Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (9 page)

“Well, hello, Maria.” He removed his hat, exposing his thinning gray hair to the hot sun. “How's your mama doing?”

“About the same,” Maria replied. “I hope everyone in your family is well.” She was anxious to dispose of the small talk and get down to business.

“Fit as fiddles,” he said. “Was there something you needed?”

She told him about her concern for Joker's welfare. He listened politely—as the men from the neighboring ranches had—and then he gazed out toward the edge of town. “You see, Maria, times are hard, and when hard times come, it's not all that unusual for a man to just decide the grass might be greener down the road somewhere. The truth of the matter is that unless you have some proof that this man has met with—”

“You mean some crime has to be committed before you can help me find him?”

“I mean you need proof, and the truth is that he may not want to be found.”

“Well, if you can't help me find my hired hand, then what are you going to do about the rustlers who raided the herd the other night? They were taking the stock right onto Tipton land and…” He listened patiently while she ran through the list of events she had tallied and chalked up to the Tiptons.

“You know that's not my jurisdiction, and even if you go to the fort…do you have proof, Maria? Are you sure that the barn burning that forced the Kellers out was more than just a case of no rain and dry wood?”

“Well…”

The lawman was taking the points she had tried to make and ticking them off one by one, and the fact of the matter was that he was right. She had no proof.

“I can't do anything about Joker, Maria, and as for the rustlers, if you bring me hard evidence that can lead to an arrest, I'll take it to the right people in the militia myself.” He put his hat back in place and looked at her with eyes full of pity. “Ah, there goes Clyde Cardwell. Didn't you have a meeting?”

Once again, she had been dismissed.

At the bank Clyde Cardwell greeted her with a wide smile and the clasp of her hand between both of his. “Maria, I do believe you get prettier every day,” he said. He released her hand and used his handkerchief to dust off the seat of the chair across from his. “Now what can I do for you, little lady?”

The fact that he insisted on speaking to her as if she were ten and had stopped by for the free piece of stick peppermint that the bank handed out to the children of their customers made Maria grind her teeth as she smiled back at him and settled herself in the wooden chair. “I still need that loan, Mr. Cardwell. You said you would look into it and give me your answer by this week,” she reminded him.

His whiskered jowls drooped as the smile disappeared. “Well now, Maria, we've already talked about this. Times are hard and—”

“Which is why I need the loan. I will repay it in full as soon as we get the herd to market.”

“You are aware that beef prices are down? When the market gets flooded with product…”

“I understand the market, Mr. Cardwell. The Tipton concern has ruined that for everyone—including themselves, although with their huge resources and inventory, they hardly feel the pinch.”

His bushy eyebrows shot up as he gazed at her. Then he grinned as if he'd solved a puzzle. He shook his finger at her. “Roger Turnbull told you to make that point, didn't he?”

Maria squeezed her gloved fingers into a fist. She had worn her Sunday best, right down to a bonnet and her good shoes for this meeting. That had definitely been a waste of time and energy. She might as well have shown up dressed for a roundup for all the respect the banker was giving her. But she needed this money in the short-term, so she decided that in spite of how it galled her to do so, she needed to change her approach. “Would you rather deal with Mr. Turnbull on my behalf?” she asked, fighting to make her tone sweet. “Because I assure you, if that will make a difference, I can arrange for him to be here in the next couple of days. It's just that Papa always said what a fair and understanding man you were. His respect for you knew no bounds.” For good measure, she pulled the lace handkerchief Juanita always made sure was in her purse and dabbed at the corner of her eye. Sometimes a woman had a few more weapons at her disposal than a man did—and Maria was not above using a few fake tears if it meant she was going to get what she needed to save the ranch.

Flustered, Clyde Cardwell pushed himself away from his desk. “Now, now, Maria.” He poured a little water into a crystal glass and handed it to her. She remembered that whenever her father met with the banker, that crystal glass was filled with whiskey. She wondered what Clyde Cardwell would think if she asked him if she might have something stronger than water.

