She drove barely a half mile, checking the rearview mirror several times, when she saw the sign for Twin Mesas School and turned off Route 77 onto a gravel road.
Piñon and juniper trees bordered each side of the road for a mile leading to the school. The campus was set in the middle of what appeared to be a flat plain, but she knew that hidden hollows and rocky arroyos mottled the topography.
The trees along the road cast little shade. She’d forgotten how sparse shade could be out here. Everything looked hot and dusty.
As she approached, Sheila’s gaze darted back and forth across the road, searching for another phantom, even as she scolded herself for allowing her imagination to run wild. No more specters materialized, of course. By the time she reached the school building, she also reached the conclusion that the heat had affected her. An overactive imagination didn’t help, nor did the headache that pressed along the back of her skull.
She loosened her death grip on the steering wheel and studied the place. Simple, large adobe buildings with rounded corners formed a courtyard around a playground partially shaded by piñon trees. A small garden of rocks and petrified wood ringed the first building, a pattern that repeated all through the courtyard. It would have looked peaceful to her, if not for the apprehension that she couldn’t shake.
Sheila didn’t recognize this place.
During her last phone call with Johnny Jacobs, he had mentioned that most of the buildings were new. He’d also asked her if she was sure she wanted to come.
She would bet her Jeep that Dad had called Johnny and tried to get him to talk her out of coming. Johnny hadn’t admitted to it when she’d asked him, but she’d heard hesitation in his voice.
Though Johnny lived in Tucson now, he’d always kept a close watch on all his holdings, and was particularly concerned about Twin Mesas, so much so that a year ago he’d sent his grandson, Dr. Canaan York, to keep a watchful medical eye on the children and their families. And now Canaan was interim principal. Why couldn’t Johnny have come to help out for the remainder of the school year? He had a background in education, whereas Canaan did not.
Canaan. Gentle, always laughing, smaller than the other boys his age when he was growing up. He’d been called pip-squeak, although Sheila had never called him that, of course. She had known how deeply that taunt had wounded him, but he’d never let on to anyone else how much it had hurt.
Sheila parked the Jeep by a split log railing at the first rock garden with a spindly olive tree in the middle, barely big enough to cast a shadow, much less provide shade. She turned off the motor and sat for a full minute, studying the landscape.
Occasional breezes whipped the sunbaked sand into vague, ghostly forms that darted between the buildings. If not for the sign beside the road, and the view of Twin Mesas from where she sat, she might have decided that her map had been misleading.
The thought barely developed, though, before three little boys shot out of the door of the building in front of her. Giggling and talking, they glanced her way, then ran toward the playground in the center of the circle of buildings.
Sheila released the steering wheel. Well, it looked like a school, anyway.
She shoved open the door of the Jeep and got out. She glanced at the boys, now climbing the wrong side of a slide.
The door they had exited swung open again, and a man strode out, a handsome man, Navajo. He didn’t look quite fifty. His black hair, close-cropped, grew thick enough to look good so short. Though not much taller than Sheila’s five foot five, his powerfully built body gave him the appearance of height. Doc Cottonwood.
He glanced at Sheila briefly, looked away, then jerked to a stop and stared at her. She stared back, attempting to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.
He walked toward her.
She suddenly felt like a schoolgirl again, with a huge crush on her favorite teacher.
He stopped before he reached the Jeep; his dark, inquisitive eyes searched her face, penetrating her protective exterior like a drill through soft wood.
“Sheila.”
She caught her breath.
A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Little Sheila.”
“Hello, Doc.”
With a sudden burst of laughter, he sprang toward her, arms outstretched. She managed a weak smile just before he grabbed her up in a bear hug and swung her around.
“Been expecting you!” he exclaimed as her feet touched ground again. “Took you long enough. Canaan’s been talking about you coming for days. You two will have a lot to catch up on.”
She couldn’t keep from staring at him. He was still here after all these years, as handsome as she remembered. His dark brows and strong, bulldog chin still gave him that iron-stern expression with which he’d controlled even the most rebellious boys in gym class.
She dragged her gaze from his and gestured around at the buildings. “It’s all changed.”
He grinned, a brief flash of white teeth against red-brown skin. “Good thing,” he said, his attention never leaving her face. “Those old buildings nearly crumbled around us before Johnny made the right decision. He should’ve taken down all the shacks along the back road, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. How about me? Have I changed?”
Sheila stood back to get a good look at his strong, still-young physique, which showed well in a pair of gray shorts and a snug red knit shirt. For her benefit, he even flexed a couple of muscles.
She grinned. “Not at all.” Gone was her schoolgirl crush, of course, but his charisma couldn’t be denied.
“Neither have you.” He leaned forward and chucked her under the chin.
Some things never changed.
She held out her dirty hands, motioning at her smudged white T-shirt and scruffy jeans. “Is there a place where I can clean up before meeting anyone else? I had a blowout a few minutes ago, and—”
He held up his hand. “Never fear, your apartment is ready for you. Give me the damaged tire and I’ll have it repaired in our auto shop on campus.”
Without another word, Doc got into the passenger side of the Jeep and gestured to Sheila. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’re staying.”
Sheila hesitated. She’d been instructed to report to Canaan York at the principal’s office as soon as she arrived.
“Canaan had to leave for a couple of hours,” Doc said, reading her expression—something he’d always done well. “One of the kids decided she wanted her mommy, and he had to go drag her back.”
Sheila glanced at him. There was that sharp way of speaking that Doc sometimes had that could hurt a sensitive child. As a track coach, he inspired either great loyalty or fearful respect. Either way, it got the job done. Even Sheila had won a race as a child, and had discovered, while in training, that Doc Cottonwood reserved his sharpest words for his favorite students.
She followed Doc’s instructions and drove the Jeep across the school grounds to the far side of the open courtyard.
When they reached the two-story building that Doc said housed the staff, he led the way to one of the ground-floor apartments. He opened the door and held it for her to enter.
“It’s small but efficient,” he said. “One bedroom, one bath, but count yourself lucky. A lot of the teachers have to share a bathroom.”
The interior smelled of the dry wind of the surrounding plain, flavored by sunbaked cedars and piñons. The walls were the color of kiln-dried clay.
“April Hunt just finished cleaning the place,” Doc said. “She cleans the offices and some of the apartments and classrooms for