“I bought Clunker a year ago. Scraped together each and every penny,” I say with pride. “I was in Tucson for a few years, working as a receptionist and taking extra shifts at the local pizza parlor while enduring two grungy roommates in a musty apartment. It was tough, with long hours.”
I smile, feeling nostalgia despite myself. “All I can remember is an alternating soundtrack of Dean Martin crooning ‘That’s Amore’ and the thundering police helicopters that circled our neighborhood nightly. It was such a relief when I finallyshook the Tucson dust off my shoes to pursue the dirtbag rock-climber lifestyle. I sat in silence for a week to detox from the Rat-Pack-and-rotorcraft medley.”
“And you’ve just been rock climbing ever since?” Logan asks as a waiter brings out our burgers.
“I spent my first months down south at the Cochise Stronghold and then Mount Lemmon. A fair number of climbers congregate there to tackle the routes, so I could partner up on climbs.” I shrug. “I don’t really have a planned course.”
“That’s sick,” says Seth, looking grudgingly impressed. “I can’t believe you’re a rock climber!”
“I can,” Logan says. “Remember when we were kids, sneaking into the old saloon ruins? You were the only girl who could climb up and through that gap above the door without help.”
I laugh, and it takes me by surprise. I didn’t think I’d laugh at any memories associated with Sagebrush.
“That place was tough,” I say fondly. “Remember when you got stuck, Seth? Logan was tugging on your arms, I was pushing on your butt, and then—pop! You flew out like a champagne cork. Dust everywhere. We laughed so hard I thought we might collapse the rest of the roof.”
Seth slaps the table with his hands. “Yes! Damn, it’s a wonder the roof didn’t crush us to smithereens.”
“Ooh, I wonder if I could still fit,” I say. “Or if it’s as tough as I remember.”
“It’s since collapsed,” Logan explains. “Some archaeologists from the U of A are actually there right now excavating it.”
“Oh.” I don’t understand. There are so many changes in a place that felt so helplessly stuck in time while I lived here.
I look up to see Logan watching my face carefully. “I bet we could find you some other good places to climb around here. Ones with fewer legal ramifications if we’re caught. Or if it’s the trip down memory lane you’re after, we could—”
“Oh, no. I don’t need to see any of our old haunts. I just…had a moment of nostalgia. A temporary moment of insanity.”
“Why would that be insane, to see any of the old places?” Seth asks. “Too good for you?”
I press my lips together. “Funny.”
Logan’s eyes meet mine. Instead of the judgment or embarrassment I expect to see, his expression is merely blank.
I take a large bite of my burger to hide my confusion. “Um, so,” I say once I swallow. “I can’t believe both of you still live here. What do you do?”
Logan and Seth launch into an enthusiastic explanation of their tour guide business. I knew their family owned the mine and most of Compass Mountain, but I’m surprised they’ve managed to turn it into a full-fledged operation. It was my understanding that the copper mine had been a bad investment for Logan’s great-something grandfather. By the time Logan’s grandfather inherited it, the mine was completely defunct, and he’d converted it into a small mining tour company.
When we were growing up, Logan’s dad would open the mine on weekends, making just enough from ticket sales to cover property and land taxes, while still working his full-time job at the postal service to provide for his family.
Now they tell me proudly that they have five full-time employees—their brothers and sister, as well as both of them—and that they give tours of the mine and a nearby cavealmost every day.
As we talk, I get the impression of being watched. The floor-to-ceiling windows highlight the inside of the restaurant. A dozen eyes flit away when I look through them. Are they staring at me? Do these tourists somehow know what I’ve done? Maybe it’s on an insert for a “Welcome to Sagebrush” pamphlet covering recent history and infamous residents.
“Here they are!” A beautiful woman in a red, tight-fitted dress and killer heels comes out to us.
“Teresa.” Logan stands to hug her, and I stiffen. Who is this woman to him?
“What are you gentlemen doing out here? I had my hostess clear our best table just for you.”
I glance over at the restaurant again, once again finding a dozen pairs of eyes watching me. Or are they watching Teresa, wondering if some drama is happening out here? I have no idea what’s going on.
“You know we love the ambiance,” Logan says, “but it’s alittle loud.”
“Why”—she slaps his arm playfully—“you could have said! I’ll turn down the music. That’s an easy fix, and you know I’d do anything for our most beloved Sagebrush citizen.” When Logan hesitates, she adds, “I know my customers would love it if you would join us. I’ve already had several of them ask about you. Dinner would be on me, of course.”
“Ah,” Logan says. “That’s so tempting, Teresa. But we’re catching up with an old friend. I’d love to come back another night, if it’ll help business.”
Teresa smiles. “Don’t be a stranger, Logan.”
