Renegade Man (18 page)

He didn’t. The
day was long and boring, and she didn’t find much, only what looked as if it
might have been a quarry, nothing to indicate that she was close to Folsom
Man’s dates, much less the earlier period where she hoped to substantiate her
belief in Renegade Man.

She could hear
Jonah’s dredger running. The low noise was distracting, and she fought the urge
to even look in that direction. She concentrated even harder on her work and
didn’t even take a break.

Every time
Magnum was tempted to wander away, she called him back. But the Lab was as
restless as she was, and when an imprudent long-eared rabbit hopped across the
flat, Magnum was off and running in pu¬suit. She didn’t even bother to yell
this time. She was too tired and too hot and too frustrated. She went back to
her trowelling.

Soon Magnum came
trotting back, panting, and dropped down beside the pit, head between his paws,
his tongue lolling. “What, nothing to show for your effort?” she chided.

The dog wrinkled
his forehead, as if embarrassed by his failure, and she laughed ruefully.
“Well, that makes two of us. Let’s call it quits for now, fella.”

In a way it felt
good to be sore; it made her feel that she had really worked hard that day. For
almost a quarter of an hour she stood underneath the hot shower. Although it
was already six o’clock, the sun was still high above the peaks. The evening
stretched interminably before her. Resigning herself to categorizing her finds,
she slipped into a terry-cloth robe and padded over to the table, which was
littered with her sacks and cigar boxes.

She had barely
begun entering her finds in her log when she heard a car .coming up the dirt
road toward the cabin. Magnum, growling softly, was already at the door. Jonah?
No, Jonah expected a woman to meet him on his own turf. Jonah didn’t want to
get involved in any entangling emotions that might lead to a relationship.

Had C.B. tracked
her down to force another confrontation? A little shiver of fear rustled
through her. Kingsley could be merciless, and he would stop at nothing to get
his own way. In this instance, her ban¬ishment from Tomahawk Flats and Silver
City. Just how far would he go to achieve that goal?

And there was
always that unacknowledged question – what if it was Chap, coming back? 
Everyone had returned to the scene of the crime. Only he was missing from the
stage.

She pushed aside
the calico curtains. Soren’s Lincoln was parking before the cabin. And here she
was wearing no makeup. Nothing she could do about that now. She adjusted the
folds of her robe so that the neckline was less daring and went to the door.

Soren filled the
doorway, looking masculinely fashionable in razor-creased tan slacks and a brown
seersucker jacket. His eyes twinkled. “I’ve come to rescue you from becoming a
recluse. Have dinner with me?”

She had to
laugh. “Now?” Her hand swept down to indicate her attire.

“Change. I’m a
patient man.”

Why not?
Disdaining the pink knit sundress, she settled for jeans, a turquoise tank top,
a denim jacket and her old white sandals. Her hair, still damp from the shower,
was twisted in a careless knot at her nape. She applied smudges of eyeliner and
lipstick and finished in just under ten minutes. She looked at herself
critically in the medicine cabinet mirror, then added large gold hoop earrings.
It was the closest her wardrobe came to “understated elegance.”

Soren’s eyes
reflected his appreciation of her efforts. “I think I might recant my dinner
offer and keep you here all to myself.”

She wrinkled her
nose at him. “You can’t. My stomach’s growling and won’t take no for an answer.
Where are we eating?”

He shook his
head in a hopeless gesture. “A woman who has only one thing on her mind—food—can’t
be all bad. The Buckhorn.”

The Buckhorn
Saloon and Opera House in Pinos Altos had been in existence since the 1860s,
and with its Old West decor it was one of the most popular— and
expensive—eating places in Grant County. But the added attractions of the
restaurant-saloon-opera- house were well worth the prices. A carved wooden Indian
sat at the bar, and waiters dressed in appropriate costumes served the
customers, while the more talented sang, danced or acted out melodramatic skits
on the opera house’s spotlit stage to the music of a tinny piano.

