Pink Jinx

  Could this possibly be the slippery Dr. Claire Cassidy? Crazy Claire? For some reason, he’d expected someone older, more witchy looking. It was hard to tell from this distance, but she couldn’t be much older than thirty, although who knew? Women today were able to fool guys all the time. Makeup to look as if they were not wearing makeup. Nips and tucks. Collagen. Boob lifts, ferchrissake!

  The woman was fly-fishing, which was an art in itself. Caleb was the furthest thing from a poet, but the way she executed the moves was pure art in motion. Like a ballet. Following a clock pattern, she raised her long bamboo rod upward with her right hand, stopping abruptly at noon to apply tension to her line. Then she allowed the rod to drift back slowly in the forward cast, stopping abruptly at eleven o’clock, like the crack of a whip. The follow-through was a dance of delicacy because the fly should only land on top of the water for a few seconds to fool the trout below water level that it was real live food. Over and over she performed this operation. It didn’t matter that she didn’t catch anything. The joy was in the casting.

  And in the watching.

  Dropping down to the edge of the deck, elbows resting on raised knees, he breathed in deeply. The scent of honeysuckle and pine filled the early morning air. Silence surrounded him, which was not really silence if one listened carefully. The rush of the water’s current. Bees buzzing. Birds chirping. In the distance, a train whistle. He even saw a hawk swoop gloriously out of the mountains searching for food. Caleb felt as if he’d been sucker punched, jolted back to a time and place he’d spent seventeen years trying to forget.

  The Plain People, as the Amish called themselves, were practical to a fault. Fishing was for catching fish. No Lands’ End angler duds or fancy Orvis rods or custom-made flies. Just worms. But his Dat had been different. As stern as he was in many regards, he had given Caleb and his four brothers an appreciation for God’s beauty in nature and the heavenly joy of fly-fishing. Much like that minister in the movie A River Runs Through It, Caleb’s old man had made fly-fishing an exercise in philosophy, albeit the Old Order Amish way of life. Caleb smiled to himself, knowing his father would not be pleased with comparison to an Englisher, anyone not Amish, even a man of God.

  And, for sure and for certain, as the Amish would say, they didn’t believe in that wasteful “catch and release” business, which the fisherwoman in front of him was doing now with a twenty-inch rainbow. How many times had Caleb heard, “To waste is to destroy God’s gift”? No, if an Amishman caught a fish, he ate it. With homemade chow-chow, spaetzle oozing with butter, sliced tomatoes still warm from the garden, corn fritters, and shoofly pie.

  Stomach rumbling with sudden hunger, Caleb shook his head to clear it of unwanted memories, stood, and walked down the railroad-tie steps to the edge of the river.

  The woman glanced his way, then did a double take. After a brief hesitation, she waved.

  Yep, she must be crazy.

  He was a big man, six-four, and still carried the musculature that defined a Navy SEAL. The tattoo of a chain around his upper arm usually gave women pause. Plus, he was a stranger. But did she appear frightened? Nah. She just waved at him. He could be an axe murderer for all she knew. She was either brave or stupid or crazy, he figured. Maybe all three.

  Enough!

  He waded into the cold water. It soon covered his shoes, his bare legs, his running shorts, and then the bottom of his T-shirt. Once he reached the woman, whose mouth was now gaping open, he gritted his teeth, then snarled, “Your phone broken, lady?”

  She blinked. Tall for a woman, maybe five-nine, she was still a head shorter than him and had to crane her neck to stare up at him. “Ah, the persistent Caleb.” Then she smiled and shook her head as if he were not worthy of her attention. Just like her damn fat cat and her damn rat dog.

  Taken aback for a second by her attitude, he failed to register the fact that she had, unbelievably, resumed fishing. She’s ignoring me. I don’t fuckin’ believe this. Three days of chasing my tail, and she thinks she can ignore me. I. Don’t. Think. So.

