Promise Me Texas (A Whispering Mountain Novel) (17 page)

CHAPTER 18

I
T WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN
A
NDREW RETURNED
home. Beth looked furious when he walked in the door whistling, as if he hadn’t frightened her to death.

“About time you got back,” she said, obviously trying to keep her voice calm.

He looked up, shoving his windblown hair out of his eyes so he could study her. “You worried about me?”

“Of course I was worried. I didn’t want you to go off and get yourself killed; then I’d have to look for a new make-believe husband.” She whirled, turning her back to him. “I sound like a harpy and I don’t mean to. Of course, you are free to go wherever you like. You told me when we got here that you like to walk and think at night. I should have listened.”

He moved toward her. “You were worried about me. I only went over to the train yard to have a little talk with the boys who bothered Madie. I don’t think they’ll be coming back.”

“You talked to them?” She turned back, more surprised than angry now.

He smiled again. “I didn’t have a gun to shoot their toes off. So I had to talk.”

Beth paced back and forth across the hallway. “Those were rough guys, Andrew. They could have hurt you. Real life isn’t like stories in books. People get killed. You could have been hurt. They could have tossed you on the tracks to be run over. You could have—”

“I wasn’t.” He stopped her, then reached for her with his gloved hand. “How about a kiss?”

She jerked away. “No. I can’t talk to you right now. Good night, Andrew.”

She was gone before he could say another word. Andrew stood in the middle of the hallway, wondering what he’d done to make her so angry.
Another reason never to get involved with women
, he thought. They made no sense.

He walked to the kitchen, slowly pulling the glove off his bleeding hand. As he’d expected when he’d cornered the two boys who hurt Madie, they insisted on fighting him, bragging that they’d beat him so badly not even his pretty, noisy little wife would recognize him.

He’d left them both in the dirt without ever taking a solid blow to his body. One of the blessings of traveling from school to school every few years was that he’d learned to fight. Correction, not just fight, but box. The first thing the bullies always wanted to do was beat up the new kid. Between school in his early years and the streets later, he’d collected quite an education.

The first few years after he’d lost Hannah he’d even fought for money several times, then drank all his winnings away. Bar fighting was different than boxing, but he’d learned that, with practice, he was a natural. If he could size up the kind of fighter he was up against, he could use the man’s size, or speed, or cockiness against him.

Only tonight he hadn’t simply fought with reason, he’d been angry. He’d wanted to make sure the boys never bothered Madie again. He’d hit them harder than needed to win and not only bruised but bloodied his fist.

He heard footsteps and quickly dropped a cloth over his bloody hand before Beth came into sight.

“I forgot my sewing basket,” she said, then stopped as if frozen in place.

He covered his left hand over his right, but it was too late; she’d already seen the blood in the sink.

“You’re bleeding!”

“It’s nothing. I scraped my knuckles.”

She rushed to his side and started mothering him, as he’d guessed she would. All the time she worked, she lectured him about how he shouldn’t go out after dark and how he was lucky he only scraped a wall. What if he’d been jumped or pulled into the alley and murdered for the coins in his pocket?

Andrew only smiled. He kind of liked the idea that she saw herself as his guardian angel. He thought about telling her that he’d already tried to kill himself by drinking and fighting. Neither worked, so he settled for traveling, living alone, finding his friends in the pages of his stories. He’d been pulled into dark alleys in Paris and Boston, and he’d been the only one to walk back out.

When she followed him to his bed in the study, he asked, “You still mad at me, wife?”

“Yes. A husband should tell his wife where he’s going when he leaves. How would you feel if I just walked out one night?”

“I’d follow you,” he answered, and then realized that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

She helped him pull off his coat and jacket, made sure the bandage she’d tied wasn’t bleeding through, and told him to go to bed.

“No good-night kiss?” he asked, suddenly finding himself in a good mood.

Before she could answer, he cupped the back of her head and pulled her close enough to brush his lips over hers.

For a second, she tried to pull away, and he thought he’d angered her even more, but then she came forward so fast he wasn’t sure if she wanted a kiss or to attack. Maybe a little of both.

