Crossing Caine's Road

By Maggie Hinton

Michael Greyson, former college football legend and subsequent head coach for the Arizona Marauders pro-football team, has lain in a coma for six years as a result of a plane crash. Michael's wife, Melanie, decides to start a new life for herself by making use of her teaching degree for the first time. She packs up her three children and moves to the small northern Arizona village of Buena Suerte, (better known to the younger generation as "B.S.",) where she will teach high school English. Melanie's seventeen year-old daughter, K.C., an award winning trumpet player, is distraught when she learns that the high school band program may be abandoned. But then leather-jacketed, ponytailed Jesse Cockran comes riding into town on his old HarleyDavidson motorcycle. A professional trumpet player from New York City, Jesse will also be teaching for the first time, and, like Melanie, is seeking a new beginning. He moves into a teacherage trailer across the street from Melanie on Caine's Road and she and her children soon become emotionally drawn to him. Jesse has to prove himself to the community in spite of the school board president's determination to find a reason to dismiss him. K.C. commences a feud with Cooke Nasby, an Apache boy from the nearby reservation. And despite Melanie's objections, her father-in-law is firm in his attempts to remove Michael from life support. In addition to this clash of wills, Mel finds herself being sexually harassed by an anonymous stalker. The year is filled with romance, conflict, and tragedy. Mel, Jesse, and K.C. all face crisis which will change their lives and the lives of those they love. Crossing Caine's Road is a story of commitment and second chances, of love and loss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466966741

Maggie Hinton

Hinton is a retired public school English teacher. Growing up, she attended eleven different schools as her traveling-salesman father moved the family from California to Arizona to Utah. She graduated from a small high school in Fort Thomas, Arizona, and went on to graduate from Arizona State University. She has been a counselor for students traveling abroad, accompanying groups of teenagers through nineteen different countries. She was also a volleyball coach for over twenty years. Presently, she tutors English to homeschooled children and helps dropout students either reenter high school or get their GEDs. She lives with her husband, James (third generation Arizona cattle rancher, teacher, and coach) in the little Northern Arizona town of Show Low.

Book preview

The Middle of May

He’d been drinking all afternoon, his truck almost hidden by the tall mountain grasses, thick now, down by the river. Nursing a couple of bottles of Jim Beam. Talking to himself, cussing everyone in town, he staggered from the seat of the Dodge. He’d always bought the same make of pickup—it tickled him to drive what he’d been named after. He saw the high school spread out on the mesa above him. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. He could see the black motorcycle still parked in front of the building. The person who was the reason for all of his problems was still there—in the school. He grimly patted the discolored, swollen cheek under his right eye and then moved his hand to rub his still-aching jaw. The bruises were the fault of the man sitting smugly, right this minute, in his room in the building up the hill. The son-of-a-bitch deserved to be shown what it felt like to get beat up, humiliated, ridiculed. He remembered what had happened to him the night before with a blind rage.

Making a sudden, reckless decision, he sucked the last couple of swallows of whiskey from the bottle and returned to his truck. He tossed the empty container into the truck’s cluttered bed. He was so intent on making his plan that it didn’t register when the bottle hit the jack and shattered. His eyes fell on the tire iron. Scrabbling for it, he caught sight of red smears on his hand. He drew back, feeling no pain. Just a little fascinated with the dripping blood. It took a full thirty seconds for him to comprehend that he’d cut his fingers on the splintered shards of the Jim Beam bottle.

Pulling a stained handkerchief from his Wrangler’s back pocket, he clumsily wrapped it around his wounded hand. Then he turned back to lift out the tire iron and beat it solidly against the palm of his uninjured hand. The stings he felt from the blows pleased him, imagining how they would feel against someone’s face. His eyes narrowed and he grinned maliciously.

What the hell? he thought with sudden inspiration. I might as well get more than a little revenge here. "I’m talking extermination!" he said out loud, laughing, suddenly pleased with the idea of it. In his muddled mind he assured himself of the success of the scheme. It was Friday, late in the day. School had been over for a couple of hours. No one was still there to witness his sneaking into the building. Well, except maybe for Jim Bodine. But he wasn’t worried about the janitor. He could handle that retard. Everyone would just figure vandals had broken into the school again and the teacher, still in his classroom, surprising the culprits, had tried to be a hot-shot hero as usual. And they’d had to kill him.

