Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (13 page)

“Glad to hear it.
Gracias
, Ezma.” This time, he kept walking out into the courtyard. But behind him he heard Ezma whisper to the child, “That was your papa, little one.”

Bunker and the other hands pretended to be busy with other things when Chet joined them outside the bunkhouse and started to rid himself of the dirt and grime that resulted from weeks on the trail. Bunker was trimming his beard when Chet pumped fresh water into a wash pan and scooped it up with his hands to wash his face.

“You all right, Hunt?”

“I will be,” he grumbled.

Bunker gave another snip of the scissors and then studied his image in the hand mirror. “You thinking of running again?”

“None of your business.”

There was a pause, then another snip of the scissors. “Nope. It ain't nobody's business but yours. Just thinking that there comes a time when a man needs to take a stand, and maybe this is your time.” Bunker hooked the scissors back onto a nail and laid the hand mirror on the narrow shelf before starting back into the bunkhouse, crossing paths with Turnbull as he did.

“Well, well, well, Hunt,” Turnbull said when he saw Chet. “How's your little family doing?”

Chet decided to ignore him. He dumped the dirty water onto the ground and returned the wash pan to its hook. Although the rain had broken the oppression of constant temperatures above a hundred degrees, it was still so hot that his hands and face had dried in the seconds it took to perform this single action. He beat his hat against his thigh to rid it of dust as he started for the bunkhouse door.

Turnbull blocked his way. “I asked you a polite question.”

“As I told you once before, a sister back in Florida is all the family I've got, Turnbull, and seeing as how we've been out on the trail for some time, it's been weeks since I've had any news from her. So can't really say. Now if you'll pardon me…”

“There is no pardon for you, Hunter. You are what I told Maria you were when I first set eyes on you—the lowest of the low. A man who won't take responsibility when it's staring him in the face is nothing but scum.”

Chet locked eyes with the foreman. “You done?”

“For now.”

“Then let me pass.”

“Nope. I had Rico move your stuff to the anteroom. You don't belong here, Hunter. Go play house with your whore.”

Then Chet did the one thing everything he knew about handling men like Turnbull had taught him never to do—he hauled off and punched the foreman in the jaw.

The sounds of fighting reached the open window where Maria and her sister had finally gotten their mother settled.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” she muttered as she went to the window to see what all the ruckus was about. She might have guessed. The fighters were Roger and Chet—of course. “Stay with Mama,” she instructed Amanda as she ran out the door, down the hall, past the room where Loralei was preening in front of a mirror, through the kitchen where Ezma was holding the baby as she and Juanita pretended to ignore the fracas in the yard, and out into the blazing hot sun that matched her temper.

“Stop that,” she shouted to no avail, her voice drowned out by the shouts and catcalls of the men encouraging the fight. At least Bunker was restraining Chet's dog. She passed by the saddle that Chet had left thrown across the corral fence. Spying the sand-colored whip that had become his trademark, she grabbed the leather-wrapped handle and kept walking toward the fight, the long rope of the whip trailing on the ground behind her. “Stop now!” she ordered.

A few of the men closest to her grew quiet and stepped aside to let her pass. Others moved well away when they noticed that she was carrying the whip. Chet and Roger continued to wrestle on the ground, rolling around, landing punches, grunting like pigs. She raised the whip and snapped her wrist the way she'd seen Chet do on those occasions when the men gathered in the yard to entertain themselves with various games and stunts. She heard a satisfying
crack
as the tail of the whip arched high in the air and fell to earth again.

The sound of the whip was followed by a dead and absolute silence. Roger, astraddle Chet, his fist poised to strike, froze. Chet looked up at her, blood running down his cheek and one eye already nearly swollen closed. Roger didn't seem to be in any better shape—his lip was puffed up and bleeding, and there were ugly cuts on his face.

“My mother has suffered a great shock today,” Maria announced. “We have only just now managed to calm her. If you gentlemen are determined to beat each other to bloody pulps, please have the courtesy to do so somewhere that will not disturb her or the rest of our family.” She dropped the whip, turned on her heel, and marched back to the house. She had one more task she was determined to complete.

“Loralei,” she said, startling the woman as she entered the room. “I am pleased to see that you appear to have made a full recovery. I have asked Ezma to help move your things to the quarters that you and your—that you and Mr. Hunter will be sharing for the time being.”

“But—”

“We are not having a discussion here. My family has done more than what might be expected for you and your child. Please get dressed so you can tend to the baby while Ezma takes care of moving your things.”

