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Arizona Homecoming
Building on Love
As a rancher’s daughter, Emily Hubrecht knows a person’s land means family and roots. And being half–Native American, the museum curator also has reasons for preserving the historic sites in Apache Creek, Arizona. So when luxury home builder Donovan Russell begins work at a special location, Emily tries to stop him. The handsome architect bulldozes by her on every occasion, his past keeping him from understanding why the land means so much to her. But when he starts working for Emily’s father and she unexpectedly falls for Donovan, she plans to show him the importance of tradition—and that together they can build a happily-ever-after.
Donovan was at the library festival?
He smiled at her, then surprised her by turning back to a little girl and reading the scavenger hunt items to her. “I closed the work site yesterday, and I don’t start working for your father until Monday—that is, if he agrees to the contract. I’ve got a free weekend.”
“I’m sorry…” She wasn’t sorry the job shut down, but she was sorry that it affected Donovan. If not for where he built and his not respecting why he shouldn’t build there, she could almost like him.
Almost.
“Once the mystery surrounding what was found at the site is solved, I’m heading out to Ancient Trails Road. I want to poke around a bit, outside of the property, see what I can find.”
“We didn’t find a single artifact,” Donovan reminded her.
“You wouldn’t know an arrowhead if it bit you,” she said.
Donovan laughed. “There were other biting things to worry about.”
She laughed, too, liking the way the sun made his brown hair a tad golden, the way his eyes crinkled.
She liked too much about him, she realized.
PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a RITA® Award finalist and winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.
Arizona Homecoming
Pamela Tracy
“Let no debt remain outstanding,
except the continuing debt to love one another, for
he who loves his fellowman has fulfilled the law.”
—Romans 13:8
To every parent who looks out the door waiting for a child—be he ten, twenty, thirty or older—to waltz up the path and be welcomed.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
About the Author
Title Page
Bible Verse
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Dear Reader
Extract
Copyright
Chapter One
Yellowish-brown shards rose to the surface at the edge of Donovan Russell’s shovel. They were a startling contrast to the hard mud-brown dirt he’d been digging in.
“Should have left well enough alone,” he muttered.
After a few run-ins with local special interests—okay, one rabble-rouser with amazing dark brown eyes, on a mission—the Baer custom-built house was finally back on schedule but a bit over budget. Not that money mattered. Just last night George Baer had called asking for a circular driveway along with one that led to the backyard and a three-car garage. As the site architect and builder, Donovan had merely said, Yes, sir, we can do that.
Looking at the marking paint that now highlighted where the circular drive might go, Donovan decided maybe he shouldn’t have gotten so annoyed at the one spot where the dirt curved upward and kept his imagined drive from being level.
Annoyed was one thing; acting on it another. A backhoe would have been easier to use on this alkaline clay-based dirt that threatened to bend his shovel. Yes, it was that hard.
“I overreacted,” Donovan muttered. Not that there was anyone to hear him. He was miles from the nearest neighbor and living alone in a camper.
Adding a circular driveway would not take that much time, and if he needed to start his next custom job a few weeks late, no one would protest. In his line of work, behind schedule was a way of life. One he personally didn’t appreciate.
Donovan hated when his schedule changed. Still, the change was on Baer’s dime, and Donovan’s goal was to please the customer. Someday, he wanted to please himself, build homes, tree houses, businesses that matched their environment, were one of a kind and affordable.
He had two years left with Tate Luxury Homes. He’d promised to finish his contract and pay off his debt to Nolan Tate, and he’d keep his word. Breaking up with Olivia Tate had been a serious step backward in recovering from a poor career choice. The breakup had, however, been a huge step forward in finding peace.
Not that he’d experienced much peace lately.
His next job was in Palmdale, California. The sun was more polite there. After that, three jobs in Florida. Then, the freedom to choose where, when and how often he worked.
He dug the shovel in a bit deeper, ignoring the sweat gathering at his hairline.
A Nebraska boy through and through, Donovan couldn’t believe that at five in the morning in June the Arizona sun was able to stretch out her fingers with an extremely heated “I’m here for the rest of the day” massage.
Fine, tomorrow he’d start work at four.
Who would choose to live in this heat? Almost immediately, he smiled. His favorite special-interest advocate was a slip of a woman named Emily Hubrecht. She’d shown up at the job site the first day, spouting something about the property next to the Baers’, empty and neglected, that had yielded some Native American pottery a few decades ago. She was sure more was to be found, maybe even a burial ground, and that the home he was building might prevent a historic discovery of epic proportions.
Her words, not his.
He had, however, enjoyed the few weeks she’d poked and prodded the land. Emily was more entertaining than the men working with him. She’d found no proof, and so his permits had been given.
She hadn’t changed her way of thinking.
It was something they had in common. They could see potential even in the dirt on a forlorn piece of the Arizona desert.
