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  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right of reproduction, distribution, or transmitted in whole or part in any form or means, or stored in any electronic, mechanical, database or retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Desert Heat: Previously published by Crimson Romance February 2012

  Copyright 2013 by D’Ann Lindun

  Cover Design: Carey Abbot

  Mom and Dad~

  This one’s for you.

  For the years we spent at Jokake, some of the best ever!

  Love you both.

  Other Titles by D’Ann Lindun

  The Cowboys of Black Mountain:

  A Cowboy To Keep

  Promise Me Eden

  Sunny Days Ahead

  The Brides of Black Mountain: Shiloh’s Song and Mending Fences

  The Callahans:

  Ride A Falling Star

  Cooper’s Redemption

  Desert Heat

  Mississippi Blues

  Shot Through The Heart

  The Cowboy’s Baby

  Vaquero

  Desert Heat

  Chapter One

  A wave of despair kicked Mike Malone in the gut, nearly doubling him over.

  Warm Arizona air in his face and the sweet perfume of nasturtiums in full bloom made his stomach churn. This time of year—early February—The Jumping Cholla Resort should be packed with tourists escaping bitter northern winters. With the holiday hustle and bustle over, the century-old ranch would normally be bursting at the seams with pale-faced vacationers soaking up the Arizona sunshine.

  The pool stood empty, the horses grew fat, most of the help had been let go. Besides four long-time friends, the only other resident on the ranch was an old prospector named Skeeter. Because Mike felt sorry for the guy, he let him stay in one of the cabins. Hell, someone might as well use them. No one else could.

  Skeeter minded his own business, wandering out in the nearby Superstition Mountains for days, sometimes weeks on end, searching for lost treasure. His only companion on these trips was a little burro named Nobody. Mike had asked about that once, and Skeeter told him nobody else would want the homely little animal. Mike grinned thinking of it. There was precious little else to feel good about.

  Deciding to see if Skeeter would like to have breakfast, Mike walked the short distance to the Spanish-styled cabins, enjoying the view along the way. The near horizon was filled with jagged red cliffs and a cactus forest. In the distance, the violet-hued Superstitions strained for the sky. Along the western edge of the property, the Salt River provided water to the citizens of Phoenix and its suburbs. Right now, Mike almost hated the sight of the slow-moving current. Fighting off his anger, he knocked on the door of the last cabin. When no one answered, he shrugged and turned away.

  Then he spotted Nobody staked out a few feet from Skeeter’s cabin. Something didn’t look right. The burro’s head hung between his front legs, his ears drooped. In two quick strides, Mike was at the little animal’s side. The burro’s sleek tan flanks were drawn up tight. He obviously hadn’t been fed or watered in at least a day or two. This wasn’t like Skeeter. He loved his little companion. Something had to be wrong.

  After leading the burro to an empty corral and filling the trough with cool, clean water and the feed bin with good hay, Mike went to see about Skeeter. He knocked again, listening carefully for signs of life. Hearing nothing, he took the master key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. The stench hit him first. His mind refused to believe it for a moment, but the sticky-sweet smell of something once alive, now rotting, was unmistakable. He’d come across enough dead animals in the desert to recognize the particular odor.

  Digging a clean bandanna out of his pocket, Mike held it over his nose and mouth and stepped inside. In the dim light, he saw Skeeter’s bloated body in the bed. Apparently he’d fallen asleep and not awakened again. For that much, at least, Mike was grateful. He scanned the room. Skeeter had been a man of simple means. Nothing personal adorned the room. No pictures, no mementoes, nothing. Turning away, Mike wondered if there was anyone alive who cared about the old prospector.

  ~*~

  After the ambulance carrying Skeeter’s body pulled away, a sheriff’s deputy lingered. “Too bad about your friend. At least he died here, where someone knew the score. If he had croaked out in the desert, nobody would’ve been the wiser.”

