Anyone else, and Donovan would assume they were assessing cost. Not George Baer. He’d be thinking about time and possibly media exposure. The man liked his privacy. Thus the end-of-the-road residence in out-of-the-way Apache Creek, Arizona. It was a custom-build situation unlike any Donovan had ever worked on before.
After Baer told him to do what he had to do, Donovan disconnected the call and stayed in the kitchen, looking out the window at the talented Miss Hubrecht. Even on her knees digging up bones, she managed to look beautiful. Long black hair was caught back in a ponytail that swayed while she used both a brush and a small shovel-like tool to free the skeleton without damaging it.
Nothing about this build was ordinary.
He’d been working for Tate Luxury Homes for the past three years, mostly because he’d fallen in love with Olivia Tate. After a while, he’d realized she was a bit like the luxury home he was building for George Baer: all show and no heart.
Donovan hoped that Olivia found the right man for her. He wasn’t that man. Before he’d even started dating Olivia, Donovan had borrowed money from Nolan Tate, her father, and now it would take at least five homes and two years to repay the debt. What was best about the current location was, while uncomfortable, it was far away from Olivia and her tantrums.
Maybe uncomfortable was too kind a word. George Baer’s house, so far, had no electricity, no plumbing and no urban comfort.
Emily looked up, caught him watching her and looked away. He felt a moment’s disappointment. Why? He’d be out of Apache Creek in a little over a month.
But, unable to resist, he glanced back at her, mesmerized by the fire in her eyes and thinking that such a look shouldn’t be there because of a skeleton.
Her hands kept moving, gently uncovering what Donovan wished had stayed buried. Then, when he could see she had dug well past the ribs, she stilled.
He took one step in her direction, half pulled by curiosity and half pulled by the instinct to be there if she needed him.
Sam got there first. “What did you find?”
“My guess, based on his teeth and the condition of the bones, is we have a male skeleton between twenty-five and forty years old. I can only estimate how long he’s been buried here. I believe, though, an entomologist would agree with my findings. If I were going through missing-person reports, I’d focus on at least the last fifty years.”
Donovan let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Not an ancient burial ground.
“You’ll want to call Maricopa and the medical examiner, though,” Emily said. “There’s a knife next to the body.”
Donovan breathed in. His custom-built home had just gone from burial ground to crime scene.
At least if it had been a burial ground, Emily Hubrecht would have provided a diversion.
“Find anything?” Jane de la Rosa asked when Emily walked through the museum’s front door.
Emily couldn’t remember Jane or Jane’s mother not being a part of her life. Jane’s mother, Patti, used to work at the front desk of the Lost Dutchman Ranch. She’d been let go a few years ago. Jacob, Emily’s father, said it was because his girls were doing more. Emily knew it had more to do with Patti’s attempts to become more to him than just an employee.
Jane often filled in at the museum when Emily needed someone to spell her. What Jane didn’t know about history, she made up for with enthusiasm.
Hesitating and maybe just now letting it all sink in, Emily slowly said, “Yes.”
“Because you look like you dug all the way to Tucson.”
Since no cars were in the parking lot, meaning no visitors, Emily felt free to share, ending with “The skeleton was no more than two feet down right in the middle of nowhere. Not even close to the old trail leading to the Superstition Mountains.”
“Poor man.” Jane immediately bowed her head, engaging in a silent prayer. Emily followed her example, reminding herself that what she’d found today had been someone’s son, possibly husband, maybe father, maybe friend, and deserved respect.
“Find anything else?” Jane asked.
The skeleton had waited decades to be discovered. The Maricopa County medical examiner would no doubt make him wait a few more days. After all, the skeleton wasn’t going anywhere. Sam Miller hadn’t even bothered telling Emily not to talk about the discovery. Already, four construction workers knew and probably four wives and maybe even a child or two. In Apache Creek, when a girl sneezed, the bless you might come from three miles away. That’s how fast news traveled.
“I stopped digging when I got to the pelvis, which let me know I had a male. There was a knife right next to the hip bone.”
“Recognize it?” Jane’s eye lit up.
“Of course not. I left it half-buried. No way do I want to compromise a crime scene. All I’d need to do is anger the wrong official and suddenly my position identifying local Native American sites would be in jeopardy. I told Donovan Russell not to build there.”
It was true, too. Quite a few people wanted the past to be the past and let progress reign. Case in point, Donovan Russell and the absent George Baer, who’d employed him. Lately, it felt as if she and the townspeople of Apache Creek were in opposition with the mayor and a few other major players, like business owners and Realtors. Their little town was in danger of losing what Emily considered its heart. Others might call it quaintness. Not Emily. Apache Creek’s history set it apart from every other small town. How could people not appreciate it?
“Those acres of land have been for sale since before you were born,” Jane said. “You can’t be mad because someone finally purchased them and is now building. You’ve given Donovan enough grief.”
“You’re sticking up for him because he’s a good tipper.”
“And careful with his money, an overall nice guy. Besides, I’ve known you since you were in diapers. You get your teeth in something and you don’t know when to let go.”
“I’m right more than I’m wrong. And—” Emily wagged her finger “—when I was in diapers you were just eight years old and thought Batman was real.”
“He is real,” Jane teased before sobering. “You’ve got to accept that change happens, and for a reason. I can understand you wanting to preserve a two-hundred-year-old Native American village, but I don’t see a village there. Sometimes you go too far.”
Emily knew where this was going.
“You,” Jane continued, “need to forgive Randall Tucker for tearing down the Majestic Hotel. It stood empty for more than twenty years.”
Now greeting visitors who turned off the highway was an apartment complex that looked like a million others. Boring. And she’d purchased the remnants of the Majestic’s history on her own dime or they’d have been lost. It was history. Apache Creek used to be a favorite shooting location for Hollywood Westerns, and the Majestic had been the hotel the actors, directors and such had stayed at. She had old movie posters, props and even an old script from a Roy Rogers flick.
It wasn’t that she loved Roy Rogers—she didn’t remember him. Or that she loved old Westerns. She didn’t. But, when looking at history, the way the movies depicted culture and mind-set was priceless, a teaching opportunity.
The couple that had been here this morning hadn’t had a clue. They loved the persona of John Wayne, not the real man or the real history.
Looking in her mirror, she had to laugh. She could be right out of an old Western herself, with a dark smudge across her nose, sunburned cheeks and mussed hair. Jane hadn’t been far off when she’d questioned how much dirt Emily brought back with her.