He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. And then, stumbling a little, began making his way up the hill toward the school.

Chapter One

The Previous August

Melanie Greyson pulled into the all-too familiar parking space and sat for a minute, looking at the building spread out in front of her. As if this were the first time she was seeing it. As if the Del Rey Cottage had not been her second home for the past six years. In spite of its name and high-class motel appearance, the facility—a one-story cluster of sprawling wings designed by a nationally acclaimed architect—was basically a nursing home—an exclusive, nursing home. Its atmosphere was one of subtlety and good taste. Highlighted by bright arc lights scattered throughout the cultured grounds, the facility looked expensive. And it was. Dense English ivy climbed its salmon-colored stucco walls. Shaded patios were scattered over the property, with dark wicker chairs and tables arranged attractively under perfectly sculptured trees, beside neatly plotted flower beds. The colorful chair pads had been removed for the night, to be fastidiously rearranged in the morning—as if someone would actually sit on them. Not in August. Even in the shade, the Arizona summer heat discouraged any socializing or quiet meditation except in refrigerated surroundings.

Melanie couldn’t see Grey’s room from where she sat—it was in the east wing. She still hesitated before getting out of the car. It was late. And she was emotionally and physically drained. She’d been busy for the past four days getting the family’s belongings packed up for the moving van to finally load the next morning. This would be the last trip to see Grey for a long time, and she was a little teary-eyed at the prospect of telling him goodbye. She’d come straight from the apartment, still dressed in her scruffy Nikes, baggy sweat pants and dusty sweat shirt, her hair pulled back in a straggly ponytail.

After she turned off the engine, the refrigeration unit that had been valiantly blowing its cool air became silent, and it took only seconds for the car to heat up. She braced herself for the hot blast of heat which wrapped itself around her as soon as she opened the door and got out of the car. She crossed the parking lot quickly, made it to the door of the nursing home and then stopped. She didn’t know the reason for the sudden reluctance to open the door. But she stepped back, took a deep breath, and slowly looked above the roof line, drawn for some reason to gaze at the heavens. The night sky, a black blue color now, appeared cool, imperturbable. It had always given her a sense of peace to view the stars. Picking out a few of the constellations she knew gave her a feeling of permanence—of the silent assurance that no matter what happens, life goes on.

With an audible sigh, she finally opened the heavy door to the building and, with relief, welcomed the artificially chilled air that hit her. Inside, the halls did not smell of urine and medicine but rather of vanilla with a touch of cinnamon. The subtle scents had always reminded Melanie of a Victoria Secrets’ shop.

Margie Dominguez was on duty at the front desk. She glanced up and, seeing Melanie, smiled widely. Well, hi, Melanie. Your folks brought the kids in earlier this afternoon. Wondered when you’d make it. So. You’re leaving tomorrow.

Yep. We’ll be hitting the road early in the morning. I’m sorry I’m so late, Margie. I know you need to lock up now. But I’ve really been busy…

Take your time. I’m just sitting here reading Nora Roberts’ latest. I’ll wait for you before I shut down. And as Melanie walked away, Hey, Melanie? We’re sure going to miss you around here.

Melanie turned, sighing. And I’m going to miss all of you. But you’ll be seeing me regularly. I’ll be back every few weeks.

She could have navigated the maze of hallways with her eyes closed. She barely took note of the new impressionistic paintings on the wall, which, along with the recently changed wallpaper and furniture in the lobby and patients’ rooms, were changed twice a year to justify, at least in part, the costly rates of the home.

Grey’s door was still open and a faint nightlight dimly illuminated the spacious, apartment-looking room. Melanie closed the door quietly behind her. The walls were papered in a soft green leafy pattern, with apricot-colored trim around the windows and into the bathroom area. In spite of the bed’s luxurious white cotton linen sheets and stylish lime-colored spread, it still had regulation safety rails on both sides for the patient’s safety.

She glanced at her ex-husband in the bed and then, purposely putting off approaching his bed, walked around the room to study the various pictures hung on the walls and sitting on the tables, only too aware she’d seen most of them hundreds… no, thousands of times. Several shots of Melanie and Grey’s wedding, framed attractively, hung between the windows. There were the recent school pictures of the kids. Another of K.C. in last year’s black and white prom dress, snuggled up to a too-too-handsome, tuxedoed Deke Donaldson. A grinning Drew sitting cross-legged, balancing a soccer ball on one finger.

