Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (19 page)

“Maria?” George Johnson stood in the doorway of the small bedroom. “I'll have one of the men drive you…”

“I can ride.” She managed to choke out the words.

“Still, somebody should be with you.”

She hiccuped as her tears receded. “Then I want Chet Hunter to accompany me, and once I reach our place, I'll send your man back here.”

Addie and Johnson exchanged glances. “If you think that best,” the rancher said in a tone that indicated he did not think this was wise. He gripped her shoulder.

She stood up and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “If he had to die, I'm glad it was here and that he wasn't alone. Thank you, Addie…Mr. Johnson.”

Downstairs while Mr. Johnson went out to find Chet, Maria gathered her things and thanked Mrs. Johnson and Louisa for caring for Oscar. They walked with her to the corral, where Chet waited with her saddled horse. “I'll send Ricardo with a wagon for Oscar's body,” she said as she mounted.

Chet handed her the reins and then mounted his horse. “I can stay till your man gets back,” he told Johnson.

“We won't get much done today, Hunt. Take good care of our girl here,” he added with a glance toward Maria. “I know she thinks she don't need help, but those are the folks in most need.”

Maria's horse danced impatiently. “We should go,” she said, her voice still raw from her crying. She did not wait to see if Chet followed as she rode off toward the mesa that was the shortest way home.

The mustang wanted to run, and Maria was more than happy to let it. She felt the rush of hot air against her skin and heard the pounding hooves of Chet's horse gaining on her. It was midmorning and neither of them had eaten or had so much as a sip of coffee. Her stomach growled in protest, but she pushed the horse harder.

“Maria!”

She ignored Chet's call and kept riding.

When they had ridden for several miles, she saw the clouds gathering on the horizon and realized they were clouds of sand and tumbleweed rather than rain. She reined her horse to a halt and looked back at Chet. “Dust storm,” she shouted, pointing.

“This way,” he yelled and turned his horse so that he was moving parallel to the coming storm. “Come on.”

She turned her horse to follow, but the shale rock on the mesa was slippery and loose and the horse stumbled. “Chet!” she screamed as the horse went down. She barely had time to roll free of the animal before the horse panicked and began flailing its legs wildly. She could hear Chet calling her name. His voice was nearer now, but not near enough. She rolled away and into the arroyo next to the narrow trail as she covered her head with her arms and listened to the shrieks of the out-of-control horse.

Then she heard a gunshot and the horse's panicked cries stopped. Slowly, she lowered her arms and waited for the dust to settle as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. But the dust did not settle and the silence did not last. With a roar, the wind carried by the cloud of desert debris surrounded her as it rolled over the landscape like a fog, covering everything in its path and gathering strength as it went.

“Chet!” She choked on the word, realized it was useless to try to cry out, and once again covered her face as best she could as the winds tore away her hat and went to work on trying to rip her hair free of her scalp. She coughed and tried to breathe, but in spite of the neckerchief she'd used as a mask, her throat filled with the orangey-red dust that surrounded her.

She could just make out the now-still silhouette of her horse. In some ways, the animal lying on its side, its back to her, formed a barricade against the worst of the swirling sand, dirt, and debris. But where was Chet, and what did he know of storms like this? The man was from Florida. He might know all about hurricanes and other tropical storms, but this was something foreign. If he tried to get to her—and she was certain that he would—he could easily slip on the trail and injure himself. She wanted to warn him, to try to reach him, but knew both were useless.

So she rested her forehead on her folded arms and swiped at the tears that she felt carving gorges through the dirt that coated her face. The storm coming out of nowhere seemed an omen, and coupled with Oscar's death and the news that maybe her father had been murdered, Maria felt defeated. Yet at the same time, she felt a rage building up inside her that matched the billowing clouds of the sandstorm. She would not let them win. She would find a way, because now more than ever, she was determined that her father's dream would not die—would not be murdered in cold blood.

* * *

Chet spit out the dirt that had instantly coated his tongue when he saw Maria's horse stumble, pulled off his neckerchief, and tried to call out to warn her. The horse went down shrieking in pain, its left front leg hanging at an angle that left no doubt it was broken. He grabbed his rifle from its holder, leaped down, and watched helplessly as her horse continued to fight and his took off. He could no longer see Maria. If she didn't move quickly enough, the frightened horse could easily kill her with one kick, so Chet acted purely on instinct. He took aim, swearing at the granules of sand and the distance that blocked his vision, and fired just as the full force of the storm they'd seen coming their way hit. The abrupt halt to the wounded horse's panicked cries told Chet he had hit his mark.

