Arizona Homecoming. Pamela Tracy

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. She just wished her time spent had done something to halt Donovan’s progress.

      One custom-built home, with a backdrop of the Superstition Mountains, would surely lead to another until soon there’d be a gated community—pimples marring the mountains’ beauty.

      Jane already had her purse on her shoulder when Emily returned to the front. “Two families stopped by. They loved the place.”

      Yeah, Emily loved it, too, but she needed a thousand more people to show a little love if the museum was going to survive.

      * * *

      Donovan looked at the calendar: Friday. Exactly one week since he’d uncovered the bones. He hated being behind schedule. Once Emily had determined the remains were fairly recent and a crime scene, she’d filled out a report, turning it over to the medical examiners.

      What a show that was. The medical examiner and his crew had arrived this past Tuesday—guess Monday was a busy day—with what looked like tool chests. The remains were carried away in individual labeled bags on Thursday.

      “What now, boss?” John Westerfield asked, bringing Donovan’s attention back to the present.

      “Not a circular drive, that’s for sure.” Donovan glanced at the cordon tape still waving in the tepid Arizona wind. In the past week, what they’d accomplished was piecemeal at most. He’d found it distracting to deal with the various law-enforcement personnel as well as reporters looking for clues that clearly weren’t there.

      Except for the knife.

      Since the discovery, he and John had done indoor work with lots of interruptions that had Donovan—who’d been instructed by Baer to cooperate fully but not to mention his name—saying, “the homeowner” this and “the homeowner” that...

      Smokey and his cousins had taken the whole week off and Donovan could only hope they’d show up on Monday. When, according to Sam Miller, they could resume work with no one interrupting them.

      Donovan was disturbed by quite a few things, and they weren’t all work related.

      At five, he called it a day. John picked up his lunch box and drove off.

      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