Focused on Murder: Julia's Journals, Volume I

By Michaele Lockhart

Solving a double murder was not part of Julia Ballard's job description. 

She's embraced the career of her dreams as a nature photographer and hopes to find peace, solitude, and artistic fulfillment in the mountain wilderness of the West. Julia loads up her camera gear, and thus begins her adventure in an SUV accompanied only by her dog.

Freelance photography and writing for the magazine Natural Heritage has earned her an official staff position for a prominent environmentalist organization. However, Julia’s hard-won peace is quickly disturbed when she stumbles upon clues connected to two mysterious deaths. Innocently, she and her cameras have captured more secrets. Tension builds, suspicions about the people she works for haunt her, and her wilderness adventure becomes a nightmare.

Follow the intrigue surrounding a nine-year-old, unsolved double-murder, experience a colorful story that transports the reader through the scenic beauty of the Colorado Rockies, and share the warm bond between Julia and her dog Maxie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michaele Lockhart
• Release date: Sep 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516332298

Michaele Lockhart

Michaele Lockhart brings a diverse background to her writing: a passion for history, a fascination with human drama, and a love of literature. Her education combines early and secondary schools in Europe, in addition to college at the University of Arizona and the University of Maryland. Embracing a variety of genres, her versatility extends from her favorite periods of history to contemporary social issues. A retired teacher and a talented nature and landscape photographer, she often inserts elements of visual lyricism into her writing. Her short stories and novels encompass historical fiction adventure to romantic magic realism to suspense. As an editor, she works with writers, helping them produce their best by publishing the most professional books possible. As an author advocate, she encourages clients to spend resources wisely, where their dollars will most benefit their books and careers. Michaele lives in Tucson, Arizona. Current projects include a collection of short fiction based on family memoirs of World War II in France and a mystery-suspense series set in the scenic beauty of the Southwest. Focused on Murder is Book One in the series. Connect with her online at MichaeleLockhart.com.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

Colorado, May 1995

Charlotte had promised her daughter Emily a camping trip; otherwise she might have turned around. Apprehension had stayed with her since they turned off the county road fifteen miles back and headed up into the mountains. In a vague way she couldn’t quite identify, she had felt they were not alone.

She was fairly certain they weren’t being followed. Any vehicle on the narrow, unpaved roads would have stirred up clouds of dust or created enough noise to be noticed. For once Emily’s girlish chatter failed to dispel her sense of unease.

As a teenager Charlotte had backpacked and hiked throughout this one mountain range; she’d come to know each crest, each surrounding peak, and every hidden valley, much like other children knew their own back yards. Years later, she’d returned here seeking peace, retreating into the raw solitude of nature. When her daughter was less than two years old, she had introduced Emily to the rugged beauty of the Rockies. She was certain once they were high enough, the nagging worry would go away. It always had before.

Look, Mom! Emily bubbled with excitement. "Two Stellar Jays!"

Yes, dear! Charlotte couldn’t risk looking away from the road but was grateful for the moment’s distraction. They’re gorgeous!

The sturdy Explorer V-8 growled in lowest gear, pulling steadily against a particularly steep grade. Ahead the ascent followed the narrow ledge of road, but then doubled back, each adding an elbow-sharp bend. There were bone-jarring rough turns where layers of Colorado gneiss had fractured over time.

Shafts of bright sunlight peeked between the shadows of towering pines that lined their route; here and there the gorge to Charlotte’s left fell away to the river below. In four-wheel drive the Explorer’s backcountry tires ground against loose stones before gaining purchase. Soon the rough surface resumed the pattern of sharp curves and steep ascent, continuing onward and upward.

This is like roller coaster rides—the kind you could sue an amusement park for damages and injuries. Charlotte shared the candid observation with her daughter Emily, repeating what she often said in these mountains where they had camped and explored a dozen times before.

I wouldn’t know, Mama. You won’t let me ride one. Emily’s reply was polite but gently petulant. I’m ten years old—almost eleven!

I took a ride once. I think they’re dangerous, dear. I love you too much. I won’t allow you to do something that risky. To remind her Charlotte’s own law firm had once handled scores of such personal injury cases was hardly necessary.

She glanced at her daughter for the briefest second; what passed for mountain road demanded her full attention. Illuminated by intermittent shafts of sunlight, the girl’s wavy brunette hair was increasingly a stark contrast to her own, naturally blond and straight. Emily resembled her father more every day.

Eyes focused on the steep narrow road, Charlotte considered how fortunate she had been, discovering the truth about the man before and not after marriage. More importantly, it was before, not after, she learned she was pregnant. At first, she had felt shame writing father: unknown on the birth certificate. However, she had thus spared Emily from ever learning about him: a psychopath, a liar, an imposter—the epitome of the criminal mind.