When she’d scowled at the permits in his hand and raised defiant eyes to his, he found himself promising, I find any arrowheads, pots, or bows and arrows, I’ll give them right to you. He’d do it, too, because it was the right thing to do.
The dirt gave way to something with more substance as Donovan gently nudged with his shovel.
Bones.
A brief sorrow washed over him at the thought of some long-ago child standing over an aged Fido and saying goodbye. Maybe it was time to get a four-legged companion. Not that Donovan was ever lonely. He was far too busy for that.
At least that’s what he told himself late at night in a tiny camper with one bed, one table, a minuscule kitchen and a bathroom so small that taking a shower meant one foot in and one foot out of the tub.
Except for the heat, Donovan enjoyed his time here. This part of Arizona was rich in history and the kind of rural lifestyle he’d grown up with. Everyone knew each other. He’d not been in town more than two days before the waitress at the Miner’s Lamp knew his favorite meal and the grocery store manager knew what brand of cereal he preferred. Even the Hubrecht family, save Emily, seemed to like him. Her father had built the Lost Dutchman Ranch’s main building and kept asking Donovan for advice on updating.
Then, too, Donovan had received a dozen invitations to church, even from the enchanting Emily, and one marriage proposal. He’d nicely refused them all.
Moving the shovel, he unearthed another bone. The Baer home stood a good twenty miles from its nearest neighbor. Strange place for a dog to be buried. A homeless mutt might have died on the spot, but this was somewhat deep and definitely had been here awhile.
Smokey Begay, the construction crew’s foreman, parked on what would someday be a real driveway. Stepping from his truck, he squinted, and then came to stand beside Donovan. “What are you doing?”
Eerie how the man knew every time Donovan needed something, whether it be advice, a tool or simply another hand to get a job done quicker.
“Baer wants a circular driveway, too,” Donovan explained. “I thought I’d dig a rough outline.”
“Why did you stop digging?”
“Bones,” Donovan said, only this time he wasn’t thinking of a crying boy and a beloved dog.
Smokey took a step backward, his demeanor going from curious to stoic in a blink. “This is not good.”
“I tend to agree.” Over the years Donovan had found old toys, bullets and once a vintage pair of glasses—very Benjamin Franklinish. He kept those on the dashboard of his truck.
Donovan pushed his shovel deeper in the hard dirt, his gut already telling him what he didn’t want to know. “Dogs do have femurs?” he asked Smokey hopefully, his question more a statement.
“Yes, but not even a Great Dane would have a femur like that,” Smokey said.
It took only five minutes to uncover the human skull.
* * *
Emily Hubrecht finished pinning the flyer advertising Apache Creek Library Celebrates Sixty Years to the bulletin. Then, she put up a separate flyer about the hour of Native American storytelling she’d be donating to the library to help with the festivities.
It had been a while since she’d made time to do what she loved most: storytelling. During the school year she visited the sixth grade for American History Month. Every once in a while, she’d get a call from Phoenix or Tucson asking for her services. In reality, most of her storytelling happened as she guided the museum’s visitors up and down the aisles. That didn’t feel like storytelling, though. It felt more like a documentary narrative.
Outside, gravel crunched, heralding visitors. Emily watched as two people exited the minivan that had parked in front of her museum. She waited for a dozen kids to burst from the doors but not even one pigtailed head showed.
So far today, twelve patrons had signed the museum’s register. Emily wanted, prayed for, a hundred and fifty. How could people not fall in love the with Apache Creek’s artifacts, history and folklore?
She blamed the museum’s name. The Lost Dutchman Museum. Really? Only a small portion of the museum dealt with old Jacob Waltz—nicknamed the Lost Dutchman—and his irrelevant, misguided contribution to the history of the Superstition Mountains. The majority of displays had to do with the ancient and not-so-ancient inhabitants who’d left behind tangible relics and folklore.
The woman from the van was dressed to the nines and didn’t look the type to be impressed with old mining paraphernalia or Native American treasures. She seemed more suited to a Porsche than minivan. Emily moved closer to the window. Ah, a rental.
The man appeared much older, wearing white pants and a suit jacket. Those pants would stay clean sixty seconds in this museum immersed in history and dust.
They entered the foyer with a sense of entitlement. Emily didn’t mind. These were the kind of tourists who might spend money on one of the many books in the tiny gift area, maybe even buy a Native American woven blanket. “May I help you?”
“We’re looking for pieces from old movie sets?” the man answered. “To buy. We heard John Wayne liked this part of Arizona, and I’m a collector.”
“We did have many Westerns shot here,” Emily began. “Not just John Wayne, but Audie—”
“Just John Wayne,” the man said firmly.
Emily shook her head. “I’ve a few things from the days when Westerns were shot here but they’re not on display yet and none are for sale.”
The couple turned away without even glancing past the foyer, heading for the exit.
