Of course it didn't read this way. Instead, the small item on the matchmaker page of The Santa Fe Journal advertised


She was none of these things. Shaving a few years off her age could probably be overlooked. Calling herself either beautiful or a lady was imaginative. "Redhead" was a stretch too—the last time I'd seen her, her hair could only be described as a ghastly shade of orange.

But it was remembering her idea of "fun" that made my blood run cold.

Chapter 1

What began as a romantic holiday for two somehow evolved into a family vacation for twelve adults, seven kids, one golden retriever, two schnauzers, one tiger-striped cat, and one hamster. By Salazar standards, this was actually a small group, but since it wasn't an "official" family reunion, we managed to keep the numbers down.

My name is Sharon Salazar. My husband, Ryan, and I live in San Antonio, Texas. Nearly all hundred-fifty or so members of the Salazar clan live in Zapata, a small town two-hundred miles farther south. All three members of my immediate family live over a thousand miles away.

Ever since Ryan and I had spent a few days cross-country skiing in Chama, New Mexico, we'd talked about going back the following summer to ride the Cumbres-Toltec narrow-gauge train. We'd fallen in love with the town and were giving Ryan's sister and her husband—Alana and Beto Meléndez—a glowing report one evening while playing cards at their home.

"Where is Chama?" Beto asked.

"It's kind of a remote little village in northern New Mexico, just a few miles south of the Colorado border," Ryan said.

Alana raised an eyebrow. "Remote? As in dirt roads and no electricity?"

I laughed. "Hardly. It's quaint in some ways, but has all the modern amenities. Better than that, it's almost completely surrounded by mountains—the scenery's gorgeous."

"A mountain hideaway," Alana said, a wistful look in her deep brown eyes. "Imagine. Cool summer breezes."

Since summer temps were frequently in the 100s in Zapata, the cooler weather must have sounded especially appealing. Ryan and I exchanged glances. He winked as if we'd read each other's minds.

"Why don't you come with us?" I asked.

There was no one else I'd rather invite. Alana—good-hearted, spirited, and beautiful—was truly a sister to me. Beto reminded me of a lovable teddy bear. He called himself a computer nerd, downplaying his technical skills.

Alana frowned. "Oh, Sharon, I don't know . . . ."

"Got a better offer?" Ryan teased.

"Ay, Corazón." Beto's gray eyes twinkled behind his rimless glasses. "How long since we took a vacation?"

"Even longer for Amá and Apá," Alana replied.

"Well, let's ask them too!" I blurted out without stopping to check Ryan's radar before including his parents.

Ryan raised his arms over his head and clasped his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. "Whose deal?"

"Or maybe next time," I murmured as I dealt the cards for our next round of rummy.

"No, you're right," Ryan said, grinning at me as he picked up his cards. "They deserve a getaway, and I'd like a chance to do something for them. Problem is . . . ."

Alana rolled her eyes. "Tía Dippy."

Epifiana Jiménez, "Tía Eppie" when we were being respectful, was one of Amá's older sisters. The oldest of the trio was Tía Marta, who had never married and was as set in her ways as Tía Eppie was unconventional.

Tía Eppie, a.k.a. Tía Dippy, not only had a bizarre sense of style, but a wide range of opinions that she delighted in sharing with everyone. Actually, all three sisters, all in their late sixties, were highly opinionated and bickered with each other constantly. Yet they were practically inseparable since Tía Dippy, newly widowed and lacking someone to argue with, had recently moved back to Zapata.

Amá wouldn't want to leave Tía Dippy alone. "Pobrecita," I could hear Amá saying. "Poor thing. She can't help herself. She's still grieving."

If tales were true, Tía Dippy was glad to be free of her hard-to-please husband, and after a month or so of self-imposed mourning, seemed to be coping nicely. She'd traded her widow's weeds for shimmery blouses made of colorful scarves, miniskirts that revealed scrawny black-stockinged legs, and a dozen jangly bracelets.

"Look," I said, "your folks can come along in that brand new motorhome that sits in their carport. If they decide to invite Tía Dippy . . . ." I shrugged.

Alana brightened. "That's true. That Winnebago fits any number of people. And Apá's been looking for a chance to take it a little farther than Port Isabel."

We gave up focusing on our cards and began figuring the logistics of our proposed trip. The more we talked, the more enthusiastic we became.

"It's going to be so much fun," Alana said. "Nothing can spoil it — no matter who shows up."

Nothing. Nothing but a convoluted chain of events that threatened to turn our holiday upside-down. And the person who "showed up" unexpectedly was at the root of the trouble.

*        *        *
After many phone calls, a few meetings, and much discussion, our ideas blossomed into concrete plans. When I called Wendy Johnson several weeks later to make reservations at their B&B in Chama, she sounded distracted.

"Is everything okay?" I asked. It was easy to picture her clear green eyes and her light brown hair that framed a heart-shaped face. But I had a hard time matching the strain in her voice with her friendly disposition.

"Mm. Yes." She hesitated. "Everything's fine."

"Would another time be better?"

"Oh, no," she answered quickly. "We'd love to see you. Bonsall and I are still talking about how much we enjoyed your last visit."

I smiled. "So are we."

"How many did you say?"

"Too many altogether. But only four of us will be staying with you. The others will be staying at a hotel or at the RV park up the road. The kids want to camp near the train."

"That'll be fun. And that's a nice campground too — right by the river."

After ending our call, I still felt vaguely uneasy. I hoped whatever was bothering Wendy would resolve itself by the time we got there. If not, maybe it was something she'd feel more comfortable discussing in person.