Fire Brand

by Diana Palmer

  Courtland had started to speak when there was an interruption from the hall.

  “Señor Bowie, there is a man to see you,” Montoya called from the doorway.

  Bowie glanced at Gaby with an odd expression before he nodded curtly to the family and strode out.

  “I’m getting pretty tired of this verbal wrangling, Aggie,” Ned said. There was steely purpose in his dark eyes. “I’ve already taken more from your son in two days than I’d take from most men in one. We’ve got to get this thing settled.”

  Aggie grimaced. “You can see what it’s going to be like,” she told him earnestly.

  “I don’t care,” he replied stubbornly. “I want it out in the open.”

  Aggie glanced apologetically at Gaby. “Ned’s asked me to marry him,” she said, and blushed again, remembering how he’d asked her.

  “Oh, how nice,” Gaby said, and wondered what in the world she and Bowie were going to do now.

  Aggie gave her a hard look. “So I’m going to have to fight you, too, is that how it stands?”

  “Of course not,” Gaby said quickly, because if she voiced her suspicions or made waves right now, she might accidentally push Aggie away. She got up and hugged the older woman, placating her. “You know I only want the very best for you.”

  “Yes, I know that, baby girl.” Aggie hugged her warmly. “Be happy for me.”

  “I am.” She congratulated Mr. Courtland, noticing the curious way he eyed her, as if he saw right through her pretense.

  “Now all we have to do is convince Bowie,” Aggie murmured with narrowed eyes.

  “He’s not going to take it lying down,” Ned said quietly. “He’ll fight it with his last breath. You need to talk to him.”

  “Bowie doesn’t listen.” Aggie replied. “He likes his own way.”

  “I like my own way, too,” Ned said. “And I’ll get it.”

  Gaby felt cold chills at the way he said that. She’d have to talk to Bowie, and fast.

  “It’s my own fault,” Aggie was saying. “Bowie and I were never close. He and his father tried to be, but they were both too cool and distant to make a go of it.”

  “I hope he doesn’t decide to make trouble,” Ned said, almost to himself. “Not before I...” He stopped, as if he was aware of Gaby’s scrutiny.

  Aggie didn’t notice the thought voiced aloud; she was brooding again. “Maybe if we tied him up and put him in the closet,” she mumbled, “and got a head start, we could get to Wyoming before he missed us.”

  Gaby grinned. “He’d cut himself loose and come after you,” she said. She glanced at Mr. Courtland. “So you’re in the cattle business, Mr. Courtland?” she began with her best reporter’s smile.

  “In a very small way,” he returned. “I’m more of a horse man myself.” He pursed his lips and glanced at Aggie with a calculating look. “Not that I’ve got much capital to invest in them.”

  “Are you from Wyoming?” Gaby persisted.

  He frowned. “Well, no. Not originally.”

  “Where did you.”

  “Stop doing your reporter number, Gaby, or I’ll kick you,” Aggie threatened. “Which reminds me, how long are you staying?”

  Gaby was suddenly under fire, and her mind threatened to shut down. Aggie had seen through her questions. “I’d sort of like to stay for two weeks, if you don’t mind. I’ll be quiet as a mouse. In fact, I’ll hang out with the coyotes and chase cats or something.”

  Aggie’s face lost its coolness and she laughed. “As long as you aren’t underfoot all the time, I don’t mind. Stay as long as you like.” Her eyes narrowed. “How about Bowie?” she asked with a calculating smile. “Does he want to stay two weeks, too?”

  Gaby flushed, which helped drag the red herring right under Aggie’s nose. She looked delighted.

  “He can stay, too, unless he gets in my way,” Aggie added firmly. She glanced at Ned, feeling girlishly young. “After all, courting couples need a little time alone together, you know.”

  Bowie would love this. Time to get more involved, he’d be thinking, and Gaby was really suspicious now about Mr. Courtland’s motives. He sounded and looked more and more like a threat. But what could they do? Aggie was far past the age of consent. If she wanted to get married, it would take more than Gaby and Bowie to stop her.

