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This
Just In Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: Covenant Communications Inc
ISBN: 1577348613
Published: October 2004
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When a presidential candidate’s young
son disappears into the Arizona desert, TV reporter Jillanne Caldwell gets
her first chance at a real news story. But the former beauty queen will soon
be forced to face her worst nightmares—and perhaps realize her biggest
dreams—in her own hilarious way.
Accompanying Jill on the
race to save her favorite Sunbeam is Clay Eskiminzin, a seasoned tracker who
dislikes reporters because of a secret of his own. Clay knows he can find
Connor, but can only pray to find him alive. Thus the unlikely pair begins a
desperate search in a vast, unforgiving desert wilderness where they must
battle against the evils of men as well as the unrelenting forces of nature
if they hope to save an innocent child.
“Kerry Blair has done it again.
Readers will find themselves biting their nails—then possibly choking on
them because they are laughing so hard!” Janette Rallison, nationally
acclaimed author—from a review
Excerpt from Chapter 11
“Hold on,” Clay said as he walked a little faster through the dust storm.
It was needless advice since the average vise has a looser grip than I had on that man’s clothing. There was no chance whatsoever that he could leave me behind. “Can you see where you’re going?”
“No.”
Hadn’t anybody ever told George Washington up there that there are times when a person appreciates a little lie? “Then how do you know we’re going the right way?”
“We are.”
“What if we fall off the side of a cliff?”
“We’ll save the bad guys a lot of effort.”
That made me feel better. Not. I don’t know about you, but when people are out to kill me, I hate to make it any easier on them than absolutely necessary. Still, mine was not to question why. Mine was but to follow Clay Eskiminzin or…die. I followed Clay.
“Here’s where it gets tricky,” he said after we’d covered more wilderness than Lewis and Clark saw in their combined lifetimes.
I let go of Clay’s shirt and collapsed into a done-in, discouraged, and dirty heap. My shoes were full of sand. My clothes were full of sand. Even my mouth, ears, and eyelids were full of sand. At this point I figured I weighed about a ton. A hundred and ten pounds of me was Jillanne Caldwell, TV feature reporter, and the rest was the native soil filling my pores. At least the buzzards wouldn’t enjoy eating me when I died because I’d be too gritty.
“Not to be a spoilsport,” I gasped, “but I don’t like the sound of ‘tricky.’”
Clay turned. “Why don’t you rest a few minutes before we go on?”
“Go on? I’m not going anywhere until you define ‘tricky.’”
“See that chimney?”
The one with Santa Claus on it, no doubt. The jeggo (dust storm) must have made my companion loco.
“A chimney is a climbable crack in a rock face,” he explained after my silence.
Thank you, Mr. Webster. Now, if only I knew what that had to do with me. Too soon, I found out.
Clay pointed down at the ledge onto which he’d led us. “We need to go down.”
I leaned over to look—very carefully. Visibility had improved enough for me to see that it was probably a hundred feet to the bottom of that ledge. I could see every rocky inch of it. “Way down there? From all the way up here?” I scooted away from the edge in horror. “No way!”
“There is no other way. We have to avoid the kidnappers until we’re ready, remember?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t remember my telephone number. Not that I’d ever need it again. If, by some miracle, I survived this, not even my agent would call me. My face was surely pockmarked by sand, and my eyebrows had probably blown off. I’d never be able to appear on TV again without eyebrows. With no real job skills besides looking good on camera, I’d be unemployable. I’d lose the condo and have to live on the street…with my mother! And if that wasn’t enough, the Lions Club would have to get me somebody’s old, cast-off glasses so I could see well enough to beg for spare change.
I reached up to feel if I still had ears to hook the glasses on. I did, but they were below a tangle of fur that would have done credit to the Cowardly Lion, pre-Emerald City. Somewhere along the forced march I’d lost both Clay’s hat and the cloth he’d given me to cover my face. All I had left was the sweatband. Even though I knew it probably wasn’t responsible for the throbbing in my temples, I yanked it off my forehead and tossed it into a bush.
