by Ann Charles
“Not in my dictionary.” Manny ogled Claire’s waist. “Ay yi yi! You’re wearing a tool belt.”
“Snogging is like Frenching,” Jess clarified.
“I think she’s talking about backseat bingo,” Chester offered, puffing his cheeks as he blew out cigar smoke.
“Why don’t you come over here and show me what’s in your tool belt,” Manny said and trilled his tongue at Claire.
Claire shook her head at the oversexed sixty-nine-year-old. Manny needed more than a wife. He needed a harem.
“What’s backseat bingo?” Jess asked.
“Keep your hands off my granddaughter, Carrera.” Gramps eyed Jess. “What’s your name, kid?” He seemed to be ignoring Jess’s question, or trying to distract her.
“Jessica, but you can call me Jess.”
“I dated a Jessica once,” Manny said, still eying Claire’s hips. “She had eyes the color of the Caribbean and lovely big—”
“Manny!” Claire interrupted. “There are young ladies here.”
“You’re not so young, anymore,” Gramps told Claire with a smirk.
“What’s backseat bingo?” Jess asked again.
“I was going to say big teeth,” Manny said and took a sip of what looked like cranberry juice.
“Who wants to snog with you?” Gramps asked Claire.
Chester snickered. “What’s wrong, Harley? You afraid she’s going to score before you do?”
“Quit flappin’ your lips, you old buzzard.” Gramps turned back to Claire. “Well?”
“Nobody.” Sad, but true. She could use some good snogging to take her mind off her troubles. “Jess was just jabbering.”
“I was not. Mac never talks about girls, and he told me that you’re ‘interesting.’”
Claire doubted he meant that in a positive way.
“Who’s Mac?” Gramps and Manny both asked in unison.
“Never mind.” Claire wished the earth would swallow her whole. She walked over and yanked open the Winnebago’s door.
“He’s my cousin,” Claire heard Jess explain just before she slammed the door behind her.
She turned on the radio, hoping to drown out the conversation about her that was sure to follow. Hank Williams Jr. carried on about his family traditions as she grabbed a loaf of bread from the cupboard, slapped some peanut butter on a slice, and then slathered her Aunt Mary’s homemade apricot jam on another.
She had a few of her own family traditions she’d like to complain about, her mother’s guilt trips and blackmailing antics topping the list.
She took a huge bite of her sandwich. Her gaze landed on the picture of Henry attached to the fridge with a Yellowstone National Park magnet. Worry prickled the back of her neck. If she didn’t find that dog today, she was going to catch some serious hell.
Henry and Gramps had been together for over five years now. The last thing she needed working against her with all of these Internet babes trotting around like show ponies was Gramps being lonely for another friend.
Laying her sandwich down on the counter, she opened the fridge, grabbed a chunk of squishy bleu cheese sealed in a sandwich bag, and stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket. She shoved a small bag of sour cream and onion chips in her other pocket.
The only way she was going to get Henry to come back to her was with the proper bait—his favorite food. No need for Gramps to see what she was up to, it would just raise more doubts about her ability to do anything right.
Her notoriety for never finishing things weighed down her optimism. Gramps had never echoed what the rest of the family preached to her about following through on college, jobs, relationships, and promises, but she knew he must be thinking it right about now.
Clicking off the radio, she stepped outside, peanut butter sandwich and jacket in hand.
“—and that’s how I could tell she’d had a boob job,” Chester finished.
Claire almost dropped her sandwich. She glared at Chester. “Oh, that’s real nice. I’m sure Jess’s mom would love to know the things you’re teaching her child.”
“Hey, she asked me. I couldn’t lie to the kid.”
“It’s okay, Claire,” Jess said. “I already know about boob jobs. Sally James had one, and now she has to beat the boys off with a stick.”
“Speaking of chi chis,” Manny said looking at Gramps, “I hear you have a date this afternoon with DeeDee.”
