Arrowstar

By C. K. Thomas

Set in a small southeastern Arizona mining town, Arrowstar revolves around the success or failure of Arrowstar Antiques and the woman who owns it. Star Lance likes to drive her Jeep in the fast lane, but can she outrun whoever wants something from her store's inventory, purchased from the estate of a rumored old-time train robber? Determined to make a go of a new life, in a place far from Indiana and reminders of her husband's untimely death, Star connects with a trio of women who refuse to let her accept defeat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. K. Thomas
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310590016

C. K. Thomas

C.K. Thomas lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband, Frank, and Chihuahuas, Cleo and Peanut. She earned her first dollar writing a poem for a teen magazine when she was 14 years old. As an adult she continued to write freelance book reviews and articles for various publications, including Rider motorcycle magazine and The Arizona Republic’s weekly Arizona Magazine. Arrowstar is her second novel and marks the first in a series of novels set in Mineral City, a fictional town situated in the southeast corner of Arizona. Cheryl and her husband own ranch-land near Willcox, Arizona and roaming that area often serves as inspiration for her writing. While not claiming to be a cowgirl herself, she continues to admire the independent spirits of women who ride horseback and hold their own on ranches all over the state of Arizona. She intends for her stories about adventurous women not only to entertain, but also to inspire each woman who reads the books of the Arrowstar series to ... Take a chance, amaze yourself!

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Arrowstar

First in the Arrowstar Series

C.K. Thomas

Text copyright © 2011 C.K. Thomas

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

eBook formatting and cover design by FormattingExperts.com

This book or any portions thereof may not be reproduced for any purposes other than review without the written permission of the author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Other books by C.K. Thomas

Preview of Charade

For Cleo and Peanut, who were beside me all the way.

Acknowledgments

Sincere thanks to Lu Sanford, my friend and copy editor, and to Kimberly Gallagher, my content editor.

Preface

I often tell my readers, if they genuinely want to know how I came to live way out West in a small Arizona mining town, it will require a long tale before they can truly understand the answer.

-Star Lance, July 2010

Chapter One

Mineral City, Arizona – Thursday, July 8, 2010

Grant Cobb slammed his fist down hard on the lawyer’s heavy oak desk top.

What do you mean you don’t have a copy of the will? he shouted angrily.

It’s missin’ from my files, the lawyer answered slurring his words slightly and leaving an unmistakable hint of Scotch whiskey floating in the air between him and his irate client.

How could it just go missing? You called me when my uncle was found murdered in his own living room based on information from his will. Can’t you reconstruct it from your computer?

Hold on now, son, Ray Long said in his low, slow Texas drawl as he tilted back in his chair and placed his boots on the corner of his desk. The overstuffed leather chair might easily have swallowed his five-foot-five frame if not for the girth of his belly that seemed wedged firmly between its armrests. I’m working on that now, but Mary’s been on vacation, and I only discovered the will was missin’ yesterday. Your uncle should have had a copy in his files. Have you looked for it in his personal papers?

I assumed you’d have everything we needed, so I haven’t even thought about looking. Anyway, the movers came and loaded up everything in the house. There’s nothing left to look through.

Well, now, I suggest you walk over to Main and Muddy Basin and talk with Star Lance.

Who? Why?

Well, the word around town is that Ms Lance bought the whole kit and caboodle for her antique store inventory. Arrowstar I think she’s calling it. Don’t you remember offering the contents for sale and signing off on the deal?

Oh, that. Yes, of course, but since then I’ve been embroiled in a lawsuit concerning some business interests I have in the UK. I haven’t even been over to the house since the day the movers loaded the truck, Grant sighed and mumbled under his breath, infernal international business.

Let me know if you find it. It’ll save Mary the trouble of digging it up on the backup disk and reprinting it when she gets back in a couple weeks, Ray said without a hint of apology.

With that pronouncement making Grant fume internally all the more, he stalked from the office and headed for Arrowstar Antiques.

Oh, that miserable buzzer! Star Lance mumbled to herself as she ran to the front of the shop from the storage warehouse out back, into the kitchen and parlor and through the clutter of assorted antiques to be shelved in the front room.

Grant Cobb stood ramrod straight on the front porch of Arrowstar Antiques, absently taking in the red brick bank to the west with Its barred windows and unexpected cactus-filled flower boxes. Turning to look east, he barely noticed the rosemary cascading over the rim of whiskey barrels on the broad front porch at Carla’s Bar and Grill, and the Century plants standing sentry along the raised boardwalk out front. The tiny lights topping the square-cut adobe building housing the bar attracted his attention though, along with the neon We’re Always Open sign, winking on and off in a small transom window above the door. He seriously considered walking over there for a cold beer if somebody didn’t answer the door pretty damn soon.