Sharing space with a lamp on the bedside table was a small photo of Chloe, with her naturally curly hair slicked up into a bun for her latest ballet dance recital. Her spindly legs hardly hidden by the net tutu. Hung at eye-level on the wall opposite the bed was a large professional photograph of the Marauder’s football team with Grey, looking handsome and serious, standing at one end of the bottom row.

With a sigh, she crossed to the window and looked out into the dark, remembering the other nights she had stood in this same spot, staring without really seeing the view from the windows—the silhouette of Camelback Mountain, with the faint glow of Phoenix’s night lights on the horizon behind it.

In the beginning, years ago, she had felt confident that the pictures, the visits from Grey’s friends and family—particularly the children—would help him escape from the insidious coma. For the same reason she read to him from his favorite authors and played his favorite music on the CD player. But even Patterson, Clancy, and Ludlum, nor Lynyrd Skinner, Pink Floyd, and Aerosmith had helped pull him back into the present.

She’d spent tedious hours every day working with his arms and legs so they wouldn’t atrophy, painstakingly doing the exercises with him which the physical therapists had trained her to do. But in spite of the intensive treatments, the hours spent feverishly willing his body and mind to respond to her nurturing, his knees were still drawn up to his chest, his white-stockinged feet pointing inward. His arms were bent tightly up to his chest, his hands tensed, claw-like. And his mind, his personality, his soul all remained locked up tight in a place no one had been able to reach.

She had spent day after day, week after week, months stretching into years inside this room. Entire days and hours into the night beside this bed. And it had been years before she allowed herself to even consider that her expectations of his recovery might be futile.

Now, unable to put it off any longer, she turned from the window and crossed the room to him. Grey was lying on his back, his head facing the door. His eyes were opened wide. His mouth was slackly open, dribbles of saliva sliding slowly down his chin on one side to form a little puddle on the pillowcase. Mel reached for a tissue from the box on the bedside table and gently wiped his mouth. She was so accustomed to the tubes leading to his stomach and his throat that she barely noticed them anymore.

She talked to him now. Talked even though she was certain he couldn’t hear a word she was saying. She told him all about Buena Suerte, the small village in northern Arizona that was awaiting her and the children. She described the high school where she’d be teaching. She related a few humorous stories about the kids. She rambled on and on and finally, tired of hearing her own inane dialogue, stopped suddenly in the middle of a sentence. She leaned over and touched Grey’s shoulder, bony and fragile now. Bye, Grey, she whispered. Bye, Sweetheart. I’ll be here to see you. Just not as often as I have been. But I’ll be back. Don’t worry. I’m not going to forget you. She kissed him on the cheek, turned abruptly, and closed the door to the room when she left him.

She chatted with Margie for a few minutes and then started out. As she was walking to the exit, a doctor emerged from a room and hailed her. Bill Lungren had been Grey’s first neurosurgeon, hired by the owners of the Marauder’s football team the day after the plane crash. Both he and Serena, his wife, had become instant, close friends to Melanie and the kids, and had remained so during the long years of Grey’s confinement. The doctor had a genuine concern, not only for his patients but for their families, and had always made Melanie feel that he was as interested in Grey as she was.

So, It’s true, then. You’re actually going to do it. Leave us. He opened the exit door for her.

We’re on our way tomorrow.

He paused and she went on walking a few steps and then stopped too, and turned to face him, lifting a hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the parking lot’s slanting lamp light. Lungren was a big man, powerfully built, almost handsome, with long, over-the-collar wavy brown hair, and intense brown eyes. And hands that seemed too large to belong to an operating surgeon.

Do I take this move to mean you’re finally giving some thought to what I’ve been suggesting? he asked her now.

She sighed. I’ve got to get away, Bill. It’s been over six years and I just can’t go on doing this, day after day, year after year. I can’t put my kids through this anymore. I’ve neglected them enough. It’s got to be their turn now.

The doctor walked toward her slowly. You don’t have to explain it to me, Melanie. I’ve watched you with Grey all of these years. Did you ever miss a day of coming to see him?

Oh, I’ve missed days. One or two here and there.

I’ve never seen a patient’s wife… or husband… as devoted as you’ve been.

She shrugged and gave him a helpless look. What can I say? He’s my husband and I still love him.

