This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Original Cover Photo – Patrick Lange
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2014954997
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Linda Jackson, Prescott National Forest, District Ranger
Cynthia Barrett, Law Enforcement Ranger, BLM
Dr. Laura C. Fulginiti, PhD, D-ABFA, Forensic Anthropologist, Phoenix, AZ
Harold Linder, Exploration Geologist
Tina Williams, Editorial Services
Donna Jandro, Editorial Services
Jon Young, State Chief Ranger, BLM
Kevin Weldon, Geologist, Prescott National Forest
Toby Cook, Assistant Fire Mgt. Officer, Prescott National Forest
Jerry Elian, Fire Prevention Tech, Prescott National Forest
Cathy Cordes
Miner Bob
Kelly Powell, Manager, Bumble Bee Ranch
Tom & Lynn Miller, G & S Gravel, Inc. Mayer, AZ
Bradshaw Mountain Guest Ranch, Crown King, AZ
Gary Mackey, Dobson Plant Manager, Mesa, AZ
Manny Mungaray, Plant Manager, Arizona Metro Mix
Patrick Lange, Cover Photo
Taryn Holman
Teah Anders
Lee Ann Sharpe
Kelly Scott-Olson and Christy A. Moeller, ATG Productions, Phoenix, AZ
My husband, Jerry C. Williams, for his patience, support and countless hours spent accompanying me on my research trips around the beautiful state of Arizona.
To my Loving Family, Cherished Friends and Devoted Fans
Thank you for your continuing encouragement, patience and support
Dedicated to the memory of: Elizabeth Bruening Lewis
Mentor, treasured friend, #1 cheerleader
CHAPTER
1
Energetic music thumped from the speakers, fueling my already upbeat mood. I pressed the accelerator of my spanking-new, lime green Jeep a little harder, relishing the instantaneous response. Oh yeah. Sweet. Cruising along the two-lane road that sliced through the cactus-strewn landscape, I sipped hot vanilla-laced coffee and marveled at the sight of the vast desert panorama enveloped in a thick layer of ground fog—a rare occurrence that added an interesting dimension to the ordinarily parched Arizona topography. A shadowy platoon of moisture-plumped saguaro cactus stood at attention alongside the road, accentuating the eerie scene. Awesome.
But I knew it wouldn’t last long. According to the local weather forecast, it was slated to be another picture-perfect day with afternoon temperatures climbing to the low-seventies. Having spent the first twenty-eight winters of my life in damp, chilly Pennsylvania, I was still getting accustomed to flowers blooming, green grass and the luxury of sunbathing outdoors in the middle of December. Hard to believe nine months had already passed since I’d been flattened by acute asthma, dumped by my fiancé, then made the agonizing decision to quit my job at the Philadelphia Inquirer and head west to the small town of Castle Valley. To say there had been a lot of changes in my life would be the understatement of the century. But happily I had a new job, a new love, and the scorching Arizona heat had apparently baked away the majority of my debilitating symptoms, although extreme stress or a preponderance of cigarette smoke would sometimes set me off again.
I cracked the window slightly and inhaled the rain-cleansed air saturated with the rich aroma of damp earth, creosote and greasewood. How great was this? The epic storm that had pounded Arizona for six days had finally blown away during the night. Even though I’d enjoyed the welcome rainfall and even a few snow flurries, my prayers for clear weather had been answered. At least for the next few days. The ten-day forecast called for another Pacific storm to move in, but I consoled myself with the fact that there was a chance it could be wrong. I’d been looking forward to this particular day for months. I wanted it to be absolutely perfect. So far, so good.
I glanced eastward at the snow-covered ridgeline and drew in a breath of sheer delight. Pastel pink clouds, crisscrossed by brilliant streaks of magenta jet contrails, stood out in sharp relief against the pale turquoise light of dawn. Mesmerizing! With difficulty, I dragged my gaze away to refocus on the road, accelerating past a slow-moving cattle truck, one of the few vehicles I’d encountered since leaving home. But then, how much traffic would there be on a Thursday morning? I’d checked road conditions several times online and made the decision to avoid what seemed to be perpetual road construction on the I-17 freeway. No sense getting caught in that annoying snarl of congestion if I could