  Without warning, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, just barely catching the bamboo rod in his other hand as it started to float downstream. With her kicking and screaming, he stomped through the water, probably scaring off every fish within a one-mile radius.

  “Put me down, you goon.”

  “Stop squirming. I’ll put you down when I’m good and ready. We’re on my clock now, baby.”

  “Clock? Clock? I’d like to clock you.”

  His eardrum was in danger of breaking from her screeching.

  “I mean it. Put me down. Aaarrgh! Take your hand off my ass.”

  “Stop putting your ass in my face.”

  “You are in such trouble. Wait till I call the police. Hope you know a good lawyer,” she threatened to his back.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m shakin’ in my boots . . . rather, my Adidas.”

  “Ha, ha, ha! You’re not going to be making jokes once you’re in the clink.”

  The clink? Haven’t heard that expression in, oh, let’s say, seventeen years. Once on the bank, he propped the rod against a tree and stood her on her feet, being careful to hold on to one hand lest she take flight, or wallop him a good one.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, yanking her hand out of his grasp, then placing both hands on her hips.

  “Getting your attention.”

  “You got my attention when you failed to complete the Park Service forms for the project—a month ago.”

  Oh, so that’s what has her panties in a twist. “They were fifty-three friggin’ pages long,” he protested. The dumbass red-tape forms asked him, as Pearl Jinx project manager, to spell out every blinkin’ thing about the venture and its participants. There were questions and subquestions and sub-subquestions. He’d used a red Sharpie to write “Bullshit!” across the empty forms and returned them to her. “Okay, my returning them that way probably wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to do, but, my God, the Navy doesn’t do as much background checking for its high-security special forces as your government agency requires.”

  She snorted her opinion. “It’s not my agency. I’m just a freelance consultant, specializing in Native American culture. You must know that Spruce Creek is situated right along what was once a major Indian path. In fact, Route Forty-five that runs from Spruce Creek to Danville was once an Indian trail known as Karondenah Path. Indian Cavern in Franklinville is only a mile or two away from the cavern you’ll be working, and it was loaded with artifacts. We have to be sure nothing of historical value is disturbed by your project.”

  If I needed a history lesson, sweetie, I would turn to The History Channel. “Yes, I’m aware of all that, but you’re changing the subject. I must have put a dozen messages on your answering machine in the past thirty-six hours and God only knows how many before that. Guess how many times you called me back?” He made a circle with a thumb and forefinger. She was lucky he didn’t just give her the finger.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me.”

  “That was not manhandling. If I was handling you, babe, you would know it.”

  “What a chauvinist thing to say!”

  “Call me pig, just as long as you call me.”

  She threw her hands in the air with disgust, then shrugged her waders down and off, hanging them from a knot on the same tree where the rod rested. Underneath, she wore dry, faded jeans and thick wool socks, no shoes. Only then did she turn back to him. “You idiot. I’ve been gone for the past week. I got home late last night. That’s why I didn’t return your calls.”

  “Oh?” Caleb had been working for two years on various Jinx treasure-hunting projects, but this was the first time he was a project manager. It was important to him that it be a success. Pissing off a required team member was not a design for success. “Sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his apology and
offered her own conciliatory explanation. “I like to spend time in the woods.”

  “How about using your cell phone to check messages?” There I go, being snippy again.

  “I don’t believe in cell phones. Besides, what would be the point of taking modern conveniences into the forest?”

  He rolled his eyes. She doesn’t believe in cell phones. What century is she living in? That’s what he thought, but he was polite when he asked, “So, you’ve been camping?”

  “Not exactly.” Without elaborating, she started to walk back toward the cabin.

  He hated it when women stopped talking in the middle of a conversation, especially when the guy was being logical, not to mention bending over backward to tame his inner chauvinist. He soon caught up with her.

  “What was so important that you had to get in touch with me right away?” she asked when they got to her deck.

  “‘Right away’ was three days ago, babe.”

