scraps of Ironwood Ranch history that weren't necessarily part of the group treatment catechism. In addition, I had picked up some invaluable firsthand knowledge about Mexican cooking.
When I got there that morning, Dolores was busily patting white dough into paper-thin tortillas which she baked quickly on something that looked like an inverted metal disc-maybe part of an old-fashioned plough-which had been placed over one of the gas burners of the immense, old-fashioned stove. Dolores Rojas prided herself in serving only freshly made tortillas.
'What's for breakfast this morning?' I asked, taking my cup of coffee and sidling up to the serving window.
'Chorizo and eggs.' she answered.
Prior to Dolores my knowledge of Mexican food had been strictly limited to what was available at a place in Seattle called Mama's Mexican Kitchen and those south-of-the-border aberrations served by various fast-food chains. Dolores dipped out a spoonful of something that resembled reddish-colored scrambled eggs, put it in one of the still-warm tortillas, wrapped it expertly into a burrito, and passed it to me.
'Sausage,' she said. 'Hot sausage and eggs.'
The spicy, eye-watering mixture wrapped in the tortilla bore little resemblance to the sausage and eggs my mother used to make, but it was nonetheless delicious.
'Wonderful,' I said, chewing.
Dolores nodded in satisfaction. 'Good. Now get out of here and let me finish.'
I took the hint, my coffee, and the remainder of my burrito and went over to stand by the window. The rain had let up, at least for the time being. People were beginning to venture out of their cabins and meander up to the main hall although I noticed a group of several people head off in the opposite direction.
Soon Ed Sample, an attorney from Phoenix, joined me by the window. 'What's going on down there?' I asked.
'River's up,' he said, sipping his own coffee. 'Unusual for this time of year, but then so are the rains.'
'You mean there's actually water in the river?'
When I first arrived at Wickenburg, I had crossed the bridge over the Hassayampa River on my way to Ironwood Ranch. I recalled seeing an official-looking sign that proclaimed NO FISHING FROM BRIDGE although no water had been visible in the dry, sandy bed. With the onset of the rains, however, a sluggish, muddy stream had appeared.
'Somebody said it's about eight feet deep right now.'
'Eight feet?' I repeated, astonished. 'Where'd it all come from?'
'Drainage from up in the mountains. As much has soaked into the ground as it can handle. The rest is runoff. From what Shorty Rojas said, it could go over the banks sometime today. By the time all the water drains out of the high country, we could have a real serious problem down here.'
'Great,' I said. 'That's all we need.'
Ed Sample looked at me appraisingly. 'You ever see a flash flood in the desert, Beau?'
I shook my head.
'Every year or so we get a carload of tourists washed away. They see what they think is a few inches of water in a dip and they end up being washed downstream by a wall of water.'
'You mean those DO NOT ENTER WHEN FLOODED signs are serious? They're not some kind of joke?'
'Not at all,' he replied.
That gave me something to think about. Maybe the NO FISHING sign wasn't a joke either.
People were beginning to carry filled plates away from Dolores' serving line. I refilled my coffee cup, set it at an empty table near the window, and went to collect my own plate. In addition to the chorizo, eggs, and tortillas, there was also a selection of fresh fruit. Despite my earlier sampler burrito, I was still hungry. I carried my food- laden plate back to the table.
I had barely sat down when Michelle Owens edged into the chair next to me. She looked wan and sallow. Instead of a plate, she carried a cup of hot water and a fistful of saltine crackers. I've been a father, and I know the drill. Saltine crackers are the order of the day for someone suffering from morning sickness. Once more I was supremely grateful that this pale-faced young woman and all of her problems were none of my concern.
'Where's Joey?' Michelle whispered. Evidently her choosing the seat next to mine was no accident.
I glanced at her. Michelle Owens was plain, amazingly plain, hardly the type of girl to appeal to someone with Joey Rothman's flashy sense of panache. Her hair, a dismal, cheerless brown, had a slight tendency to curl at the ends, but there had been no effort made to style it attractively. Her eyes were red and swollen. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and her naturally pale complexion had a grayish tinge to it, probably as a direct result of continuing bouts of morning sickness. She still wore braces. Pregnant and still in braces. No wonder her father was pissed.
'Where is he?' she asked again, more urgently this time. 'I went by the cabin to see him, but he wasn't there.'
'I'm sorry, Michelle, but I can't help you,' I answered kindly. 'As far as I know, he never came home at all last night.'
Her lower lip trembled and she ducked her head while two fat tears spilled out of the corner of her eye and dribbled down her cheek. 'What if my father…' she began, then stopped.
'What if your father what?' I asked.
She shook her head. 'Never mind. It isn't important.'
Just then one of the counselors, a lame-brain named Burton Joe, brought his plate to our table. He sat down across from Michelle and smiled at her beatifically.
'And how are we this morning?' he asked. It was the medical rather than the royal we, insinuating and saccharine. 'Feeling better?'
Michelle Owens kept her eyes lowered and didn't answer. I was outraged. Surely the Ironwood Ranch rumor mill was fully operational, particularly among the counselors. There was no reason to give Burton Joe the benefit of the doubt. He knew good and well whereof he spoke.
'Leave her alone,' I snapped. 'She's just fine.'
I looked around, vainly hoping that Guy Owens would show up and come to his daughter's rescue, but family members weren't encouraged to arrive until a few minutes before the morning counseling sessions began at nine o'clock.
'My, my, we certainly are touchy this morning, aren't we.'
'Yes,' I replied tersely. 'We certainly are. I didn't have much sleep last night and neither did Michelle here, so why don't you bug off and leave us alone.'
Burton opened his mouth to say something in return, but just then several more people joined us at our table. They had been part of the expedition that had gone down to see the river, and they were busy speculating about how deep the water was and whether or not we'd have to evacuate some of the cabins if the water came up over the banks.
Under the cover of the table, Michelle Owens reached for my hand and squeezed it. 'Thank you,' she whispered.
Her gratitude at my small kindness was disconcerting. A forkful of egg and chorizo turned to dry pebbles in my mouth. I was no longer hungry.
'Want to go look at the river?' I asked.
She nodded wordlessly and rose to go, waiting for me beside the door while I took my plate back to the window to be rinsed.
We didn't speak at all as we walked down the muddy path to the Hassayampa. Somehow I got the feeling that there was something Michelle wanted to say to me, but every time she got close to doing it, she drew back, and I didn't force the issue. I couldn't think of any reason for her to confide in me with her problems, and I wasn't about to pry. She seemed to find a certain amount of comfort just being in my presence, and I was content to let it go at that.
When we got to the bank, the river was every bit as spectacular as the other clients had said it was. Off and on during the previous month, I had taken occasional walks along the sandy riverbed without seeing a trace of water, but now four days of rain had transformed it into a rushing, muddy torrent, running from bank to bank, seven or eight feet deep and at least a quarter of a mile wide. I never knew the desert had that much water in it.
