D orothy couldn’t help a continual lookout for her mysterious follower. Even with Artie nearby, she had the distinct feeling that someone else still watched her.
She sat on one of the lava rocks that her father had long ago transported to the house from farther up the mountain. Artie seemed to have forgotten her as he stood looking toward the Superstition Mountains.
Since when do I want a Sinclair, of all people, to stay with me?
She watched the man, quite certain that he didn’t notice at all. She decided that he still frightened her, but perhaps less than he did. Then too, the unknown threat of whoever managed to hide in the desert frightened her far more. A creature, probably a rabbit or a family of quail, skittered in the brush nearby and Dorothy couldn’t keep from jumping.
Artie noticed and seemed to consider before taking a seat on the other rock near her. “How many people know that you have been paying my father in gold, Miss Dorothy?”
Dorothy found a stray thread on her skirt. “I haven’t told anyone. Only one other person, besides yourself, your father, and anyone either of you may have informed, is aware.”
“You’re certain?” Artie dropped his hat onto the ground, bending forward with his hands clasped.
Dorothy nodded. “I don’t know many people, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I gathered that.” He said it low, probably to himself. She could hear a sorrowful quality.
Why does he want to know about the gold? Unless he thought that could be why I’m being followed? Which, of course, would make no sense, because I haven’t told anyone.
He didn’t explain himself, and they both fell silent. The silence grew uncomfortable, as Dorothy couldn’t escape the feeling that they were being watched. Artie might have noticed the awkward atmosphere as well because he made an obvious effort to change it.
“You don’t have any siblings, Miss Dorothy?”
She shook her head. Why would he care? Does he want to know who else can be threatened? She sighed. That is an unfair assumption. He hasn’t ever threatened me. That is most certainly unkind.
Artie had continued. “I thought you hadn’t. I have two.”
“I-I met your brother.” Dorothy assumed her part must be to come up with a reply.
Artie smiled a bit. “You did meet Theo. I have a little sister, as well. Hazel. She’s seven.”
Dorothy couldn’t imagine Charles Sinclair with a daughter. She remembered his last interaction with herself and shuddered.
“What do you do all day when you’re not making treks to Apache Junction for my father, Miss Dorothy?”
She stared at him, wondering why on earth he would want to know.
He smiled halfway. “I assume you do more than that.”
“I-I do. I do various activities.” She looked up at him, as she tugged at the thread on her skirt. “D-do you know how to explain what you do all day?”
Artie actually laughed. “I would say I spend a lot of time working my farm, particularly right now, but I can understand your difficulty. Even my farm work hardly takes all of my time.”
Dorothy tugged the thread again. “Why are-are you spending more time working your farm now than before?”
“My hay supplier, Francis Bailey, lives in Gilbert, but he’s switching to cotton this year. I’ve decided to grow my own hay, but since I have no idea what I’m doing, despite Mr. Bailey helping me out, I’ve spent far more time than I planned on getting prepared. I need to plant by the end of the month.”
Dorothy decided she should leave the thread alone before she tugged a hole in the dress. “What did you grow before?”
“Me? Nothing.” Artie picked up a rock, tossing it up and down in his hand. “I have animals: a number of goats and a flock of chickens. A horse until last year. I sell the milk around town when I have it, which I usually do.”
Dorothy raised an eyebrow. “Y-you’re a milkman?”
Artie laughed again, tossing the rock back into the dirt. “I provide the milk to a milkman. I don’t know if anyone in my family could bear the idea of my peddling jars of milk around Mesa.”
They grew silent again. Dorothy discovered that she preferred the talk to silence, so tried to put forward a greater effort. “D-does your family work on the farm?” She hated that she couldn’t keep from stuttering and that the mere act of asking a question required so much of her courage.
Artie didn’t show that he noticed. “Oh, the farm is only mine. Part of it is on my father’s land, though I bought the field from him. He doesn’t think rich men need to work a farm, as it’s low work, but he lets me. Theo mostly agrees with him, but he will help out with the animals on occasion, especially if I have to be away for some reason.”
Dorothy’s hands found the thread on her skirt again. “Do you enjoy farm work?”
“I enjoy the animals. Particularly the goats, though I like the chickens. I also like to work, so I suppose you could say that I do enjoy my farm work.”
Dorothy heard movement in the brush, certain that it could not have been made by a rabbit, but she couldn’t see anything. She stiffened. “H-how many goats do you have?”
Artie must have caught the change in her demeanor, because he glanced around as well. He answered her question, however, launching into a description of his goats, their markings and temperament, and who gave the best milk.
To her surprise, Dorothy found that she enjoyed his descriptions. She couldn’t recall the last time that she had enjoyed someone talking to her, though she admitted to herself, that if she would only relax, Kat would probably be enjoyable to be around.
