Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (23 page)

“Is this your land?” She kept her tone extra light and
happy, straight out of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.

“No, it belongs to old Dick Webber.”

She looked up from stepping over a raised root just in time
to collide nose-first into Butch’s green T-shirt-covered sternum. He caught her
by the shoulders as she teetered backward and waited for her to gain her
footing before releasing her.

Blushing for absolutely no reason she could think of—except
for the fact that she always seemed to have two left feet whenever Butch was
within stumbling reach—Kate took a step back to put some much-needed space
between her and his dark blue eyes.

“Sorry.” She adjusted her perfectly straight skirt. “I seem
to have developed a bad habit of colliding with you.”

“I don’t mind.” Holding out his canteen to her, he added
with a grin, “Unless you’re sitting behind a steering wheel.”

Her face burned hotter. Grateful for the shadows cloaking
her at the moment, she grabbed the canteen and took a swig, letting the
lukewarm water soak into the lining of her mouth before she swallowed it.

She handed the canteen back. As Butch took it from her
outstretched hand, his fingertips touched hers and lingered. Kate felt sixteen
again all of a sudden, full of silly crushes and raging hormones, her heart
beating in her throat.

Then, without wiping the mouthpiece, he tipped the canteen
back. As he capped it, he watched her, his eyes narrowed, assessing. She
resisted the urge to tuck loose strands back into her chignon.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have cute ears?” he
asked.

“Uh, no.” She squeezed her right earlobe, realizing that in
the midst of trying on six different outfits for her non-date with Butch, she’d
forgotten to put in any earrings.

“Well, you do.” Without another word, he turned and
continued up the path.

She frowned after him. As far as compliments went, she wasn’t
even sure that registered on the charts.

Butch glanced back. “You coming?”

With a mental slap to knock some sense into the overheated
gray matter in her skull, she trudged along behind him.

When she’d asked him to show her the sights around
Jackrabbit Junction, she’d figured they’d head to Yuccaville, maybe meander
through a mining museum; or drive to the top of one of the mountains ringing
the valley and stare out across the endless shades of brown as she cunningly
probed him for answers.

Instead, he’d spread out a blanket under a hundred-year-old
cottonwood tree and treated her to a breakfast of granola bars, bacon, grapes,
and bottled orange juice.

The second stop on his tour had been a huge ocotillo plant
sporting more than seventy thorn-laden, green branches covered in tiny leaves.
While botany field trips were more Claire’s cup of tea, as evidenced by her
numerous courses on the subject, Kate had actually enjoyed Butch’s explanation
on the many uses of the ocotillo, so much that she’d forgotten she was supposed
to be playing Mata Hari with him.

Now, as Butch dragged her along to see his “hidden gem,”
Kate cursed herself for failing to figure out a clever way to prod him about
his connection to the Copper Snake Mining Company. Not to mention asking him
about Valentine, Lana, and Miss Tube Top.

Further up the trail, Butch paused and waited for her to
catch up.

“So,” she spoke between heavy breaths as she drew near. “Mr.
Webber doesn’t mind us trespassing on his property?”

“No, he’s my neighbor. I hike up here periodically, checking
his fences, looking for stray cattle, keeping an eye out for more coprolites to
add to his collection.”

Kate choked out a laugh between her parched lips. “He collects
petrified shi—uh, dung?”

Butch nodded.

“What does he do with his collection?” She imagined an old
guy dusting each piece with a paintbrush, labeling them, and enclosing the
whole collection in a glass case.

“You don’t want to know.” Butch pushed aside a thick jumble
of branches. “It’s right through here.”

Giving him a wary glance, she ducked under his arm. After
several steps along what looked like a deer path, she stepped out of the thick
brush and into a meadow lined with willows, cottonwoods, and stunted sycamores.
Small clusters of vivid orange and red flowers dotted the meadow floor and
undulated as the air breathed around her, cooling her sweaty skin. A mourning dove
cooed.

Wow! Where were Adam and Eve and the apple tree?

Butch rustled through the trees behind her, joining her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful. Those are pretty red flowers.”

“The Indian paintbrush is nice, but that’s not what I’m
talking about. What do you think of the ruins?”

