Page 36 of Roughing It with the Rancher

“But that would make our marriage permanent,” she observes breathlessly.

The words take me back a bit. After all, I kind of assumed after last night and this morning that we were well past the whole temporary thing. “Would it upset you if we started taking our marriage seriously, Esmeralda?” I ask, scrutinizing her face out of the corner of my eye.

She quirks her mouth. “No, but it’s a pretty big move, having kids with someone.”

I nod, teasing, “Are you afraid we wouldn’t make good-looking babies together?”

She laughs. “My no. They’d be adorable with those dimples of yours.”

“Well, they would be if they all looked like you. God help the daughters who take after my side of the family.”

“Daughters, yes. They don’t need facial hair and rugged jawlines. But our sons? I’d want everyone to look like you.”

“Everyone? How many are we having, Treasure?”

“Like I said before. As many as my body feels like making. Could be one. Could be ten. I’ll have to decide as we go along.”

“Fair enough.” I grin, reaching over and squeezing her hand.

Our eyes lock for one heart-stopping moment before she goes back to the map, concentrating hard against further distraction.

“Here we are,” I say as we pull up to what looks like an empty ocean of sagebrush. I get out, rounding the car quickly to open her door. Esmeralda steps out, immediately noticing the glittering broken glass beneath our feet.

“This is High Water,” I say grimly, putting my hands on my hips. “Or at least what’s left of it. Mind your step again. There are rusty old nails everywhere.”

“Should I worry about rattlesnakes, too?”

“Always in rural Nevada. Sometimes in the suburbs, too.”

“Alright then,” she sighs, choosing her steps carefully.

We spend hours looking through the ruins of the former ghost town, finding more remnants of a settlement the further we walk. Besides pieces of glass, there are empty cans, parts of tools, and even discarded car parts from the earliest days of automobile history. But no sign whatsoever that could match up with the ominous phrase: the gift of death.

By early afternoon, the place swarms with ghost hunters, many of whom I recognize. They snap countless photographs, murmuring in low voices about tragic happenings that could explain a haunting. I talk with a few of them, eavesdropping on their conversations, desperate for anything approaching a clue.

“Hey, Ralph,” I greet, approaching a familiar face wearing a Ghost Hunter shirt. “How’s the paranormal activity today?”

He shrugs. “We’ll have to review our photos and audio later. But apart from a few orbs caught on my digital camera, we’re not finding much.”

“Did you do much research on High Water before heading out here today?”

A gray-haired woman wearing a hot pink shirt and denim shorts chimes in, “I’m Cynthia. I know all about this place and the families who lived here.”

“Have you ever heard of anything that the phrase ‘the gift of death’ might allude to?”

They stare blankly at Esmeralda and me as the blonde slides up next to me, and I wrap my arm around her waist.

“‘The gift of death,’” Cynthia repeats, shaking her head. “Maybe try the cemetery?”

“Which way?” I ask sheepishly, feeling the embarrassment of not knowing my own property better. But I’ve never been much of a ghost town fan, and the cattle grazing is poor here.

“That way,” she points.

“Thank you, ma’am.” I tip my hat.

Esmeralda and I scan the distance to the spot where the woman pointed, squinting and making out a few bone-colored tombstones against the tan and mint of the earth and sage.

“I’m not sure how far the Caddy will make it in that rough terrain, but let’s see how close we can get.”

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