Just then Star pulled the shop door open, and Grant turned and blurted, Are you the woman who bought Bobby Flint’s household goods?

Good morning to you, too, Star said as a wary smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and her eyes took in the long-legged, tanned figure on her doorstep. While not a particularly handsome fellow, Grant had a basketball player’s build with long arms and large hands and feet. Star tried not to focus on the tantalizing blue of his eyes and his smoky gray hair as it ruffled slightly in the breeze escaping out the door from the evaporative cooler.

I’m sorry, he said, trying not to stare at the tall, sun-streaked blond staring him straight in the face. Her clear green eyes, level with his, surprised him with their unashamed appraisal and slightly impudent stare. In spite of his efforts not to, his gaze traveled downward to take in the curve of her breasts and the sturdy angular shape of the rest of her.

I’m Grant Cobb, and I need to look through my uncle’s personal papers. I think they were mistakenly sent over here with everything else.

Star Lance, pleased to meet you. I meant to call you first thing this morning, but I got sidetracked. I was surprised to find all Mr. Flint’s personal correspondence in a packing box.

Yes, well, I haven’t been paying very close attention to the estate I’m afraid. My mind has been on other things, Grant explained.

Star led her visitor through the disarray of the front rooms into her large and somewhat outdated kitchen. Grant glanced quizzically at the old pump perched on the sink and the old-fashioned, wood-boxed telephone with a black speaking tube and listening piece attached to the wall in the parlor.

The pump still works, but the phone’s dead, Star said as she followed his gaze. How about a cup of coffee?

Star put the pot on the stove to warm up and set out the sweet rolls Ricki had dropped off this morning on her way to work.

Ricki Wade, daughter of the town’s sheriff, had lived in Mineral City since she was a girl. Expecting a boy, Sheriff Vince Wade picked the name Richard well before the baby was born. When a sweet little baby girl showed up, rather than pick a new name, Vince talked his wife into naming her Ricki.

The secondhand shop, The Second Thyme Around, was Ricki’s way of contributing to the greening of the earth and the well-being of the not-so-prosperous citizens of her hometown. Ricki’s shop was on Muddy Basin Road just around the corner from Carla’s Bar and Grill and shared four marked spaces in Carla’s rear parking lot. On Saturday nights those spaces filled up with Grill customers, but Ricki’s store wasn’t open in the evenings anyway, so it was an unspoken arrangement that worked well.

Sure, yeah, okay, I guess, Grant answered, accepting Star’s offer of coffee. Can I look through the roll-top desk while the coffee is brewing?

Actually, the desk is out back in the warehouse, and it’s empty. I was just contemplating how I could best move it into the house when you came to the door. Everything was packed in boxes, and as I said, I’ve come across at least one box full of old letters and other papers. It’s in the parlor where I’ve been unpacking things. You can have a look yourself if you’d like.

Looks like you could use a hand with all this stuff. It’s going to be a devil of a job sorting out, isn’t it?

Yesterday, as the movers stacked the boxes in the big front room of the old house, Star wondered what in the world she had been thinking when she’d gambled her last nickel to buy the entire contents of the estate over on Cattletrack. Maybe it had been an unorthodox way of starting an antique store, but the price was right, and Star thought it would yield enough antiques to at least have something to display when her shop had its grand opening next month. Also, she thought the fact that the house sat boarded up for six months while Grant Cobb made his leisurely way back from Europe to deal with his uncle’s estate added even more mystery to curiosity seekers.

Probably, but I enjoy it for the most part, Star answered him as she again secretly questioned her own judgment.

It’s a good thing, Grant observed as he pawed through the contents of the packing box.

Well, it doesn’t look like my uncle’s will is in this box, he said, sounding exasperated.

I tell you what, why don’t you lend me a hand while we drink our coffee and help me open a few more of these boxes. It’s bound to be here somewhere, Star offered.

Sounds like a good way to get some free labor out of me, he laughed, showing a captivating smile Star had not expected.

Actually, if I wanted free labor I would have marched you out to the storage shed and ordered you to bring in that heavy roll-top!

I’m tall, but I’m not sure I have the muscle to move that thing all by myself, he admitted.

The morning turned into afternoon as the two of them sorted through box after box of documents, old checks and tax forms to no avail.

