apart," Luc said.
"How could something like this happen?" Callie asked.
"Well, it wasn't an accident, that's for sure." Nick ran his hand across the shadow of a beard roughening his cheeks. "This was done with a blade of some kind — hacksaw, maybe."
"It might have happened during the night," Luc said. "You didn't notice any problems yesterday, did you?"
"Would've done something if I had."
"But you don't check the scaffolding every day?"
"Didn't see any need," Nick replied. “It went up under my supervision."
Luc turned to Callie. "Did you hear anything during the night?"
“Three or four nights before the scaffolding went up, I thought I heard footsteps on the veranda, but didn’t find anything when I checked.” She sighed. “And there were a couple of evenings when I wasn’t home.”
"Might've happened while you were away," Nick said.
"When you heard the footsteps, whoever did this could have been watching,” Luc said, “waiting for a time when you weren’t around to interfere with him. I don't like the idea of your living here by yourself."
She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "Like it or not, I’m staying."
"There’s no use looking for footprints, or anything else." Luc looked around. "Too much activity." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Better check this rig every morning, Forrest. I'll nose around, but I’m not optimistic."
"Please tell your workers how sorry I am this happened," Callie said.
Nick turned to her. "We'll bring out some more scaffolding. Set up again tomorrow." And then to Luc, "Appreciate anything you can come up with, Sheriff. I don't need any more of this kind of trouble. The schedule can't handle the strain. Neither can my insurance."
Luc and Callie watched as he and his men gathered up their tools and piled into an assortment of small trucks and four-wheel drive vehicles. In a few minutes they had disappeared down the road, leaving behind exhaust fumes and a curtain of dust.
"Are you sure you can't do anything to track down whoever did this?" Callie asked.
"This place has been trampled over all morning. If there had been any footprints or tire marks, they've been destroyed."
"How convenient."
She couldn't see Luc's eyes because of the dark glasses he seemed to wear any time he was out of doors. His tone remained even. "Whoever did this counted on not getting caught. I'll ask some questions, but I'm not about to throw around unfounded accusations."
Callie stared at him. How vigorously would he investigate the people who paid his salary? Folks who would prefer to see the project fail. At this moment, she found it easy to think the worst. Why, then, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach?
* * *
Mail waiting for her at the Mercantile three days later had contained a note from Luc that the lease was ready for her signature if she stopped by his office. At the back of Town Hall, an engraved stone plaque over the side entrance said "JAIL". A scarred but legible wooden sign beside the front door indicated "Sheriff's Office Within". Callie knocked once and went inside. Her call went unanswered.
Apparently, he was out making rounds or whatever sheriffs did in places like Blue Sky, where nothing much ever happened. "Except for collapsed scaffolding," she muttered.
She looked around the office. The rough textured walls had been painted a warm beige reminiscent of the sandstone formations she’d seen on the ride back from the Moreno ranch. A huge map hung in the space between two wooden doors. She moved close enough to get past the glare of the protective glass.
Dated 1620, the map had faded with age and turned brown as weak tea. She recognized very little of the Spanish wording, and had equal difficulty in deciphering the flowery penmanship, although she clearly made out symbols of a river, mountains, buildings she thought might represent Indian pueblos and one unmistakable reference.
"Interesting?"
"Very." Pointing to the name Moreno,
"How could something like this happen?" Callie asked.
"Well, it wasn't an accident, that's for sure." Nick ran his hand across the shadow of a beard roughening his cheeks. "This was done with a blade of some kind — hacksaw, maybe."
"It might have happened during the night," Luc said. "You didn't notice any problems yesterday, did you?"
"Would've done something if I had."
"But you don't check the scaffolding every day?"
"Didn't see any need," Nick replied. “It went up under my supervision."
Luc turned to Callie. "Did you hear anything during the night?"
“Three or four nights before the scaffolding went up, I thought I heard footsteps on the veranda, but didn’t find anything when I checked.” She sighed. “And there were a couple of evenings when I wasn’t home.”
"Might've happened while you were away," Nick said.
"When you heard the footsteps, whoever did this could have been watching,” Luc said, “waiting for a time when you weren’t around to interfere with him. I don't like the idea of your living here by yourself."
She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "Like it or not, I’m staying."
"There’s no use looking for footprints, or anything else." Luc looked around. "Too much activity." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Better check this rig every morning, Forrest. I'll nose around, but I’m not optimistic."
"Please tell your workers how sorry I am this happened," Callie said.
Nick turned to her. "We'll bring out some more scaffolding. Set up again tomorrow." And then to Luc, "Appreciate anything you can come up with, Sheriff. I don't need any more of this kind of trouble. The schedule can't handle the strain. Neither can my insurance."
Luc and Callie watched as he and his men gathered up their tools and piled into an assortment of small trucks and four-wheel drive vehicles. In a few minutes they had disappeared down the road, leaving behind exhaust fumes and a curtain of dust.
"Are you sure you can't do anything to track down whoever did this?" Callie asked.
"This place has been trampled over all morning. If there had been any footprints or tire marks, they've been destroyed."
"How convenient."
She couldn't see Luc's eyes because of the dark glasses he seemed to wear any time he was out of doors. His tone remained even. "Whoever did this counted on not getting caught. I'll ask some questions, but I'm not about to throw around unfounded accusations."
Callie stared at him. How vigorously would he investigate the people who paid his salary? Folks who would prefer to see the project fail. At this moment, she found it easy to think the worst. Why, then, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach?
* * *
Mail waiting for her at the Mercantile three days later had contained a note from Luc that the lease was ready for her signature if she stopped by his office. At the back of Town Hall, an engraved stone plaque over the side entrance said "JAIL". A scarred but legible wooden sign beside the front door indicated "Sheriff's Office Within". Callie knocked once and went inside. Her call went unanswered.
Apparently, he was out making rounds or whatever sheriffs did in places like Blue Sky, where nothing much ever happened. "Except for collapsed scaffolding," she muttered.
She looked around the office. The rough textured walls had been painted a warm beige reminiscent of the sandstone formations she’d seen on the ride back from the Moreno ranch. A huge map hung in the space between two wooden doors. She moved close enough to get past the glare of the protective glass.
Dated 1620, the map had faded with age and turned brown as weak tea. She recognized very little of the Spanish wording, and had equal difficulty in deciphering the flowery penmanship, although she clearly made out symbols of a river, mountains, buildings she thought might represent Indian pueblos and one unmistakable reference.
"Interesting?"
"Very." Pointing to the name Moreno,
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