Charlotte sighed in relief when the road ahead smoothed out for a few hundred feet, allowing her to reflect, for the moment forgetting the odd sense of dread that haunted her. Much to her continued surprise, she and her young daughter had few disagreements. Today’s interchange didn’t count. Such light banter was part routine, what they typically said to each other, and the extent of it. Thankfully, nothing had ever led to any discussion of him. When will she ask? she wondered. Surely, someday she would.

Her daughter’s shoes.... Now, they were an entirely different issue. They were always a matter of contention.

Silent for a few minutes, Emily spoke again, her tone grudging in another predictable pattern, predictable as the road’s primitive condition. "I hate these shoes!"

I hate you having to wear them.

The girl brightened momentarily. Could I take them off? For now, please? Mama? Please?

Charlotte could think of no valid reason why not. With the seatbelt fastened there would be no weight-bearing on the girl’s progressively deformed right tibia and fibula. The rare and vicious tumor was cruelly compounding one condition with another. It was compressing her young developing spine, forcing it out of alignment. She refused to tell her daughter of the doctors’ and medical specialists’ sole proposal: the amputation of her right leg below the knee. Melorheostosis. The tumor had such a pretty sounding name, she’d thought when she’d first heard it. Nothing about the prognosis was pretty. No way can I tell her, Charlotte agonized. Not ever.

Okay, dear. But you must put them on before we make camp.

The girl nodded, relieved, and untied the chunky versions of sneakers her deformity compelled her to wear. Thanks, Mama. She sighed, relaxing into temporary freedom as they drove through a stretch of road framed on both sides by dense forest. Mom?

When Emily addressed her as Mom, not Mama, Charlotte had learned to brace for a serious question to follow, not the easy chatter they enjoyed on days like these.

Why does Grandpa look away—? She swallowed the beginning of a sob. He looks angry, like when I wear a dress or shorts. The girl hesitated. Like when he can see my leg? I make him mad, I think.

A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat. She wished she had some good answer and could explain this, but she didn’t understand either. How to admit to her beloved child that her own father’s behavior the past year had bewildered and pained her too? His icy, unexplainable fury was one threat that could not touch them here, camped in the Rockies.

She reached across the console to give Emily’s perfectly formed left leg an affectionate squeeze. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You don’t make him mad. You could never make him unhappy. He loves you.

Unconvinced, Emily smiled back. Thanks, Mom.

They continued following the old mountain road, navigating the rough terrain, familiar country they both loved. Originally a mining service road, all maintenance had ceased here with the closing of the mines’ operations above. Charlotte’s father had contributed his power, wealth, and the testimony of influential scientists to the many lawsuits pending, especially those brought by the EPA. Legal sanctions imposed by the State of Colorado had quickly followed.

Next had come class action suits brought by leukemia patients and on behalf of victims with birth deformities, chromosomal aberrations, and mental retardation—the countless downstream casualties of the mines. Battles had raged, long and bitter. Victory eventually was theirs, although the human suffering could never be undone. Years later, the mines’ unmarked route remained in surprisingly stable condition, carved as it was from uplifted rock.

The land may heal itself in due time, if Man hasn’t been too evil, her father, Samuel Burroughs Marshall, had maintained. It’s like any wound, the world-renowned architect turned passionate environmentalist would pontificate. It depends on the severity of the injuries, certainly. Some scars will remain.

Charlotte and Emily Marshall had not returned to this one spot to photograph the land’s recovery in progress for three years. Camping excursions were one activity they had always enjoyed together, but Charlotte feared the inevitable. Her child was growing up; soon her interests would be those of a modern teenager. She shuddered at the other dreaded possibility. Within the year, Emily might not physically be able to journey into the backcountry at all, her world limited and defined by crutches and wheelchairs.

As a single mother Charlotte had brought her four-year-old daughter here, to this breathtaking mountain top, on a camping trip. It was their very first together. Now, especially during the delicate balancing act required in parenting a pre-adolescent, their trips bound them more closely still. If but for a week or two, she could offer respite, distancing her child from the stares and taunts of her peers. An eleven-year-old with a progressively deformed leg must endure inner torments she could not share with anyone, even her mother.

They were planning to spend a week, camped out in the magic of the high country they both loved. Returning, they would descend and explore the opposite flank of the hulking range. Uncertain of the condition of these roads, often little more than trails, Charlotte had packed ample provisions. Most critically, she had brought extra fuel in the event they must backtrack up and around, returning the way they had come.

What we’re doing will make Grandpa happy, won’t it? Beside her, Emily glowed at the prospect of pleasing the cherished and only father figure she had ever known, perhaps regaining the love she imagined lost. "Do you think he’ll use the photographs in Natural Heritage this time? They’ll be your pictures in his magazine—not that other lady’s?"