Well, this is going nowhere fast, Grant complained.

Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning, and we’ll take another crack at it, Star suggested.

Chapter Two

Evening – Thursday, July 8, 2010

After Grant left, Star headed out back to take another look at the old roll top. She wasn’t about to move the thing all by herself, but she was curious. She lifted the rolled lid, uncovering the stunning nooks and crannies that always drew her to these kinds of desks. It was evident this was a solid oak piece, no particle board in sight.

Star ran her hand over the edge of the writing surface worn smooth with use. Just under the lip of the desktop her fingers touched a spring-loaded clip. She pressed it and a panel next to the chair hole swung open. The door had a narrow tray at the bottom and it held an upright manila envelope tied with string. Just as she bent down to retrieve the envelope, the sound of that infernal buzzer up front made her jump. It was almost 6:30 p.m., and she couldn’t imagine who’d be stopping by when most people in Mineral City would just be sitting down to supper.

Star quickly closed the hidden compartment and made a dash for the house, but something made her stop when she reached the kitchen door. She had the uncanny sense that someone was inside waiting for her. She pulled back her hand and took the three steps up to the gate that led to a walkway around to Main Street. Quietly she crept around the front corner of the house and sucked in her breath at the sight of three muscled bikers in black leather jackets, pants and motorcycle boots, standing on the porch lighting up cigarettes. They had parked their bikes by the horse railing out front, and she counted four Harleys.

Where was the other rider? she wondered as the hair on the back of her neck stood up and her hands began to shake as she tried to close the front gate without clinking the latch. She slipped behind a large oleander at the corner of the house and waited. In a few minutes, a big guy with a full beard came out of the house onto the porch.

There’s nobody home, and the desk in the shed out back is totally empty, he grumbled to the others. Unopened boxes are all over the place. It’s going to be impossible to find anything in there. I vote we tell Kat we searched the place and didn’t find nuthin’. Any objections?

None heard, the bikers mounted up and roared off down the street. It wasn’t exactly a secret departure. Most business owners along the street had already closed up and gone home, but at least one door opened up the street at Perry’s Bicycle Shop when the group roared past, and several people on the porch over at Carla’s turned their heads to watch.

Star’s heart was beating fast as she entered the house by the front door, rebuking herself for leaving it unlocked again. Just because this was a small town didn’t mean there weren’t people around who would take advantage of an unlocked door. It didn’t appear anything had been disturbed in the house and the roll top was just as she had left it. She sat down in the desk chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Something in the back of her mind nagged at her as she clicked the hidden compartment and the little door opened just as it had before. Bikers, who were they? What were they looking for? She slipped the envelope out of the tray and put it aside to take back into the house.

Right now, she wanted to survey this remarkable desk, so she put all speculation about the bikers aside. She placed the manufacture at around 1910, judging from the scalloped handles on each of the four small drawers. A small door opened to a neat cubby at the midpoint of the console. On the right there were six vertical slots for papers and an additional four horizontal spaces on the left. All the little cubbies made her treasure this old piece even more. There were four large drawers on either side of the chair hole, each with the same scalloped handles that adorned the smaller drawers under the roll top.

Star opened the small cubby door in the middle of the desk just above the writing surface and felt around inside for a trap door in the bottom that was often a part of a desk like this one. She was disappointed not to find one. Just as she was about to give up her search for another secret hiding place, her little finger slid across a tiny button obscured by the decorative handle on the little door. She pressed it and to her surprise the top of the cubbyhole dropped down to reveal a space about six inches deep and lined with red velvet. She didn’t see anything inside, but searched the little space with her fingers and grasped a tiny tin box. She lifted the lid and pulled out a small silver key that looked like it might fit a diary or a very small padlock.

Looks like this is my lucky day, she mused, hopeful she’d find whatever the key fit in one of the as-yet-unopened packing boxes.

She carried the envelope she had found earlier into the house and opened it at the kitchen table. It was Bobby Flint’s will, but it was dated 1952. Surely he had updated his will since then. Oh well, she thought. This is not my problem, and I’m too tired to think about it right now anyway.

Star’s dreams that night were anything but pleasant as she wandered through large rooms filled with stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes. At one point she became lost in a narrow passage through the boxes and began to run. In the dream she was certain she could hear footsteps behind her and a rustling sound growing louder and louder as she ran toward a light that got further and further away the harder she ran. Suddenly the light winked out and she woke up in a sweat. She sat straight up in bed and listened for whatever might have awakened her.

