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Authors: Janette Kenny

BOOK: Cowboy Come Home
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“Very true,” she said. “But I owe Mr. March cattle and—”
“Then give him his cattle and good riddance to him,” Ned said.
She’d given him that option. Take his stock or take over as foreman. Time would tell if she’d made a strong pact or a huge mistake.
“Due to the declining conditions here, I’ve decided a major change is in order. We’ll move the stock to the Circle 46. Mr. March will be the new foreman.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Ned said.
“You’re entitled to your opinion, but it won’t change my mind,” she said.
Ned visibly stiffened, head snapping back and shoulders racking taut. He didn’t glance at Trey beyond the swift shifting of his eyes.
“You’re giving me the boot?” Ned asked.
“It’s for the best,” she said.
“Don’t look that way from where I’m standing,” Ned said, sliding Trey a damning look before turning that same glower on her. “I’m betting if he hadn’t dragged back here, you’d have taken me up on my offer.”
She shook her head, feeling Trey’s gaze on her, questioning, doubting. “You’re wrong.”
“Easy for you to say that now.” Ned’s light eyes sparked fire for a heartbeat, then narrowed into glacial slits. “The old man would roll over in his grave if he knew you were putting him in charge over me.”
She shot to her feet. “That’s enough. Daddy’s holdings are mine, and I can damn well pick who I want managing them.”
“Yes’m, you sure enough can.” Ned scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his expression mellowing and his stance losing its brittle edge. A chameleon with a Stetson and spurs. “I’ve got a small herd I’ve got to get settled elsewhere now. How soon you want me to clear out?”
She was tempted to give him the same answer as he’d suggested for Trey. But she wouldn’t put the cattle through more stress than they were already suffering with the drought.
“A week, but I’ll be lenient on time,” she said.
“I can do that. I’ll also be taking a couple of extra head to cover this month’s pay.”
“Fine,” she said, for whether she liked him or not, she still owed him that.
Without another word, the foreman strode out with the same surety he’d shown when he walked in.
Daisy waited until the back door closed. “I expected him to try working a deal where he could keep his stock here.”
“Why the hell would he want to keep them in this dust bowl?” Trey asked.
She shook her head, simply surprised that Ned had agreed so easily. That he’d given in without a fight.
“What was his offer?”
She grimaced, loath to tell him. “Last week, Ned asked me to marry him.”
Trey didn’t say anything for the longest time. She wondered what was going through his mind. If he was wondering why she hadn’t married the man she’d been betrothed to.
She hoped he didn’t ask about that, because she saw no need to tell him the truth. She didn’t intend to tell him anything about that awful time after he up and left. What had happened couldn’t be changed, though it had changed her forever.
“I figured as much,” he said. “While I’m gone, you need a man here in case Ned tries to force your hand.”
That dragged a shiver of dread from her. But he was right. She needed to put up fences between her and Ned, and between her and Trey as well.
Some mistakes simply didn’t bear repeating.
 
 
Trey’s boots kicked up dust clouds as he made his way to the blacksmith’s shop. The clanging of metal had stopped long ago, but the tang of hot metal still hung in the air.
He saw the older man when he rounded the cookshack. He picked up his pace, anxious to get answers from Ramona’s husband—the one man he trusted to be square with him.
Fernando glanced up from repairing staves on barrels that had seen better days. But then hauling water day after day tended to take its wear and tear on the equipment and the men.
“How many miles are they hauling water?” Trey asked after giving the older man a nod in greeting.
“Too many for thirsty cattle, señor.”
Trey imagined what didn’t splash out en route evaporated. “Where’s Ned holding his herd?”
Fernando shrugged. “I have heard the vaqueros speak of Señor Ned driving cattle to an old rancho on the Devil’s River.”
A fair piece from here. “Let me guess. Ned owns it.”
“
Si.
He won it in a poker game last fall.”
One man’s bad luck was another’s lucky charm. Hell, that’s how he came to own four thoroughbreds.
But had Ned thought of leaving the JDB back then? Or was he setting up a place where he could rustle off a few head of JDB cattle with nobody the wiser?
If so, there’d have been hell to pay if Barton had found out. Damned shame the man dropped dead.
“You here the day Barton had his stroke?”
“
Si.
