“George, for God’s sake, tell me! What is it?”

“She’s upset.”

“Mother is always upset,” Joanna countered in exasperation. “What is it this time?”

“It’s you,” George said. “You and Butch.”

Not that again, Joanna thought. She took a deep, steadying breath. “What Butch and I do is none of Mother’s business,” she said. “I thought I made that clear when I talked to her yesterday.”

“Well, yes,” George said. “I suppose you did make it clear. She was quite disturbed about that conversation last night. In fact, alter the Bodlemers left, we stayed up most of the night talking about IL”

“Put Mother on the phone,” Joanna said. “Let me talk to her.”

“I can’t do that,” George returned. “I’m calling from the office.”

“Hang up, then,” Joanna said. “I’ll call her at home.”

“You can’t do that, either. She isn’t there.”

“Where is she?”

“That’s why I’m calling you right now-to let you know what’s happening… where she is… where she’s going.” George’s voice, small and apologetic, was totally lacking the vitality of his usually booming, businesslike tone.

“So tell me, George!” Joanna barked. “Where is she going?”

“To Butch Dixon’s house.”

Joanna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “She went where?”

“You heard me. She told me this morning over breakfast that she was going to go see Butch and ask him whether or not his intentions are honorable. I did my best to talk her out of it, Joanna, but I just couldn’t make her listen to reason. I tried calling her again just a few minutes ago, but she’s not home, which makes me think she’s already on her way. That’s when I decided to go ahead and call you-to give you a little advance warning.”

“Thanks, George,” Joanna said, meaning it. “I’m going to hang up and call Butch.”

As she punched Butch Dixon’s number into the keypad, Joanna tried to unravel the hard knot of anxiety that was forming in her gut. After all, it hadn’t been that many minutes ago when she had called Butch from her office. How much damage could have been done in such a short period of time?

“Butch?” she breathed in relief when he came on the phone. “Thank God you’re there. George just called me. He says my mother’s on her way over to see you.”

“She’s already here.”

Joanna felt sick. “I’m calling too late then. She’s already done it.”

“Done what?”

“Asked if your intentions are honorable. My mother’s pushy, but still, I can’t believe she’d do such a thing. Butch, I’m sorry…”

“You’re in luck,” Butch said. “She just drove up, but she hasn’t made it into the house yet. She’s still outside. She and Marliss Shackleford met up at the end of the driveway. Marliss was pulling away as your mother arrived. They’re still out there chewing the fat-chatting away like long-lost buddies.”

“No,” Joanna moaned. “Say it isn’t so.”

“Well,” Butch said, “it is, but don’t sound so upset. I didn’t let Marliss in, and I won’t let your mother in, either, if you don’t want me to. Although, I have to say, I don’t have a problem with seeing her.”

“You don’t?”

“Not at all. Because my intentions are honorable, you see. Completely. What about yours?”

“Mine?” Joanna stammered stupidly.

“Yes, yours,” Butch said. “We can either go on having what they call a totally meaningless relationship-which, I have to tell you, isn’t half bad. Or we can get married. If you’ll have me, that is.”

“Wait a minute. You’re asking me to marry you?” Joanna returned. “On the telephone?”

“Well, I admit it’s not the best possible arrangement, lint it seems like I’d better do it now. Otherwise, your mother will do it for me.”

“Butch. I don’t know what to say.”

On the other end of the phone, Joanna heard a doorbell chime.

“Say yes,” he urged.

“But you promised. You told me you wouldn’t push.”

“That was before your mother rang my doorbell. So, will you or won’t you?” The doorbell chimed again. “Well?” he pressed.

Joanna took a deep breath. “Yes, dammit. All right. I will.”

“Good answer. Good answer,” Butch said. “Now I’ve gotta run and answer the door. Otherwise Junior will beat me to that.”

Butch Dixon hung up then. Twenty miles away, across the San Pedro Valley, Joanna Brady stared at her cell phone in stunned silence.

For the next several minutes, Joanna was so thunderstruck by what had happened that she barely saw where she was going. How could it be? Butch had asked her to marry him and she hadn’t said no. She hadn’t said “I need to think it over.” She had simply said yes. And not even very graciously at that.

She wanted to call him back, to say something-anything, but she couldn’t do that. Not with her mother there! Her mother! How dare she! And yet… Try as she might, Joanna couldn’t be angry with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield right then. She was happy in a way she had never thought to be happy again. Giddy, almost.

When Joanna was growing up, a place called Nicksville-little more than a bar and a couple of scattered mobile homes-had been civilization’s last visible outpost along Highway 92 between Sierra Vista and the cutoff to Coronado Pass. The isolated mountain pass overlooked the route Coronado and his men once followed as they came north in search of the Seven Cities of Gold. Nicksville was where Joanna finally came to her senses. She realized then that she had overshot the turnoff to Mark Childers’ Oak Vista Estates without even noticing.

Laughing now, Joanna made a U-turn in the bar’s parking lot and headed back the way she had come. On the way she made a conscious effort to put her life-changing phone call to Butch aside. She was going to Oak Vista on business-on police business. She understood how vitally important it was for her to keep her mind on the job. Inattentive cops too often become dead cops.

Just north of the cutoff to Coronado Pass, the sweeping majesty of the Huachucas was marred by several moving columns of dust and by the thick smoke of a slash-burn fire that spiraled skyward above the grassy foothills. Gigantic bulldozers had left behind red earthen scars through the tall yellow grass and knocked down grove after grove of sturdy scrub oak.

Seeing the damage, Joanna shook her head. Welcome lo urban blight, she thought. No wonder people were offended by Mark Childers’ grandiose plans and thundering equipment. By the time his dozer-wielding construction crews were done with their work, people buying homes in Oak Vista would be lucky if there were any viewable oak left standing for miles around.

Three miles back down the highway she came to a huge billboard. WELCOME TO OAK VISTA ESTATES, the sign read. MODELS OPENING SOON. Underneath, on the far side of a cattle guard, a narrow road wound off into the desert. Next to the cattle guard, propped against one of the uprights, was an orange-and-white hand-lettered sign. NO TRESPASSING, the sign announced. CONSTRUCTION VEHICLES ONLY.

Switching the Blazer into four-wheel drive, Joanna bounced across the cattle guard. She followed the narrow dirt track for the better part of a mile. By then she noticed that, although smoke from the slash burns was still rising in the brisk autumn air, the moving columns of dust she had spotted from farther up the road were no longer visible. She drove up to a construction shack behind which sat a row of transportable chemical toilets.

It was only when she arrived at the shack that Joanna realized why the earth-moving equipment was no longer moving. It was lunchtime. One whole wall of the construction shack-the shady side-was lined with dusty, hard-hat-wearing workers, all of whom sprawled in the shade, eating lunches out of lunch pails and brown paper bags.

One of the men, a muscular blond in his early thirties, stood up and sauntered toward her. He was stocky with the broad, bulging shoulders and bull neck of a chronic weight lifter. He swaggered up to Joanna’s unmarked Blazer, buttoning the top several buttons of a faded flannel shirt and grinning suggestively. Joanna rolled down her window.