Fire Brand

by Diana Palmer

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GABY WAS DRESSED at five to go to the city council meeting, even though it didn’t start until seven thirty. She paced the floor, very trendy in her full circle denim skirt and white silk camisole top and boots. She left her hair long and brushed it until it shone with dark highlights, and put on her best blue earrings. She experimented with makeup, too, because she had so much extra time. She wanted to look her best for Bowie.

  She’d halfway expected him to phone the past two nights, but he hadn’t. Probably, she reasoned, he’d been too involved with business to think about her. But just remembering the things he’d said and the way he’d looked at her put those thoughts right out of her mind.

  Bowie came in a few minutes after she was dressed, looking worn and half angry, but when he saw Gaby, his face lit up and his black eyes smiled.

  “Pretty thing,” he murmured. “Do you know, Johnny Cash did a song a few years backwith June Carter Cash. It was called Darlin’ Companion, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone it fit better than you, right now.”

  She beamed and blushed, all at once. “Thank you. Are you going like that?” she asked.

  He was wearing gray slacks with a white silk shirt, a beige jacket, and brown tie. His blond head was bare and he looked impossibly handsome. “Will I do?” he asked.

  “You’d do if you went in a gunny sack,” she sighed.

  He laughed. Impulsively, he picked her up by the waist and put his mouth hard against hers.

  He was smudging her lipstick, and she didn’t even care. Her hands clung to his nape and she returned the kiss as fully as he gave it, only vaguely aware of a cleared throat behind them.

  Bowie reluctantly lifted his head and put her down, glaring at Montoya.

  “Well?” he asked curtly.

  Montoya grinned. “Supper. You have time to eat before you leave for Lassiter, surely?”

  “I was being fed, until you came along and ruined everything,” Bowie muttered.

  “Now, now,” Montoya soothed him, his eyes gleaming at Gaby’s delighted face. ‘Tía Elena has made liver and onions, just for you.”

  Bowie pursed his lips. “Well, in that case, maybe I can save Gaby for dessert,” he compromised, with a soft smile for her.

  Gaby slid her hand into his big one. “We’re going to a lynching,” she told Montoya.

  “Yes, I know,” the older man said quietly, with a level stare at Bowie. “The rifle is cleaned and loaded, if you want it, and your pistol and holster are in the top drawer of the tallboy in your room.”

  Bowie nodded, the humor gone from his hard face.

  “You can’t legally carry a pistol into a gathering of people, even with a permit,” she reminded him, cold chills running up her spine at the thought that he might need that pistol.

  “I know that. I’ll leave it with Bill or Jim at the door.”

  He glanced at her curiously. “Did you know the police chief and his sergeant were going to be there?”

  She smiled shyly. “I asked them to.”

  He just shook his head. They ate a quick supper, and after Bowie got the pistol, they headed out to the Scorpio. It was dusk, with shadows falling everywhere. A couple of the ranch hands were just pulling up in the ranch pickup, and Gaby turned to wave at them. Something suddenly whizzed past her head and slammed into the palo verde tree overhead. A loud crack sounded in the stillness, and she was suddenly caught and thrown down by Bowie’s big body.

  He said something unprintable and whipped his pistol out of the holster under his arm. He cocked it and rolled away from a shaking, white-faced Gaby to level it and fire twice after a white blur. Tires squealed on sand and a dust trail rose behind the vehicle as it weaved violently down the driveway.

  “Get after him!” Bowie yelled at the cowboys in the pickup. “Shoot back if you have to!”

  “You bet, boss!” One of them was already pulling the shotgun out of the rifle rack behind his head as the other man wheeled the pickup around and shot off in the direction the sniper had taken.

  Gaby was remembering another shootout—one in which she’d been slightly wounded. It brought back some sickening memories, and she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. She was aware of Bowie’s hard arms around her, his lean hands faintly trembling as they went over her.

