Hallowed Ground Read Online Free PDF Page A

clusters of men milling around outside blowing off steam.

    Equal rights and all that jazz aside, a construction site was a boys’ club. Men worked hard, sweated, shouted, swore and talked dirty without worrying about offending some woman’s delicate sensibilities. The few times I’d visited Ray I’d noticed women were a scarce commodity.

    My presence could raise a few red flags, so I’d dressed in Wranglers, a white tank top, faded flannel shirt, tucked my hair beneath an old ball cap, and hid in the truck.

    Binoculars in hand, I settled in. A grimy layer of dust coated the inside of the dashboard and stuck to the sweat dampening my face and neck. Doing a stakeout with the windows up when it’s 90 degrees wasn’t an option. I suffered the additional dust blowing through the open window in silence.

    Workers laughed and joked, gathered stained coolers and dented lunchboxes, stowed mystery tools in scarred toolboxes. The day starts early in the summer when mornings are cool. Might seem like bankers’ hours, knocking off at 5:00. But after putting in eleven or twelve hours of physical labor, these guys deserved every second of happy hour.

    Once the workers scattered into the parking area, I set aside my binoculars and flipped open Entertainment Weekly . No one paid attention to me. I was just someone’s old lady, idly passing the time until my man finished his shift.

    About 5:15 a dually pickup bumped into view. I scooted down in my seat, but kept my gaze trained on the man behind the wheel of the white Dodge Ram. He drove through slowly and parked behind a dump truck, which completely obscured his vehicle from view.

    Interesting.

    A short, lean man, I assumed Donovan, headed straight for command central, the dilapidated 10
    X 13 trailer, obviously salvaged after it’d been hit by a twister. Cap pulled down, sunglasses covered his eyes. He blended in with the rest of the workforce, except for the butt-length braid and the reddish-brown hue of his skin.

    With the shades drawn inside the trailer, my binoculars were useless. I suspected my original plan of following Donovan, in hopes he’d lead me to Chloe, was overly optimistic. I’d have to make direct contact with him. An unsettling prospect, a woman, out here alone without backup.
    But if there were any chance Donovan would talk to me, I’d risk it.

    So I waited, feeling superior that I didn’t slack in my watchdog duties even to smoke one lousy cigarette.

    Twenty minutes passed. My truck and one rusted-out Buick LeSabre were the only vehicles left in the lot. Eerie, how fast this place resembled a Black Hills ghost town.

    It was the perfect time to make my move.

    I scooted out the passenger’s side and situated myself in the shade of the dump truck, smack dab in a patch of skunkweed. Gnats buzzed around my head. Dust particles tickled my nose. Metal rivets dug into my back. What’s not to love about surveillance?

    Donovan emerged from the trailer.

    His keys jangled. He shifted his black backpack (no pansy-ass briefcases for construction guys), and his long strides ate the distance with enough speed to cause a race walker envy.

    When he reached the truck I sidled from the shadows. “Donovan Black Dog?”

    “Shit!” He leapt back like a startled cat. “Where did you come from? Who are you?”

    Although my heart knocked in my chest, I offered a friendly smile and my hand. “I’m Julie Collins.”

    He ignored my hand and harrumphed, “What do you want?”

    “To talk to you about Chloe.”

    “Not interested.” He attempted to maneuver around me.

    Naturally, I propped myself against the driver’s side door, blocking his escape. “Too bad.”

    “What makes you think I’ll talk to you?” A statement, not a threat.

    “You know, that is a good question. I’ll even give you two options: You can talk to me,” I waggled my cell phone between us, “or you can talk to the Bear Butte County Sheriff and explain to him why you violated