Renegade Moon (CupidKey) (2 page)

“Told ya so,” he teased. “Don’t worry about it. When you get back near civilization, I’m sure you can download the goods.”

After chatting a few more minutes and nearly losing signal twice, she told him the same as she had her mother, not to worry if he didn’t hear from her frequently.

Determined and brimming with anticipation, she headed off again. She wanted to check in with the Rampton director—Lee Duncan, according to her scribbled notes—and establish her credentials.

Online research had supplied her with key background, helping her find out the Rampton Foundation generously funded projects that otherwise might go begging. Maybe a PR thing, but still it could insure cooperation. Destiny tossed her head with a laugh. Her first
Western Skies
assignment. How exciting!

Geez.
A confusing selection of roads branched off the highway. Some obviously led to dwellings, but others simply appeared to ramble into the hills and rocks.
Let’s
see
,
the
map
shows
. . .
ah
-
ha
!
This must be it
, she thought, studying the landmarks.
Yes, here are the two rock pillars and . . .

There
! She spotted a Bar-M sign on the left pillar.
Interesting.
A cattleguard instead of a gate crossed the entrance and her Mustang jiggled roughly over it. Again she traveled a plain rock and gravel road, quickly leaving sight of the highway.

Great rock formations loomed up as though they would fall over upon her at the slightest jar. The road climbed, sometimes alarmingly so, and then pitched downward, disarming her with quick, unexpected turns. She braked at a fork and again examined her map.
Go right
. The road continued on and on until she was sure she’d made a wrong turn and almost decided to reverse course and try again.

The dig site appeared as if conjured up by desert magic. She spotted several vehicles parked atop the small bluff overlooking the site and pulled in beside them. With growing excitement, Destiny hopped out to hike down the uneven trail, avoiding rocks and sagebrush.

Carrying her camera and picking her way carefully, she followed the footpath down the incline.

“Hey, hello!”

“Hi,” she replied automatically with a smile. She glanced up at a man approaching; slight of build, no more than five-eight or nine, with sandy-blond hair. He sported a thick, but well-groomed moustache the same color as his hair.

He smiled back. “I take it by the camera that you’re the photographer who’s going to make us famous throughout the western states,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I hope so.” She accepted his grip. “Your fame is my fame.” Squinting in the bright sunlight, she shaded her eyes with her free hand. Already the day burned with the promise—or perhaps the threat—of the heat to come. Destiny turned her attention back to her greeter. “I’m Destiny Winston from
Western Skies
.”

“Lee Duncan,” he returned with a firm handshake. “I’ll be happy to help you any way I can.”

“Thanks, Lee. I’m in foreign territory here.”

“Come see what we’re doing.” Taking her elbow, he assisted her over the rocky ground to definite outlines of a building and some crumbled adobe walls.

“This seems to date well before anyone actually settled here. We’re also excavating a Native American camp not too far away. We think it was established close by the post not only for trade, but to seek protection from hostile renegades.” Lee indicated some artifacts that had been placed on a bench.

Destiny lifted her camera and snapped a few shots. She always took far more photos than she used.

“Where’s the creek?” she asked.

“Right there,” Lee replied, nodding.

She saw nothing in that direction but sand and rocks and some straggly plants. “Where?”

“There,” he repeated, and walked about ten feet away to point downward.

Destiny came up beside him and peered down a shallow embankment at more sand and rocks. “I see a creek bed, but no creek.”

Lee grinned. “Parts of Ranger Creek don’t always hold water. After a gully-washer rain, the water roars down like a tidal wave. See this debris?”

Her gaze followed his pointing finger. “Oh, the trash caught in that bush?”

“Right. That’s above your pretty head. The water gets that high. It helped to cover and protect this site. Most of the historical and archeological sites have been picked over out here.” He smoothed his moustache. “But this one was protected by its layer of dirt and by being on Montoya land.”

“Have you been on this dig long?”

“Right at three months. Long enough to witness a crashing gully-washer. Not every rain turns into one, but that one did.” Lee wiped his brow. “Wouldn’t like to be in a low spot during one. Hard to believe this dry country can flood so quickly.”