  She arched her brows at his surliness, and probably at his use of the word babe, too.

  Tough shit! He tamped his temper down, again, and replied, “The Pearl Project starts tomorrow.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve been told that you have to be there as a Park Service rep from the get-go.”

  “And?”

  “And you haven’t confirmed.” Her attitude was really starting to annoy him. Starting? More like continuing. Behave, Peachey. Don’t let her rile you. An impatient man is a dead target.

  She arched an eyebrow at him again. “Since when do I need to confirm anything with you?”

  Uh-oh! Are we gonna have a pissing contest over who’s in charge? I can guarantee it’s not gonna be her. If we have to vet every little anal thing, we’ll be here in the boonies for months instead of weeks. He put his face in his hands and counted to ten. When he glanced her way again, he said, “Look, we’re gonna have to find a way to work together. Truce?” He extended a hand.

  She hesitated, but then agreed, “Truce,” and placed her hand in his. Her hand was small compared to his, with short unpolished nails. He could swear his heart revved up at just the feel of her calloused palm pressed against his calloused palm.

  Am I pathetic or what?

  “Are you hungry?”

  That question caught him by surprise. Was her new strategy torture by niceness? Or calloused palm, erotic handshakes? “Yeah,” he answered suspiciously.

  “Good. I picked some wild blueberries yesterday and have muffins cooling inside.”

  He didn’t immediately follow her but sat down on one of the chairs to take off his wet shoes and socks. Meanwhile, the delicious aroma of baked goods wafted out to him. The rat dog trotted over and eyed his shoes. Just as it was about to take a chomp out of the fabric, Caleb grabbed the shoe and set it and its mate up on the arm of the chair. When he turned, he saw the dog running off with one of his wet socks in its mouth.

  “Boney!” Dr. Cassidy yelled out through the screen door at the thief. There were four more cats of various sizes rubbing themselves against her ankles.

  To his surprise, the dog stopped, looked back at its mistress dolefully, dropped the sock, and went off the porch and into the brush.

  “You named your dog Boner?”

  She made a clucking sound of disgust. “Not Boner. Boney. You know. Napoleon Bonaparte. Little dog. Napoleon Complex.”

  Well, at least she has a sense of humor. Okay, I see five cats so far and one semidog. What next?

  What next, he soon learned, was Indian tom-tom music, along with some guttural chants, coming from a tape deck inside. “Ay-yi-yi-yi! Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi . . .” Two cages in one corner, one holding what looked like a porcupine with a splint on its leg and the other holding a bird with mangled feathers. And the good doctor taking off her T-shirt, whose sleeves were wet, leaving her with just a sports running bra kind of thing. Nothing scandalous. It was midway between a granny-type cotton undergarment and a hoochie-mama Victoria’s Secret scrap of sexiness, but still . . . It was pink. And there was all that skin. Bare arms. Bare midriff. Bare collarbones. Plus, she was ripped, which would explain the exercise mat and hand weights. Not weight lifter ripped, but female athlete ripped. And worst of all—or best of all—she had breasts that could make a grown man weep.

  Good thing I am not looking. Nope. I. Am. Not. Looking. And I am not getting turned on.

  “It’s hot in here, don’t you think?” she asked, belatedly explaining her “strip tease,” he supposed.

  At least it felt like a strip tease to him.

  She began to set a tray with supersized muffins, butter, mugs of coffee, sugar and cream, unaware of how tempting she looked. Forget muffins. He’d like a taste of—

  To his surprise, she gave him a once-over, too. A once-over that gave special attention to his wet shorts. Then, with a bland expression, giving no clue to her assessment, she said, “It feels like today will be a scorcher.”

  Tell me about it! “It’s probably your oven.” Shit! Could I sound any more dorky?

  She looked at him again, and this time she smiled.

