The old Sinclair Hacienda, once so isolated it took a day on horseback to reach the nearest neighbor, now shared its little piece of commercially zoned real estate with the huge Coastal Valley Farm Supply, San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op and a dozen or so small businesses housed in metal prefab buildings. The rain had washed the off-white adobe walls of the two-story hacienda clean of its usual dust, and the building’s normally dull, red-tiled roof glistened.

  I parked my truck beneath the initial-scarred oak tree at the back of the lot and squeezed through the small pickups and Japanese imports of the artists, managing to avoid all but one puddle.

  Trudging through the lobby, my now piebald shoes squeaking like rubber cat toys, I inspected what Eric, the museum’s alleged maintenance man, had accomplished.

  In the main hall, the floor was a mine field of tools; wooden quilt hangers languished against the adobe walls, and stacks of quilts lay wrapped in tissue and old sheets I’d scrounged from friends, family and members of the co-op. Plastic would have been easier to get and kept the quilts cleaner, but the book on old quilts I’d almost memorized while getting the exhibit put together said it would rot the delicate cotton fibers.

  A portable stereo with tiny speakers blasted Van Halen while a leak from the ceiling into a tin saucepan added a percussive zing every few seconds. Silence answered me when I called Eric’s name.

  Eric Griffin, part-time handyman and full-time goof-off, had been hired by Constance Sinclair, zealous patron of Central California arts and richest lady in the county. The Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum, named for her great-grandfather, was currently one of her favorite projects. Eric, the footloose son of some acquaintance of hers, was another.

  She felt all he needed to discover what he should do with his life was the encouragement of an older, wiser person and the structure of a regular job. It was my opinion that at twenty-four he was already doing his life, but maybe that was jealousy talking.

  Until three months ago, my last official employment had been fifteen years before, serving the graveyard shift at Hogie’s Truckstop Cafe out on old Highway One. I’d had to compete with five people for the job as curator, and though low-paying and possessing no benefits except the freedom of flexible hours and dressing as I pleased, I was proud of it. Although my fossilized degree in American History was a rather dubious qualification, it was something.

  Eric, on the other hand, was one of those people who tripped through life letting others clear the path for him, and with his dark, Lord Byron looks and bad-boy smile, he always had someone, usually female, willing to Teflon the way.

  Flipping off the radio, I walked across the red-brick patio in back to the hacienda’s old stables, now the co-op studios and museum offices. In the main studio, the activity of the artists reflected the weather, dark and frenzied.

  “Benni, when is the other kiln going to be fixed?” called one of the potters, a thin, nervous man whose slick, clay-covered hands deftly pulled an elegant vase skyward from a greenish mass of porcelain. “And the other wheel? There’s a lot of people waiting. And what are you going to do if the rain doesn’t stop?”

  “l’ve called three repairmen in Santa Barbara,” I said. “The cheapest wants a hundred bucks just to drive up and look at them. We can’t afford it until we bring in some money.”

  His dark, goateed face frowned. “People are depending on this. Can’t you get Constance to spring for it?”

  “You know the co-op is supposed to be self-supporting. I can’t go running to Constance every time something breaks.”

  He grunted, eyed the vase with a scowl and turned off the wheel.

  “I’ll try again,” I said. “And I’m working on the rain angle. Has anyone seen Eric?”

  “Last I saw, he was heading toward the woodshop or your office,” a woman at one of the quilt frames said.

  “Thanks,” I said and leaned over to inspect the quilt they were working on. “Robbing Peter to Pay Paul?”

  The quilters laughed. “Right again,” one of them said.

  It was a game we had going the three months I’d worked here. I prided myself on my ability to recognize almost any traditional quilt pattern. It was knowledge I’d picked up from the infamous Aunt Garnet on visits with Dove to Arkansas when I was growing up. I walked down the hallway past the rows of workrooms, stopping briefly to peek into the woodshop. Inhaling the sweet, pine-scented air, I smiled at the rows of primary-colored rocking horses lined up and ready for their future owners, and waved at Ray, the only occupant this early. A big-shouldered man with a red walrus mustache, he was a talented carver of duck decoys and one of the most genial members of the co-op. He waved back and gave me a bushy grin.