  “Yeah. It’s a good thing,” Mike commented, his tone as dry as the air around him. He handed over a ragged green duffle bag. “This is all he had. What about the body?”

  “Someone will have to claim it; make funeral arrangements.” The deputy looked pointedly at Mike.

  He sighed. “I’ll be in touch later this afternoon.”

  “Good.”

  Waiting until the cop pulled out of the driveway, Mike headed for his house. He needed coffee. What a fine mess this was. As if he didn’t have enough problems of his own, now he was saddled with making burial arrangements for a mere acquaintance. He and Skeeter hadn’t been close friends. While riding in the desert last fall, Mike had met up with the solitary prospector, and taking pity on him, invited him for a meal. With the ranch standing empty, Mike had urged the old man to stay, and Skeeter accepted. Whatever his business in the desert, Skeeter didn’t share, and Mike didn’t pry.

  No time like the present to clean the cabin.

  As he walked the stone path to the guest building, he noticed a pair of bright red cardinals on an outstretched arm of an ancient saguaro. One of the birds cocked its head Mike’s way, eyes bright with curiosity.

  At the door, Mike took a deep breath, and turned the key.

  Hurriedly, he lifted the mattress to take it outside to haul to the dump later. A crumpled legal-size envelope fell to the floor, and Mike dropped the mattress back on the bed springs, curious about the envelope. He picked it up and examined it. The address was to Gary James, Tortilla Flat, Arizona. Skeeter’s real name was Gary James? The return postmark was from Las Vegas, Nevada, and read 1991.

  Holding it for a moment, Mike took a deep breath before looking inside. A few pieces of paper slid into his waiting hands. A yellowed map with one jagged edge, torn in half, a black-and-white picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman holding a baby.

  Mike studied the map, and recognized several landmarks in the desert. But it was meaningless without the other half. He laid it aside and unfolded the single lined sheet. In large, curly handwriting, a woman named Carole told Skeeter she couldn’t wait any longer for him to come to his senses and return home to her and their daughter. They wanted him with them. Let her know what he decided.

  Carefully, Mike folded the yellowing paper and along with the aging photo, returned them to the envelope. Why had Skeeter had chosen the desert, rather than go back to a wife who apparently missed him? Stuffing the letter in his pocket, along with the map, Mike then put the clothes back in the bag. Would Carole James possibly still be listed in Las Vegas?

  He went to his office and dialed information. A smooth-voiced operator gave him the number, and in a moment the phone began ringing, connecting him to Carole James. What would he say? Did the woman on the other end even care about Skeeter anymore? While he waited, trying to decide how to begin, h
e took the map out of his pocket and laid it on his desk.

  ~*~

  Mallory James dropped her purse, keys, and heavy satchel on the table by the door just as the phone began to ring. It was probably just another solicitor on the other end and she reached for it reluctantly. She recognized the Arizona area code but not the number. “Hello.”

  A cautious male voice on the other end asked, “Carole James?”

  “Who is this?” Mallory’s heart pinched at the sound of her mother’s name. She’d been dead a year, but her loss still hurt.

  “You don’t know me . . . my name is Mike Malone. I’m here at The Jumping Cholla Resort . . . .”

  “I’m not interested in a vacation right now.” Mallory tapped her fingers on the bar. God, these salesmen were relentless.

  “I’m not selling anything,” the voice on the other end said quickly, before she could hang up.

  “What, then?” Mallory knew she sounded rude but she was exhausted. She had a million papers to grade, not to mention a house to clean, groceries to buy, and laundry to do. All before classes on Monday.

  “Are you Carole James?” the man asked again.

  “No. What’s this about?” She sighed heavily. Maybe if she just heard him out, he’d go away.

  “Do you know how to reach her? Are you maybe related to a Gary James?” Mike Malone’s voice had a hesitant quality. Like he didn’t want to be talking to her any more than she wanted to be talking to him.