Charlotte smiled at this, part of their ongoing repartee. Emily knew the name of the photographer whose work her father published most often. Her name is Julia. Remember, dear? B-a-l-l-a-r-d. Sound it out.

The girl nodded, grim and tightlipped, turning away to stare out the passenger side window. She refused to attempt the pronunciation or even acknowledge her grandfather’s favorite photographer.

Resigned, Charlotte sighed. Yes, honey. He’ll really love it, I’m sure. Maybe my photographs will be in the magazine too. It depends on what we find. She broke through the easy spell of their chatter, her voice taut with urgency. Do you hear that?

Yeah. The girl’s youthful brow furrowed in puzzlement, her earlier pique forgotten. The gas cans are rattling. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.

Nearly as experienced and wise a camper as her mother, Emily had secured the cans with exacting care, padding wedged between them and stabilized further by bungee cords. A quick flip of her wrist released the seatbelt. Propelled by the agility of youth, she clambered over the seat into the packed rear compartment.

Mama! One of these lids isn’t tight either! It’s shaken loose. I smell fumes!

Be careful! Please, darling!

Had there been a place to stop, to pull over, even a minimal ledge available to open the door and step out, she would have done so immediately. To her left, the canyon dropped away sharply; directly ahead the road would again pass through forest. That’s enough. There’s no more rattling. The next curve is wider. I’ll stop there!

White-knuckled, Charlotte eased the Explorer around the rise on the road’s tightest ledge. As a teenager she had practically learned to drive on roads like these. Why did she suddenly feel a rising panic and sense the presence of danger? She had believed they were finally alone. Much earlier, they had passed a lone yellow mining truck near the base of the mountain, well below the boundaries of Marshall’s private land. That must be why, she decided. There should be no further mining and no more of their equipment either.

Ma—? Emily’s urgent plea, a single rising note of terror, broke and shrilled through the car.

