New Way to Fly (22 page)

“An' Cody thinks this is a good idea? He's willin' to back you?”

“He thinks it's terrific. He says more ranchers in the Hill Country will have to develop this kind of flexibility if they want to survive.”

“Survive,” Bubba whispered. “The ranch can survive, Mary?”

Mary nodded. “We think so. It won't be easy,” she added warningly. “Even though there's the potential for really good profits, most of what we make the first few years will just go toward clearing the debts. But after that…”

“It's gonna be a lot of work, Mary.”

“I know. That's why I want you to hurry up and get out of here, Al Gibson!”

“Will you have enough help now, though? Will young Luke be able to…”

Mary shifted uncomfortably in the chair and avoided her husband's eyes. “I had to let Luke go,” she said quietly, toying with the handle of her briefcase. “I need the bunkhouse for somebody else. Besides,” Mary added, looking up bravely, “it wasn't right, having him there, Al. People were gossiping, and even though nothing ever happened, I think I liked to…pretend something might, just to get even with you for the way you hurt me, you know?”

Bubba nodded and covered her hand gently. “I know,” he said. “Was that on Luke's mind, too?” he asked casually after a brief awkward silence. “Did he think he'd just move in on the ranch an' all, with me outa the way an' you alone?”

“I don't know,” Mary said honestly. “Maybe I'd be flattering myself to think that he had any interest in me. Maybe he only wanted a warm place to sleep, or maybe he really wanted to help. Luke Harte's not an easy man to figure out, I know that much.”

Bubba nodded, trying not to show his relief that the young drifter was gone from Mary's life. “So,” he asked casually, “who's gonna be helpin' you with these ostriches, Mary?”

“That's another wonderful thing,” she said, her eyes brightening, the awkwardness disappearing as she leaned forward eagerly. “You remember Rosa Martinez who works for Carolyn at the Circle T?”

“I think so. She's real good with horses? Got into some trouble down at Fort Stockton an' shot a guy for hurtin' her kid?”

“That's right. Well, she has a sister named Maria who's married to a young fellow taking an agriculture course at the university in Austin. They have a little boy about four, and you know what?”

“What?”

“They've worked with ostriches in New Mexico, at a ranch near Carlsbad!” Mary leaned back in triumph, smiling at her husband, who nodded his shaggy head thoughtfully.

“An' they'll live in the bunkhouse?”

Mary nodded happily. “It's so perfect, Al. They know I can't pay much, but he's going to school on an education grant and she has a part-time job at the library in Crystal Creek. In return for the house and some groceries and me baby-sitting while she works, they'll help me with the ostriches, so it works out great for everybody. And he's such a darling,” she added, her face softening. “Little Bobby, I mean. It's going to be pure pleasure, having a little one around the place again.”

Bubba Gibson stared at his wife and shook his
head in wonder. “Mary Gibson, you're one in a million,” he said slowly. “You know that? One in a million.”

She smiled shyly, her face soft, her eyes gentle. “It feels real good to hear you say that. I…I love you, Al.”

Bubba swallowed hard, wishing he had a better command of words, wishing he could take her in his arms and let her know how much she meant to him. This quiet courageous woman had given him back his life, his love, his hope for the future…given him more treasures in this one half hour than any man could dream of.

But the guards were moving into the room now, watching as the three women said their halting farewells, waiting to usher them out the door.

Mary turned and peered past a burly uniformed shoulder to smile and wave. Then she was gone, leaving Bubba alone, his mind reeling with crazy images of sunshine and green hillsides and dancing ostriches.

He followed the guard back to his cell, stepping inside with an automatic murmur of thanks. While the guard's departing footsteps echoed down the corridor, Bubba looked around at the drearily familiar walls and the stained ceiling.

But the place didn't seem nearly as oppressive now. Even the noise of the fan out in the hall didn't
depress him anymore. It sounded almost jaunty, a cheery little chirping sound like a cricket.

Bubba peered cautiously out into the barred hallway, then sank down beside his cot on creaking knees, burying his face in his coarse gray blanket.

Bubba Gibson hadn't prayed for a long time, hadn't thought much about God for years, in fact. But he tried to pray now. Tears wet his cheeks and burned in his throat as he choked out a halting thanks for all the blessings he didn't deserve, for life and hope, for the promise of light in this bleak darkness, for the sweet rolling acres that meant the world to him and, most of all, for the love of a wonderful woman.

 

A
LVIN CREPT ALONG
the side of the truck, cowering at Brock's heels and casting quick furtive glances into the black depths of the barn. He turned with sudden panic, dug in his heels and tried to scale the side of the box, falling back in the dust in a disorderly heap at Brock's feet.

Mary Gibson shifted a pad of paper from her right hand to her left and bent to pat the shivering little dog, gazing down at him in concern.

“What on earth is the matter with him, Brock?”

“He's scared of your big black tomcat,” Brock said with a grin. “Come on, Alvin. Up you go.”

He hoisted the dog into the box of the truck. The
two neighbors watched as Alvin settled himself with an air of arrogant bravado, pausing to gnaw contemptuously at one of his forepaws. From the safety of this new vantage point, he lifted his head and gave a couple of aggressive challenging barks, then dropped his chin heavily onto an old sack and fell asleep.

“What a coward,” Mary said, smiling at the ragged dog.

“Yeah,” Brock agreed. An awkward silence fell, while Brock poked with the toe of his boot at a bundle of posts and heavy-gauge wire stacked near the fence. “Pretty stout fencing,” he ventured.

“Yes,” Mary agreed placidly. She watched as her big cat crept silently out of the barn and began to circle the truck, head low, paws daintily extended, yellow eyes blazing.

