Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (4 page)

Bunker shrugged. “Hunt—Hunter. It suits because you finished the hunt for the strays. Brought 'em back.”

Chet heard the others murmur the nickname, trying it out, squinting at him to see if it fit, then nodding and grinning.

He glanced back at Bunker. “Well, it'll sure keep the distinction between me and my dog,” he said.

“Cracker,” Bunker announced to the others as if they didn't already know the border collie's name. “So we've got Hunt here and his trusty dog Cracker.” Bunker stroked Cracker's neck. “And now that we've tended to that bit of business, I'm hitting the hay.” He stood up, yawned loudly, and headed inside. Just before entering, he turned back. “Hunt!”

“That's me,” Chet replied.

“You don't snore, do you?”

“Haven't had any complaints before.”

“Good. Your bunk's right under mine, and I'm a light sleeper.”

The others did not even attempt to disguise their snickers. A couple of men laughed out loud as they dumped the last of their coffee onto the dry ground and followed Bunker inside.

An hour later, Chet understood the men's humor. Above him, Bunker snored like a steam engine at full throttle. The others seemed to have grown used to the noise, but although Chet was exhausted, he could not get to sleep. His mind was cluttered with unfinished business. He'd agreed to stay on, but once he'd turned down the foreman's position, there had been no discussion of wages. A woman trying to run a ranch under the best of circumstances could be tricky. This woman—this slip of a girl—trying to run a ranch on the very border of a company determined to buy up as much land as possible could be a total disaster. According to the gossip he'd gotten during supper, Tipton Brothers had already bought up several other small ranches in the area. Those who refused to sell had been driven out by the combination of the ongoing drought and Tipton undercutting the going beef prices.

Nope, from where he sat, Maria Porterfield didn't stand a chance, and if that was the case, there was no reason for him to stay on. Maybe tomorrow he would go see her and let her know that it wasn't going to work out…

Between one thought and the other, exhaustion finally claimed him.

He was dreaming about her just before someone shook him awake. But his dream had had nothing to do with conducting business. In his dream, they had been dancing, and she had been wearing a lavender gown.

“Hunt? Wake up.”

It was pitch-black outside. Eduardo was leaning over him, whispering as if he didn't want to wake anyone else.

“What's—”

“Shhh. Miss Maria needs your help.”

Chet sat on the side of his bunk and reached for his boots. He shook first one and then the other and heard something scuttle across the floor. He saw a critter the size of the palmetto bug that might have been in his boot if this was Florida. But this was Arizona. Still, critters were critters. “What's going on?”

“The senora is missing. Miss Maria has gone out looking for her, but my wife Juanita is worried, so she sent me to look.” Nothing about Eduardo's message made sense, but he followed the bow-legged Mexican out into the yard anyway. “I do not see so well in the dark anymore,” Eduardo continued in a more normal tone as he led the way to the corral.

“Miss Porterfield's mother took a horse?” Chet asked.

Eduardo shrugged. “I don't think so. Usually she can be found in the cemetery.” He gestured to a fenced area set some distance from the house. “But Miss Maria and I looked there already.”

“Where is she now?”

“She went inside to change into her riding clothes. She told me to keep looking, but then I thought about the way you found those strays and…”

Cracker, who had reluctantly risen from her place on the floor next to Chet's cot and followed them out, perked up. The dog was uncanny when it came to sensing adventure.

“This woman is not a stray, Eduardo. How would I begin to know…” He glanced up at the sound of a door closing, then saw Maria striding toward them. She was dressed in canvas trousers, a shirt a couple of sizes too big for her, and boots.

“Did you find her?” This was directed to Eduardo. “Really, Mr. Hunter, you need not concern yourself with this. I—”

“I asked him to help,” Eduardo admitted.

“Why? He doesn't even know Mama.”

Chet cleared his throat. “Uh, folks, maybe we could settle my being here or not later. If Mrs. Porterfield is out there somewhere…”

“Let's go,” Maria said and started for the corral.

“Have you checked down by the stream?” Chet asked, suddenly aware of the sound of moving water nearby. “I mean, how far could she have gotten?”

