Ransom Canyon (13 page)

So, he just sat next to her, touching from hip to knee, as he ate his pancakes and listened to her lecture Cap about taking better care of himself.

Yancy lowered his head when the two men from the hardware store came in. Cowboy and Freddie. There was no doubt.

He saw their profiles clearly this time. They were the cons he’d crossed a few times the first year he was in prison. They were both meaner than wild hogs, but Cowboy could fool people because he had an easy smile and a laid-back way of moving that hid his ruthless ways. Cowboy’s hair might be longer, but Yancy knew exactly who he was.

“Morning, little lady,” Cowboy said to Sissy. “All right if we have a seat at your counter?”

“Of course. I’ll take your order in a minute.”

Sissy wasn’t rude, but she wasn’t as friendly as she’d been to Yancy. That made him feel proud. Maybe he no longer looked like a con. Maybe he just looked like a regular guy.

Yancy watched them fold onto the counter stools. They had their backs to him, but he could tell by the way Freddie looked around that he was casing the café. Before he left, the con would know where the money was kept. The real money, not just what they kept in the cash drawer for change. Yancy knew the tricks. All Freddie would have to do was pay with a hundred, then watch across the pass-through as Sissy rushed into the kitchen and pulled a bank bag from somewhere.

Yancy had no proof, but he knew this place was on their list of places to rob in Crossroads. He didn’t miss the fact that both their heads turned when Sissy rang up a bill. They would come in fast and hard when they robbed the café. They’d be armed and probably use more force than was necessary. The fact that Sissy was small and pregnant wouldn’t slow them down.

He also knew neither of the men had spotted him. Too many years maybe. He’d been nobody, just one more kid in prison for robbery. They’d both always been surrounded by their gangs. He was nothing to them, but for a time they’d been his greatest fear.

When he and Cap left the café, Yancy walked back while Cap drove across to the parking lot. Ellie had left with them, but she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye to Yancy even though they’d touched legs for half an hour.

The air was cooler, but Yancy didn’t feel it. He’d taken to wearing his flannel shirt over his thermal underwear. It was almost as good as a jacket. Only today he had far more to worry about than the weather.

Somehow he had to keep an eye on Cowboy and Freddie while staying out of their way. A few months ago he wouldn’t have cared what they did, but now the old folks were his friends and the idea that someone might hurt Sissy made him sick to his stomach.

He decided if he saw them do one thing wrong, he was going to the sheriff, even if it meant his secret got out. One fact he remembered about every encounter Cowboy had with anyone on the yard; he was meaner than he had to be. Hitting, hurting, maybe even killing. If a bystander got in the way, that wasn’t Cowboy’s problem. Freddie tended to move in fast and leave anyone bleeding who got too close to him.

The rest of the afternoon Yancy worked on the gutters, keeping watch like a lone sentinel at the palace gate.

Ellie kept circling in his mind, even though he did his best to keep focused. He liked the way she smelled and how she’d felt against him. Something was obviously wrong with him. He was probably some kind of pervert. He could still feel her warm, soft thigh resting against his. A man could lose sleep on just that one thought.

As he worked, he watched the traffic moving through town. Most were people simply passing by, but he was learning the locals one story at a time. When he went in for a cup of coffee, the folks in the sunroom were talking about the ranches around and pointing as their trucks passed by.

The Collins ranch had silver trucks and pickups. “Think they’re uppity,” Mrs. Ollie said without missing a stitch. “Old Adam Collins, Davis’s father and Reid’s grandfather, was like that, too. Always wore an expensive Western hat but never had any manure on his boots. I swear Davis buried the old man in thirty-year-old boots that had never touched dirt.”

Mrs. Kirkland pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared, but didn’t comment. If she had stories about the men who had been her next door neighbors, as ranches go, she wasn’t saying.

“Looks like the plumber got a new truck,” Leo added as if anyone cared.

They moved on to a conversation about students who’d grown up, and Yancy went back to watching the traffic as he worked.