He couldn't see his hand in front of his face, so it was foolhardy to try to reach Maria, but he did it anyway, inching his way along the trail that zigzagged down the side of the mesa, pausing whenever shale gave way under his feet, praying she was all right. He'd wrapped his neckerchief around his nose and mouth as soon as he'd seen the storm approaching and had shouted to Maria to do the same. Had she? He couldn't remember.

He bumped up against something softer than the boulders. Fear pumping through his veins, he bent to feel the object and released his breath only when he realized he'd stumbled over the corpse of Maria's horse. Blindly, he felt around until he found her canteen and then remembered they had not waited to take water from the Johnsons' place but had planned to stop at the first stream—the stream that ran just on the other side of the mesa.

Using the horse's body to shield him from the blunt force of the storm, he looked around, trying to see through the curtain that surrounded him and blocked out the sun. The howl of the wind made it impossible to hear anything and the force of it tore at him, making it hard to keep his balance. It felt like any minute the rock beneath his feet might give way, sending him plummeting into the valley below. He dropped to his knees and edged his way forward, inch by inch. All the while he prayed he would find her alive and whole. One hand slipped off the trail and into a gully, closing around something hard but pliable—and then that something moved. He swiped at his eyes and saw her huddled below him. He slid down next to her, and she looked up, her eyes slits.

He pressed his back against the wall of the gully and pulled her into his arms. “Hang on,” he said. Later, he would reprimand her for not properly covering her face. For now it was enough that she was alive and hopefully uninjured and clinging to him as if she might never let go. And not for the first time, Chet thought that might just be the best idea he'd considered in a very long time.

* * *

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind a blizzard of sand granules that stung wherever they touched bare skin, and particles of tumbleweeds that caught on their clothing and hair. Chet continued to shelter her as if they were still caught up in the thick of the gale. She was content to stay there for as long as he wanted to hold her. In his arms, she felt safe and the worries that plagued her day and night did not seem half so frightening.

“I had to shoot your horse,” he said finally.

“I know.” She was thankful that her father's favorite had been in need of a new shoe, so she had taken one of the stock horses.

“His leg was broke and—”

She touched his cheek. “It's all right, Chet.”

“My horse ran off.”

“Smart horse.”

He chuckled. “Smart lady, finding shelter like you did.”

“It's not my first storm. I remember one time when Papa and Jess and I were out on the range and a storm like this one came up. I was maybe ten or eleven. Jess was probably thirteen.”

“You both must have been plenty scared.” He smoothed back her hair, and she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

“Yeah, but Jess took hold of my horse and used his neckerchief to cover its eyes, then started riding parallel to the storm, pulling me and my horse along behind him.”

“Where was your pa?”

“He was trying to catch up to us, and you should have heard the tongue-lashing he gave Jess when he did—I mean, after we were safe and all. But Jess knew about this cave and that's where he headed. It was a big cave—big enough for us and the horses. Papa was amazed in spite of how mad he was at Jess.”

“Jess sounds like a smart guy.”

“He's close to the smartest man I've ever known. One day Trey might just turn out to be smarter, but Jess just seems to know stuff. He sees things and files them away until he needs them—like that cave. Then all of a sudden, he remembers.” She'd been so mad at Jess for leaving that it had been a long time since she'd remembered the good about him. “My brother is a good man.”

“Never met the man, so I'm not going to argue with you,” Chet replied. “We could probably use some of his smarts right about now.” He stood up and looked around. “I'm guessing we're maybe five or six miles from the ranch?”

“More like seven or eight.” She sighed wearily and pushed herself to her feet, brushing away what she could of the dirt that clung to her clothes and hair. “We probably should get going. The good thing is that I know the way, so at least we aren't lost.” She started to edge past him, but to her surprise, he held her waist to stop her.

“I need to ask you something before we go, Maria.”

“Okay.”

“Do you believe what I told you last night about Loralei and me? Because if you still have doubts…”

For once she didn't need to consider his question in light of what her father might think or what anyone else might say. Instead, she pulled him closer and, oblivious to the sand and grit that coated them both, she kissed him the way he had taught her the night before. “Does that answer your question?”

He smiled. “Not quite sure. Maybe we could try that again?” He wrapped his arms around her and lowered his face to hers. “In fact, Maria Porterfield, I'm thinking I might need you to repeat that more than once, starting right now.”

