Rachel Running on Empty Pt. 06

Rachel Running on Empty Part 6

by G. Lawrence

Lost in a foreign landscape

This is not an erotic story, though it does have romance. It features family drama along with adventure, elements of fantasy, and occasional science fiction (understated, for this is not a science fiction book). And, as her family has discovered, Rachel can be frustrating, willing to go to any lengths once she sets her heart on a course. Life for our hero is never easy. This is part 6 of 8.

Recap: Using the government's flawed Level 13 matrix to rescue John's kidnapped children, Rachel woke up in a hospital with half of her memory gone. She escaped, took a bus to Las Vegas, and then ventured into the badlands of Nevada, having no clear idea of what to do.

* * * * * *

Chapter Eleven

JUNIPER SPRINGS

"This is home," Joanna announced as they reached a hamlet forty miles south of the Idaho State line.

"Is it a ghost town?" Rachel asked, seeing rundown buildings in the dawn light.

"Not yet," Joanna said, gathering her bags.

Rachel noticed the usual gas station next to a country store. A shabby casino. A fire station and clinic. A church that needed paint. A saloon and a coffee shop. A few old wooden houses and storefronts. It reminded her of another village she'd once seen, though the name escaped her.

"This is Juniper Springs," Joanna said. "A hundred years ago, it was Juniper Hot Springs, but there aren't many springs left, and none of them are hot."

"Is your husband meeting you?" Rachel asked.

"No, he ... I'll meet him at home."

"Is everything all right?"

"Jay's having some trouble right now, so we keep out of the way. We have a ranch on Cobb's Creek a few miles north of town."

Joanna helped Rachel down from the bus. The town was spread out over a large area, some structures clumped together, others standing alone interspaced by empty lots and tumbleweeds. Many were abandoned.

"That's the motel over there," Joanna said, pointing across the two-lane highway. "Not great, but not terrible. I have to see my baby, but if you decide to hang around for a while, I'll talk to Mr. Beggs about getting you a job. I'm a dealer at the Golden Shovel."

"I could use a little more money," Rachel decided.

"That's good. Thanks again for your help," Joanna said, heading down the road. Rachel didn't see where she went, Joanna just seemed to disappear.

The high desert town was surrounded by dry flatlands leading to rough hills in every direction. Probably mining country at one time. The morning sun was casting deep shadows. Rachel's ribs hurt from where the thug had kicked her, her face felt puffy, she was tired, and she was hungry. And she was nearly broke. She sat in the Blue Bell Motel's sparse lobby for an hour until an old woman arrived.

"Need a room, honey?" the gray-haired woman asked. She was Hispanic, late-50s, in a fringed calico dress. It wasn't a strong accent.

Rachel nodded, unable to speak.

"Are you shy, honey?"

Rachel nodded again. The woman leaned closer, seeing the fresh bruise on Rachel's cheek.

"My name is Maisie. You'll be fine here. Queen or king?"

Rachel opened her purse. She had three twenties and a few smaller bills.

"We better make it a queen," Maisie said, taking one of the twenties. "The second night is half price, if you need it. Will you need it?"

"I don't know," Rachel said so quietly the words were barely audible.

"Number four. Outside this door, then down on the right. Next to the ice machine. Here, wait a minute."

Maisie went in a back room and returned with a pile of plastic freezer bags.

"Use these to make ice packs, honey. It will keep the swelling down," she suggested.

The motel room wasn't much to speak of, though it was clean. The wall heater rattled, struggling to produce heat, but Rachel didn't care. After a long shower that felt unusually refreshing, she curled up in a ball and slept most of the day.

It was late afternoon when Rachel stirred. She was momentarily confused by her surroundings. Was she back at St. Mary's? No, this was different. She looked out the door, finding a parking lot. Desert. Woods. Mountains. The air smelled fresh. She was hungry, seeing several stores across the paved highway.

The prices at the general store were higher than she expected, so she settled for a bread roll and a small jar of honey. The elderly woman clerk looked at her strangely. It took Rachel a moment to realize her face was swollen from the beating, the eye turning dark. Though she hated to waste her slender funds, she bought makeup to disguise the bruising as best she could. And a bottle of aspirin.

The bread wasn't very satisfying, but would need to suffice. As the sun was setting, she went for a walk in the warm summer evening. The population appeared a mix of Hispanics, blue-collar whites, and Native Americans. The economy was based on truck drivers, ranchers, and the old casino, which didn't look especially prosperous. It wasn't a reservation casino, like so many were. Rachel declined to go inside, walking out into the desert.

The vegetation was interesting. Tall yellow grasses and wildflowers filled the hollows. The hills had clumps of pine and willow trees. A shallow creek ran through the north end of town.

Rachel sat down on a large rock, her eyes suddenly glazing. Something was wrong. Numbers kept appearing in her mind. Series of numbers. Equations. They were annoying, and they were making her mad. What did they want? Something about the experience was familiar. Unsettling.

I need a drink, Rachel decided. I drink?

She walked back to the struggling town, finding a saloon called Casper's Ghost just a stone's throw from the general store. It looked like something from an old movie, with sawdust covered floors, imitation gas lamps, and cattle horns hanging on the walls. Bottles of whiskey, vodka and tequila were mounted behind the long oak bar. Rachel found a stool at the end, keeping her head down.

"What can I get you, miss?" the friendly bartender asked. He was a big fellow in his early-40s with thinning brown hair and gray eyes. Probably the owner, or the owner's brother.

"Beer," Rachel said.

"What kind would you like? We've got eight local brews."

"Beer," Rachel replied.

Rachel thought she should order food. She could smell the kitchen in the back, and it was wonderful. But she only had enough money for alcohol or sustenance, and she needed alcohol more.

"Excuse me, would you like to dance?" a blond-haired young man asked. He was tall and good-looking, with a clear complexion and pretty blue eyes.

Music was coming from an old-fashioned juke box. It was the country-western that Rachel generally liked, but she wasn't in the mood. The bartender put a cold bottle of beer before her.

"I'm Sam," the bartender said. "Will there be anything else? We have burgers, sandwiches, and chili. Best chili north of Wells."

Rachel shook her head, keeping her head low. Between the baseball cap and the dim lighting, she hoped no one would notice the black eye. She sipped the beer.

"My name is Pete," the young man persisted. "I think you're really cute. Can I buy you a drink?"

"No thank you," Rachel said, not looking up.

Men always want to buy things for pretty girls, she thought. And then they want more.

She took a gulp of the beer. Those pesky numbers were trying to intrude again. Were they trying to tell her something? Why wouldn't they leave her alone? It was hard to think.

"Come on, one dance won't hurt," Peter said, taking hold of her arm. Rachel shook him off. He reached again.

"I said no, goddamn it! What the hell is wrong with you?" Rachel shouted.

She jumped from the stool, grabbed the beer bottle by the neck, and smashed it on the counter. Then she swiped the broken end at the handsome young man, grazing his hand. It drew blood.

All talking in the bar came to a halt. Only the music continued to play. Peter stepped back, holding his bloodstained hand, his expression shocked. Rachel dropped the broken bottle on the floor, threw a few dollars on the bar, and ran for the door. She didn't stop until reaching her motel room.

Rachel felt like crying, which was strange, because she never cried. It didn't solve anything. Her sleep was fitful. Bizarre memories were fighting to emerge. Memories she didn't want. Dangerous, hurtful memories. Some of them were numbers. She didn't like the numbers, but they helped push the bad thoughts away.

Joanna didn't arrive the next morning. Rachel wondered if she should take the next bus north. To where? To accomplish what? The town was mostly quiet. No doctors in white coats. No social workers. Perhaps an extra day to catch her breath wouldn't be so bad?

After paying half price for a second night at the Blue Bell, Rachel had to skip breakfast. She only had a few dollars left. Did the casino have an odds board like she'd seen in Las Vegas? It seemed like free money, but gambling was sinful. She didn't need to compound her problems.

The more Rachel thought about her behavior at the bar the night before, the worse she felt. The young man hadn't seemed like such a bad person, and he certainly didn't deserve what happened. She needed to fix it, if she could.

The warm day cooled off after dark. Rachel wished she had a heavier jacket than the flannel blazer she'd stolen in Los Angeles.

A dozen patrons loitered in the saloon, several at the bar and the rest using the red leather booths. Rachel saw the young man sitting in the corner, alone. She went to the bar, finding a stool. Sam quickly approached.

"Attacking more of my customers?" he asked.

Rachel shook her head and whispered. Sam couldn't hear her.

"I'm sorry," she said a little louder. "Can I buy him a drink?"

"I think he'd like that," Sam said, taking out a towel to wipe the counter. He produced a bottle of Squirrel Nut.

"$4.50," Sam said.

Rachel pawed through her purse, and shook it looking for coins. Sam leaned forward, able to see what she was doing. She slowly found enough money, a dollar or two at a time.

"What can I get you?" Sam asked.

Rachel shook her head and got up to leave.

"Hang on a second," Sam urged. "Let's see of Pete accepts your apology. If he doesn't, you won't need to pay for this beer."