Ah, Melanie. You’re a good woman. But you’re blind as far as Grey is concerned. It’s criminal what we’re all doing to keep him alive. It’s time to get him out of this nightmare.

Hey. You’ve admitted it yourself, Bill. There are people like Grey. People in comas who wake up every day.

He nodded, eyes narrowed. "Yes. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen it a lot. You’ve seen it yourself. He took one of her hands in both of his and looked at her steadily. I’ve told you before. It’s not going to happen to Grey, Melanie. Trust me. It’s not going to be Grey."

She was determined not to cry. She had cried in front of Bill Lungren too many times. So she waited to speak until she could trust her voice. That’s what you keep telling me, Bill. Yet I can’t bring myself to end it, knowing that maybe next week, next month, or maybe even next year, some miracle drug, some new procedure is going to be found that…

He interrupted her, speaking patiently, kindly. "But not for Grey. He’s not going to have that miracle, Melanie. Believe me. I’ll admit I’ve been wrong about some who have made it. But I don’t just have doubts about Grey. I know. I know what I’m talking about here. There are no miracles in store for Grey."

She removed her hand from his. Well, you’re the doctor. She studied his eyes closely and then whispered, I can’t do it, Bill. Not now. Not yet.

All right, Melanie. All right. I understand. They continued walking. They had had this conversation many times before, with different words, different expectations, but always the same outcome. But you are getting away from it all. That’s a step in the right direction for you.

They reached her Maxima and she turned to face him. She managed to smile up at him and bumped his arm with her shoulder. Hey. What are you doing here so late anyway? Why aren’t you home having dinner with Serena?

He sighed. A new patient. Just getting her settled in.

She used her automatic key pad and beeped the lock. He opened the door for her. He waited until she was seated behind the wheel and then leaned over. You know we’ll take good care of Grey. Even though I hate doing it, Melanie. I hate prolonging this for him.

I know. I know how you feel. She turned and looked at him earnestly. Hey, Bill, you’ve been a… a true friend. I’ll never be able to repay you for all you’ve done for Grey. For me. She started the motor. Can I call you?

Any time. I’ll keep you posted about Grey. And Serena and I will want to know how things are going for you and the kids up in that Buena Suerte place.

When she drove out of the Del Rey Cottage parking lot, she finally felt free to let the tears flow. She wondered if she was ever going to be able to think of Grey without crying.

Chapter Two

There was finally a break in the trees, and two seas of summer grass swept over meadows on both sides of the narrow road. They had rolled down all four car windows as soon as they’d turned off the Flagstaff freeway, and the sharp, green scent of forest had surrounded them. The trees had crowded the two-lane road for the past sixty miles, but now the tall pines were outlined against the sky on distant, high ridges. Gaudy sunflowers and miniature wild, white daisies crowded the barbed wire fences and, in some places, crept rebelliously, spilling out onto the roadside. Cottonwoods were leafed out and stood beside blonde-trunked sycamores and stands of slim, shimmery-leafed aspens. Dotted among them were a few apple trees, their branches tangled and barren. A small pond could be glimpsed on and off through the trees, offering a dappled view of dull blue-gray water.

When they passed an elk-crossing sign, Drew asked his mother, Do you think we’ll see any elk?

Mr. Ramsey said they’ll come right up to our back yard, Melanie told him.

Cool.

The road curved, and they were in the midst of pine trees again. Chloe asked the annoying, proverbial question, Are we almost there? And blessedly, just at that moment, they passed a rusted sign that informed them that The Village of Buena Suerte was just ahead.

Two Miles. Just two miles more, K.C. turned around in the seat to tell her little sister.

The road twisted to the right again. And after crossing a meandering river’s unpainted, water-stained bridge, they found themselves, suddenly, in the village. It was nestled in a narrow valley, low mountains surrounding it on all sides. The road ended at a T, and at the stop sign, they could see the entire main street of the town.

They read Suzie’s Bar. Pool Hall on a roughhewn sign above the double doors of the structure facing them. On one side of Suzie’s, Harvey’s Mercantile stood with its weekly grocery specials crudely hand-painted directly on the windows. To the right was Maud’s Second-Hand Stuff. An antique treadle sewing machine and a half-decent-looking blue and green plaid sofa sat on the sidewalk beside the door. A vacant lot, wildly overrun by weeds, separated Maud’s and a Mexican food café. Rosarita’s, a small white-washed adobe structure with bright turquoise trim, had obviously been a family’s dwelling at one time. Across the street, the town’s motel, The Elk Inn, surprisingly modern-looking, boasted twenty-five rooms. But only three out-of-state automobiles were parked in the parking lot. Shorty’s Hardware and Auto Parts was located between two deserted buildings with boarded-up windows.

