The dissolving artifact rested on an island in the middle of the river, just below the main waterfall. The sun was close to sinking behind the ridge, and only a few shafts of light made the wood look like anything more than a shadowy lump.
As thick and undissolving as the lump of hot dog and white bread bun she’d eaten half of while they walked the promenade. She couldn’t tell him that, though. He’d been so proud of ordering from the colorful food wagons that sprang up along Main Street during Festival week.
“I think I see it. My distance vision isn’t wonderful,” Hay said, squinting in the direction she pointed. He put his arm around Dusty and snugged her up against his side as if that would help him see.
Her awareness of the few people out walking the promenade faded. As the sun sank, fewer and fewer people ventured this far away from the lights on Main Street. The explosion on the hill that had delayed not only completion of the cell tower, but the beginning of construction on the discount store, had them spooked. They weren’t willing to risk the dark just to catch a bit of cool, moist air after the long, hot day.
“There’s not a lot left, but that’s the original water wheel that powered the woolen mill,” Dusty said, concentrating on what she knew, the history that she was passionate about.
“The mill that employs half the town?”
“Yes. The wheel was built in 1846, before Oregon became a territory of the U.S. As part of my Master’s degree, I wrote a grant to dismantle the wheel and rebuild and restore it up at the museum. I actually got the grant, but the current owners of the mill, who have corporate offices in Louisiana, wouldn’t give permission for structural engineers to go in and assess the wheel and the plans to dismantle it. They prefer to allow an important artifact of our heritage to rot.”
“Too bad. It would have made a nice addition to the exhibits,” he said. But he wasn’t gazing at the wheel any more. He was looking at her.
She returned his gaze, amazed that she could talk so freely with him. She’d never met anyone who made her feel as comfortable as he did.
They were alone, with only the muted rush of water over the thirty-foot drop in the river, an occasional sleepy chirp of a bird and the hum of evening insects.
“Dusty, I… I should tell you that our mothers were roommates in college. They asked me to call you, ask you to the Masque Ball.”
“Oh.” Her world fell flat.
“I didn’t want to call you. I’ve had some pretty disastrous blind dates and didn’t want a repeat. But then I met you, and I knew we could have something special. I’m glad we got to know each other without the false expectations of our mothers hanging over us.”
“I’m glad, too. If I’d known about our mothers’ connection, I probably would have turned you down.
“And now?”
“Now? If the offer is still open, I’d like to go to the Ball with you.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, capturing a tentative kiss.
Startled, she drew back, still within the circle of his arm around her waist.
“I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?” he breathed.
“No, I…” She bit her lip. What did she say? She had only the one experience with Joe. Hay’s kiss was different, exciting, and scary.
Wonderfully scary, indeed.
“Dusty, I had no intention of falling in love with you.”
“Silly, we’ve only known each other a couple of days.”
“I feel like I’ve known you all my life. Or maybe you are the one I’ve been searching for since the beginning of time.”
“I… I’ve never met anyone like you before.” She bit her lip in indecision.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“I believe in lust at first sight that can grow into love.” At least that’s what she’d always told herself when she outgrew the teen romance books she devoured when she was sixteen. She’d repeated the mantra with each failed date arranged by her family when the total lack of passion, or even interest guaranteed there would be no second date.
“Then believe in this.” He captured her mouth again with his, enticing her into a response with gentle flicks of his tongue.
Dusty became malleable clay under his brilliant ministrations. She experienced new flares from belly to head that left her dizzy. Simmers of longing from his mobile mouth on hers glowed deep within her. Her arms crept around his neck, and she rose on tiptoe to bring them closer together.
Her knees turned to pudding. She clung to him even as she pulled her mouth free long enough to breathe.
“Relax, my darling. Trust me,” he whispered. “I’ll never hurt you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He kissed her again.
Her world exploded into myriad bright colors rivaling the last rays of the sun shooting above the ridge and sparkling across the river.
Chase scrubbed his eyes free of grit and looked up from his concentrated, fine-print reading. The little digital display on the bottom right of his computer screen read ten fifty two PM. God, he’d been searching and tracing link to link for the whole day and half the night.
But he’d found what he needed. There it was, in black and white, the incorporation papers for Pixel, Industries, Ltd. Signed by none other than Phelma Jo Nelson herself as CEO and sole stockholder. The date beside her signature was less than a week old.
The job order for the independent logger was dated three days later.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” he muttered. “Looks to me like she’s timed it deliberately to interfere with the Masque Ball.”
He stretched his back and arms, grateful for the release and cracking after so many hours hunched over his desk.
He saved the screen and printed out a copy. Then he stood and popped the kinks out of his knees.
“I need a walk. Or better yet an hour in the gym.” He felt flabby and weak. “The price of getting promoted to sergeant. Too much paperwork and not enough exercise.”
He walked a few steps, checked on the printer. It spat out the third of fifteen pages. He paced once around the desk, then out the door to the main corridor of the station. All the doors were closed. The gentle hum of powered- down technology greeted him. Nothing else. Not even the murmur of voices.
His route took him out to the lobby and past the dispatch desk.
“Don’t you ever go home, Mabel?” he asked as he came abreast of her.
She shrugged and shook her tightly permed gray hair that had hints of blue and pink streaked through it.
Sort of like Thistle’s black hair had deep purple highlights.
Then he remembered the pink bug flitting around Mabel’s front yard that paused and talked to first Thistle and then Haywood. Or rather Thistle and Haywood conversed with the bug. Chase hadn’t heard any replies. Maybe he’d watched from too far away.
Maybe he’d imagined the entire episode.
He didn’t think so.
“All the officers and my relief watch are out on patrol. Had three fistfights outside the liquor store and two inside the Old Mill Bar. I’m needed here to help process the paperwork,” she said.
“How many in lockup?” Chase asked, feeling guilty. He should have been out on the streets enforcing calm when the unrelenting heat stretched nerves taut and frayed tempers.
“Only the three who were too drunk to walk home.” She chuckled. “Del Payton hosed down the others to cool them off and sober them up.”
“So why don’t you go home now that the excitement is over?”
“What’s to go home for?” Mabel asked. She sounded a bit sleepy, her words almost slurred.
“You need to go home and tend to your army of Pixies who spy around town for you.” He threw back the line
