The Cowboy's Return (7 page)

“Is that how you want them?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

They worked side by side until all the orders were loaded.

“What’s in these boxes?” Tripp asked.

“Lye soap.”

“Excuse me?”

Camila wanted to laugh at his expression, but she hadn’t gotten to the point of laughing with Tripp.

“You heard correctly. Lye soap, some of it scented with lavender, ginger, eucalyptus, rosemary—all natural fragrances. Some of it’s just plain and some is grated to use in the washing machine.”

“My grandmother used to make lye soap, but she was never that adventurous.”

“I learned from Mrs. Baker, but now I’ve perfected my own recipe. Of course, I also make other kinds.”

“Like the almond and olive oil?”

“Yes.”

“Do you make soap at home, too?”

“When Jilly was small I did, but now I make all my soaps at my shop. I package a lot here so I can be home with Jilly.”

“Then it sells well?”

“Yes. I have a Web site that details all my soaps and my quilts. The Internet has opened up a big market.”

It seemed so odd talking to him standing in the moonlight. It was almost surreal. She didn’t even feel the chill of the evening. And she should. She didn’t need to get her emotions centered on Tripp again. Not ever.

“But I can make more on one quilt than I can on a week’s worth of soap. Homemade quilts are rare and people pay big money for them, but I offer them at a fair price.” Why was she telling him this? She’d gotten completely sidetracked. Distracted, was more like it.

“My grandmother has some quilts stored away at the house. Maybe one day you’d like to see them.”

The silence became awkward.

“No,” she finally said. “I don’t want anything to do with the Daniels family.”

“I understand, but I hope you’ll continue to let me see Jilly.”

She pulled her coat around herself, suddenly feeling the chill. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want her hurt again. Your parents can say anything they want about me, but not about Jilly. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s only a result of the past.”

“Once they realize she’s a part of Patrick they’ll…”

Her gaze clashed with his. “Now you believe she’s Patrick’s?”

“Yes. I’m not sure what happened back then and it really doesn’t matter. I’d like to get to know my niece…and you. If you’ll let me.”

Was he for real? She had to take a breath and the coolness of the night rushed into her lungs. The decision she made now would be final for Jilly—and her.

Say no. End it. Just say no.

“What about your parents?” came out of her mouth.

“It will take them a while to adjust, but eventually they’ll see what a sweet person she is.”

He was telling the truth. She’d learned the hard way how to judge people and she knew he meant every word he was saying. Still, she hesitated.

“Maybe you’ll let me take her out for a burger or something.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “As I said, I don’t think it’s a good idea, but once Jilly gets something in her head, it’s there to stay. If she wants to see you or her grandparents, I won’t stop her. But, please, I would prefer it if you left her alone without any pressure.”

“I see.”

The chill in the air dropped several degrees and Camila felt it all the way to her heart.

He tipped his hat and walked to his truck

She watched, almost in a stupor. She was doing the right thing.

Or was she?

Tripp drove home feeling as if things couldn’t get any worse. Camila was defensive and angry, and she had a right to be. Although for a brief minute, he could feel her softening, especially when she’d told him about her work. He’d respect her wishes and not pressure Jilly, but he wasn’t giving up either. He planned to work on his parents and soon they’d see Patrick in Jilly. Just like he did.

He shifted his thoughts to Earl and wished he hadn’t lost his temper. He wasn’t apologizing, though. Earl was taking advantage of his father’s frailty and Tripp was putting a stop to it.

As he reached the Lady Luck entrance, bright truck lights beamed his way. He kept waiting for the person driving to dim them, but instead the truck picked up speed and headed straight for him, forcing him into the ditch.

Suddenly both doors were yanked opened and someone pulled him out into the grass, driving a fist into his stomach. He came up fighting and, after a brief punching match, he realized he was outnumbered. There had to be at least four men.

Three men held him while another punched him, over and over. A hard blow to his jaw brought him to his knees. They released him and he fell flat on his face, prone in the grass. He didn’t get up, knowing there was no way he was going to win this fight.

“Rodeo man, you’re not welcome in Bramble.” He heard the gruff voice, but he didn’t recognize it. A diesel engine roared away, backfiring a couple of times.

Tripp rolled over, gulping air into his bruised lungs. He blinked up at the bright, cold moonlit night, feeling the dull throb in his head.

He had to get up. He had to make it to the house.

His bumper was behind him and he reached back, wincing, and pulled himself into a sitting position. Then, using the bumper, he shoved to his feet. He gulped in more air. His hat was in the grass, but no way was he bending down to pick it up. Moving carefully to the driver’s side, he managed to get in. Slowly, he drove to the house.

By the time he parked in the garage, he had his second wind—and he was angry, angrier than he’d been in a long time. He stumbled into the kitchen.

Morris turned from the stove. “Holy cow. You look like you’ve been whipped with a fence post and a few of the barbs were left on it.”

Tripp collapsed into a chair. “I feel like that, too.”

Morris filled a pan with warm water and brought it to the table. “Who did this to you?”

“Not sure. Somebody ambushed me at the entrance.”

Morris soaked a cloth then began to clean the blood from Tripp’s face. “Who’s got it in for you?”