She heard something outside right below her second-story bedroom window. Reaching under the bed, she pulled out a Smith and Wesson, Model 36, Classic revolver she’d learned to shoot last year when she’d made the decision to move out West. She wasn’t under the delusion that everyone in the West packed a pistol, but she was newly single and wanted to feel safe.

She hadn’t been in the market for a reproduction revolver with a hefty price tag, but she’d spotted this one offered at a gun show she’d attended with her employer and long-time friend, Jake Nally. It was priced well under what they usually sell for at $500. It was brand new, nickel plated, and she loved the feel of it in her hand. Jake had talked her into blowing some of the money she had from the sale of her house since she was obviously in love with that gun. Right at this moment, she was really glad she had taken his advice.

Holding the gun low and to the side with both hands, she sneaked up beside the window to take a look. She couldn’t see much of anything since clouds now obscured the usually clear sky, and street lights didn’t figure into the town’s slim budget. It was dark as pitch outside that window. Then she saw a flash of white fur and heard a low growl and bark identifying the culprit as a lost dog after a bite to eat and not another intruder of the human species. She laughed at herself, put the gun away and went back to bed.

About an hour later Star awoke with one overriding thought spinning around in her head. Bobby Flint had been shot in the head, and as of yesterday, she had all of Bobby’s personal possessions. Maybe Mineral City, Arizona, hadn’t been such a red-hot choice of a place to escape the constant reminders of Mac’s death after all.

Wide awake now, Star sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, resting her feet on the cool slats of the hardwood floor. She squinted to see out the window and wished for a breeze in the hot stuffy room. She’d turned off the evaporative cooler earlier thinking she wouldn’t need it tonight. The window in this upstairs bedroom wouldn’t budge above half open, but Star stood in front of it hoping for a breath of air. The sky, looking angry and dull, showed streaks of heat lightning cutting yellow gashes in the soft velvet black of the night. Star struggled to pull the window up higher, but it stubbornly refused to budge even another inch.

Frustrated, she pulled on her jeans and shirt and slipped into the sneakers she’d kicked off at the foot of the stairs. She pushed open the front door of the shop and sat down on the top step of the wide porch. Every now and then heat lightning lit up the street, and she could see the peaked roof of the white frame church at the end of Main Street where Tyler Spring Pike took off north to ranching country and south to the old Weaver mine operation. The double front doors of the church looked slightly ajar, and the lightning reflected back at her from the peaked stained glass window above them.

Had someone left the church door open or was it just a shadow making them look that way? Curiosity got the best of Star, and she stood, brushing off the seat of her jeans, and began walking up the street along the boardwalk in front of the buildings. As she neared the intersection, she could see that the doors were slightly ajar. The wooden steps were sturdy, and Star made her way silently to the top. The door swung easily open, and Star stepped inside.

The only light came from the eternal-flame candle hanging over the altar on a long gold chain looped from the apex of the tall ceiling. It cast soft shadows over the padded step for kneeling, and the polished maple of the prayer railing reflected its light. The stagnant air smelled like the pages of ancient books and cedar-scented furniture polish. Star slid into one of the pews near the front and watched the flame dance inside its red glass vase.

The cool wooden pew felt good where it touched her legs and back. A sigh escaped her lips as she thought of the last time she had sat in a church, a church miles and miles away from this place. It was the day she said her final goodbye to Mac. The closed casket had rested in front of the altar in that big old sanctuary where years before she and Mac had stood to recite their marriage vows. And, as she spoke from the pulpit about their years together to all the friends and family gathered there, in the back of her mind swirled the words they’d repeated at their wedding. How blithely they had proclaimed, ‘til death do us part. But, it wasn’t supposed to be now, this soon, this way. They were supposed to be old and wrinkled, and their great grandchildren would be there to witness this day.

The thought brought the warm flow of unrestrained tears along with the memory of how she had cried out before the funeral when the ushers had closed the casket lid, shutting Mac’s body inside. The moment had sneaked up on her, so final, so cruel. So unexpected was her reaction that it had taken her breath away. It felt as if she again had landed hard on her back on the cement of the driveway when she fell from her bicycle as a child. The sadness and pain followed her even to this new life she had dreamed up, this fresh start, this empty nest, this hair-brained solution to grief she thought she’d found. Star closed her eyes and ran the all-too familiar story through her mind’s eye for the millionth time.

We were so innocent when it all began, a typical Midwestern American family of four, Julie, 17; Mark, 19; and Mac and me both coming up fast on fifty. Mac had been feeling ill for over a month