A single sigh would never have signaled such concern from an athlete on the job. Photographers had to suffer the same weather and conditions as the athletes. Even Jeff, her father, had taught her to look after herself, to “be tough” after her mother’s death.
With adult hindsight, Karinne often wished she could take back all the “Mom, stop fussing!” complaints she’d made. The “boring” lessons had been signs of a mother’s love. Other than for Max, only her mother would have responded so quickly to Karinne’s sigh. Strange how one man’s action could strike her so deeply.
In certain ways, Max reminded Karinne of the nineteenth-century explorer, John Wesley Powell, whose life she’d studied in American history courses. His studies of the Grand Canyon were not only his life’s work, but Powell’s personal joy. Powell lived for his expeditions to the Grand Canyon, Green Canyon and the Rocky Mountains.
Karinne studied Max. Of course there were differences, as well. Powell had fought as an army major in the Civil War, losing an arm, which had ended his military career. The Civil War and primitive field medicine had taken its toll on many men, including Powell. The old black-and-white photographs of him hadn’t been kind. They showed a determined, too-thin war survivor. He’d refused to give up his passion for exploration and study, even though his expeditions had taken place in a hostile land.
Max Hunter was a successful native of this wild land. Unlike Powell, Max was healthy without the haggard look of early explorers. He moved with an easy masculine grace that Karinne found a pleasant change from the hurly-burly powerhouses on the sports teams. He didn’t need weights or vitamins to stay in shape. His skin didn’t sport “lucky” tattoos, and his brown hair wasn’t streaked, dyed, spiked or shaved in current men’s trends. Nor did he have facial piercings and diamond-studded earrings.
Max was her perfect match, except for one thing—geographic compatibility. Togetherness would be hard. The Grand Canyon was one of the most photographed areas in the world, but she couldn’t make money there. Nor could she leave her father, not with his heart problem. But lots of people had successful long-distance marriages, including Cory and Anita. Karinne and Max were in love, both committed to making things work, so she’d been happily content…until lately.
Could my mother still be alive? Even the attractive sights and shapes of the canyon around her—including Max Hunter—couldn’t distract her. However, she’d try to stay calm. After all, she thought, I’m on vacation….
FIVE LONG HOURS of riding in intermittent drizzle brought the mules to the Tonto formation. By then, all riders—from first-timers to the more experienced—were ready to dismount and stretch their muscles. The park ranger and wranglers made certain the mules were properly tied to the hitching posts, warned against littering, then checked out the tack while most riders headed for the Porta Potties. Soon after, lunches and drinks were distributed. Karinne and Max both ate their sandwiches standing.
“We’re two-thirds of the way there,” he said as he noticed Karinne rubbing her shapely behind. “Sore?”
“Not too bad.” She dropped her hand and reached into her box lunch for more chips, then fed him one before eating some herself. “Airport lounges and plane seats are worse. At least the sun’s out.”
Max nodded. “Looks like it might rain again. The air has that feel.”
“You’ll have to keep me warm tonight,” Karinne said, passion sparking in her eyes. “Maybe we can zip our sleeping bags together….”
“I think that can be arranged. I’ve missed you. I’m tired of missing you.”
“We’ve been together our whole lives,” Karinne gently reminded him.
“I’m not talking about living on the same street. I’m talking about being husband and wife. We were childhood friends, and we’ve done the lovers routine. It’s time to take that step forward, become marriage partners.”
“I never considered being your lover as routine.”
“Isn’t that what’s it’s become, Karinne? You meet me, or I meet you, we catch up on conversation and sex, and separate until the next time.”
“That sounds so clinical,” she said, uneasy at the tone of his voice.
“You know what I mean,” Max said impatiently. “And the worst part is, marriage isn’t going to change much. We’ll still be stuck in the same rut, unless one of us wants to become unemployed.”
“That’s the problem with the girl next door. She doesn’t always stay there.”
Max made no comment. After an uneasy pause, Karinne spoke. “I hope the rain lets up tomorrow. I want to do some hiking.”
“Where?”
“Oh, just some of the areas where Powell’s expedition took photos. Too bad so many of those pictures didn’t survive.”
“Some of them did. You should be able to pick up a book in the gift store later.” To Karinne’s relief, Max sounded like his normal self again. “I’ve seen them there.”
“I planned on it. I especially want to see C. C. Spaulding’s work,” Karinne said.
“Sorry—I’m not familiar with the name.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s a mystery man. All that’s known of him are his photos. Anyway, Spaulding took a photo in 1906 of an unidentified skeleton. His caption reads ‘The Toll.’ Supposedly Spaulding found him a few miles below this trail. The person—a white male—had a newspaper dated 1900.”
“I know photographers have been shooting the canyon since the 1870s,” Max said.
“Yes, but this photo is special. Compositionally, it’s a piece of art—and it’s an Old West mystery. No one’s ever discovered who the man was.”
“Are you going to try?”
“No. I have my own mystery to solve.” Karinne shook her head, then lifted her chin. No time like the present. “Max…the other day, I got a package in the mail. There was a Grand Canyon sweatshirt—pink—inside.”
“Pink, huh? That was your favorite color when you were small,” he remembered. “You don’t wear it much now.”
“So you didn’t send it?” she asked, not surprised, thinking of the note inside the package. Even so, she wanted Max’s opinion on the subject.
“No. You have a secret admirer I don’t know about?”
“Hardly.” There’d never been anyone for Karinne but Max. As a child, she’d adored the older brother of Cory, her playmate. As a teen, she’d had a crush on the man. As a woman, she loved him and gloried in the knowledge that he loved her back.
“Maybe Cory sent it,” Max suggested.
“I doubt it.”
Max peered at her. He could always read her moods. “What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I just wondered who it was really from.”
“Wasn’t there a card?”
“Yes, but there was no name.”
Max frowned. Karinne hesitated to ruin his good mood. This was their first reunion in months. “I’ll show it to you later, okay? When I unpack. Right now I’d rather talk about Spaulding.”
“Ah.” Max seemed satisfied, and Karinne breathed a sigh of relief. She changed the subject to something safer.
“I read about C. C. Spaulding in Dellenbaugh’s book, A Canyon Voyage. In 1871, when Frederick Dellenbaugh was seventeen, he