Emily tried again. “We’ve got Native American artifacts thousands of years old and—”
They closed the front door behind them before Emily could try enticing them with her storytelling skills that would transport them to another era.
“John Wayne would appreciate my artifacts and stories,” Emily muttered and glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. She closed at four, when the sun shot past high and went to burning. Most tourists would be thinking of eating and returning to their hotels for a dip in the pool.
She headed back to the Salado room. It was tiny compared to the rest, with just a few bowls and farming utensils on display. After unlocking the glass cabinet, she pulled a pair of gloves from her back pocket, put them on and then retrieved a tiny reddish bowl with faded black-and-white paint etched on the sides. As she walked back to her office, her fingers gently gripped the bowl, reveling in an artifact from such a distant era.
Who had it belonged to? A young bride, a grandmother, a wife in charge of feeding many? Emily was half–Native American, from the Hopi tribe, and was writing her family’s history. One of her many projects. Her father said she’d get more done if she could settle on doing one job at a time.
She didn’t like the word time. Time was something you could run out of, like her mother had. Emily didn’t want someone a thousand years from today to say, Yes, I’ve heard of the Hopi, but really, all they left were a few belongings we can fit in this tiny corner of the room. Emily wanted the world to know about her mom’s family from the Kykotsmovi Village, near Holbrook. She wanted to paint with words the Soyal ceremony when young girls received their kachinas. She wanted the Hopi Butterfly Dance to live on through storytelling as well as practice.
When she made it back to her desk, she took out a box and started fitting packing paper inside. She was lending the bowl to the Heard Museum in Phoenix. They were doing a display of forgotten tribes and had contacted her just two weeks ago, wanting to find out what she knew.
They read her paper on the Salado. Her first published piece as a college student majoring in Native American studies. The curator hadn’t even known she was a local, hadn’t known she was the new curator of the Lost Dutchman Museum.
A tumbleweed scooted across the parking lot and disappeared down the same road as the minivan.
Emily secured the bowl, sure that it wouldn’t suffer a crack even if the Phoenix Suns used the package for basketball practice, and after taking off her gloves, headed for the tiny break room, thinking she’d eat lunch although she wasn’t hungry.
The phone rang before she managed three steps.
“Emily,” Sam Miller said. He was part of the four-man police team that kept Apache Creek safe.
“What is it, Sam?”
“They’ve uncovered bones at the end of Ancient Trails Road, the Baer place.”
An epic house in the middle of nowhere. There’d been protests, mostly from Emily, who filed petitions about protecting the wilderness and the land that was once home to the Native people. She’d managed to delay a permit until she had a chance to look over the property. She just knew it had been a Native American village centuries ago. All her research pointed to that spot. The architect, one Donovan Russell, had taken to saluting her should she come close, as if she were some...well, never mind that. And, at least saluting was preferable to the irritated look he’d given her the last time she’d filed a protest.
“How old?”
“Old enough. It’s a skeleton, and it’s been there awhile and could be a Native American.” He didn’t sound happy.
She’d been right all along.
The Baers were building right where an ancient settlement had thrived. There had to be a plethora of artifacts just waiting to be found.
What if today was the day?
Emily didn’t smile. Chances were the location had already been compromised. Now, Donovan Russell would have to listen. If he’d damaged the skeleton or anything surrounding it, he’d have desecrated a venerable object.
A felony!
He should have listened to her.
Chapter Two
Emily stepped from her truck, giving a quick appraisal of the area—brown dirt, cacti and the distant Superstition Mountains—before heading for Officer Sam Miller and royal-pain Donovan Russell.
Sam she’d known forever. He was still the too-tall, never-quite-fitting-his-frame boy, now a man. When he was hanging around her oldest sister, Emily figured he’d turn into a professional skateboarder or something like that. Instead, he’d gone away to college and come back with a degree in criminal justice and hired on as a cop.
“Care to help?” she said to him.
Sam half smiled. He wasn’t overly fond of dead bodies and happily turned them over to her or immigration—usually immigration because this area had more than its share of illegal immigrants hurrying through and falling victim to the weather or bad circumstances. He was much more comfortable dealing with the mundane.
He’d already cordoned off the area around the skeleton. Both he and Donovan stood by the edge of the tape, talking. Judging by the looks on their faces, they’d been discussing her.
“When did you find the remains?” she asked.
“About five thirty this morning,” Donovan answered. She wouldn’t exactly call him welcoming.
“I was roughing out a circular drive,” he continued. “There was an upheaval in the dirt bothering me so I decided to smooth it out. Took me over twenty minutes to get about four inches dug. That’s when I started unearthing bone shards. Next thing I knew, I had a skull.”
“You touch anything?”
“Just the shovel. Once I’d uncovered enough to realize what I had, I called the police.”
Sam Miller added, “Jamal Begay was here.”