Destiny studied his face. “Montoya land, Bar-M, one and the same?”

“Right.”

“Yesterday evening on my way to Las Nubes, I turned off onto a side road to photograph the sunset. A cowboy approached me and said I was trespassing on the Bar-M Ranch. He was very tall, dark, and rode a big paint horse.”

“That’s Eric George Montoya, owner of this ranch.” Lee scowled as they strolled back toward the site. “Was he rude?”

“Not at all, even though at first he thought I’d opened a wire gate. But someone else must have left it down.”

“There’s more than one gate into the Bar-M. It covers several thousand acres.”

“Impressive,” she murmured. “How did Rampton Foundation find this excavation?”

“Eric Montoya contacted the University of New Mexico when he discovered the site after one of those gully-washers. They contacted the Southwestern Historical Society and they in turn called us. Easy.” He smiled. Destiny realized he was rather attractive and returned the smile. “You know,” he continued, “the Rampton Corporation is a huge company and established the Foundation years ago to assist in this type of project. Jefferson Rampton is a true philanthropist.”

To halt Lee’s praises of his employer, she said sweetly, “I believe you. I really need to pick up some supplies. Where can I buy groceries?”

“There’s a small local grocery store in Las Nubes, and a convenience store that sells gas and snacks. But the nearest supermarket is many miles away in Albuquerque.”

“Albuquerque? You mean local residents drive all that way to shop?”

“Right. Guess they’re used to it. I confess my city ways. I really miss civilized conveniences on every corner, including Wi-Fi hotspots, and not needing to walk around pointing your cell hither and yon, trying to pick up a signal.” He escorted her back up the footpath to her Mustang.

“Oh, it’s an oven!” she cried, fanning the door, then sliding inside and starting the car and air-conditioner. She hopped out, hoping it would cool off quickly. She’d left her windows up, allowing heat to build unbearably. How could this heat increase so fast from such a goose-bumpy morning?

When the car had cooled down so as not to roast her alive, she got in and said, “Thank you for showing me around, Lee. I’m sure you’ll tire of me before this is over. But I promise to try and stay out of the way.”

“Tire of you?” Lee chuckled. “Impossible. Part of my job is to assist you and I’m certain you’ll do a positive article on the Foundation.”

Driving away, she considered how anxious Lee Duncan had sounded about her assignment. She hadn’t missed his assessment of her, either, even glancing at her left hand, likely to check for a wedding ring. After that, she’d checked his hand, too. Shoot, why hadn’t she noticed the cowboy’s hand last night as well? She’d certainly scoped out everything
else
about him.

A windmill peeked over the crest of a hill and Destiny swung her Mustang wide to take a better look. At the foot of the windmill was a rock stock tank, with one small and two large travel trailers parked nearby. She assumed the Foundation people stayed in them. She wondered if Lee stayed out here or in town like she did. She’d bet in town. Somehow, he didn’t seem the camper-trailer type. He appeared likable, however, and she figured they could work well together.

Instead of turning back toward the highway when she came to the Y in the road, Destiny impulsively steered the other way. Curiosity nudged her to find where this road led. After all, she could always turn around. The low-slung Mustang scraped each and every rock, so she drove very carefully. This branch of the road wound around hills and rock formations, climbed over savage edges, and dived down through arroyos. As she questioned the wisdom of her impulse, she topped a rise overlooking a stone and adobe house, outbuildings, and fenced corrals.
Not
at
all
modern
. Several buildings appeared to be under reconstruction. Behind the house, a tall windmill turned lazily, a metal water tank on a high stand next to it. The scene vividly complemented the wild, rough landscape.

How picturesque!
Destiny jumped from the car, camera in hand. She admired the ranch-style architecture of the long, one-story house with a wide front porch set off by rock arches. Desert bushes, several varieties of cactus, and clumps of various grasses dotted the rocky yard in untended freedom. She noticed a cottonwood tree near the western end of the house. Her camera clicked steadily.