“You planning to raise buffalo or something, Mary?” Brock inquired mildly, unaware of the tomcat's stealthy approach.

“No,” Mary said. “I'm not.” She smiled, glancing sideways at the cat, which had flattened itself against a rear tire and was casting a speculative glance up at the truck box.

“Mary…”

“Yes, Brock?”

“Mary, what's going on? Is everything okay here?
I mean, you're not selling the place or anything like that, are you?”

“No, Brock, I'm not selling. I'm just diversifying, that's all. Isn't that one of your favorite words?”

Brock studied his neighbor thoughtfully. “You'd tell me, wouldn't you, Mary?” he said. “You'd tell me if you needed help or anything? Because I'd do anything I could. You know I would.”

“I know, Brock. And very soon you'll know what's happening over here, too, but I want to get things going before I start talking about it. I promise that when I'm ready to discuss my plans, you'll be the first to know.”

The tomcat leaped lightly to the edge of the truck box behind Brock, teetered for a moment and then dropped soundlessly inside, crouching in one corner, eyeing the sleeping dog on his bundle of sacking. The cat's tawny eyes glittered and his scarred ears twitched dangerously as he edged forward.

Still oblivious to the small drama being enacted just behind him, Brock leaned back against the truck box and raised his handsome face to the sunlight. “Say, Mary…” he began, trying to sound casual.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to the McKinneys' Halloween party on the weekend?”

“I guess so,” Mary said, casting another fascinated glance at her cat, which was now sitting next
to Brock's sleeping dog. The big animal was as still as a statue, crouching there with uncanny patience, his muscular body tense and contained so that his fierce yellow eyes seemed to be the only living thing about him.

“Kind of strange, isn't it?” Brock commented in that same deliberately offhand way. “I mean, Halloween's been and gone, hasn't it? This is November already.”

“I know, but they wanted to have the party when Cal and Serena could be there, and apparently this was the only weekend.”

“What a lot of damn fool nonsense. I don't know if I'll go,” Brock said gloomily.

Mary chuckled. “For heaven's sake, you sound just as cranky as old Hank Travis.”

Brock gave her an abashed grin and kicked at the dust with the toe of his boot. “So,” he ventured, “who's going, Mary? Is pretty well everybody going to be there?”

Mary took pity on him and touched his arm with a gesture of motherly compassion. “I think Amanda's gone back to New York, Brock,” she said gently. “Beverly told me she was planning to leave this week, and I haven't heard from her, so I guess she's gone. Although,” Mary added with a troubled expression, “I'm surprised that she didn't come out
to say goodbye to me. We got to be pretty good friends, Amanda and I.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess you two were—”

Brock got no further. Suddenly the cat coiled and hissed, slashing the air with wicked claws while Alvin backed into a corner, barking hysterically, his eyes rolling with terror.

Brock shooed the cat away and gathered the shaking little dog into his arms where Alvin huddled and burrowed, trembling in convulsive spasms.

Mary laughed aloud while Brock gave her a rueful grin over Alvin's quivering ears. “Women are so cold,” he commented sadly. “No pity at all for a poor sensitive guy and his feelings.”

Still laughing, Mary watched as Brock bundled his unhappy dog into the cab of the truck, gave a cheery wave and drove off toward his own ranch. Then she turned away and concentrated happily on the plans she was drawing up for a set of breeding pens.

 

B
ROCK DROVE ALONG
the dusty back trail toward his own property with Alvin still shivering on the seat beside him. He patted the frightened little dog with absentminded gentleness, thinking about what Mary had just told him.

So Amanda had gone back to New York after all.

Brock had always known she would, once this little adventure was over and she decided to accept the
glamorous job and life-style that her New York boyfriend could offer. But he'd always hoped that she'd come and say goodbye before she left, make an effort to explain herself and leave things on a better footing between them.

“I guess I'm just a fool, Alvin,” Brock commented sadly to the dog, who gazed up at him with dark suffering eyes. “Taken for a ride by a pretty face, that's all. I wonder if I'm ever gonna learn. She's not even worth the effort of being this unhappy, dammit.”

But the words didn't satisfy him, didn't help to ease the ache in his heart.

She'd laughed at him, used him, betrayed him and tossed him aside like an old garment, but Brock still couldn't shake the stubborn conviction that during those sun-spangled moments of wonder amid the grass and flowers, she'd felt the same things he had. He'd seen the glow of love on her beautiful face, felt her curving sweet body melting in his arms and heard the broken halting whispers of things she didn't even know she was saying….

Could he possibly have imagined all that? Who exactly was the real Amanda Walker?

Brock frowned, his mind tugging wearily at this same question that had haunted him ever since he met her. He worked back through his memories, try
ing to recall all the personalities he'd seen wrapped up in that one woman.

There was the cool classy fortune-seeker, and the independent businesswoman whose air of bravado covered a kind of winsome vulnerability. There was the delightful companion who ate stew at his table and helped him draw up plans for his kitchen, and the friend who expressed such warmth and affection for Mary Gibson. There was the sweet warm woman in his arms, giving herself so completely to the joy of lovemaking.

And finally, there was the hostess at the dinner table, smiling graciously at her suave New York consort and deliberately excluding Brock, treating him as if he were the hired man who'd wandered into the kitchen with manure on his boots.

He groaned aloud, remembering the dreadful awkwardness of that dinner party, and worst of all, Edward's casual statement that Amanda had told him Lynn and Brock were a couple.

How could she have done something like that? How could she have been so quick to deny any relationship with him after they'd lain naked together in the sun and she'd bestowed on him the sweetest gift a woman could give?