She kissed him on the mouth, a fast attack more than an endearment, then pulled away.

“No,” he whispered. “Not like that. Never like that. Never angry.”

His mouth claimed hers in a gentle kiss.

She didn’t move or kiss him back.

“If you’re going to kiss me, Beth, kiss me the right way or not at all.” His unbandaged hand moved into her ginger-colored hair as he waited. “Maybe you’re like me, wife. Maybe you were meant to be kissed very few times in this lifetime, so we should make each one count.”

She nodded, circled her arms around him, and pressed her lips against his.

Finally he’d said the right words. She was kissing him the way he liked, with passion and hunger.
A loving kiss without love
, he thought.

Exactly what he wanted.

Exactly what he could handle.

Her body leaned into him and he realized he had no way to fight against all the feeling firing through his body. The last thought he had before giving way to passion was that if this was the last time she ever kissed him, he wanted it to be a moment neither one would ever forget.

CHAPTER 19

C
OLBY
D
IXON RODE OUT WITH THE RANGERS AT A
pace few men could have kept up with, but he was used to long hours in the saddle.

The first night he shared his biscuits with the rangers over beans and coffee, but he kept one back, wrapped away in the cotton napkin. He told himself he’d eat it the next day, but he couldn’t. Just knowing it was packed in his gear reminded him that Madie was back in Fort Worth waiting.

Maybe not for him, he decided, but waiting. He knew he should have his mind on the trouble ahead, but all he could think about was how he liked kissing her. She was still a child—well, maybe not a child, but she wasn’t really a full woman. He was just being kind. Giving her advice and watching over her. That was all. The kiss meant nothing.

But he still didn’t eat the biscuit.

At night, much as he tried to keep thoughts of her away, Colby remembered how she’d looked in her nightgown and how nicely her breasts were rounded. More a woman than a girl in that way, he thought, then silently called himself every name he could think of for even having looked at her so closely.

Who was he fooling? He wasn’t kind like she said he was. He’d been raised by a pa who never used the word
kind
except maybe when he shot an animal to put it out of its misery. If Madie ever found out how cold he was, she probably wouldn’t even speak to him. She didn’t understand. Cowboys had to be hard to survive. But still, he couldn’t get her off his mind.

If Colby didn’t stop thinking of the girl’s breasts, someone maybe should shoot him and put him out of his misery. That would be the
kind
thing to do. A man, a grown man like him, had more important things to think about.

The two rangers probably wouldn’t understand. All they talked about were horses, and trouble on the border, and how next year they were going to take a few days off, but everyone knew neither would. The younger ranger was new at the job, too much in a hurry to make himself a legend among men who were considered the best lawmen in the country. Slim Bates might be older, but he needed the life of a ranger the way some men need opium.

On the second night, Slim shot a few rabbits and the eating was good. Since they were out in the middle of nowhere, Slim elected to pull out a bottle of whiskey and pass it around. Colby took two swallows, then felt like someone had chicken-fried his brain. Before the third round he acted like he’d fallen asleep.

The two rangers kept passing the bottle and talking. Now and then they mentioned a pretty girl they’d met, but none of their stories were good enough to make Colby want to rejoin the conversation. He drifted off, thinking he wouldn’t talk about Madie. It wouldn’t be right. She wasn’t his gal.

On the third day, about sunset, they reached the town a few miles from his ranch. The rangers wanted to check in with the marshal. Even though the rangers were involved, this was still his case to solve.

Marshal Butler was locking up his office when they rode in. He said he had news and invited them to join him for dinner at the hotel.

Colby had come into town every month for years with his father, but he’d never eaten at the hotel, or anywhere else. His pa would have considered it a waste of money. The little restaurant was nice, with a cloth on the table and napkins. All the frills reminded him of how Mrs. McLaughlin had set their table. It might have only been a crate, but she’d bought a tablecloth and napkins for the last meal of the day and called it dinner instead of supper.

The marshal said he’d order drinks while they washed up out back. Colby wanted to hear the news about the men who killed his father, but he was starving too, so he figured he could wait a few minutes longer.