If this had been Amanda, then Maria would have warned her not to allow such shenanigans no matter how thrilling his kisses might be. But this wasn't Amanda, and this wasn't the front porch of the ranch house, and this was not her first kiss. She was a grown woman, and she was with a man who made her see stars when he kissed her, and she'd be willing to bet that even her mother would tell her that she'd be a fool to say no.

“Promise?” she murmured.

And just before his mouth met hers, she heard him chuckle and answer, “Yes, ma'am.”

* * *

They walked for an hour or more before they spotted Chet's horse grazing near the creek. Chet set down the saddle and trappings they'd taken from Maria's horse. “Wait here,” he said. For once, she didn't argue. Instead, she sat on the saddle and waited, watching as he slowly approached the animal made skittish by the recent storm.

As he expected, the horse moved away from him. So he headed for the creek a few yards away, knelt, filled his hat with water, and held it out in front of him as he approached. The horse whinnied and tossed its head but took a hesitant step toward him, sniffing the air. Chet pulled his neckerchief free and dipped it in the water, and when the horse was close enough, he gently pressed the damp cloth to the animal's snout and wiped dirt away from its eyes.

After a few minutes, he slowly bent and picked up the reins dragging on the ground, then began walking back to where Maria waited, making sure to leave the reins slack enough so the horse didn't panic. Maria had found a dried apple in her saddlebag, and she held it out as they approached.

“You ride and I'll walk,” Chet said.

“And carry that extra saddle as well? No. The saddle can ride and we'll both walk.”

He tugged her hat further down over her forehead so that the brim protected her face from the hot sun as they struck out across the dust-coated grasslands. “Couple of hours,” he guessed. As they crossed the shallow creek, he took her hand, and once they reached the other side, he did not let go.

Reality hit Maria like a slap in the face the minute they reached the ranch. As they passed the stream that had all but dried up, she gave a passing thought to the dam the Tiptons had built—more than likely legally. Well, dam or no dam, and whether or not they had had anything to do with her father's death, she would fight them. She would not let them rob his family of the legacy he had worked so hard to build. She would find a way.

Roger saw them coming and rode out to meet them. “You couldn't let the lady ride?” he barked at Chet.

“We had the saddle, Roger, and I am perfectly capable—”

“We could have sent somebody back to pick up the saddle when they buried the animal that I assume this fool decided to shoot.” He offered her his hand, his intent to pull her onto his horse with him clear.

“I've walked this far. I think I can make it the rest of the way. Did the storm come here?”

Roger frowned. “No. We saw the cloud, but it was headed east and we thought you were safe at the Johnsons' place. What the devil were you thinking, Maria, striking out with a dust storm on the horizon?”

“It wasn't on the horizon when we started,” she said reasonably.

“You and Hunt rode together?”

Maria released a frustrated growl. “Roger, could we possibly postpone your inquisition until I've had a chance to wash up and get something to eat?” She brushed past him then stopped. “By the way, it might interest you to know we found Oscar—or rather, what was left of him. He died this morning.”

She didn't wait to see his reaction, leaving it to Chet to decipher.

She was relieved to see Juanita waiting for her at the house, but on her way there, she passed the anteroom and heard Loralei wailing about how beastly hot it was and how it never seemed so bad in Florida. “It's like living in an oven,” Maria heard the woman moan.

“Then go back to your beloved jungle,” Maria muttered as the baby began to cry and Loralei turned her fury on Ezma.

Maria stopped and retraced her steps until she stood at the open door of the room. “Loralei,” she shouted above the fracas.

Even the baby stopped crying as all went silent, and both Loralei and Ezma looked up, their eyes wide with shock. “If ever again I hear you speak to Ezma that way, I will send you packing. Do you understand?”

“What happened to you?” Loralei asked, ignoring Maria's order. “You look like…” She shuddered. “You look like a ghost.”

Maria realized that she must indeed be a strange sight, her features no doubted coated with layers of dirt, her lips parched and cracked, her hair wild and tangled like a tumbleweed. “Are you afraid of ghosts, Loralei?” She moved into the small room until she was standing over the woman who let out a nervous giggle.

“What a strange question.”

Maria leaned in closer. “I ask because as scared as you might be of ghosts, you should be doubly scared of me. I am in no mood to be nice, so apologize to Ezma and stop your complaining or else.” She straightened up, crossed her arms, and tapped her foot. “I'm waiting.”

