Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (15 page)

“Loralei,” he called, and immediately she sat up and turned to him, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and fear. “Miz Porterfield has not been well. Don't let the baby tire her out.”

Now she was on her feet. “Where are you going? Are you leaving me? You can't—”

“I've got a job to do. I'll be back in a week or so. Try to make yourself useful around here.”

“You'll be back?”

He nodded as he saw Juanita and Ezma come out into the yard. “I'll be back.”

“But…”

Chet tipped his hat to Juanita and Ezma, glanced once more at Maria's mother and the child, and realized neither one of them was paying him any mind at all. The kid would be all right with Juanita, Ezma, and Mrs. Porterfield watching over him. Chet kicked the roan into a gallop. Cracker barked and followed.

* * *

Sending Chet away may well have been a good decision had Roger not found ways to bring it up every time Maria was within earshot.

“Good work there, Rico,” he shouted. “Miss Maria had us all scared thinking she was going to give that job to the drifter.”

“The man's name is Hunt,” she heard Bunker mutter. Of course, even Bunker wasn't brash enough to say those words so that Roger could hear, but she could see that the other men heard and that they—like Bunker—did not find Roger's constant harping on Chet amusing.

Later that same evening, when Maria and the rest of the family were having their supper, Roger stepped inside the house, hat in hand. “Just wanted to let you know we're well ahead of schedule, Miss Maria,” he told her. “That cowhand that Mr. Johnson sent over is worth two men like—”

“Thank you, Roger. Please thank the men for their hard work today. Good night.”

After they had finished eating and she was in the kitchen helping Juanita wash dishes, the housekeeper kept chewing her lower lip—a sure sign she had something to say and was still working out just how to say it.

“What's bothering you, Juanita?”

The housekeeper washed several more plates before she spoke. “I was thinking about that woman showing up in town like she did. How did she know to come here of all places?”

“She said something about a letter.”

“Well, the way Chet reacted to seeing her here, it's certain that letter didn't come from him. And if it didn't come from you…”

“It did not. Although I probably should have investigated a stranger's background more than I did, we were in need of help and—”

Juanita dried her hands on a towel and continued speaking as if Maria had said nothing. “So if Chet didn't write to her and you didn't write a letter asking about Chet, that only leaves one person who could have.”

“Roger wrote to her father,” Maria said. “He's had a grudge against Chet from the day he came back with the lost stock after the stampede.”

“It's more than a grudge,
mi
hija
. Roger sees Chet as a threat.”

“Well, he has no reason for that.”

“He doesn't need a reason, Maria.”

Maria finished drying the last of the dishes.

“Sending Chet away was a very smart move,” Juanita said softly. “You're allowing time for things to settle down a bit around here. Your papa would be proud.”

The housekeeper's praise meant a great deal to Maria, so she did not explain her true reasons for sending Chet away. There was no sense in involving Juanita or any of her family.

“But you still have one problem you need to figure out,” Juanita continued. She jerked her head toward the anteroom. “How long are you going to let that woman stay on without earning her keep or at least caring for her own child?”

“I don't think she's capable of caring for the baby, Nita. That's why we need Ezma.”

Juanita sucked in her breath. “That's the real reason you sent Chet away, isn't it? You wanted to get him away from her?”

“No. I—”

“You are letting that man get to you, Maria. I'm with your mama when it comes to Roger being a poor match for you, but don't go jumping from that frying pan into the fire by getting mixed up with a man who has a baby by another woman—married or not. It can only lead to heartbreak in the end.”

“You have to trust me, Nita. You have to believe me when I tell you that the reason I sent Chet over to work at the Double Bar L has nothing to do with Loralei.”

Juanita studied her for a long moment and then shook her head slowly. “That may be part of it, Maria, but I don't for one minute believe that's all of it—and neither do you. Try to get some rest.”

Maria stood in the doorway, watching Juanita walk away. Of course, she was right. Maria could not recall a time when Juanita's instincts had not been right. But when she thought about Chet—when she recalled the way she'd felt when he danced with her—she so wanted to believe that the child was not his and that there had never been anything between Loralei and him beyond friendship. But what did she know about him really? What did any of them know?