“I had a talk with Earl in town and I don’t think he liked what I said.”

“Earl’s a tub of lard. He ain’t got the muscle to do this.”

“I figure it’s some of the boys who work for him.”

“Mm-mm-mm.” Morris clicked his tongue as he worked.

“How bad is it?”

“Your left jaw is turning blue and your eye is going to be black and it has a cut beneath it. I’ll get some antiseptic and tape.”

Tripp didn’t think his ribs were cracked, just bruised. If Earl thought this was the end of it, he was badly mistaken.

Morris came back and finished the job.

“What do you know about Earl?” Tripp asked.

“He’s bad—badder than a blue norther in the Panhandle in the dead of winter in a house without no heat and…”

Tripp turned to stare at him, at least with his one good eye. He was having a normal conversation with Morris, without shouting, as when he was a kid and Morris would say things that didn’t make a lot of sense. But Tripp always liked to listen to him.

“You old dog. You’ve been faking,” Tripp said. “There’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”

Morris plopped into a chair, his face slightly red. “Damn, and I was doing so good. Seeing your battered face got me off my rhythm.”

Tripp touched his swollen jaw. “Why would you pretend not to hear?”

Morris shifted uneasily. “It started with the townsfolk asking questions, questions that were none of their business. If I said
what
repeatedly or gave some ass-backward answer, they’d leave me alone. Then you came home and I figured it would work really good. If you saw that I couldn’t hear, then you’d realize your parents needed help, needed you, and you’d stay for a while.”

Ah, guilt, the little chip on his shoulder, the footprint on his conscience. Tripp couldn’t fault Morris for his motives or his concern, though. Morris had been a part of the family forever. He’d started working as a ranch hand before Tripp was born. He broke his leg one winter and Grif had brought him to the house to recuperate. A couple of months later, the housekeeper had quit and Morris had helped out with the cooking. He liked to cook.

Leona had been pregnant at the time and as Morris’s leg had healed he’d helped out wherever he could. He also liked housework. Morris was an odd parody. It was a common sight to see Morris sitting and knitting, something he’d learned from his mother. He wore jeans, boots and a western shirt with an apron in the house, and drove Leona around in a Cadillac. Morris never did ranch work unless extra help was needed.

“Don’t pull that on me again,” Tripp said. “And I don’t plan on going anywhere just yet.”

Morris folded his hands on the table. “That’s mighty good to hear.” He looked at Tripp. “What was the Walker kid doing here?”

“She came to meet her grandparents.”

“Well, if that don’t knock me plumb off the fence.” Morris reached for the pan of water and carried it to the sink.

Tripp watched him, knowing Morris acted as dumb as a post, but he was as shrewd as a fox. “You know Jilly is Patrick’s daughter, don’t you?”

“I don’t know nothin’.” Morris had his back to Tripp, pouring water down the drain.

Tripp decided to go at it from another angle. “How often did Patrick bring Camila out here?”

“Not often—just when your parents were away or you were home. Patrick wanted to impress her with his rodeo-star big brother.”

Tripp winced, not from the pain of his battered face or his bruised ribs, but for not recognizing the signs—that Patrick had used him to impress Camila. Patrick had been eager to show Camila Tripp’s awards and trophies and he’d asked Tripp all kinds of questions about the rodeo in front of her. Tripp should have put a stop to it.

Patrick had had low self-esteem and Tripp had known that. He’d also known Patrick had been in love with Camila, so he’d gone along with whatever Patrick had wanted, but Tripp had kept his distance from Camila. Sometimes that had been hard to do, especially when she’d asked questions about the rodeo. But when he’d noticed Patrick’s stormy face, he’d backed off immediately.

Tripp had never understood why Patrick had kept drawing him into their relationship. Maybe because Camila had seemed more interested in Tripp than Patrick. He was glad his parents hadn’t allowed Camila at the ranch. That had kept the visits limited—only when Patrick could sneak her past his parents.

That’s why it had been such a shock when Patrick had invited her to the graduation party.

That damn graduation party. He should have kept his cool and left the teenagers to their own devices. But he couldn’t just let Camila fall to the floor. He still didn’t understand what had happened next. He wondered if he ever would. Camila didn’t seem like a tramp to him. She was a loving, caring mother—that was obvious to everyone. So what had happened that night?

“Morris, when Camila was here, did you ever see them—mmm—together?”

Morris wiped his hands on a towel. “Whada’ya mean? Doing the nasty?”

Tripp met his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Patrick was like a lovesick pup over her, but she always seemed skittish, shy, except when you were here.”

He suppressed a groan and thought it best to get off the subject. His aching body couldn’t take much more.

“Tell me about Earl. When was the last time he paid Dad lease money?”

Morris took a seat. “A little over a year ago.”

“That’s the last entry I saw on the books. Did Dad ever ask Earl for the money?”

“Yep. Sent me, too.”

“And what happened?”

“I saw Earl in town and I told him the lease money was overdue. He told me I’d better mind my own business if I knew what was good for me.”

“Did you try again?”