She sat back down, keeping her head low, glancing toward the corner as Sam spoke with Peter. She couldn't hear what they were saying.

"Pete needs to talk to you," Sam said.

"No," Rachel replied, though it wasn't a rejection so much as panic.

"He won't bite you. I promise," Sam assured her, taking her over to the booth and getting her to sit.

Peter was cleanshaven, his dark blond hair cut short. He wore a brown long-sleeve shirt, gray jeans and cowboy boots. She guessed him at thirty. Rachel had given her stolen dress a little sprucing up at the motel, but the three days on the road showed. She kept the baseball cap pulled down.

"Thanks for the beer. You were a little on edge last night," he mentioned.

"I'm sorry," Rachel responded, starting to get up. Peter used his bandaged hand to keep her seated.

"Don't be afraid. I'm not mad. You're too cute to be mad at. Do you have a name?"

"Yes."

He waited. She remained quiet.

"What is it?" he finally asked.

"Katie. My name is Katie."

"Let me buy you a beer, Katie," Peter said, waving to the bar.

"I shouldn't," Rachel answered.

"Relax. Everything's fine."

Sam brought over another beer and two frosted glasses, doing the pouring.

"Thank you," Rachel said, sipping slowly.

"Thank you for not slashing me open again," Peter teased.

Rachel lowered her head nearly to the table, her hands in her lap.

"Hey, kid, take it easy. I'm only kidding," Peter said. He brought her hands back up, put them around the beer glass, and had her take another sip. "But I still think you owe me a dance."

The juke box was playing an old Tom Waits song. One that took place in a bar. Rachel had always liked it and got up.

They danced slowly. When Peter wrapped his arms around her waist, she tried to ignore the pain. Her ribs on the right side still hurt, and other than icing at the motel, she hadn't done anything to treat them. She pressed her head against his chest until the song ended.

"I should go," Rachel said, turning toward the door.

"You haven't finished your beer yet," Peter insisted, taking her back to the booth. They were joined there a moment later.

"Hi, Pete. Who's the beauty?" a young man said, sitting without being invited. He was a lean fellow with a big grin and white teeth. With him was a young woman with curly dark hair. It was the first African American couple Rachel had seen since leaving Las Vegas.

"This is Katie," Peter said. "Katie, this is my bro, Miles Rogers, and his lovely wife, Patty. Miles is the town EMT. Patty nurses at the clinic."

Rachel nodded but didn't say anything.

"Where are you from, Katie?" Patty asked. She seemed friendly. Rachel offered a quiet smile.

"Staying at the Blue Bell? Looking for work?" Miles said.

Rachel looked up, not wanting to be rude, but didn't answer the question. Her odd behavior aroused curiosity.

"Let's dance again," Peter said, drawing Rachel from the booth.

It was a Carrie Underwood song. Rachel liked Carrie Underwood. She tried to keep Peter from clutching too tightly, and then sought to excuse herself again when the dance was over.

"You're not prejudiced, are you?" Peter said.

"What do you mean?"

"Not speaking with my black friends. Wanting to leave."

"Oh, no. They seem nice."

As they returned to the table, Patty intercepted them.

"Let's go to the ladies' room," she suggested.

Rachel followed her to a hall in the back. The brighter lights in the restroom had Rachel squinting.

"Want to tell me what's wrong?" Patty asked.

When Rachel didn't answer, Patty stepped forward, opened Rachel's jacket, and probed her ribs. Rachel yelped.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Patty said.

She took off the baseball cap and brushed Rachel's hair back.

"Goddamn, girl, who did this to you?" Patty said, poking the black eye.

"It's nothing," Rachel demurred.

"It's not nothing."

Patty had Rachel sit in a stall and take off her shirt. Then she removed the ace bandage that had been dislodged by the dancing. There was an ugly purple bruise on her ribs. Patty disappeared, returning a moment later with a First Aid kit. After scrubbing out Rachel's injuries with disinfectant, she used a medical bandage to tape her ribs. She put a packet of oxycodone in Rachel's purse.

"Don't take those while you're drinking. Use them to get some sleep," Patty ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," Rachel said.

"And don't call me ma'am. We're the same age."

Rachel thought that strange. Patty was in her late-20s. How old does she think I am? Rachel wondered.

Patty took out her eyeshadow. "I know you're embarrassed. We'll use this to touch up your makeup."

"Yes ... Patty."

Rachel's stomach growled. Patty noticed but didn't say anything, returning to the booth. Rachel spent several more minutes trying to improve her appearance, but it wasn't helping. And she did look older than she should, which she found perplexing. Ten years older.

Patty kept an eye on the ladies' room to make sure Rachel wasn't close enough to hear, and leaned forward.

"That little girl is hurt. Someone beat the crap out of her," Patty whispered.

"Beat her?" Peter said.

"Bashed ribs. Facial bruises. Hopefully she wasn't assaulted. It may be why she's acting so strange. You guys take it easy on her. And we should get her to eat something. The poor kid is starved."

"I didn't know. I was teasing her," Peter said.

"Yeah, I don't think that's helpful," Patty suggested. She went to the bar, spoke to Sam, and raced back before Rachel caught her.

Rachel came out a few minutes later, initially standing as if not sure which direction to go. The motel was just across the highway. Peter gently brought her to the booth, seating her next to Patty. Rachel had the cap pulled down again.

"We've ordered a pitcher of Nevada Prime," Peter said.

"I can't," Rachel protested.

"Why not?" Miles asked.

"She doesn't have any money," Patty guessed.

Rachel looked away.

"Don't worry about that," Peter said.

"I don't take charity," Rachel responded.

"This isn't charity. Just friends getting together," Peter replied.

"It's not right," Rachel insisted.

Sam arrived, but not with a pitcher. He put a salad in front of Patty, buffalo wings in front of the men, and set a sizzling cheeseburger in front of Rachel thick with lettuce, tomatoes and onions. Her eyes went wide. She involuntarily licked her lips.

"It's for you, honey. Dig in," Patty urged.

"I shouldn't," Rachel said.

"Yes, you should," Patty pressed, sliding the plate closer and adding fries.

It smelled so good. Rachel took a tiny bite. And then another. And then she started chowing down. More beer arrived, Peter keeping her glass full. The more she ate, and the more she drank, the better she felt. She gobbled the fries. When she reached for a buffalo wing, everyone laughed. She pulled back.

"No, no. Keep eating," Miles encouraged, shoving the buffalo wings in front of her. She ate two quickly and nibbled on a third.

"Where is she putting all that food?" Peter said with a grin.

"When is the last time you had a real meal?" Miles asked.

"I don't remember," Rachel said.

"How long is 'I don't remember'?" Patty asked.

Rachel didn't have an answer for her.

"You don't talk very much, do you?" Patty mentioned.

"I learned not to talk at home. It just made my father madder when he beat me. Or my mother took a strap to me," Rachel said without thinking about it. "I hardly ever said a word in foster care. I may have spoken a little more in high school."

"Which high school?" Miles asked.

Rachel paused. That was a good question. I went to high school?

"I don't know," she said.

"You don't know? Do you have amnesia?" Patty pressed. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Waking up in a psycho ward, Rachel thought. Attached to machines. With a fake name on my wristband.

"It doesn't matter," Rachel said. "Peter, let's dance again."

Rachel got up before there were more uncomfortable questions. Peter was extra careful this time, avoiding the sore ribs. Rachel put her head against his chest, moving slowly. She liked the music.

"Feeling better now?" Peter asked.

"Yes, much better. Thank you," Rachel answered.

Just as the song ended, there was commotion at the door. A tall skinny man in a stovepipe hat entered, shaking out his black cloak before hanging it on the wall. He wasn't an old man, though he dressed like one. His long bushy hair was prematurely gray. He smiled like a celebrity with flashing green eyes.

"That's the Reverend Jaime," Peter said, taking Rachel back to their booth.

"He's not a real reverend," Patty said. "He just thinks he is."

"Jimmie's a know-it-all," Miles complained. "Unfortunately, he usually does know it all."

"He's a good guy, but he drives everyone nuts," Patty added.

Rachel watched as Reverend Jaime worked the room like a politician. Everyone seemed to know him. He approached their table last.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, good to see you again," Jaime said, tipping his hat. "And you, constable. Who is your friend?"

"This is Katie. She came in on the bus yesterday," Patty said.

"Pleased to meet you, Katie," Jaime with a bow.

Rachel offered a hesitant smile but didn't say anything.

"Still wallowing in sin, Pete?" Jaime inquired off-handedly.

"No more than usual," Peter replied.

"Envy, murders, drunkenness, revellings and such like: of which I tell you before, as I have also told you in time past, that they which do such shall not serve the kingdom of God," Jaime said. Though why he'd say such a thing to Peter, Rachel didn't understand.

"Shall not inherit the kingdom of God," Rachel said.

"What?" Jaime sputtered.

"Galatians 5:21. Shall not inherit the kingdom of God, not serve," Rachel clarified.

"Do you fancy yourself an expert on the Holy Book, miss?" Jaime asked.

"No."

"Yet you presume to quote scripture?" Jaime questioned.