  “My God, are you all right?” he demanded quickly, his eyes wild and fiercely concerned.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she whispered, trying to smile. “I’m just a little shaky. How about you?” She touched him hesitantly, her eyes all over him, looking for marks. It was just dawning on her how very dangerous this situation was. He could have been killed. Because he had a firm opinion and had stuck to it, he’d actually been shot at. He could have died right here, over a few thousand acres of land! How did dust and water compare to a man’s life?

  He helped her to her feet and wrapped her up tightly in his arms, his blond head bent over her dark one, his big body trembling with belated terror as he realized how close the bullet had come to her pretty head. He couldn’t bear the thought.

  Montoya and Tía Elena came running from the house, so excited and frightened that they were incoherent in Spanish. Bowie answered them in that same tongue, his deep, measured tones contrasting with the fine tremor in the arms holding Gaby.

  “Dios mio!” Montoya crossed himself. “Look where the bullet hit.” He moved toward the green trunk of the palo verde tree, the bark visibly torn from the impact of the bullet.

  Bowie drew Gaby along with him and looked at it. “Leave it there,” he said. “I want the sheriff to see it. His boys can dig it out and do a ballistics test if my men can run down the yellow-bellied coward who fired it.”

  “The meeting,” Gaby said huskily. She looked up at Bowie, her face still pinched and pale. “I have to go.”

  “Hell, yes, we do,” he agreed, fear giving way to the same anger she was feeling. “Backing down now would be the biggest mistake I ever made.”

  “No!” she moaned. “Bowie, you can’t! Don’t you realize that he tried to kill you? It isn’t worth it. It isn’t worth this...!”

  He shook her gently. “Stop that. I won’t live in fear. Nobody is going to take away my right to decide what I do with my land—not with words, not with a bullet. And shame on you for asking me to back down. You’re still shaking, but you’re game, aren’t you? You’ll go to the meeting anyway, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” she agreed unsteadily. “It’s my job. But I want combat pay down at the office,” she added with a ragged attempt at humor.

  He searched her pale face. “Sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Then let’s go. Maybe we can cateh the pickup.”

  “Be careful!” Montoya called after them as he watched Bowie put Gaby in the car and then climb in beside her.

  He threw up a hand and roared off down the long, dusty drive to the main road.

  There was a dust cloud far in the distance. Gaby watched it with a sinking feeling of nausea. She didn’t really want Bowie to catch up with his assailant—not if it meant he could be hurt. She hadn’t realized how volatile the situation was becoming in Lassiter, and now it looked as though her determination to keep the story in the public eye might have led to what happened. Publicity and controversy always fanned hot tempers. If something happened to Bowie, she’d have to live with the knowledge that she could have been a party to it, however innocently. She looked across at him while he drove, his hands rock steady on the wheel, his eyes intent on the road. Her world, she thought shakily, and she could lose him to a bullet. Her eyes closed on the sick thought. Now he was going with her to a meeting where he’d be the main dish on the menu. He was risking his life to protect her. If that wasn’t love, she thought wonderingly, she didn’t know what was. And she’d broken off the engag
ement over a comparatively little thing like physical reticence. She could have groaned. His feelings were only beginning to impact in her mind. He loved her. He was risking everything for her. Couldn’t she find it in her own heart to take the same risk for him, in a different way? She had to get past the scars. She had to!

  Bowie’s booted foot pressed down on the accelerator, throwing up an even bigger dust cloud behind them on the wide, sandy road. Many back roads in this part of the state were unpaved, but the roads were well-kept and incredibly wide, making them easy to travel. They were almost to Lassiter when they caught up with the ranch pickup.

  “We lost him, boss,” the man in the passenger side said, “but we put a bullet in his spare tire. He was driving one of those four-by-fours—a white one. You tell the police chief we creamed the cover over his tire, too. He won’t be hard to spot!”

  “Sure thing. Thanks, boys. I’ll see to it that your next check reflects my appreciation.” Bowie grinned.

  “Say, thanks!” they chorused.

  He pulled out and drove on into Lassiter. The city hall was overflowing. The parking lot was already full, but there was no white four-by-four to be seen.

  Bowie and Gaby went inside and found seats. Few people knew Bowie on sight, but he was getting a warm welcome from a few unattached females, and even from some attached ones. He sighed angrily at the unwanted attention, until Gaby slid her hand into his and calmed him down magically with a smile.