As she moved away from the car to seek better angles, two dogs charged out of nowhere, barking furious threats at her. The long-legged, thin black animal waved his tail as he barked, but a snarl escaped the powerful jaws of a stocky, reddish brown beast. His tail did not wag.

Destiny’s heart raced as the dogs crept closer, splitting as if to flank her. The stocky brown one edged between her and the car. The black dog moved up on the other side. She pressed back against a tumble of huge boulders and, with forced calm, carefully felt out hand and foot holds. Gradually she began working her way up the side of the boulders. Soon she’d be out of their reach . . .

“Joby! Muddog!”

The dogs immediately turned and trotted back to the house. On the wide front porch stood the cowboy from the night before, whom Lee had called Eric George Montoya. The cowboy’s expression remained formidable, but his voice was mellow. “It’s okay. They won’t hurt you.”

Feeling relieved, she gingerly abandoned her perch and crossed to the porch. The dogs lay in the shade panting, at ease as if she’d raised them from pups. Still, she stepped carefully around them and ascended three steps to stand beside her rescuer.

“Your dogs?”

He nodded. “They’re good dogs. They mind.” That half-smile she remembered curved his mouth. “You’re on Bar-M property again.”

“Just can’t stay away.” A fluttery, trembly feeling washed over her. She stared up at him. Their eyes locked. She could not see the pupils in those black pools of midnight. “Perhaps I should explain my trespassing,” she said, her voice high and breathless to her own ears.

“First, let me practice some hospitality. Can I get you something cold to drink? Lemonade? Water?”

“Water would be lovely. I get so dry out here.”

“I’ve got plenty of that. Have a seat.” He waved a hand at a wooden table and benches at one end of the porch. Near them were several wooden chairs. Destiny walked down the cool, shaded porch and took a chair. She watched the heat waves shimmering off her car. The backs of her legs still sizzled from sitting on the hot vinyl seat. Her lightweight blue slacks didn’t afford much protection. She glanced down at her feet in their small, white sandals. Those wouldn’t do, either. She’d packed jeans, but realized she needed boots.

She thought of the rancher’s boots, a dusty tan, scuffed and worn. His faded, mended jeans molded to his lean and powerful body, defining his masculine strength.
What’s wrong with me?
Why did he send her thoughts swimming and make her voice squeaky? Not since Jason, nearly four years ago now, had she felt any serious interest in a man.

Jason, whom she’d met while writing a series of features for a regional magazine, had treated her like a giddy girl, merely playing with a camera until some man married her. He’d wanted to be that man. Oh, she didn’t doubt that Jason had loved her, or loved his idealized vision of her. And she’d loved Jason. But she had not spent those years of sixteen- and eighteen-hour days working at two jobs and attending classes, to meekly put away her cameras and join the neighborhood bridge club. She had every intention of becoming a serious photography artist, to travel worldwide and produce beautiful, moving, award-winning books that people would not only display on their coffee tables, but would examine with pleasure again and again.

Jason took his own career as business executive seriously enough, but he’d practically laughed at Destiny, as if she were a kindergarten child producing finger paintings for the refrigerator door. That he would treat her this way had deeply hurt her and had changed her feelings for him. It was as if he’d expected her to aspire to nothing more than his appendage.

Destiny shut her eyes against the memory of their arguments, of Jason’s refusal to respect her unwillingness to give up something so important to her. Not since that time had she been in a serious relationship. Nor, for the present, did she intend to become involved. So why this pounding heart for a man she didn’t even know?

Eric entered the house, his head practically swimming. What a gorgeous woman! That cascade of pale honey hair framing her delicate face, and those remarkable aquamarine eyes, as clear and deep as a tropical sea? Stunning. And here she’d turned up on the Bar-M not once, but twice in rapid succession.

What the
. . .
?
His shirt pocket radiated warmth. Reaching into it, he withdrew Cupid. He hadn’t bothered to change shirts this morning, knowing he’d be doing dirty work, and there it was, still nestled, all cozy and snuggly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled at the grinning cherub. Detouring quickly he stopped by his study and dropped the offending brooch into the desk drawer. It could just stay put until he got the family legend sent off to Ty.
Ha!
Family
curse
described it better.