Rachel put her head down, not answering. Reverend Jaime grinned and began to strut away.

"Hold on there, Jimmie," Peter said. "Seems this isn't so resolved. I have $100 that says Katie can out-Bible you."

"This shy little girl? Out-Bible me? Let's make it $200," Jaime countered.

"$300," Peter pressed.

"Let's make it an even $500," Jaime decided.

"Peter, don't," Rachel whispered.

"I've got a hunch on this, and we've got an expert in the house. Don't we, Father?" Peter requested. An elderly white-haired man rose from a booth near the front door wearing a clergyman's collar.

"I would see the good Reverend Jaime properly challenged," Father Harp agreed, moving to the bar.

"I shouldn't gamble," Rachel said.

"You're not gambling, I am," Peter announced. "Who has a Bible?"

Sam quickly produced one from behind the counter. This wasn't a new game.

"May I see it?" Rachel asked.

"It's a standard King James," Jaime said.

"Oxford edition?" Rachel inquired.

"Of course," Jaime replied.

"Omitting the Books of the Apocrypha?"

Jaime frowned, perhaps not knowing the answer. Or worried that his opponent thought to ask it.

"Most do," Jaime said.

Peter led Rachel to the bar, helping her up on a barstool. Jaime remained standing. Father Harp opened the book.

"This is not exactly the edition we use in my church, but I know it well enough," Father Harp said. "Who may tell me of John 8:32?"

"Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free," Jaime quickly answered.

"Cognoscetis veritatem et veritas liberabit vos," Rachel said, her pronunciation excellent.

"You are both correct," Father Harp said with a grin. Jaime frowned.

"What was that?" Peter whispered to Patty.

"Katie answered in Latin," Patty whispered back.

"Romans 12:12," Father Harp offered.

"Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer," Jaime said, daring Rachel to disagree. The room waited.

"Reverend Jaime is right, as far at that goes," Rachel said, her brow furrowed.

"Is there more?" Jaime dared.

"If you wish context," Rachel replied. "Romans 12:9, Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good. Romans 12:10. Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love; in honor preferring one another. Romans 12:11. Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit; serving the Lord."

"She's good," someone said from the back. Peter was grinning.

"2 Timothy 3:16," Father Harp continued, enjoying the game.

Rachel waited for Jaime to speak.

"All scripture is ... All scripture given by inspiration of God, and ... is ..." Jaime struggled.

"All scripture given by inspiration of God, and profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness," Rachel said without hesitation. "And 3:17. That the man of God may be thought perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works."

"Excellent," Father Harp complimented.

"Would you like to hear it in the original Greek?" Rachel asked.

The crowd in the saloon clapped and shouted. Some pounded their tables. Rachel's face turned red and she ducked her head, pulling her cap down.

"I think we have a winner," Father Harp declared, snapping the book shut.

Everyone looked at Jaime, who was standing with a stunned expression. Then he reached into his wallet, took out $500, and handed the bills to Peter.

"Sister, this has been a true honor. And an education," Jaime said, kissing her hand. Then he stepped back, tipped his hat, and departed as charismatically as he had arrived.

"That was worth the price of admission," Miles said.

"Look, Katie," Peter said, holding the money up. "You don't need to worry about that expensive cheeseburger anymore. Or the beer. Hell, Sam! Beers for the house on me!"

"On Reverend Jaime," Patty corrected.

Rachel looked relieved when they returned to their booth. Sam brought them quesadillas.

"Staying in town long?" Miles asked.

"I don't know. Joanna said she might find me a job," Rachel answered.

"Joanna Silverhawk?" Peter said.

"Yes, I think that was her name," Rachel replied.

Uneasy glances were exchanged around the table.

"How do you know her?" Peter asked.

"We met on the bus," Rachel said.

"Did you know her before that?" Patty inquired.

"No," Rachel answered.

That seemed to relieve the situation a little.

"What do you do?" Miles asked.

"I don't know."

"What did you study in school?" Patty asked. "What was your major?"

"Math," Rachel recalled.

Math? she wondered. Where the hell did that come from?

"You should try theology," Miles recommended, getting a laugh.

"Can we dance again? I like dancing," Rachel invited.

"Sure," Peter agreed, taking her out on the floor.

"She's a strange girl," Patty observed.

"You should get her over to the clinic. Make sure she's okay," Miles urged.

"I'll see what I can do," Patty agreed.

* * * * * *

Seven hundred miles away, at the nursing facility, Pamela Benson shouted at the administrator, a stuffy middle-aged bureaucrat.

"You lost my daughter?"

"We don't know what happened. She disappeared in the middle of the night. One of our caregivers reported her clothes missing, along with her purse. Cameras show Miss Marbury going out the front doors. Alone."

"This is outrageous. What are you doing to find her?"

"We put out an alert," the annoyed man said. "Hospitals are watching for her."

"That's not good enough."

"What more can we do? She's not a child, and she wasn't kidnapped. If anything, she's a thief."

"You're going to hear from my lawyers, and if something's happened to her, it will be the sorriest day of your life."

Pamela took the elevator down to the lobby. Rory, William and Oliver were waiting.

"She's gone. They don't know where, or how," Pamela said.

"Rach couldn't just disappear. She's sick. Really sick," Rory worried.

"The doctors said she might never regain consciousness," William mentioned.

"She can't have gone far," Oliver guessed. "We'll file a missing persons report. Hire detectives. Whatever it takes."

"No, no missing persons reports," Pamela objected. "We don't know who might find her, or what they'd do. We'll tell the press that Rachel is vacationing in the south of France."

"I'm calling her friends. And Tom. He has friends, too," William said. "He gets together with his Navy buddies all the time. We'll organize search parties. Keep it all low-key."

"Maybe she's going back to Ketchum?" Rory wondered.

"Without Danny? Leaving her son without a word? No, she'd never do that," Pamela answered. "I'll call Sheila. She won't rest until we find her."

"Tell Mr. McLane. He won't rest until he finds her," William said.

"Let's not panic," Oliver advised, taking Pam's hand. "We all know how resourceful she is."

"She wouldn't run away. Not again," Pamela said. "She promised, and Rachel never breaks a promise."

"Let's get to work," Rory said.

* * * * * *

Rachel woke up late. She wasn't hungover, exactly. She did feel disconnected. Her memory was foggy. She remembered having a good time the night before. And dancing with a tall young man. Beyond that? Nothing beyond that made much sense.

She was hungry, but $3 wasn't going to buy much of a breakfast. Maybe a biscuit or a cup of tea. Tea? When did I start drinking tea?

There was a surprise. Instead of $3 in her purse, she found $300. And a note from Peter on the back of a business card. It said the money was her share of the wager. The other side of the card read Peter Cassell, Deputy Sheriff, Elton County. His personal phone number was written along the bottom.

It was a nice day. Sunny and warm, but not hot. As Rachel started toward the coffee shop across the highway, Maisie caught up to her.

"Moving your room this morning," Maisie said. "You're around on the other side now. Number 11. It's a suite. Got a tub, a sofa, and a kitchen. Cable TV, too."

"I can't afford a suite," Rachel said.

"All paid for, as long as you want."

"By who?"

"You know who. I think he's sweet on you. And his father is the county sheriff, so they get a special rate."

Maisie saw Rachel's hesitation, thinking it spoke well of her character. This wasn't a woman who wanted or expected things for free.

"It will be bad for me if you don't accept. Bad for my business," Maisie confided.

"Just a few days. If I don't find a job, I'll be moving on."

"What do you do?" Maisie asked.

"I don't know."

Rachel crossed the road for breakfast at Flo's Café. It was run by an old Hispanic lady, calling herself Flo, and a black cook. She ordered bacon and eggs, pancakes, sausages and grits. The food was adequate, though not great. The pancakes had too much butter, and the eggs were dry. She had coffee, not sure what this tea thing was about.

"Good morning, Katie," Patty said, jumping into her booth.

Rachel looked up in surprise, frightened at first. Then she gave a small smile. Patty thought she was very cute, and was sad to see her with such bruises.

"Same clothes as last night? Didn't go home to change?" Patty said, motioning for coffee. "You do have other clothes, don't you?"

"I left in a hurry," Rachel shyly answered.

"Left from where?"

Rachel put salt on her eggs, thinking they couldn't get any worse.

"Honey, if you're running from a bad husband, or a bad boyfriend, we can help you."

"I'm okay."

"We should be sure. After breakfast, let's walk over to the clinic."

"I don't have any insurance," Rachel said.

"You don't need to worry about that. Please, don't worry about anything. You're safe here."

"No, I'm really not. I'm not safe anywhere."

"Why? Are you wanted by the police?"

"I don't think so."

"Katie, Juniper is off the map. So far off the map, we don't even get a black dot. If you have the right friends, you don't need to worry about cops."

"It would be nice to have friends," Rachel agreed.

The clinic was a converted warehouse, not fancy but clean. Patty kept Rachel there for two hours, retaping her ribs, taking X-rays, and treating a variety of scrapes and bruises. She noticed Rachel had strings of tiny marks on her arms. Not needle marks, per se. Not like a drug addict. They were intravenous needle marks. This woman had spent days, or perhaps even weeks in a hospital. What was she being treated for?