  While she continued to set the tray with small plates and napkins and other crap, he looked around her cabin. It was either that or ogle her body, which would not be smart. Pink? What kind of serious archaeologist wears pink? Shiiit!

  The cabin was nice. Dried herbs hung from the low rafters of the kitchen, giving it a fragrant, cozy atmosphere. Colorful dream catchers at the windows caught and reflected the light like prisms. He assumed that a bedroom and bathroom were off to the left. To the right was the addition, which was completely open, making a combination kitchen/den/living room. A huge stone fireplace was flanked on one side by a half dozen baskets, some woven, others coiled, and on the other by a rustic, low, armless rocking chair that looked homemade. Two log walls of the addition held floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a built-in PC desk in the corner. The shelves overflowed with books, many of them related to the Lenni-Lenape tribe of the Delaware nation. Also, there were Indian relics: an impressive arrowhead collection, a peace pipe, several tomahawks, and framed photographs.

  He walked over to check out one of the pictures.

  Then wished he hadn’t.

  It was a side view of Dr. Cassidy facing some man of obvious Native American heritage. Her long auburn hair was in braids. His black hair was, too, and adorned with a single feather. They both wore Indian ceremonial outfits. His chest was bare. On top she appeared to be nude as well, except for the numerous bead and feathered necklaces she wore. On the bottom, he sported a loincloth-type outfit with leather flaps covering his belly and ass. She wore a low-riding, knee-length, fringed leather skirt and beaded moccasins. Her arms were raised, shaking some kind of rattles. He could care less about the man. But her—wow! Her side was bare from armpit to hip. From that view, Caleb got a perfect view of the side of one of her breasts.

  Good Lord! Not the way I want to be picturing the archaeologist assigned to our project. She’ll be talking Indian legends and I’ll be thinking, “Wanna come over to my tepee and show me your beads?”

  A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Are you married?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  He was walking back to the kitchen and waved over his shoulder at the photograph. “Geronimo back there.”

  She made a tsking sound at the political incorrectness of his remark. “That’s Professor Henry Hawk from the University of Pennsylvania. He’s a full-blooded Lenni-Lenape Indian. Geronimo was Apache.”

  Well, big whoop!

  “I’m not topless in the photo, by the way.” She grinned, obviously reading his mind. “Lots of people think I am, but I’m wearing a flesh-colored leotard.”

  That’s just great! Ruin a guy’s fantasy, why don’t you? “Don’t you believe in historical accuracy?”

  “Yeah, but I was young and naive then. I let the promoter talk me into it. Turned out that more people were watching my jiggling breasts as I danced, instead of learning about Indian rituals. That
was the last time they tried that.”

  Oh, good Lord! Now I add jiggling to my fantasy.

  Dr. Cassidy carried the tray out to the deck and motioned for him to move the laptop. While closing the lid, he noticed it contained notes on some Indian mating ritual. He wasn’t dumb enough to ask if that’s what she and Geronimo were doing in the photograph. Not now. But I’ll bet my Navy SEAL Budweiser pin that I hot damn will later.

  After three muffins and sipping his second cup of coffee, he leaned back. “That was great, Dr. Cassidy. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. The wild berries are smaller, but I think they’re sweeter. And, please, call me Claire.”

  He nodded. “So, what were you doing in the woods when you were not camping?” he asked, repeating her words back to her.

  “I don’t camp in the traditional sense, you know, tents and kerosene stoves. I build a wigwam up in the mountains like the Lenni-Lenape Indians did and cook over an open fire.”

  “Alone?” He was picturing her with some guy—okay, him—bending over the fire. Maybe dancing a little, making those beads and other things jiggle. Then, they’d go into the wigwam, and—

  “Usually.”

  “Huh?”

  “I usually go alone. I like the solitude. And I’m able to explore and dig for Indian artifacts at my leisure.”

  He could understand the solitude part—he was a loner himself—though he liked his fantasy better. “And you planned all along to be back here for the start of the project tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I always honor my commitments.”