Ruins? Until Butch pointed it out, Kate didn’t notice the
alcove in the cliff to her left.

“You mean that cave?”

“It’s not just a cave.”

Butch grabbed her hand and led the way toward it, tromping
through the grass. She didn’t pull away, feeling like an idiot for the rush
that came with just holding his hand.

They stopped at the base of a towering cliff. Kate shielded
her eyes and peered at the ruins fifteen feet up in the rock wall. She could
see the base of the remains of an adobe structure. “What are those marks on the
cave wall?”

“Pictographs.” Butch’s excitement showed in the slightly
higher tone in his voice. “You want to take a closer look?”

Of course she did, but archaeological sites were usually
fenced off. “Can we?”

“That depends.” Butch let go of her hand and walked over to
a pile of cut tree trunks lying in the grass at the base of the cliff and
rolled several to the side.

“On what?”

He lifted a wooden ladder that had been hidden under the
pile and leaned it against the stone wall. His gaze lingered on her legs before
traveling up to her face. “If you can climb a ladder in a miniskirt.”

Kate tried to act as if his interest in her legs didn’t have
her stomach feeling like it were full of bouncing lotto balls. “Sure, but you
have to promise not to look up my skirt for London and France while I climb.”

His grin spread wide. “How about if I promise to just check
for one of them?”

He took several steps back, waving her toward the ladder.

Slipping off her sandals, Kate stuffed them down the back of
her skirt inside the elastic of her underwear.

Butch watched, but said nothing.

She grabbed one of the rungs and started up the ladder,
making it to the ledge without incident, and then held the ladder while Butch
ascended.

“So, what do you think?” he asked as he joined her in the
shallow cave.

Kate took in the pottery shards, stone metates, stubby
remains of four adobe walls, and faded pictograph paintings on the cave walls. “Does
anybody else know about this?”

“Just old man Webber and me.” Butch extracted a leaf from
her hair, letting it drift to the floor. “And now you.”

He walked over and leaned against the wall next to the painting
of what she guessed was a herd of stick deer. His gaze lingered on her for a
moment, before focusing on the valley below.

She gulped. She was supposed to be seducing him, not the
other way around. She needed to retreat to Ruby’s, clear her head of this damned
crush she’d seemed to have developed for yet another sure-to-be criminal, and
come up with a new plan of attack—one that involved less bare skin and more
technique.

In the meantime, she might as well explore the last stop on
Butch’s tour and try to keep from making a total ass of herself.

Pebbles dug into her heels as she strolled over next to him.
“How old do you think this site is?”

“A thousand years, maybe two.”

She started to reach out to touch the painting but stopped,
remembering countless museum signs stating the detrimental effects of finger
oil. “Why haven’t any archaeologists been here to pick it apart?”

“Because Dick is a tried and true libertarian. He doesn’t like
the government—local, state, or federal—snooping around in his backyard. Plus,
he’s worried that if he tells anyone about it, he’ll have vandals up here
stealing artifacts, destroying the site. It’s been a family secret for
generations.”

That reminded Kate of Joe’s little family secret, the one
about a mummified hand. Could that hand have been from this site? Had Joe known
about this place? If not, had Butch found the hand here, along with the woven
bag and little stick figure, and sold them to Joe? Maybe Joe and Butch had been
working together, selling items on the black market. What did mummified hands
go for these days, anyway?

She turned to Butch. “Did you know Ruby’s husband, Joe?”

“Sure, why?”

“No reason.” Kate glanced away, afraid he’d see more than
she wanted him to in her eyes. She tiptoed through a litter of pottery shards
over to the remains of the adobe structure. “I just wondered what he was like.”

“He was … interesting.”

“Interesting in what way?” She peeked at Butch from under
her lashes. He was still watching her, frowning.

“In the patrons that would come into the bar whenever he was
in town. I could always tell when Joe was home.” Butch glanced at his watch and
did a double take. “Damn, we need to head back. I’ll hold the ladder for you.”

Kate didn’t want to leave, not when she was finally making
some progress—well, not exactly progress, more like digging her hole deeper.

She climbed down the ladder. Seconds later, he joined her on
the ground. They hiked back to his pickup in silence.

