Arizona Homecoming. Pamela Tracy

wood and the words Lost Dutchman Museum appeared to have been burned in.

      Emily smiled. Her museum looked at home nestled against the backdrop of the Superstition Mountains. The barn distracted from it a bit, but the cook shanty to the left helped.

      “This is a great location,” Randall said. “You get much traffic?”

      “We get plenty of traffic. We, however, are closed on Monday. Come back on a different day, and I’ll show you around.”

      He scanned the main building. “Solid foundation. How old?”

      “About fifty years. It was built in the sixties.”

      “Private or state?”

      She’d learned a long time ago that losing her temper only made things worse. “When you come back, I’ll get you a brochure. Or, you can go to the website. I update it every week.” She gave one last tug on the door, making sure it was locked, and then headed for her truck.

      On the drive to the Baer place, a good fifteen miles, she deliberately pushed Randall Tucker from her thoughts and focused on the events involving the body, in order.

      She, along with Donovan, had been among the first to see the bones. He wasn’t her first choice for a comrade, but he might do. She needed to talk to him some more because while she’d found the knife, it had been the medical examiner who declared the site a crime scene. Donovan, no doubt, had been present through every step.

      She needed to talk to the medical examiner, too. She knew the man was a stickler for details and rarely missed a clue. Even though her perusal of the area turned up nothing else in the vicinity that might point to who the skeleton was and how he died, maybe the ME had noted something.

      Besides the knife.

      Nothing in the perimeter would vindicate her father. Yesterday, he hadn’t been worried. “My word has always been truth,” he said a dozen times at church. It was half a scripture. He was good at that.

      She wondered if he was worried today.

      She was, and she wasn’t exactly sure why. She knew her father hadn’t been involved in a murder.

      Turning onto Main Street, she noted that the Miner’s Lamp was doing a steady breakfast business. No doubt, the skeleton’s discovery would give the people of Apache Creek something to talk about for weeks, maybe months.

      Especially since suspicion had fallen, if only for a brief second, on her father.

      Jacob Hubrecht, Emily thought as she drove past the park, still believed a handshake was binding. It had been decades since he’d lived outside Apache Creek. Before that, he’d been a bull rider, and she knew, having met most of his friends from those long-ago days, that they’d had their own code of honor.

      A cowboy’s handshake.

      She didn’t trust such casual contracts. She’d been across the United States, even working in South Dakota, where her job had been to return stolen artifacts to local tribes. Legislation claimed that it was necessary “to secure, for the present and future benefit of the American people, the protection of archaeological resources and sites which are on public lands and Indian lands.” Yet, some of the most grievous offenders were fined in the three digits while they’d earned in the five digits from their stolen loot, no jail time or restoration.

      The Natives called it erosion of justice.

      She called it misplaced trust.

      A handshake worked in her father’s world, but just as the knife by the skeleton was eroded, so might be justice. This corpse was an intruder to George Baer, who thought a monstrosity of a house belonged on sacred soil.

      The sign designating Ancient Trails Road was fairly new and looked out of place. She made a left and then slowed down so she could study the Baer house without anyone noticing. She no longer thought the soil so sacred.

      Some secrets should stay buried.

      Two trucks were parked where a driveway would one day be. Emily recognized one as belonging to John Westerfield, who had been out of work for almost two years. He’d have probably shown up even if they’d found a mass grave. The rest of Donovan’s crew appeared to be missing. She knew Smokey quite well. It would be a while before he ventured back.

      The other truck was Donovan’s.

      She edged her foot onto the gas and then braked, slowing, suddenly sure that driving out here was the wrong thing to do. She’d wanted to shut the construction down, but not this way.

      Unfortunately, Donovan stepped out the front door, giving her no choice but to park, exit her truck and head for the house he was building.

      * * *

      “Everything okay?” For the most part, their paths had been crossing via controversy, but Donovan—thanks to his ex-fiancée, Olivia—knew how to recognize a damsel in distress.

      Olivia had perfected the art; Emily not so much.

      “I hope so,” she managed. “My dad’s at the station for questioning.”

      “I’m sorry to hear that. So strange that there would be two knives. Did your dad ever remember how he came to have that one?”

      “Right after you left. It was his prize for finaling in a Prescott Rodeo.”

      Donovan nodded, thinking it made perfect sense. “You want to come in? I’ll show you the guts of this place. It’s not as bad as you make it out to be.”

      She shook her head. “I’ve seen this house a million times, usually in a gated community on an upscale street in a big city.”

      “You haven’t seen this house,” Donovan protested. “It’s one of a kind, and I designed it.”

      She looked at the Baer house again. He did, too, pleased with what he saw. Even without the doors, windows and cabinets in place yet, he could visualize how they’d complement his creation.

      He was bringing his drawings to life.

      “A million times,” she muttered. As if to prove her point, she questioned, “Two-car garage with a workshop attached?”

      “Yes.”

      “Four bedrooms, each with its own bath?”

      “Yes.” Now he was getting annoyed.

      “A study and dining room?”

      Had she seen his plans? “Yes.”

      “I forget anything besides the kitchen and family room?” she queried.

      “Baer specifically asked for a hallway that would serve as a gallery.”

      “Ah,” she quipped, “that must be the custom part.”

      “The arrangement, proportions and style make it custom. Plus, when we finish with the landscape...”

      She pointed behind him. He turned, seeing the Superstition Mountains in all their glory.

      “You can’t compete with that,” she said simply.

      “I don’t want to. I just want Baer to be able to sit on his back porch and enjoy the view.”

      “The view he’s wrecking.”

      Ah, now the Emily Hubrecht who’d first approached him was totally back.

      “This house is not on a hill. There are no neighbors for miles. He’s not infringing on anyone’s view.”

      “You mentioned style. What style would you call your design?”

      He answered without thinking, because he knew the style and had answered the question a million times. “French Country.”

      “French Country in Arizona. That’s different.”

      “It’s what Baer wanted.”

      For