A newly built Chevron station was the last business establishment before the road twisted away from town, gradually curving up to the mountain range. Melanie switched on her right turn signal—an instinctive habit from the Phoenix and Scottsdale driving she had left behind—even though there were no moving cars on the road at the moment.

There were only a few people on the sidewalk and they turned to stare at Melanie’s black Maxima as it passed. They waved at the unfamiliar car, craning their necks or turning completely around to watch it pass by. Do they think they know us? Drew wondered out loud.

Probably just friendly, Melanie ventured.

Probably just nosey, K.C. said dryly.

Or probably just curious about someone new. Okay. Now here’s where we go up to the ‘second mesa.’ That’s what they call it around here. Melanie drove up a rise that curved to the left. As they topped the hill, a group of buildings could be seen. Voila! The school. She stepped on the brakes and stopped the car in the middle of the road. The structure, two storied with large square windows, was constructed of two-foot-square gray stones. The doors and windows were trimmed in a dull rust-color. The gymnasium, a converted old Quonset hut, sat to the right of the main structure. Between the school and the gym was a small, tree-shaded courtyard with four cement bench-attached tables.

K.C., craning her neck, lamented, It’s all so… little!

Well, I told you there’s probably going to be only around ninety kids going to school here. And that includes junior high.So this is your school too, Drew.

Ninety kids! K.C. shook her head. That’s not even a third of what our senior class was going to be!

I have to go to the same school as K.C.? Drew moaned.

Look, Chloe, Melanie said, ignoring him. There’s the school where you’ll be going. Another small, low-roofed, one-storied building on the opposite side of the street had obviously been built more recently than the high school building, and boasted a new graveled playground with modern equipment.

K.C. stepped out her door and folded her arms on top of the car. I don’t know, Mom. Sure looks kind of pathetic, doesn’t it? I mean compared to Saguaro.

Get back in. I’m going to run into the office and get the keys for the house.

K.C. took one final dismayed look at her future school and ducked back into the car. Melanie swung the Maxima around and drove into the parking lot in front of the school. You guys want to come with me and look around?

They all got out of the car and, finding the front door unlocked, walked into the building. At the sound of the door closing, a woman behind a waist-high walled office stood up and looked at them curiously. She was rather flashy-looking, with clunky silver and turquoise jewelry around her neck, wrists, and dangling from her earlobes. Long, dyed-red hair fell freely around her face. Hiya! she said cheerily to them. What can I do for you?

Melanie offered her hand. I’m Melanie Greyson. The new English teacher. She introduced the children. I’ve just come for the keys to the house.

The woman took Melanie’ s hand warmly. Oh yeah. I’ve heard about you. I’m the high school counselor, Gertrude Pickens. Or just plain old Gert. Hi, kids. Glad to have you all here in Buena Suerta. Ready to get settled in?

I guess. The moving van will be here any minute. I hope.

She turned to the children. Just take a quick look around. And don’t be bothering anything.

You’ll have to excuse the mess, Gertie Perkins informed them. We had a break-in last week. Someone walked off with a couple of computers from the lab upstairs. So we’re putting in doors at both ends of the stairs now. Plus they’re in the process of painting and renovating all the classrooms.

The kids wandered down the hall, peeking in the open-doored rooms curiously.

Gert turned back to a peg board on the wall behind the desk and searched for the keys. Mr. Ramsey has gone to Flagstaff for a meeting. I don’t think he was expecting you until next week. She turned with a ring of keys in her hand. I’m sorry. I’m not sure what shape you’ll find the house in. It was rented by one of our bachelor teachers last year. She winced.

I’m afraid he wasn’t much of a house keeper. But I’ll send over our custodian to see what needs to be done. Jim Bodine. She handed Mel the keys. Jim’s… um… now how’s a nice way of putting this? Jim’s sort of, well, somewhat… slow. He’s a good worker, though. He’ll do anything you ask him to do. But… she hesitated, that’s just it. You’ll have to tell him in detail everything he needs to do.