“They don’t call her Double-D for nothing,” Chester added with a laugh any dirty old man would be proud of.
Claire lifted her eyebrows. “Who’s DeeDee? Is she the woman you were with last night?”
“That was Virginia,” Gramps said, avoiding Claire’s gaze.
“There’s nothing virgin about that woman’s hips.” Manny growled like a tiger.
Jess giggled.
Claire concentrated on Gramps. “Who’s DeeDee?” she repeated.
“None of your business. You focus on finding my dog. Besides, the rules state that any dates occurring outside of the Winnebago will not be discussed until twenty-four hours after the event.”
Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten about that one. “Fine. Plan on talking about this love tryst tomorrow night at supper.”
Gramps’s brow wrinkled like one of those Pug dogs. “For your information, this is nothing so sordid.”
“They’re going on a picnic,” Manny supplied.
“You hate picnics,” Claire said.
“He’s looking to get a little bit of ‘Afternoon Delight,’ aren’t you, Harley?” Chester gave him a conspiratorial wink.
“Is ‘Afternoon Delight’ like backseat bingo?” Jess asked.
Claire grabbed Jess’s arm and tugged her toward the store. “I’ll explain later, when these three dirty birds aren’t around to corrupt you any further.”
“Don’t be spying on me,” Gramps hollered from behind her.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she yelled back.
“And don’t come home without my dog!”
Chapter Seven
Where was that damned dog?
Claire tromped through a dry riverbed carpeted with sand and pebbles, following a Zebra-tailed lizard that darted back and forth between bundles of tumbleweed. Bone-cooking rays drilled down from a cloudless, cerulean sky.
If she had to spend much longer in this heat, her brain would turn crispy.
Maybe Mac was having better luck finding Henry.
She shielded her eyes and squinted up at Socrates Pit mine. The westerly sun spotlighted the steep, rugged hillside and transformed the mine into a gaping, toothless mouth. She searched for a glimpse of his white T-shirt, something she hadn’t seen in over an hour.
Her idea of splitting up in their search for Henry didn’t seem so brilliant now, but she’d needed some time to figure out how to talk Mac out of slapping a price tag on her grandma’s valley.
So far, her plans had gravitated toward lassoing and knuckle-rubbing. However, with Mac being well over six feet tall and cold sober, common sense had vetoed those ideas. Her brain had yet to come up with a Plan B.
Keeping an eye on the mine for any sign of life, Claire plodded northward. A breeze with the scent of baking rocks dried the sweat from her skin before it had time to soak into her clothes.
Her mind bounced between wondering who owned the leg bone that had landed her in this predicament, and how far a beagle could travel in sixteen hours.
Feeling Godzilla-like, she wound through a miniature canyon, watching for scorpions, listening for any rattling sounds. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, gliding and swooping. Its screeches echoed across the valley floor.
She tried not to think about what Gramps would say if she returned without Henry.
Something shined up ahead in the sand—glass, most likely, hitching a ride south to the Gila River. But as Claire drew closer, she slowed. It wasn’t glass. It was a dog tag, surrounded by paw tracks and pointed boot prints.
Her fingers shook as she reached for it. One sid
e read, “Henry Ford, 1309 Pilot Knob Rd., Nemo, SD 57759,” the other, “Return postage guaranteed (if dog included).” The ring that looped through the tag was broken.
A renewed burst of hope tightened her chest. Squatting, she inspected the boot prints. They were small, not much bigger than hers. She chewed on her lower lip, tasting the desert’s salty seasoning.
A shadow fell over her.
“What’d you find?” Mac hopped down into the dry wash.
Claire stood and dropped the dog tag into his open palm. “My guess is someone chased Henry into this wash and snagged him as he was scrambling up the other side. His tag fell off during the struggle.”
Mac’s hazel eyes held hers, his expression thoughtful, his glasses absent. Claire couldn’t decide if he looked better with or without them. She suffered from the same indecisiveness when it came to Indiana Jones. The same fluttering pulse effect, too, dammit.