"Too healthy for cancer," Patty said, thinking out loud.

"What?"

"Are you still having problems with your memory?"

"What problems?" Rachel asked.

Patty pulled the EEG machine to the examination table and placed electrodes around Rachel's scalp.

"This isn't state of the art, but it might give us some clues," Patty advised, activating the unit. It hummed, and then readings appeared on the monitor screen.

"What the hell?" Patty exclaimed, giving the machine a few bangs on the side. It didn't change the results. Patty wasn't sure what to think.

"Are you having headaches?" Patty asked.

"A little. Nothing aspirin and whiskey can't cure."

"Did you have a fall? Were you hit by a bus?"

"I don't think so."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two."

"What's your name?"

"Is that a trick question?" Rachel asked.

"Who is the president?" Patty pressed.

"Of what?"

"The United States."

"Why the fuck should I care?" Rachel responded.

Patty removed the electrodes and pushed the EEG machine back into the corner.

"You should be careful for a while. Avoid playing football," Patty advised, helping Rachel sit up. "Planning on sticking around?"

"Maybe for a few days. Try to catch up."

"Catch up on what?"

"Everything."

Patty had other patients, but gathered clothes for Rachel from the donation box. There was a green sun dress, blue jeans, several shirts, and a heavier coat. Rachel liked them. And Patty gave her a pair of old hiking boots. Rachel wanted to explore the desert.

"Thank you so much," Rachel said, tearing up.

"You don't need to cry, honey," Patty said, handing her a handkerchief.

The afternoon was pleasant. Rachel gathered a few necessities at the country store, bought a magazine with movie stars on the cover, and smiled when the old gentleman behind the counter complimented her.

"Hey, sweet-stuff, glad you're still in town," Peter said, pulling up in a patrol car. Rachel was just about to cross the highway, both hands carrying grocery bags.

"For a few days, maybe."

"I see you found your share of the reward."

"It wasn't my wager," Rachel said.

"You earned it."

"Deputy Cassell, I don't know how you think I earn a living, but I'm not for sale. And if I was, I'd cost you a lot more than $300."

Peter laughed.

"How about a date later? Dinner at Casper's?" he asked.

"I want dancing," Rachel bargained.

"Girl, you can have all the dancing you want," Peter said, driving off.

Rachel gathered supplies for a hike into the desert. Leather boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a canteen. She was almost out the door when there was a knock.

"Glad you're here. Still want that job interview?" Joanna asked.

"Job interview?"

"At the Golden Shovel. Mr. Beggs is expecting you."

Rachel looked for the nicer jacket that Patty gave her, put on a red scarf, and switched from boots to white tennis shoes.

The tumble-down casino was setback from the highway behind a big gravel parking lot. Made of adobe and concrete, it looked two hundred years old, with small windows and a Spanish tile roof. Smoke from the chimney hinted at a kitchen.

"What is Mr. Beggs interviewing for?" Rachel asked.

"What do you do?"

"I don't know."

"We have an open position for that," Joanna assured her.

The inside of the casino was similar to Casper's Ghost, with sawdust on the floors and Wild West adornments on the walls. It looked like lariats and bucking broncos were a favorite theme. Rachel saw a dozen slot machines and several card tables, though there were only a few gamblers so early in the day.

"LeRoy, this is Katie," Joanna introduced.

"Glad to meet you Katie," Beggs said. He was a big man in his early sixties, part-white, part-Pacific Islander, with gray eyes and bushy speckled hair tied back in a ponytail.

"Hello, sir," Rachel said.

"What's your last name?" Beggs asked.

It took Rachel a moment to think of one. "Smith."

"Juniper has a lot of those," Beggs said. "What do you do?"

"I guess we're going to find out," Rachel answered.

"Let's see how you do as a waitress. Doris won't mind some help."

Beggs and Joanna went to a red leather dining booth in the back. The long oak bar was nearby, with etched mirrors and scores of liquor bottles. Beggs handed two menus to Rachel and sat down.

"We get a few walk-ins on weekdays, usually at lunch," Beggs said. "Most of our business is on the weekends."

"Sometimes we have a live band," Joanna added.

"Okay," Beggs said. "We're a couple of tourists who have just arrived after a long drive. Serve us."

Rachel stared at them. When she noticed the expectant expressions, she reacted.

"Hi."

"Missy, you need to be a bit more hospitable than that," Beggs said. "Try, welcome to the Golden Shovel. What may I get you?"

"Okay," Rachel said.

They waited.

"Any time," Beggs prodded. Rachel took a deep breath.

"Hi," she said.

"May we have some menus?" Beggs asked.

"Yes," Rachel said, handing him both menus.

"You should hand each of us our own menu," Joanna said, taking the menus back and giving them to Rachel. "Okay, start again."

They waited. Rachel wasn't sure what to do.

"What are the specials?" Beggs asked.

"They're clipped at the top of the menu, Katie. On that slip of paper," Joanna said.

Rachel opened the menu. It had lists of food items. And numbers. Lots and lots of numbers. They didn't look properly aligned. Some made sense, others seemed assigned at random. They could be reorganized. An algebraic system would--

"Katie? Katie?" Joanna was saying.

"What?" Rachel asked.

"Katie, what's wrong?" Joanna questioned.

"What do you mean?"

"You've just been standing here. Staring off into space," Joanna said. Rachel suspected that was true.

"I can cook. I think," Rachel offered.

"How about going into the kitchen and making us something?" Beggs suggested.

Rachel quickly ran off.

"Joanie, this isn't going to work," Beggs said. "That girl can't even talk, let alone serve anyone."

"I owe her, LeRoy. Mason hired Jasper Two-Shoes to ambush me at Langston Crossing. If not for Katie, I wouldn't be here. That's how she got beat up."

"Two-Shoes is a big guy. What could that little girl do against him?"

"I think she killed him with a chunk of rebar."

"Killed him?"

"Well, maybe not killed, but he was hurt pretty bad. I saw blood running from a crack in his head."

"I never would have guessed," Beggs whispered.

Joanna leaned close, trying not to grin. "Take my advice, Roy. You don't want to fuck with this girl. There's something about her."

Fifteen minutes later, Rachel emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray.

"I'm sorry it took so long. I didn't know where all the ingredients were," Rachel apologized, setting two bowls and a loaf of peppered bread on the table. They saw shredded beef, white potatoes, and yellow peppers in brown broth.

"What's this? Beef stew?" Joanna asked.

"Hungarian goulash. Sort of," Rachel answered.

Beggs took a taste, and then another.

"My God, what's in this? It's terrific," he said, eating more.

"It's amazing," Joanna agreed, starting with small bites and graduating to large mouthfuls. It was even better with the bread.

"You whipped this up in fifteen minutes? Using whatever was lying around the kitchen?" Beggs asked.

"It wasn't hard," Rachel replied.

"What else can you cook? Something other than goulash?" Beggs requested.

"Just about anything. Omelets are my favorite," Rachel answered.

Beggs and Joanna emptied their bowls, exchanging glances.

"It looks like you have a job, Katie Smith," Beggs said. "Will you teach Jesse how to make this? And Doris?"

"Of course, sir," Rachel replied with a relieved smile.

"Joanna will work out a schedule for you," Beggs said, returning to his office.

"You are full of surprises," Joanna remarked.

* * * * * *

Chapter Twelve

The Fork in the Road

For the next few days, Rachel worked four-hour shifts in the evenings. Still recovering from her injuries, Beggs didn't want her overdoing it. She liked the schedule. Though the high desert could get hot during the day, it didn't stop her from wandering out among the flatlands and dunes. The vast open lands were a joy. True freedom. Sometimes she twirled and danced among the purple sage.

Rachel had Thursday off, and her date with Peter wasn't until later. She ventured deep into the western foothills. Despite the long distance from large cities, the effects of a declining ecosystem were evident. Ecosystem? Am I a scientist? she wondered. No, I'm a mathematician.

"Hey there, girl. You lost?" a voice said, startling her.

Rachel turned to see a short, somewhat plump older man wearing a leather hat, dressed in a checkered shirt, with well-worn jeans and suspenders. He was carrying a pickax over his shoulder. There was a large gray mule standing behind him.

"Just exploring," Rachel said.

"No gold out here," he warned.

"Not looking for gold. I like plants."

"Can't make no drugs from those."

"Actually, you can," Rachel disagreed. "Ephedra viridis is good for colds. It's called Mormon Tea, but the Mormons didn't invent it. Grindelia fastigiate can be used to treat asthma. The flower heads are like lozenges. Ascplediaceae roots can be made into a tea that treats pleurisy. It's named after Asklepios, the ancient Greek herbalist who pissed off Hades and got turned into a constellation."

"How would you know all that, Pebble?"

"I don't know," she replied.

"What's your name?"

"Katie. What's your name?"

"Grubby. Grubby Barnes."

"That's a strange name. Don't you bathe?"

He laughed. Several of his teeth were silver.

"I'm a grubstake miner. Just about the last one left hereabouts. That's why they call me Grubby. Need water?"

