Crazy is as crazy does . . . : Part 1

Pearl Jinx
by Sandra Hill

The Jinx Inc. treasure-hunting company has a new mission: to find the "cave pearls" rumored to exist in the bottommost cavity of an ancient cave. But first mission leader Caleb Peach has to find the perfect expert consultant, per the orders of the National Park Service. An ex-Navy SEAL, Caleb is used to getting his man, but Dr. Claire Cassidy, archaeologist extraordinaire, is proving hard to pin down. Only after he tracks her down while she's on a fly-fishing vacation and proves that Jinx Inc. is an upstanding, responsible company does she sign on the dotted line.

The attraction is immediate, but Caleb and Claire are very different people. He's buttoned up and goes by the book, and still carries a lot of bitterness because of a painful past that includes having been shunned by the Amish community he was born into and grew up in. She's a free spirit, and truly self-sufficient and independent, yet she is not opposed to the possibility of love in her life.

With Claire's help, along with the assistance of Cajun healer Tante Lulu (from the Cajun Bad Boy series and Pink Jinx), Caleb and his family reconcile. At the same time, adventure and hilarity abound as the crew of Jinx Inc. begin the search for and find the fabled cave pearls.

Chapter 1

Caleb Peachey jogged along the road, his eyes on the log cabin up ahead. It sat nestled in the thick woods on the banks of the Little Juniata River, almost hidden from view. He hoped to find the crazy woman at home this early in the morning.

Crazy Claire, that's what she was called by some of the locals. Dr. Claire Cassidy, historical archaeologist, by her colleagues. PhDiva, by him. Actually, he was beginning to feel like the crazy one as he attempted to make contact with the elusive woman. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if she even existed. Crazy Claire is gonna be Crazy-Friggin'-Dead Claire if she doesn't stop hiding from me.

Five miles back and a half-hour ago, at dawn, he'd left the Butterfly Bed & Breakfast in Spruce Creek, where he and his team from Jinx, Inc., a treasure-hunting firm, would be staying. He'd arrived here in central Pennsylvania yesterday morning. The rest of the team would be here this afternoon, but the project itself couldn't start until Dr. Cassidy was on board, per orders of the National Park Service, which made sure no historical artifacts were disturbed. Now, he could understand the government being worried about metal detecting on a battlefield, trafficking in relics, defacing previously undiscovered prehistoric rock wall art, that kind of thing, but dammit, they were just going to take some pearls out of this cavern . . . a privately owned cavern, to boot. They weren't exploring King Tut's tomb here.

Stopping in the clearing before the house, he bent over, hands on thighs, and breathed deeply in and out to cool down, not that he had broken a sweat or anything. Hell, he'd been a Navy SEAL for ten years, up till two and a half years ago, and they ran five times as far before breakfast, wearing heavy boondockers, not the two-hundred-dollar ergonomically designed Adidas he had on now.

He knocked on the door. Once. Twice. No response except for some cats mewling inside. Same as yesterday, except there was a battered station wagon here now, which he took as a good sign. The woman hadn't responded to the messages he'd left on her answering machine, either. Hi! This is Claire. Your message is important to me. Blah, blah, blah! Caleb mimicked in his head. Apparently not that important.

A fat calico cat - probably pregnant - sidled up to him and gave him the evil eye, as only a cat could do. Then she sashayed past, deeming him unworthy of her regard.

With his side vision, he noticed another cat approaching, but, no, it wasn't a cat; it was a rat. Okay, it was a teeny-tiny dog that resembled a rat, and it started yip-yip-yipping at him as if it was a German shepherd, not a rat terrier.

Caleb couldn't fathom people who wanted such itty-bitty things for pets. But then, some people even took slimy creatures into their homes. Like snakes. Having a fierce aversion to snakes, he shivered.

The dog stopped yipping and gave him the same you-are-so-boring look as the cat through its beady eyes and sauntered off, around the side of a modern addition to the old cabin.

He decided to follow.

The back of the cabin was a surprise. While the front was traditional log-and-chink design, the back was all windows facing the river, down below some fifty feet. Cushioned Adirondack chairs had been arranged on a wide deck. An open laptop sat on a low wooden table.

You-know-who must be home. Ignoring my calls. Son of a bitch! Oooh, someone is in big trouble.

He turned toward the river. And inhaled sharply at the view. Not just the spectacular Little Juniata with the morning sun bouncing off the surface, creating diamond-like sparkles, fish actually jumping out of the water to feed on the seasonal hatch of newborn insects hovering above. He was familiar with this river, having grown up in an Amish community about ten miles down the road in Sinking Valley. What caused him to gasp was the woman standing waist-deep in the middle of the river. She wore suspendered waders over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Her long dark-red hair was pulled up into a high ponytail that escaped through the back of a Penn State baseball cap. Auburn, he thought her hair color was called.

Could this possibly be the slippery Dr. Claire Cassidy? Crazy Claire? For some reason, he'd expected someone older, more witchy-looking. It was hard to tell from this distance, but she couldn't be much older than thirty, although who knew? Women today were able to fool guys all the time. Makeup to look as if they were not wearing makeup. Nips and tucks. Collagen. Boob lifts, ferchrissake!

The woman was fly fishing, which was an art in itself. Caleb was the furthest thing from a poet, but the way she executed the moves was pure art in motion. Like a ballet. Following a clock pattern, she raised her long bamboo rod upward with her right hand, stopping abruptly at noon to apply tension to her line. Then she allowed the rod to drift back slowly in the forward cast, stopping abruptly at eleven o'clock, like the crack of a whip. The follow-through was a dance of delicacy, because the fly should land on top of the water only for a few seconds, to fool the trout below water level that it was real live food. Over and over she performed this operation. It didn't matter that she didn't catch anything. The joy was in the casting.

And in the watching.

Copyright © 2007 by Sandra Hill

About the Author

Sandra Hill is a USA Today, New York Times extended and Waldenbooks bestselling author of fifteen novels and four novellas. All of her books are heavy on humor and sizzle.