A Mating of Hawks (22 page)

“—split you wide open! Should of done it in front of your boyfriend, made you—”

Tracy's searching fingers closed on a rock. It took all her strength to grip it. Her legs screamed with strained agony as she turned, half-raised and brought the rock down as hard as she could on his hand.

He shrieked. Maddened into superhuman effort, he heaved till the pickup moved a fraction. The effort must have done something to him. He collapsed and was still. Frothy blood bubbled from his mouth.

Punctured lungs? Tracy felt not a twinge of concern or pity. That awful, crawling hand! Horrible to think of lying here by a dying man, but that was better than being trapped while he tried to reach her.

When would they be found? Sometime, Jaime and Geronimo would find Shea, unless Aniceto got there first. If Shea didn't have a concussion from that blow on the head, he could explain what had happened. Some of it would be clear, anyway.

If they'd just notice the tire tracks where she'd swung wide to follow the old tracks—Surely, she wouldn't have to lie here and die of thirst.

The sun beat brightly, cruelly down. The ankle her captor had kicked throbbed dully. Were her legs broken?

There was a sort of choking sound from the blond man. His hands flailed. Then he was so quiet that she was sure he was dead. She couldn't be sorry, though she wondered if anyone had loved him and what kind of a family he'd come from.

If they weren't found soon—She had seen decaying, bloated animals, knew the sweet putrid smell. That would send her crazy if she didn't die first.

Oh Shea, Shea!

She prayed that he wasn't much hurt, then pushed herself up on her palms to see if there was anything she could do. A glance at the man showed his eyes staring at the sun while his stubbly jaws gaped in a snarl.

Shuddering, she confronted the top of the cab. Was there any way to lever it up enough to let her wriggle free? Looking around, she dragged together all the rocks she could reach, including the one she'd hit the dead man with.

None was big enough to wedge the cab up enough to get her loose, but they could at least take some of the weight off her. She worked them beneath the truck, pushing small ones as far back as she could, increasing the size near the top.

The earth wasn't as hard as usual here. If she couldn't lever up the truck, maybe she could dig out. No useful sticks were available, but she wrenched off a windshield wiper and began to dig with the metal end.

She couldn't reach far enough to get beyond her knees. Bitterly disappointed, she still scraped away as much dirt as she could. It was something to do. She thought of the women of her family, especially of Socorro, who might have died in the desert if she hadn't refused to give up.

That helped. As she labored, Tracy suddenly wondered if she couldn't burrow out enough space beneath the cab to bend her upper body under and eventually dig her lower legs loose.

“You've got nothing but time,” she said aloud.

Inspired by the possibility that she
could
escape, she looked about for a better tool. Where was the gun? Distasteful as it was to touch the corpse, she felt around the arms, sighed with relief as she found the pistol.

The gunbarrel was a better tool than the wiper. Rearranging the rocks, she dug out a space beside her and tediously lengthened it. Her throat was parched and she no longer had enough saliva to moisten her tongue.

Blisters began. She worked off her shirt and padded the gun with it, but the blisters grew and broke. Now and then she put the gun aside to clean out her diggings.

It seemed that she'd never done anything but scrape with the heavy pistol against the hard earth. She could get her arm back almost to her feet, though. Just a little farther!

Face pressed into the ground, bent forward and reaching down through the hollow she had tunneled, Tracy was at last working near her feet. After what seemed forever, she could scrape painfully alongside her one foot and beneath it till it could move.

Dizzy with exertion, she rested, then cleared enough room to work at the other foot and leg. At last, she could move that foot, too, but it brought such a white-hot searing in her ankle that she almost fainted.

When the wave of nauseating agony passed, she clamped her teeth together and maneuvered herself out of her prison. Her left leg was cramped and sore, but her right ankle was the problem. Pulling down the sock, she groaned as she saw how puffy and swollen it was.

After all that, not to be able to walk!

She could crawl and drag herself around, though. There should be water in the pickup; it was foolhardy to drive without it in this country. Hitching herself over the cab top, she looked in the window. There were several plastic jugs of water behind the seat.