  Opening the door to my small office, I caught my quarry enthusiastically pounding away on my word processor. His latest venture, a university extension course in writing romance novels, had caused problems between us before.

  “Eric,” I said, “we have to get those quilts hung today. You know the pre-showing is Friday night. Can’t you do that on your own time?”

  He looked up at me with sleepy, thick-lashed, brown eyes even I had to admit were sexy. “Tell me what you think. ‘Dack’s tongue thrust into her ear like a dental probe. Cassandra melted like fresh butter from her father’s dairy farm into helpless desire. When he pressed his throbbing sword of manhood ...”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, groaning. “I can’t believe you actually read that out loud to a classroom of strangers.”

  “It must be good,” he said, grinning his two-hundred-watt smile. “Three women have asked me out for coffee after class. I think I’ve found my calling.”

  “You’re despicable,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “You’re just taking that class to hit on women.”

  “Nah.” He grinned and winked. “Really, there’s a lot of money in this stuff. Women buy these books like candy. It’s a gold mine.” He went back to tapping. “Sybillia says I have real potential. She’s helping me.”

  “Who?”

  “My teacher.”

  “Her name sounds like a social disease. Anyway, you have a job to do. You can get back to your throbbing swords later.”

  “One sword, Benni. He only has one. How long has it been for you, anyway?” He waved me away as if I were a pesky horsefly. “One more page.”

  I walked across the room to the outlet. “File it now or I pull the plug on Dack and Cassandra.”

  “Just a minute.”

  “Now.” I reached for the plug.

  “Oh, all right.” He punched the file key on the word processor with a flip of his hand. “If you were nicer to me, I might have considered dedicating the book to you. But now ...” He heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  “I’ll try and live with the disappointment. I need you to hang those quilts. Constance will kill us, or rather me, if things aren’t perfect on Friday night.”

  He slipped the data disk into the black plastic file on my desk. “Mine has the red label,” he said. “Please don’t read it without my permission.”

  “Out.” I pointed toward the museum. “Work.”

  “Slave driver,” he said.

  “Reprobate.”

  His dark eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

  “You want to be a writer,” I said. “Get a dictionary.”

  He tossed his head and marched, in what I assumed was an artistic snit, through the door, slamming it with a bang.

  I sat down at my desk and contemplated what I should do next. Knowing Dove would ask the next time she called, I made an attempt to locate my cousin Rita. After calling her house without luck, and trying Trigger’s Saloon, where her boss said he hadn’t seen her since night before last, I left it at that, figuring I’d made a semi-valiant effort. She’d wander back around eventually, probably when she needed money.

  The door of my office flew open.

  “Help me,” Maria Chenier demanded. She slammed a large foam cup and white paper bag down on my desk, then collapsed in the black-and-chrome office chair across from me.

  I reached for the cup. “How?”

  “That’s a bribe,” she said. “I’m in desperate need.” She shook her curly black hair, spraying fine droplets of water across my desk blotter, then crossed her long, boot-clad legs. At almost six feet tall with strong, even features and a figure that sent most men into adolescent stuttering, she looked anything but desperate.

  “Need is such a relative word,” I said, opening the cup lid and taking a quick sip of coffee. “What do we really need? Water, air, food ...”

  “Sex.” She gave a low growl of a laugh that probably doubled her tips at Trigger’s.

  “What is it with people today? Everyone’s mind is in the gutter. Besides, from a scientific point of view that’s not a need. That’s a want.”

  “And where did you hear that lie?”

  I looked in the bag and pulled out a large jelly doughnut. “I’d rather have money, but this’ll do.” I took a bite. “Tell me your needs. Your artistic ones, that is.”