The Kirkland ranch trucks weren’t as fancy as the Collins ranch vehicles, but every one Kirkland owned had two K’s on the driver’s door. They were back-to-back mirror images. Double K’s. Yancy thought they kind of looked like stars or maybe a real stiff spider. Maybe, if he ever met Kirkland, he’d ask him what the K’s looked like to the man who owned the ranch.

Twice, Yancy thought he saw a suspicious one-ton truck go down the street. No markings and whatever logo had been on the driver’s side looked to have been spray-painted over. The guy driving wore a cowboy hat low on his forehead. Yancy couldn’t see his face for the shadows, but it could have been Cowboy. Whatever they were doing in town was keeping them busy.

He shook off the nervous feeling. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he hadn’t gotten a real good look at the two men except for a moment, and it had been almost five years since he’d seen them. What were the odds that three men from an Oklahoma prison could end up in a small town in Texas? And if they were here, it was no business of his.

Yet that night Yancy couldn’t sleep. About midnight he put on the long, black wool coat Mr. Halls had given him and went outside.

The town was asleep, and the air so still he heard his own breath going in and out. Crossing over the road, where the night’s shadows were deeper, he walked with no particular destination in mind. He moved past the high school and tried to remember one good thing that had happened when he spent time in classes at any one of the dozen schools he had attended.

His mom had moved around, living first with one relative, then another. She’d start a new job and he’d think they’d be fine, then she’d begin drinking, and before he knew it, they’d be moving again. When she finally ran out of relatives, they’d lived in hotel rooms and dumps with men she always wanted him to call uncle.

By the time he was fourteen he was staying out all night. She never noticed. Never asked about school. Never offered him lunch money.

One night he just didn’t come home. After that he never went back to school. He didn’t care what happened to her any more than she probably cared where he was. He ran the streets with other kids no one wanted. For a few years, he felt wild and free. Then he was caught stealing. Once trouble found him, it never let go for long. Serving time became the norm between vacations of freedom.

As he walked past what Cap had pointed out as the Gypsy House, Yancy heard the eerie sound of branches scratching against the roof. He stood perfectly still and stared. The air was calm, but he swore he heard the branches clawing over the top of the house.

The house seemed out of place along the two-lane road. It was still within sight of town, but no longer a part of it. Years of weathering had turned the outside to the color of dirt, but the way the windows sagged left dark holes just like blind eyes watching him from the crumbling home.

Crossing the road, he walked through the twisted trees to the remains of the homestead everyone called the Gypsy House. Nothing moved. He heard no sound to indicate that anyone, or anything, had caused the sound, yet he swore he’d heard branches scraping. As he stood close he heard the whirl of the night air circling through the rooms from one broken window to holes in the roof. For a moment he swore the house was breathing.

It crossed his mind that the house was luring him closer, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it had done the same to the kids who got hurt there. Maybe the house hadn’t wanted them.

Maybe it wouldn’t want him if he stepped any closer. Maybe it would. Folks called it the Gypsy House, and one of the old-timers had asked if he had Gypsy blood. Maybe he did. Maybe the place was calling him home.

His mother used to tell him, when he was growing up, about a town called Crossroads where she had to live with a crazy old grandmother one summer.

He’d always thought she made the story up, but now, staring at the house, he wondered if this could have been the very house his mother feared.

Turning, he hurried away. The wind was whipping up, and he needed to head back. He had a full day of work to do tomorrow. He needed sleep.

As he crossed the road, he swore he heard the sound of branches move over ancient tiles on a roof, rotten and caving. The pull to go back and look closer was strong, but Yancy forced his steps to put distance between him and the old house. Ghosts and hauntings were for children. He was a man of twenty-five. He would not give in to fear.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “It’s nothing but an old house. There are a lot worse things to fear that are real. I’ll come back and prove it one day,” he swore, and he knew he would.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Staten

S
TATEN
K
IRKLAND
DIDN
’
T
remember much about driving back from Quinn’s farm. He must have gone a hundred through town. There didn’t seem enough air in Texas to breathe until the cliffs of Ransom Canyon rose before him, and he knew he was almost home. His always-pessimistic thoughts were piling up in his brain.