” The older man hung his head, seeming so intent on his work that Trey wondered if he’d tell him what had happened. “It was the señorita’s birthday, and the señor had great plans for it.”
Trey could well imagine. Birthdays were always celebrated large on the JDB, especially Daisy’s.
“Barton died that day?”
Fernando nodded, his eyes bleak with sorrow. “Galen Patrick from the old homestead arrived that afternoon with a fine mare he’d trained for Señor Barton. That is when the señor and Ned had words. After that, Galen and the señor talked in private before Galen left.”
“What got Ned on Barton’s bad side?”
“I don’t know, but after the señor gave the señorita the mare, she went riding. It was after that when I heard the señor and Ned arguing again.” Fernando shook his head. “They were too far away for me to hear what was said, but both were angry. It was then that the señor staggered back and fell to the ground. I ran to help, but it was no use. The señor was dead.”
“Damn.” Trey planned to get Galen’s side of it when he rode up to the Circle 46, if the man was still working there. “Had Barton and Ned gotten into arguments before that day?”
Fernando shook his head. “Señor Barton’s temper had been bad all winter, but it grew worse after Señorita Barton’s accident just a month before.”
He was helpless to stop the cold stab of worry that hit his gut. “Tell me about it,” he asked, more than curious how her mishap tied into Barton’s sour mood.
“For weeks, she’d come to the barn every day around ten in the morning and go up to the loft,” Fernando said, and slid him a look that hinted of disapproval.
Trey wasn’t one who embarrassed easily, yet he felt the burn of shame scorch his neck and cheeks now. Hell, did the old man know he’d been meeting Daisy up there last fall?
No, he could only guess. They’d been careful. So who was she meeting up there this time? Who was her new lover?
Those were questions a man didn’t ask about a lady, even if he had cause. Trey had lost the right to know details of Daisy’s private life the day he’d been waylaid.
But it shouldn’t be hard to find out who had suddenly disappeared off the JDB a few months back. Right now a bigger question demanded to be asked.
“You going to tell me about Miss Barton’s accident?”
Fernando treated him to another long stare, but this time Trey saw the worry banked in the old man’s eyes. “She fell through an open trapdoor. By the grace of the Holy Mother, I’d taken Barton’s
diablo
stallion from his stall in the barn earlier to get him shod and found her when I returned.”
Trey set his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. Divine providence, indeed. Daisy would have been stomped to death by that spooked horse if she’d fallen in when he was in his stall.
And that bit about her just falling through an open trapdoor. . . Though Barton had joked that Daisy was a bit on the clumsy side, Trey had never seen a woman more poised and in control of herself whether she was riding sidesaddle, driving her fancy little buggy, or making love with him.
She knew every nook and cranny in that loft.
“She’s lucky, all right,” Trey said, thinking she looked no worse for wear to him. “Who left the trapdoor open?”
Fernando shrugged. “I fed the stallion last, and the door was shut. Señor Durant told me and Señor Barton that he hadn’t seen anyone go into the loft since I’d left with the horse and the trapdoor above the stallion’s stall was closed.”
“Somebody opened it. Hell, she could’ve broken her neck.”
“Perhaps that was the intention,” Fernando said.
Trey’s annoyance exploded as the old man stared at him with nothing short of accusation. “Just what are you getting at?”
“Señor Barton was with me when I brought the stallion back,” Fernando said. “Barton carried her out after deciding she hadn’t broken any bones. Before she drifted into the deep sleep, she called out for you. She told him she’d been pushed.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. She fell into a deep sleep then.” Fernando treated him to a cool perusal. “But Señor Barton sent men out looking for you.” Fernando’s cold stare proved he suspected Trey had done it.
“I didn’t push her. Hell, I was hundreds of miles from here.”
“So you say.”
Trey swept his hat off and exposed the scar cutting across his forehead and disappearing into his hair. “Two months ago I was still laid up in an El Paso cantina, nursing a broken arm, busted ribs, and what the doctor called a bruise on my brain. I wasn’t able to walk without weaving like a drunk for another month. I’d been there since a few weeks before Christmas.”
Fernando didn’t break eye contact, staring at him as if trying to read the truth in his eyes. Finally, his brow furrowed, and he looked away.
“Who did this to you?”
