On Friday the thirteenth of May, the Navajo blue canopy of northern Arizona sky shimmered with the sun's rays, baking clumps of sage and meager stands of white-gold bunch grass. The few clouds that nestled against rims of distant mesas did nothing to ease the punishing heat.

In spite of dry, hot air rushing in through window and vent, sweat gathered and dripped from every pore of Sheila Metcalf's body. Where had all this heat come from? It was the middle of May.

She couldn’t remember when she’d felt this alone or frightened. She missed Preston. She missed the way his blue-gray eyes contrasted vividly against his tanned face. This separation would be good for both of them, but that knowledge didn’t keep her from wanting to be with him.

Her father hadn’t been too crazy about her return to this place, either. Together, Preston and Dad had mounted a united front for the first time since they’d met, but she hadn’t allowed them enough time to complete their mission. After making the decision to come, she’d taken two days to make arrangements and pack, and she was off before anyone could catch a breath.

Sheila stared at the shimmering mirage on the deserted blacktop road ahead of her as she drove ever more deeply into the setting for her childhood nightmares. What on earth had she done? She wasn’t known for making impetuous decisions. Why start now?

What kind of phantom was she chasing, alone in the middle of the Navajo reservation? Dad had implied she might encounter the same danger her mother had encountered twenty-four years ago, but that brief comment had been all she’d been able to get out of him. The cranky old bachelor.

Actually, Dad wasn’t old at all. He was fifty-eight. He only got cranky when she tried to talk to him about Mom, or when anyone tried to set him up with a woman.

Though Sheila couldn't remember her mother very well—shadowed images took better form only when she looked at old photographs—she could still recall the love she’d always felt when thinking of Mom. She continued to carry with her an image of happiness at the small Navajo school she’d attended while Mom and Dad had worked in the area—Dad helping the farmers and shepherds with sparse water and rugged land, Mom treating children and families in an area with negligible medical care.

Mom had been Sheila’s inspiration to pursue a medical career. Right now she couldn’t help wondering if she’d have been better suited to Dad’s specialty—agriculture.

All during this hot drive—why hadn’t she taken Preston up on his offer to let her use his Jeep?—Sheila had journeyed as deeply into her memories as she could, frustrated by Dad’s inability to communicate with her about Mom. It was almost as if he blamed Mom for her own death. With every mile closer to the school, the tension in her whole body had increased, the nightmare becoming more frequent, and more horrible.

At the school, Sheila would be conducting year-end physicals on the children, drawing blood, operating the clinic lab, keeping a close watch over the students who boarded at the school during the school year. When school ended, she would be testing families as they came to collect their children for the summer break. In a mission school such as Twin Mesas, the families were encouraged to take advantage of the medical care offered. Sheila would truly be following in Evelyn Metcalf’s footsteps.