“Dry those pretty eyes of yours. I never said no. I just wanted you to understand the circumstances.”

Maria kept her eyes lowered as she sipped the water. “You'll give me the loan then?”

“I think we can manage half of what you requested,” he replied as he returned to his chair.

She looked up at him then, her eyes dry. “Three-quarters,” she bargained.

The banker stared at her for a long moment. “All right, but the terms include repayment in full on…” He flipped ahead in the calendar on his desk and tapped a date in October that would fall just after they had taken their stock to market. “In full, Maria, understood?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She extended her hand the way her father would have when sealing a business deal. Cardwell stared at it as if not sure what she was doing and then shook it firmly.

“In full with interest, Maria.”

“I understand.”

Clyde walked her out into the bank's main area, where he instructed a teller about preparing the paperwork and transferring the funds. “I'll have the papers ready for you to sign this afternoon. Shall I send them to the ranch?”

“No. My sister and I plan to have lunch at the hotel. I can sign them after that.”

“Then I'll look forward to seeing you later, Miss Porterfield.”

Maria understood that the formality was in part for the benefit of the teller, but she couldn't help thinking that just maybe it was also a mark of the banker's respect.

Back on the street, Maria felt as if a bale of hay had been lifted from her shoulders. With the money she'd borrowed, she'd be able to keep up with bills until they could get the herd to market. She wondered what Clyde Cardwell would have said if he'd known Amanda was at McNew's Mercantile planning a party. Her brow furrowed as she stepped into the street, determined to keep her younger sister in check. They could have a party, but it would not be one of the lavish affairs their parents had given for a variety of holidays or other special occasions in the past. It would not be the ball she knew Amanda dreamed of, with fancy gowns and…

She was so lost in thought as she planned what she would say to Amanda that she nearly stepped in front of the arriving stagecoach. She jumped back just as the driver pulled the coach to a stop in front of the Wells Fargo station so that both the coach and its team blocked her view of the street. She decided the safer course would be to go behind the stagecoach to cross, and as she did, the coach doors opened and the arriving passengers piled out.

Maria paused when she heard a baby crying. A man in a suit and bowler hat brushed past her muttering, “Finally. One more mile and I was going to throw that kid and its mother out the window.” He stalked off.

Maria paused and watched as a woman dressed in a dust coat and holding a squirming child stepped out into the sunlight. But it was the way she held the baby that made Maria look twice. It was as if she had never held an infant in her life.

* * *

After ten long, grueling days, Chet and the other cowhands had finally gotten the herd moved to the north range—decent grazing land that was as far from Tipton land as they could get. Horses could be run, but cattle walked at a stroll and moving them took more time. He'd been keeping watch over Trey, even though the boy was now trailing Turnbull and doing the best he could to follow the foreman's orders. Chet knew that Trey thought a lot of Turnbull. He'd jabbered on about the foreman while they rode the fence line together—how when he started to recover from the illness that had kept him housebound for the first several years of his young life, Roger had taught him the basics of roping; how Roger had been the one he could talk to after his pa died and his brother left; how Roger and Maria would likely get hitched one day even though they fought like two dogs with one bone.

But as the days since Maria left wore on, it became obvious that Turnbull was losing patience with Trey, especially when the boy pulled out his sketch pad. “Put that thing away,” he'd barked at Trey one night as the men sat around the campfire.

“He's doing my picture,” Bunker countered.

Turnbull ignored him and grabbed the sketchbook away from Trey. “You want to be a cowhand or not?” He tossed the pad into the fire.

Trey's eyes went wide with surprise. “But Maria said—”

“
Maria
said
,” Turnbull mimicked in a high falsetto as he walked away. “You want to be a man? Then stop hanging on to your sister's apron strings.”

As soon as Turnbull's back was turned, Chet plucked the book from the fire and stamped out the embers. “Here you go, Snap,” he said, blowing on the pages to make sure the fire was completely out. “Best keep this out of sight when he's around.”