  “Well, if you can’t get me a good man, I’ll take the next best thing, time at the wheel.” She ran long, jagged-nailed fingers through her wet hair. “I’ve been behind in my pots since I got walking pneumonia last month.”

  “Let me look at the schedule.” I reached over, pulled out a battered notebook with a tooth-marked pencil attached and flipped through. “One of the wheels is down and we don’t have money to pay a repairman.” I showed her the filled pages. “Sorry, it’s booked solid for five days.”

  “What am I going to do?” She frowned as she twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “My car insurance is due and my mom’s got a thousand-dollar medical bill she needs to pay or the doctor won’t see her again.” She groaned and shook her hair again. “And I’ve got tons of people who have ordered pots for delivery by Christmas. I’d hate to get a flaky reputation. My pottery is the only good thing I have in my life right now.”

  I chewed on the pencil and studied the filled pages. I wished she’d told me she needed more time sooner, but one of the earliest lessons I’d learned on this job was that failing to plan ahead was a foible of most creative people.

  “You can use it after closing hours,” I said, making a quick executive decision I hoped I wouldn’t regret. “But only if you can find someone to stay up here with you. I don’t want you here alone. It’s against the rules, but we didn’t count on one of the wheels being down so long.”

  Her face brightened. “Great! Why don’t you stay with me? We’ll dish the dirt on the other co-op members. The things I could tell you ...”

  “Sounds tempting but I can’t. I have to be at Elvia’s bookstore at seven-thirty tonight for an author’s talk.”

  “Anybody I’d know?”

  “Not unless you’re a bird fancier. Elvia’s booked some guy who’s written about vultures or condors or some bird. According to Elvia, he’s very respected in his field, but she’s afraid no one will show up. She’s a real softie about her authors.”

  “So why are you going? Are you into birds?”

  I grinned, pulled some three-by-five cards out of my top drawer and waved them. “I’m a shill.”

  “Like in Vegas?” She chuckled. “What are those?”

  “My spontaneous questions.”

  “You’re a better friend than me, Benni.” Shaking her head, she stood up. “I’ll check around and see if any of the others want to stick around tonight.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said, walking her to the door. “I’m breaking the rules letting you come up here after scheduled hours so we’d better not make it too obvious. Can you get someone outside the co-op to come with you?”

  “I’ll see what Rita’s doing,” she said. “I think she’s off tonight.”

  “That reminds me. Where is my dear cousin anyway? Her grandmother is in town and wants to see her.”

  Marla dug into her large canvas bag, found a rubber band and pulled her hair back into a thick ponytail. “You know Rita, here and there. Our shifts haven’t overlapped for a week. She hasn’t been home for a couple of days, so I assume she found herself a cowboy and is shacking up for a while.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll hunt her down and tell her to give you a call.”

  “Thanks.” I stood up and walked over to the door. “I don’t know how you stand living with her. It about drove me nuts.”

  Marla pointed a long finger at me. “You got to live and let live, Benni. You were an old married lady for too long. Forgot what it was like to go weak in the knees at the sight of a man in a pair of tight jeans.”

  Shaking my head, I gave my office door a push as someone from the other side pulled. I fell into a pair of strong, tanned arms.

  “Whoa, darlin‘,” a deep, raspy voice drawled. “Always knew you’d eventually fall for me.” I smiled up into amused brown eyes, blue-shadowed with fatigue. Though five years older, two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, my brother-in-law, Wade, reminded me enough of Jack to make my heart beat faster.

  “Hey, Marla.” He ran a calloused hand through his gray-streaked chestnut hair. “Lookin‘ good.”

  Her face stiffened as she squeezed past him. “You smell like a cattle lot.”

  “That’s the smell of money, darlin‘.”

  She frowned and turned to me. “Thanks for letting me come in tonight. I owe you.”

