S ome people don’t care about wealth. Others pretend not to care about wealth, but really care about it very much indeed.
One would be hard-pressed to decide which camp Artie Sinclair fell into. At least, that’s what his brother liked to say.
Theo and Artie Sinclair had lived in affluent circumstances all of their lives. Their father struck it big when Goldfield, Arizona had been booming at the turn of the century. Now, more than twenty years later, the man had apparently never been poor again.
Theo and Artie had been born into a world humming with gold veins, underground explosions, and the ear-splitting sound of the miner’s horn. If either wanted to visit the town of their births around thirty years later, they had only to head on down to Goldfield and walk the deserted streets. A town built on something so temporary hadn’t lasted as long as the founders had hoped. Now, it lay as a skeleton of old buildings and equipment that no one wanted or needed. When Goldfield emptied, the Sinclairs moved to the edge of Mesa, though not everyone stayed so close. Now at twenty-eight and thirty, neither brother gave the town of their birth much thought.
Artie didn’t care about age. He barely remembered his own. Unlike Theo, who knew his own age, Artie’s age, and the age of nearly everyone else that they ever knew.
For reasons that he couldn’t quite make out, Artie mused on this difference while he milked Dolly, one of his three milk goats. She stood still, allowing his mind to wander while he milked, unlike Martha who would happily kick him in the face if he let her.
“I don’t know how Theo keeps track of all those numbers, Dolly. I really don’t. You, for instance. How old are you?” Artie frowned, his eyes focused on the growing froth in the milk bucket. “I honestly have no idea.”
He heard his name echoed across from the house. Surrounded by the slightly tamed desert, he could have seen the house from his stool, if it weren’t for Dolly obstructing his view. Someone called to him again.
Unwilling to startle the goat, he didn’t reply. Theo appeared, towering above him, a moment later anyway.
“Here you are. I thought I heard you crooning to that stubborn goat of yours a bit ago.”
Artie rolled his eyes and kept milking. “If it keeps her calm enough that I don’t lose the bucket, I’ll do it no matter how much I don’t care for it.”
“Sing like that to a girl sometime and you’ll probably get a wife.”
Artie rolled his eyes again. “No.”
Theo grinned.
Artie stood, removing the milk pail before sending Dolly back to her pen. She all but galloped at the expectation of fresh hay. Despite the March weather, the sun seared down, prompting Artie to adjust his hat. “What did you come find me for?”
“Oh. Kat wanted to know if you were coming down to the dance pavilion this week.”
“In Apache Junction?” Artie grabbed Edith’s collar before she could hope to escape him. “No. I hadn’t planned to.”
“You know that I hate going by myself.”
Artie chuckled. “You won’t be alone. Go with Kat and her friends. There will be plenty of people there.”
“You know what I mean!”
“No, not really.” Artie settled to milk again with a shake of his head. “You like dancing. I don’t.”
“You’re a regular Oliver Twist!”
Artie stopped milking and raised an eyebrow at his brother. “I didn’t say that I couldn’t dance. I said that I don’t like it.”
Edith brayed and Artie glanced behind at the goat pen before hurrying to milk again.
“So, I have to go alone?”
“If you call that alone.” Artie didn’t look up. “Like I said, there’s plenty of people there, who you do know. I’ve got work to do.”
“Work you could hire someone else to do.”
Artie laughed but didn’t care to argue.
Theo probably would have pressed the point, but their father’s shout of, “Boys!” followed by his grumbled complaints about a cactus, dropped him into silence. Artie continued milking.
“There you are!” Charles Sinclair frowned at the goat, who stamped her foot at him.
Theo leaned against the goat pen. “You were looking for us then?”
“Yes. Well, your sister has been.” Their father put both hands into his pockets. “I came out to see if I could find you for her.”
Theo crossed his arms. “What does Hazel want?”
Artie frowned at Theo’s tone of voice, but any reply from their father disappeared on the wind. A high, though decidedly masculine voice, interrupted them and the short, incredibly small figure of Fred Salts appeared at their father’s elbow.
“Hodges.” The little man puffed and craned back his head to see into Charles Sinclair’s face.
Edith stamped her foot, while Artie frowned. His father only nodded, just barely.
Fred Salts took a step forward and coughed. He seemed to cough every time the wind blew dust, and in the Arizona desert, the wind blew dust awfully frequently. He peered at Theo and Artie with squinted eyes.
“Artie, you are needed to receive a payment at the Pavilion in Apache Junction on Saturday.”
Artie looked up from the milk pail. “I beg your pardon?”
Fred puffed a bit more. “Joseph Hodges owes a debt and payment is supposed to be at the Pavilion on Saturday. You are needed to bring it home.”
Artie frowned again. I’ve never been asked to pick up a payment before. Why would he ask me? Perhaps he assumes I’ll be there already…
“I hadn’t planned to go to the Pavilion on Saturday. Could Theo pick it up?”
Fred Salts peered more closely at Artie, blinked rapidly, and then coughed. “It needs to be you. She’ll respond better to you.”
Artie stopped milking altogether. “She? You said Joseph Hodges.”
Fred nodded. “Yes, yes. Quite right.”
Artie blinked, looked at Theo, and then back again. “Joseph Hodges is a female?”
“What? Certainly not.” Fred blinked at him in rapid consternation.
“You implied he would receive payment from a ‘she.’” The father placidly intervened, his hands still in his pockets.
Fred blinked, then gave a swift sharp shake of his head. “Ah! Oh, that! It’s his daughter. She’s bringing the payment for her father.”
“Why?” Theo continued to lean back against the goat pen. “Why doesn’t the man bring payment himself?”
“I can’t say I know the answer to that.” Fred pulled out his notebook, flipping through pages absently. “I just know it’s the daughter you’re supposed to meet. Or rather, Artie is supposed to meet. They live alone out in the middle of the desert; perhaps that factors into it.”
Artie looked at his father. “It has to be me?”
“It needs to be you.” Fred nodded at his notebook.
Charles Sinclair said nothing, and Artie sighed.
“Why don’t you go, Fred?” Theo sounded impatient.
And here he wanted me to go with him just a few minutes ago.
“Because we have other business on that day.” The father finally spoke, when Fred only blinked at the question.
“Yes, yes. Too busy.”
Edith stamped, and Artie patted her side. “How will I know the girl?”
Fred peered at his notebook, this time quite intently. “The girl’s name is Dorothy. Dorothy Hodges. As for the rest…” Fred shrugged. “It will be obvious who she is. She’s about your age and it will be quite obvious.”
Artie would have asked more, but Fred Salts turned toward the father, muttering something while pointing to the notebook. With a nod to his sons, Charles Sinclair turned back with Fred for the house.
“I’ll tell your sister I found you!”
Artie pulled the milk bucket away from Edith and stood. He watched the retreating backs of the two men before turning toward his older brother. Theo appeared disgruntled.
Artie shrugged. “Apparently, I’m going with you to the Pavilion on Saturday.” He sent Edith to her pen. “That should make you happy. You won’t be going alone after all.”