Bunker leaned over and pointed to the drawing of himself. “Look at that, will you? Right handsome, wouldn't you say?” His comments had the exact effect he wanted. The men snickered, and Trey smiled.

“It's not finished yet,” he said shyly.

“Guess I get to be even better looking than I already am then,” Bunker replied, earning the outright laughter and ribbing of the other men.

“How about I hold on to that sketchbook for you, Snap?” Chet suggested.

“Good idea,” Slim agreed. “That way you don't run the risk that the boss might spot it in your stuff one day.”

Trey handed the leather-bound book back to Chet. “Thanks,” he said. “There's a drawing of you in there. You can have it if you like it.”

The men gathered around Chet. “Let's see, Hunt. See if you're a purty as me,” Bunker teased.

Chet flipped through the first couple of pages until he saw his likeness staring back at him. Nobody had ever made a drawing of him before, and he was surprised at this one. The man in the picture wore his hat and his clothes, and carried a coiled whip over one shoulder. But was that the way he looked—those eyes squinted on something in the distance and that mouth a hard, determined line?

“That's you all right,” Bunker announced. “Look at the way he got you looking off toward something out there.” He gestured toward their surroundings. “Me, I'm looking right at Snap here.”

It was true. The drawing of Chet showed a man looking off the page at something only he could see. “Nita says you'll leave one day,” Trey explained. “That you've got something you need to do and it ain't here.”

Chet tore the drawing from the book, folded it carefully and put it between the pages of his tally book. “It's a good likeness, Snap. Thank you.” He placed the sketchbook in his saddlebag and then picked up his saddle and headed for the corral. “Got night watch, gents. Be seeing you in the morning.”

As he left, he heard Trey say, “He never said whether he was going or staying.”

“Going,” Rico replied. “Only question is when.”

For once it was a quiet night on the range. Chet and the other night riders had little to do. Some distance away, Chet could hear Happy playing his mouth organ and found himself humming along with the tune. Music soothed the herd and gave the men something to do to pass the time—and some comfort as well. But the music only reminded Chet of that night when he had danced with Maria in the rain. They hadn't needed music that night—the way she'd fit perfectly next to him, the way she had looked up at him, rain drops beading on her perfect lips. If it had just been the two of them, and if that lightning bolt hadn't spooked the horses, he might well have given in to the moment and kissed her. That was sure the thought uppermost in his mind—still was. Kissing Maria Porterfield had become something he thought about a lot.

Cracker let out a low growl.

“Yeah, I know. Bad idea. She's not for me.”

The dog yipped in agreement then lay down, still watching the herd but taking whatever chance she could to rest as the hours of the long night wore on. Determined to put Maria out of his mind, Chet turned his attention back to the problem he'd seen with the water flow. Turnbull might not think there was anything out of the ordinary about it and even Bunker had dismissed his concerns, but Chet just had a gut feeling, and he had long ago learned not to ignore such feelings.

“Come on, Crack. Let's ride over to the creek and see how it's running.”

As the first light broke on the horizon, he dismounted to refill his canteen and stretch his legs. Turnbull had not asked him about the water flow problem, and he didn't feel it was his place to bring it up again, but that didn't mean he wasn't continuing to check. As he watched the water run slowly into the opening of his canteen, he mentally measured the flow against what it had been a few days earlier. Of course, there had been the downpour that had come so hard and fast that it had added little to the supply, but did that account for the slow trickle? Of course, the only way to find out for sure was to follow the water to its source, and that meant getting on the other side of that barbed-wire fence.

He opened his saddlebag to get some jerky and saw the sketchbook. The sun was still below the horizon but cast enough light that he could make out the drawings. He flipped through the pages and realized that he might not know a single blessed thing about good art, but even he could see that Trey had the gift. He turned the pages slowly, studying drawings of the herd with the ranch hands in the background, one sketch of the fencing with a hole patched up, a couple of the men gathered around the campfire. He turned the page and saw Bunker's mug grinning out at him, then turned the page again and his breath caught.