It’d be easy to tell the truth, except he’d be obliged to explain why Barton had ordered him nearly beat to death. Not that it would take much imagination to figure out what Trey must have done to warrant the old man’s ire.
Considering what she’d done to him, it’d serve Daisy good too to have her reputation dragged through the mud. To let this fine man know what kind of woman he was working for.
But he couldn’t find any satisfaction in confessing what he and Daisy had done. Mutual consent. That’s what it’d been. He could’ve walked away when tempted. He never would’ve gone as far as he had if she’d just said no.
He wasn’t the type of man to brag over his amorous conquests. If Kirby Morris, his adopted father, had taught him one thing, it was to always respect women—all women.
“Don’t matter much who did it,” Trey said. “Fact remains I was waylaid and left for the vultures. I didn’t much know what had happened for months.”
“So this is why you disappeared,” Fernando said.
Last chance to spill his guts. But Trey merely nodded and turned his gaze to the big barn where he’d awakened a fiery passion in the rancher’s innocent daughter.
“What the hell was she doing up there?” Trey asked.
Fernando shook his head, his expression suddenly haggard. “I do not know. For weeks on end she would go to the hayloft and just sit there, looking out at the plains, looking so sad.”
“You saying she was up there alone every time?” he asked, despite his determination not to ask how she’d spent her days after he was gone.
“Every day after
Navidad.
” Fernando’s eyes met his, and Trey knew at that moment that the blacksmith was aware of his assignations with Daisy.
They’d been careful, but obviously not careful enough. Had Fernando been the one to spill the beans to Barton all those months ago?
No, he would’ve known that Barton would set out to punish him for daring to touch his princess. But someone else surely had. Someone who knew they’d met here. Had that same someone followed Daisy to the loft? Had that someone pushed her?
“Barton ever find out who hurt Daisy?” Trey asked.
“No. He told me later that he feared she’d tried to kill herself. That nobody had pushed her.”
“Why would he think that?”
Again, Fernando’s shoulders lifted in a weary shrug. “I would not know.”
Trey let that news sink in. What had made Barton so angry at Ned that he’d had an apoplectic fit? And more troubling, had Daisy tried to kill herself?
Chapter 3
 
Trey had never seen such poor looking cattle in his life. He doubted all of them would make the drive to the Circle 46, but those same cattle could die here as well.
Several of the water troughs were bone dry, and the rest were close to empty. The stretch of hard pack dirt along the fence hinted that hay had been pitched there at one time.
“How often has Ned been feeding these beeves?” Trey asked.
“Every week at first,” Manuel said. “But this month he told us to stretch out feeding them or we’d run out of hay.”
Trey suspected Ned’s cattle looked far better, but he’d yet to lay eyes on them. Same with most of the hands who’d worked here. When Ned had pulled out, Trey guessed the bulk of them had too.
Just as well. Last thing Trey needed was men working for him who’d just as soon stab him in the back. But he was left with an odd mix of cowboys who had little or no experience driving cattle.
He glanced at the trio of boys who’d ridden out to the far pasture with him and Manuel. Damn if they weren’t like a flashback to when he’d first come West with Reid and Dade, his foster brothers.
Three boys who hadn’t known a damn thing about ranching. But they’d learned. Of course Kirby had taken the time to teach them—time Trey had no intentions of investing in this crew.
All they needed to know were the basics of driving cattle. Once they reached the Circle 46, these young hands would be relegated to minding a fenced herd. But he feared that he’d find the place deserted of men and stock, that his horses were long gone.
If that were the case, he had nothing to hold him here except his word.
Yep, once they moved the herd to the old homestead, he would settle back and wait out his two months. He only hoped the fence was intact and the quarters livable. That there was a good supply of fresh water. That was most important.
If he could just shake the fear that Daisy might still be in real danger. It wasn’t just that she’d been pushed from the hayloft. It was not knowing why anyone would want to kill her.
Not his problem. Not his responsibility.
Trey didn’t have the patience to wet-nurse her.
He’d leave a man or two at the JDB to watch over her and Ramona. It was up to her to figure out where to go from there. The couple of months he’d be minding the herd should be plenty of time for her to realize she’d be better off selling out and moving to town.
But until she did, he had to keep the herd alive.
He took in the young cowhands who’d trailed him and Manuel out here. They were all good in the saddle, but he needed to know if they had the patience for droving. No time like the present to find out.
