Crazy is as crazy does . . . : Part 7

Pearl Jinx
by Sandra Hill

(Page 7 of 7)

She shrugged. "As you probably know, a cavern of any size is at least a million years old. We're talking ancient and near history here. Near history being the past few hundred years, of which we have more concrete evidence. The Lenape were among the first Indians to come in contact with Europeans in the 1600s."

"Uh-hum," he said. Good God! She's giving me a lecture, like I'm one of her students.

"It would be really great if there were pictographs, as well. Cave paintings," she blathered on, pleased, no doubt, that she had a captive audience. "Oh, and aside from the usual artifacts, I would love to discover some new fetishes. I only have a few now."

He couldn't help himself. He had to chuckle. "Yeah? I've got a few myself. I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours."

She stared at him for a long moment. "Oh, you! I meant Indian fetishes. Like small carvings in wood or stone. A turtle, for example. Things that hold some mystical spirit important to - " She let her words trail off as she realized he'd known what kind of fetish she'd meant all along.

"Yeah, well, back to what you hope to find. I've studied all the maps and history. I suspect the only things, other than pearls, that we're going to find are bats and bugs and" - he shivered reflexively - "snakes. I do hate snakes."

Claire tilted her head to the side. "Didn't Abbie tell you about Sparky?" Then she smiled. Smirked, actually.

The fine hairs stood out on his body. "Okay. Who's Sparky?"

"A snake."

"A snake with a name?" Uh-oh, this does not sound good. He must have turned a bit green, because she grinned. Oh, great! A sadist, on top of everything else.

"A big ol' snake."

"Define big."

"Ten feet long and, well, not quite as wide around as your tattoo." She pointed to his left bicep where the barbed-wire tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Well, he would hope not! His biceps was sixteen inches in diameter and had been eighteen when he was an active SEAL.

"More like the size of your wrists."

Okay, that's better, but still one mother of a snake.

"Sparky's been living in Spruce Creek Cavern for at least ten years. Not that there aren't other snakes, but Sparky is the Big Daddy. Every so often, he sticks his head out, but then slithers back in before anyone can catch him."

Yeah, but has anyone ever shot him? With an AK-47? "Are you pulling my leg?"

"I wouldn't think of touching your leg."

Okay, I recognize an insult when I hear one. He thought about taking her hand and placing it on his bare thigh, just to annoy her, but sanity persuaded him to restrain himself. "I. Hate. Snakes."

"Afraid of them?"

"Hell, no. Just don't like 'em." Probably stemmed from all those years as a kid when he'd helped hand-plow the fields and uncovered lots of the slimy buggers . . . usually black or garden variety, but even the occasional rattler. And he'd had to deal with plenty in SEAL survival training, too.

"You had to know coming here that an underground cavern would have snakes."

"Sure, I knew that. I just didn't expect any anacondas."

She laughed, and her whole face lit up, even her eyes, which were a pale, pale green.

Nice. But he could see how some people might consider her eyes sort of woo-woo, fitting into the crazy category.

"Don't worry, he's not poisonous . . . though he has been known to bite."

"You're really enjoying yourself at my expense, aren't you?"

"Yep!" But then she switched subjects and floored him. Women had a talent for doing that to a guy, one minute talking about the latest hot chick movie and the next asking him something personal, something he absolutely does not want to discuss, like the size of his . . . oh, let's say . . . rifle, or why he hasn't ever married, or what's that huge chip on his shoulder with the word Family chiseled on it.

What Claire zinged him with was: "Peachey . . . that's an Amish name, isn't it? An Amish Navy SEAL? That's an oxymoron, isn't it?"

I'm a moron, all right. Left myself wide open. Why don't I just paint a target on my chest that says "Shoot me."

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.