The Accidental Cowboy Page 3

  “Come on. You’ll probably want to spend a while looking around, and I need to write up my report.” She led Reese up the incline toward the drawings that decorated the wall just to the left of an overhang of red and dusty beige rock.

  “Report?”

  “I might be a ‘civilian’ but I am more than capable of providing the college with my assessment of the area.”

  He nodded, then asked, “Are there multiple locations with drawings and obvious signs of habitation?”

  “This one is the closest to the ranch. There are more extensive ones a day’s walk away. Others aren’t in restricted areas, so I get to those in the ranch pickup or on horseback.”

  He looked away before he said, with a return to clinical stiffness, “My research focuses on the diet of late Bronze Age man—”

  “And woman,” she added because his tone hit her “annoy” button again—she’d thought she’d disconnected it after years in the corporate world. She needed to work on that, especially if she planned to return to a corporate job...eventually.

  “And woman. Technically the Americas did not have a Bronze Age. There was no bronze until after the colonial period. I’m specifically interested in how legumes entered the diet here.”

  Jeez! Just when she’d thought he wasn’t a pompous professor. “Hmm,” she said, a noise that could mean anything.

  “Pardon me. You’re not a student and you probably know more about the area and its early inhabitants than I do.”

  Whoa, Nellie! Down, girl. Sure he’d just said she had intelligence and had apologized, but her only job was to act as hostess and not a hostess with benefits. If he wanted that, then he could drive himself to Nevada. Still in his utilitarian khakis—and she knew exactly what they were hiding—he had a certain charm.

  * * *

  JONES LOOKED UP the incline, not paying much attention to the flora, fauna or prehistoric graffiti. All he noticed was the very fine swing of the pixie’s hips as she led her pixie-sized donkey. He should feel awkward, like a giant in her miniature world. Her car—a Mini Cooper—matched her undersize lifestyle. Instead, he got that same low-in-the-gut heat that had stirred when she’d brushed up against him that day with the scorpion. Randy came to mind to describe his state. He shook his head as he moved again. His brain certainly wasn’t working at full capacity if he was coming up with Victorian descriptions of his state of...interest. He watched her more closely. Was that a natural swing? Or did she know that he was watching?

  “Which group does the department at the university attribute these drawings to?” he asked as he drew close to her and the overhang that created a shallow cave-like space.

  “They don’t have a specific group but have dated the area’s settlement to around 400 CE.”

  “Hmm.” She proved to him again that she was more than a cute pixie-sized cowgirl. She was a woman with intelligence.

  “The college recently received the property and hasn’t funded any formal explorations, although the sites have been documented over the years.” She dropped the donkey’s lead rope. She pointed and said, “Right there, see?”

  He moved up beside her, close enough to touch. The hairs on his arms stood at attention. He looked over her head to faint white markings just to the left of the shaded overhang, stepping around her and forward so his back was to her. He stared at the drawings, mentally going through the list of British kings, starting with Alfred the Great. By the time he got to Ethelred the Unready, he had everything under control and could look at her again. “What do they symbolize?” He pointed to a zigzag pattern.

  She shrugged. “There’s been a lot of speculation. Water or maybe wind or the deity for one of those elements. There are researchers who think that the glyphs are astrological, like Stonehenge.”

  He snorted. Stonehenge. He’d not get started on that. “Are there more?”

  She nodded and moved into the shallow cave and the deep shadows. “It’s cooler here, too. This is where I planned to stop for lunch. You explore. I’ll get the packs from Reese.”

  Lavonda turned from him and wiped her palms down the sides of her jeans. Was she nervous? She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who was squeamish about bugs or animals that might be hiding in dark places. She nearly tripped on the uneven rocks on her way to the animal. Then she stopped, straightened her back and easily took off the smaller cooler tied to the burro’s saddle. That didn’t seem very Wild West, as he’d imagined it when he was a boy. Maybe because they weren’t in the Wild West. They had mobiles, satnav and sunscreen.

  He turned back to the wall with its faint but still-visible drawings. He moved farther to the right and closer to the end of the overhang where a shallow indentation had been made by someone. How old was it and what had this been used for? His archaeologist’s interest was piqued. He heard Lavonda talking to Reese. He walked slowly, not disturbing anything. Then he caught dull silver, glinting in the sunlight that barely reached under the overhang. A twenty-first-century drink can—or something older? He reached into his pocket for his mobile and the flashlight app. He shone it into the cave’s dark corners.