"I am a little low," Rachel admitted, shaking her canteen.

She followed the bow-legged prospector to a quaint adobe cabin with a thatched roof. It was nicer than she expected, with a plank floor, wood furniture, and lace curtains. A refrigerator and appliances ran off a solar collector. There was even a laptop computer on the table.

"Take a seat," Grubby offered. He dug in a cabinet, taking out a box of chocolate chip cookies. A little stale, but Rachel didn't mind. She saw topographical maps decorating the walls. And mineral charts. Rachel found them fascinating, and the numbers made sense.

"This is a nice home," Rachel complimented.

She noticed books on the table. Books about minerals, with photos. She flipped through one quickly, and then picked up another one.

"Too much for you?" Grubby asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Can't learn where the good stuff is overnight."

"The part about in-situ mining was a little confusing. Shouldn't this region's history of hydrothermal activity negate the need for extensive drilling?"

"What do you know about uranium mining?"

"Only what I read in your book."

"Just now?"

"Yes, it was on page 123."

Grubby picked up the book and flipped to page 123. There it was. He whistled.

"You've got a talent," he said.

"Things stay in my head. I don't do anything to make it happen. If there's no gold here, what do you look for? Silver? Copper?"

"At the moment, I'm looking for magnesite."

Rachel got up to look at the maps, went back to the book, and then returned to the maps.

"There should be magnesite here if your chart is correct," she said, pointing at a swirling depression.

"Now how in the hell could you know that?"

"I did the math."

"I'll take a look. Staying in town?"

"At the Blue Bell."

The Saturday night crowd at the Golden Shovel was bigger than usual, many there for the food rather than the slots. Though it didn't stop anyone from gambling. Beggs had to bring in extra staff. Rachel stayed in the kitchen. The casino was noisy.

"They're sure liking this chow," Joanna said, watching from her blackjack table.

"What's not to like?" Beggs agreed. "We've even got some locals here tonight."

"How's Katie holding up? She must be busy."

"That little whirlwind is running the galley like the skipper of a PT boat."

"Don't let her overdo it," Joanna warned.

"Jesse's trying to slow her down. It's not easy."

* * * * * *

Rachel liked spending time with Peter, though he never visited her at the Golden Shovel. There seemed to be some sort of tension. He gave her a tour of the region in his pick-up truck and took her to see an old gold mine from Juniper's glory days. The dark shaft was vaguely romantic. She hadn't had sex with him yet, the ribs were still healing, but she was thinking about it.

A week passed without excitement. Rachel hiked in the mornings, slept in the afternoons, and worked in the evenings. After her shifts, she'd socialize at the Ghost before turning in. She needed a lot of sleep. When frightening memories threatened, strange numbers pushed them away.

There was an early morning knock on her door at the Blue Bell. It was Thursday again, her day off.

"Rise and shine, Pebble. We got work to do," Grubby said.

He was in full prospector gear. In the parking lot were two mules with saddles. Grubby barged into her room and threw a bundle on the bed.

"What is this?" Rachel asked.

"New hat, jeans and a shirt. Get dressed. It's going to be a long day."

Rachel smiled. All she wore for sleeping was a souvenir T-shirt from Casper's Ghost. That didn't stop her from taking it off in front of him.

"Whoa, girl! You can't do that. I'm an old man. You'll give me a heart attack," Grubby said, looking away.

"I remember being shyer than this," Rachel said, hurrying to get ready.

"You remember?"

"Doctors gave me drugs, and now my memory is foggy. I'm getting better though."

"You still remember how to read those charts, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. It's not hard."

She followed him outside. It was a mildly cloudy day with a soft wind from the southwest. Rachel noticed birds pecking for seeds in the parking lot. The mules looked hardy.

"I got Sarah for you to ride. She's real gentle. Hank here can get a bit ornery. Don't let him bite you."

Rachel grew excited as they rode into the wilderness. She was on a real prospecting adventure, with a real prospector. It was like being in a storybook.

"Found magnesite right where you said it was," Grubby said. "Sad part, it's on the wrong side of the line. Like to find something legal."

"I don't know what that means," Rachel said.

"Most of the land around here is Federal government. Te-Moak claim some. The Commission is buying up everything else."

"What's a Commission?"

"Politics. Bad ones. Brick Mason and his gang of thieves are trying to get hold of the whole strip between Juniper and Cobb's Creek. Local landowners aren't too happy with them. Te-Moak's ain't too happy, neither, 'specially with water being scarce. If we find a ripe vein, I'll work it for a few months, then sell the location to the highest bidder."

"Do you have maps of these lines?" Rachel asked.

"Never leave home without them."

Rachel thought it was a wonderful day. Mild weather. Good company. A friendly mule. She hadn't felt so relaxed since waking up in the hospital two weeks before with a fake name.

"Wouldn't satellite imaging make it easier to find underground deposits?" Rachel asked as Grubby was digging a trench in a sandy depression.

"I ain't no oil company," Grubby said, short of breath.

"You could increase your search range with drones."

"Need pretty sharp cameras for that. Infrared imaging. And a computer to tell you what the pictures mean. Awful expensive."

"It would be fun," Rachel said, watching from a boulder.

"Don't sound like fun to me."

"Can I dig for a while?"

"Knock yourself out."

Grubby handed her the shovel and sipped a taste of whisky. For such a small woman, and one who had been ill, she seemed strong. No, Grubby thought. Not so much strong as well-coordinated. A natural agility that used leverage more than strength.

The day was warm enough that they couldn't spend too much time in the sun. As late afternoon approached, they rode back to Grubby's cabin. Rachel kept stopping to take samples.

"Hell, girl, what are you up to?" Grubby asked. "You got sand, plants, flowers. Surprised you're not collecting insects."

"I wouldn't harm an insect. They haven't harmed me," Rachel said.

"You have a good heart, Pebble. But when a fly needs to be swatted, you swat it."

The cabin was cool despite the heat outside. Grubby got them cold beers from the refrigerator. Rachel took off her boots and sat before his laptop.

"Can I use your computer?" she requested.

"Take your best shot."

Rachel opened the lid and started the machine.

"Hang on a second, it's got a password," Grubby warned. But by the time he walked over, Rachel was already in the system.

"How did you do that?" he asked.

"I don't know. I just pushed some buttons."

Rachel began looking at sites on minerals and prospecting, then moved on to electromagnetic theory. Before long, she was reading the screens faster than Grubby could follow them.

"Slow down, you're going to hurt your eyes," Grubby warned.

"I'm okay."

She accessed an oil company's exploratory subroutine, bypassing a long series of passcodes, and located a control center in Elko.

"Here's one that's active," Rachel said.

Grubby sat in the chair next to her. He saw in-depth photos of the areas they'd visited that day. Satellite maps. GPS coordinates. Data on soil composition and density. One image was in-flight, only fifty feet above the ground.

"What's that?" Grubby asked.

"It's a drone."

"How did it get there?"

"I took control if it."

"You took control of Delco's drone?"

"The satellite controls the drone. I've accessed the satellite."

"You can't do that."

"It wasn't hard," Rachel explained.

"No, I mean, we don't own that drone. You can't just take it."

"Why not?"

"It's illegal."

Rachel sighed. She really enjoyed having a drone that could hover over the desert taking photos.

"We can borrow it, can't we?" she asked.

"Pebble, this is asking for trouble. Please send it back."

Rachel didn't want Grubby mad at her. She restored the original programming and exited the site.

"I should go," she said, looking for her boots.

"No. Please, girl, don't feel bad," Grubby said with a hand on her shoulder. "It's just that you do things ordinary people can't. You need to be careful."

"I'll try," she hoped.

"It's not late. Want to help me make tortillas?"

"Corn or flour?"

"Let's go nuts and make both."

* * * * * *

The third weekend Rachel was cooking for the casino proved very busy. Beggs had more staff, several new dealers, and a live band. Kitchen helpers reported that Katie was quite the taskmaster, but they weren't complaining. It was clear she knew what she was doing.

During a break, Rachel made a rare foray onto the gambling floor. It was noisy with lots of bright lights. She wore a big cowboy hat and dark sunglasses, letting her hair cover much of her face. Joanna was dealing blackjack at a table with a $25 minimum. Big stakes by Juniper standards.

"Do you know the rules?" Joanna asked.

There were six players sitting on tall chairs, mostly older white people. None of them were locals.

"Sort of. The goal is to get 21. More than 21 loses. If someone has more points than the dealer, they win."

"That about sums it up."

Rachel watched for a few minutes. The house was winning just a little more than the players.

"Why do they bet so much when you have so many low cards left in the shoe?" Rachel whispered.

"Are you counting cards?" Joanna asked.

"Isn't everyone?"

"Taking a break," Joanna announced, waving to Beggs. Then she took Rachel aside. "What are you seeing?"

"Foolish bets."

"We're using three decks of cards."

"I don't know what that means."

"Katie, gambling houses get very nervous if someone counts cards. Especially if they do it well."

Beggs arrived, wondering what the conversation was about. Joanna gave him the rundown.