  Only when Mayor White opened the meeting did the buzzing of voices stop. There were so many people in the big room that it was hotter than the devil. It wasn’t the sweetest aroma in the world, either, because a lot of the people had just come from local ranches and jobs and they smelled like it.

  Gaby got out her tape recorder and her pad and pen, and took a few quick shots with her .35 mm camera to show the size of the angry crowd. She hated this type of meeting, where emotions ran high and tempers flared.

  Alvin Barry was on the front row—the real estate agent who was the front man for the agricultural syndicate. Sitting with him was Jess Logan, the acquisition man for Bio-Ag, and beside him was a man who looked oddly familiar. Gaby was sure she’d seen him somewhere before.

  “The first order of business is an announcement about a new industry for Lassiter—or a proposed new business for Lassiter,” Mayor White began, with a pointed glare at Bowie. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Alvin Barry, of Barry Land Company; Mr. Jess Logan, acquisition agent for the Bio-Ag Corporation; and Mr. Terrance Samuels, the vice-president of Bio-Ag, who’s come all the way from Los Angeles to talk to us about his proposed enterprise here in the valley.”

  “Thank you,” Samuels said with a big grin. He got up and went to the podium where the mayor was standing. “I’ve met a lot of you in recent weeks,” he told the crowd, “and hope to meet a lot more. We have some big plans for Lassiter, and I’d like to share them with you. Our corporate engineer, Mr. Bill Frazier, was supposed to have come with us, but he had to deal with a problem that cropped up in our newest project in Texas. Mr. Logan and I have brought some charts and maps with us, and some projections. I’d like to give those to you now, if I may.”

  Mayor White nodded, smiling. Gaby knew at once that he’d probably been the major force behind Bio-Ag’s desire to locate here. The mayor was known for his gung-ho efforts to recruit industry. Only two years before, he’d tried to locate a nuclear waste dump nearby, until the environmentalists had fought him to a standstill. He was much more concerned with raising the tax base than he was concerned for the environment. Not a conservationist himself, he couldn’t understand anyone who preferred barren land to fat industry.

  “I’ve heard of that man,” Bowie said coldly.

  Gaby’s eyebrows arched. “Him, and not his company?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember. I just remember the name. There was an article about him in one of the cattlemen’s bulletins I subscribe to. Not favorable, I think.”

  There was an interesting tidbit. Gaby made a quick note, which she didn’t let Bowie see, and turned her attention back to what Mr. Logan was saying.

  He had convincing statistics, but he said nothing about water, she noticed. Nothing about the ecology. Nothing about contaminants. Nothing about laser leveling. And most damning, nothing about the kind of crops he intended planting.

  At the end of the presentation, Mr. Logan cautiously threw the floor open for questions, but nobody was asking any.

  Bowie leaned back with deceptive laziness and lifted one big hand.

  “Yes, sir?” Mr. Logan smiled, because he didn’t know who Bowie was.

  “What kind of crops do you plan to maintain here—assuming that you can get the land you want. I’m sure you know that water is becoming a dangerous issue here in the desert, and that we have some areas near Lassiter where you’d have to drill over five hundred feet to even hit the aquifer.”

  “Oh, the land we’re looking at has water barely a hundred feet down,” Mr. Logan assured him. “And we’re positive that we can talk the landowner into selling to us. It’s just a matter of persistence...”

  “And a bullet?” Bowie stood up, and there were some quiet mutterings nearby. “Because the land you’re discussing is my land. And not an hour ago, someone in a white four-by-four put a bullet two inches from Gaby Cane’s head.”

  There were mingled gasps and frank outrage from some of the spectators. The mayor was stunned.

  “That’s not true,” the mayor said. “Bowie, nobody here would shoot at Gaby...”