It took Emily a few seconds before she responded, “Jamal was here?”
“He got here a few moments before I found the skull,” Donovan stated.
“Bad timing.” Emily knew Smokey. He was a good man, with a family, and superstitious as all get-out.
Both Sam and Donovan nodded.
It was a very clean site. The dirt was packed hard, no footprints. Then, too, this skeleton had been around awhile, so even if there were any disturbances in the area, chances were they’d be recent. She took out gloves and removed two baggies from her jean pockets. Sam came to stand beside her. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing at the moment.”
“Aren’t you going to wait for the medical examiner?” Donovan asked.
“Why?” Emily looked up at him. He couldn’t be more different than Sam. He was taller than she was, but then, who wasn’t? She put him at five-ten, all muscle and what her father would call a scrapper. His honey-brown hair was cut short, and he had an impish smile.
Usually. He looked a little pale right now. Finding human bones tended to have that effect.
“You think I can’t handle this?” She rather liked the displaced look on his face.
“I told you Emily is who we call,” Sam said.
“In case the remains prove to be Native American,” Donovan agreed. “Tell me they’re not.”
She stepped over the cordon tape and bent down next to the remains. “Too soon to tell.”
“But don’t we need a medical examiner to—”
Sam interrupted, “We’re too small to have our own medical examiner. If this turns out to be a crime scene or not a Native jurisdiction,” he nodded toward Emily, “we’ll call the Maricopa County medical examiner’s office.”
“What have you done so far?” Emily asked Sam.
“Photos and call you.”
“What’s next?” Donovan’s voice implied he didn’t want to know.
“Finish digging up the body, take more photos, probably call in an entomologist, sieve the grave, search a grid for belongings.”
“Entomologist?” Donovan queried.
“I’m not skilled enough nor do I have the tools to determine the true postmortem interval. We’ll want to know the time of death.”
“How long will that take?”
Emily smiled. “Oh, you’re going to be stuck with me for a long time.”
* * *
Gloating, that’s what Emily Hubrecht was doing. Turning to Sam, Donovan again asked, “You sure she’s the one you had to call?”
Sam nodded as they watched Emily head back to a Lost Dutchman Ranch truck that rivaled Donovan’s in size. One foot on the back bumper, she hopped twice on the other foot in order to swing her body over the tailgate. Emily might claim to be five foot four, but Donovan knew better. He’d put in enough cabinets to gauge who could reach the top shelf and who couldn’t. Emily was a footstool short, making her a hair over five foot three.
She opened the tool chest that stretched across the bed of her truck, pulled out a large black canvas bag and tossed it to the ground before jumping down to retrieve it. She handled it with ease and was already standing beside the skull before Donovan thought to offer to carry it for her.
“She worked up in South Dakota restoring an Indian burial ground that grave robbers had desecrated,” Sam said. “She has a degree in cultural anthropology and knows more about bones than anyone else in town.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Small town?
“And why—”
Sam interrupted, “It also makes her qualified to help work a crime scene. If we have one.”
“Might not be a crime scene,” Emily said. “Could be somebody who just lay down and died of old age.”
Donovan looked at the area that had already been cordoned off. “Why here? It’s the middle of nowhere.”
She gave him a look only a female knew how to form. “This wasn’t always the middle of nowhere.”
Of course she’d bring up her supposed village and how the home he was building encroached upon the remnants. Those had been her words.
“She’s especially good with old bones,” Sam said. “The department keeps her on retainer.”
Oh, how Donovan wished he’d found a dog.
They watched her for a moment as she took photos and drew a few pictures in a small notebook. There was something intimate, respectful in her movements. But just the thought of working so closely with a skull, let alone the makings of a whole skeleton, gave Donovan the heebie-jeebies.
He cleared his throat—no way did he want Sam to think him a wimp—and quietly asked, “So, Navajos avoid the dead?” He wasn’t really thinking about Smokey; he was thinking about Emily. She was Native American but must not be Navajo because she wasn’t leaving. It didn’t surprise him that she was the one who Sam had called.
“Something about the good leaving with the soul and the evil remaining with the body.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, clearly honoring what Smokey and a few of the other construction workers believed. He wondered if it was what she believed, and if so, why she’d chosen such a career path.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t quite certain what her career path was. At first, when she’d been all over him with petitions and threats of cease and desist, he’d thought she was some sort of activist. But, when she had finally handed him a business card, it stated that she was a “storyteller.” Whatever that was. Then, he’d found out she was also the curator at the Lost Dutchman Museum. Two weeks ago he’d gone to the Lost Dutchman Ranch for dinner, and she was waiting tables. If not for her, he’d have made it his favorite stop. The locale was perfect, the food great, and he liked Jacob, the owner and Emily’s father. But, quite frankly, he didn’t trust her not to put really hot sauce in his food.