"Don't let anyone catch you doing it," Beggs advised.

"I'm not betting on cards, sir. It's sinful," Rachel answered.

"Yeah, keep that to yourself, too," Beggs urged. "Joanna, get back to work. Katie, I'd like you to stand here with me for a few minutes."

As much as Rachel wanted to get back to the kitchen, Beggs kept her on the floor for half an hour. He upped the number of card decks being used to four, and then six. It never made a difference. Rachel kept whispering hit or hold and was right a majority of the time.

"If I was a skunk, I'd set you loose on my competition," Beggs bragged, taking Rachel over to the bar. "You'd put them out of business."

"I wouldn't want to do that," Rachel protested.

"I know you wouldn't, honey. It's just a fascinating thing to see. Why are you cooking when you could be beating odds anyplace you want?"

"I like cooking."

"Let's keep this magic power of yours under wraps."

"Yes, sir," Rachel agreed.

* * * * *

Wednesday had become their big date night because Rachel didn't have to work the next day. She was growing fond of Peter, and he seemed to treat her better than other women he'd dated. From the gossip she'd heard.

"Gorgeous as always," Peter said, arriving at the Blue Bell in his pickup truck.

"Thank you, deputy. Casper's has a chili special tonight."

"I thought we'd try something different," he said, opening the car door for her. Rachel wasn't sure if she liked going out of her safety zone, but didn't want to be rude.

They drove south, then east into the mountains. It took twenty-five minutes to reach a cabin by a lake among pine trees. There were no other cabins in the area. A full moon appeared above the trees.

"It's pretty," Rachel said.

Peter led her inside, finding an old-fashioned hunting lodge. The dining table had been set with fine china and candlesticks. Logs burned in the fireplace. There was an elk head mounted above the mantel.

"My family has owned this place since I was a baby," Peter explained, opening a bottle of fine red wine.

Rachel kicked off her shoes and sat on the couch. The fur carpets, rustic oil paintings, and maple furniture were all very impressive. A locked rack held rifles and shotguns.

Peter came over with the wine. And a plate of cheeses, crackers, carrots and grapes.

"Dinner is warming in the oven," he said. "Chicken fettucine, your favorite."

"Mr. Cassell, are you trying to seduce me?" Rachel asked.

"Is it working?"

Rachel shyly smiled without answering. Peter showed her around the two-story cabin, then put on music so they could dance.

Rachel found Peter attractive. Tall, muscular, well-mannered. A nice smile. But should she sleep with him? Something was telling her not to, but why? She couldn't remember. Was there someone else? Who? A husband? Boyfriend? No, she decided. Her whole life, men had only wanted one thing from her. That was never going to change. It was her decision, not anyone else's.

"This is your room, if you want to spend the night. No pressure," Peter said, leading Rachel upstairs.

Rachel saw a big four-poster bed covered by a thick quilt. A flannel shirt and a delicate pink nightgown were laid out, depending on which she wanted to wear.

"I sleep naked when I'm with a big, handsome guy. Are we expecting any?" she asked.

"Maybe we can find a temporary substitute?" Peter said, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"Let's have dinner," Rachel recommended.

After a pleasant meal, they sat down on a bear rug before the fireplace. Peter kissed her, slow and gently. And then backed off.

"You're very patient with me," Rachel observed. "Is this how you treat all your dates?"

"You're special."

"What makes me special?"

"Katie, or whatever your real name is, you are smart. And funny. You see the world in ways others don't."

"Have you been investigating me?"

"My father wanted to do a background check, but I said no. I knew you'd leave if that happened."

"Do you think I'm a criminal on the run?"

"I wouldn't think you're a criminal, but you're running from something. Am I wrong?"

"It's a question that's been bothering me."

"What's the answer?"

"Something happened to my memory. Grubby thinks I was hit on the head. Patty believes I may have been assaulted, and that my memory loss is psychosomatic."

"Could that be true?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I remember being attacked in foster care. It's a hard thing to live with, but I've lived with it for a long time."

"I didn't know. If you'd rather not be here--"

"Peter, if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be," she said, pulling him close. "It's getting late. Are you taking me to bed or what?"

* * * * * *

An hour later, Peter returned to the master bedroom carrying two glasses of champagne. He was sweaty and out of breath. Rachel sat up, sipping slowly.

"Thank you," she said.

"Thank me? My God, thank you. That was amazing."

"It's good to feel like a woman again."

"What were you feeling like before?"

"Something lost, and frightened, and broken."

"We've got all night, and all day tomorrow. This is a good place to relax and forget the world."

"You don't talk about yourself. How much of the world do you need to forget?"

"My Dad's the sheriff, and his father was a sheriff, too. But times are changing, and not in a good way. Sometimes I wish I could walk away from it. Be a graphic designer, or an architect."

"Then you should."

"It's not that easy."

"I can't give the best advice. I don't know what I'm running away from. But the day will come that I'll need to face it. No one can run away forever."

"I've got a hunch you're braver than you think."

Rachel was up early the next morning, making a big breakfast in the country kitchen with a dance in her step. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, bacon, and grits. She'd already had two glasses of orange juice.

"Good morning," Peter said, wearing a light cotton robe. "How are you doing?"

"I'm great. How are you?" she answered.

"Sore, and a little scratched up. It's like Dad says, it's always the quiet ones."

"The quiet ones?"

"Kind of a joke. Breakfast smells good."

"It should."

They sat in a comfortable nook with a grand view of the lake.

"What do you want to do today?" Peter asked.

"Go for a hike. Go fishing. I saw a basketball. Can we shoot some hoops?"

"You don't go in for girl-stuff, do you?"

"We can drive into Elko. Go shopping for hats and shoes."

"I like basketball."

They had gathered the fishing gear when Peter got a text.

"Sorry, Katie. I need to take off for a few hours. Bus accident on the 93," Peter said. "Want a ride back to town?"

"Can I stay here?"

"Absolutely. That would be great."

"Don't get injured," Rachel said. "I've got plans."

Peter dashed off with a happy bounce. Rachel waited until he was gone, and then entered the cabin's paneled office on the lower floor. Peter had left the alarms off. She sat down, turned on the computer, and quickly overrode the passwords.

Rachel wasn't happy about Peter's father wanting to do a background check. She wasn't sure what a background check would find. Her only claim to fame was being on the swimming team at Palmdale High. And she wasn't even a champion, just good enough to contribute. What had she done to get locked up in a psych ward?

She didn't have time for biographies, nor an inclination to find out more than she needed to. Somewhere Rachel Montgomery's fingerprints were on file. Photos, too. There would be files from her time in foster care. And St. Mary's. School files. Hospital records. Maybe police or FBI reports. With the right access, all of those could be changed.

During her search, she found something interesting. There were companies that used facial recognition systems to identify people. Particularly in Las Vegas. There were also photos being stored in clouds and on the internet. Photos of her. Photos that used pixels. Pixels were numbers, and she knew how to re-engineer numbers. All she needed was a tracking protocol that altered the pixels whenever her pattern was recognized. Once accessed, it would spread through other systems like a virus.

When Peter returned just after noon, Rachel was down by the lake sitting on the dock. She hadn't caught any fish, and wasn't really trying. Hacking into forbidden websites had been exciting, but now the numbers were creeping up on her. Trying to tell her things.

"No more distractions today. I promise," Peter said, rushing down the hill to join her at the waters' edge.

Rachel jumped into his arms. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts found in the cabin, but no underwear. As Peter discovered when he squeezed her.

"Officer, I have a confession," Rachel said in a husky voice. "I've been fishing without a license. Will you have to arrest me?"

"I'll need to search you first," Peter replied.

* * * * * *

"Pebble, we need to talk," Grubby said.

They were walking on a dusty trail, leading the mules with tethers. The morning had already turned hot.

"The copper is here, we just need to find it," Rachel said.

"Ain't talkin' 'bout no copper. Talkin' 'bout you."

"What about me?"

"You're not Katie Smith. You're Rachel Montgomery."

"Why would you say that?"

"'Cuz it's true. I couldn't find proof online. Nothin' I saw made sense. But magazines don't lie."

Grubby sat on a boulder, unrolling an old copy of Economy Today. On page 2 was a photo of Rachel Montgomery at the announcement of the Daniel Jefferson Benson Memorial Foundation several years before.

"Kind of weird. Online, this photo of you don't look the same as in the magazine," Grubby said.

"Not many people read magazines anymore," Rachel grumbled.

"Aren't you excited? Now you know who you are."

"I always knew who I am. I don't know why doctors had me locked in an insane asylum feeding me drugs under a fake name."

"What fake name?"

"Marbury."

"You changed your legal name to Marbury three years ago."

"I'm married?"

"No, you're not married. You--"

"Stop! Stop, I don't want to hear any more," Rachel said, putting her hands over her ears.

"Why? I thought--"

"Don't think! Mind your own damn business!"

Rachel dropped Sarah's lead and ran back down the trail, ignoring the heat. Grubby started after her but couldn't keep up. When she reached Grubby's cabin, she barged inside, nearly exhausted and in desperate need of water. She turned on his computer.