A gradual ascent had preceded the curve ahead, but the predictable rocky jolt did not follow. In the next second, the road ceased to exist. The Explorer was lifted skyward, soaring high above the pines, erupting into the calm of a cobalt blue sky. Next the fractured beige metal scattered wide across the landscape, hurtled into long-abandoned mineshafts, and chunks of roiling flame plunged down the slope.

~~~

Harold Lippmann, the lone observer on the mountainside, removed protective goggles and ear coverings and slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. He still grasped the sleek micro-detonator, caressing it lovingly and with awe, much as some other man might caress a woman’s breast. The gadget was no bigger than a TV remote. What utterly perfect timing: he hadn’t lost his touch. Above, the SUV had arrived at the meticulously placed charges, and, with reassuring precision, the multiple explosions had been as one.

Once the tumbling boulders and clouds of red dust had settled, he hiked back up the incline, as close to the fire as he dared, and inhaled deeply. Damn, it all smelled good, even from far away. Everything about the scenario pleased him: the gasoline fed flames, the molten metal, the acrid traces of dynamite that hung over the forest, and especially the odor of burning flesh. He had waited seven long years for this moment.

He turned and headed downhill to where he’d hidden the truck in a clump of trees. Like his jacket that proclaimed H. Lippmann, Mining Consultant, the yellow truck also blazed the distinctive logo of Consolidated Mining of Colorado.

Oh, shit! he muttered to the surrounding trees. The Prima-cord.

Earlier, he had reloaded the power drills, without which he could never have conquered this one section of mountain, placing the dynamite with such perfection. In the process he had sheared several expensive drill bits and broken other company equipment. He’d find some way to explain the damage. It would have been at least a four-man job, but he had come well-prepared and allowed two full days. He scrambled up through the undergrowth to where the reel of cord sagged from a low pine branch.

Lippmann placed his hard hat to one side on a nearby stump of a log. Oh, shit! he exclaimed again, as the steeply angled slope toppled the rounded hat downhill into a knee-high thicket of poison ivy. He balanced and reached for the reel of cord. It had taken a matter of minutes, but trotting uphill bothered his ankle and required more effort than his earlier descent.

Winded, exhausted, exhilarated, he limped back to his truck and headed down and out of the mountains. As he drove away, the next step of his plan was already taking shape, the details continually, minutely, and precisely refined. Just like today, maybe better.

Chapter 2

––––––––

Communities in the valleys below, once accustomed to blasting from the mines, now would hear an occasional muffled boom when crews from the US Forest Service used dynamite to collapse long-abandoned mine tunnels for the safety of inquisitive backcountry hikers. Local residents probably would have accepted the distant rumble that day as normal, but it passed totally ignored. Anyone on the mountain could have heard the explosions. The roaring flames would have been noticed immediately, especially if they had spread.

However, early May remained quite cool and damp, high in the Colorado Rockies; spring had just begun to touch the valleys below. Above, deeply shaded basins would hold onto their store of snowpack, grown muddy and compact, releasing the hoarded moisture drop by drop. At lower elevations, welcome rain had arrived to melt away the scattered patches of gray that often lingered through June.

The inferno raged for most of the day and into early evening. A soggy slope of fern, in a clearing left by Colorado’s raging wildfires of 1987, prevented the conflagration from spreading uphill and chasing the mountain’s contours like flames ascending a chimney flue.

The fire had consumed itself before morning. A single puff of smoke straggled upward from fragments of smoldering upholstery. The cloth flared briefly, devouring a few last threads, and disappeared.

The Ford’s safety glass, turned to a fine granular powder upon exploding, had melted when engulfed by the inferno and merged with the clay-like soil base beneath the vaporized ferns. The two elements had become one, first in standing pools and then solidified, unrecognizable as ever belonging to a motor vehicle. The fuel supply—the Ford’s twenty-gallon gas tank, three five-gallon cans of reserve gasoline, a small propane tank, and kerosene for the camp stove and lantern—was finally consumed. It rained that night, a brief Colorado spring shower.

Charlotte and her daughter Emily were not expected back for at least a week; therefore, they were not missed. Two days later a Forest Ranger would discover the accident site on a routine foot patrol through obscure backcountry trails, what usually yielded a few illegal campfires and the occasional disoriented hiker. Puzzled by the blackened forest, the charred ragged chunks of metal, and the gutted road, he alerted the Colorado Department of Public Safety, the nearest law enforcement of any sort. Grudgingly, their patrols agreed to ascend the unmaintained private mountain route.

When Colorado State Trooper Bob Rawlings arrived, he could locate no identifiable traces of any vehicle or its parts. He found irregularly reformed puddles of metal, pancakes of gnarled blackened plastic, and conglomerate plaques of glassy clay. Hadn’t the Forest Ranger reported the charred remnants of a vehicle? Despite the light rain, the distinctive smell of burned fuel and molten metal blended with the sickening odor of something else clinging to the soil and nearby trees, trapped under the damp canopy of forest.

The young Colorado trooper, traditionally low in the pecking order of any government agency, recognized it at once. Returned from recent Reserve tours of duty in the Middle East and Bosnia, Rawlings had come to know the sizzling nightmare and smells of war: this was one smell no other mammal could mimic. It was also impossible to forget.

Oh, my God! he shouted to the county sheriff’s volunteer deputy assigned to him for the day. It’s burned flesh—human flesh! Two possibilities suggested themselves, both horrific: a cataclysmic accident or a ritualistic murder. He had witnessed both.

