I yanked my hand away, ripped off the gloves, and threw them over the gorge.

The back of her skull had been smashed inward.

Looking upward, I searched for a rocky outcropping where she could have hit her head. From here I couldn’t see a likely answer.

Gingerly I backed away from the body, then hauled myself to the top of the slope. Don’t fall, don’t fall. If I screwed up my prosthesis now, I’d be in a world of hurt. On all levels. Holly gave me a tail-wagging, rear-waving greeting. Maverick slowly walked over, sat, and leaned against my leg.

“I’m so sorry, big fella.” I stroked his head, then scratched behind his ear. “You’ve shown me your deepest wound. Thank you.”

The ground above Mae’s body had clumps of dried grasses, a pinecone or two, but no hard surface large enough to have crushed the back of her head.

I widened my search. Near the house, rocks had been placed to create a planter, now overgrown. Evidence of chives and tarragon was among the weeds. One of the rocks was missing. I found it some distance from the old herb garden—a jagged piece of granite.

If I picked up this rock and hit Mae on the head . . . Looking around, I found a small stick, which I pushed into the earth next to the rock, marking its location. The rock had a brown stain on one side, but I had no way of telling if the stain was human blood. I carried the possible murder weapon inside the house. At least it would be out of the elements.

Now what? I could continue riding south, using the sun, to hopefully find civilization, or I could try to retrace my route to Mule Shoe, hoping my horse wanted to go home. Neither sounded like a good plan. I wandered around the room, hoping for an answer, ending up at the Bible. Maybe God could direct me. I opened the book at random. The first verse I saw was Judges 1:7. “And Adoni-Bezek said, ‘Seventy kings with their thumbs and big toes cut off used to gather scraps under my table; as I have done, so God has repaid me.’ Then they brought him to Jerusalem, and there he died.”

“Not quite as enlightening as I’d hoped, God.”

I couldn’t just sit around here waiting for something to happen. Mae had been here six months and no one had found her. There wasn’t six months’ worth of Old El Paso traditional refried beans and Spam with cheese. There wasn’t even a piece of paper to put into a bottle and float down the stream . . . paper.

Paper.

Mae was an artist. I had some of her drawings. Where were her sketchpads? Works in progress? Drawing pencils or charcoal for that matter?