“But—”

Maria reached for the door and pulled it closed. “Half an hour should give you time to dress and gather your belongings,” she called as she continued on down the hall. She was aware of something like a shoe hitting the door, and she was sure the uttered cry of protest might have started with the letter
B
but was not even close to Loralei's usual
but
.

Things did not get any better as the day wore on. Amanda was sure that their mother's relapse meant the party was off, or at least would be moved to another ranch. Trey was beside himself worrying about Chet and whether or not Roger would fire him. He wrestled with his loyalties to both men but was clearly more upset about Chet's future than he was about Roger's dislike of the drifter.

“But how could he not even know he had a son?” he asked that night at supper.

“We are not discussing this, Trey,” Maria said, and every word was laced with a warning not to cross her.

“Besides, we've got more important things to worry about,” Amanda added. “What if we can't have the party? We already set the date and—”

“And we are also not discussing parties,” Maria said.

They ate in silence for several minutes until Trey said, “What are we discussing then?” He glanced from one sister to the other. “Papa always said that food goes down better with good conversation so…”

“So tell us what you drew while you were out on the trail,” Maria suggested. To her surprise, Trey frowned. Usually any discussion of his sketching elicited an immediate stream of conversation.

“Roger didn't want me drawing. He threw my sketchbook in the fire, but Hunt rescued it, and he carried it with him so Roger wouldn't see that we had it.”

Maria did not want to hear anything good about Chet at the moment. He was a scoundrel—a man who had deserted his family.

“Wanna see?” Trey asked and did not wait for a reply as he ran to his room and returned a moment later with the sketchbook, the edges of the cover indeed scorched and blackened.

In the mood she was in, the evidence of Roger's damage to Trey's beloved sketchbook only made her more upset. But Trey seemed unconcerned. He laid the pad on the table and began turning the pages. Even Amanda was impressed.

“Trey, that looks so real, and look at Chet—that looks just like him. He is so handsome,” Amanda said dreamily.

“He is also too old for you, possibly married, and apparently a father,” Maria grumbled, not able to resist taking a closer look at Trey's sketch. It was Chet all right, sitting tall and proud astride his horse, his eyes fixed on some distant horizon. “Did you draw Eduardo?” she asked, determined to turn the attention away from the drifter.

Trey turned a couple of pages and pointed to a small drawing of Eduardo. “He's harder to get for some reason.”

“I think it looks just like him,” Maria assured her brother. “You've really captured his smile.”

Trey blushed with pleasure. “Maybe I'll do a bigger sketch and give it to him.” He turned more pages and frowned. “I had one of you, Maria. That first night in the tent, remember? But it must have fell out.”

“Fallen out,” she corrected, curious now to see how her brother had drawn her.

Trey shrugged. “I can do another one.”

“Not tonight,” Maria replied as she began gathering their supper dishes. “We've had a lot of excitement today, and what you need, young man, is a good night's sleep in your own bed.”

Trey grinned. “You sound just like Mama used to…” And then his voice trailed off and the smile disappeared.

Maria rubbed his back. “Mama will come back to us, Trey. She just needs some more time.”

“That's what Hunt told me.”

Amanda took the rest of the dishes to the dry sink and pumped water into the dishpan. “Well, I for one hope it's sooner rather than later,” she announced. “Do you think reminding her about the party might help? After all, it was her idea.”

“Give her a day or so,” Maria replied.

“I could just throttle Roger Turnbull for telling her about Papa,” Amanda continued as she washed the dishes.

“Once Mama is her old self again, she'll realize that we need Roger to help run the ranch.” Maria needed to think about everything that had happened, and her sister prattling on about Roger was not helping.

“Maybe he is good for the ranch,” Amanda said, “but Mama still won't want him marrying you. She says the only reason to marry at all is for true love like she had with Papa.”

It was true. Their mother had drummed that message into all four of her children, even Trey, who had looked mystified by the lecture and reminded her that he was only fourteen and unlikely to get married anytime soon.

“Nobody is getting married, and this conversation is at its end,” Maria told Amanda as she picked up the dish towel and began drying the dishes that her sister had washed without being told to do so. “On another topic, you seem to be taking to this housework,” she teased.

Amanda groaned. “What I have learned is that if I take on some task—of my choosing—then Nita doesn't pester me.”

Maria laughed. “That's very smart.”

“Oh, Maria, I am not nearly as dumb as you seem to think I am. For example—”

“I don't think you're dumb at all—just young.”

“I am four years younger than you are—and to continue, for example, I can see that this entire business with Chet and that woman has upset you. If you want my opinion, it's that woman you shouldn't trust, and you certainly shouldn't be letting her stay here, and—”

“I did not ask for your opinion, Amanda.”

