Amanda's Beau (15 page)

Amanda flipped her pillow over to the cold side and reminded herself not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She should feel nothing but relief now that she had another tidy sum to present to the bank on Ella's behalf. Of course, she did feel relieved and grateful — to a certain extent. But she couldn't help wondering if she'd walked into an emotional trap of some sort. It was a feeling she couldn't explain.

Surely, she needn't fear a friend of Gil's? Amanda tried to imagine them as childhood playmates together — one dark-haired and the other blond. One bold and the other brash. Both adventurous and gallant. Why did she have the sneaking suspicion Nate Phillips might want, or expect, more than storage space for the generous price he'd offered to pay?

Generous or not, he'd vexed her by bringing up the German fellow and his Turkish treasure. She didn't want him to give Rex false hopes about the sort of relics to be discovered in the old Indian settlement. Gil had said there was no gold, silver, or jewels buried out there in the ruins, and she believed him. Nate Phillips had also confirmed the site had not been abandoned by Spaniards or ancient Aztecs. So why did he have to go and stir up Rex's fantasies about gold and treasure?

Still, Amanda was curious about those pictographs he'd mentioned and wanted to see them for herself. She wondered if Nate Phillips would come out each day in his noisy driving machine with items to store in the old shed or if he'd send a hired man with a buckboard instead? With a snort of self-disgust for even wondering about such unimportant matters, Amanda rolled over to her other side and punched the lumpy pillow. One thing she knew for certain, Nate Phillips had come to town and nothing was ever going to be quite the same again.

In the morning, Amanda was tired and short tempered. Her night's slumber had not been restful. Every little thing seemed to irritate her, even Rex's tendency to chatter like a scrub jay at breakfast.

"Aunt Mandy, will you make some more of these sugar cookies for the spelling bee on Sunday?" Rex asked, swiping the last ones from the plate.

"If I have time," she snapped, plunging her hands into the dishwater.

"Will you come? You said you'd come."

"We'll see, Rex. You know I'd have to find someone to stay with Minnie and your mama before I can make such a promise."

"You'll find somebody. I know you will," he said, shuffling out the door, balancing books and cookies in both hands.

Standing at the sink watching Rex's retreating form, Amanda realized how much she'd like to go to the spelling bee. She had never been inside the schoolhouse. Of course, she had passed it several times, but never entered. After accompanying Gil and his students to the old ruins, she was now intensely curious to glimpse the inside of the handsome teacher's scholastic domain.

But she didn't have much time to reflect upon this, the spelling bee, or Nate Phillips and his excavation plans. The day was a hectic one and included a longer than usual visit from Doctor Morgan, who declared himself ‘pleased as punch' following his lengthy examination of Ella. He consulted with Amanda regarding a new diet for the recovering patient and urged her to encourage Ella to take some mild exercise, such as walking from one room to another, anything to keep her from lying in bed all day.

Shortly afterwards, Mr. Schwarzkopf arrived to pick up the weekly cache of eggs and drop off a box of groceries. While swapping empty crates for full ones, he suddenly remembered something. "I haff letter for you, Miss Dale."

"For me?" Amanda asked, incredulous. She'd never received a letter before in her life. Who in the world would be writing to her? Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe there was another woman named Amanda Dale and the letter had been delivered here by mistake.

"Ja." He fumbled in his coat pocket to retrieve the missive. "Here it is." He handed it to her before climbing back into his wagon. "You come to spelling bee, cheer on young Rex, ja?"

"Ja, I mean, yes," she replied absently. She waved good-bye and turned away to examine the letter. Sure enough, there was her name in bold script, in care of Mrs. Randall Stewart. The return address belonged to one Lemuel McLean Kennedy, Attorney-at Law in Las Cruces. She'd never heard of the man and had no idea why he should write to her. But finding out would have to wait. Just as she flipped the envelope over, intending to open it, Minnie let out a wail. Ella, who'd insisted earlier that the baby's cradle be kept next to her own bed, called out for her sister. With a sigh, Amanda slipped the letter into the pocket of her apron.

She completely forgot about it until the following afternoon when Dolores Martinez arrived in her buggy, bringing with her some soft goat cheese, a jar of new cane molasses, and a stack of fresh flour tortillas, wrapped in a large white linen napkin.