Nothing had ever tasted so good. She drank deeply, washed her blistered hands, and drank again.

Feeling better, she sat on the hood and considered. At the latest, Shea would be found that evening. Even if—her heart shriveled at the thought—he couldn't speak, the presence of Güera would show she'd been there, and the missing pickup would tell its story. The vaqueros would search and there was the plane.

She'd be found. Certainly by next day. There was plenty of water to last till then. Rather than crawl and get her hands in worse shape, she'd better stay close to the wreck, which could easily be spotted. Her stomach knotted at the thought of spending the night near the dead man, but she was in no condition to be squeamish. About the best she could sensibly do would be to get over to the other side of the tank.

The pickup yielded a pack of Geronimo's cigarettes, book matches, first-aid kit, flashlight, tools and an old jacket. There were also a few grungy Life Savers.

“Supper,” she told herself wryly.

She was dousing her blisters with Merthiolate, swearing and wincing, when she heard a humming sound overhead. Wings flashed in the sun. She scrambled to turn the outside mirror over to catch the sun.

The plane flew over. Hadn't the pilot seen? She breathed again as it swept in a wide turn. At that moment, she heard another motor. The plane started to descend. The area beyond the trees near the tank was level for at least a half-mile, trampled almost to barrenness by cattle.

It was Judd's plane. As it touched down, Geronimo's old truck came in sight. Tracy peered to see who was driving. It was Geronimo, but Shea was beside him!

Overjoyed, she sprang up, forgetting her ankle. Pain scalded like a fountain and she fell.

She knew that Shea's arms were cradling her even before she opened her eyes. It was so sweet to be held like that, hear him calling her name, that she was tempted to keep still, but his tone was frightened, and besides, she wanted to know if he was all right.

Looking up into his worried face as he knelt beside her, she managed a smile. “You—you must have a headache.”

“He's got one thick skull,” Geronimo said. “Jaime and I came in early and found him trying to get on a horse in spite of being so groggy he couldn't get his foot through the stirrup.”

Tracy sat up. Dried blood crusted the side of Shea's head. “You need to see a doctor,” she said.

“So do you,” he retorted grimly.

Judd suddenly scooped Tracy up in his arms. “We can be at an emergency room in Tucson in half an hour,” he said.

Tracy caught Shea's arm. “You come, too! You may have a concussion or something.”

“I'm fine and there are things to see to here.”

The dead man, the sheriff. Shea disengaged himself. “I'll get over this evening to see how you are. If you can't stand on that ankle, you'd better stay at the big house for a while.”

“But Le Moyne—”

“I'll get him,
chica,”
Geronimo promised. “Don't worry about this
bobo
. If he starts acting crazier than usual, I'll get him to a doctor in Nogales.”

Bruised and sore as she was, it was foolish to argue against going to the hospital, but she was glad when Judd put her in the seat of the plane and she was no longer in his possessive grasp.

It was sunset when he carried her upstairs to see Patrick. They had agreed not to tell him about the thug, but just say that her vehicle had flipped and she'd be staying at the house till she could get around.

“They X-ray you?” Patrick rumbled. “Sure you don't have cracked ribs or such?”

Tracy laughed, though it hurt her chest. She hurt all over. “They gave me a good going-over, Patrick. I'll be black and blue awhile but not even this dumb ankle is broken.”

“You were lucky.”

She shivered, kissing him. “Yes, I was.”

Judd helped her to a chair, and Mary brought food. Her eyes questioned Tracy, who smiled and merely made an “okay” sign, for Geronimo had brought Le Moyne over and he would tell Mary the whole story.

Presumably, Shea was all right, but Tracy took her first really deep breath since the whole thing began when steps sounded on the stairs and he strode into the room. Tracy touched her lips with a finger as his gaze swept over her.

He nodded and greeted his father, shaking his hand, before he sat down where he could study her.

Quickly, Tracy let him know she had no serious hurts. He had washed the blood off his head, and though there must have been a scalp wound, thick red-gold hair concealed it.