Her mind churning, Kate wondered how well Butch had gotten to
know some of Joe’s “interesting” patrons, if he had ever been involved in any
of Joe’s jobs, and if those artifacts Claire found in the safe were from Dick
Webber’s land.

Butch held the passenger door open for her.

“Thanks for the tour,” she said and climbed into the cab.

“Tomorrow, I have an appointment in Tucson. But if you’d like,
we can go out again Friday morning.”

Was his appointment with his lawyer?

“Friday sounds great.” This time, she’d don boots, a pair of
jeans, and bug spray.

“Great.” He shut her door and came around, slipping behind
the wheel. “We’ll start the tour with the house where your sister got shot.”

* * *

“If you two are going to start talking about women again, I
need a drink,” Claire said, dropping to the ground beside Manny’s lawn chair.

Chester handed her a cold bottle of hard lemonade, still
dripping from the slushy mix of ice and water in the bottom of the cooler.

She twisted off the bottle cap and washed the inside of her
throat with the bittersweet alcohol, then held the bottle against her cheek.
Sweat soaked her body, from the rim of her Mighty Mouse cap to the toes of her
filthy socks.

If only those dark clouds to the east were drifting her way
instead of hovering over the Tres Dedos Mountains. The afternoon heat had eased
slightly as the thunderstorm cruised by, but the sun had served up a plate of
extra hot rays today, and nothing short of an arctic front was going to break
the heat’s chokehold on the land.

Chester belched. “The fence looks good, girl. You may have a
nose for trouble, but you have the hands of a carpenter.”

“Si, bonita.” Manny lowered the binoculars and smiled at
her. “You can’t even tell an idiot backed into it this morning, especially
since you added that coat of paint.”

“Good.” Claire took off her cap and shook her damp hair
doggy-style. Fixing the fence had been bad enough in the blistering sunshine,
but restacking ten-plus cords of wood had her daydreaming about lynch mobs. She
wished she’d nabbed the asshole driver before he’d happy-trailed on out of the
R.V. park.

The sound of shoes crunching on the drive snared her
attention. Tossing her hat on the ground, Claire shielded her eyes at the sight
of a pair of ladies approaching in matching red tennis shoes, blue knee-length
shorts, and white shirts. Their silver curls gleamed under their identical navy
visors.

Claire wondered if the other members of the Fourth-of-July
parade float knew these two had escaped.

Each carried one plastic bag from the General Store. The
woman on the left batted her eyelashes behind her rose-colored sunglasses. “Hi,
Chester.”

With a grunt, Chester struggled up from his chair and took
the woman’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Milly.” He kissed her wrist.

“I’m Tilly.” The lady giggled.

Chuckling, Chester winked. “I mean, Tilly.” He turned to the
twin. “Hi, Milly. No hard feelings, I hope.”

Milly crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a “hrumph!”

“Buenos dias, Señoritas.” Manny’s voice was thick with his
Julio Iglesias brand of charm. He hovered next to Chester. “My name is Manuel.”

Tilly’s smile widened. “So you’re Manny. Chester mentioned
you last night. It’s nice to meet you, isn’t it, Milly?” She elbowed her
pinched-faced sister.

Milly’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’re a two-timer too.”

Manny’s smile wobbled at the corners. “Uh, no. One woman is
all I need.”

Right, Claire thought. Make that one woman per hour.
According to Gramps, Manny held the record for the most dates in one night.
Claire couldn’t remember the details, but it had something to do with Dallas, a
Mary Kay convention, and a naked bowling tournament. Or did Manny get kicked
out for getting naked at the tournament?

Milly grabbed her sister by the arm. “Come on, Tilly. My
marshmallows are melting.”

As Milly dragged her sister away, Tilly blew Chester kisses
and waved at Manny.

“I’d like to melt her marshmallows again myself,” Chester
said under his breath.

Manny whirled on Chester as soon as the girls were out of
earshot. “Dios, mio. Please tell me you didn’t sleep with Rebecca’s friends.”

“I didn’t.” Chester dropped into his lawn chair. The cooler
lid creaked as he grabbed another beer. “I just had sex with ‘em.”