* * *

Chet waited until the men who worked for the Johnson family were sleeping and then slipped out of the bunkhouse. After a couple of days on the Johnsons' ranch—days where he had paid close attention to the comings and goings of the men—he had a hunch, and he intended to follow it. He sidled through the partially open door into the barn and stood at the foot of the wooden ladder that led up to the hayloft. “Joker?” he whispered.

Outside, a coyote howled and the horses shifted restlessly. Overhead, Chet heard a movement that had nothing to do with horses. He climbed the ladder. “Joker?” he said again, this time in a low voice.

He waited. All was still and yet he had the sense that someone was there. “It's me—Hunt.”

There was a long pause while Chet waited at the top of the ladder. Then very faintly, he heard, “Hunt?”

He followed the sound and found Joker lying on a pallet of blankets near where the barn boards had shrunk, leaving openings that let in light and fresh air. The cowhand smelled of sweat and vomit. “What's going on?” Chet asked as he eased his way past a support rafter.

“It ain't good,” Joker whispered before having a coughing fit that sounded like he might be bringing up his guts. “How'd you find me?” he finally managed to ask in a raspy half whisper.

“Long story,” Chet said. “The doctor been here to check on you?”

Joker laughed. “The boys are doing the best they can. It ain't as bad as it was.” He started coughing again. “Long as I lay here and don't try to talk—the boys check on me when they can.”

“Are you eatin'?”

“Can't keep nothin' down. Could you maybe get me some water?”

Chet saw a canteen, its top open. He picked it up. “How long since this was filled?”

“Not sure—this mornin' maybe.” He started coughing and gagging.

“Don't talk,” Chet ordered.

“Stop askin'…” The rest was lost in a fresh jag of choking sounds.

“I'll be right back.” Chet swung down the ladder, taking the canteen with him. He pumped water, uncaring that the squeal of the pump might wake the others. He ran back to the barn and climbed the ladder, spilling water with each step. “The cap's broke on this thing,” he said, kneeling next to Joker and forcing some water to his lips. “Take your time.”

Ignoring Chet's warning, Joker took the canteen in both hands and gulped down the water.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Chet asked after they had sat in silence for a few minutes and Joker seemed a little calmer.

“You know what happened, Hunt.”

“Turnbull?”

Joker snorted. “He didn't do the beatin', and you'll never prove he was part of it, so don't try. Soon as I can mount up, I'm outta here.”

Chet was no doctor, but from what he could tell, that wasn't likely to happen anytime soon. “Can you walk?”

“Nope. Leg's broke. I been running a fever, so maybe it's got infected.”

In the dark Chet couldn't see much, but the odor around Joker told him there was something not right. “Look, Joker, I'm gonna get Miss Maria to send over a doctor to have a look at you.”

This news upset Joker so much that Chet was afraid the man might choke to death. “No,” he pleaded. “Can't nobody know—not even Mr. Johnson. You're gonna get me killed for sure.”

“You're half-dead now,” Chet snapped. He found some rags and a bucket. He filled the bucket with water from the trough outside the barn, keeping watch to make sure no one saw him. Back in the loft, he lit a candle he'd found in one of the stalls and did the best he could to clean Joker's leg. It sure didn't look good.

Back down in the barn, he found some iodine and climbed the ladder. “This'll sting some,” he warned and gave Joker one of the wet rags to bite down on while he applied the tincture to a deep cut over one eye where the scab had fallen off, leaving the wound open.

“You're gonna have the whole gol-darn family out here, Hunt. Stop that.”

“Just a couple more…this one over your eye probably needs closing.” He administered the iodine then sat back on his heels. “Wait a minute. Are you saying George Johnson doesn't know you're here?”

“Nobody knows but Dusty and Smiley. I made them promise. Please, Hunt…” He half rose to grab Chet's arm, then sank back exhausted.