“What’re you drinking, Mr. Dixon?” the marshal asked.

“Coffee,” Colby answered, thinking it so strange to hear grown men call him mister. He’d held his own during the drives, but he was just one of the guys taking his turn riding drag with everyone else. He doubted anyone on the trail knew that about a third of the herd belonged to his old man. He’d sent home good money for the cows and kept his wages to himself. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with the money, but for the first time in his life he felt like it belonged to him alone and wasn’t part of the ranch funds.

Now the ranch was his. He didn’t think he was rich. Land didn’t always equal money, but he knew his old man kept some cash at the bank. The thought crossed his mind that he could sell everything, take the money, and head out to make his life anything he wanted. This dry country was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and the wind never stopped blowing. There had to be a better place to live.

It crossed Colby’s mind that he could travel like Andrew seemed to do, or buy a house in town where he could eat in fancy restaurants like he was doing now.

Only one fact stood in his way. All he knew was ranching. All he knew was the land. Where else would he ever feel at home?

Once they sat down near the windows, Colby drank his coffee and listened. The marshal asked the rangers a few questions about Fort Worth before he finally got around to talking about what needed to be said.

“I’ve done some checking, Mr. Dixon, and your father had everything made out to you about six months back. The bank account is yours; all holdings at the cattle company are in your name. No one, not even the men who killed your pa, can get to it. Over the years all the land your father bought around here was registered in your name.”

Colby sat very still. His pa had never said a word. He’d always thought of everything as belonging to the old man. Sometimes, he’d been afraid the old guy would sell and not give him a penny. All along, everything they’d scraped up the money to buy had already belonged to him.

“I think your father knew trouble might be coming concerning the original homestead.” The marshal stopped long enough to order four steaks. “There’s been some rumors that a few government land offices have been corrupted. If he’d filed the paperwork for you to own the land-grant part of your ranch, the biggest part, the paperwork might have ended up being tampered with. We’ve had a few complaints.”

“My great-grandpa went all the way to Mexico to get that grant.” Colby knew the story well. It had been his only bedtime story. “He even had to sign an oath that he was Catholic before the government of Mexico, which owned Texas at the time, would let him have the land. In 1830, when my grandpa fought for Texas independence, the state honored every grant.”

“I know, son, I’m not arguing with you. It’s just that we need the original grant. Otherwise you might get swindled out of the ranch by false paperwork and slick lawyers. Now think hard. Where would your father have put the paper to know that it would be safe until he could get it delivered to Austin and signed by a judge?”

“The bank?” Colby guessed.

Butler shook his head. “Banker told me he asked your pa and he said he’d put it where he knew it would never be stolen.”

Colby shook his head. “He kept extra cash in a loose brick next to the fireplace. My mom had an old family Bible she had a few loose papers pressed into. I never saw my pa touch it, but it might be somewhere he’d put the grant.”

The marshal nodded. “We’ll look there first thing in the morning. Meantime, don’t sign anything. I’ve heard tell of men swindling owners out of their land at times like this by getting them drunk or coming in when they’re sick.”

“I won’t sign,” Colby said. “I wouldn’t even sign the paperwork for the doctor back in Dallas. He claimed he wouldn’t treat me if I didn’t. My arm was hurting so bad from the snakebite I didn’t want to move it.”

Slim leaned forward as the waitress delivered four plates of steak and beans. “That might have been why they were keeping you alive. They figured the bite would heal and you’d be so out of it, you’d sign anything, even the deed to your ranch.”

All four men dug into the food. Finally, the marshal stopped to take a drink and said, “I’ll contact Dallas, but first we got to find that deed.” Everyone agreed and continued eating. “If it’s gone, then we know your pa was murdered for it.”

The marshal asked the girl who refilled their drinks if she had rooms for his three friends. “No sense going out to your ranch in the dark,” he said as the girl nodded.

Colby agreed and when the rangers asked for a bath to be delivered, he did the same. He didn’t want them to know how green he was, so he didn’t ask about the price of the room or the bath.