“You don't know my mother when she sets her mind on something,” Maria replied. But then she paused and glanced toward the place in the darkness where the stream ran closest to the house. “Earlier she mentioned the picnic…” she whispered and took off at a run.

Chet didn't pause to ask questions but set out after her, surprised at how fast she could move. By the time they reached the bank of the water, he was breathing hard and she was stalking up and down, calling for her mother as if she'd just taken a leisurely stroll down to the water's edge.

“Mama?”

A branch cracked under Chet's boot, and Maria held up her hand, signaling him to stay where he was. Then he watched as she pulled off her boots and started to slowly wade into the water, looking downstream.

“Mama?” she said again, a child calling her parent.

He peered beyond her, knowing she had spotted something—someone. He caught a glimpse of white in the shadows and let his eyes adjust to the darkness until he'd located the older woman standing in the water farther downstream. He moved along the bank, taking care not to startle her as Maria moved forward with more difficulty over the slippery rocks that lined the shallows.

When he was nearly opposite Mrs. Porterfield, he saw a wide-brimmed man's hat on a fallen tree that jutted out over the water. It was the hat Maria had been wearing earlier, but Maria had not brought the hat—her mother had. Acting purely on instinct, he picked it up, attracting the woman's attention as he did. He froze. But instead of bolting as he had feared she might, she smiled and stretched out her hand to him. “The water is lovely, my darling.”

He flicked a glance upstream to where Maria had stopped. She nodded and motioned him forward.

Mrs. Porterfield laughed—giggled really. “Don't be such a scaredy-cat, Isaac. The water is not even up to your knees. Come on. If you had let me teach you to swim when I taught the children…”

Not knowing what else to do, he jammed the hat onto his head and walked into the water.

“You're wearing your good boots,” she chastised as he waded toward her. “Juanita will not be pleased.” She shook her finger at him, but he took some comfort in the fact that she was still smiling.

He caught hold of her hand. “And you are shivering,” he said. “Why don't we go back to the house and Juanita can make you some tea?” Keeping hold of her hand, he moved slowly. To his surprise, she stepped closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Hot chocolate,” she whispered. “With cinnamon. I know it's for special occasions but…”

He wrapped his arm around her back and lifted her from the water. Her nightgown was soaked and the sheer volume of fabric—not to mention the fact that his boots were half-filled with water—threatened to throw him off balance, but he made it to shore without mishap.

Now
what?

He set the elder Porterfield woman on a flat rock while he pulled off his boots and dumped the water, all the while looking for Maria. Where was she? He scanned the creek, but there was no sign of her. Then he heard footsteps.

“Mama?” she called as if she had just arrived on the scene. “Oh, Mama, Eduardo has been looking for you.” Sure enough, Eduardo stepped forward.

“I'm sure it's nothing, senora,” he said, taking both her hands in his as he led her back toward the house. “You know how my Juanita can be…” Chet did not bother to listen to the rest of whatever tale he was telling. He pulled his boots back on and stood up. He handed Maria the hat. “I saw this on the bank.”

“She thought you were my father,” she said softly as she turned the hat around and around in her hands. “This is his hat. She must have taken it from the hook in the kitchen, thinking he would want it. On the day before he died, they came here—just the two of them—at midnight for a picnic. They did that sometimes. They were so very much in love.” This last was whispered, and he knew that if he could see her features, there would be tears. “Thank you,” she managed and started the walk back to the house.

This time he caught up to her and fished out a cotton neckerchief worn thin from years of use and repeated washings. He'd stuffed it in his pocket earlier—a precaution against a repeat of last night's stampede and the need to protect his mouth and nose from the dust of rounding up the herd. He passed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes before handing it back to him.

“She misses him. It hasn't been that long since…”

To his shock, she suddenly broke into heart-rending sobs—sobs that shook her small frame until he feared she might actually collapse.

“Come over here,” he instructed, guiding her to the nearest resting spot—a wobbly bench outside the barn. He gave her the kerchief again and then pumped the well to fill a dipper and brought it to her. “Take a sip,” he said.

She grasped the dipper with both hands and gulped down the water, then spit half of it back up as a sob welled again.

“Easy there,” he said and realized he was talking to her as if she were a colt he was trying to gentle. She took a steadier sip, then handed it back. “Is that better?” he asked.