“Okay.” Chet wasn't sure what he should do. Joker was in bad shape and Chet was pretty sure if he didn't get some help soon, the man would be dead. He went back outside and pumped fresh water into the broken canteen, filling his as well, then took both up to Joker. He wished he had some whiskey. That at least would relieve Joker's suffering some. “Here,” he said, placing both canteens within reach. “Try not to drink it all at once. I'll be back to check on you once I can.”

There was no answer. At first he thought Joker was dead, but then the cowboy let out a gurgle that told Chet he had just passed out. “I'll be back, old-timer. With the doc,” Chet promised. Whether Joker wanted it or not, he needed medical attention. But it was going to be hard to figure out how to get help for Joker without letting anyone know. He couldn't go tonight without being caught, not with such an early morning. He'd have to wait and watch for his chance.

The last person Maria thought she would see when she rode into town for the monthly meeting with the cattlemen's association was Jasper Tipton. Furthermore, she was stunned to see the other ranchers treating the man as if he were an old friend, laughing at his jokes and jockeying for position to be in his immediate circle.

“What's going on?” she asked Phil Proctor.

“Can't live without big business, then best figure how to live with 'em,” Phil replied.

“I don't understand.”

“The Tiptons have made a proposal that the association has decided to consider. Jasper Tipton has come here today to answer questions.”

“How come I wasn't told about this?”

Phil looked down at his boots. “I thought Roger would have told you. He was the one who came to us with Tipton's offer.” He looked around. “Thought for sure he'd be here today.”

“Well, he's not. I am,” Maria replied through gritted teeth. She was fighting to hold on to her temper, and as always, she tried to think about what her father would do if faced with such a situation. But the truth was that her father would not be faced with such a situation because he would have had the respect of the others. The respect she, as his daughter, was still fighting tooth and nail for. “Excuse me, Mr. Proctor,” she said as she pushed her way through the circle of ranchers until she was standing in front of Jasper Tipton.

“Hello, Mr. Tipton,” she said, sticking out her hand for him to shake. “I am—”

“No need for introductions, Miss Porterfield,” Tipton interrupted. His smile beneath a full black mustache was tight, his eyes wary. Instead of accepting the handshake she offered, he patted her shoulder. “I knew your father—a fine man. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you. I understand you have made a proposal to the ranchers in this association, Mr. Tipton.”

“Indeed, and may I say that I believe your father would have been most impressed with the details.”

“Exactly what are the details?”

He gave her that patronizing look that she'd come to expect when talking business with men. “Well, now, Miss Porterfield—may I call you Maria?”

“May I call you Jasper in return?” she challenged and took a measure of pleasure in seeing him flinch. No one called him anything other than Mr. Tipton.

He decided to ignore the question. “Miss Porterfield, I have had extensive discussions with your foreman, Mr. Turnbull, and he has assured me that—”

“My foreman has no authority to speak for my family, Mr. Tipton. Now if you will be so kind as to explain your offer.” She folded her arms and relaxed her stance as if she had all the time in the world. She gave him her sunniest smile.

Around her, the other ranchers moved a little away, as if they did not want Tipton to see them as associated with her. George Johnson stayed put but cleared his throat.

“Now, Maria,” he said, “it's almost time for us to get started, and Mr. Tipton is prepared to answer any questions you or anyone else might have, isn't that right, sir?”

Having been rescued, Tipton offered Maria his arm. “Exactly right. Now, Miss Porterfield, if you would do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to—”

Maria exchanged her smile for what Juanita had once called her business face. “Just like every rancher here, I can find my own seat, Mr. Tipton, thank you. I would suggest that you get started, since I plan to ask a good many questions.”

The offer that the land and cattle company was making was so one-sided as to be ludicrous. How could her fellow ranchers even be considering such terms? Basically the plan was for Tipton Brothers to buy up the rest of the small ranches with the condition that the current owners and the next generation of their family would be allowed to stay on living in the house and ranching what had been their land with the understanding that the stock now belonged to Tipton Brothers. The ranchers would be paid an annual stipend based on the profits made once the herd was brought to market. They would use this stipend to manage the ranch as they always had—to buy new stock, hire and pay cowhands as needed, and take care of their daily needs.

