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Therefore, Matt had one last chance to prove her theory. If the final location yielded nothing new, he’d have little choice but to give up his mother’s dream—which would be tantamount to admitting she was a crackpot—and move on. However, he’d encountered a problem with the remaining site.
Matt pulled a glossy three-fold brochure from the center drawer of his desk. The front panel revealed majestic mountains, four shots: spring, summer, winter, and fall—green, blue, gold, brown, white, purple, and orange abounded. Horses gamboled. He turned the brochure over to see if bunnies hopped and cattle roamed.
Instead, he found an artsy portrayal of a cowboy in silhouette, head tipped down, hat shading his face. However, the outline of the body was every ride-’em- cowboy-wannabe’s dream.
Inside lay the propaganda—several gung-ho paragraphs superimposed over a sepia print of what Matt assumed was the main house, which, despite the “old-time” feel of the photograph had obviously been updated and well maintained. According to the text, gourmet food complemented an authentic western experience.
“Yee-haw,” Matt murmured, rubbing the slick brochure between thumb and forefinger before removing another older, less slick, more crumpled paper from his desk.
He wasn’t an expert on photography, but he was still fairly certain the person who’d taken the pictures for the brochure was the same person who had taken the image Matt had uncovered on the Internet about a year ago. The one that matched the final descriptive translation for the burial site of Nora Mecate’s superwarrior.
Somewhere on this dude ranch lay his last chance to vindicate both his mother’s and his own life’s work. He’d had his assistant leave a dozen unanswered phone messages, followed by as many unanswered e-mails. Then Matt had taken over and begun to write letters, reiterating the request for permission to dig. He’d yet to receive a single response. It infuriated him.
Deep down he knew that his single-minded devotion to proving his mother’s theory, or as much of it as could be proved, was
based on guilt. He’d stopped believing in the superwarrior long ago. He’d started to wonder if his mother was the kook everyone thought her to be.
Grow up, Mom. I did.
Even now, Matt winced at the memory. She’d died still believing and he’d—
“Gone on,” Matt murmured. He hadn’t really known what else to do.
So, if Gina O’ Neil, owner of Nahua Springs Ranch, thought her silence would make him go away …
Matt booted up his computer and clicked the tab for Expedia.com.
She’d soon find out how wrong she was.
CHAPTER 2
Jase had left to retrieve their guests from the La Plata County Airport. The group wasn’t full again, and that worried Gina.
She moved through her room on the second floor of the ranch house, French-braiding her long, dark hair as she went. Sometimes Gina thought she should wear hers like Jase, who, despite his Native American roots, insisted on keeping his ebony locks Marine sergeant regulation length. Short hair would be a lot less trouble, especially on the overnight campouts that were part of every workweek.
She’d never be able to do it. One of Gina’s fondest memories was of her mother brushing out the tangled strands before bed. Gina had the superstitious belief that if she cut her hair, and therefore stopped brushing it in just the same way every night, that memory of her mother would disappear as quickly as shorn locks in a winter wind.
The sounds of a car door opening, then closing, made Gina frown. Still a little early for Jase to be back. Which could only mean trouble. Lately, anyone who arrived at Nahua Springs uninvited was.
She crossed to the window and glanced through, careful to stay out of sight as a man unfolded himself from the car. His back to her, the sun sprinkled mahogany highlights through dark brown hair, which spread across his broad shoulders like the tail fan of a pheasant.
Gina didn’t recognize him, but judging from his well-worn jeans, faded white T-shirt, and lived-in boots he probably lived in the area. Most guests showed up in nearly the same attire, except everything was brand-new.
His forearms were taut and tanned; his biceps weren’t bad, either. Gina’s gaze slid up the long legs to another part that wasn’t bad.
He turned and, startled, Gina straightened. That face belonged in a magazine, perhaps advertising the no-doubt expensive horn-rimmed glasses perched on his too-perfect nose.
Who was this guy?
As if he’d heard her question, or perhaps just seen her move, the man lifted his head. She couldn’t distinguish the shade of his eyes from here, but considering his hair and skin, they were probably as dark as her own. He was exotic in a way she’d never encountered—the rugged body tamed by a face just short of pretty, the wildness of his hair tempered by those retro-geek glasses.
He started for the house, and Gina hurried to meet him, boot heels clattering down the staircase. The front door was open, allowing the spring breeze to blow in through the screen, allowing him to hear her steps, glance up, see her, and smile.
“Hello.”
His voice was slightly rough, as if he’d spent the night in a bar that still allowed smoking, woken up after a bourbon bender, or called out someone’s name in passion so long and so loudly he wound up hoarse.
Where had that thought come from?