She wasn’t a young girl barely out of her teens as Amalah had been. What if Quinn died during delivery or lost the baby? Hell, even with a healthy baby they’d be living on Social Security before the kid could graduate from college.

But no matter how the worries stacked up, a tiny part of him knew that he wanted to be involved in his child’s life. He wanted this baby. He felt as if he’d just awakened on Christmas morning and been given a gift he didn’t know to even ask for. A wonderful gift that came with a bucket-load of worry and a ton of excitement.

Quinn would be a good mother, no doubt about that, only Staten had no idea what kind of father he might be. He was no longer in his twenties. He had hardened so much, he might not have enough love to spread out over all the growing-up years.

Might not be an option anyway. He may have slammed the door on any chance he had by asking if she was sure it was his kid. Staten swore for a few miles. He should write a manual of the dumbest thing to say when a woman tells you she’s pregnant. Apparently, he was a natural-born expert.

Think. You’ve got to straighten this out
. All he had to do was talk Quinn into speaking to him again. Right about now the mother of his future child was probably plotting to murder him.

What had she said?
This is my baby. I’ll take care of it. People don’t even have to know it’s yours.

Damn, he didn’t care if the whole country knew it was his. It
was
his. In six months he’d be a father again, and damn it, he planned to do it right.

Hell
, he thought,
I have six months to stop saying damn and hell.
Women didn’t think much of a man who cussed around newborns. Which made no sense. They didn’t understand a word you were saying anyway.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Quinn

Q
UINN
WALKED
THE
rows of plowed earth surrounding her house. The lingering smells of lavender and the warm rich dirt blended. She was home. This land. This place. She’d grown up here. Her child would grow up here.

She hadn’t had time to think about how Staten would react to her news. Part of her didn’t believe it was possible until a few hours ago. Her periods had never been regular. The few other times she’d been late, she’d simply waited, but this time was different. When she’d missed her cycle, Quinn had hoped that she could dream it might be true if only for a short while.

For once she’d wanted to be selfish and keep it to herself. Over the years she’d watched her friends who were pregnant. She wanted the private kind of joy of knowing every moment of every day that you carried life inside you.

Staten had never mentioned love or a future between them. If he’d wanted more than what they had, surely he’d have voiced one thought about it. But the way he’d acted, all angry and sharp, hurt her. It was like she was trying to force him into something.

Quinn smiled through her tears. She wanted this baby, her baby. If Staten didn’t want to be part of that, it didn’t change anything.

Staten

S
TATEN
FELT
AS
IF
his brain might explode. Too much joy, too much sorrow in this life. He handled it the only way he knew how. He moved all feelings aside and tried to concentrate on work. That was the way his grandfather had taught him, and he’d practiced it religiously. Tonight he’d think of the right thing to say to Quinn, but right now he had problems he had to deal with.

When he crossed the cattle guard onto the Double K, he decided to take the county road. The land would relax him, help him get all the details of his life in order.

The bull that someone had run into last night would be gone, but, who knew, the guy who had hit his prize stock might have returned to the scene of the crime. Maybe it wasn’t rustlers. It could have been a drunk on the wrong road. Maybe the drunk hadn’t realized what he hit. If he just drove off, he might try to retrace his path.

Staten’s men would have hauled off the bull, but maybe somewhere there would be a clue. Besides, Staten decided, he was in no shape to carry on a conversation with anyone, so going into headquarters didn’t sound like a good idea.

For the second time in his life he was about to be a father, and right now, if he told anyone, Quinn would probably be even more angry than she already was at him.

This wasn’t something that she could keep secret long. He didn’t care who knew, but there were a few people he needed to talk to before word got out. His granny, for one.

Two miles up the county road, he spied the sheriff’s cruiser parked up on the hill half a mile away.

Staten pulled his truck alongside Sheriff Brigman and leaned out the window. “Can I help you, Sheriff, or are you just out for a stroll?”

“I thought I’d see if I could spot anything strange. Right now a dead bull is the only clue we’ve got to your destruction of property claim.”

