Desert Wind Read Online Free PDF
Author: Betty Webb
necessarily heal old wounds, it often numbed the pain. Could Jimmy now be staying at his father’s guest ranch, standing hand in hand with the rest of the Olmstead clan, singing “Kumbaya?”
“I drove all the way up here from Scottsdale, officer, so how about letting me see Ted Olmstead?”
Wrong thing to say. Scottsdale had a reputation for snobbery, which the rest of the state found less than endearing, and from the sour expression on the deputy’s face, he was no exception.
“Visiting hours are over,” he said, slowly turning the pages of his magazine. I craned my neck forward and saw it was Better Homes & Gardens.
“Already?” I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to eight.
“Yep.”
This was no time to make a fuss. “Does Ted have an attorney yet?”
“I have no clue.” He pretended to study a two-page spread on decorating a Soho loft.
Defeated, I said in my most polite voice, “Well, thank you for your time, officer.”
“No problem.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door. Before I got there, he called out, “Visiting hours start at nine tomorrow. Better be here early. It’s always a mob scene.”
I waved my thanks and stepped out onto the still-warm pavement.
What to do now? The GPS unit in my Trailblazer showed the location of Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, but it was almost dark and the idea of getting lost in the Arizona badlands spooked me. Instead, I decided to check into the motel I’d spotted on my drive through town. It had a decent-looking restaurant attached, and my stomach was rumbling.
When I entered the reception area of the Covered Wagons Inn, I would have sworn I’d entered a particularly lush ranch house. Faux Navajo blankets draped casually across leather sofas. Cowhide rugs hunkered down on the saltillo tile floor. An old wagon wheel pretended to be a chandelier. And a life-sized cardboard cutout of John Wayne—the kind you used to see in theater lobbies—stood guard over it all. The actor was wearing an old-fashioned red, double-breasted shirt.
Yippy-ki-yay, pardner.
The cowboy-clad man at the counter welcomed me with a hearty “Howdy, ma’am,” and explained he only had one room left. “A single king, I hope that’ll work for you.”
After I assured him it was fine and filled out the necessary paperwork, he handed me the key card to my room, adding, “You missed the complementary hors d’oeuvres and wine-tasting in the Duke’s Saloon, but we’re still serving dinner in the Stagecoach. The special tonight is tournedos of beef simmered slowly in a merlot reduction sauce with potatoes Lyonnais as side. Our vegetarian selection is penne pasta served in a Romano sauce sprinkled with fresh basil from our very own herb garden.”
Nothing like good ol’ chuck wagon fare to make a cowgirl feel like ropin’ a few steers.
My room was pretty much what I expected. Wild West Redux—setting aside the Internet hookup, wide-screen TV, digital radio/alarm clock, Sleep Number mattress, hair dryer, botanical bath products and all the other accoutrements that went along with indoor plumbing. Cozy, too, with ankle-deep carpeting, distressed pine furniture, a down comforter dyed the colors of the Grand Canyon, and café au lait walls decorated with historic photographs of cowhands, miners, and Indians. Studying the prints more closely, I determined that the Indians were Paiutes, whose reservation was situated nearby.
After showering, I walked over to the Stagecoach Restaurant and took a seat at a deuce that offered an unobstructed view of the room. The room was decorated to remind patrons they were in the West, in case they’d forgotten. Lariats and branding irons hung on weathered wood paneling that looked like it had been stripped off a barn. However, the aroma of mesquite-grilled beef made my mouth water. A good meal would ease my mind. Jimmy might have bonded out, but if he was mixed up in a murder case, he was still in trouble.
The gray-haired waitress acted
“I drove all the way up here from Scottsdale, officer, so how about letting me see Ted Olmstead?”
Wrong thing to say. Scottsdale had a reputation for snobbery, which the rest of the state found less than endearing, and from the sour expression on the deputy’s face, he was no exception.
“Visiting hours are over,” he said, slowly turning the pages of his magazine. I craned my neck forward and saw it was Better Homes & Gardens.
“Already?” I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes to eight.
“Yep.”
This was no time to make a fuss. “Does Ted have an attorney yet?”
“I have no clue.” He pretended to study a two-page spread on decorating a Soho loft.
Defeated, I said in my most polite voice, “Well, thank you for your time, officer.”
“No problem.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door. Before I got there, he called out, “Visiting hours start at nine tomorrow. Better be here early. It’s always a mob scene.”
I waved my thanks and stepped out onto the still-warm pavement.
What to do now? The GPS unit in my Trailblazer showed the location of Sunset Trails Guest Ranch, but it was almost dark and the idea of getting lost in the Arizona badlands spooked me. Instead, I decided to check into the motel I’d spotted on my drive through town. It had a decent-looking restaurant attached, and my stomach was rumbling.
When I entered the reception area of the Covered Wagons Inn, I would have sworn I’d entered a particularly lush ranch house. Faux Navajo blankets draped casually across leather sofas. Cowhide rugs hunkered down on the saltillo tile floor. An old wagon wheel pretended to be a chandelier. And a life-sized cardboard cutout of John Wayne—the kind you used to see in theater lobbies—stood guard over it all. The actor was wearing an old-fashioned red, double-breasted shirt.
Yippy-ki-yay, pardner.
The cowboy-clad man at the counter welcomed me with a hearty “Howdy, ma’am,” and explained he only had one room left. “A single king, I hope that’ll work for you.”
After I assured him it was fine and filled out the necessary paperwork, he handed me the key card to my room, adding, “You missed the complementary hors d’oeuvres and wine-tasting in the Duke’s Saloon, but we’re still serving dinner in the Stagecoach. The special tonight is tournedos of beef simmered slowly in a merlot reduction sauce with potatoes Lyonnais as side. Our vegetarian selection is penne pasta served in a Romano sauce sprinkled with fresh basil from our very own herb garden.”
Nothing like good ol’ chuck wagon fare to make a cowgirl feel like ropin’ a few steers.
My room was pretty much what I expected. Wild West Redux—setting aside the Internet hookup, wide-screen TV, digital radio/alarm clock, Sleep Number mattress, hair dryer, botanical bath products and all the other accoutrements that went along with indoor plumbing. Cozy, too, with ankle-deep carpeting, distressed pine furniture, a down comforter dyed the colors of the Grand Canyon, and café au lait walls decorated with historic photographs of cowhands, miners, and Indians. Studying the prints more closely, I determined that the Indians were Paiutes, whose reservation was situated nearby.
After showering, I walked over to the Stagecoach Restaurant and took a seat at a deuce that offered an unobstructed view of the room. The room was decorated to remind patrons they were in the West, in case they’d forgotten. Lariats and branding irons hung on weathered wood paneling that looked like it had been stripped off a barn. However, the aroma of mesquite-grilled beef made my mouth water. A good meal would ease my mind. Jimmy might have bonded out, but if he was mixed up in a murder case, he was still in trouble.
The gray-haired waitress acted