From that small beginning, Davy had learned other Indian words at the same time he learned the English ones. He spoke his godmother's native language with almost the same ease as his mother's English.
Listening now, he heard Nana Dahd's prayer, a fervent one, for the immortal soul of someone Davy didn't know, someone named Gina. The child listened quietly, attentively. When the prayer was finished, the old woman discovered that her legs and feet were painfully swollen.
She had to ask Davy to untie her shoes and help her to her feet.
Once standing, Rita reached over and picked up the rake and hoe. 'I'll take these. Get the old wreath, Olhoni. If we leave it here, hungry cattle may try to eat it.'
He gathered the wreath and the empty candle glass, then followed the limping woman to the truck, straggling a few thoughtful paces behind her.
Only then, as they walked, did he ask the question.
'Who's Gina, Nana Dahd?'
'My granddaughter, Olhoni. She died around here.'
Surprised, Davy paused and looked back at the grove of trees.
'Here?'
Rita nodded. 'Seven years ago today. Each year, on the anniversary, I decorate her cross to let her know she's not forgotten.'
'Is that why you lit the candle? Because it's the opposite of a birthday?'
It was a precocious question from a child whose mother gave him plenty of words to use but little of herself 'Yes, Olhoni.'
For a moment, Davy frowned, trying to assimilate this new and unexpected piece of information. He thought himself as much Rita's child as his own mother's. The idea that Nana Dahd had another child or a grandchild of her own came as an unwelcome surprise.
'What's the matter?' Rita asked.
'I didn't know you had a daughter,' he said accusingly.
'Not a daughter, 01honi, a son. Gina was my grandchild, my son's only daughter.'
'She's just like my father, isn't she?' he said.
Nana Dahd frowned. Had Diana told Davy about the connection between the two deaths? That didn't seem likely. 'What do you mean?' Rita asked.
'Gina died before I was born,' he answered. 'So did my father. Why did everybody have to die before I was born so I couldn't meet them?'
The question was far less complicated than Rita had feared, and so was her answer. 'If you had a father, little one,' Nana Dahd said gently, 'then you wouldn't be my Olhoni. Come. We still have to go up the mountain.'
When she reached the truck, Rita turned and looked back at the disconsolate child shambling behind her, kicking up clouds of dust with the scuffed toes of his shoes.
'Now what's the matter?' she asked.
'Where's my father's cross?' he demanded. 'Does my mother put flowers and candles on it?'
Nana Dahd shook her head. She doubted it. 'I don't know,' she said.
It was high time the boy knew the truth about his father, but telling him wasn't Rita's place. She wouldn't tell Olhoni about that any more than she would have told him about his mother's rhinestone-studded cowboy boots.
'That's another question you'll have to ask your mother, Olhoni. Now, climb into the truck. It's getting late.'
Andrew Carlisle didn't have to wait long for a ride. The fourth car to whiz past him on the entrance ramp, a green Toyota Corolla, slowed and pulled over the side to wait for him. The set of yellow lights trapped to the top told him the car was an oversized-load pilot car. The driver, a woman, leaned over and rolled down the passenger window just as he reached the car.
'Where to?' she asked.
The woman, a faded, frowsy blonde in her late thirties or early forties, was moderately attractive. She wore shorts and a halter top and held a glistening beer can in one hand while a lipstick-stained cigarette smoldered in the ashtray.
'Prescott,' he said.
Over the years, lying had become such a deeply ingrained habit that he never considered telling the truth.
She tossed her purse into the backseat, clearing a place for him. 'I'm only going as far as Casa Grande,' she said, 'but it's a start. Get in.
Care for a beer? Cooler's in the back.'
Andrew Carlisle hadn't tasted a beer in more than six years. 'Don't mind if I do,' he said, reaching around behind him to grab a Bud from the cooler. Personally, he would have preferred Coors, but beggars can't be choosers.
He took a long swig, then held the beer in his mouth, savoring the sharp bite of flavor on his tongue. Beer wasn't all he hadn't tasted in six years, he thought. Not by a long shot.
He stole a surreptitious glance at the woman. He'd heard stories about these pilot-car women, about how
