Chapter Three

      “Damn it, Reese,” Lavonda said as she raced to the front of the cave, away from Jones and the crackling heat between her and the Scottish Clint Eastwood. “Get out of there. You don’t like empanadas.” She yanked the donkey’s questing nose from the cooler she’d left open. What had she been thinking? Getting under Professor Kincaid’s kilt, that’s what. She dragged the donkey outside and into the shade thrown by the rocks, tying him to a small mesquite bush. “Stay here. I’ve got food and water for you.”

      “Will we need to return to the ranch?”

      “The food is good. It’s all wrapped up. Reese just gave it a good sniffing. You can keep exploring, and I’ll tell you when I have our lunch ready.”

      Jones stared at her, his exact expression unclear in the shadows of his hat. He gave a quick nod and moved away, gone and out of her sight before she could say anything, not that she had anything to say. She turned to the little burro. “Reese, kilts aren’t sexy, right? Plus, he’s the ‘strong, silent’ type, which is not my type, right?”

      The donkey’s ear swiveled at the sound of her voice, but he kept his back to her. Obviously, he was miffed she’d kept him from destroying their empanadas. She pulled out the small bag of feed and the larger container of water, getting the donkey set up for his own lunch. He moved in on his food, and she patted his withers as he munched. “You know what Jessie would tell me?” she asked the donkey, changing her stance to mimic her long, tall cowgirl sister. “‘Lavonda, don’t go messin’ with a man unless your intentions are clear.’”

      Yeah, exactly what did that mean? She gave Reese a final pat and unpacked their human food. No matter what, she did owe the college and her friend Gwen to keep the visiting professor fed and safe. So far she hadn’t done so well, nearly killing him with Cat and then the scorpion.

      “Yo, Jones,” she yelled out, going for asexual female pal. “Lunch is ready.” She waited for a response. Nothing. Great. With her luck, he’d fallen, hit his head on a rock and was now in a coma. “Jones,” she shouted again. No response. He’d gone out of the overhang and to the left. She walked that way, scanning the area for his hat—his lucky cowboy hat—and khakis. She needed to find him before he died from heatstroke or was attacked by marauding javelinas. She pulled her mind back to Jones. He couldn’t have gone far, even if he was out of her line of sight. She scanned the area, then caught the sun glinting off his deep auburn hair, its ruddiness overlaid with a rich chestnut. He’d taken off his hat. He shouldn’t have done that. Smartest dumb man in the desert today. Visitors like him just didn’t understand the power of the sun. With the dry heat, sweat evaporated so quickly that you didn’t even realize you were sweating.

      “Hey,” she yelled to catch his attention. He turned. She walked carefully over the large and awkwardly placed boulders that looked as if a giant child had scattered them like marbles. “Lunch is ready.”

      He waved at her again. She couldn’t figure out if he was dismissing her or beckoning her closer. She kept moving. He crouched closer to something at his feet. She thought he was near the dry riverbed, which turned into a full-blown river during the summer monsoons. He’d probably spotted the pottery shards that had washed down over the centuries.

      “Did you find something interesting?” she asked when she was close enough to catch the hint of moss and pine scent that somehow clung to him in the dusty desert heat.

      “I believe this is one of the metates that you discussed, and more drawings.”

      She looked down at the round hole in the flat rock, near to the riverbed, obviously man-made or, more accurately, woman-made. “That’s it. Can you imagine how much stone people ate with their grain? I mean that’s how those holes were made, years and years of grinding corn and whatever else.”

      He nodded, and then his head moved up and she saw his eyes scan the horizon.

      She started her own lecture. “This region was heavily settled at different times, not like the pueblos up at Montezuma Castle...you know, up at Camp Verde.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not looking for anything that old anyway. This area was heavily settled when Father Kino came through here building missions and churches. You should go see San Xavier, even though Kino didn’t build that one.”

      He squinted cowboy-style into the open desert but didn’t say anything.

      She felt obligated to go on to fill in the strong-silent-type quiet. It’s what she did when there was a lull in conversation. “It’s a huge tourist attraction. The priest founded a string of missions, from Mexico over to Baja, California.”

      He stood and gestured for her to go first.

      She looked at him without looking at him. Had she bored the pants off him? If only. Dang it. She went on to distract herself from the memory of him, her and nothing between them but a thin layer of cotton. “We became part of the US in 1854 with the Gadsden Purchase. Before that it was definitely claimed by Mexico... Spain. Actually, it was Hohokam land... You know all that.”

      When she saw he now had on his patient, professorial expression she was certain he used on particularly dull students, her babble dried up. “Here’s our lunch. Empanadas—”

      “Spanish pasties. They stole the idea from us.”

      He startled a laugh out of her and, without thinking, she touched his arm. Tingling awareness shot through her body. She seriously considered whether one of them should steal a kiss. His lips softened. He must have read that on her face because his green eyes darkened. She leaned in enough to capture his cool and dark moss scent. Stop. She subtly shifted her body away and his features moved back into something that was a mix of “aloof academic” and Clint Eastwood in Two Mules for Sister Sara—a classic, according to Daddy. She didn’t want to start anything, even if he was interested, which was hard to know for sure. It just wasn’t the time or place, right? She’d been at a crossroads and restless for months now. On the other hand, maybe going against her usual type would knock her out of her holding pattern and onto a new path. Yep, keep telling yourself that, sister. This could be a disaster of epic proportions.

      “Here.” She thrust an empanada at him. She picked up her own and sat three boulders away, near Reese. He was just about as good at conversation as the professor, anyway.

      * * *

      TWO DAYS AFTER his hike in the desert, the image of Lavonda with the cartoon-princess eyes and luscious lips kept distracting him while he video-chatted with his colleagues in Glasgow. The chair had asked him three times if they needed to reschedule the call because Jones had missed key points in the presentation. The situation was ludicrous. He’d pulled it together enough to finish the call and tie up loose ends on a joint project. One or two more calls, a review of the material and the project would be complete.

      He was sure he’d never have been invited to work on this paper after Dolly-Acropolis—or the “ancient” burial site created by a manufacturer of baby dolls, as it had been described by the papers. The university had insisted on publicity for his find. They’d called in the press, thinking, as he had, that he’d