  “Are you going to tell Bowie what we’ve decided?” Ned asked unexpectedly, staring at Gaby.

  “He’s sure to find out,” she hedged.

  “I was afraid of that.” Ned Courtland sighed heavily. “Sure as God made little green apples, he’ll sew his shadow to my boots and trail after us like a kid.”

  “He’d better not,” Aggie muttered. She was girded for battle, and Gaby didn’t like that determined look. “Gaby, don’t you say a word to him about the marriage, or I’ll throw you all the way back to Phoenix. It’s my right to tell him.”

  Gaby grimaced. She didn’t want to promise, but if she didn’t, Aggie was quite capable of telling her to leave, and that would ruin everything. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll let you tell him—but don’t take too long.”

  “I won’t,” Aggie said. “I don’t want to hurt either of you, but I don’t have to have permission to get married.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Gaby agreed, faking a smile.

  She got up. “I’ll just move along and let you two have a few minutes to yourself,” she said. She glanced at Mr. Courtland with a cagey smile. “What breed is a red and white cow, do you know?”

  “It’s a Hereford,” he said. He studied her for a minute. “And if you want to know, the Japanese trade agreement has already gone through. We’ll be sending more beef over there.”

  “Why did you send Bowie off on a tangent by pretending not to know?” she asked softly.

  “He expected me not to know,” Ned returned easily. He leaned back. “You know, trust is hard to get these days. I understand the misgivings he has, but a woman shouldn’t have to fight her own kids to be happy. No child has the right to tell his parent how to live.”

  “On the other hand,” Gaby replied, “a child has every right to try to protect that parent when he or she is vulnerable.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any kids.”

  She glanced toward Aggie. “If you marry Aggie, you will have,” she promised dryly. “A two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound son.”

  Ned’s dark eyes twinkled. “As long as I don’t have to bounce him on my knee, we should manage all right.”

  Gaby smothered a laugh. “I’ll see you both later.”

  She smiled at Aggie, but when she was out of the room, the smile faded. Things were so complicated. She could see why Bowie was worried about the elusive Mr. Courtland. He was like two sides of a coin, and she couldn’t decide which face was the true one. He acted so suspiciously, as if he had an amusing secret and was playing a part. If he was a con man, there was every good reason to make sure he didn’t get Bowie out of the way. Aggie was so obviously in love with the man that it was going to be difficult to convince her that he was a scoundrel, even if he turned out to be a bank robber. She went out the front door, having forgotten all about Bowie’s visitor until she heard the curt anger in his deep voice.

  “I’ve told you how I feel about this,” Bowie was telling a small, wizened man in a suit. “I won’t sell land to a potential polluter. My God, man, can’t you see the impact that outfit would have on the water table around here?”

  “It’s a sound financial venture, Mr. McCayde,” the older man said. “And a number of people in Lassiter are in favor of it. You’re not a popular man right now. You have the best land for the project, and it would mean a great deal to the local economy...”

  “Not in the long run,” Bowie said stubbornly. “The answer is no.”
<
br />   “Won’t you reconsider?”

  “I will not.”

  “Mr. McCayde.” The small man smiled, spreading his hands. “Surely you don’t intend to go on with this one-man crusade to preserve the land intact. It isn’t realistic—not at all. You can’t hold back progress.”

  “Stand back and watch me.”

  “The town will fight you,” he assured Bowie, “tooth and nail. And you’ll be the only loser... Mr. McCayde!”

  Bowie had picked the little man up in mid-tirade and was calmly carrying him to his car. As Gaby watched, tom between shock and hysterical laughter, Bowie put the man into his car, closed the door, and walked off toward the garage. The visitor, whom Gaby finally recognized as a local realtor, fumbled his engine into life and took off jerkily.

  It was several minutes before Gaby could stop laughing long enough to go in search of Bowie. His actions were typical of his hard-bitten personality. Like many desert-bred men, he was nothing if not blunt and forthright about things. But he had a unique way of settling arguments, she thought. That poor realtor wasn’t going to forget his reception at Casa Río for a long time.