She nodded and then stood and ran her hands down the sides of her trousers to dry them. Sniffing back her tears, she stuck out her hand. “Thank you again, Mr. Hunter. I promise you that your job does not normally include rescuing members of my family.”

He set aside the dipper and accepted her handshake. “The men have decided to call me Hunt. If you usually call them by their nicknames—Bunker and Rico and the rest—I thought maybe you ought to drop the Mister in favor of just Hunt.”

She straightened to her full height—a good eight inches less than his six feet—and in spite of the shadows, he knew she was staring up at him. “Since I was a child, I have called the men by their given names. Rico is Ricardo. Juanita and Eduardo gave him my father's middle name. And Bunker is Seymour and—”

“Got it,” Chet said, barely able to contain his smile upon learning Bunker's given name. “Well, then, I'm Chet—and what should I call you?”

She brushed past him. “Miss Maria will do nicely,” she said as she headed back to the house without the slightest sign that only minutes earlier she had been close to a breakdown.

Maria was surprised to realize that she had slept late. When she woke, Amanda's bed was empty, the covers tossed aside and her nightgown wadded into a ball near her pillow. From outside, she heard Juanita barking out orders to Trey.

“I thought maybe the new hand was going to—” Trey protested.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Juanita interrupted. “The new hand has other things to do, and now that you're feeling so good, young man, it's past the time that you start doing your part around here.”

As Maria dressed quickly, she saw Chet walk out of the barn. He said something to Juanita and nodded toward Trey. Juanita threw up her hands and headed back across the yard toward the house. Maria lingered near the window, watching her brother and Chet walk back to the barn. Chet said something that made Trey laugh. The dog danced around both of them, nipping at Trey's heels, herding him along.

There was something about this cowhand from Florida, Maria thought as she dressed and made up both her bed and her sister's. It was something that both disturbed Maria and made her curious to know more about him. Was Florida really his home, or had he always drifted from place to place? Somehow that idea gave her more comfort than thinking he had traveled so far and perhaps left loved ones behind. After all, if he had made a habit of staying awhile and then moving on—if he was the restless sort—she could accept that. More than one of the hands her father had hired had stayed for a time and then vanished overnight. Her father had taught her to take such comings and goings in stride.

“Just have to figure nobody's here for the long haul except us,” he'd told her. “And maybe Bunker,” he'd added with a grin.

Chet Hunter also was not the first good-looking ranch hand to work for them. Roger Turnbull had turned more than a few female heads—including hers, once—at the picnics and dances that her parents and the neighboring ranches used as an excuse to visit. Roger was a man who took a good deal of pride in his looks. He chose his clothing carefully and kept his mustache precisely trimmed. Of course, she had been Amanda's age when Roger first came to work at the ranch—young and impressionable with no idea what her future might hold.

Amanda.

Maria drew in a deep breath. She needed to keep an eye on that. With her father gone and her mother incapable of mothering an idealistic girl, that task fell to her.
Or
perhaps
Nita
. She let out her breath on a whisper of hope. None of the Porterfield siblings had ever dared cross Juanita.

“Did you get things settled with Turnbull?” Juanita asked as soon as Maria entered the kitchen.

“I doubt he thinks anything is settled,” she replied, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “But he quit as foreman, and if he thinks he can simply come riding back in here and—”

“That's exactly what he thinks,” Juanita interrupted. “And you'd be wise not to forget that.” She slammed a large lump of bread dough onto the wooden table and began kneading it, running her flat palms over the dough from front to back, then folding it over and repeating the process in time with her measured words. “If I were you, I would be talking to some of your pa's friends, getting their advice about hiring a new foreman.”

“The new man will be foreman.”

“The new man turned you down.”

“He'll change his mind.”

“That cowhand will be gone before the month's out, if you want my opinion. He's got that look about him.”

“What look?”

Juanita shrugged. “Hunted…wounded…something that makes a man like him want to keep movin'.”

Maria laughed. “You've barely shared half a dozen words with the man.”

“When you get to be as old as I am,
mi
hija
, you get a sense of things—of people. Mark my words, this man has something he's carrying around with him like an open sore.”