The kids came back from their short tour and, after say-ing their Goodbyes and Glad to meet yous to Gert, went out to the courtyard to wait for their mother. Melanie grabbed Drew and pulled him back to stand beside her. Oh, while we’re here… Football practice for junior high? She put an arm around Drew’s shoulders. Drew’s going to be a seventh grader.

Theyll start 7:00 A.M. practices on Monday. Steve Rob-erts is the coach—lives next door to you. He’ll be really glad to get you on the junior high team, Drew. You’re a big kid for your age."

Drew put his head down, embarrassed to find himself the center of attention.

And band? My daughter K.C. is really into her trumpet. A little obsessed, I’m afraid. She’s won lots of competitions.

Gert’s face dropped. Oh, my god! You don’t know.

Melanie’s heart sank. Don’t know what?

Robert? Mr. Haight? Our band director? His wife was just diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. He quit last week.Took Ellen and went up to Utah where her family is.

Melanie took a deep breath. That’s too bad. I’m really very sorry about his wife. She bit her bottom lip. So then. What’s going to happen to the band program?

Gert shrugged. Oh, honey, I’m sorry. A big disappointment for you, huh? Ed said that you had a daughter who was really good in band.

Wait. You mean… there won’t be a program at all?

Well, Mr. Ramsey is trying to find a replacement. But at this late date? She shrugged helplessly. Mr. Height was a good teacher. We’re all devastated about losing him. And his wife.

I understand. That’s tragic. She sighed. I’m afraid K.C. will want to pack her bags and go back to Scottsdale now.

Gert gave her a consoling hug. I’m sorry, Hon. Welcome to Buena Suerte, huh?

Mel decided not to give K.C. the bad news about the lack of a band teacher just yet. Grimly, she shooed the kids back into the car. Where’s our house, Mama? Chloe asked.

Just around the corner, Sweetie. They came to a Caine’s Road sign and turned right on it toward a scattering of trailers and small houses.

Well, Melanie told them, one good thing about it. We’ll be able to walk to school.

She says with a note of optimism in her voice, K.C. commented wryly.

The dirt road was rain-storm rutted, and Melanie did her best to drive around the potholes. Her heart sank as they drove toward the run-down houses and mobile homes.

So, basically, we’re living in the ghetto, Drew muttered.

Which one of these beauties is ours? K.C. asked sarcastically.

Melanie ignored the tone. This is it. She pulled up in front of the first house on the right. The pea green one, with the dull orange trim.

So that’s what happened to Southwest air planes’ old paint, Drew said under his breath.

Melanie had driven by the house and seen it from the outside when she’d come to Buena Suerte to apply for the job. In her memory, it hadn’t looked this neglected, this pathetic.

The look on K.C.’s face spoke volumes. Melanie tried to ignore the look and killed the motor. They all sat without saying a word, looking gloomily at the house that was to be theirs, at least for the next nine-and-a-half months.

Finally, Melanie admitted under her breath. Oh, god! It’s worse than I remember. The paint on the wooden siding of the house was stained and peeling. The solid plank fence surrounding the yard, broken down in at least a dozen places, failed to conceal much of the dead-grassed, weedy yard. The only redeeming feature was a gigantic elm tree shading the front of the house, its heavy branches hanging over the front fence. Melanie got out of the car and leaned back against it, her arms folded. Maybe with some paint, a few repairs… Her voice faded away weakly.

I can’t wait to see the inside, K.C. muttered.

Her mother smiled slightly. She says with a note of sarcasm in her voice.

Chloe whined, Do we have to live here, Mama?

Looks like it, Chloe. Well, come on. She sighed. We might as well get this over with.

Over the top of the car K.C. asked her mother cynically, You did sign a contract? There’s no backing out of it? We have to stay?

Oh, come on, K.C. Let’s give it a chance. We might learn to really like it here.

K.C. started around the car and then remembered her cell phone and reached through the window for it. I promised Deke I’d phone him as soon as we got here.

Melanie winced and closed her eyes. They don’t get a signal for cell phones in Buena Suerte. And then hurried on, But you can drive back down to town a little later and use the pay phone.

K.C. snorted. Down town? That’s really stretching it, Mom, calling that place down the hill a town. And no cell phone? Jeez!

They walked through the gate, up the sidewalk, and onto the porch.

Melanie took a deep breath and put the key in the lock of the door. Well, here goes.

Nothing, Drew said under his breath. Here goes nothing.