Once assured her injuries were slight, he seemed to forget about her. “Sure wish you could see the love grass coming up,” he told his father. “You always said a good spread of grass was prettier to you than a field of flowers.”

“Should be to everyone,” Patrick said belligerently. “When you get right down to it, plants are the only things that can change air, soil and water into food. We step on 'em and never think, but our life depends on them.”

“Fat lot of good Shea's grass will do anyone,” Judd snapped.

“There you're wrong,” Shea said easily.

Judd frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When the range is ready, I'll run some cows. What it'll carry. No more than that, and not till then.”

“Hell's bells!” Judd choked. “It's already better than any graze on the ranch!” He flushed to the roots of his tawny hair as he realized how that sounded. “For God's sake! This isn't Kentucky bluegrass country!”

“No, so we can't act like it is.”

Patrick sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I sure wish I could have a ride around and see,” he muttered.

Judd said impatiently, “Dad, the only way to keep up our operation the way you've known it is to grow more feed. Sell off the land that's really gone and irrigate alfalfa.”

“We're not selling the old house and land around it, even if we go broke.” Patrick's tone was final. “And what happens when the wells run dry?”

“That won't be in our lifetime,” Judd shrugged.

Patrick's sightless eyes glared at his oldest son. “What the hell difference does that make? There are people coming after us! You want to be the last generation that lives on this ranch?”

“You want me to manage the ranch but you tie my hands!” Judd accused.

Patrick's paralyzed side seemed to drag him down. “I'm goddam tired of this wrangling between you boys.” His voice frayed. “Can't ride out or see for myself or judge who has the right of it. I feel like a log the two of you keep stubbing into. If that aggravates you, it does the same to me. Hurts, too.”

It was the closest Patrick had ever come to self-pity.

Both sons looked startled. “Sorry, Dad.” Shea got to his feet and squeezed his father's arm. “If you ever believed anything I said, believe this: That new grass is as pretty as any you've ever seen. There can be people at El Charco just as long as they remember this is desert and act accordingly. See you later.”

He gave Tracy a nod and left.

“Make me a drink, Judd,” sighed Patrick. “Join us, ladies?”

“I'd like to stretch out,” Tracy said. “Mary, will you give me a hand?”

“Judd, you do that,” urged Patrick. “Then come back.”

“With pleasure.”

Judd grinned at Tracy as he picked her up. “We'd have better balance, honey, if you put your arms around my neck.”

She compromised by clasping his shoulder. He'd been kind and helpful at the hospital and hadn't taken advantage of her condition. She felt more friendly toward him than she had since his deceit with the cattle and was ready to make a truce as long as he didn't pursue her.

Mary had followed them down. There was nothing Judd could do but deposit Tracy on her bed, drop a kiss on her cheek, and say he'd see her in the morning.

“Now,” said Mary, helping Tracy undress. “Tell me all! The sheriff rousted me out to identify that bastard. I'm sorry he picked on you instead of me, but at least we won't have to go in for his trial.”

XV

Before Mary left, she brought in Le Moyne. He whimpered his joy and resoundingly licked Tracy's hands before he could be persuaded to lie down on the bedside rug.

Tracy was glad of him. In spite of the pineapple juice heavily laced with rum that Mary had made, she kept reliving the terror of that day, especially those horrible moments when she'd been trapped beneath the pickup with the man reaching for her, and then when he was dead.

At least, she thought with grim amusement as she reached down for a reassuring caress of Le Moyne's head, this experience would effectively blot out her memories of that attack in Houston. A change of nightmares.

And for it to happen like that, when Shea was about to make love to her! Unhappy puzzlement made her turn restlessly, though her body ached at the motion. He'd come as he'd promised, but had practically ignored her and hadn't waited so they could talk.

How did he feel about her, anyway? She had intended to find out that day, but now she was more baffled than before.

The sheriff came for her details next day, and Vashti was avid for the whole story. “He didn't—uh—?”