  “What did you find?” Lavonda’s hushed voice whispered over his skin.

  “Probably nothing, but I saw... Ah, just there.” He pointed a little to the right and up on the wall.

  Lavonda moved closer and a shiver of awareness skittered through him. Distracted for a moment, the flashlight beam swung wildly.

  “Did you see something?” She touched his forearm briefly, her small fingers leaving a heated impression.

  “Not yet,” he said calmly, as if he was in a lecture hall and not standing next to an enchanted pixie, maybe a leannán sí who’d taken possession of his body like a succubus out of a Scottish fairy tale. He concentrated on the beam of light and what had caught his eye.

  “There it is.” Her arm shot out to point. She leaned in farther. Her breasts brushed against the outside of his arm.

  It took all of his concentration to keep the light steady. “Yes.” He made himself move closer to the glint and away from her warmth, carefully moving his feet to minimize any disturbance of the site. Habit. He needed that habit to keep his brain working. Otherwise, all he would think about was the pixie hovering by him, her darkly sweet scent of molasses and...oats? He looked over his shoulder and noticed the little donkey, his ears standing up and watching the two of them. “Your animal. Is he loose?”

  “What?”

  He gestured with his head, savoring again the brush of her light touch on his arm as she turned to deal with the animal. As he got closer to what he’d glimpsed, he saw exactly what had been reflecting the light. Another niche, this one definitely enlarged by a tool. He ran his fingers over the surface, noting the notches in the stone. The mica and pyrite in the stone had created the flashes of light. The blackened spots made it clear a candle or other light source had occupied the niche. That made sense with the reflective—

  “Oh, that’s amazing,” Lavonda said, once again close.

  “This cave has been used before.”

  “Oh, yeah. Any place that gives you shelter from the sun has been used. If not by the Tohono O’odham or Pascua Yaqui, then by ranchers, missionaries or animals. It’s important to have shelter in the desert, even the high desert.”

  He nodded, lost in the crackling heat that surrounded her like the auras around the saint statues that filled every Arizona mission. Is that what the artists had been trying to portray? What was he thinking? This was not a divine feeling. This was the basest of urges. He stepped away from the raw, overwhelming urge that unbalanced him. “I’m sure the university has mapped and noted this location.”

  He’d traveled to Arizona to save his reputation and to finally be seen as his own man and not just the younger Kincaid brother. To do that, he needed to keep his distance from everyone, especially Lavonda. His se
cret could be discovered. He knew if she found out why he was really here, she would tell the college’s president. She was just that kind of woman—honest, forthright...a cowgirl. Remain aloof, separate, he told himself. Otherwise, he might just talk himself out of his plan. It would be easy enough to forget what was waiting for him in Scotland if he took her into his arms, if he kissed her like there was no tomorrow, if he... If he did absolutely nothing, they would both be better off, so that was what he would do.

  “What’s for lunch?” he asked, turning from her and toward the sunshine slanting into the darkness, highlighting the miniature donkey whose head was buried in the open cooler. “I believe that Reese has beaten us to it.”

  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 find a significant Viking site, not a doll dumping ground. The toys had been destroyed and hidden because they’d been made with illicit products during World War II. The c
ompany could have been fined and shut down, so they buried the evidence.

  The damned dolls were the reason—at least part of it—he had to keep his search for Kincaid’s Cache secret. If it came to nothing, no one would know and it wouldn’t play over and over again on YouTube, courtesy of the video shot on camera phones by student workers.

  If he found the cache, though, the dolls would be forgotten and he’d be back on his way to the top of the department. His colleagues would also have to acknowledge that he’d not gotten his position because of his brother.

  Jones gathered his laptop and overstuffed file folder for the short walk to the nondescript building that housed Stanley’s office. The man was head of the history department for the university’s Angel Crossing campus, and Jones hoped he would have another recommendation for a guide. He’d looked at his problem from all sides. He didn’t have the time to find a guide on his own in an unfamiliar place. Plus, after going out into the desert with Lavonda, he realized that while he might stumble on something on his own, a guide familiar with the area could help him quickly eliminate dead ends.

  He also wanted to confirm the teaching schedule he had agreed to for the remainder of the spring and the full summer semesters. The seminar on identification techniques would not meet every day. Plenty of time to do both sets of explorations.

  Jones paused at Stanley’s door. The professor was speaking with Dr. Gwen Hernandez. He recognized the president of the college from her picture on the website. He hesitated but Stanley said, “Jones, come in. How are you settling in at Hacienda Bunuelos?”