“Well, I'm giving it. Making Chet have to share space with that woman—”

“She has a name,” Maria reminded her.

“Oh yes, sweet
Loralei
,” Amanda said in a syrupy voice and then shuddered.

“Chet's not staying out there with her and the baby,” Trey announced. Both sisters had forgotten he was in the room. He'd been sketching again and so quiet.

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him take his bedroll into the barn, so I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was just setting up camp for the night. He asked if he could borrow one of my books to read.”

“And?” Amanda demanded.

Trey shrugged. “I kind of forgot until just now. I'll take one out to him.”

“No,” Maria said, “you get to bed.” She did not miss the way Trey and Amanda exchanged a look and how Amanda motioned for Trey to do as Maria said.

“I could take a book out to him,” Amanda offered as she handed Maria the last dish to dry.

“No, that wouldn't look right. I'll have Eduardo take it to him. You go check on Mama.”

But Eduardo was sound asleep already, and Maria was reluctant to let Juanita wake him. “It'll keep until morning,” she assured the housekeeper, who looked at the book under her arm and frowned.

“What's that?”

“A book.”

“Don't be smart with me,
mi
hija
. I know Trey said he was taking a book out to the barn. Is that the book?”

Maria nodded.

Juanita held out her hand, and Maria placed the book in it. “You go on to bed. I'll have Javier take it to him. You got enough trouble without having people talking about you visiting that man in the middle of the night.”

Maria smiled. “It's hardly the middle of the night,” she protested.

“It's dark, and that's as much night as there needs to be for gossip to grow. Now
vamonos
.”

Maria knew the housekeeper was right. Besides, what was she thinking? She shouldn't want to be anywhere near Chet these days, and yet all she seemed to think about was when she might see him again. She kissed Juanita's weathered cheek and headed toward the door.

“And don't be sitting up all night with your mama either. I gave her some of that stuff Doc Wilcox left. She'll sleep through the night and likely half the morning.”

Maria envied the very thought of a night's rest undisturbed by worry and tension, not to mention the carousel of questions whirling around in her brain. Whatever the matter appeared to be on the surface, there was something about Loralei that just did not fit with Chet. If she had thought at all about what kind of woman might attract him—and she refused to admit to herself that she had—it would not be someone so flighty and dramatic as Loralei. Chet was such a quiet man, soft-spoken and gentle. Of course, Maria's mother had always warned her that people with opposing personalities and traits were often drawn to one another.

“They complete each other,” Constance had once said, and then, with a wistful smile added, “as your father and I do.”

But as different as they might be, her parents had always had much in common. That did not appear to be the case between Chet and Loralei. Of course, how would she know? She barely knew either of them.

“It is none of your business,” she told herself firmly. “As long as Chet does his job, his personal life should be no concern of yours or anyone else's.” But oh, how it hurt knowing he had fathered a child—knowing he had loved another woman.

She opened the bedroom door and saw Amanda sitting at the dressing table they shared. “Well?” her sister demanded, her eyebrows arched. “What are you going to do?”

“Nita gave Mama a sedative, so she should sleep through the night.”

“I am not asking about Mama and you know it. What about that woman and her child and Chet?”

“As I told you before, that woman has a name, Amanda. Show some respect.”

“Don't snap at me when it's Chet you're mad at.”

“I have no reason to be upset with Chet. He's done his job, and that is all that matters. If he continues to do his job then—”

“Are you blind?” Amanda held her hairbrush suspended inches from her head. “The man likes you. More than likes you, and frankly, I think the two of you make a far better match than you and Roger do.”

“Chet is…” She paused. She had been about to say that he was married, but that seemed to be the one thing that he and Loralei agreed upon. “He has a child.”

Amanda resumed brushing her hair. “So she says. He denies it. Who do you believe?”

“It is none of my business—or yours,” Maria replied wearily. “Now is there any chance we might get some sleep?”

Amanda put down the brush and plaited her hair into one long braid as she turned to face her sister. “I just want you to be happy, Maria,” she said softly.

Embarrassed by Amanda's concern, Maria laughed and cupped her sister's chin. “What makes you think I'm not?”

“Because I'm afraid you'll be willing to settle for someone like Roger Turnbull instead of opening your heart and mind to the possibility of true love.”

“What a thing to say. I'm not—”

“The only person Roger Turnbull will ever truly love is himself. Mama sees that even when she's half out of her mind.” She got up and climbed into bed. “Think about it, Maria. True love versus second fiddle.” She rolled onto her side. “Good night.”