Rawlings glanced around the scene, an Armageddon among what had once been an Eden of primordial forest. The unique smell was the sole clue there had ever been a human presence here. Had there been someone else—other than a driver—no hint remained of any passenger’s fate. Nothing about the macabre scene, eerily devoid of usual trace evidence, suggested a survivor.

Hey, Bob! Look at this. The deputy had found something: a single, long braid of thick, dark hair caught in the first fork of a tree.

Bag it, Rawlings yelled over his shoulder and continued his search. He kicked at a sapling in frustration and swore softly. Why had everything else vanished? Where was the burned, scattered metal reported by the ranger? Had anyone thought to take down the caller’s name?

Here’s something else. The deputy was removing a sooty, oddly shaped sneaker from another tree. Using a length of broken branch to avoid touching the evidence, he slid the shoe into a plastic bag.

Good work. Rawlings was kneeling down to collect what little he could, scooping charred earth into small evidence bags. No sooner had he begun when the radio on the patrol vehicle crackled to life. His efforts were quickly impeded by Samuel Burroughs Marshall’s refusal to permit the State onto his land.

Rawlings? the disembodied voice demanded. "The owner is on the line. You’re to get your butt off his land now." Tucked within the mountains reception was sketchy, the voices barely understandable, but the emphasis and message came through loud and clear.

Rawlings rushed back to the vehicle and grabbed the dashboard mike. Terry? He guessed it was their station’s regular radio operator. Got a suspicious fire up here. Gasoline-fed. Over. The radio sputtered uncertainly. There’s evidence of burned human remains and—

Marshall is ordering you away from the scene, the operator repeated. Now.

Terry, you’re breaking up, Rawlings shouted into the mike. Can’t hear you! He waited a moment and then switched off the radio. How does Mr. Marshall know there’s a scene? He reached into the console and jerked out a handful of plastic gloves and a dozen more evidence bags.

Here! Rawlings called to his helper. We’re gathering more. He indicated a broad area of charred earth and set to work marking it off in quadrants.

The volunteer deputy came up beside him. But I thought—

Never mind—hurry! I’ll take responsibility.

––––––––

Whatever happened remained unsolved, a mystery, but Rawlings’s neatly labeled bags were kept, filed away at the Department’s central headquarters. At last authorities concluded there undoubtedly had been a fiery accident, somewhere on the back roads of private land. Typically, Marshall was unavailable for comment. One year later a small notice devoid of any detail—no times, dates, specifics, or names—and issued by the company spokesman, announced the sad loss of the daughter and granddaughter of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Burroughs Marshall.

For years a gaping chasm in the private road would block the rugged backcountry to all but the most dedicated hikers. Once more pines whispered intimate secrets to the neighboring aspens. Nature’s calm, deceptively reassuring, returned to the mountains and Marshall’s protected wilderness.

Nine years later, the tragic deaths of Charlotte and Emily would eventually be identified as meticulously executed murders. After several months of analysis the charred soil that Rawlings collected would finally yield the microscopic cremains of only Charlotte Marshall, daughter of Samuel Burroughs Marshall, environmentalist and owner of the vast spread of protected and isolated wilderness. There was no evidence whatsoever of the little girl’s fate, except that the singed braid and the shoe were definitively hers. The revelations ignited turmoil and angry finger-pointing among local, state, and federal law enforcement.

Given time, the loosened fibers and particles that floated free that day would coalesce to respin themselves into tiny strands. It was inevitable, since matter could neither be created nor destroyed, but may only change in form. Once begun, the process of reweaving and reconnecting would pull countless others into a web of intrigue.

Somehow it would even involve The Marshall Foundation’s principle photographer, Julia Ballard. At the time she had been living in Dallas, over eight hundred miles away. A single event in May of 1995 would change her life. Nine years later, by September of 2004, the unsolved disaster was at last an open official investigation.

––––––––

For most of the lazy ranching community of Dos Piedras, nestled in the shadow of Colorado’s majestic San Juans, the day would be allowed to seep back into the collective memory of things past. There were exceptions, of course.

Occasionally Rawlings would awaken in the middle of the night, a particular smell fresh in his nostrils. At the scene of a fatal highway accident, at a gasoline-fed fire combined with charred human flesh, the questions often came flooding back. What happened to the pieces of Charlotte Marshall’s SUV? What about her daughter?

Marshall could easily have learned law enforcement was on his land. Someone undoubtedly had informed him, because he had people everywhere. But who? Rawlings wondered, the thought spinning round in his head. And why had his own attempts at investigation been stopped before he even had a chance to begin?

Chapter 3

Arizona, September 2004

––––––––

Julia Ballard stepped back to better survey the inevitable chaos that seemed to accompany the final stages of packing for any trip, especially a camping trip. Unsteady piles of jeans, shirts, and sweaters leaned into a protected zone where Nikon lenses lay in cases, their capped black and silver camera bodies surrounding them and standing guard. She worried constantly whether she was forgetting anything.

Maxie had invited herself into the midst of the disorder, the Great Pyrenees’ nearly ninety pounds and vast acreage of white fur stretching across the queen-sized bed. There she had settled, selecting one of Julia’s hiking boots and nuzzling it with the care of a mother tending a pup.

Her mother broke through her ruminations. Six weeks in the Colorado wilderness.... Her voice was heavy with envy. If I weren’t teaching a nearly full schedule and the semester hadn’t already started, I’d abandon everything. Just chuck it all and go camping with you.

