Arizona Heat

by Linda Lael Miller

  Gillian appeared, a little distance away, watching the reunion.

  I went to her, not to Tucker.

  She looked up at me.

  I held out a hand to the child, but she stepped back, shook her head.

  She was already beginning to fade.

  “Baby,” I said brokenly, not caring who heard, “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’m so sorry.”

  She was gone before I finished the sentence.

  I stood numbly where I was, using all the strength I possessed just to keep from collapsing.

  Allison arrived—I was vaguely aware of that. I saw her rush to join Daisy and Tucker. Take her daughter into her arms.

  I looked around, saw Janice and Chelsea sitting sullenly in the back of one of the squad cars. I knew they weren’t sorry for what they’d done—just sorry they’d been caught.

  Pure, fiery hatred surged inside me. If I could have gotten to them, I’d have clawed their eyes out with my bare hands. I’d have strangled them, and loved doing it.

  Tucker approached, took me by the shoulders. “Moje,” he said. And he pulled me close and held me tightly, and we sort of leaned into each other.

  “I don’t want to see dead people anymore.” I wept, burying my face in his strong, Tucker-scented shoulder. “I don’t want to see dead people anymore!”

  “I know,” he said gruffly. “I know.”

  I felt Allison watching us, met her gaze.

  She took Daisy’s hand and led her away.

  I waited for Tucker to say he had to leave, too.

  But he didn’t.

  “Come on, Moje,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Let’s go back to your place and see if any new ghosts have popped in.”

  I blinked, confused. “What about Daisy?”

  “She needs Allison right now, not me,” he said.

  I nodded.

  We started, hand in hand, toward Tucker’s SUV.

  And then I remembered something I’d heard inside that restroom during my most recent out-of-body experience. I stopped, tightening my grip on Tucker’s hand. “Chelsea’s computer,” I said. “There’s a website—”

  Tucker studied my face, then helped me into the SUV before going back to speak with one of the other policemen on the scene.

  Dave stuck his head between the seats and whimpered.

  “It’ll be okay now,” I told him. “It’s over.”

  So much was over.

  But other things were just starting.

  I wanted a hot shower, and coffee—with a big slug of whiskey in it. I wanted to lie in my own bed, under a pile of blankets, wrapped in Tucker Darroch’s arms, and sleep for a hundred years.

  I wanted to pretend, if only for a little while, that the world was a sane and sunny place, and evil only a theory.

  Tucker came back, and we went on to my place. Dave was glad to be home, and so was I.

  Tucker and I took a shower together, standing a long time under the spray of hot water. Forgetting all about the coffee we’d planned to drink, we dried off, without a word to each other, and crawled into my bed.

  We cuddled close, and when we made love we came together silently, with a slow, elegant grace.

  And then we slept.

  Tucker awakened me late that night. He was dressed, and I knew that meant he was leaving, going home to Allison and Daisy, or maybe to the hospital, to sit with Danny awhile.

  He’d heated up the spaghetti sauce, though, and boiled up some noodles to go with it. We sat at the kitchen table, me in a bathrobe, Tucker in his movin’-on clothes, but neither of us could bring ourselves to eat.

  He looked exhausted, haunted by the things he knew about the world and the way it works. He’d spoken to one of the investigators at the sheriff’s office while I was still sleeping, and now he told me what I’d already suspected.

  Janice and Chelsea had filmed Gillian’s death—the proof had been found in Chelsea’s computer. For a price, perverts could watch the clips.

  “I don’t want to live on this planet anymore,” I told Tucker. “I want to find a place where things like this don’t happen.”

  “We’re stuck with this one,” Tucker said, ever the pragmatist. “Might as well make the best of it.”

  I nodded, numb.

  After we’d pretended to eat for a while longer, Tucker left, promising to be back as soon as he could.

  I didn’t expect to sleep that night, but I did, curled up with Dave in the middle of my bed, without waking up, without dreaming. In fact, when I opened my eyes I was in the same position I’d been in when I tumbled into slumberland—fetal.

  I got up, yawning. Took a quick shower, dressed, put some coffee on to brew and took Dave down to the parking lot on his leash, a wadded paper towel clenched in one hand so I could dispose of the debris.

  Once that was done, Dave and I hiked back upstairs and I washed my hands, then rummaged in drawers until I found the key to the bar downstairs. It was time to drag the Mojo sign inside, open the box and admire it.

  Dave went with me, trotting ahead into the saloon, sniffing the sawdust. I indulged in a few fond recollections of my friend Bert, raking spit lumps and cigarette butts out of that sawdust while we chatted.