Mac lowered his gaze to the tag. “What makes you so sure that whoever made these tracks was after Henry? It could have just been a hiker.”
“Two things. First, not many people go out hiking in a pair of cowboy boots. Second, if they were just out for a stroll, why didn’t they pick up the dog tag? They couldn’t have missed seeing it, unless they were walking around in the dark. Third, Henry’s prints lead only into the wash, not out.”
“I thought you said two things.”
Claire shrugged. “I changed my mind.” She grabbed the tag from him and shoved it in her pocket, then noticed a red plastic wrapper entangled in the spindly arms of a nearby diamond cholla cactus. Another clue? She doubted Mac would concur. She fished the wrapper out from between the inch-long spines and stuffed it in her pocket, too.
She glanced Mac’s way and found him watching her. “Did you find anything at the mine?” She fidgeted under the assessing look in his eyes.
“Lots of tennis shoe prints.” He climbed out of the dry wash and held out his hand to help her up. “But no sign of Henry besides the paw prints at the mouth of the mine.”
Claire took his hand, noticing his hiking boots as he pulled her up next to him. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Twelve. Why?”
“Henry’s dognapper has small feet. It must have been a woman. Or a kid. Or a man with really small feet.”
“Or a tiny man with really big feet,” Mac added, a cock-eyed grin on his lips.
“Exactly.”
His grin slipped. “You don’t even know for certain that Henry’s been taken. It’s a bit soon to start making presumptions.”
“How much evidence do you need? A picture of Henry and his dognapper squeezed together in one of those quick-photo booths?” She should have known better than to try to convince a man of science without having the smoking gun.
The boot prints pointed westward, away from the wash. Nose to the ground, Claire trekked through groves of mesquite trees and around patches of shin-high ghost flowers covered with cream petals. Mac trailed her, silent except for the occasional sound of thorny cacti branches scratching his jeans.
A quarter mile west of the dry wash, Claire paused in the middle of what looked like a well-used wagon route. “The boot prints are gone.”
Mac squatted and ran his finger through the loose, powdery dirt alongside a tire track. “A four-wheeler.”
“Okay, we need to see who in the area owns one.”
Shaking his head, Mac stood. “That’s not going to help. Almost everyone in this county owns a four-wheeler. They practically issue them with your driver’s license. Even Ruby has one.”
“How come I haven’t seen it?”
“You have. It’s under that green tarp behind the tool shed. Jess broke a transaxle on it last fall while re-enacting an Evel Knievel stunt.”
“Crap.” Claire fingered the dog tag in her pocket, her hope of bringing good news back to Gramps evaporating faster than a drop of water on Death Valley asphalt. “What kind of a person steals a beagle?”
A niggling of fear poked at her belly. What if it was some freak who did twisted things to animals?
“We might as well head back.” Mac rubbed the back of his neck as his gaze roamed the surrounding hills.
“Shouldn’t we follow the tire tracks?”
“Kids run four-wheelers up and down this valley all the time. We’re better off hanging flyers around town tomorrow morning.”
“Hang flyers? That’s what you do when you’re selling diet pills.”
“Claire.”
“We’re talking about someone abducting my grandfather’s dog.”
“Claire.”
“Finding Henry may not be your top priority, but if I don’t return with that dog in my arms, the only person in my family who has any faith left in me is going to be disappointed ... to say the least.”
“Claire!”
“What?” she snapped back.
“Calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when Henry is sitting safely on Gramps’s couch.”
Mac put his arm around her shoulders. If he was trying to comfort her, he needed a different tactic. The scent of sun-washed desert she was beginning to associate with the long-legged, hazel-eyed hunk rubbing against her side had the same settling effect as touching the end of an electric cattle prod.
“Let’s go back to Ruby’s.” He nudged her in the direction from which they’d come. “If you want, I’ll go with you to explain the situation to your grandfather.”