Pulling his truck off the road, Staten joined the sheriff. He almost argued that a dead bull was a hell of a lot more than just destruction of property. Every man on his ranch carried a rifle or handgun in his truck. If they’d seen whoever hit the bull racing away from the crime scene, shots would have been fired. To the man, they all rode for the brand and would protect his property.

“What are we looking for exactly?” Staten asked. He wasn’t in the mood to act normal, but maybe trying would calm him down. Part of him wanted to turn around and race back to Quinn, but reason told him he needed to get over wanting to murder the driver first.

“Tire marks,” the sheriff said, breaking into Staten’s worries. “Maybe something that blew out of the bed of the truck. Broken glass. There had to be damage done to whatever, or whoever, hit him. To hit a bull hard enough to kill him, the front of any car or pickup would be smashed to pieces. I’ve seen what a deer can do. A bull must have done a great deal more.” Brigman glanced over at Staten. “Did you ever lose a cow like this before?”

“First, I didn’t lose a cow, it was a prize bull. And second, of course I’ve lost both cows and bulls, even calves. The boys and I are guessing we’ve taken a hit on half a dozen since fall, all to rustlers. That’s over twice what we lost by this time last year.”

“Would they show up at the sale barns? The brand inspector is surely watching for them.”

Staten shook his head. “Most end up in the freezer by morning. Once they’re slaughtered, they’re gone. Now and then a small-time farmer will steal a few head and mix them in with his own. They breed with his herd, and as long as he doesn’t sell them, chances of someone spotting a brand is slight.”

An old pickup rattled down the road toward them. Staten knew from the sound that it belonged to Reyes, the head wrangler on the next ranch. He’d seen Lucas drive it around town and into headquarters last month to pick up his pay. Funny how the boy had been nearby and on the ranch for a while, but kind of off Staten’s radar until the night the kids got hurt at that old house near town. Ever since, he’d made a point to talk to the tall, lean Reyes boy every time he saw him.

Sheriff Brigman moved closer to Staten. “I asked one of your men to have Lucas Reyes drive his truck over here. You said once that he comes on your land, so he’s my most likely cattle-killer. Correction, bull-killer.”

Staten frowned. “Lucas didn’t do it.” He’d watched the kid work stock. He knew too much to barrel across open range at night. His father had worked for the Collins operation for years. Lucas was raised on a ranch, and, legal or not, like most farm and ranch kids, he’d probably been driving since his feet could reach the gas pedal.

Quinn crossed Staten’s mind. In about six months she’d have a son or daughter. Whichever didn’t matter, but Staten wanted the baby to feel born to the land the way he always felt. He wanted his offspring to grow up on Kirkland ground.

He almost laughed aloud. Not much chance of that happening with Quinn not speaking to him.

Lucas pulled up, jumped from his truck and headed right to Staten. “You need me out here, sir? I was planning on finishing that fence in the west pasture before dark.”

Staten didn’t like the idea of Lucas thinking he had any part of this interrogation Brigman was about to launch into. He liked Lucas. There was a real intelligence in his eyes, and he didn’t back away from hard work. “The sheriff is asking me questions, and I thought you might lend a hand. I told him you like to come out in this back pasture after dark. We were hoping you might have seen something if you were here last night.”

“I haven’t been out here for a few nights, Mr. Kirkland. If I ever did see something, you’d be the first to know.”

The boy was still looking directly at his boss, not the sheriff.

Brigman moved closer. “Exactly what night were you last here, Lucas? Two, three, four.”

“It was Saturday night, Sheriff Brigman.”

“Before or after you visited Tim O’Grady?”

Staten didn’t miss Lucas’s surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. “After.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?” The sheriff moved between Staten and the kid. “Like someone who shouldn’t have been on this land.”

“No, sir.”

“Were you alone?” Brigman snapped.

For a blink the kid glanced his direction, and Staten saw the boy panic, then Lucas straightened his shoulders as if preparing to take a blow straight on.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I always come out here alone. With five brothers and sisters, I like the silence of this back pasture, and Mr. Kirkland doesn’t mind that I walk across this corner of his land.”

Staten had never considered himself a mind reader, but he understood his men. He knew the cloth they were made from. Lucas was a hard worker. The other men liked him. Staten had seen them kid him about still being wet behind the ears one minute, then turn around to help him the next. He’d also seen Lucas help others, even working overtime to make sure they got their job done.