“There will be opportunities for bonus payments as well,” Tipton said.

Maria watched the faces of her fellow ranchers. They were listening to the details, but she was sure that they were hearing exactly what she was hearing. The difference was that, sadly, the fight had gone out of them. She raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss Porterfield?” Tipton gave her another patronizing smile.

“In short, Mr. Tipton, you are offering to make us sharecroppers for your company?”

He smirked. “I'm afraid I don't get your meaning.”

“Sure you do, Tipton,” a voice called out from the back of the room, setting off a stir of disgruntled murmurs.

“Gentlemen,” Tipton shouted above the fray. “Please, if you'll just hear me out.” When the grumbling continued and three of the ranchers walked out, he glared at Maria.

She smiled and followed the others from the room.

Outside, George Johnson and the other two ranchers who had left were talking. “She's right,” one said.

“She may be right, but she shouldn't have said it,” said another. “Now Tipton's gonna make us all pay. He knows he's got the upper hand here. He knows it, and so do we.”

George noticed her then. “Maria, that was pretty reckless of you.”

“Yeah, you can't be speaking for the rest of us,” another rancher said as he joined the group.

“Well, somebody has to stand up to this man and his brother.” But the truth was that the more she thought about it, the more she realized that by challenging Tipton, she might have done more harm than good. What was it her mother had always told her father? Something about catching more flies with honey? “He just made me so mad the way he was just assuming we would all fall on our knees and thank him for saving us.”

“We have to face facts, Maria,” Johnson said. “Things won't get any easier. It's gonna take at least a couple of years for us to recover from this drought, not to mention the falling beef prices and—”

“And whose fault is that? Not the drought—although I wouldn't put that past the Tiptons—but for sure the falling prices.”

The other ranchers looked at each other uneasily. Then George said, “Seems like you might have a bigger problem in your own corral, Maria.”

“Like what?”

“Not what—who,” one of the others replied.

“Turnbull,” Johnson told her. “He was the one to first bring us Tipton's offer—said you would be on board with the idea. What does that tell you, Maria?” The three ranchers tipped their hats and walked down the street to the nearest saloon.

Maria stood, watching them go and hearing Tipton's booming voice from inside the meeting hall, where he was still pontificating about the advantages of accepting his offer. She wished she could talk to her father. He would tell her what to do. More to the point, all of this would be his problem—not hers.

If only there was someone she could confide in—someone who would listen—someone who believed in her and in her fight for the only way of life she had ever known.
Someone
like
Chet.

* * *

Branding was hot, dirty work under the best of conditions. Branding in the middle of summer in Arizona was pretty much what Chet figured hell must be like. For that reason, he was glad he was spending his time working the Johnsons' herd. He wondered how Rico was doing and hoped he was proving himself to be as good an iron man as Joker was reported to be. He also couldn't help wondering if Maria was letting Trey take part in the branding at the Clear Springs Ranch. The kid had taken to hanging out with the other hands in the bunkhouse between supper with his sisters and bedtime. He was eager to learn everything he could.

“With Snap sick so much, the old man concentrated on teaching Jess—the older boy. He didn't pay much attention to Snap,” Bunker had told him. “Jess was a quick learner, but you could tell his heart wasn't in it. He'd put on a good show and all, but whenever his pa wasn't around, Jess pretty much left the work to the rest of us.”

Hearing that, Chet thought that maybe it was a good thing that Jess had left. But he still worried about Trey. The kid would do anything Turnbull asked of him and never once think about the consequences. Not that Chet thought Roger would deliberately put the boy in harm's way. If there was one good thing Chet could say about Turnbull, it was that he seemed to genuinely care about the members of the Porterfield family—even Maria's mother. In spite of the fact that she had made it abundantly clear that she did not like or trust him, Roger had continued to treat her with respect—at least until that day when they'd returned from the roundup.

Chet smiled as he roped another calf that had wandered too far from the herd and led the little guy back. Maria had been really mad at Turnbull that day. Of course, come to think of it, she'd been just as mad at him—maybe more. And that brought him back to thinking about Loralei and the baby, trying to work out what he would need to do to get them both out of a bad situation. And on top of everything else, there was Joker to worry about.

