Texas Gothic by Rosemary Clement-Moore Page B

work, my mind spun in restless, uneasy circles. I envied them all—the dogs’ peace and the students’ uncomplicated excitement, and even my sister’s ability to organize her thoughts and make a plan. Though I knew that last one would probably bite me in the ass later.
    Her list was getting long. “I would love to take EMF measurements at that spot to see if there was some kind of subliminal stimulus that you and Lila sensed. It’s too random that you tied her up right on top of a skeleton.”
    “Depends on the skeleton-to-square-foot ratio, I’d think.”
    My own words jarred me. I’d only meant to mock her scientific tone, but the image took hold and another chill seemed to come up from the ground, leeching my warmth. “If there are remains all over this field,” I said more cautiously, “wouldn’t it be much less coincidental that I’d left Lila where there was something to find?”
    I could see Phin put my first and second comments together and total them up with growing excitement. “I hadn’t considered a whole
field
of bones. We have
got
to come back here with the coronal aura visualizer.”
    Funny how she and I had completely opposite reactions to the idea of the ground being full of human remains.
    “I hate to rain on your phantom parade,” I said, “but I can’t imagine that the McCulloch Ranch is going to give you permission to do that.” Especially not if the rest of the family shared the ranch manager’s opinions of the Goodnights.
    Phin was undeterred. “Maybe you can talk your boyfriend into letting us.”
    “He’s not my boyfriend,” I snapped. And then regretted it, because I hadn’t even asked whom she meant. God, I was transparent.
    “Uh-huh,” said Phin. “So, you
weren’t
holding hands earlier?”
    It figured. She never noticed interpersonal details except when it was inconvenient to me. “Not like that.”
    At least it was refreshing to squabble about someone who wasn’t dead. I glanced across to where Ben McCulloch paced while talking on his cell phone. The slope of the hill, from the end of the gravel road down to the bulldozer and future bridge, was about the size of a baseball diamond. The two excavations—the first one near the river, and the second hole that Lila had started—made home and second base. Ben and I were roughly first and third, as far as possible from each other.
    As if he felt me watching him, he turned my way. Even from that distance, I could see the furrows of his frown deepen, all the more intimidating with his eyes hidden by his sunglasses.
    “Boy,” said Phin. “If he was that guy in the X-Men, you’d be a scorch mark on the sand.”
    “Thanks,” I drawled, but I didn’t disagree.
    “He must like you a lot to hate you so much right now.”
    I swiveled to stare at her. “For someone majoring in chemistry, you don’t have much of a grasp on the metaphorical kind.”
    She clicked her pen and started another note on her arm. “There is no such thing as metaphorical chemistry, if you mean between two people. Pheromones are chemicals, too.”
    So was kitchen witchery, or so Phin had always insisted. I found myself rubbing my fingers, smelling lavender and dirt and thinking about warm skin and, well, chemistry. “Just out of curiosity … what would you use lavender for, magically speaking?”
    Her pen didn’t pause. “Attraction and love spells.”
    I wheezed like she’d punched me. “Are you serious, or are you jacking with me?” With Phin’s deadpan delivery, I could never tell.
    In this case she looked seriously affronted. “I never jack around about magic. What did you do?”
    She listened as I quickly explained the incident with the dirt and my scratch and the hand gel. Right as I finished, Ben hung up his phone, scowled up at us for a long moment, then turned deliberately away. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “pheromones aside, I think we can safely rule out the possibility that you made him infatuated with