Staten would bet his ranch on two facts. First, Lucas Reyes hadn’t killed the bull. Surely, even the sheriff could see that there wasn’t a dent in Reyes’s truck. And the second fact he knew beyond any doubt was that Lucas Reyes had just lied to a county sheriff.

Since the sheriff looked as though he had more questions and Staten figured the discussion was over, he slapped his hand on Lucas’s shoulder and said, “Walk with us. We’re looking for any clue that would tell us who could have plowed into my bull.”

“Yes, sir.” Lucas joined Staten on the other side of the road from where the sheriff walked. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Glass, a fender, anything. Rain’s coming in tonight. If we don’t look now, a clue might be washed away.”

Lucas smiled. “Whoever it was must have been going fast or was a complete idiot. Probably drunk or on drugs if he missed a bull.”

“I agree,” Staten said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who fits the description?”

“No, sir.” Lucas hesitated then added, “It could be someone wanting to test how fast a car would go. Everyone knows these back roads aren’t likely to have radar on them.”

“Good point.” The sheriff kicked at dirt as if he thought he might dig up something. “Could have been kids. They steal a car, go for a joyride.”

Lucas glanced at Brigman. “You have any stolen cars turned in?”

“No. If it was just joyriders, we would have found the wrecked car. They always leave it somewhere along the side of the road once it runs out of gas.”

“That leaves someone testing out a new car,” Staten said to himself, thinking he knew of one person who’d gotten a car early last week for his birthday. Reid Collins. Only, Staten wasn’t going to suggest anything to the sheriff. Brigman would have to figure that out on his own, and he would. After all, he and half the county had been at the kid’s birthday party.

Staten saw something shiny and knelt. Broken glass. Could be a headlight, but it was small, only a sliver.

Brigman joined him. “Looks like they missed this piece. See the markings in the dirt. Someone swept the ground here. Probably cleaning up the wreck. A drunk wouldn’t do that.”

“Blood,” Lucas yelled from ten feet in front of them. “Leading off that way.”

Staten walked the blood trail. What happened was obvious. The vehicle had hit the bull where they found the glass. The bull had managed to wander off, bleeding for another hundred yards, before it died.

Brigman got a call and rushed toward his cruiser. “I got to take this,” he yelled.

Staring straight at the kid, Staten said, “I don’t think you had anything to do with this, Lucas, but I need to ask. Were you here last night?”

“No, sir.” Lucas met his stare.

“Then tell me why you lied to the sheriff about being alone out here a few nights ago.” Before Lucas could think about his answer, Staten added, “I don’t plan on telling anyone, but this is my land, and I need the truth from my men. The whole truth.”

Lucas took a slow breath and met Staten’s gaze once more. “I couldn’t tell the sheriff I wasn’t alone the last time I was in this pasture. I was with his daughter.” He didn’t look away when he added, “We weren’t doing anything, sir. I just wanted to show her my favorite place to watch the stars.”

Staten nodded. “You were wrong to lie, but I guess I might have done the same if I was facing my girlfriend’s father and he was armed.”

Lucas grinned. “She’s not my girlfriend. At least not yet. We’re just friends.”

Staten turned back to the road. The sheriff shouted that he had to get to town.

As they watched the cruiser pull away, Staten issued a low order, “Take care of the west fence before dark.”

“I will, sir, and thanks.”

“For what? I’m a man of my word, Lucas. You be that, too.”

“I plan to be.”

Staten could almost see the future. This kid was going to make something of himself. “I’ve got more than twenty years on you, son, but let’s shake on something. We’ll never lie to each other. Between you and me, it’ll always be nothing but truth.”

“Deal.” Lucas offered his hand.

“Deal.” Staten shook on it. “Now get to work.”

As the kid ran off toward his old pickup, Staten remembered how he used to say that Quinn and he were just friends. They’d gone far beyond that now, and he’d better find a way to mend a few fences, too, or this stubborn bull of a man would be walking his own blood trail alone until death took him.