Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (16 page)

There was a light glowing in a downstairs window. He peered in and saw a young woman seated at the kitchen table, the remains of her supper pushed aside as she studied a thick book and occasionally made notes on a pad of paper. He waited, but when no one else entered the room, he decided he needed to take action.

He knocked on the back door and was surprised to hear the kitchen chair scrape the floor without hesitation. Then the door opened and the young woman stood before him—wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on top of a messy bun of hair and an impatient frown on her face. “Yes?”

“I need to speak to the doctor.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not me. No, miss. If I could just—”

“My father is out on a call—along with my mother. A difficult delivery. I don't expect them home for hours if at all tonight.”

Chet was inclined to warn her that she was giving far too much information to a stranger knocking on her back door after dark, but he had other problems. “I need help,” he said.

She stepped aside and motioned for him to enter and take the chair opposite hers. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “All right, in three minutes or less, tell me what this is about.”

He hesitated.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” she said, tapping her fingers on the cover of the book she'd been reading.

Chet took a long swallow of the coffee and stood up, handing her the cup. “Look. Is there a vet nearby?”

“Two minutes,” she replied. “And yes, but Bugger McFarlane is the biggest gossip in town, and since you seem to need to keep this private…”

Hesitantly, he told her about Joker. With each detail he revealed, her eyes grew wider and her expression more horrified. After a moment, she held up her hand to stop any further explanation, picked up a black leather doctor's bag that looked new, and said, “Let's go.”

“You'll take me to your father?”

“No. You will take me to the patient—and do not even think of saying some version of ‘But you're just…' I will have you know that I have studied medicine and am preparing to join my father in practice, so let's stop wasting time and get to your friend before he either loses a leg or dies of the infection.”

“You got a horse?” Chet asked when they were outside.

“Yes, but we'll attract less attention if I ride double with you, slip off as we approach the Johnsons' place, and make my way to the barn.”

He mounted his horse and pulled her up behind him.

“I didn't get your name, miss,” he said once they were on their way.

“Addie Wilcox. And you are?”

“Chet Hunter.”

“Ah,” she said in a tone that rang with amusement, “the drifter. The drifter with the wife and baby from Florida. The drifter—”

“Everybody's gotta be from somewhere, Miss Wilcox,” he muttered and spurred the horse into a gallop.

“That's
Doctor
Wilcox,” she shouted over rush of the wind and the pounding hooves of the horse.

The doctor's daughter did an impressive job of cleaning up Joker's wounds, getting him settled in a clean bed in the Johnsons' house, and leaving behind medicines and instructions for using them to help him heal. All of this had been accomplished while the other hands were sleeping. Chet had been assigned the task of keeping watch to be sure no one saw Joker being moved, and the patient was given a knotted rag to bite down on whenever he felt the urge to cry out. Rico's sweetheart, Louisa, volunteered to keep watch until morning. All in all, Joker was in good hands.

“So he'll be all right?” Chet asked as he took Addie Wilcox back to town in the hour just before dawn.

“No. Truth is, he might still lose that leg, and in the best of circumstances, he'll have a pretty bad limp and a lot of pain. I'll have my father come check on him when he can.”

They rode in silence for some time, each of them exhausted and lost in thought. Then very quietly, Addie Wilcox said, “It was the Tiptons, wasn't it?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because Jasper Tipton is determined to own everything—and everyone—within fifty miles of his headquarters. And he's not the worst one. His brother is the real hothead. He thinks he already owns everything. And everyone,” she added so softly that Chet wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

“You've had dealings with the Tiptons?”

“You might say that.”

“They've threatened your family?”

She snorted a wry laugh. “They've threatened any and every person in this whole area. But they're sly. It never comes out as a threat, and they never do their own dirty work.”

Addie was telling Chet more about the Tiptons than he'd been able to learn from the ranch hands or from Maria or anyone else. “They send their hired men?”

“Probably that was what happened with your friend. But don't be fooled—the men on their payroll aren't just working that side of the fence. They've got people on just about every spread around here. Hard to know who to trust these days. That's why Mr. Johnson was being so careful. Guess he must trust you. Probably because you're an outsider. On the other hand, you're not the first stranger to come around and work your way into the good graces of some unsuspecting ranch owner.”

“Meaning?”

“Three or four years ago, Roger Turnbull showed up.” That was it. It was as if he should be able to fit the pieces together without her having to say another word.

“And?” he asked, impatient now that they had almost reached town and the dawn was breaking, meaning people were starting to be out.

“All I know is that Pa thought he knew Turnbull from somewhere else—couldn't place him, but he was real sure. Then about a year ago, it hit him. One time when he was called to the Tipton home to treat Jasper's wife after a horse threw her, Roger was there. Pa said he seemed to be good friends with both brothers—especially Buck, the younger one. Then Roger started working for the Porterfields. Pa warned Maria's father, and he said he would take care of things.”

