Chapter Seventeen
Rose sat among her unit the next day, a patch of ground demarcated by a one-meter square cordoned off by a datum post and four level stretches of string. She finished measuring out to the corner of an artifact from one of the strings with her tape measure, then plotted the corner on her graph paper, slowly but surely measuring and drawing a scale replica of the section.
Her crew worked silently, having been set about their various tasks. Kelsey, Meg, and Hunter were working with her, excavating, while the other three worked with Howie documenting the rock art.
“How’s the sweeping coming along?” she asked Kelsey, who was using a hand broom to dust off part of a woven mat.
“Fine. Boring. I’d hoped there’d be more to it than just dusting, like those excavations in Greece. We’ve been unearthing this one mat all day, and it’s not even decorated.”
“It’s important to learn the process,” Rose explained, determined to make this a teaching moment. “We have to adhere to accurate measurements, or else our data will skew the record and we risk damaging the mat.”
Kelsey shrugged and, with a grimace, wiped the sweat from her brow with the hem of her flowy scarf. She kept dusting and didn’t look up.
“It’s almost quitting time for the day,” Rose added, surveying the beleaguered crew. “Just keep in mind, wine vessels and frescos in Greece are amazing, but ninety percent of archaeology is done in a lab or from your desk, researching and analyzing. Only a small portion of time is spent on fieldwork and, to that end, exciting. Most artifacts are broken flint shards, cooking remains, charred bone. An intact mat like this is actually pretty special.”
Kelsey leveled a disbelieving glare at her.
Rose chuckled. “It’s not about the artifacts anyway. It’s about what the artifacts can tell us about the people who made them. Or used them. These mats, for instance, are made from yucca leaves, which grow in abundance here, so they probably didn’t trade for material. That, and the weaving pattern is simple. A person could have thrown this mat together in a morning, so they weren’t labor intensive to manufacture. Lastly, these mats are utilitarian. There are many of them found elsewhere, too. See? You’ve just learned a few things about the people who made and used this.”
“How do you know these mats are utilitarian and aren’t ceremonial?” Kelsey asked.
Rose shrugged. “Look at the wear and tear. A ceremonial item would have been coveted more, perhaps decorated. These are worn through in places consistent with people sitting and sleeping on them, and the remnants are discarded in trash middens without a care. That, and the fact that an intact pot with food remains was once discovered here in the late eighties…” True to her promise, she hadn’t told the others about the pottery still existing. “All these factors indicate a habitation site, not a ceremonial one. Keep in mind, like any science, we could be wrong. But so far, no evidence has arisen to refute it or change our perspective.”
Except that Toby had said there were other rock shelters on his lands, and that changed the big picture a helluva lot. Were they also habitation sites? Or, perhaps, ceremonial? Were they within this dry canyon, too? Or along another ancient waterway? As the official property plat showed, the Legacy owned well over a few hundred thousand acres. Had this canyon once been an abundant river or creek that had supported the people in this area with the water they needed to survive? Had they been forced to leave when resources had dried up? Pure conjecture, Rose thought as she returned to her measuring, but educated conjecture. It would make sense that there had been a steady water supply for these people to have chosen here to settle, and if drought had struck, they’d left. Water was a precious commodity in this prickly region.
“Quitting time,” called Howie as his crew broke their silent concentration, got up to stretch, and began to compare art panels they’d been drawing to scale and photographing.
Howie, who had designed a database he could update from an app on his phone, finished snapping a picture of his drawing, jammed his phone into his pack, and threw a glance her way to see if she’d noticed.
Rose swallowed hard. She’d noticed.
Howard wanted so badly to run the show. But a glance at her phone told her that it was only twelve forty five. She’d planned for them to work until at least one o’clock each day, with Saturdays designated as field trip days to other sites in the region for a tour and Sundays days of rest to get out for some fun somewhere, sleep in, whatever. If they quit early every day, they would lose hours of work over the course of their stay. She’d gone over the schedule with everyone. Why was Howie challenging her in front of her students?
“Sorry to be a buzzkill, guys,” Rose called out, trying to sound chipper. “We gotta work until one o’clock. Fifteen more minutes, my Padawans.”
Howard’s eyes flitted to hers again. He wasn’t glaring—his face was too impassive for that. But he was annoyed, that was certain, judging by the tick in his jaw. Still, Rose couldn’t give an inch or else everyone would take a mile—one of the parts about being in charge that Rose was learning sucked. Kelsey slumped beside her, clearly wishing they could leave, but bounced back as the others settled into fifteen more minutes of punishment, when a head popped up along the path leading into the shelter. Rose caught it from her periphery and turned.
Her breath caught. It was Toby, once more crowned in that Stetson, shaggy scruff hanging out, tight T-shirt stretched over his rippling abs and the scar hidden along his waist. She’d played over that kiss they’d shared yesterday a hundred times or more throughout the night, slept restlessly because of it. What was he doing here? She’d missed him last night when Temple of Doom had come on. He’d remained in his old-bedroom-turned-office, the light from beneath the door and the infrequent shadow moving across it the only indication he’d been in there.
Had he been ignoring her? Distancing himself, as she’d contemplated distancing herself from him?
“Hi, Mister Dixon!” Kelsey chirped, waving.
He tapped his brim, but his eyes darted to Rose, holding her gaze with his and a flickering of fondness softening his brow. She smiled, as if a secret memory of their kiss was passing between them—Meg nudged her, raising a brow suggestively. Dammit, she hated that her friend and crewmate could so easily tell what might be transpiring between them. Toby grinned, having noticed, and sauntered over to her, looking around the shelter and glancing to the documentation of artwork that Howard was coordinating.
“Ah, don’t step there!” Rose barked as he placed his hiking boot down in one of the units. He jumped back, then circumvented it and again took a step. “Or there!”
“Jeez, woman,” he exhaled. “Where can I walk?”
A smile teased her mouth. “Sorry, cowboy. All of these units are cordoned off at the moment.”
“You’re all inside of them,” he retorted.
“Yes, and we’re trying to preserve them before someone treads on them.” She gestured to his feet, grinning back at him.
His grin turned devilish. “It’s my land. I can walk wherever I damn well please. What do you have to say to that?”
He was totally messing with her, she could tell, and she summoned her best Wild West drawl. “‘Just one more question, pilgrim. How far up your, eh, rear do you want my boot?’”