Donovan had other plans. He headed to the camper behind Baer’s not-quite-finished home and quickly showered and changed clothes before heading for the Lost Dutchman Ranch. Exactly one week after Emily predicted, You’re going to be stuck with me for a long time, he pulled into a parking spot in front of a huge barn and walked the path to her family’s restaurant.
He hadn’t been stuck with her. No, he’d been stuck with a dark-haired, fortysomething male medical examiner with two trainees, who showed up in a white van, carrying rakes, sifters, trowels and brushes. They weren’t afraid to get dirty, but Donovan got the idea that his crime scene had taken a whole day longer than necessary because the ME was using it as his trainees’ hands-on classroom.
The only thing Donovan had overheard was the ME showing his students evidence of severe arthritis in the bones.
Donovan wasn’t really in the mood to eat at the Lost Dutchman Ranch’s restaurant. It would have been easier to eat on Main Street at the Miner’s Lamp. No, not true. Every diner would be looking at him. A good number of locals would have headed over, hands out for a shake or slap on the back, and started a conversation with, “So tell me about...”
At least here, at the Lost Dutchman Ranch, most of the patrons were from out of town, if not out of state. Maybe they’d not heard yet.
Truth was, he’d been summoned. Jacob Hubrecht wanted to hire him for some odd building job, and Donovan was intrigued.
Stepping from his truck, he took a deep breath, smelling mulch, plant life, animals and most of all barbecue. It was ten times better than the dust, particle board, glue and paint he smelled at work.
When he grew close to finishing the Baer place, the landscapers would swoop in. He couldn’t help but think George Baer had made a mistake. The man wanted artificial grass and even a putting green. To Donovan’s way of thinking, Jacob Hubrecht’s ranch was the real beauty. The house was original—Donovan’s favorite kind of building—and complemented its surrounding. Emily had grown up in a breathtaking place with vibrant colors and personality.
His parents’ place had been about this size, too, but they’d used the land for cattle, not horses and vacationers. Thus, no pool, no pretend schoolhouse and no covered-wagon decor. It had been an all-work-and-no-play kind of place, especially for Donovan, an only child.
Nebraska didn’t have anything that equaled the Superstition Mountains. But suddenly he missed the Mytal sunset and the taste of his mother’s mashed potatoes and his father’s baritone voice singing a gospel song.
There were no skeletons buried in their yard. That was for sure. Just a deep love and appreciation for the family, for the land and for the Lord. Donovan rarely went home and struggled with a sense that he’d failed when it came to the commandment “Honor your father and your mother so that you may live long in the land your God has given you.”
Probably why Donovan had stopped attending church: guilt.
His dad would say the land was the Russell Dairy Farm. Unfortunately, his choice not to take over the family business had festered into a permanent wound that neither father nor son could heal.
Donovan walked toward the dining room, thinking that big-city people didn’t know what they were missing. This was a happening place, a joyful place, with family portraits and wall decorations that were Native American heirlooms or present-day rodeo memorabilia instead of plastic or mass-produced knickknacks. He spotted Jacob sitting with Emily and another dark-haired woman, and headed for the rancher’s table, arriving before he was spotted and just as Jacob Hubrecht was saying, “That would be like putting a Band-Aid on a broken dam. You can’t stop Donovan from building any more than you can stop progress. Apache Creek is going to grow.” He looked out one of the windows and nodded toward the panoramic view of the Superstition Mountains. “You can blame them.”
To Donovan’s surprise, Jacob—without taking his eyes off the mountains—added, “Right, Donovan?”
Not exactly the way Donovan wanted the evening to begin. “That’s correct, sir.”
Jacob grinned as he looked at Emily, who made a face as if she’d just swallowed a pickle. She had the same glimmer of passion in her eyes that she’d had last week while examining the skeleton, and there was a little smudge of brown under the left side of her chin, letting him know she’d been playing in the dirt again.
Instead of asking her whose dirt she was digging in today, he said, “I didn’t come here to change Apache Creek. It’s perfect the way it is. I’m building one home. I’m a builder, not a developer. And I’m not the home owner.”
“If you want to stop more homes from going up, you’ll need to buy the land yourself.” This advice was aimed at Emily and came from a tall blonde woman.
Emily frowned, and Jacob stepped in. “Donovan, you’ve not met all my girls. It’s a rare occurrence they’re all here. Eva’s my oldest and will take your order. I hope you’ve not eaten.”
Now Donovan saw the resemblance. Eva looked a lot like Jacob, light haired, while Emily and the other sister must take after a dark-haired mother. And Eva was obviously pregnant. Her advice about buying the land was sound, and Donovan wondered if Jacob could afford to do so.
“I’ll take iced tea and help myself to your pulled-pork sandwich with homemade chips.” It was what he’d had last time he ate here. The aroma had lured him the moment he stepped out of his truck.
“No one can afford to buy all the land that needs to be preserved in this area,” Emily protested, “and no one should have to. It should be made into a state park, part of the Superstition land trust.”
“We didn’t find Native American remains,” Donovan said, claiming the only vacant chair, which happened to be next to Emily.
“You could have. He wasn’t buried very deep. Decades of wind could have covered him up. And just because he’s not more than a century old doesn’t mean he’s not Native American, and—”
“Emily,” the sister at the table said gently.
While Emily continued talking, ignoring her big sister, Donovan studied the other female, a taller, more slender version of Emily. When Emily finally stopped her impassioned tirade with a harrumph, the woman held out her hand and said, “Since no one is going to introduce me, I’ll do it myself. I’m Elise.”
“Donovan Russell. I met your fiancé Cooper a few days ago. I stopped by his outfitters store. He told me all about gold panning.”
She looked at her little sister with an indulgent expression, and then back at Donovan. “And my little sister has told me all about you.”
“All good?” he joked.
“I like to judge for myself. I’ve been keeping up with what the house you’re building looked like. So far, I’m not sure.”
Donovan doubted she’d be impressed, considering where Elise lived. The Lost Dutchman Ranch blended in with its surroundings, making a visitor take in the whole package: house, land, mountains. George Baer definitely wanted visitors to notice only his house.
No, not the house, but his money.
“Then, I went to your website,” Elise continued. “You’ve done some impressive homes.”
“Back