  “You find Rita and we’re even,” I said. I gestured for Wade to come into my office. He pulled off his wet jacket and flopped down in my chair, propping his dirty boots on my desk. I smacked the side of his jean-clad legs. “That better just be mud on those boots.” I sat down across from him.

  “Take a whiff,” he said, winking. “I’m not sure.”

  “What’s going on with you and Marla?”

  He crossed his legs and shrugged. “Nothing. I’m always giving her a hard time over at Trigger’s.” He laughed and locked his fingers behind his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “How can you still go there?” I asked.

  “I’ve been going to Trigger’s for twenty years. Jack and I had some good times there.”

  I stared at the floor.

  “I did go after him,” Wade said bitterly. “I can’t help it if he left before I got there. He shoulda never got in that jeep after drinking that much.”

  “I know,” I said with a sigh. “You and Jack argued a dozen times a week. He was a big boy. No one made him go to town.”

  I said the words he expected, but part of me did blame him for causing Jack to go to Trigger’s as well as everyone who let Jack drive away. Maybe most of all, I blamed Jack himself, for not calling me at my dad’s ranch to pick him up.

  He cleared his throat and looked around. “You got a cup?”

  “That’s a disgusting habit.” I took a last gulp of coffee and poured the rest into my fern before handing him the empty cup. “Have you ever seen a picture of someone who has cancer of the mouth?”

  He spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into the cup and pulled at his droopy mustache. “I love ya, Benni, but I believe I got myself a wife already.”

  “All right.” I held up my hands. “It’s just that I worry about you. How’s everyone doing?”

  “We’re all fine,” he said. “That’s why I came by. Brought you those baby quilts Ma made for this shindig you’re putting on. And she sent Grandma’s old quilt. Rings or something.”

  “The Wedding Ring quilt,” I said. “Great! It’ll be a perfect addition to the exhibit. Tell her I’ll take good care of it. Is she coming to the festival?”

  He picked up my brass letter opener and started flipping it up and catching it by the handle. “Who knows? Since Jack ... well, you know she’s been kinda down. Sandra and the kids are coming, though.”

  “Tell Mom I’ll come out when the festival’s over and bring her the money for the baby quilts. They’ll sell like crazy the first day, I’m sure. Seems like everywhere I look there’s a pregnant woman waddling around.”

  He threw the letter opener up again, missed, and it clattered down on the desk.

  I reached over and grabbed it. “You’re worse than one of your kids.”

  “That’s what Sandra’s always saying,” he said, grinning. He spit in the cup again, then tossed it into my trash can.

  I wrinkled my nose, thankful I’d put a plastic liner in the can earlier.

  “How’s she doing with the computer?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said, too quickly.

  “Is she having problems with the calf weights again? I could give her a hand when I come out next week.”

  He ignored my offer, pulled out a small pocket knife and started cleaning his nails.

  I pointed the letter opener at him. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to learn to use it.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, writing stuff down in Dad’s old record books is good enough. That computer business was purely Jack’s doing.” He wiped the blade of the knife on his jeans.

  “Computers are here to stay whether you like it or not. Jack proved you saved money using the PC.”

  “About enough to pay off his college loans,” he snapped. Deep lines of resentment bracketed his lips. He swung his legs down and worked damp jeans back over his boots.

  I didn’t answer, not wanting to go into the subject that Jack and Wade had argued about since their father died twenty years ago. Anger and frustration over Wade’s refusal to acknowledge the changes in ranch management and his stubbornness against trying new methods was what drove Jack into town that night nine months ago.

  He stood for a moment glaring at me; then his face softened. “Ma wanted me to check on you and tell her how you’re doing. What do you want me to tell her?” he asked in a subdued voice. Like all the Harper men, his temper erupted as unpredictably as a teenage boy’s, and dissipated just as quickly.

  I stood up and slipped an arm around his slightly thickening waist. “Well, how do I look to you?”

  He tugged on my braid and smiled. “You look just fine, blondie.” My throat constricted at Jack’s old nickname for me.