Maria shook her head. Juanita was known for usually looking at the darker side of any situation. She said it helped prepare her for when the worst happened. “Well, I do have a worry about the new man,” she admitted. “And it has to do with Amanda.”

“Wondered when it might strike you that she's gone all moon-eyed over this cowhand the same way you lost any good sense you had the first time Roger Turnbull showed up here.”

So, Juanita had been thinking along the same lines as Maria. “Well then, will you help?”

“Help? How are you expectin' me to do anything?”

“She won't listen to me. In fact, if I try to say anything, she'll just dig in her heels. But you could—”

“I got enough to do around here without being you children's
mama
.”

Maria stepped behind the older woman and wrapped her arms around Juanita's shoulders as she rested her cheek against the housekeeper's broad, solid back. “You're the only mother we've got right now,” she said softly.

Juanita's hands stilled, buried in the soft dough. She heaved a long sigh. “She's going to come back to us, Maria. You just need to give her some time to work it all out in her head that he's gone for good.”

“And in the meantime?”

Juanita chuckled. “In the meantime, I'll look out for your sister. You just keep your own distance from that drifter. Don't let the fact that he was able to round up those strays turn your head.” She wagged her finger at Maria. “I'm warnin' you, Maria. That man's got trouble doggin' him, and the last thing we need around here is somebody else's misery.”

“I know,” Maria said softly.

“Knowin' and doin' is two different things.”

“Just say you'll help me keep Amanda away from him.”

Juanita cracked a half smile. “Oh, that can be arranged. I'll keep that
chica
so busy, the only thing she'll have on her mind is what time she can get clear of me and get some sleep.” As if to prove her point, she went to the kitchen door and bellowed, “Amanda, I need help in here now. This bread is not gonna bake itself.”

“Baking is Maria's—” Amanda complained as she strolled into the kitchen.

“Do not cross me, young lady. Maria's got her hands full trying to do your daddy's job. Now put on this apron and pay attention. You're so set on finding yourself a man to settle down with, high time you learned how to cook and bake.”

Satisfied that Nita had Amanda in hand, Maria headed out to the yard—and ran straight into Roger Turnbull. He slapped his hat against his thigh to remove some of the dust from the ride he'd just taken from town—or, more likely, the Tipton place.

“Maria, we need to talk.”

“We are talking.”

“Privately. Can we go for a walk?” He glanced back toward the barn. Chet Hunter was showing Trey how to pitch hay to feed the dairy herd.

“If you wish to talk business, then…”

Roger scowled at her and then visibly calmed himself by taking a deep breath. “Maria, stop pretending that all there is between us is a job.”

“Or more precisely, the abandonment of a job,” she snapped. “Thanks to you, I am three men short, and I need to rework the schedule to cover that without driving more hands away by overworking them.”

“I thought the new guy could handle the work of ten men with one hand tied behind his back,” Roger muttered sarcastically.

“The new guy is unproven, and I have no way of knowing how long he will stay, so I am not counting on that. Now if you will excuse me.”

He let her get a couple steps closer to the small outbuilding that housed her father's office before he said softly, “Isaac had plans for us, Maria. He hoped you and me would—”

She wheeled around. “Do not dare to invoke the name of my father in your attempt to wheedle your way back into my good graces or my life. And when was my father ever
Isaac
to you?”

He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. That was unfair, but honest to Pete, woman, you make it hard for a guy to own up to making a mistake.” His smile was calculated to win her forgiveness, and she had to admit that perhaps she wasn't being fair.

“Stop tryin' to flirt with me, Roger Turnbull.” She couldn't help smiling though. Nor could she help thinking that this was a man she knew—had known for years, while Chet Hunter was…

Once again, she glanced back toward the barn. The drifter was nowhere in sight. He must have moved on to some other chore. Juanita was right. He would no doubt move on for good sooner rather than later. She turned back to Roger. “All right. I admit it. I could use your help.”

He grinned and offered her his arm as they walked the rest of the way to her father's office. “I'll move my stuff back into the anteroom tonight.”

* * *

“You'd best watch your back, Hunt.” Most of the other men were already sleeping when Bunker rolled over on his upper bunk and whispered the words in the dark.