"How kind of you, Dolores!" Amanda greeted her neighbor warmly.

The older woman returned her embrace. She smelled faintly of lavender and honey. "I have come to help. Shall I wash diapers? Sweep the floors? May I first see the bebe? She is thriving, no?"

"Yes, she is, thank the Lord," Amanda replied, touched by the concern on the woman's face. "She's drinking from a bottle now and lying on Ella's bed at the moment."

Dolores arched her dark brows. "The mamacita is better also?"

Amanda nodded. "You must see for yourself. Ella will be delighted to have someone to talk to other than me and Rex."

"May I tell her of Señor Phillips and the excavation?" Dolores asked. "In the village, no one talks of anything else."

"I can believe that," Amanda replied with a knowing wink. "I think she'll be keenly interested. When Rex told her Mr. Phillips was using her old chicken house as a storage shed, she was both pleased and surprised, I think."

"Ah, that is good to know. The extra income will be a blessing. The man has hired my sobrino, my nephew, Juan to help with the digging."

"Have they started the work already?" Amanda asked, astonished. Nate Phillips certainly wasn't wasting any time. She was surprised he had been able to assemble a work party so quickly. But everyone needed cash these days, and Mr. Phillips seemed to have plenty to spread around.

"Si, it is like a colony of ants over there," Dolores told her. Making a wide gesture with her hands, she added, "Everywhere there are men and mules and horses and wagons. And much dirt. Piles of dirt. I saw all of this, on my way here."

"Have you met Mr. Phillips?" Amanda wondered what the older woman thought of the charming archeologist.

Dolores shook her head. "But Señora Schwarzkopf at the store, she tell me he is handsome and oh-so charming. More handsome than Señor Gladney." She arched a dubious eyebrow as though she found this assessment to be highly unlikely. "She also tell me, Mr. Phillips is full of pretty words. He can talk one into buying a hair brush without any bristles."

Amanda laughed. She thought the description of Nate Phillips an apt one. "I can just imagine the old ruins swarming with activity," she said. She knew Nate's enthusiasm would be contagious, and he would expect the laborers to work as tirelessly as he did.

"Go see, Amanda," Dolores urged. "Use my buggy. I will sit with the bebe and her mamacita. Go. It is not far. It's a fine day, but take a shawl, just in case," she advised.

Longing for a bit of solitude and sunshine, Amanda readily agreed. However, she took the time to fix her hair in thick coils on top of her head. School would soon be out for the afternoon, and if Gil Gladney made his way to the site to help his friend, as she suspected he would, she didn't want him — either of them — to see her sporting a disheveled braid again or a homely apron, which she promptly removed. While folding the apron, she felt the crinkle of the forgotten letter and decided to take it with her. She could read it on the way.

But she didn't. After climbing into the buggy and giving a flick of the reins, Amanda turned the horse in the direction of the river. She glanced back briefly at the big red dog, sitting on the bottom step. What am I going to do about Bonita? Fortunately, she hadn't found any more dead hens and apparently, Rex hadn't either. Maybe Bonita hadn't killed the hen at all, but had simply found it dead and brought it to her.

Amanda soon forgot about Bonita and the chickens as she relished the warmth of the autumn sun on her face and the nip of the crisp breeze as it blew across her cheeks. Someone was burning leaves — she could smell the familiar aroma in the air. She was a little sorry when the ruins came into view so quickly. Dolores had not been exaggerating. Men and wagons were everywhere. The transformation of the abandoned settlement into a bustling worksite was amazing.

With a firm whoa and a tug of the reins, Amanda brought the buggy to a halt near an empty buckboard wagon. Pulling the neglected letter from the waistband of her skirt, she opened it and read its contents. It was a business letter regarding her late father's blacksmith shop. The language was formal and cumbersome. She had to read it through twice to make sure she understood its contents.

"Miss Dale. How delightful."

Amanda glanced up to see Nate Phillips approaching the buggy, one arm raised in greeting. Today, without his long, buff-colored driving coat, he seemed taller and leaner. He came toward her, moving with a quick, manly grace. His work clothes were covered with dust, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. With a quick glance, she noted that his boots were scuffed and dirty. Still, there was something quite dashing about him, Amanda observed with reluctance.