She couldn't read all of it. The blogs were too awful. Rachel Montgomery had been a billionaire's slave girl. The man had died on top of her while she was tied up. The billionaire's family held her responsible, until a secret arrangement had been made. Was I paid off? she wondered. That's what the blogs said.

How could I have become such an awful person? she thought. I was a good girl. A Christian girl. Somewhere I went wrong. Is that why I was in the psych ward?

When Grubby finally reached the cabin, Rachel was curled up in the corner crying. She had turned the computer off. She'd been tempted to smash it against the wall.

"Pebble, what's wrong?" Grubby said.

"I read it. I read who I am."

"Then why are you crying?"

"What do you mean? You've seen it."

"You weren't reading those scum-sucking trash talkers, were you?"

Rachel couldn't speak. The sobs were choking off her breath.

"Katie. Rachel. You've done fine things. You founded WHD. Your company is bringing healthcare to millions."

"Those blogs say I didn't invent anything. That I'm a front for corporate criminals. They say it's all a con."

"That's not true. You should be proud."

"Proud of being a slut? A gold-digging whore?"

"You don't understand."

"I understand too much. Thank you, Mr. Barnes, but I'll be leaving Juniper. I've got to go before anyone else recognizes me."

"I see you're upset, and there's no talking with you now. When you calm down, study on this deeper. We can talk more. You're a good woman. Maybe a great one."

Rachel tugged her hat down and raced back to the Blue Bell, locking herself in her room. She missed work the next day. And the next.

* * * * * *

"Katie? Katie, you've got to come out of there," Joanna said, knocking on her door.

Rachel let her in, then crawled back in bed. She'd been crying.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Joanna asked sitting next to her.

"I can't talk about it."

"Bad news?"

"Sort of."

"If you need to go home, I can loan you money."

"I have no home."

"Katie, whatever it is, you either need to go back and face it, or move forward without, but don't let it take you down."

"You don't understand."

"Hiding in a motel room isn't going to help."

"Nothing is going to help."

"That doesn't work for me. Let's get you cleaned up."

A few minutes later, they were crossing the highway to the coffee shop. There wasn't any traffic.

"Flo is watching Little Bear for me," Joanna said. "After I pick her up, we'll go back to the ranch. I'll make you a nice dinner, and we'll talk. Do you like horseback riding?"

Rachel nodded, though she didn't feel like talking. She'd seen Joanna's baby a few times. She got a better look as they walked north along the main road, and then on a trail through the woods to Joanna's ranch.

"Our cabin is just over the next rise. You'll like it," Joanna said. "We've got the only natural spring for twenty miles around, and a blue creek running down the middle for the stock. It's been in Jay's family for generations."

"I heard there were hot springs once," Rachel said.

"During the pioneer days, there were hot springs all through these foothills. It's why they built the settlement. Travelers came from miles around to take the waters. But they all dried up years ago. Jay has the only springs left, and they're not even warm."

"They must have been pretty," Rachel said.

"Would you like to see them?"

"I thought they were gone?"

"Follow me," Joanna replied, going off the trail. Not far away, they came to a row of low cliffs.

"What are those?" Rachel asked, seeing bowl-shaped rock formations filled with colorful swirling patterns. Deep green, blue, black and red veins ran through the sparkling granite.

"This is where the hot springs were," Joanna explained.

"It's beautiful," Rachel said.

"There are a dozen more spots just like this between here and town. Farther up the canyon, there was a waterfall."

"It must have attracted quite a crowd."

"That was long ago. No one even remembers those days anymore."

Half a mile later, they crested a grassy knoll to see a ranch house and a barn. Horses loitered in a corral, and cattle along the creek. Rachel saw chickens and goats. A vegetable garden grew near the house. A dog barked.

"Jay's usually on the upper quarter this time of day. It will give us extra time," Joanna said, taking Rachel inside.

"It's charming," Rachel observed, sitting at the kitchen table. She liked the wood burning stove, and the pots and pans hanging on the wall.

"Little Bear gets so restless," Joanna said, returning from the nursery.

"She's a sweet baby," Rachel praised. Joanna laughed.

"You must not know much about babies. She's been fussy ever since we picked her up."

"I guess I don't," Rachel uneasily confessed.

Joanna made herbal tea and took a seat.

"I've been meaning to speak with you for a while now," Joanna said. "Are you planning on staying in Juniper?"

"I haven't decided."

"As much as I love having you here, maybe it's time to move on."

"Why would you say that?"

"Jay and I are getting a lot of pressure. LeRoy, too. And Flo. And Sam. They're trying to make Jesse quit. They'll come after you next."

"Me? Who will come after me?"

"Mason. The Commission. They've bought up a good portion of the land below Cobb's Creek, and now they're focusing on Juniper. They want all the roadside parcels, including the Golden Shovel. And our ranch. Jay will never sell. LeRoy won't have a choice if they choke off his business."

"Tell the sheriff."

"The sheriff is on Mason's payroll."

"That can't be true."

"I'm afraid it is."

Rachell sipped her tea. It was better than she expected.

"I can't quit. Mr. Beggs has been very kind to me. You have, too."

"Give it some thought. You have no stake here."

"I'll keep my head down. Not cause any trouble."

"That should help. Did you find out what you're running from? Is that why you've been crying for two days?"

"Sort of. I'm not who I thought I was. Not who I should be."

"You're young, and you're smart. Unless someone's going to put you in jail, you can be whoever you want."

"I'll try to avoid jail."

The ladies were on the porch drinking sangria when Jay Silverhawk rode up in his jeep. Rachel thought him quite good-looking. In his mid-forties, broad-shouldered with his long black hair tied back, he had the classic square-jawed Te-Moak features.

"Miss Smith, Joanna talks about you all the time," he said in a pleasantly gruff voice.

"Me? What would be interesting about me?"

"About you being a strange visitor from another planet. She didn't mention how beautiful you are."

Rachel's face turned red, and she looked down. Jay and Joanna laughed.

"Let's have dinner," Joanna said.

When they went in the house, Rachel could tell something was wrong. While she sat in the living room watching but not touching the baby, she heard mumbling from the kitchen. Jay was saying things like, "Not going to take it anymore," and "We've got guns, too."

But when they sat down to dinner, not a cross word was spoken.

* * * * * *

Peter picked Rachel up in a borrowed town car for their date.

"Ever been to Jackpot?" Peter asked.

"Heard about it."

"Thought we'd get a first-class dinner, go dancing, gamble a little, and spend the night in Twin Falls. There's a great bed and breakfast I've always wanted to stay at."

"Taking me over a state line for illicit purposes? Isn't that a little presumptuous?"

"I like you a lot. I'm willing to be presumptuous."

"We'll see how lucky you get," Rachel flirted.

It was an easy drive north to the small resort town near the Idaho border. Rachel wore a black cowboy hat and kept her sunglasses on even after the sun went down. Peter noticed.

"We're going to Bleakers. No cameras there. No facial recognition systems," Peter said. "Not that anyone is looking for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Against my wishes, Dad ran a background check on you yesterday. Nothing turned up."

"It's good to know I'm not a wanted criminal."

"Memory still fuzzy?"

"About some things."

"Did Patty ever run a CAT scan? Check your head for cracks?"

"I'm okay."

"You're more than okay," Peter said, squeezing her hand.

At Peter's insistence, Rachel ordered a steak for dinner. It was good, though Rachel thought the balance between the paprika and garlic pepper could be better. Then they went dancing in the ballroom with a live orchestra.

"You're extra quiet tonight," Peter said.

"Joanna thinks Mr. Beggs might have to close the casino."

"You're a great cook. You can get a job anywhere."

"It's not that."

"Juniper's been struggling for years. Decades. Most of the mines are closed. There aren't enough kids to keep the school open. It's a dying town. If new money comes in, it could revitalize the region."

"Is that what your father says?"

"It's what I think."

"What is this Commission that everyone is afraid of?"

"Just a group of businessmen. They have foreign backers, and support from county officials. They know how to create jobs."

"I hear they intimidate people."

"It's not a one-way street. There's been threats against the Commission's land agents, especially by your friend's husband."

"Joanna is nervous about their ranch," Rachel said.

"You've only been in Juniper a few weeks. It's hard to know how everything stacks up."

"It's true I'm not an expert. And it's really none of my business. One day soon I'll need to move on."

"If you move to Twin Falls, I could visit all the time. I'll help you find a job. Get an apartment."

"Why Twin Falls?"

"Nevada is no place for a girl like you. Too many rough types."

"I like rough types," Rachel said.

Before the evening got too late, they went to Bourbon Harry's. The casino was busy for a Wednesday night, though far less than a weekend crowd. There were a dozen Idaho license plates in the parking lot.

"What games do you like?"

"Gambling is sinful," Rachel replied, making Peter laugh.

"You work in a casino."

"I like numbers."

"I've got a hunch roulette wheels and slot machines aren't your thing. And you're too shy for poker. Let's try the blackjack table."

"I only brought $10."

"Good. Lose it quick and we can head for Twin Falls."

"I'm not sure if I know how to lose."

"This is Nevada. Everyone loses."