  Mallory’s knees went shaky and she fumbled for a bar stool behind her. Sinking back onto it, she asked, “Is this some kind of prank? Who are you?”

  “It’s no joke.”

  Mallory’s heart pounded like an out-of-sync drum. “Explain yourself.”

  “As I said, my name is Mike Malone. I own The Jumping Cholla guest ranch in Mesa, Arizona. A man named Skee– Gary James lived here. He died in one of my cabins. There’s a letter in his effects from a woman named Carole James in Las Vegas. On the off chance she was listed, I tried information and got this number.”

  Her father was dead. This Mike, this stranger, kept talking, but Mallory didn’t hear a word he said. Somehow, she’d clung to the hope he would someday appear. Strolling into the house, dropping his dusty fedora on the table by the door, picking her up and swinging her around. He lingered in her memory, frozen in time. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him any other way but the young, handsome man who’d left for work one day and never came back. Never mind that twenty-two years had passed since he’d left both five-year-old Mallory and her mother with no explanation. To her knowledge, he’d never written or called once in all those years.

  “Are you there?”

  Mallory coughed to cover the tears in her voice. “Yes. Please continue.”

  “Who am I talking to? Look, I really need to speak to Carole James. Maybe I could call back at another time.”

  Mallory forced back the sob that rose in her throat. “She’s deceased.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you someone who might know how to reach Skee– er, Gary’s family?”

  “He was my father,” Mallory replied softly.

  A long silence stretched over the wire. Then Mike said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

  “You didn’t know? He didn’t . . . mention my mom? Or me?” Mallory twirled a piece of her dark curly hair between her fingers, a habit she fell back on when nervous or upset.

  “We weren’t close,” the man replied kindly. “Your dad was a hermit. No one really knew him, far as I know.”

  “I see.” She didn’t really. Hadn’t her dad been attached to anyone? Why had he shut out the whole world to live in exile in the Arizona desert? She’d never have the chance to find out. A hot wave of unexpected grief caught her. She blinked back tears, and swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted desperately to hang up. “Is there anything else?”

  “Uh, actually, well yeah. The body, Skeeter, he was taken to the morgue. About funeral arrangements . . . .”

  “Oh. Of course.” Mallory felt stupid. This man had called to hand over the responsibility of burying a man she barely remembered. “I think I better come down there. You’re in Mesa? That’s a suburb of Phoenix, right? And you own a guest ranch? Do you have accommodations available? Never mind. I imagine you’re very busy right at this time of year. I’ll get a hotel in town.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here. We’re not crowded right now.” A touch of something—irony?—filled his voice. “Call me back with your flight information, and I’ll pick you up at Sky Harbor.”

  “That’s very generous, but unnecessary. I don’t want to impose, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.” Hot tears burned in her throat. All she wanted was to hang up and cry.

  “It’s Malone, but call me Mike. And I want to help.” He sounded so sincere she wanted to trust him.

  “That’s very kind,” she murmured.

  He seemed to sense her hesitation. “Look, you can check me out on the ’net. Mike Malone, Jumping Cholla guest ranch. Or call Deputy Tim Burkhardt at the Mesa sheriff’s office, he’ll vouch for me.”

  “If you’re certain—”

  “It’s the least I can do, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  They talked for a few more minutes finalizing plans, then hung up.

  For a long time after Mike Malone’s call, Mallory simply sat and stared at the phone. Grief stabbed her, although for the man she barely knew or her own lost dreams, she couldn’t say. She’d never have the chance to tell her dad how much she missed him, how much he meant to her, how she’d wanted to be just like him, or how mad she was at him. But most of all she wouldn’t have the chance to tell him how much she still loved him.

  Chapter Two

  Mallory found Mike Malone easily. His picture on the website hadn’t done him justice. Tall, blond, well-built, and wearing a bright red and white Arizona Cardinals windbreaker, he was hard to miss. She grinned as two women went by and did an obvious double take.

  She approached him. “Mr. Malone?”

