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