Rachel and Peter took seats at the end of the blackjack table, getting small stacks of chips. Peter took charge, explaining the house rules. Rachel thought it a bit complicated. She only needed higher numbers than the dealer without going over 21. The middle-aged blonde woman dealing cards was using four decks. 208 cards. 64 of them were tens and face cards.

She won a hand, lost a hand, and then won another. As more cards were played, she occasionally increased her bets. The chips were stacking up.

"You're doing good there," Peter observed, only staying even.

"I do the math," Rachel said.

"It's four decks."

"They should use more."

The dealer overheard the comment and whispered to her pit boss.

"We're increasing the shoe to eight decks," the dealer announced.

None of the players seemed to mind. The pit boss noticed Rachel didn't care, either. Though she did bring a peculiar sort of concentration to her play. Wins failed to excite her, nor was she dejected by losing. Everything was mechanical.

Rachel's winning percentages remained steady, betting less when she lost, and more when she won. Her $10 turned into $400, and they were drawing a crowd.

"We should leave," Rachel decided, uncomfortable with the attention.

"Probably a good idea," Peter approved, gathering up their chips. "You've got quite a haul here."

"It wasn't hard," Rachel said.

As they approached the cashier's window, two men in brown suits stopped them.

"You can't leave with that money," one said, a very tall, grim looking brute.

"We won fair and square. There was no cheating," Peter protested.

"The young lady seemed to know every card that was being dealt," the tall man complained.

By now two more men had arrived. One looked like the manager, a thin bald-headed fellow in a blue suit and red tie. They had Rachel and Peter surrounded. Many in the casino stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation.

"Make this easy on yourself, pal. Put down the chips and walk away," the grim man said.

"You can't be objecting to smalltime winnings like this?" Peter replied.

"It's the principle of the thing," the man answered. He stepped closer. His partner stepped closer. The manager was frowning.

"The principle of the thing?" Peter questioned. "Are you sure about this?"

"We're sure," the brutish man said, clenching his fists.

"Let me explain something about principles," Peter said, squinting with anger. He took out his wallet, showing his county sheriff's badge to the tall brute, and then to the manager. And then he showed his ID.

"Goddamn," the grim man said, taking a step back.

"That's right, motherfucker. I'm Deputy Sheriff Peter Cassell. My father is Leonard Cassell, Sheriff of Elko County. And you've just embarrassed me in front of my date. How about I show you morons what principle really looks like?"

The manager pushed forward, wringing his hands.

"Mr. Cassell, we're sorry. Very sorry. We didn't recognize you," he said. "Let us comp you for the inconvenience. Need a meal? A room? Our best room."

"I need your names, and my father will want to review your liquor license," Peter replied. "The restaurant looked dirty. Rats? Why don't we get the health department in here?"

"Please, sir, nothing like that is necessary," the manager begged.

Rachel hadn't seen Peter so fearsome before. It was scary. And sexy. She stepped up with her chips.

"May I suggest a compromise?" she softly requested.

"Yes, of course," the manager gratefully replied.

Rachel walked back into the gaming area. The people who had been observing the clash moved aside, and then trailed after her. She stopped in the middle of the room, as if listening to something. She glanced at the crap tables, and then the slot machines, before going to the roulette wheel. She stood quietly as the crowd made room for her. Peter noticed a strange look in her eyes.

"May I see it spin three times?" Rachel requested.

The manager nodded to the pit boss. There were no bets, he just spun the wheel and sent the white ball whirling around and around the bowl before bouncing down into a numbered slot. Then he did it a second time, and a third. Rachel was silent. Staring. Hardly breathing. Then she put a $10 chip on red, a $10 chip on black, and the remaining $380 on double zero.

"Please spin the wheel," Rachel said, her voice distant.

"Katie, that's not a great bet," Peter warned.

"The math isn't good," Rachel agreed.

The ball spun around and around the bowl, then dropped down into the wheel. At least thirty people were watching. When Rachel saw them using cell phones to take photos, she pulled the hat down farther.

"Double zero," the pit boss announced.

A shout went up, followed by applause. Heads were shaking.

"Satisfied?" Peter asked the manager.

"No arguments here, Mr. Cassell," he replied. "Cash or transfer?"

"Cash," Peter said. "I'll make out the paperwork."

While Rachel was led to the bar for a complimentary piña colada, Peter cashed the chips and then rushed her out to the car. She was just as anxious to leave. Within minutes, they were driving north for Idaho.

"You won $13,000," Peter said.

"$13,300," Rachel said. "I can finally pay Maisie a fair price for my room."

"How did you do it? Some sort of trick? A secret power?"

"Peter, it was dumb luck," Rachel said. "I expected to lose."

* * * * * *

Rachel appeared at Grubby's cabin Saturday morning wearing a new khaki outfit and a gray fedora. He thought she looked like a female Indiana Jones. She took a large box from her backpack.

"What's that?" he asked, getting her a cup of coffee.

"It's a present, for you. A new computer," Rachel said. "But I would like to use it, too, if that's okay?"

She opened the laptop and quickly booted it up like it was second nature. It was an expensive model.

"Where'd you get the money for this, Pebble?"

"Roulette."

"Didn't know you gambled."

"It's only gambling if you're trying to win."

"You don't owe me no present. I owe you. That copper vein looks like it will payout, and it's on a stretch of Silverhawk's land. He and I can make a deal."

"Now you can find even more, but there are things I want to find, too. Working on a computer at the Blue Bell is awkward."

"Why's that?"

"Lack of security."

"What are you looking for?"

"A way to inhibit ecological deterioration."

"Are you an environmental scientist?"

"No, I'm a mathematician."

"Let me make breakfast for you. You're still too skinny."

Grubby heated chili with cheese, beans, and tortillas, adding lettuce, tomatoes and onions as Rachel had shown him. Rachel stayed busy on the computer.

"What's the big project?" he asked.

"Before I got confused, I was working on a new program. Institutions know how to address environmental damage, but lack of funds and conflicting agendas disrupt necessary remedies. A Level 12 matrix couldn't define these conflicts. A Level 14 matrix might provide the necessary coordination."

"Like what you did with healthcare?" Grubby said.

"I'm not sure what I did there, only that someone developed a balance for the Level 12 extension. It must have been very hard."

"Pebble, that was you. Don't you remember?"

"All I see are numbers. More every day. I think the numbers can be used to achieve a solution. Not right away, but eventually."

"You should contact WHD in Los Angeles. I'm sure there are people who know you. They can help."

"I can't do that. Even thinking about it makes me scared. But I can submit my theories to Harvard. Apparently I've been sending them reports for the last two years."

"Apparently?"

"Grubby, please don't make me overthink it. Something bad will happen if I do. I can feel it."

"Relax, girl. You're safe here. Do what you have to."

Rachel worked for an hour, typing steadily, and then paused.

"What's wrong?"

"Another problem has been bothering me."

"You've got me intrigued now," Grubby said, sitting down with a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and two shot glasses.

"If I suspect criminal activity, should I investigate it? After all, it's really none of my business."

"Someone's been talking about our local troubles, haven't they?"

"Yes. Joanna is afraid. Her husband says this Mason person is grabbing land by threatening people."

"Jay knows what he's talking about."

"I can look at their transactions, but I'm not sure if I should."

"Maybe just a quick peek," Grubby said, moving closer to see the computer.

Rachel accessed real estate records, tax records, bank accounts, and private memorandums. Each time passwords were needed she blew right through them. Once, when it looked like her activity was being traced, she threw the trackers off into a maze.

"Are those their financial files?" Grubby asked, recognizing some of the names.

"It's those you call the Commission. They have foreign accounts in multiple jurisdictions. It's a lot of money."

"How much?"

"Four hundred and eighty-five million dollars in assets and another ninety-six million in cash reserves. Mason's account is the biggest. There's also one for Peter's father."

"Not surprised Cassell is caught up in this. Don't mean his son is."

"It doesn't mean he's not," Rachel said, feeling sad.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure what to think. On the surface, these purchases make no sense. The land must have a value that hasn't been made public."

"Gold? Silver? Could Mason have discovered mineral deposits that no one knows about?"

"That would be an explanation, but not the best one. These Commission guys don't need property along Route 93 to dig for gold, unless the deposits are right underneath Mr. Beggs' casino or Joanna's ranch. And there's no evidence for that."

"Hope we can figure this out soon. One of Mason's surveyors got beat up yesterday. Silverhawk claimed he was trespassing on his land. Mason sent private security for a reckoning, but they backed off when Silverhawk got his shotgun."

"The Sheriff should put a stop to this before someone gets hurt," Rachel decided.

"Cassell can't afford to do that. Mason has to get Silverhawk to back down. If he can't, the other ranchers won't back down, either. The Te-Moak elders might get involved, too."

Rachel sighed and exited the program.

"The answer should be obvious. I don't know why I can't see it."

"Want another drink?" Grubby asked.

"Yes. And four aspirin."

* * * * * *

As tensions in the town grow worse, Rachel finds herself at the center of a conflict she never wanted and barely understands. But that won't stop her from doing what's necessary.