“He eats better than I do.”

“That’s how it should be. But no beer for him.”

Skip threw up his hands in mock dismay. “How could you even think—?”

She glanced at her watch. “We’d better get going. The rendezvous at the Institute’s in half an hour.”

Skip helped her load the duffel and day pack into her car and got into the driver’s seat.

“Wait. One more goodbye to Mitty.”

“You love that stupid dog more than me.”

Nora went back to the house and gave the dog a hug, told him to be a good boy, and assured him she’d be back. She eased out the door and saw him appear moments later at the window, propped up on his front paws, watching her leave with sad eyes and drooping tail.

“He’s going to be fine with me,” said Skip as she got back in the car, “and so’s your house. I promise. Mitty will get a hike every day.” He patted his belly. “And I’m going to lose five pounds in the process.”

“In that case, you’d better lay off the beer. And Georgetta, while you’re at it.”

“Jesus, what a taskmistress. How long did you say this expedition’s going to last—four weeks? Sure you can’t make it eight?”

They wound through the narrow predawn streets of Santa Fe to the outskirts of town, where the Institute had its twenty-acre campus, an attractive spread of adobe buildings tucked among gardens and piñon trees. Skip turned in through the gate. In the main parking lot, the Institute’s field archaeology truck was idling, already packed. Skip pulled up nearby and heaved out Nora’s bag, which two assistants took and loaded in the back of the truck. Jason Salazar was there, spiffed up in Indiana Jones khaki and canvas, with one side of his Australian-style cowboy hat’s brim snapped up. Nearby was Clive Benton, dressed in jeans and yet another ugly shirt, this one with tiny Day-Glo paisleys scattered about a field of green. His black hair escaped from under an Orioles baseball cap. He was talking on his cell phone and looking both nervous and excited. He’d been hanging around the Institute for the last ten days, driving Nora crazy with his eagerness to get started.

Standing off to one side a bit awkwardly was skinny, towheaded Bruce Adelsky, Nora’s graduate student from the University of New Mexico. He had a vape in his hand and he took a drag on it. She had been a little worried about his ability to get along in the wilderness, but he was one of the most promising students she’d ever had, and he badly needed the field experience for his degree.

“You can’t take something like that on an expedition,” Clive said as he ended his call, pointing at Adelsky’s vape. “This calls for stouthearted men of iron—not weenies.”

“Is that right?” Adelsky said, taking another quick drag and then tucking the vape into his pocket.

“Damn straight it is. Once we get to the site, I’ll give you one of my cigars.”

“Ugh,” said Adelsky. “They’re as dated as that shirt of yours.”

“Okay,” Nora broke in, looking around. “Let’s get in the truck and go.”

And now, coming out of the Old Building was Jill Fugit herself, brisk and well coiffed as always. She was not one for ceremony and glad-handing, but Nora could see that not even the Institute’s president could hide a look of pride and anticipation.

“It wouldn’t look right if I weren’t here to send you off,” she said, smiling.

The sun was just rising toward the adobe rooflines of the main building as she shook everyone’s hand, murmuring words of encouragement. Nora got into the driver’s seat, Clive swung in shotgun, and Jason and Bruce climbed in behind. Nora had driven the F350 with its panel-truck body many times before, and as she started the vehicle up it felt like an old friend. She waved goodbye to Skip and the others as she exited the gate and headed out of town, merging onto the westward interstate.

“Just like the pioneers of old,” Clive said, pointing at his cell phone and then slipping it into his pocket with a grin.

11

May 3

THE DRIVE HAD taken two days, with an overnight in a nasty motel outside Las Vegas. As they entered the mountains, the heat and dust of Nevada changed to the forests and snowcapped peaks of the Sierras. As the interstate gained altitude, Nora began to see patches of snow not just on the mountaintops, but in the shady areas under trees on either side of the highway.

They reached Truckee, California, around noon. As they exited the freeway, Nora was disappointed to find the town a rather shabby resort of cheap battenboard buildings and houses tucked among fir and spruce trees. The parking lot next to the Pioneer Monument was full of idling tourist buses disgorging people clutching cell phones and selfie sticks, diesel fumes hanging in the air.

“Somehow I expected this place to be a little more…dignified,” she said as they drove past the monument entrance.

“The Donner tragedy’s become an industry,” said Clive. “A couple of hundred thousand people visit each year. Doesn’t help that the interstate passes so close to the location. Hard to believe something so horrific happened in a place so ordinary.”

They continued on through town. Soon Donner Lake appeared on the left, a sheet of blue shimmering in the sunlight. Taking a turnoff, they drove through a ranch gate hung with an elk skull and into a dirt parking area. This, Nora thought, was a lot more like what she’d expected: an old-time lodge made out of chinked logs, with bunkhouses, barns, corrals, and horses—all tucked in among tall firs.

They pulled up in front of the lodge and got out. It was a cool day, the air smelling of resin. The lodge door opened and a lanky man with a handlebar mustache strode across the porch, boots thudding. A giant mug of coffee was held in one hand. He took off his cowboy hat as he came down the porch stairs.

“Welcome to Red Mountain Ranch,” he said. “I’m Ford Burleson, but everyone calls me Burl. You must be the archaeologists.”

They shook hands. Nora observed him curiously. He was almost freakishly tall, around six foot seven, and like many people of unusual height he was permanently bowed from having to look down on the rest of the human species. He was every inch the cowboy, but Nora knew from a background check that he had once been a Harvard-educated divorce lawyer and had abruptly given up a highly lucrative legal career to buy a horse ranch not far from where he’d grown up. He had a deep, gravelly voice that Nora thought must have been unusually effective in the courtroom. There were three outfitters in the area, and Nora had looked closely into all of them before choosing Red Mountain Ranch.

They introduced themselves and shook hands. “You must’ve had a long drive,” Burleson said, fitting the hat back on his head. “Come on in.”

Nora entered the main house, followed by Benton, Salazar, and Adelsky. It was an impressive room, dominated by a stone fireplace, leather furniture, and rustic wooden tables and chairs. A mounted elk head and an expensive-looking rifle hung above the fireplace.

“Please, sit down.” Coffee, tea, and cocoa had already been laid out on the large coffee table in front of the sofa.

“That’s quite a rack,” said Clive, nodding at the elk as he helped himself to coffee.