  Since I was feeling fragile, I figured I couldn’t afford a lot of sentiment, so I dragged the big box inside and tore it open.

  There it was, my name, in blue script. I plugged it in and got a major kick out of seeing it light up.

  Inspired, I ducked behind the jukebox and plugged that in, too. After fishing around a little, I found Bert’s stash of quarters in a cigar box behind the bar, and plunked them into the coin slot.

  Brad Paisley was singing “Alcohol,” and I was bellowing along, using the rake handle for a microphone, when I realized Dave and I weren’t alone in the bar.

  Max Summervale, my shooting instructor, was standing there, arms folded, head cocked to one side.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “You’re dead, aren’t you?”

  Brad finished “Alcohol,” and Randy Travis started to sing about “diggin’ up bones.” I thought it was oddly fitting, considering.

  “I wondered when you’d notice,” he replied.

  “When?”

  “When, what?”

  “When did you die?”

  Max considered the question. “Two years ago,” he said.

  “And now I suppose you want me to find your killer?” I asked, chagrined that I’d had two different encounters with the man and failed to notice that he was a ghost. It just shows you how much stress I was under.

  Lest you think I was unsympathetic—I wasn’t. Just burned out. I wanted to live a normal life, as soon as I figured out what that would look like.

  On the jukebox Johnny Cash launched into “Folsom Prison Blues.”

  “Nope,” Max told me. “I took the bastard out with me.”

  I stared at him, knowing I should have been relieved. And I wasn’t.

  “Then what do you want?”

  Max grinned endearingly. “You need a partner,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Will a dead guy do?”

  * * * * *

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  Once a Rancher

  by Linda Lael Miller

  CHAPTER ONE

  SLATER CARSON WAS bone-tired, as he was after every film wrapped, but it was the best kind of fatigue—part pride and satisfaction in a job well done, part relief, part “bring it,” that anticipatory quiver in the pit of his stomach that would lead him to the next project, and the one after that.

  This latest film had been set in a particularly remote area, emphasizing how the Homestead Act had impacted the development not only of the American West, but also the country as a whole. It had been his most ambitious effort to date. The sheer scope was truly epic, and as he watched the uncut footage on his computer monitor, he knew.

  160 Acres was going to touch a nerve.

  Yep. This one would definitely hit home with the viewers, new and old.

  His previous effort, a miniseries on the Lincoln County War in New Mexico, had won prizes and garnered great reviews, and he’d sold the rights to one of the media giants for a shitload of money. Like Lincoln County, 160 Acres was good, solid work. The researchers, camera operators and other professionals he worked with were the top people in the business, as committed to the films as he was.

  And that was saying something.

  No doubt about it, the team had done a stellar job the last time around, but this—well, this was the best yet. A virtual work of art, if he did say so himself.

  “Boss?”

  Slater leaned back in his desk chair and clicked the pause button. “Hey, Nate.” He greeted his friend and personal assistant. “What do you need?”

  Like Slater, Nate Wheaton had just gotten back from the film site, where he’d taken care of a thousand details, and it was a safe bet that the man was every bit as tired as he looked. Short, blond, energetic and not more than twenty years old, Nate was a dynamo; the production had come together almost seamlessly, in large part because of his talent, persistence and steel-trap brain.

  “Um,” Nate murmured, visibly unplugging, shifting gears. He was moving into off-duty mode, and God knew he’d earned it. “There’s someone to see you.” He inclined his head in the direction of the outer office, rubbed the back of his neck and let out an exasperated sigh. “The lady insists she needs to talk to you and only you. I tried to get her to make an appointment, but she says it has to be now.”

  Slater suppressed a sigh of his own. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

  “I’ve actually pointed that out,” Nate said, briefly consulting his phone. “It’s five after, to be exact.” Like Slater himself, Nate believed in exactness, which was at once a blessing and a curse. “She claims it can’t possibly wait until morning, whatever it is. But if I hadn’t been walking into the kitchen I wouldn’t have heard the knock.”

  “How’d she even find me?” The crew had flown in late, driven out to the vineyard/ranch, and Slater had figured that no one, other than his family, knew he was in town. Or out of town. Whatever qualified as far as the ranch was concerned.

  Nate looked glumly resigned. “I have no idea. She refused to say. I’m going to bed. If you need anything else, come and wake me, but bring a sledgehammer, because I’d probably sleep through anything less.” A pause, another sigh, deeper and wearier than the last. “That was quite the shoot.”

  The understatement of the day.

  Slater drew on the last dregs of his energy, shoved a hand through his hair and said, “Well, point her in this direction, if you don’t mind, and then get yourself some shut-eye.”