Rosalie Garaway had driven to Tucson from Prescott to spend the weekend and wish her daughter bon voyage. They rarely had a chance to visit, although once more living in the same state. Prescott, where Julia’s parents had chosen to retire and restore the historic Garaway family homestead, was a long tedious drive.

I remember when Jim and I....

Julia turned back, concerned at the tremor in her mother’s voice. Mom? Her first major official assignment would inevitably evoke memories of their family’s past camping trips. When they were younger, there were always three little girls piled into the back of a station wagon; later somehow all of them had packed together into one tent.

I’m fine. Rosalie smiled but blinked rapidly, a response her daughter knew well. How could any man have ever endured, surrounded by so much estrogen? She laughed and Julia observed the return of her mother’s vibrant spirit, determined to remember only the love and the good and the funny.

––––––––

Divorced and returned home to Tucson, Julia had accepted this job, at times thrilled with the opportunities it presented and at other times daunted by everything it entailed. Accepting the job was not exactly the appropriate term, she soon learned. Even from beyond the grave, Samuel Burroughs Marshall controlled the lives of everyone who had ever worked for him.

She had been providing freelance photography to The Marshall Foundation’s publications for the past sixteen years, but her position—she supposed she was entitled to call it that now—was finally official. It might have been official for at least eight years, but perhaps the Marshalls had done her more than one favor. The formal notification of the terms of their will, which granted her a permanent salary and a job, arrived after her divorce from Lee was final.

When she doubted the good fortune that had come her way, as she did at first, she would unwind the string from the clasp on the slim, white legal envelope and slide out the crisp parchment-like documents and study them again. There it was: Nature Writer and Staff Photographer for their glossy quarterly magazine Natural Heritage. The title sounded pompous enough. The salary was more than adequate, certainly more than she could ever have hoped for. She hadn’t worked outside the home for twenty-five years.

––––––––

Down, Maxie. Julia gently reprimanded the dog who continued to sprawl across the bed, investigating and sniffing the contents of each duffle bag before returning to cuddle her preferred toy.

Maxie obediently heaved herself off the bed and sighed, reluctant and resigned. Piles of jeans and sweaters shifted as she left and then reordered in her wake. The dog eased down, capturing the boot and taking it with her to the floor. There she stretched like a throw rug made of white fur, long muzzle propped across her forepaws and liquid black eyes beseeching in offended indignation. Even animals found it easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

Rosalie crossed the room to join the dog, kneeling beside her and caressing her silky ears.

Don’t let her hide that, Mom. Those are my favorite hikers.

You know what’s wrong with this dog? Her mother’s question sounded innocently rhetorical. Neglect. The signs are obvious. On cue, Maxie rolled leisurely onto her back, dog tags clinking against terra cotta tile, and exposed her stomach and chest in invitation. She raised both forepaws in further abject supplication. Rosalie combed through the silky fur with her fingers. You two are so lucky. She was addressing her remarks exclusively to the dog. Six weeks in Colorado. Maxie turned her head and licked Rosalie’s hand in gratitude.

You can’t fool anyone, Maxie.

The dog ignored her mistress, luxuriating in the extra attention. Julia was never sure whether she should confess, even to her mother, but Maxie slept with her too, something discouraged by vets around the world. However, camping out they would sleep together of necessity, wedged in the rear compartment of the Suburban.

What exactly are you doing this time? Some of Julia’s work for the magazine had been more straightforward, although outdoor photography by its very nature was an unpredictable proposition, highly dependent on the weather. Her mother always sounded curious, not concerned, about her daughter’s untraditional work arrangements. Anything specific?

Here. Julia handed her the trusty, familiar state atlas, already folded open. The DeLorme large-scale map book illustrated the entire state of Colorado, page by page for over one hundred pages, each grid-section displayed in highly magnified, minute detail. Do you see a place called Dos Piedras? She pointed to the lower corner of one page. It’s a small town in the southwestern part of the state. I’ll be based there, but camping out in the valley to the east. It’s in the adjacent quadrant.

Rosalie lifted the book, squinting and holding the page nearer to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. "A very small town, judging by the fine print."

Julia picked up one duffle bag and stuffed in half the jeans and shirts. It’s in a protected wilderness area where there was once a Spanish colonial settlement well over two hundred years ago. It’s also been protected from pollution by the mines. One of the few places left.

Rosalie was peering closely, studying the page. Which direction?

Leaving Dos Piedras, turn west, then follow the curving county road out of town. You’ll be going east, then turn north on an unimproved private road. It takes you up into the mountains and—

Where? Rosalie interrupted. I can’t find it. Look.

Julia leaned over her shoulder to study the map.

Resting a fingertip on the page, her mother pointed to the nearly blank surrounding green quadrants. Elevations of mountain peaks dotted their perimeter, a skinny blue line indicated what might be a small, nameless river, but the unnumbered county road became a dashed line and eventually disappeared.

Well, Mom, no map is perfect. Even DeLorme’s trusty atlas, Julia said cheerily. She tried to brush aside her own niggling doubts. She could swear she had seen the high valley on the map. Or had the Foundation’s description filled her mind so completely that somehow she was already imagining the place?