They all huddled together as they walked into the living room. The stench of dust and mildew and rotting food met them as soon as they opened the door.

It stinks in here! Chloe said, wrinkling her nose.

Four enormous trash bags full of garbage sat beside an aged washing machine by the back door. Flies were swarming around openings where garbage had spilled over. The linoleum on the kitchen floor was chipped. There were pitted tiles on the counters, the sink filthy. The lime green and yellow shag carpet in the living room was stained, the walls grimy. In the largest bedroom that opened right off the living room, there were burn marks on the rug, with a few cigarette butts still lying on top of some blackened spots. It’s a wonder he didn’t burn the house down, Melanie muttered.

"Oh, now that would have been a loss!" K.C. retorted.

This will be your and my room, Chloe, Melanie told her youngest, faking enthusiasm.

Another bedroom was painted bright blue with fluorescent green trim. They moved on to an even smaller red and black room. Still in shock, they ended up crowded around the door to the only bathroom. There was a bathtub-shower combination with five or six smudgy rings around the tub. Water, still dripping from the faucet, had made a rusty ring around the drain.

Melanie turned away from the depressing sight, walked into the living room, and picked up the purse she’d dropped by the door. She dug two ten dollar bills from it and handed them and the car keys to K.C. Here. Take Drew and Chloe down to the store and get you guys something to eat. I’ll wait here for the moving van.

As soon as the car had driven off, Mel realized that her makeup case was in the trunk of the car. She didn’t even have a comb or a brush. She went into the bathroom and studied herself in the smudged mirror above the sink.

Her Hispanic heritage was evident. Thick, almost black hair, tangled and unruly now. Eyes, wide-spaced, slightly slanted on the outside, with unusually large pupils, were even darker than her hair. When people first saw her, they’d think her mouth was too wide, too full. But by the second glance, they’d have changed their first impression and conceded that the mouth was definitely attractive, sensuous even.

But now the woman looking back at her was bedraggled, rumpled, wild-looking. For some reason, she took perverse pleasure in the way she looked. That was exactly how she felt—like a very weary, wild woman. Taking a deep breath, she turned and went out to sit on the front porch to wait for the movers.

Before long an old, red Toyota pickup drove up the road and parked in front of her house. The man who pulled himself clumsily from the cab was tall and thin, with broad, bony shoulders and long, scarecrow-thin legs. He was dressed in bibbed overalls, a flannel shirt, and work-worn boots. Black-gray fuzz covered his recently shaved head. His face was weathered with deep, etched lines, but his overly-generous mouth was grinning widely now, and, for some unfathomable reason, Melanie felt an instant liking for the stick-figure looking man.

She rose to meet him. His hand, as he shook hers, was enormous, rough, and calloused.

Glad to meet you, to meet you. Sure glad to meet you, Miz G Greyson. Greyson. I’m Jim Bodine. Jim Bodine. But the kids call me ‘Jimbo.’ He laughed a booming laugh. Jimbo. That’s the kids’ name, kids’ name for me. Jimbo.

He followed Melanie through the front door for a tour. He repeatedly shook his head and made little ticking noises with his tongue in disgust at the condition of the house. You jist make me a list, list, Ma’am. A list of what you need to fix this place up. I’ll come back, back about eight. About eight all right? All right? I’ll come by about eight, eight o’clock in the morning and get that list. List. That list. And I’ll take, take that, that trash out now.

She groaned inwardly about having to make a list. She’d have to go through the house and make decisions now, when she felt completely drained. But she nodded. Okay. Fine. Thank you, Jim.

He easily hefted two sacks over his broad shoulders. Melanie cringed, hoping the bags didn’t spill open and pour their rotting contents all over the floor. The large man lumbered out of the house and made two trips to load the garbage bags into the back of his truck. He folded his body into the undersized cab, looking like a harmless giant scrunched behind the wheel. He turned and offered Melanie a little wave. As he drove away she went into the house and wearily fished a pencil and small notebook from her purse to make her list for Jimbo.

The moving van didn’t show up until mere minutes before dark. The two surly workers had to depend on the truck’s headlights to unload. Mel instructed them to cram everything in the back two bedrooms. One of the first things they unloaded was the TV and she asked them to position it out of the way on the floor in the living room. It was immediately hooked up to the cable, which was still, blessedly, connected. The kids stretched out morosely in front of it on sleeping bags and pillows they’d dug out of black garbage bags. And immediately began to quarrel about which show to watch.