Other than a quick stop for the noon meal, he hadn't had a break all day, so he'd had no time to get back to the barn to refill Joker's canteen, bring him food, or check to see if the man was still breathing. He hoped maybe one of the two Johnsons' hands who knew about Joker had been able to check on the old man.

“Hunt!”

Chet saw George Johnson waving to him and rode over to meet the rancher. “Yes, sir?”

Johnson handed him a packet of papers. “These need to be at the bank by closing. Think you can get them there in time?”

Chet couldn't believe his luck. Johnson was handing him the opportunity he needed to get a doctor for Joker and maybe even talk to Marshal Tucker. “Yes, sir.” He placed the envelope in his saddlebag. Then he noticed that Johnson was studying him closely. “Was there something else, boss?”

“There's no money in that envelope,” Johnson said. “Make the delivery and come right back.”

Chet couldn't blame the man for letting him know there was nothing worth stealing, but then why choose him at all? “I'll be back as soon as—”

“Bring the doc,” Johnson interrupted, speaking in a low almost whisper. “But tell him to stay out of sight, okay? Use the side door for getting in and out of the barn.”

So Johnson knew.

“Yes, sir.”

“You boys should have said something sooner,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“He begged us not to. The man is scared and doesn't know who he can trust.”

The rancher nodded, and Chet tipped his fingers to the brim of his hat and took off. It would take an hour or more to reach town, five minutes to deliver the documents to the bank, another quarter hour to find the doctor and persuade him to come, then another hour or so back. It would be dark by the time they reached the ranch. Chet had to believe that Johnson had planned it that way. Was Johnson just as suspicious of the Tiptons as he and Bunker were? Joker had said Roger wasn't directly involved—who had the foreman gotten to do his dirty work and how deep was he in with the Tiptons? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

In spite of the fact that the railroad had bypassed the town of Whitman Falls, the main street was busier than Chet might have expected. A stagecoach pulled in as he was tying his horse and crossing the street to the bank. That put him in mind of Loralei—and the baby. It was that baby that worried him most. Loralei had admitted he wasn't the boy's pa, but even so, he worried. Even if Loralei returned to Florida, Chet knew her father well enough to know that he would never accept the child, would always think of him as his daughter's bastard. The boy would pay a price.

Inside the bank, he waited patiently for a teller to find Clyde Cardwell, whose name was written in bold letters on the envelope. Johnson hadn't said anything about delivering the packet directly to the man, but Chet didn't want there to be any question that he'd done his part.

“You're that fella from Florida that Maria Porterfield took on, aren't you?” Cardwell said as he impatiently signed the receipt that Chet had requested.

“I've done some work for the Porterfields,” he replied warily. There was something about Cardwell that put him in mind of Roger Turnbull.

“You planning on sticking around after?” There was no need to explain “after what”—everyone knew that getting the beef to market was the goal.

“Haven't decided,” Chet said, accepting the scrap of paper the banker thrust at him and folding it carefully before sticking it in his shirt pocket.

“You heading back to the Johnsons' place?”

“I'm working there for the time being.” Before the banker could ask more questions, Chet tipped his hat to the woman working behind the ironwork of the teller's cage and turned to go.

“Give my regards to the Porterfields,” the banker called.

Chet kept walking.

On his way into town, he had spotted the shingle that identified the doctor's home and office. The sun was low on the horizon and the shadows were beginning to settle over a quieter main street. He passed one saloon and heard the tinny sound of a piano, then another where the low murmur of men's voices drifted out to the street. In a month or so, those saloons would be filled to overflowing with drovers, once they'd rounded up the cattle headed for market and loaded them onto railroad cars in Yuma. But on this night, the town was relatively quiet.

Still, he would not risk using the front entrance to the doctor's office and home. Instead, he rode out of town, headed back toward the Johnsons' ranch, and once he was sure no one had followed him or was observing his actions, he doubled back and approached the doctor's house from the rear.