They had reached a grove of cottonwoods at the back of the doctor's house. Chet reined the horse to a stop and helped her down, handing her the black bag that he'd tied to his saddlebags. “How long ago was that—that Mr. Porterfield said he would handle things?”

She shrugged. “Couple of months before he died. Pa said Mr. Porterfield had had a long talk with Roger and believed the man had made his choice. We all figured that meant he'd decided to stay with the Porterfield outfit and probably hoped to marry Maria, but then Mr. Porterfield had that accident…” She stifled a yawn. “Take care, Chet. Word is that Roger doesn't like you and that's not likely to change.”

Chet watched her until she was inside the house. From the looks of things, her parents had still not returned, but he saw her lift the curtain at the kitchen window and wave him off, so he headed back the way he'd come, cutting cross country when he could to save time. On the way, he thought about the idea that Turnbull hoped to marry Maria—an idea he didn't like one bit. On the other hand, as foreman, Turnbull was somebody her family might approve—not somebody like him. He was just a hired hand—and a drifter to boot.

Why
was
he
thinking
about
marriage?
Didn't he have enough to worry about what with Loralei and her baby?

When he saw a rider coming his way, his instinct was to hide, but the other cowboy had already spotted him.

“Hunt!”

“Rico?” They met at the foot of a mesa. “What are you doing out here?”

“Turnbull sent me out to track strays.” He grinned. “Coulda sworn I saw tracks leading right to the Johnsons' place, but Louisa said I must've been mistaken.”

“So who's doing the branding at the Porterfield place?”

“Turnbull is—said he didn't want to lose his touch.”

“Can you get a message to Miss Maria?”

“Sure. About Joker?”

Chet nodded and pulled out his tally book and the stub of a pencil. While he wrote the note for Maria, he filled Rico in on the details. “I'd keep this to yourself for now, much as you might want to tell Bunker and the others. I've been told from a pretty reliable source that Tipton has men working each ranch—hard to know who to trust.”

“How come you trust me?”

Chet shrugged. “The way I figure it, if you did anything to betray the Porterfields, your mama would skin you alive and make you into pulled meat for her burritos.”

Rico chuckled, pocketed the folded note, and then leaned on his saddle horn, studying the horizon where Tipton Brothers' fencing cut a swath through the land as far as either of them could see. “You think it'll ever be the same, Hunt?”

“Nope. The day of open grazing is coming to an end, that's certain. But there'll always be a need for ranches, whether they're raising beef or sheep, and where there's cattle, there will be cowboys. We'll just have to figure it out as we go, Rico.”

Rico nodded. “Guess we don't have no other choice.”

The two men parted then. Chet couldn't help thinking the changes in lifestyle were going to be tough on Rico. The boy had his heart set on one day marrying Louisa Johnson, but he had about as much chance of that happening as Chet did thinking there might be a future for him with Maria. He rode on, following the Tipton fence line and realizing he wasn't seeing any activity. Chances were, like every other ranch, the Tipton men were busy rounding up the stock they planned to take to market.

This, he figured, was the perfect opportunity to figure out the source of the ranch's water problems.

He saw a cluster of trees, hobbled his horse near the stream, and started following the water. When he came to the fence, he pulled the strands of wire apart with his glove-protected hands and climbed through. Staying close to the brush that lined the banks of the stream, he worked his way deeper into Tipton property. Finally, a ways upstream, he saw what was affecting water flow on the other side of the fence. The Tiptons had built a dam—one designed to allow a trickle of water to still make it downstream but otherwise stopping the natural flow no matter how much rain there was.

The thing of it was, the dam was well inside Tipton's boundaries. The brothers had found a legal way to drive Maria and the other small ranchers out of business, and there probably wasn't a thing they could do about it.

* * *

Maria was at her desk when Eduardo knocked and then stepped inside the cluttered room. Chet's dog, who had taken to following Maria everywhere since Chet left for the Johnsons' ranch, looked up and then, apparently satisfied that there was no cause for alarm, went back to dozing.

Eduardo held out a folded paper.

“Rico was hunting strays yesterday over near the Johnsons' place. Hunt asked him to bring this to you. Rico didn't want Turnbull questioning what business he might have with you, so he asked me to deliver it.” He bent to rub Cracker's head while Maria read the note.

“It's about Oscar—Joker,” she said, lowering her voice in case anyone outside might be inclined to eavesdrop. “Chet says he got Doc Wilcox to come out to the ranch and she…” Maria glanced up at Eduardo.

“She?” he asked.