  He held out a big hand. “Call me Mike. And you’re Miss James?”

  She nodded, suddenly overly conscious of her rumpled appearance. She hadn’t taken time to apply makeup and her unruly mop of hair probably needed a comb. It usually did. Her black-rimmed glasses rested halfway down her nose. “I’m Mallory.”

  His warm hand enveloped hers for a moment. She resisted the urge to leave it there. “Do you have more stuff?”

  Mallory took her hand back and nodded. “A little bit. I didn’t know if it was hot here, or not. Sometimes it gets cold in Vegas . . .”

  He headed for the conveyor belt. “Let’s pick it up then and head to the ranch.”

  “Do you have to get other guests?” Mallory glanced around as she walked at his side, but saw no one who looked like they were here for a week of R and R.

  “Just you.” He sounded angry.

  Surprised by his tone, Mallory only nodded.

  A few minutes later, they stowed her bags in the back of a new black SUV with The Jumping Cholla Resort painted across the door in gold letters. The interior smelled like an expensive pair of leather gloves she’d once owned. They quickly left Sky Harbor behind and merged onto I-10.

  Mallory leaned back into the luxurious seats and tried to relax. Although more tired than the night before, her nerves skipped, making her skin feel too tight.

  “Did you have any problems getting here?” Mike asked.

  Mallory jumped. “What? Oh, no. The flight was routine.”

  Silence stretched between them as he navigated the crowded streets. Mallory took in the view. Phoenix’s suburbs seemed similar to those of Vegas. A lot of mini malls, nice homes, golf courses. There were more palm trees in Phoenix, but the hovering cloud of ugly, black fog seemed the same. Even the horizon looked similar. Cactus covered foothills with large, expensive houses springing out of them at every turn. If her dad wanted a change of scenery, she didn’t know wha
t had brought him here.

  “Have you visited Phoenix before?” Mike asked.

  “No.”

  “The city is growing by the day,” he continued, apparently not catching her reluctance to talk about it. “Snowbirds flock here by the hundreds every year. I grew up on a guest ranch right there.” He pointed to a cacti-covered lump. “Under Camelback Mountain. It’s a golf course now, surrounded by million-dollar homes.”

  “Have you ever lived anywhere else?” Mallory glanced at his profile. Strong nose, cheeks, and jaw defined his face. He shot a glance at her, his bright blue eyes piercing.

  “Only the U of A and the Cholla. Never wanted to be anywhere else.” His features settled into a hard line. “Nothing will ever force me off my land. They’ll bury me there.”

  Mallory’s tightened her lips. He sounded just like her father, a man her mother had always described as someone who put his own wishes first.

  She relaxed a little as they left the rush of Phoenix, then Mesa behind. The city streets gave way to Bush highway; two lanes of winding asphalt lined by a forest of cactus. Mostly cholla, but hundred-year-old saguaro and palo verde trees grew there, too. As a professor of Environmental Studies, she sometimes took her students into the field for research, but the Nevada desert wasn’t covered as thickly with cacti. It was open and far more barren. She didn’t see how anyone could make their way through this one.

  Her thoughts were diverted when Mike flipped on his blinker and slowed. He turned under a sign that said Welcome, Guests. Then under that, The Jumping Cholla, est. 1905. And, strangely, several hand-painted posters with messages stop destroying our desert! and earth murderer! strewn about.

  Mallory turned to ask Mike about them, but his jaw was set in such a hard line that she decided not to pry. They drove down a long, winding dirt lane that finally opened to an oasis. A large adobe lodge rose from the desert floor like a red sand castle on a beach. A quarter-acre or more of closely cropped emerald green grass circled the building. At the edge of the lawn, a pristine pool glistened in the morning sun. Several picnic tables and beach chairs, shaded with bright blue and yellow striped awnings, surrounded the aqua depths. Several smaller haciendas, a barn, and horse corral stood off a ways from the lodge.