Vegas scrawled across the bottom. These guys didn’t seem to understand how dangerous marrying one of those Internet babes could be, especially without checking out more than just their backsides.
“What do you know about it?” Gramps asked. “You run like hell every time a guy asks you for a second date.”
Claire ignored his smug tone. “I’ve read a lot of books on the subject of relationships.”
“And I’m sure you’ve taken several classes on it, too.”
“As a matter of fact—”
Chester let out another earth-rumbling belch. “I’d like a woman who’s still flexible,” he said. “One who can bend like a pretzel. With my trick hip, I need someone who can do the work for me in the sack.”
Claire shuddered.
“Who cares if she can bend?” Manny leaned back into the plaid seat cushion, his eyes sparkling. “I want a woman with hips you can grab onto and ride into the sunset.” He sipped his beer. “Of course, she’ll also need a great set of chi-chis.”
“Did you guys forget that I’m sitting here?” Claire asked.
“A firm set of hooters is nice.” Gramps piped in. “But I need someone who can make me happy in and out of the bedroom. There’s nothing worse than a woman who only wants to talk about how many shoes she has in the closet.”
Manny grunted in agreement.
“You got that right, Harley,” Chester said. “Speaking of shoes, I saw a sweet piece of meat walking out of the laundry this afternoon in nothing but a short robe and a pair of cowboy boots.”
Claire rolled her eyes. Chester’s love for women in boots was no secret. He had a big red bumper sticker that read, Free Rides to Women Wearing Spurs, on the front of his Brave. “Women are not pieces of meat.”
“She’s right.”
“Thanks, Gramps.”
“They’re made of sugar and spice and everything nice,” he added, winking at Claire as he dealt another round of cards.
“I’d like to try a spoonful of your sugar, Bonita,” Manny said, making a growling noise in the back of his throat.
“Stay away from my granddaughter, Carrera,” Gramps ordered without looking up from his cards.
“Piece of meat or not,” Chester continued, “that cowgirl is coming over later tonight. I’m gonna put on some Sinatra, pour some wine down her throat, and then introduce her to Chester Junior and see where we end up.”
Much more of this talk and Claire knew where she’d end up—with her head hanging over the toilet bowl.
Gramps glanced at his watch. “Shit.” He shot Claire a frown. “You gotta go.”
“I do?” She blinked. “Where am I going?”
“Anywhere but here.” Gramps scrambled to his feet. “You guys hit the road, too,” he told Manny and Chester. “She’s gonna be here soon.”
She? Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “Who is she?”
“None of your business. This is our first date. The rules say you don’t get to see her until the third—and then only from a distance.”
“Fine.” Claire scooted across the cushion. A walk under the stars in the cool night air might numb her brain enough to stop all thoughts about old men having sex. “I’ll be back in an hour and a half.”
“Make it three.”
“What?” She stopped at the edge of the seat. “You said—”
“I know what I said, but this is different. I need time to show her how romantic I can be.”
“It’s already eight o’clock.”
“You’re right.” Gramps brushed the crumbs from the table onto the floor. “Make it midnight.”
“Is that when she turns back into a pumpkin?”
“Very funny, young lady. Now out.” He pointed at the door. “And take Henry with you.”
She glanced over to where Henry lay on the olive green couch. The beagle looked up when he heard his name. “I’m not taking your dog. He doesn’t like me.”
“He does, too. He’s just not good at showing his feelings.” Gramps yanked Henry’s leash from the peg next to the door and threw it at her. “I don’t need him here watching. It’ll give me stage fright.”
“What am I supposed to do until midnight? Count stars?”
Manny popped his head back in the doorway. “You can come over to my trailer.” His smile was X-rated. “I can keep you occupied for four hours, and I don’t care if the dog watches.”
Jeez! The guy must shoot Viagra straight into his bloodstream. She threw a pleading look at her grandfather. “Gramps—”
“I don’t care what you do, as long as you aren’t here with me.”
“Whatever!” Claire grabbed her jean jacket. “But I’m taking your car.” She swiped the keys to Mabel from the counter. “And the bone.” She snatched it out of Henry’s dish before the dog could lock his teeth onto it again.
Henry growled.
She flashed him a victory grin, then hooked the leash onto his collar.
“I’ll be back at midnight, and no later.” With Henry leading the way, she stepped outside. “Call it what you want—smoker’s lounge or love shack—but that R.V. is my bedroom, and I need my sleep.”
“Fine! But if the Winnebago’s rocking, don’t come in without knocking.” Gramps slammed the door in her face.
* * *
Mac opened the door of his pickup and tossed his hard hat and gloves onto the bench seat. The dome light glowed, making the cab seem bright compared to the pitch-black mine he’d just left.
An owl hooted in the darkness. Nearby, greasewood and mesquite trees rattled as a cool breeze rushed past him, the air swept clean by the desert wind. Staring at the Big Dipper, he pondered how he was going to figure out the value of four mines while short on time and help.
Hell, he hadn’t even dabbled in this kind of work for years. Good thing he had friends in the right places. Tomorrow, he’d call Steve Zimmerman, his old college roommate, and see if he could finagle some sample testing time at the Phoenix-based lab where Steve worked.
Mac unbuckled his pack an
d tossed it on the seat. He cast one last look up at the hillside. The night camouflaged the gaping mouth of Ruby’s Rattlesnake Ridge Mine, carved beneath 150 feet of Pre-Cambrian metamorphic rock.
These mines were going to be his home away from home for the next three weeks. The day Ruby handed them over to the mining company and got the damned bank off her back couldn’t come soon enough. Money had been tight for her for too long. He was a bit surprised she could afford to hire some help. Although how much help her new handywoman would be was yet to be seen.
Even if Claire did have a sweet ...
All of his thoughts screeched to a stop at the sound of something crashing toward him through the brush.
Chapter Four
Grabbing a flashlight from his dashboard, Mac jerked around in time to see a small, white and tan body bulleting toward him. It slammed into his thighs at full speed, knocking him back into the crease between the door and the cab. His head thumped against the doorjamb.
“Henry!” a familiar female voice yelled. “Get off him!”
What was she doing out here?
Mac trapped the squirming body against him and pushed upright. The wriggling beagle covered his jaw and neck with licks, smothering him with dog breath.
“You lousy mutt!” Ruby’s handywoman said, gasping as she slid to a stop in front of him. The pale light spilling from his pickup cab cast a soft glow on her high cheekbones and shoulder-length, dark hair. She clutched her side and huffed as if she’d just sprinted a mile. “I’m sorry,” she said as she took the beagle from him.
“It’s okay.” He wiped at his face with his shirt. “No harm done.”
She smelled like watermelon again.
“He refuses to take a leak while being watched,” she said while trying to hold on to the wriggling dog. “As soon as I turned my head to give him some privacy, he slipped out of his collar and shot off across the creek like Speedy Gonzales.”
Mac searched her face. Was she kidding?