“I want these beeves herded up toward the house,” Trey told Manuel. “The pasture to the east of the barn is big enough to hold them for now. Closer to water too.”
“The only water there is the house well.”
Trey nodded, well aware of that. “I don’t aim to play it out; just make sure the herd is well watered before we head them north.”
“
Si,
Señor March,” Manuel said, and Trey hoped to God the boy could handle this chore.
“Get the men into position then and open the gates. And go easy,” Trey said when he caught the boys’ exuberance. “I don’t want to run them.”
He held back while Manuel gave the other cowhands instructions in clear, easy to understand commands. He liked the fact that the boy wasn’t puffed up on himself. He was taking his job seriously, and that took a huge load off Trey right then and there.
Driving the cattle across the JDB wasn’t exciting or difficult. He’d half expected Ned to show his face at some point to cause trouble, but he never did. That was likely for the best too, because the more Trey saw of the herd’s poor condition, the angrier he became with Ned.
Daisy too? Yep, he wanted to nurse his anger at her. He really did, but her brush with death kept coming back to haunt him.
Ansel, the youngest of the hands riding drag with Trey, ventured closer as the herd spread out on the pasture that had been eaten to a nub. “If you want, I can ride to the house and get them troughs filled.”
Trey grimaced at the boy’s suggestion. “Worse thing you could do. If they catch a whiff of water, they’ll stampede. Likely kill or cripple a good many beeves.”
“I-I didn’t know,” Ansel said.
“Now you do,” he said, careful there was no heat in his tone.
There’d been a time when he’d been that green too. How the hell had Kirby Morris put up with him and his foster brothers?
Patience. It was something he was in short supply of. Wouldn’t be easy to cultivate it, but he’d damned sure try.
By the time they got the herd closed inside the pasture behind the barn, the day was pretty well spent. Cattle milled around the empty troughs and bellowed their displeasure, paying little attention to the hands who were dumping a small amount of hay on the ground.
They were too desperate for water, bawling more now than when they’d been herded into the pasture. Maybe he should’ve sent a few of the boys ahead of them to get some water in the troughs.
The thought barely crossed his mind when Manuel came running toward the fence. “Señor March. You must come quickly and see this.”
Before Trey could ask what was wrong, the young man disappeared again. Trey was obliged to follow with dread dogging his every step.
He guessed he wasn’t going to like this surprise long before he reached the clutch of men gathered around the well pump. As he got closer, he noticed the typically gray ground was black.
A lot of water had been pumped out onto the earth. From the dark stain that stretched to the barn, it was clear somebody had stood here a good long time and done nothing but man that pump.
The waste sickened him more than the fact that this was a malicious act. Water was life, and somebody had intentionally taken it here today.
“It is dry,” Manuel said, and gave the pump handle several strong pulls to prove it.
Barely a trickle fell onto the saturated ground. They were out of water.
“Don’t suppose anybody saw who did this,” Trey said as he sidestepped the mire.
“We were all with you,” Manuel said.
Trey glanced toward the blacksmith’s shack. “Fernando was here.”
“Dios!”
Manuel ran to the shack with Trey fast on his heels.
Sweat popped from his pores the second he stepped into the shed. The smithy clearly hadn’t worked for the fire pit was cold.
“Fernando!”
No answer beyond a scuffling sound deep in the shed.
Trey thumbed his hat off his brow and drew his Colt, pulling Manuel behind him and easing into the shadows. The skin on his nape tingled with warning, and his gut clutched with fear that he’d find the man dead.
He stepped to the back of the shed, the steady thump against wood raising his hopes. Right there alongside the workbench, he saw the shape of a man trussed up like a Christmas goose.
He holstered his gun and knelt beside the older man. Fernando was gagged with his own bandana and tied to the workbench with sturdy hemp.
Somebody had made damned sure he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Who did this to you?” Trey asked once he worked the gag free.
Fernando sucked in a ragged breath. “I don’t know, señor. I was laying a fire in the pit when I was hit from behind.”
Trey severed the rope with his knife and helped the older man to his feet. “You’re damned lucky you didn’t get a bullet in your head.”
“Si.”
Fernando pressed a hand to the back of his head and winced.
