But I hear Robert’s voice in my head. ‘We must decorate it western style,’ he’d shouted, tramping through the cabins, barking ideas enthusiastically into the mini disc recorder he liked to keep clipped to his shirt pocket. ‘Horseshoes, bear heads, Indian prints . . .’ and then he was off. As I listened to him crashing around, I stood on the deck outside and watched the early morning light wash over the hills. A hawk of some kind flitted between the rocks. Under my feet, the stones on the path were a mixture of browns and rusts, their edges glittering with pockets of quartz and I remember thinking that no one should ever be allowed to touch this place. Ever.

‘Alice,’ he shouted when he finally emerged. ‘. . . Oh, there you are . . . Was it the Sioux Indians out and about scalping around here, or the Apache? Check breed of Indians!’ he commanded into his mike without waiting for a response.

‘So what’ll these people do once they’re here?’ Duval says.

‘Oh ... I don’t know, the usual stuff. Go on diets, get healthy, have massages, go for hikes.’

‘Hikes.’

‘Yes, hikes.’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘What’s wrong with hikes?’

‘From April on the sun will fry these people like pieces of raw liver in hot fat.’

‘That’s okay, they can wear hats.’

‘Uh-uh.’

I’m so sorry, I’m tempted to snap, but I don’t actually speak grunt.

‘What if they step on a snake?’

‘Well, you know, hopefully they won’t.’

‘There are seventeen different kinds of rattlesnake around here. Diamond backs, sidewinders, mohaves and they’re all lying around in the hopes that some fat city slicker will hike by close enough to get bit on the ankle.’

‘A rattlesnake bite’s not fatal, though, is it?’

‘Not unless you’re unfit or unhealthy or overweight.’ He grinds his cigarette into the ashtray. ‘A rattler will kill a child. Adults get about six hours. Snake serum costs around $5,000 a pop. Local hospitals don’t carry it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Hard to say. Maybe they figure there aren’t that many people round here worth saving for those kind of dollars.’

‘Well, I suppose guests will just have to sign disclaimers.’

‘And your kids,’ Duval says, ‘will you get them to sign a disclaimer?’

I turn round. Emmy has fallen asleep. Jack, eyes wide, is listening intently.

‘You’re scaring Jack.’

‘Certainly is not,’ Jack says, riveted.

‘Look, other children have been brought up in Arizona and survived.’

‘Local kids have the ground rules beaten into them from the day they’re born. Have you taught Jack and Emmy to shake out their boots before they put ‘em on? Do you sweep the beams over their beds? Do they check under their pillows?’

‘You want me to check under their pillows for snakes?’

‘Spiders.’ He holds his thumb and forefinger and inch or so apart. ‘Brown recluse, small, harmless-looking.’

‘I’m really not worried about spiders.’