"If you've come to see the pictographs, you're a bit premature." His charming smile revealed those white teeth and took the sting out of his mild rebuke. "I'm glad to see you nonetheless," he added, leaning in as he did so.

"One of my neighbors told me it was as busy as an ant colony over here. I had to see for myself," Amanda replied, ignoring his flirtatious manner. She refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope.

"Let me show you what we've done so far," Nate invited, offering her a hand.

Amanda crammed the letter back into the waistband of her skirt and climbed out of the buggy. Nate cupped her elbow in his palm, and led her toward the corner of the ruins where she, Gil, and the school children had been exploring just last month.

"I've been carefully measuring several of the honeycombed chambers and taking inventory of their contents," Nate told her. "We even found one that contained over two hundred bushels of charred corn — still on the cob."

Amanda noted how his eyes glowed. She could hear the enthusiasm in his voice.

"And as you can see, the men have to haul buckets and buckets of dirt to the dumping pile," he went on, pointing. "There's always plenty of dirt at a site such as this."

"But no pictographs yet?" she queried, pausing to watch a group of men reinforcing the settlement's crumbling west walls.

"My dear, Miss Dale! Most archeological discoveries are not inspiring ones." Nate frowned at her with mock disapproval, but his brown eyes danced. "The men have found many rooms filled with nothing more than piles of rotten food stuffs and rats' nests, animal dung, and even carcasses. The stench is terrible in those chambers. Sometimes they are swarming with rats and bugs."

Amanda shuddered. But she was intrigued in spite of her disgust.

"Come see the potsherds," he said. "Young Rex will have his hands full this afternoon." He led her toward a row of squatty jars, short-necked pitchers, and several cradleboards. At the end of the row were piles and piles of broken pottery. "Your nephew will have to wash and sort these by color."

"This is extraordinary, Mr. Phillips," she said, admiring the relics. "Who would have thought so many nice things would have been found here? What are these?" She stooped down and picked up one of the many smooth and perfectly rounded pottery pieces, about the size of a quarter.

"I'm only guessing of course, but I believe they might be some sort of gaming pieces," Nate explained, his hands on his hips.

"Indian poker chips," spoke up one of the nearby laborers with a grin.

Smiling, Amanda dropped the unusual chip back into the pile. She followed Nate to another section of the site where piles of deer antlers and turkey bones had been dumped in a heap. If she'd been fascinated by ancient history when Gil had talked about the site weeks ago on the class field trip, she was twice as intrigued now. Each new discovery seemed to present a host of unanswered questions. Why did the Indians leave this cozy community? she wondered. And why had they left so many household articles behind?

Nate was showing her his rough pencil sketches of the site when the accident occurred. Attracted by shouts of alarm and hollered commands, Nate quickly excused himself and rushed toward a group of men, who had been clearing away dirt and debris at the opposite end of a three-story structure. Not wanting to get in the way, Amanda stayed where she was. From what she was able to overhear, she guessed the floor of one of the chambers had been badly decayed. The ancient wood, brittle with age, had given way, and a man had plummeted into the yawning darkness below.

"Send for Doc Morgan!" one of the workers called out. Another man took off running toward his horse, mounted, and galloped away toward the village. Amanda crossed her arms at her waist and said a hasty prayer, hoping the man's injuries were not serious ones.

"Hey, Aunt Mandy! What are you doing here?"

Amanda spun around. Rex came running toward her, his schoolbooks tucked under one arm. His freckled face glowed with excitement. Several other students had made their way to the site as well. They stood watching the workers attempting to rescue the man who had fallen into one of the chambers. Others lingered near the pile of artifacts, pointing and exclaiming. Amanda recognized Jerry Snow, Sammy Cordova, and a few of the other youngsters too.

"Hi, Rex," she greeted him. "I came over in Mrs. Martinez's buggy." She pointed in the direction she'd left the borrowed conveyance. She noted Ozzie Lancaster leaning against the empty buckboard, talking to a sullen-looking man in a dusty slouch hat. His father, perhaps?