I knew I was already toeing the line of hysteria, so I kicked reason aside and plunged over it.
“This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be!” I cried. “I’ve seen my share of action-adventure movies and they don’t turn out like this! The leading lady never looks as horrible as I do right now. Her mascara never runs, her lip gloss never fades, and if her hair gets messed up she only looks more adorable. It’s not fair, Clay! It’s not! I’ve seen actresses pushed out of airplanes and trampled by camels who still end up looking better than I do right now!”
Then I cried. At least I tried to. All that really happened was that globules of mud formed in the corners of my eyes and I made a sound reminiscent of a Sea World walrus.
Batguy was brave, I had to grant him that. Instead of sprinting off in the other direction, he approached with only a canteen with which to defend himself from the madwoman. He retrieved my discarded sweatband, poured water onto the terrycloth, and used it to carefully wipe the mud from my eyes. When I could see again, I liked what I saw. Though Clay was at least as dirty as I was, the only thought that went through my mind was, Viggo Mortensen doesn’t look half that good in movie makeup and soft lighting.
“Take a drink of water,” Clay said, offering me the canteen. “As much as you want, but drink it in sips.”
Since I was horribly thirsty, and since I couldn’t snivel and sip at the same time, I stopped crying and took the canteen.
“Better?”
I nodded. I don’t know if it was the coolness of the water in my raw, parched throat, or the closeness of the man who ministered to me, but I did feel better. Much better. I thought if only Clay would kiss me now I’d feel better than I’d ever felt in my entire life.
He didn’t kiss me. He moved away. But as he screwed the top back on the water bag he said, “You don’t have to be in a movie to look terrific, Jill.”
My breath caught in my throat. He might have just given me the most meaningful compliment I’d ever received in my life. On the other hand, he might have meant the “you” in general, meaning nobody had to be in a movie to look good, rather than in the personal sense that I looked good even though I wasn’t in a movie.
If only I knew how to diagram that sentence!
And if only I didn’t still have to climb down that chimney!
JILL’S GUIDE TO TWO INCREDIBLE, EDIBLE,
AND OTHERWISE REMARKABLE DESERT FLORA
Like the aloe vera, the yucca plant I mentioned earlier in my story is a member of the lily family, but it looks like a stunted palm tree with a long stalk growing up the middle. These stalks have lots of pretty white flowers on them in the spring and early summer. You’ll see them in the southwestern United States and much of Mexico, not only in the wild, but as decorative border plants in the city. (There are two outside my condo, in fact.) Whether you harvest the root yourself or get it in a nursery or by mail, cut off a piece of root and get it wet. Now rub it like a bar of soap. You’ll get mounds of lather. Use it to wash whatever you want, but be sure to rinse very well afterwards. Having pieces of root left on you would be just…well…yucca.
The prickly pear cactus might be the most underrated plant on earth. You can sew with it, grow your own livestock-proof fences, drink from it, make toothpicks, and construct furniture and even houses with its skeleton. Not only that, you can live off it if you have to. (Perhaps “survive” is a better word, because you probably wouldn’t want to live if prickly pear was all you ever had to eat.) Although both the pads and fruit are edible and served many different ways, my personal favorite is prickly pear jelly.
PRICKLY PEAR JELLY
Harvest the “pears” in late summer/early fall when they turn dark red or purple. Boil or sear thoroughly to remove spines. (Be very careful. These things aren’t called prickly for nothing. And be very thorough while you’re at it. Cactus needles on toast are a very unpleasant surprise first thing in the morning.) Peel fruit. Cover with water and boil until soft. Strain through cheesecloth until you have 2 cups of juice. Bring to boil. Add one box pectin, 3 tablespoons lemon juice, and 3 cups of sugar. Boil for three minutes. Check jell. Ladle into jars and process as you would any fruit jelly. Yum! I guarantee you’ll never know you’re eating cacti!
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