Chapter 1

“Yes!” Greg Thorenson raised a fist to the sky in celebration and jerked it back down with a pulling motion, elbow bent.

He’d been so intent on his play in the tournament he hadn’t noticed the unexpected mass of thick gray clouds as they’d darkened and crept across the sun. Only the welcome lessening of the intense desert heat had broken through his concentration. He’d already sent his ball rolling toward the cup on the eighteenth green when a thunderclap rattled the earth and rain pounded grasses and trees with sudden ferocity. Holding his breath, he’d watched as his ball trembled with the powerful roll of thunder, then continued on a steady path, spraying water as it journeyed toward the target. Delight blossomed in his chest as he watched it drop into the hole with the distinctive hollow plop-and-rattleof a ball hitting the bottom of the cup and dancing the circle of the walls inside before suddenly dying into stillness.

“Great putt! I think we both made the cut.” Howard Roland extended his hand and spoke in a soft, southern drawl. That meant they would both move on to the next, and final, round. They’d been paired for this one, and he’d finished before Greg.

Greg looked at the genial face and lean frame of his partner for the day. “Thanks for the game. You played well, man.” This was the first time Greg had hit with the slender North Carolinian, but he’d liked him from the first tee-off. Roland was pleasant, had kept score honestly, and was a true sportsman. They grinned as they shook hands.

“I’ll never shoot as well as the famous Mr. Thorenson, but I’ll take it.”

Arnie Smith, Greg’s longtime caddie, approached them. Raindrops covered his graying hair and shoulders. “Good going, you two, but we need to get out of this storm. Lightning’s moving this way, and they’ve closed the course. They’re taking the remaining players in by cart.” He reached for Greg’s putter, and the pro readily released it to him. Arnie dried the club and slipped it into the huge black bag that was his major responsibility, then covered it with water resistant fabric matching the case.

For the first time, Greg took in the wet smell of rain tinged by the sharp scent of distant lightning strikes. Carts had rolled up as they were speaking, and they climbed on for the short ride to the elegant clubhouse of the Oasis Country Club, sanctioned for this competition by PGA West.

* * * *

The lounge was crowded and noisy with the chatter of men reliving their games and commenting on the sudden storm. The air conditioning cleared up the mugginess, but Greg wished he had a light jacket because, when compared with the heat outdoors, the lounge felt a little chilly. With the exception of a handful of females, it was a man’s world. Greg’s kind of world. In more ways than one.He and Roland bought drinks for their caddies and themselves, then dug into salty peanuts and pretzels at the bar while waiting for the sandwiches they’d ordered for the four of them. When the food came, the men found seats at a round table covered by a linen cloth.

The tournament chairman arrived, and the noise quieted as soon as he’d been spotted at the door. “My apologies for the sudden squall,” he said as he walked to the speaker’s stand. “The weathermen failed to notify us in time to reschedule.”

With the notorious reputation for meteorologists being hoodwinked by their own predictions, laughter filled the room. A cheer went up when the chairman added, “You’ll be glad to know our thirsty, drought-ridden desert is soaking up the water, and we expect to resume play tomorrow. The names of those who made the cut will be posted soon, and we’ll assign courses at that time.”

Although the caddies had joined the two pros at the table, they polished off their sandwiches and beers and left as soon as the names and courses for the next day were up. By four-thirty tomorrow morning, they’d be pacing off the holes and making notations for their players of things like the speed of the greens, puddles remaining after the rain, and how to manage difficult approach shots.

Roland excused himself, too. “Big day tomorrow, huh? We made the cut, and have been assigned to different courses and times. If I don’t see you, play well, my friend.”

“You, too,” Greg said, clapping him on the shoulder.

He’d just finished a croissant sandwich loaded with turkey, cheese, lettuce, and tomato and was cleaning his hands on a napkin when he spotted someone out of his past across the room.

Rio Vargas.

The pulses in his throat throbbed. His mouth went dry. Images flooded his memory.