They’ve sent me detailed directions. Mainly I’ll be working for the ‘essence that was Samuel Marshall.’ She folded three pairs of long, warm underwear and added them to the shifting stacks on the bed. I feel that his spirit will hover over his chosen causes—and me.

I’m glad to see your optimism’s returned. Rosalie winked at her daughter. Even if it sounds a bit fanciful at times.

I’m helping fulfill The Marshall Foundation’s environmental mission. She hesitated, momentarily lost in thought. That’s what’s important.

The divorce had come as a relief, years after her marriage was really ended, but a sense of failure hovered about her like a fitful ghost. Now she would at last be on her own, distanced from disappointment. Loaded with camera gear she would photograph the natural world and write about what she loved, what she had missed for so long.

"Besides capturing scenics for Natural Heritage, some of my work will entail seasonal photography. Sometimes I’ll be documenting how protected species are managing as well as evaluating the recovery of native plants. Soon she would be roaming and camping in the backcountry wilderness of Colorado, her sole companion in her over-sized Suburban her over-sized dog, the gentle Maxie. I believe in the Foundation and trust them. What could be more ideal?" Some questions didn’t require an answer.

Their philosophy matches yours, her mother agreed. Or yours matches theirs. They certainly recognize and value your talent. She gestured toward a stack of magazines from whose covers glowed evidence of her daughter’s artistic passion.

Julia nodded, considering once more the new future that awaited her. Yes, I guess so. That her earlier timid freelancing could have led to all this often astounded her.

Your father would be so proud. He’d be bragging to anyone who’d listen, Rosalie said. I’m proud too. You know that. She blinked, sniffed once, and looked away.

Her mother had coped better than she had following her father’s death. Julia swallowed hard, trying to clear her throat.

Hasn’t a lot changed in the organization since you first met the Marshalls?

She turned back, forcing a bright smile. "Yes, but I probably won’t discover exactly what—not until it touches my life, I presume. Communication never has been the Foundation’s strong suit. She dismissed any further concerns, shrugging the question away. Their direct deposit checks appear regularly. She reached under one stack of clothes that struggled to stay perched on the bed and pulled out two slender volumes covered in light tan leather. Look at these, Mom."

"Journals! Oh, my, they’re lovely! Rosalie whispered. Smiling in approval she reached out, touched them, but glanced away quickly at another reawakened and poignant memory. That’s good. You’ll be writing."

That’s half my job!

When Julia and her sisters were young, their parents, both university professors, insisted they each keep a journal. "It doesn’t matter what you write, just write, they reminded their three daughters, who patiently obliged. When Julia was eight, she had once asked her father, What will you write about tonight, Daddy?"

They were huddled against the evening chill on the back patio of their home, staring up into the star-flecked tapestry of a desert night sky. You promise not to tell? Her father, who held a doctorate in physics and astrophysics, grinned down at her. She nodded in solemn complicity. Okay. I’m going to write, ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star, How I wonder....’ How we all loved his sense of humor.

Writing no longer fulfilled an obligation to her parents—she smiled at the once childish concept—it was her job. When her hollowed-out mausoleum of a marriage at last collapsed in divorce, she had moved back to Arizona, faced with the need to work, as much for finances as for her eroded self-esteem. There were times when she couldn’t decide which was more critical. Considering her pleasant little patio home, perched close to the mountains with airy views in every direction, and its disproportionately inflated purchase price, she quickly reprioritized her life and Maxie’s. She definitely needed the income.

She tossed one bound volume toward the far duffle bag. Maxie stood up briefly to inspect the unfamiliar object that landed on the edge of the bed, its scent tantalizingly similar to one of her leather chew toys. Curiosity satisfied, she settled onto the floor.

The new journals were artfully bound in Italian leather, the crisp interior pages softly shadowed with broad-spaced lines. She had bought one at a local upscale stationary store, and then a second, one luxury she allowed herself among practicalities. She would wedge them carefully around the technological paraphernalia required of a modern photographer. This assignment alone might fill the two volumes, she rationalized. There will be notes about locations, documenting photographic data, and starting new magazine articles for Natural Heritage. The laptop, with its ravenous appetite for battery power, she would save for more finished writing.

Her mother was preparing to leave, and Maxie trotted after her, tail waving like a white signal flag.

I’ll need to get started soon, if there’s any chance of getting past Phoenix before the heaviest traffic. Ahead would be the inevitable nearly four-hour drive.

Maxie pressed against Julia’s mother, silent but clinging like a wistful child.

Obviously this dog’s starved for affection. A smiling Rosalie shook her head in mock disapproval and petted Maxie one last time in farewell. Should I report you to the SPCA?

They both laughed at the unlikelihood. For nearly two years the dog had enjoyed Julia’s undivided attention most of the time, something she joyously returned. She possessed an uncanny ability to elicit affection from her extended family without demanding it, much like a congenial sponge. Maxie gave back as much as she received, and even more in absolute loyalty and devotion.

Julia waited by the front door and waved as her mother pulled out of the driveway. I’ll call when I get there, Mom. Wherever it is! Her dog, behaving like she had lost a favorite playmate, slowly followed Julia back inside, her long plume of a tail lowered, drooping in disappointment.

––––––––

At last her bed was cleared. The jeans, shirts, long warm underwear, and socks were packed in an order that made sense to her, if to no one else. Maxie’s sack of dog food was already wedged in the car and the jugs of water stowed. She would load everything else early tomorrow before dawn.