It was all great
fun and very noisy, and Rita-lou was enjoying herself—and a mesquite-cooked,
Texas-size T-bone—immensely. That was, until Jonah ambled in. Dressed in his
worn jeans, scuffed boots, disreputable hat and leather vest, he made all the other
men there look like so many drugstore cowboys. Was it some sort of cosmic joke
that made their paths cross and recross these days?

She watched him
join three outdoorsy-looking men who had hailed him from a corner table. A
treacherous gust of desire swept through her, and she took a fortifying swallow
of her salty margarita.

Soren noted her
suddenly dampened mood, and he said quietly, “It’s Jonah Jones, isn’t it?
You’re in love with him.”

She shook her
head vehemently. “No.” She couldn’t be. Jonah aroused a tormenting passion in
her, true. But love, that cherished feeling she had known with Robert, was out
of the question. “We’re just friends, the way we have been since grade school.”

“More than that,
wasn’t it? How about grade school sweethearts? Haven’t you heard about old
flames rekindled?”

Her mouth curled
in a tight $mile. “Obviously you went off to college before I rocked Silver
City with scandal.”

Gently he placed
his big hand over hers. “I heard all about it later.”

“Ahh, yes.
Gossip. I’m sure you were filled in on every nasty little detail.”

“Naturally. The
infamous Rita-lou Randall. She dumped Jonah Jones for Chap Kingsley, became
pregnant with his child, and when the Cattle Baron intervened she told him to
kiss off, left Chap and left town. Right?”

She had to
laugh, but it was brittle laughter. “Yes. All that you heard happened did. Just
that way. But that was in the distant past. Middle age has tempered my
impetuousness.” She smiled wryly. “At least I hope the years have mellowed me.”

He stared at her
intently. “Impetuousness? Is that the same as willfulness?”

She lowered her
eyes to her nearly empty plate, smiled—at herself, mostly—then met his
penetrating gaze. “You’re a shrewd man, Soren.”

“Rita-lou, I’ve
come to find out that I don’t know a damned thing about women.”

She had to
chuckle. “Does any man?”

Their
conversation turned to other subjects. He charmed her with a tale she had never
heard about pinon nuts. “They say you can spot a true New Mex¬can by the way he
eats the pinon nuts. An out-of-stater will crack them one by one. But a real
New Mexican—after popping a handful in his mouth—will skillfully extract the
nuts and spit out the shells.”

“Then I’m not a
true New Mexican, am I?” she said teasingly

He smiled and
said, “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

She settled for
the safe subject of anthropology, telling him about the misconception people
had regarding early man’s height. “Mogollon Man wasn’t much shorter than we are
today. He probably didn’t find his small doorways any more comfortable than we
would, but those doorways were much easier to cover with skins or rock slabs to
keep out the cold winter drafts.”

For the
remainder of the evening they talked of in-consequential things. She focused
her attention on Soren and refused to glance even once in Jonah’s direction.
She doubted he even knew she was in the restaurant. In fact, for all she knew,
he had already eaten and left.

Thinking about
Jonah, she remembered how once, in the ninth grade, Buck had picked on old
Reverend Bradshaw’s son. Timothy had been a mite of a boy who hadn’t yet
reached the height puberty brought. The other kids had pressured Jonah into
defending the boy. They had expected Jonah to champion them— and he had,
however reluctantly.

Soren had been
there that day, and if strength had been the determining factor, he would have
been the better choice. But the kids had looked to Jonah for Timothy’s defense.
She didn’t understand it—this crowd judgment. How it ousted some and prodded
others forward, regardless of their wishes. Whatever it was that commanded the
respect of men, Jonah had it.

After dinner,
while Soren was paying the bill, she waited outside, where it was cooler. She
turned her face upward. There in the mountains, the stars were larger and
sparkled brighter. In Houston, clouds rolling in off the Gulf had more often
than not obscured the heavens. Clouds and the smog.