  She could understand his point of view, and Bowie’s. But it was hard to match heritage against hungry children and unemployed people. Bowie was so stubborn, she wondered if anything would change his mind. If the townspeople of Lassiter were really up in arms, she could see trouble coming in swarms: But the land question wasn’t as urgent as Aggie’s situation was.

  Out in the corral, Bandy was breaking another horse, his small, grizzled figure clinging stubbornly to the saddle of a bucking gelding. Outside the fence were several small Mexican boys, children of the workers, who were too young to be in school. The woman who was supposed to be watching them was busy putting a basket of laundry into a beat-up pickup truck, to be taken into town to the laundromat.

  Bandy was suddenly thrown and landed with a “whump!” in the dust, while the angry horse threw up his hind legs and bucked around the corral, trying to get the saddle off.

  “Sorry, Bandy!” Gaby yelled at him. “Are you okay?”

  “Everything but my pride is.” He chuckled, dusting himself off as he walked toward her. “Good to have you home, kid.”

  “Good to be home.” She liked Bandy. His father had been a friend of the infamous Pancho Villa, and Bandy could spin a fine tale about the old days down in Douglas, on the border, and the excitement of watching the Mexican Revolution from the rooftops of that small town.

  The pale blue eyes studied her warily from a face like scorched leather. “You down here because of Miss Aggie’s house guest?” he asked pointedly. “Because I’d bet money Bowie is.”

  “Shame on you for gossiping,” she chided.

  “Should be, I reckon. He’s no lily, that Wyoming fella,” he said, nodding toward the newcomer, who was walking toward the corral with Aggie. “Look how he walks—just like a cowboy. Nothing in the world more ungainly on the ground than a... Good God!”

  The exclamation came at the sight of one of the small boys tearing into the corral, laughing as he taunted the bronco. The other boys egged him on with loud cries of encouragement.

  “Get the hell out of here!” Bandy yelled.

  The bronco was still bucking, incited by the child waving his arms. The boy was laughing, not paying a bit of attention to Bandy. He thought it was a great game, but the bronc wasn’t playing.

  “Do something!” Gaby cried.

  Bandy ran toward the bronc, only to be knocked to the ground by the shoulder of the frightened animal. Gaby started over the rails in pure terror, but a lean, strong hand caught her and held her back.

  “Get me a rope, quick,” Ned Courtland demanded, his lean face set and ruthless as he watched the bronc start to chase the boy.

  Bowie had heard the urgent sounds and came out of the barn at a quick, hard stride.

  “Bring a rope!” Courtland yelled, and climbed deftly to the top rung of the corral.

  Bowie reacted instinctively to the sharp command. He grabbed up a lariat and threw it to Courtland. The older man caught it and quickly made a loop, which he sent singing out from the top of the corral fence. It caught easily around the bronc’s neck. Courtland jumped down, his booted feet planted firmly so that his heels dug into the soft ground. His lean strength slowly brought the animal to a standstill while Bandy got the boy out of the corral. Then it was a treat to watch Courtland gentle the gelding.

  He didn’t jerk him around or mistreat him, or even use a great deal of force.

  He talked to him, softly, quietly, standing still with the rope taut as the animal stood panting and wild-eyed. The boy had been caught and whacked soundly on the bottom by Bowie, who told him off quietly and effectively in flawless Spanish and sent him running, with his friends, to his mother.

  Courtland was moving toward the horse now, while Aggie, Bowie, and Gaby watched, fascinated. The older man began to stroke the horse’s soft muzzle, still talking to him. He smoothed the mane, the long, elegant neck. All the while, he spoke to the horse, as if it were as intelligent as he’d said only minutes earlier. Then he turned and led it gently back to the barn door and handed the reins to Bandy.

  “My God.” Bandy shook his head. “I’ve heard of men who could do that, but I’ve only seen it done a time or two. That was a real treat, Mr. Courtland.”

