Read Online Desert Shadows (9781615952250) by Betty Webb - Free Book Online Page A

I feared my DNA might be loaded with any number of addictive genes, so I had long ago bypassed possible problems by drinking nothing stronger than Tab. In my personal habits, at least, I was as squeaky clean as a Temple-qualified Mormon.
    â€œDusty, what the hell were you doing drinking for an entire week?”
    His bloodshot eyes met mine. “Lena, in some ways you are so naive. Haven’t you figured out yet that I’m a recovering alcoholic?”
    The Overland Stage came rumbling by again, making enough noise to render further speech pointless, but it gave me time to think. I cast my memory back over the four years I’d known Dusty. Since we lived at opposite ends of the county and had wildly conflicting schedules, we seldom got together as often as we would have liked. When we did, our dates usually consisted of Mexican dinners and action movies at the local cineplex. Then we would return to my apartment upstairs from Desert Investigations for a little love-making, and in between bouts, sip on Tabs. I had never seen Dusty drunk.
    I did remember one particularly stressful night when he showed up at my place with a shopping bag full of Pete’s Wicked Ale. I hadn’t thought too much of it at the time, not even when—after the night was over—he took the remainders back to the ranch with him.
    In light of his confession, everything came together. Our off-again, on-again relationship. His frequent disappearances, his mysterious returns. Maybe the average woman would have challenged this behavior, but I’m not the average woman. I was used to strange behavior from men, and so I had accepted our oddly distant, if passionate, relationship. Oh, well, live and learn.
    Once the Overland Stage rumbled away, I snapped, “You sure as hell don’t look all that recovering to me, cowboy. Or did you pick up those red eyes on a trail ride? Surely you don’t believe I’m stupid enough to excuse your behavior with that redhead just because you were drunk!”
    â€œIt’s not about excusing, honey. It’s about understanding.”
    â€œI’m not in the mood for understanding.” With that, I pushed him aside and stalked up the hill, hoping I’d run into the National Alliance goons. I was spoiling for a fight.
    ***
    The drive from WestWorld to Desert Shadows passed quickly, but not before I had time to lament the ruin of Scottsdale Road. Only a few years earlier, this had been one of the prettiest drives in Scottsdale, with unmarred desert reaching all the way to the McDowell Mountains. The Rev used to bring us kids here almost every weekend, pointing out bright clumps of Mexican gold poppy, upthrust stalks of burgundy lupine, the towering saguaro and ocotillo. At one point, a nature club had installed discreet signage along the road, giving each plant’s Latin and common names, but those friendly little nature lessons were gone now. Everything disappeared when the developers moved in, dragging tract homes and shopping centers in their wake. Like Joni Mitchell once complained, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
    Desert Shadows Resort, however, had seen the bulldozers of progress headed their way, so the Japanese consortium which owned the place hurriedly bought up the surrounding acreage. Located several hundred yards from the highway, secluded in a shallow valley ringed with massive boulders, it could still project the illusion that it was miles from civilization.
    The resort was internationally famous for its breathtaking golf course and rock-rimmed swimming pool complete with waterfall, as well as its luxurious suites and spas. Most of SOBOP’s publishers must be doing well, I figured, to afford to stay here. Or maybe they’d wrangled one hell of a group discount.
    After parking the Jeep next to a fleet of Mercedes and Beemers, I headed toward the lobby and its acres of glass, marble and palm fronds, where the concierge informed me that Mrs. Myra