Loralei looked from Ezma to Maria and back again. “Oh, very well. Sorry.”

“Not good enough. Give it some of that famous Southern charm.”

Loralei made a face but then smiled a toothy grin. “Ezma, honey,” she began in a syrupy-sweet singsong voice. “This heat just does me in, and I do get a mite cranky. I know you understand, but please don't take it to heart.”

“Yes,
senorita
,” Ezma murmured and gave Maria a sideways look that begged her to let this be.

“Better?” Loralei growled, now standing and facing Maria directly.

“A little,” Maria replied as she turned and left the room. “How's Mama?” she asked when Juanita met her in the courtyard with a glass of cold water. Beyond the courtyard, she saw Chet unsaddling his horse and heading into the barn, his dog dancing circles around him. Roger's horse was tied to the hitching post outside the ranch house, and he was waiting for her by the front door.

“Your Mama has made some big strides toward coming back to us.” Juanita handed her a wet towel so she could wipe some of the dirt from her face.

“Thank God. But Nita—Oscar died last night.” She hadn't planned to just blurt out the news, but there it was and behind the words came her tears.

Juanita folded her arms around Maria and led her inside the house.

“Someone murdered him. They beat him up so bad and just left him to die.” She choked on her sobs, the release of the last several hours of no sleep, grief, and fear.

Juanita tightened her hug. “Let it out, Maria. You need to lay down some of that burden you've been carrying ever since your papa died.”

The housekeeper's words only made Maria cry more. How was she going to tell the family that Isaac Porterfield's death might not have been an accident? Should she tell them at all? She had no proof. Maybe if Chet… But now that she was back at the ranch with all of the problems and more, their time together seemed like something she might have dreamed.

Juanita led her past Roger, who had the good sense not to try to ask her any more questions, and on into the kitchen to a chair. “First you eat something, then a bath, and then bed,” she ordered.

“I have to—”

“No. Someone else can ‘have to' do whatever it is. Not you, Maria. You are making yourself sick.” She went to the stove and filled a cup, then brought it to the table. “Drink this down.”

“It smells horrible.”

“Never you mind how it smells,
mi
hija
. It will help you regain your strength. Now, drink.”

Maria had always done as she was told. Whatever Juanita or her parents—or even Roger—ordered. But after her father died and Jess left and her mother couldn't function, Maria had stopped taking orders and started handing them out instead. The relief she felt now that Juanita was treating her the way she had when Maria had been a girl was comforting. So she held her nose and downed the beverage.

“Now, a bath,” Juanita announced. “Amanda!”

“Right here,” Amanda said. “Good heavens, Maria, you look like something that got caught in a stampede.” She led the way back down the hall to their bedroom, where the tub had been set up. Trey was filling it with buckets of steaming water.

In a way, she had been caught up in a stampede, Maria thought a few minutes later as she eased herself into the water—Oscar, her father, Chet, constantly having to prove that even though she was a woman, she was capable of managing the ranch. But mostly she was more worried than ever about whom she could trust…and the name that Oscar had tried to utter with his dying breath. She closed her eyes as she soaked in the warm water that Amanda had scented with yucca oil before shooing Trey from the room. Before Amanda allowed her to get into the tub, she had insisted on washing her sister's hair. Now, as she surrendered to the soothing warmth and scent of the water, Maria combed her wet hair with her fingers and thought about Chet—the way his fingers had stroked her hair, the way his calloused hands had touched her face, the way his eyes had been wide with fear for her safety. He cared for her. She had heard it in the thunder of his heart when he held her against his chest. Was this what it felt like to be in love?

She thought about her parents and the love they had shared. She thought about the way her mother looked at her father, the way her eyes lit up whenever she saw him. The way she had smiled that night by the creek when she had thought Chet was her husband. Maria understood that now. For the first time since her father's death, she thought she could begin to appreciate the depths of loss her mother had suffered. No wonder she wanted to live in the past. If Maria couldn't see Chet—if he were to leave—she knew she would never recover from the heartbreak of that. She loved him, but if they were to have any chance for a future together, then she had to deal with everything else.

She wrapped herself in a towel still warm from the sun as she stepped out of the tub. She saw her nightgown spread out on her bed. “Get me my clothes, Amanda.”

“But Juanita said…”

“There is work to be done and Oscar's funeral to be planned. I'll sleep tonight.” She rubbed her hair to soak up the extra dampness, then plaited it into one long braid. “Oh, and have the men meet me outside Papa's office in half an hour.”