  Courtland only nodded. He walked back to the fence, vaulted over it with the ease of a man half his age, and took off his hat to wipe away the sweat.

  “How’s the boy?” he asked Bowie.

  “His bottom is pretty sore,” Bowie said quietly. “Otherwise, he’s fine. His father is one of the cowboys here.” His eyes narrowed. “That was a hell of a bit of roping,” he said speculatively. “And I gather that you know something about horses.”

  “Oh, I used to ride some when I was younger,” Ned Courtland said, pursing his lips amusedly. “I like horses.”

  “They seem to like you, too. Bandy’s been working that little white-eyed horror for three days, and it’s nearly killed him once that I know of.”

  “I got lucky. Aggie, let’s get along. We’re going up to see something called Cochise Stronghold,” he told the others, sliding a casual arm around Aggie’s shoulders.

  “We’re going to stop for lunch while we’re out,” Aggie said, beaming as she nestled closer to the lean man. “So don’t wait for us.”

  “We won’t,” Bowie agreed. “Have a good time,” he told his mother, but absently, because he was still digesting what he’d just learned about her suitor.

  He watched them walk away with Gaby, thoughtful and silent, at his side.

  “That man knows ranching,” Bowie said. “I’d bet money on it. But why is he so damned secretive? And who is he? I can’t find anybody in Jackson who knows the cattle business who’s ever heard of Ned Courtland.”

  “Maybe he isn’t from Jackson,” she suggested. “Maybe he’s trying to throw you off the track.”

  “My God, the man may have a criminal record that he’s trying to hide,” he said shortly. “What if he’s on the run?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GABY THOUGHT ABOUT what Bowie had said before he stormed off into the garage to work on the truck. She didn’t really think that Ned Courtland was a criminal, but what if he was? They were going to have to find some way to check him out.

  She spent her morning telephoning invitations to the people on Aggie’s guest list. The party would be Friday evening, and it was already Wednesday—hardly enough time to have invitations printed and get them mailed. Gaby wondered what would happen when Bowie found out that not only was his mother in love with Ned Courtland, she intended to marry him. She had to talk to him, to soothe him down, before Friday.

  Montoya had come in to fix lunch, and while he and Tía Elena were working on it, Gab
y slipped out to the garage to talk to Bowie.

  She heard a lot of angry banging from underneath one of the pickup trucks, and saw a familiar pair of big booted feet sticking out on one side.

  Bowie was under the truck, flat on his back, wielding a wrench and turning the air blue.

  Gaby, now wearing her jeans, sat down cross-legged on the concrete floor of the garage beside him without a word.

  “Hand me the socket wrench,” he said curtly, holding out a big, greasy hand for it.

  She looked at the red container of socket wrenches. “There must be twenty of them. Which one...?”

  He told her, and she found it, pressing it into his palm. The arm disappeared. There were metallic sounds and then a lot of muttering. “That damned real estate agent had better not come back here again,” he said shortly. “I’ve warned him about coming out here and bothering me.”

  “It sounds as if the situation is getting serious, Bowie,” she said quietly.

  “It was never anything else.” He banged something else. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a reporter. Start digging.”

  “I’m going to do that. But you aren’t going to change my mind about the state of the local economy and the need for an additional tax base,” she said.

  “You and these damned liberals,” he said shortly. “You’ll sacrifice the whole quality of life for a few dollars.”

  “It’s not like that at all,” she said. “There are two sides to every story, I know, but the unemployment rate here is terrible. You have to have industry or new business to keep people working. And I know about the danger of pollutants in the groundwater table—I’ve done several articles about water quality and conservation. But you can’t just leave the land as it is forever, Bowie! Desert serves no one except itself.”

  “Take your damned sermon out of here,” he said, his voice cutting. “I’ve got more than land on my mind right now, and you know it.”

  She sighed. “Yes. I know it.”

  “She’s out of her mind,” he said audibly.