She peeked at him from behind her mirrored sunglasses as he led her along, his arm propelling her forward.
When he was nice to her like this, she had trouble remembering why she’d decided to stop fraternizing with him. Besides being sex-starved and nicotine-crazed, she was hungry for respect, and Mac was tossing her crumbs of it. He might not have realized that, but she did.
“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” She’d dragged Henry out here last night, so she should take the heat for not finding him ... yet.
Pushing away from Mac, Claire picked up her pace, her thoughts more focused with each step.
They passed the dry wash again where she’d found Henry’s tags and then rounded the tailings at the base of Socrates Pit. Instead of turning left toward the car, Claire veered right.
It was time for Plan B.
“Mabel is the other way,” Mac said.
“I know.”
“Where are you going?”
“I want to show you something.”
He followed without objection. Claire led him down a deer trail into a shallow canyon. The red sandstone walls glowed from the sun’s rays. They hiked a short distance along the creek until the canyon spilled into the desert and her grandma’s old cottonwood towered in front of them. She stopped under the shade of the trembling leaves.
Mac stared up at the big tree. “This must be over a century old.”
“At least.” Claire ran her finger over the heart and initials carved into the bark.
Plucking a stalk of desert lavender from the base of the trunk, Mac sniffed the violet flowers and glanced at the water. “It hasn’t rained here in over two weeks. This stream must be spring fed.”
“Ruby told me why you’re here,” Claire blurted.
Plan B lacked the finesse of Plan A.
Mac stared at her, his eyes narrowing.
“If she sells those mines to the mining company,” she continued before her wits caught up with her, “they’re gonna gut this land and dig an inverted mountain.”
“This is none of your business, Claire.” His voice was hard and tight, out of place in such a soft landscape.
She lifted her chin. She could feel her heart pounding in her fingertips. “I’m making it my business. There has to be some other way to save Ruby’s R.V. park.”
“What makes you think you can find the solution that Ruby can’t?”
She smiled. It felt brittle. “I’m optimistic.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re naive.”
“That could very well b
e, but I’m determined, too.” She considered telling him about her grandma’s ashes, but decided to keep the focus on his own family. “Ruby doesn’t want to sell this land to the mining company, and I’m going to make sure she doesn’t have to.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried to come up with another solution? Ruby’s backed into a corner. Selling is the only way out.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe what you want, just stay out of my way.” Mac stormed off toward the car.
Claire trickled behind in his wake. She might not always make the right decisions in life, but she knew when to stop waving a red flag in front of a bull; when to hide behind a barrel.
As she strolled along admiring the abundance of fire ants and iridescent beetles scurrying along the cracked and dried valley floor, her heel came down on something hard in a pool of sandy soil.
She lifted her foot. A lighter lay in the dirt, its silver casing mostly hidden by the scattered grains of sand. She scooped it up and wiped off the dust. The letters S-A-M were etched on one side.
Sam? She flipped open the top and turned the cylinder with her thumb. It spit out sparks.
Sam was missing a lighter.
Was Sam missing a femur, too?
* * *
Monday, April 12th
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Mac called to Ruby as he pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the front porch.
The morning air fresh with a new day’s promise lifted his spirits. He scanned the southern horizon, admiring the curves of the land. Thousands of years of weathering had smoothed the sharp angles from the valley laid out before him. For the first time since he’d driven out of Tucson’s city limits, the task in front of him didn’t seem so daunting.
The boards creaked under his boots as he descended the porch steps. Maybe he’d even be able to wrap up things a couple of days early and spend some time enjoying his vacation.
He paused at the base of the porch. The warm sunlight on his shoulders guaranteed another hot afternoon. The desert sun never seemed to understand that spring was a time of transition, not a matter of flipping a switch to hot.
Shading his eyes, he looked east at the northwest-trending Tres Dedos Mountains. A strip of cirrus clouds drifted above the large mass of Precambrian granite, nicknamed the Middle Finger, jutting out of the northern flank.