“Go to sleep,” Chet said. After being up half the night before and working all day, he was wiped out. It would be dawn before he knew it. At least he'd come up with a solution for Bunker's snoring. He'd picked up a glob of candle wax from a fat candle he'd seen resting on a shelf in the barn, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger to soften it, and divided it in half. He was just about to use them as earplugs when Bunker started in talking.

“You'd be smart to listen to me.” Bunker was now leaning over the edge of his bunk, his whisper filled with urgency.

Chet rolled onto his back and stared at the dip the large man made in the straw mattress above him. “Listenin'.”

“Okay.” Bunker lowered his voice again. “Turnbull has charmed his way back into Miss Maria's good graces and that, my friend, is not good news for you.”

“Because?”

“What, are you stupid or something? Turnbull thinks you've got eyes on Miss Maria. More to the point, he thinks she might have eyes on you. Turnbull don't like competition—not in his work and not with his woman.”

The idea that Turnbull felt any claim to Maria irritated Chet. On the other hand, why should he care? He was just passing through. The best thing that could happen would be for him to stay clear of any personal involvement with the Porterfields. “I'm not a threat to Turnbull,” he muttered.

“Not your decision,” Bunker hissed. “Just watch yourself.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Chet said and rolled onto his side, facing away from Bunker. But the big man wasn't through talking.

“The boys and me will do what we can,” he promised. “Just don't let yourself get in a situation where you and Turnbull are alone.”

“Got it.”

“And keep your distance from Miss Maria.”

“Okay. Can we get some sleep now? It'll be sunup before we know it.”

“Yeah. Sleep.” Not fifteen seconds later, the air was filled with Bunker's snoring.

“Glad somebody's going to get some rest,” Chet grumbled as he pressed the wax into his ears.

He'd finally managed to dose off when someone started shaking him. He must have overslept. “Hunt!”

“Right here.” He rolled to a sitting position and reached for his boots. Through the small bunkhouse window, he saw that it was still pitch-black outside. “What time is it?”

Eduardo was standing by his bunk. “It's the senora,” he whispered.

“What?” Chet remembered the earplugs and pulled them out.

“The senora is back at the stream, and Miss Maria can't get her to listen to reason and…”

Chet followed the man from the bunkhouse. “This habit she has of taking these midnight strolls must have happened before I got here,” he said, unable to disguise his annoyance. “Who got her back to the house then?”

“Senor Turnbull, but—”

“Then go wake up Turnbull. I've got to relieve Happy in another couple of hours, and it'll take me near to an hour just to reach the herd. That leaves me less than—”

“Turnbull is already down there with Miss Maria, but Senora Porterfield knows him. Miss Maria sent me to get you.”

They were making their way toward the water. “So she recognized Turnbull. What's the problem?”

Eduardo frowned. “The senora does not like him and is not pleased that he and Miss Maria are there together.”

“Wait until your father hears about this, young lady.” Mrs. Porterfield was standing on the shore shaking her finger at her daughter. “Sneaking around with this no-good… And you.” She wheeled around to face Turnbull. “You may think you have my husband wrapped around your little finger, but when he finds out…”

Chet stepped into the clearing. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his eyes on Maria, who motioned him toward her mother, keeping one hand on Turnbull's arm to restrain him from interfering—as he seemed inclined to do.

“Of course there's a problem, Isaac. It's after midnight, and I came here and found these two—”

“Mother, Roger and I came to find you,” Maria protested.

“Mrs. Porterfield…” Roger took a step toward her.

“You keep your distance, young man,” the older woman warned. “Isaac, do something. You have spoiled this child rotten, and I frankly wash my hands of the entire matter.”

And with that, she stalked up the path that led back to the house with Eduardo at her side. Maria watched them go and then let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. “Well, at least now she'll sleep,” she said wearily. “Thank you, Chet, for your help. It would appear that Mother continues to believe that you are my father and that calms her.”

Roger snorted. “You call that calm? She nearly took my head off.” He focused on Chet for the first time. “You can go now.”

Chet ignored him and turned his attention to Maria. “Will she be okay? Because I'm scheduled to take the early shift out on the range and—”

Maria placed her hand on his bare forearm. “She'll be fine now. I really appreciate that you… That she…” Tears glistened in her eyes.