Yep, a gunshot would have drawn attention. Whoever had done this was careful to avoid that for he’d needed time. Lots of time to stand there manning that pump for hours.
The bellowing of cattle grew louder as the beeves protested the lack of water. Damn, they were in a worse fix than before.
He strode from the shadowy shed and stared at the cattle milling restlessly in the pasture. After that long drive they needed water, but that wouldn’t be forthcoming here.
Manuel stood by his side with the other men behind him, all looking to him for orders. They weren’t an experienced crew, but they damned sure had thrown their loyalty his way.
“Haul water in for tonight,” Trey told them. “We’ll drive the herd out in the morning.”
“
Si,
señor,” Manuel said, before leaving with the others to carry out his orders.
Fernando came up beside him, the top of his head barely reaching Trey’s shoulders. “I heard and felt the ground moving as the cattle drew near. The stock will appreciate feed and water.”
“Afraid that won’t be happening like we’d planned.” Trey pointed toward the blackened ground that was fast turning gray. “Somebody took time to pump the well dry today.”
Fernando bit off several Spanish curses. “When I woke, I heard the pump working, but I thought the men had returned and were filling the trough.”
“Whoever waylaid you did this,” he said. “Ned?”
“It could have been anyone with a grudge or a dark heart. Though I didn’t see who hit me, I am sure I spotted Durant out on the mesa earlier.”
Had to be Ned’s handiwork. Trey ached to hit something, to vent the anger boiling in him. But Kirby’s words came back to him.
Cooler tempers always prevail.
It was still a hard-learned lesson for Trey, especially after being waylaid by Ned. Anger at himself, Daisy, and the cruel foreman was what had given him the strength to fight past the pain as his body had slowly healed. As he’d forced his battered legs to carry his weight again. As he stood day after day and lassoed logs despite the agony ripping across his back and sizzling along his torn muscles.
He’d lived for revenge against Ned and Daisy.
Daisy!
Remembering that she’d been pushed from the loft before sent new fear crashing through him. He took off at a dead run toward the house, his legs throbbing from the punishment to remind him he wasn’t entirely healed. That he’d never be a hundred percent whole again.
But that had been the idea behind dragging him for miles over rough ground until he couldn’t hold on to consciousness any longer. And still Ned hadn’t been done with him.
Trey shoved in the back door. “Daisy!”
No answer.
“Ramona!”
Silence pulsed around him.
He pushed through the rooms with his heart in his throat, throwing open doors. Terrified of what he’d find.
Nothing.
The house was empty.
He stood in Barton’s office and scrubbed a hand over his mouth, a hand that trembled. He couldn’t recall ever being this afraid in his life, and feeling that way for her rankled.
“She always does her shopping in town on Friday,” Manuel said.
He swung on the older man. “What about Ramona?”
“My wife goes with the señorita,” Fernando said.
Some of the tension knotting his shoulders eased, being replaced with the bite of anger that always came too swiftly. It was mighty clear to him that whoever drained the well knew Daisy’s routine. Had to be Ned.
They’d made it easy for the bastard by leaving the ranch. Only reason Fernando was alive was because he hadn’t seen his attacker. What if the women had returned early? Would he have found them murdered?
The steady clip of hooves penetrated his anger. From the window in Barton’s office, he watched a trim buggy pull up near the back door.
Trey exhaled heavily. The women had returned, none the wiser to what had happened here.
Daisy handled the reins while Ramona sat beside her. She was used to going and coming as she pleased, but how safe was she now that her daddy was gone? Hell, she hadn’t been safe then, for she might have been pushed from the loft. Now this business with the well.
She wouldn’t be able to stay out here alone. She could move into town. Stay with friends. She’d be around people and out of his hair. If he could just remove her from his memory as easily ...
The heels on her dainty boots tapped out a rapid beat that matched his pulse. She strode into her daddy’s office and came up hard, like she’d been short-reined.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked in a tone sharpened with obvious suspicion.
It was tinder tossed on his smoldering anger. “The well has been pumped dry.”
Ramona stopped in the hall, as if shocked in place by that news. He tried to think of a way to soften the rest about Fernando, but he wasn’t one to sugarcoat the truth no matter how painful.
The cattle chose that time to commence bellowing louder. Daisy looked to the window that afforded an expansive view of the outbuildings and pasture, then back to him.

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