“Wishing on a
star?”

She spun around.
Jonah was lounging against the restaurant’s outer doorway, watching her in a
distinctly hostile manner.

“Well, well, if
it isn’t Sailbad the Sinner.” She couldn’t help it—out-of-control fires of
excitement had begun burning in her as soon as she saw him, and the only way
she could fight him was with anger.

“You always did
have a smart mouth, Rita-lou.”

She suddenly
realized that he wasn’t completely sober. “Are you following me?”

He pushed
himself away from the doorframe and strode toward her. “As a matter of fact, I
am. I saw you two driving up through Silver City and thought to myself that
someone needs to keep an eye on you.” So it wasn’t just a coincidence, his
dining at the Buckhom tonight. “Your concern is wasted on me, Blackbeard.”
Without realizing it, she had let him back her up against one of the parked
cars. “I don’t need a protector, thank—”

“I’m totally
capable of keeping an eye on Rita-lou without your help, old buddy.”

Both of them
turned to see Soren close the restaurant door behind him.  “This is a private
conversation, Gunnerson,” Jonah growled. “Come back another time.”

“The lady is
with me. We’ve been good friends, Jonah, and I’d rather settle this in a
civilized manner, -but if you prefer otherwise I’m more than willing to
accommodate you.”

Soren was a good
inch taller and more solidly built, but Jonah’s ropy muscles and long-limbed
frame gave him the advantage of quickness. And his mean expression said that he
preferred to do battle with the diplomatic Swede. That was all she needed to
add to her notoriety: two men fighting over hef as if she were a trading-post
tart.

“Well, you two
can slug it out like Neanderthals if that’s what you want, but I’m leaving.”

She stepped away
from Jonah and started walking down the street. Behind her she heard footsteps,
and in a moment Soren caught up with her. He laid his hand on her arm. “I’ll
take you home, Rita-lou.”

She glanced over
her shoulder. In the parking lot’s fluorescent light, Jonah, his boot propped
negligently on someone’s fender, was still watching her. His outlaw’s mustache
didn’t hide his sardonic grin.

On the drive
back, Soren said, “I’ve got to fly to London for several days. Rolistof
business.” She heard the change in his voice, and in the dark she could just
barely glimpse the scrutinizing glance he gave her. “While I’m gone, I want you
to give some thought to marrying me.”

“I don’t
know..she hedged.

“Just think
about it. That’s all I’m asking. All right?”

“All right.
I’ll—I’ll think about it.”

But it was a
lie. All she could think about was Jonah.

Chapter 12

I
n the two months
she had been excavating, she had dug eight five-foot squares, keeping
meticulous records and diligently filling the trenches behind her as she dug.
Yet again and again her efforts drew a blank when it came to proving the
existence of Renegade Man. The stuffy old academic profs at the anthro
conventions would denounce her efforts as sheer lunacy.

What did she
care?

Digging,
troweling, sifting, sorting. Obviously she was just going to have to dig
deeper. But the hot wind sucked the moisture from the ground, baking it so hard
that she literally had to chip away at the earth.

An
anthropologist needed stamina, and hers was waning quickly—sapped by the
intense August heat that in the past few days had nudged the mercury above the
108 mark, hot even by New Mexico standards—sapped by her foolish obsession with
Jonah.

She must be mad!

She had thought
that by working even harder, by putting in fifteen-hour days to take advantage
of the extended daylight hours, she would be too tired to think about the blond
sea rover, but, unhappily, such was not the case.

Most days she
never caught a glimpse of Jonah, although she heard the constant low growl of
his dredger and sometimes spotted his pickup through the foliage, heading into
town. Once she had passed him on one of her treks to the hot springs, rare now
that she had the cabin’s shower. These days she resorted to the hot springs
merely for relief of the aching muscles caused by her long hours of hard
physical labor.