“Yep. Several times. We were short on money and I had to let go of the cleaning and yard and pool people. At my age, I couldn’t keep up with a place this size. I ain’t never seen Lady Luck like this, but the last time I asked Earl for money, one of his boys twisted my arm behind my back and said if I asked one more time he’d break it. I couldn’t let nothing happen to me—there was no one else to take care of your parents.”

The guilt intensified. How could Tripp undo thirteen years? How could he undo the past? Holding the table, he pushed to his feet. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“In their room.”

“I’ll check on them.”

“How you gonna explain your face?”

“I don’t think they’ll notice.”

“Maybe not.”`

He went along to his parents’ room on the ground floor. His mother was lying in a lounger in her gown listening to the book on tape. Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn’t asleep. It was so strange seeing her hair, which had turned completely white within a month of Patrick’s death.

His father sat in his pajamas on one of the twin beds, cursing at a basketball game on the TV. It was even harder to see his father this way. He’d always been active, up early taking care of the ranch, staying in the saddle most days. There wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about cattle or horses. He’d taught Tripp everything he knew about riding, how to accept defeat graciously, how doing his best was all that was expected of him. And how family was the most important thing.

That’s why Grif saw Tripp’s interest in Camila as betrayal. To Patrick. And to family. Even though Grif considered Camila trash, the very idea that Tripp would try to come between her and Patrick had angered him. Tripp had tried to explain that he’d had no interest in Camila and that Patrick had blown the whole incident out of proportion because of the drugs he’d been on. That had made Grif even angrier.

God. He had to stop thinking about it.

He eased into a chair by his mother. “Dad, shut off the TV. I need to talk to both of you.”

“Son, I ain’t in a mood to talk.”

“Shut it off.”

“Hmmph,” Grif complained, but clicked it off.

Leona removed the headphones and sat up. “What is it?”

“It’s about Jilly.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s back with her mother, but no, she’s not okay. Dad hurt her and there was no reason for that.”

“Sometimes, son, you can’t pull your punches.”

“This isn’t a damn boxing match. It’s an eleven-year-old girl.”

“She couldn’t give me any proof,” Grif muttered. “I want proof.”

“Look into her eyes. Listen to her voice—you’ll have your proof.”

“I need more than that,” Grif said with Daniels stubbornness. “All it takes is a simple little blood test to prove the girl is Patrick’s. Camila Walker hasn’t done that and never will because she knows the truth.”

“Do you know the truth?” Tripp snapped.

Grif’s eyebrows knotted together. “What do you mean?”

“The truth, Dad? Do you have proof Jilly is not Patrick’s? That’s what you’re saying the truth is, right?”

Grif remained silent, but the creases on his forehead were deep enough to hold gravy, as Morris would say.

“If you’re basing your conclusion on the rumors from those idiots in town, then you’re not as smart as I’ve always believed.”

“Rumors start somewhere.”

Yeah. In every man’s head who ever looked at Camila Walker—including myself.

Tripp got to his feet, managing not to wince. There was only one way to get through to his father—to be as hard-nosed as he was.

“Bottom line—that’s what you’ve always taught me. Bottom line, son, look at the bottom line. Well this is the bottom line, Dad. Can you live the rest of your life knowing you rejected Patrick’s daughter?”

Griffin didn’t answer again.

“Stubborn old man,” Leona spat. She went to her bed and crawled in. “I’m glad I don’t have to share the same bed as you.”

“Believe me, it’s a blessing to me, too,” Grif replied.

“I’m not listening to that TV all night, Grif,” Leona warned. “Leave it off.”

Tripp walked over to his mother. “Mom, do you believe that Jilly is Patrick’s?”

“There’s just something about Jilly,” Leona answered, fluffing her pillows. “Every night when I go to bed I wonder if this is the night I’ll join Patrick.” A long pause. “To answer your question—no, I couldn’t face Patrick if I denied his child. All I know is when I heard her voice, I just wanted to hold her. That’s the only proof I need.”

“Silly old woman,” Grif grumbled.

Tripp decided to let the subject drop for now. It was some headway, though. Now he had to talk to his father about Earl.

“Dad, when was the last time Earl Boggs paid you?”

Grif looked at him. “So that’s how you got that black eye, huh?”

Leona sat up. “You have a black eye? Oh, Tripp, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Leave Earl alone, son,” Grif said. “He’s mean—his sons are meaner.”

Tripp frowned. “When have you ever run from a fight?”

“When I got knocked down so hard I couldn’t get up.”

His frown deepened. “Is that how you broke your hip?”

“Leave it alone, son.”

“My God.” Anger churned inside him once again. “Earl Boggs is not running his cattle free on our land one more day. By the end of the week, I’ll have every head off Lady Luck.”

“Son, please.” Grif leaned forward and Tripp saw fear in his father’s eyes. “I’ve lost one son. I don’t want to lose another.”

His stomach clenched at the pain in his father’s voice. He never realized how bad things were at home or in Bramble. But he wasn’t running from this fight.

“Don’t worry. I can handle this,” he said. “I’ll call the sheriff first thing in the morning to let him know what’s going on. Try to get a good night’s rest.” He paused in the doorway. “Did you have a contract with Earl?”