Julia stretched across the bed and, as if the restriction from earlier in the day had been lifted and the scolding long forgotten, Maxie clambered up to join her. The shift of weight on the bed dislodged an object that had managed to slither under pillows scattered around the head of the bed. Overlooked was one of the leather-bound journals.

She finished extracting the book from its hiding place and opened the soft binding. The book fell open easily, displaying hand-stitched pages of creamy vellum. Maxie leaned on her shoulder, intrigued by whatever might interest her mistress.

Should we write in this tonight, even before we leave? She was always relieved when others, even her own family, were not around to hear her talking to a dog—at least, not like this.

Lost in thought she balanced on the edge of the bed, pen poised over the page. Her first journal entry should be something special. Soon the book’s organization would disintegrate into a jumble of notations about f-stops, dates, lighting conditions, research notes, and the beginnings of magazine articles.

She began to write, with Maxie’s muzzle resting on her shoulder, the broad mouth happily agape. It should be that simple line from Jean-Jacques Rousseau, she decided, one of her favorite quotations: Where is the man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by man, the morality of his actions....

She finished and examined her handwriting: during the years she had become dependent on a computer it had sadly deteriorated. However, those special written words were certainly as appropriate as her father’s, and they seemed absolutely perfect. A smiling Maxie continued to peer over her shoulder, panting in anticipation.

The morality of our actions, Julia repeated in a whisper, both mine and Samuel Burroughs Marshall’s. She reached to caress Maxie’s ears and the dog cuddled closer.

Before her lay the open road and the beauties of the West on assignment for Natural Heritage, luring her on with fresh resolve to write every day. Thankfully her mother had possessed the grace, intelligence, and good sense not to conclude her visit with platitudes about hoping she would find herself. For the moment her aspirations were simpler: she hoped she wouldn’t get lost.

What lay ahead hidden in the majesty of Colorado’s mountains? Tomorrow marked the start of her new life, the opportunity of a lifetime. Wouldn’t everyone feel that they owed the land all sorts of morality like she and the Marshalls did?

Chapter 4

––––––––

Julia checked Maxie’s seatbelt harness one final time and slammed the passenger door of her environmentally maligned, four-wheel drive Suburban V-8. Critics maintained that the vehicle left a carbon footprint the size of Rhode Island and it probably did. She’d deal with conscience and criticism later, but for the next six weeks, the large black vehicle would be their home.

On a pleasantly cool late September morning nearly nine hundred miles of open road beckoned. Stretching out before her was the temptation to revisit and explore, now that she was returned to her native Southwest. Ahead lay the unknown, her destination a miniscule ranching community tucked into the mountains of Colorado. It represented her first formal assignment as a photo-journalist, her first salary-paying job in twenty-five years.

She reached over and scratched Maxie’s head. Emily Dickinson once wrote, ‘We turn not older with the years, but newer every day.’ What do you think, girl? She was about to test the poet’s theory. Could life really begin anew at the age of fifty-four?

Ever the congenial traveling companion, Maxie nodded, the bright, intelligent eyes studying her. The dog contributed an open-mouthed grin of what seemed to be approval, and Julia pulled out onto the nearly deserted route linking with the Interstate, a route to a new chapter in life.

She eased onto I-10 beside two eighteen-wheelers that were roaring past at over 80 mph, shattering the momentary illusion of peace and quiet. Road traffic she was confident she could manage, but the exact nature of her unusual working arrangement remained a puzzle. Apprehension often returned to haunt her.

Once away from Tucson’s ever-spreading clusters of development, green hills refreshed by late summer rains rolled past in a constantly changing panorama. Cloud shadows dashed across purple hulks of nearby mountains, their silhouettes flickering beside the highway. The day seemed filled with promise. She always welcomed this particular stretch of highway, relishing the lushness of a monsoon-brightened desert before the stark transition nearing New Mexico’s border.

Would her father have disapproved of her traveling like this, trekking off into the wilderness by herself? His other philosophies had been quite modern, but he had often worried about his girls—his wife Rosalie and the three daughters who so closely resembled their mother. The strong genes of Rosalie O’Neill Garaway were proclaimed in their russet hair, blue-green eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of black lashes, and high rosy cheeks. They had once shared a complexion that freckled darkly at the mention of the sun.

In the passenger seat beside her, Maxie was nodding off, lulled by the motion of the car. Julia smiled. Her father would have had no cause to worry: she wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by man’s best friend and quite a big friend at that. Just over two years old, Maxie weighed slightly less than she did, but the thick white coat made her appear much larger, a size factor that could intimidate. Her family alone knew how cuddly she was.

Divorce was most peculiar. She had not cared in the least that Lee had taken the Jaguar, the new BMW, or their sprawling, luxury vacation home, but she would have fought with everything she had for her dog. She thanked God daily their children were grown and had not been involved, distanced from the inevitable stress and ugliness.

We’re partners now, aren’t we, girl? She gave Maxie’s broad neck an affectionate pat. It’s you and me, kid. And Mr. Marshall, of course.

Julia had met the Marshalls but once, and she had fallen under their spell. She had seen Mr. Marshall’s work in Architectural Digest, spreads showcasing designs for famous clients, restorations he had accomplished on historic buildings and mansions, and two of his own homes. She had imagined