By the time the sun began to sink behind the western mountains—Dorothy did not know their names—her sense of someone watching them grew stronger. She had no idea where a watcher hid, but she had little doubt that they had one.
“Are you all right?” Artie hadn’t spoken in a few minutes and the sound of his voice startled her.
She steadied herself by putting her hands together in her lap. “I am well.”
He didn’t look as if he believed her.
She looked away. He would only think I had lost my mind.
He watched her for a moment or two, making Dorothy want to fidget even more.
Do all the Sinclair men stare so much? Hasn’t anyone ever told them that it makes the recipient more than a little uncomfortable?
“What do you do for fun, Miss Dorothy?”
She blinked. Do all people ask such random questions? She might have shrugged at her thought, if Artie would not have seen it. I suppose that they might. I have never sat alone with another person for so long in my life, besides Father.
“Surely you enjoy something.” Artie seemed somewhat amused by her silence. Only then did she realize that she had not answered him at all.
“I enjoy reading.”
He smiled a bit, but she could not have said why. “Do you have a favorite book? Or, perhaps, a favorite author?”
She tried to think of an ulterior motive for his question, before forcing herself to stop. She would wear herself out trying to find an angle on every question that he asked. “The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan. Or Ben Hur. It really depends on the time of year.”
“What does the time of year have to do with it?” Artie stood, putting one foot up on the rock instead.
Dorothy thought for a moment. “I don’t actually know. I just prefer Ben Hur in the spring and summer, and The Pilgrim’s Progress the rest of the year.”
Artie stared out into the desert. “I’ve not read Ben Hur. ” Dorothy startled at the implication that he had read The Pilgrim’s Progress . “What is it about?”
She would have attempted an answer, difficult as such a task would prove, but the distinct sound of something moving around in the desert interrupted her thoughts. Artie straightened and Dorothy stood.
“D-did you see something?”
Artie took his time replying. “I thought that I did. For just a second. Now, I can’t say I’m sure I saw anything. Or where I saw it.”
Dorothy turned about, looking on all sides, and jumped. “T-there comes Father.”
Artie followed her nod to the stooped figure in the distance. He watched him for far longer than Dorothy thought he warranted. Then, with a continued frown, Artie returned to the desert beneath the Superstitions.
Her father took his time to reach them. When he did join them, the man didn’t give Artie any heed but kept right on walking.
“Mr. Hodges?” Artie stepped in front of the man, forcing a stop.
“I reckon.” He granted a begrudging raise of the head.
Dorothy resumed her seat on the rock.
“Arthur Sinclair, sir.”
Dorothy saw a flicker of surprise pass her father’s face. “Ah. You’re one of Sinclair’s boys.”
“Yes, sir.” Artie put his hands behind his back. “I wondered if you wouldn’t mind me asking you about a few things?”
“I would.” The older man shook his head slowly. “I’m busy and I don’t have the time. If it’s about the gold your father wants, I told him that Dorothy would take care of it.”
Dorothy could only see Artie’s profile, but at those words she could see that his expression changed. If she knew him better, she would have said that he looked angry.
“Mr. Hodges—”
The older man pushed Artie aside with one arm. He shook his head again. “I told you, I’m busy. If it’s something that you must ask me, come back another day.”
Dorothy stood. “Father—”
The man opened the door, walking inside without even a pause. Artie watched him, disapproval clear on his face. Dorothy took a step forward, but Artie waved her back.
He shook his head at the closed door, retrieved his hat, and came up beside Dorothy. “I’ll come back.”
Dorothy began to reply, but Artie didn’t let her get started.
“Your father won’t leave again tonight?” The concern in his voice and on his face still startled her.
“No.” She looked toward the shack, as if she could see her father settling down at the table. “I-I’ve never known him to go anywhere this late, particularly after he just returned.”
Artie’s tone grew very gentle. “You’re safe with him? He would help you if you needed it?”
She honestly did not know the answer to such questions, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it aloud. “I will be all right.”
He watched her for another moment, then put on his hat with a somehow sad smile. “Could I come by tomorrow?”
“O-of course.”
She couldn’t read the expression on his face that followed. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Dorothy.”
She watched him as he walked away until he glanced back. Then, she turned toward the shack.
On the threshold, Dorothy swept her gaze across the darkening desert once more. The Superstition Mountains and the friendly cacti had turned cold once more, and she shuddered.
Father in Heaven, Thou canst keep me safe, though I feel far less than secure. I pray Thee, have mercy on me that I might remain safe.
She stepped into the shack where her father, just as she had envisioned, already bent over his carving.
Would he help me if I needed it? I don’t know. Why don’t I know if my father would help me—but I am nearly certain that the son of Charles Sinclair would?