  “He was shooting at me, but he damned near hit Gaby,” Bowie returned, his black eyes level and cold. His cobra look, Gaby thought with faint amusement. The mayor shifted restlessly under it. “The bullet lodged in a palo verde tree just outside the house. One of the policemen has gone to dig it out and have a ballistic check run on it.” Bowie smiled coldly. “I’ll have something to say to the poor marksman who fired it, and so will my attorney, when we find him. The police, of course, have first claim on his time. Attempted murder is a crime, I’m told.”

  A white-faced man whom Gaby recognized as a local farmer out of work stood up. “Did you say a white four-by-four?” he asked huskily.

  Bowie stared at him. “That’s right, McHaney,” he returned coldly. “Just like the one your oldest son drives. And if the police find a spare tire with a shotgun blast through it on that truck, your son is going to find himself in one hell of a mess.”

  “Riley wouldn’t,” he said heavily. “He just wouldn’t!”

  “Good for Riley!” one of the younger men piped up. “We need jobs here in Lassiter, not desert!”

  “Do we need them badly enough to kill for them?” came a quiet, feminine voice from nearby. “Tell me that, Jake Marlowe,” she added. “Well, do we?”

  The man sat back down, glowering at her.

  “Now, now,” the mayor said. “This can’t turn into a slinging match. We’re here to discuss how the town can help.”

  “The town could help the most by not involving itself in a plot to force landowners to sell their land,” Bowie told him coldly. “Now, let me ask you something. You’re free and easy with the water on my land, but the aquifer here is dropping, and we’re in trouble. You’ve already got a ban on outdoor watering. You tell me what you’re going to do when you fìnd that aquifer being pulled down even more by a huge conglomerate that depends on enormous stores of groundwater. What about herbicides and pesticides contaminating that fragile water store? What about the erosion that’s going to result from wholesale tilling of dry soil when the topsoil starts blowing away? What about the damage to the ecology and the threat to ranchers and housing developments and tourist areas?”

  “That’s right!” Mrs. Lopez seconded, standing. “Let me show you these photographs.” She held them up and explained them.

  She was only the f
irst; there were others. The ecology societies had representatives, who seconded Bowie’s concerns, outnumbering the venomous people who wanted those jobs Bio-Ag would provide without counting the cost.

  It very nearly became a riot, but the police calmed it down, and the mayor finally adjourned because not one item of regular business could be heard. He mumbled something about a meeting to discuss raised water rates and new contracts for police cars and grading, but he didn’t make another sound in Bio-Ag’s favor.

  Mr. Logan came up to Bowie outside, after the meeting. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m genuinely sorry about the attempted shooting,” he said, and meant it. “I wouldn’t have bloodshed over this thing for the world. We really think we can help the local economy. I wish you’d talk to us, and give us a chance to explain our position. Miss Cane changed her mind when she heard me out.”

  Bowie glanced at Gaby and then back to Mr. Logan. “Gaby will have controlling interest in Casa Río in a few weeks,” he said. “You can always try to coax her out of her part, but I’ll warn you that the water is on my part,” he added dryly, “and I won’t sell. I’ve heard of your Mr. Samuels. I’m twice as determined now to hold on to my water rights. You can tell him I said so.”

  Mr. Logan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “How long have you been with Bio-Ag?” he asked Logan levelly.

  “Well, for about six months...”

  “I suggest you find out a little something about your employer, Mr. Logan,” Bowie said quietly. “You need to know exactly what you’re fighting for. And now, you tell me what kind of crops you mean to plant, or I’ll go to the media.”

  Mr. Logan swallowed. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “Mr. Samuels won’t say. He keeps mentioning soil surveys and studies.”

  “I’ll bet you ten to one he’s planning to plant cotton on that land,” Bowie said, surprising even Gaby. “Cotton is what it’s best suited for. It takes more water than you’d believe to irrigate that crop, and it exhausts the soil and lowers the aquifer. If you don’t believe that, you look at the soil studies back in the southeast, where cotton was grown until it wore out the ground it was planted in. It’s a good cash crop for a quick profit, but it’s devastating in the long run. It has to be extensively sprayed, and you won’t need a handful of people to take care of it. You understand me? You’re talking about one or two combines and few trucks—that’s all. That will do the economy about as much good as opening a laundry here.”