“Must be a mistake. Anyway the doctor has attended Joker, and he's been moved into the Johnsons' house, but nobody knows that except the family.” She turned the paper over, half expecting the words to continue on the other side, but there was no more. “He doesn't say if Oscar will be all right, or why the need for such secrecy, or…”

“Sometimes what's not there tells the tale,” Eduardo said.

“Well, maybe you understand, but I do not.”

“The sneaking him up into the barn and then into the Johnsons' house tells me he's still in danger, and not from his injuries, although he's probably got a ways to go to be ready for workin' again. No, my thinkin' is that Joker's afraid of somebody—afraid if they know he's alive, they'll come back and
matarlo
.” He made a slicing motion across his neck to emphasize his meaning.

“How could Oscar possibly be a threat to anyone?”

“If he knows too much…” Eduardo shrugged.

Suddenly the office door slammed back on its hinges, and Loralei entered the room as if something was chasing her. “You have to do something about that woman,” she shouted as she practically threw herself into the chair across from where Maria stood holding Chet's note. Maria noticed that Eduardo had quietly vacated the premises the minute Loralei made her entrance.

“Calm down,” Maria ordered, filing Chet's note in a desk drawer and locking it before turning her attention to the distraught woman. “What is it now?”

“She practically ordered me to wash diapers—scrub them with my own hands on that horrid board with that soap that would remove paint from a wall.” She held up her hands—her perfectly white hands, unblemished by any hint of housework. Cracker ambled over to take a look, swiped at one of Loralei's hands with her tongue, and then sat patiently, tail wagging, waiting for Loralei to pet her.

“Shoo,” she said in disgust, waving her hands at the dog.

Maria bit back a smile. “By ‘she' I assume you are referring to Juanita, and I would remind you that while my mother is indisposed and I am charged with managing my father's business, Juanita is in charge of the house. That includes the right to hand out assignments so that the chores get done. If you would perhaps prefer to gather eggs from the chicken coop at dawn each morning and feed the chickens and clean the coop, I could speak with Juanita.”

“You are not listening to me,” Loralei practically bellowed.

Outside the open door, Maria saw a passing cowhand glance toward the office. She got up, closed the office door, and then said very quietly, “Loralei, my family has taken you and your child into our home. We are providing you with a place to sleep, food to eat, and even a nursemaid for your son. I do not think it is too much to ask that you take responsibility for such normal motherly duties as washing your child's clothing and maintaining the living space that my family has provided.”

“But—”

“On the other hand, as I recall, when you first arrived in town you were prepared to take up residence at the hotel. We can certainly see that you and your son are moved there if that is your preference.”

For the first time since Maria had met the woman, Loralei burst into genuine tears—sobs that shook her shoulders and sent her into hiccups as she tried to catch her breath. “You…are…horrid,” she managed, the flow of tears wetting her cheeks and the front of her dress.

Maria took her seat behind the desk. “No. What I am, Loralei, is tired. Tired of fighting for what's rightfully my family's, tired of worrying about bills and whether or not the rain will be enough and how we can make sure we get our beef to market without losing any more steers along the way.”

If she had hoped for some measure of sympathy, she could not have been more wrong. Loralei looked at her as if she had just spouted the same gibberish that came from the baby's lips. “You are surrounded by men who fall all over themselves to do whatever you ask,” Loralei said. “If you're so tired of it, then stop trying to be a man and let Roger do his job. He only wants to take care of you and your family, so why on earth don't you stop being so high and mighty and let him?”

“I wasn't aware that you and Mr. Turnbull were on such good terms,” Maria said.

Loralei's cheeks flamed an unbecoming blotchy scarlet. “We—that is—he has been kind enough to stop by. After all, you sent Chet away, and Roger is only doing what any gentleman would do.” Her expression had turned defiant.

“We are moving away from your purpose in coming here in the first place, Loralei, and I have work to do. So either take responsibility for keeping your son's clothing clean—wear gloves if you must—or you can always move back to town or hire help. But Juanita and my sister and Ezma—as long as
we
are paying her—have their own duties. Now if you'll excuse me…” She pulled out a ledger and began entering figures in the columns.

After a moment of working her mouth into a tight, angry slit, Loralei stood up, walked to the door, slammed it open, and left. And the minute she did, Maria unlocked the desk drawer, took out Chet's note, and reread it, looking, she realized, for any sign at all that he might be missing her. But his words showed no such sign, so she refolded the note and placed it back in the desk drawer before turning back to the ledger.

Like the papers on her father's desk, it seemed like problems just kept piling up for the ranch and Maria. Knowing there was little she could do to change the numbers that didn't add up the way she needed them to, she decided she need to go into town, see Doc Wilcox, and get the whole story about Oscar.