  He supposed he sounded normal, but on the inside, he was drained. He’d given everything he had to 160, and then some, and there was no hope of charging his batteries. He’d blown through the last of his physical resources hours ago.

  Resentment at the intrusion sent a tremor through his famous equanimity; he was used to dealing with problems on the job—ranging from pesky all the way to apocalyptic—but at home, damn it, he expected to be left alone. He needed rest, downtime, a chance to regroup, and the home place was where he did those things.

  One of his younger brothers ran the Carson ranch, and the other managed the vineyard and winery. The arrangement worked out pretty well. Everyone had his own role to play, and the sprawling mansion was big enough, even for three competitive males to live in relative peace. Especially since he, Slater, was gone half the time, anyway.

  “Will do.” Nate left the study, and a few minutes later the door opened.

  Before Slater could make the mental leap from one moment to the next, a woman—quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—stormed across the threshold, dragging a teenage boy by the arm.

  She was a redhead, with the kind of body that would resurrect a dead man, never mind a tired one.

  And Slater had a fondness for redheads; he’d dated a lot of them over the years. This one was all sizzle, and her riot of coppery curls, bouncing around her straight, indignant shoulders, seemed to blaze in the dim light.

  It took him a moment, but he finally recovered and clambered to his feet. “I’m Slater Carson. Can I help you?”

  This visitor, whoever she was, had his full attention.

  Fascinating.

  The redhead poked the kid, who was taller than she was by at least six inches, and she did it none too gently. The boy flinched; he was lanky, clad in a Seahawks T-shirt, baggy jeans and half-laced shoes. He looked bewildered, ready to bolt.

  “Start talking, buster,” the redhead ordered, glowering up at the kid. “And no excuses.” She shook her head. “I’m being nice here,” she said when the teenager didn’t speak. “Your father would kick you into the next county.”

  Just his luck, Slater thought, with a strange, nostalgic detachment. She was married.

  While he waited for the next development, he let his eyes trail over the goddess, over a sundress with thin straps on shapely shoulders, a midthigh skirt and silky pale skin. She was one of the rare Titian types who didn’t have freckles, although Slater wouldn’t be opposed to finding out if there might be a few tucked away out of sight. White sandals with a small heel finished off the ensemble, and all that glorious hair was loose and flowing down her back.

  The kid, probably around fourteen, cleared his throat. He stepped forward and laid one of the magnetic panels from the company’s production truck on the desk.

  Slater, caught up in the unfolding drama, hadn’t noticed the sign until then.

  Interesting.

  “I’m sorry.” The boy gulped, clearly miserable and,
at the same time, a little defiant. “I took this.” He looked sidelong at the woman beside him, visibly considered giving her some lip and just as visibly reconsidered. Smart kid. “I thought it was pretty cool,” he explained, all knees and elbows and youthful angst. Color climbed his neck and burned in his face. “I know it was wrong, okay? Stealing is stealing, and my stepmother’s ready to cuff me and haul me off to jail, so if that’s what you want, too, Mister, go for it.”

  Stepmother?

  Slater was still rather dazed, as though he’d stepped off a wild carnival ride before it was finished with its whole slew of loop-de-loops.

  “His father and I are divorced.” She said it curtly, evidently reading Slater’s expression.

  Well, Slater reflected, that was cause for encouragement. She did look young to be the kid’s mother. And now that he thought about it, the boy didn’t resemble her in the slightest, with his dark hair and eyes.

  Finally catching up, he raised his brows, feeling a flicker of something he couldn’t quite identify, along with a flash of sympathy for the boy. He guessed the redhead was in her early thirties. While she seemed to be in charge of the situation, Slater suspected she might be in over her head. Clearly, the kid was a handful.

  It was time, Slater decided, still distanced from himself, to speak up.

  “I appreciate your bringing it back,” he managed, holding the boy’s gaze but well aware of the woman on the periphery of his vision. “These aren’t cheap.”

  Some of the f-you drained out of the kid’s expression. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “You made a mistake,” Slater agreed quietly. “We’ve all done things we shouldn’t have, at some point in our lives. But you did what you could to make it right.” He paused. “Life’s all about the choices we make, son. Next time, try to do better.” He felt a grin lurking at one corner of his mouth. “I would’ve been really ticked off if I had to replace this.”

  The boy looked confused. “Why? You’re rich.”

  Slater had encountered that reasoning before—over the entire course of his life, actually. His family was wealthy, and had been for well over a century. They ran cattle, owned vast stretches of Wyoming grassland and now, thanks to his mother’s roots in the Napa Valley, there was the winery, with acres of vineyards to support the enterprise.