Brusque and in a hurry to return to Phoenix, the men dumped and stacked Melanie’s belongings with a total lack of concern. She was too tired to protest—just wanted to be rid of them.

When they drove off, raising a cloud of pinkish-colored dust in the dark, Melanie walked wearily back into the house.

Everybody comfortable? She got no reply. She sat down on the floor and took off her shoes. She lay back on her sleeping bag with her clothes on. She fumbled for the remote on the pillow by K.C.’s head. When she switched off the TV set, there were no protests. All three of the children sighed and turned over to burrow into their pillows.

Just about the time Melanie thought they were asleep, K.C. spoke bitterly into the darkened room. I hate it here, you know. I really hate it!

Drew had moved his bag to the floor in front of the screen door to take advantage of the night’s cool air. Now he muttered, I agree with Kate. For once I agree with Kate. This place really sucks!

Chloe wheedled, Can’t we go home, Mama? Please?

Melanie sighed deeply and said resignedly. "This is home. Come on, guys. Things will look better in the morning. Just go to sleep. Okay?" But long after they had gone to sleep, she lay awake, staring into the darkness above her head. She had never felt so alone since Grey’s accident.

Chapter Three

Melanie had learned about several open teaching positions from the internet. She had made up her mind to leave the Phoenix area. She knew it was time to become independent, make some changes. She’d put her life, and the children’s, on hold for too long.

One of the available jobs she’d found had been in a place she’d never even heard of—a little town called Buena Suerte in the northern part of the state. Calling the telephone number listed, trying not to sound too anxious, she’d spoken directly to the combination superintendent and high school principal, Ed Ramsey. She had gotten the impression from their conversation that maybe Buena Suerte was just as desperate for a high school English teacher as Melanie was for a job. Ramsey had immediately faxed her an application and arranged for a face-to-face interview the very next week.

She’d dug out her Arizona road map and calculated that the town was about a hundred miles northwest of Flagstaff, in what appeared to be mountainous country. She’d had her transcripts and letters of recommendation updated and faxed them to Mr. Ramsey along with the application. And then, on a beautiful Saturday morning in April, she’d left the kids with her mom and dad and driven the three hour trip to Buena Suerte. She’d loved the mountains and found the little town, nestled in a narrow valley in the middle of the forest, quaint and very appealing.

Mr. Ramsey had been impressed by her transcripts and the letters of recommendation. But you haven’t taught since you got your masters?

No. I got married right after graduation, and we started our family the next year. My youngest is in kindergarten so I decided it was time to, well, finally make use of my degree.

Melanie was pleased with the prospective schedule—English grades nine through twelve, a period of college preparatory English, an elective speech class. She was surprised to learn the class loads were so small—the senior class, for instance, would more than likely have only fourteen students.

Ramsey felt obligated to give her a little of the town’s history. Buena Suerta was settled in the late 1800’s by a retired Civil War captain, Joshua Caine. He went down to Mexico and brought families back to work in his saw mill. The town was named Cainesville in those days. When Caine died, the Mexicans in the village renamed the town Buena Suerte. Mel knew that the phrase meant good luck.

Ramsey smiled a little, somewhat embarrassed. The kids have shortened the town’s name to B.S. Melanie couldn’t resist laughing a little. And couldn’t wait to tell K.C. and Drew. The only thing still named after our illustrious founder is the road where the teachers’ houses are. Caine’s Road. He hesitated for only a moment and then pushed a paper across the desk to her. I have a contract here, if you’d like to sign it now.

Just like that? I’m hired?

We’d be fortunate to get a teacher with your qualifications.

Can I mail it back to you? I need to think about this. And talk it over with my children.

He looked disappointed. Did I tell you? We’ll have an available three-bedroom house on Caine’s Road, for $185 a month.

You’ve got to be kidding! She was incredulous. That’s less than a… a fifth of what we pay for an apartment in Scottsdale.

Well, we have to offer some incentives to get teachers up our way.

Ferrin Goodman had found it hard to believe that his daughter was even considering taking a job so far away. Couldn’t you find a job around here?

Yes, I probably could have. It’s just that… oh, Dad, I have to get away. I have to make a fresh start somewhere away from here.

Well, I can’t believe you’d move the kids to a God-forsaken place like this Buena Suerte!

"We’re