Sandra Hill - [Jinx] Read Free

trouble. Wait till I call the police. Hope you know a good lawyer,” she threatened to his back.
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m shakin’ in my boots . . . rather, Adidas.”
    “Ha, ha, ha! You’re not going to be making jokes once you’re in the clink.”
    The clink? Haven’t heard that expression in, oh, let’s say, seventeen years.
Once on the bank, he propped the rod against a tree and stood her on her feet, being careful to hold on to one hand lest she take flight or wallop him a good one.
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, yanking her hand out of his grasp, then placing both hands on her hips.
    Ogling your hips.
“Getting your attention.”
    “You got my attention when you failed to complete the Park Service forms for the project . . .
a month ago.
”
    Oh, so that’s what has her panties in a twist.
“They were fifty-three friggin’ pages long,” he protested. The dumbass red-tape forms asked him as Pearl Jinx project manager to spell out every bleepin’ thing about the venture and its participants. There were questions and subquestions and sub-subquestions. He’d used a red Sharpie to write “Bullshit!” across the empty forms and mailed them back to her. “Okay, my returning them that way probably wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to do, but, my God, the Navy doesn’t do as much background checking for its high-security special forces as your government agency requires.”
    She snorted her opinion. “It’s not
my
agency. I’m just a freelance consultant, specializing in Native American culture. You must know that Spruce Creek is situated right along what were once some major Indian paths. In fact, an Indian path from the village of Assunepachla, located near present-day Frankstown, merged with the Indian path from Standing Stone in Huntingdon, and that joint path took the Native Americans over Kitchinaki, Great Spruce Pine Land, till they came to Spruce Creek, which they called Oligonunk, or ‘Place of the Cave.’ Spruce Creek was considered a good resting place for weary warriors.”
    Blah, blah, blah.
“So?”
    “So, Indian Caverns in Franklinville is only a mile or two away from the cavern you’ll be working, and it was loaded with artifacts. We have to be sure nothing of historical value is disturbed by your project.”
    If I needed a history lesson, sweetie, I would flick on the History Channel.
“I’m aware of all that, but you’re changing the subject. I must have put a dozen messages on your answering machine in the past thirty-six hours and God only knows how many before that. Guess how many times you called me back?” He made a circle with a thumb and forefinger. She was lucky he didn’t just give her the finger.
    “That doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me.”
    “That was not manhandling. If I was handling you, babe, you’d know it.”
    “What a chauvinist thing to say!”
    “Call me pig, just as long as you call me.”
    She threw her hands in the air with disgust, then shrugged her waders down and off, hanging them from a knot on the same tree where the rod rested. Underneath she wore dry, faded jeans and thick wool socks, no shoes. She turned back to him. “You idiot. I’ve been gone for the past week. I got home late last night. That’s why I didn’t return your calls.”
    Ooops!
“Oh.” Caleb had been working for two years on various Jinx treasure-hunting projects, but this was the first time he was a project manager. It was important to him that it be a success. Pissing off a required team member was not a design for success. “Sorry,” he said. “I misunderstood.”
    She nodded her acceptance of his apology and offered her own conciliatory explanation. “I like to spend time in the woods.”
    “How about using your cell phone to check messages?”
There I go, being abrasive again.
    “I don’t believe in cell phones. Besides, what would be the point of taking modern conveniences into the forest?”
    He rolled his