“All of them?”

“Yes—except the Johnsons' hand. He should head back home. Chet is back now.”

“Even Roger?”

“Of course Roger. He's one of the hands, isn't he?”

Amanda laid out trousers and a shirt that had belonged to Jess and that Maria had taken to wearing once their brother had left. She added clean undergarments for her sister and smiled. “Not sure Roger sees things that way, but looks like you might be about to set him straight.”

The men were all waiting for her when she entered the office—even Roger, who leaned against the door frame half-inside and half-outside the room, his arms folded across his chest and a smirk on his face.

“Gentlemen, as you may have heard by now, we have lost one of our own—Oscar Crutchfield has died. After he was brutally beaten, he hid for some time in the Johnsons' barn. Once we found him and moved him into the house, where his injuries could be properly treated, he seemed to be on the mend but apparently his injuries and the fever he developed were too much for him to overcome.”

A murmur ran through the room, and she understood that Chet had not given the men details of Joker's death.

“He was murdered?” one of the men asked.

“In a manner of speaking. Colonel Ashwood has been alerted, and Marshal Tucker is probably at the Johnsons' ranch now. It is clear that whoever attacked Oscar is reckless and desperate and has little concern for the lives of anyone who may get in the way.”

She heard the name “Tipton” run through the gathering. She held up her hands. “We do not yet know who is responsible. You—and I—may have our suspicions, but we will not become vigilantes, is that understood? We will let the authorities do their job.”

“And then we'll take over,” Bunker muttered.

“Seymour…” It was a warning, and Maria saw that the older man had the good sense to say no more. She also noticed that Roger had fully entered the room and that he seemed quite interested in what she had to say.

What
do
you
know
about
this, Roger Turnbull?
She couldn't help but remember that the name Oscar had tried to whisper had begun with the letter
T
. Roger had gone into town with her father that day, but had returned alone with some story of how her father had sent him on ahead. Was
he
responsible? Could it be possible?

“Services for Oscar will be tomorrow. His body will be returned later today and he will lie in the house, as have all the hands who have died in the service of this ranch before him. He will join my father and those other men in the family cemetery. Eduardo, if you would be so kind as to recruit two others and prepare the grave while Ricardo takes the wagon to retrieve the body.”

Rico and his father both nodded, and she was gratified to see that the hands standing to either side of them immediately volunteered their help.

“What about the branding?” Roger asked. “We're already behind and—”

“I thought you told me things were right on schedule, but either way, this ranch is in mourning. We will resume—and hopefully complete—branding the day after tomorrow. That's all, gentlemen. Thank you.” She picked up her hat and strode from the room, nodding to each man as they made way for her. When she came to Chet, she paused, started to say something…then kept walking.

Later
, she told herself.
You
can
find
solace
with
him
later.

* * *

When Chet left the meeting, Loralei was waiting for him. “What's going on?” she asked.

“A man we all worked with died. The funeral will be tomorrow. It'd be a help if you could take care of the boy so Ezma can help Juanita in the kitchen.”

“Chet, we have to talk about us.”

“There's nothing to discuss. I told you I would help you, but you know how this works—I don't get the bulk of my pay until we get the stock to market. After that, I'll pay your way to any place you want to go, but I'm not coming with you, and before you go, you will write your father and tell him the truth—a letter that I will take care of seeing gets delivered. Those are my conditions.”

“You are a horrible man, and I have no idea what it was I ever saw in you that made me—”

“I've got work to do. I'll stop by later.” He headed for the barn where Bunker was waiting for him.

The older hand didn't waste time coming to the point. “Tell me everything you know, Hunt.”

Chet was tired, and he'd barely had time to wash up and change into a clean shirt before he heard about the meeting. He'd have given anything to just lie on his bunk for half an hour and relive the time with Maria. But clearly that wasn't going to happen. “I don't have much to go on.”

He led Bunker over to the corral because at least out in the open they could talk without being overheard and not seem to be plotting anything. He handed Bunker a rag and indicated Maria's saddle. “You do Miss Maria's saddle, and I'll clean mine while we talk. That way nobody will think we're up to no good.”

“Just talk to me, Hunt.”

So he told the older hand everything he knew, starting with finding Joker in the barn and ending with what Maria had told him about the man saying that her father's death had been no accident. When he finished, he realized that none of this seemed to surprise Bunker.