After they finished pie, Colby went up to his room while the others kept swapping stories. The hotel room was fancier than anything he’d ever seen, with rugs on the floor and a lock on the door.

Colby took a real bath in a hip tub by the fireplace, then lay on his bed nude as a bedbug. Being raised by his father, he’d never had a nightshirt, but he thought that someday, if he ever married, he should buy one. He’d heard Beth telling the boys when she bought them nightshirts that women don’t like seeing too much of the male body. So he’d slept in his clothes on his bedroll, same as Andrew did down in his study.

He decided if he ever did get this all straightened out, the first thing he’d buy would be a real bathtub and three or four changes of clothes. That would be more than he’d ever need, but it would be nice to wear clean clothes every day like Mr. McLaughlin did. They had good water on the ranch. Enough to bathe every Saturday night if he wanted to.

Colby smiled. In no time at all he’d be a real gentleman.

Just before he fell asleep he thought of Madie and how hard she worked around the town house. She’d have his place all cleaned up and proper in no time if she came to visit.

Not that she’d ever come to his place. The run-down way it looked would never attract a woman or even an almost-grown girl. She’d probably throw a fit if she knew they hung their clothes out every month to dry on the fence and took baths in the creek.

He thought of the biscuit still in his gear. While he was out buying the tub and clothes, he figured he’d buy some napkins and a tablecloth and maybe even a funny little teapot just in case Madeline did ever come to call. Then she could have her tea just like Mrs. McLaughlin did every afternoon.

The next morning when they rode up on his place, it looked worse than he remembered. Far worse. Whoever had killed his father had pulled most of the furniture out of the house and ripped it to pieces. Broken chairs, shredded straw mattresses beyond repair, and pieces of broken dishes that must have been used for target practice.

Colby stepped over the mess and moved inside. The stove had been pulled away from its rock stand. His mother’s simple half cabinet she’d brought with her when she married was smashed into a hundred pieces, every pane of glass broken. Boards were ripped from the floor and walls. The fireplace brick, his pa’s crude safe place, was open with all the money gone.

The marshal brushed his hand in where the stone had been removed. “How much you think your father kept in here?”

“A few hundred, I guess, maybe more. He’d stash the money from a sale of a pig or calf and use it to buy our monthly supplies. He didn’t believe in carrying credit at the stores in town if he didn’t have to, and we rarely went in to pick up supplies in time to catch the bank open.”

They walked out to the barn. It looked like whoever had killed his pa had taken all the horses along with a wagonload of other livestock. Only the chickens were left to run free. Probably too much trouble to chase.

“The stock might be easier to track. Men herding cattle and horses can’t move as fast. The wagon’s tracks could lead us to who did this. Can you give me a description of what he had here?”

“We butchered most of the pigs for winter, so only six half-grown pigs, a black milk cow, and four horses were around the barn this time of year. What cattle we didn’t sell in the last drive are on the land. It would have taken days for good cowhands to round them up, and they were the wildest of our herd.”

Slim walked around the barn, reading the scene like some men read a book. “And these men are not good hands, I’d bet. They make their money stealing and killing. I’m guessing they were hired to bully the old man into giving them the deed. When he refused, they thought they’d kill him and search the house. When that turned up nothing, they took the stock for their trouble. It wasn’t part of the job they were hired to do.”

The marshal nodded. “If they’re moving with stock, maybe trying to sell some along the way, they’ll be easy to follow. First they’ll drive the wagon and stock far enough away so that no one will recognize your horses. That leaves out the farms and ranches within forty miles. After that, I’m guessing they’ll stop at the first place they come to and try to make a little money.”

Slim untied his horse from the fence. “If you want to stay here, Colby, we’ll circle around to the ranches and see if anyone saw men with your stock passing by. With luck, in a few hours, we’ll have a direction to head. In the meantime you might want to pay your respects to your pa. Maybe hammer him up a cross on the grave yonder.”

Colby nodded. “Thanks, Slim, I’d like to do just that.” He knew Slim’s calling him Colby wasn’t a loss of respect, but a sign of friendship.