fit in that holster thing.”
“Wow,” Ben said, chuckling.
The woman smiled. “Thank you for the patience with my son. I do apologize if he said anything to offend you.”
“Not at all,” Ben said.
“Good,” the mother said. “Come on, Jacob.”
Ben watched as the pair went on down the sidewalk, the mother still lecturing the inquisitive child about staying close to her.
Cute kid, Ben thought, tugging his Stetson lower on his forehead. He and Laurel had talked about the children they’d have. Two for sure, maybe more. Yeah, they’d daydreamed about a lot of things, all part of the life they would share together. What a joke.
“Aw, hell, forget it,” Ben muttered. “It’s time to go home.”
Ben lived in an A-frame house on two acres of wooded land on the edge of town next to the reservation. The house was set well back from the road, and the entire front of the structure was windows, affording a spectacular view of nature’s bounty.
The inside was open and airy with a river-rock fireplace against one wall banked by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a half wall dividing the living room from the kitchen, an eating area, small bathroom and laundry room.
The upstairs had a balcony overlooking the downstairs and two large bedrooms with a connecting bath. The second bedroom was an office of sorts, with a computer and more book shelves.
The furniture throughout was big, comfortable and rustic. The gleaming hardwood floors had several large Navajo rugs, and one of Dove Clearwater’s woven creations adorned one wall. Scattered among the multitude of books on the shelves were Navajo pots and baskets, all made by people he knew on the rez.
Ben entered the house from the covered garage that led to the kitchen. He went upstairs, changed into jeans and a faded sweatshirt, locked his gun in the metal box on his closet shelf then headed back to the kitchen to find something for dinner.
A short time later he sat at the table and ate a plate-sized omelet filled with ham chunks, green and red peppers, cheese and onions and topped with a generous serving of hot salsa. A tall glass of ice water stood at the ready above the plate.
After eating, he cleaned the kitchen, then settled into his favorite recliner to watch the evening news on television, which failed to hold his attention.
Laurel had never seen this house, he mused, glancing around. What would she think of it? Would she be able to envision herself living here? Or had he decorated with too much of a guy-thing touch to make her feel at ease? Well, that was easy enough to fix. Add some girl-thing doodads, or whatever, to make it evident that a woman was in residence, too.
He’d drawn endless pictures of this dream house while he and Laurel were still in high school, sharing them all with her. They’d decided together which bedroom would be theirs and…
“Damn it, Skeeter,” Ben said, smacking the arm of the chair. “Why are you going there? Why are you doing this? And why in the hell are you talking to yourself?”
Ben dragged both hands down his face, then rested his head on the back of the recliner.
Change the mental subject, he ordered himself. Now. Do not think about Laurel Windsong. Think about…yes, the robberies at the vacant summer homes.
He’d phoned the sheriffs over in Flagstaff and Prescott on the off chance they were dealing with the same type of crime wave. Both men had said things were quiet on those fronts. It had been a long shot anyway, would have meant that a very sophisticated group was casing an extremely large area of the state to establish which homes were empty during the fall and winter.
No, he thought, this was his problem and whoever was doing it was from Willow Valley or the rez. As much as he hated the truth of that fact, that was the way it was. They were taking things that were easily moved. Televisions, VCRs and DVD players, computers, hunting rifles and ammunition, even microwave ovens.
Why? The stuff wasn’t worth much when sold in a dark alley somewhere. It was big risk for small return, which indicated that it was probably kids, teenagers who were bored and out for a thrill that would mess up their futures when he caught them.
And he would catch them, no doubt about it.
He was, Ben knew, bouncing back and forth between thinking it was one person pulling this off and several who were urging each other on. Whichever was the case, they would make a mistake and he would get them. Oh, yeah, he’d get ’em.
And then tears would flow and hopes for the future would be shattered and lives disrupted for all time.
A sudden image of Laurel appeared in crystal clarity in Ben’s mind.
“Yeah, well,” he said wearily, “there’s a lot of that going around. Decisions are made and pretty puzzles get ruined with no way to put them back together again.” He paused. “And, damn it, I’m talking to myself again.” He shook his head. “Maybe I should get a dog.”
Laurel stomped into the busy kitchen at the Windsong Café and crossed the room to stand next to her mother, who was frying hamburgers and steaks on a large grill.
“One more person,” Laurel said, planting her hands on her hips. “If just one more person asks me if I’m going to cut my hair, I’m going to scream the roof down.”
Jane smiled as she flipped hamburgers over with the ease of many years of experience.
“You knew it would happen tonight, sweetheart,” she said, glancing at Laurel. “I would think you’d have prepared yourself for the fun and games.”
“I thought I had, but this is really ridiculous,” Laurel said.
“No,” Jane said, laughing, “this is Willow Valley. Some things don’t change. The love of juicy gossip is one of those. The locals have waited four months for something—anything—to take place between you and Ben, and it finally did. I’m sure he’s getting the same nonsense thrown at him as you are.”
“He has it coming,” Laurel said. “He’s the one who opened his big mouth. And I still don’t understand why he did it in the first place.”
“Don’t you?” Jane said, giving her daughter a meaningful look.
“Goodbye,” Laurel said, walking away. “I’m not discussing this further. I have customers to keep happy.”
“Goodbye,” Jane called, laughing again. “Or rather, hagoonee, to show off my expertise in speaking Navajo.”
May, who was a short, plump woman in her early sixties, took a pie from one of the ovens and set it on a cooling rack.
“Laurel is all in a dither, isn’t she?” she said, smiling.
“Yes,” Jane said, turning over several steaks on the grill. “Oh, I do wish she and Ben could work out their differences, but ten years is a very long time.”
“Not when it comes to love.” May laughed. “Jane, remember when we’d take the babies to the park? We’d spread out a blanket and watch them wiggle and reach for each other. There was Laurel, Ben, Dove and my Joseph. Cute as buttons, every one of them. My goodness, how the years have flown by, haven’t they?”
“Yes, they certainly have,” Jane said as she served up the hamburgers and steaks.
She carried the plates and red baskets to the pickup ledge in several trips, called for the waitresses waiting for the orders and returned to look at May again.
“Think about it, May,” she said. “My Jimmy is gone and so are his parents and mine. Dove’s folks were killed in that tragic accident so many years ago. Ben lost his mother and father in that flash flood.”
“And Joseph’s father flew the coop before Joey was even born.” May shook her head. “I’m glad we don’t have crystal balls to see