Clicking off the nozzle, he laid it across his lap and cut a U-turn at the lower pasture. He eased over along the opposing ditch, grabbed the nozzle and started in on the return trip.
Garcia walked out from the buildings, a coiled rope in his hands. His wide-brimmed palm leaf hat resembled his vaquero forefathers’ sombreros. Aside from the brown chink chaps he wore, short and fringed at the knee, Garcia could easily pass for an early Californio landowner. And why not? Half of Hawthorne Ranch belonged to him.
Eli found the transaction shortly after Pop’s funeral, the first time he justified the books. Rather than feeling run under, he felt relieved to know Garcia’s interest focused on more than merely a job. But Eli couldn’t understand why his old friend wouldn’t move into the main house.
Maybe he liked his privacy.
Or maybe he didn’t want to share a roof with someone who refused to pray.
Eli rolled to a stop and shut off the engine.
“So, my friend, you left early this morning.” Garcia built a small loop and flicked his wrist to set it spinning.
“Ate at the coffee shop. Hoped to hear news about rustlers.”
“And you did?”
Eli removed his hat and rubbed his forehead. “Not a word. Place was quiet. So was the feed store.”
Garcia raised his head until his dark eyes appeared beneath the wide brim. “I heard your rifle in the night.”
Eli nodded. “One man on horseback.” He grinned. “But not on his way out.”
Garcia smiled appreciatively, dipped his head, twirled the flat loop. “I saw nothing during my watch. Maybe the coyóte will not return.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. All I did was let him know we’re on to him. Now he’ll be more careful.”
“We watch again tonight?”
“At least until moonrise.” Eli clapped his hat on, pulled it low on his brow.
“I will take the first watch.”
“Then don’t eat too much or you might fall asleep on a full stomach.”
Garcia looked up, a question in his eyes.
“Laura’s cooking. Enchiladas.”
The older man’s face split in a pearly grin. “Bueno. She is good for us, no?”
Eli glanced at the hill. “We’ll see.” He started the quad and Garcia stepped back. “Meet me in the bottom pasture and we’ll pull sprinklers.”
Garcia’s palm leaf dipped in answer and he dropped the loop, pulling it into the coil before heading for his pickup.
* * *
Laura dragged herself up the front steps, through the French doors and leaned against the refrigerator while ice water filled her glass. She’d covered a lot more ground than originally planned this morning. How had she ever managed to run these hills as a kid with Eli?
Eli. The more she thought about him the more she wanted to crack through his chameleon cover. Of course he wasn’t the gangly teenager she’d shadowed as a preadolescent. But she wanted to know what had molded him over the past dozen years. What had cut him so deeply to leave a cold, steely edge in his eye? Why did he react so defensively?
She rolled the chilled glass against her face and neck and grudgingly admitted that Mary Travers was right about running early in the day. And she had fewer than twenty-four hours to recover enough to meet the woman at the bottom of the hill tomorrow morning.
A quick shower rejuvenated her, and as she pulled on capris and an embroidered white peasant blouse, she mentally tallied ingredients for enchiladas. A flan might be fun, too. And she’d buy extra refried beans. No telling how long Eli had had that can. His granddad may have bought it.
She checked the front lock, grabbed her purse and keys and opened the French doors in time to see Pennington ride up her driveway on his pitiful buckskin.
Great. What could he possibly want? She needed to leave if she wanted to make the trip to town and back and still have time to do all the baking. But something told her not to drive away while he hung around.
She eased the door closed and dropped her purse on the counter, unwilling to let Pennington know she planned to leave.
After tying his horse to her mulberry tree, he lumbered up the steps and knocked.
Laura thought about not answering but her car gave her away. She opened the door a few inches.
“Yes?”
Pennington removed his sweaty felt hat and smiled. “Hello there. Do you have a moment?”
So much for efficiency.
“Just one.”
His smile never changed and she thought it appeared more sinister than friendly.
“On your way out?” He swept her attire with a hungry gaze.
“What do you need, Mr. Pennington?”
He glanced over his shoulder at two patio chairs on the deck. “I thought we could visit for a bit, since we’re neighbors again and all.”
Couldn’t this guy take a hint?
“Especially since we might have trouble in the area.” He squinted one eye as if waiting for that last remark to sink in.
An icy shiver slid down the back of her neck. “And what trouble would that be?”
His smile vanished at her refusal to come outside and a cold, hard glare replaced it.
“Did you hear gunfire last night?”
Laura knew she was a terrible liar. Mama had seen to that. But she didn’t want to tell him she’d heard Eli shoot at rustlers. Twice.
“I heard a mountain lion.” She held his stare. “Do you think someone shot at it?”
His right cheek twitched and he looked down at his hat.
“It’s awful dangerous having someone out here shooting in the dark. Could hit a cow or something they didn’t intend.” His eyes shifted to hers without his head moving.
“You’re absolutely right,” she said. “Did you ask anyone else who lives around here?”
He shoved his hat on. “No, ma’am. Not yet. Thought I’d start with you.”
He nodded and walked down the steps, then turned to face her. “You be careful now—up here all by yourself.”
His words ran like spiders up her arms and she tried not to slam the door as she closed it. She turned the lock and stepped back from the glass door as he untied and mounted the buckskin. As if he knew she watched, he looked toward the French doors and touched a finger to his hat brim—the typical cowboy goodbye.
Except Ken Pennington was anything but a typical cowboy.
* * *
Shopping took Laura’s mind off her creepy neighbor and forced her to think about cooking—which she enjoyed and Eli didn’t appear to do much of. In addition to cheese, onions, olives, enchilada sauce, Spanish rice and refried beans, she bought fresh vegetables, extra tortillas, eggs, chorizo sausage and milk, plus everything the two men would need for hamburgers other than meat. Surely Eli had a freezer full of beef. And fish.
One pan of enchiladas should give the men two meals, a second pan she’d tuck in the freezer, and Eli could grill burgers after that. Settling on a boxed flan, she hoped Garcia wouldn’t mind that her caramel-flavored pudding wouldn’t be homemade like his mother’s.
At the mailboxes she crossed the road, eased in close and reached for the black one.
Empty.
Why did she keep checking? If Derek had anything to say, he’d email her. She hoped he wouldn’t. There was no point. Everything had been said.
Checking her mirror for traffic, she pulled out and across to her lane. Thick knee-high grass covered the hill from the fence and on over the crest. It hadn’t been grazed in years, and dry lightning this summer could spell trouble. She needed cows. Four or five to graze it down. She shoved the car into gear and quickly climbed to the top and into her driveway’s sharp right turn. Pennington and the buckskin stood atop the next hill, a hundred feet above her
. Watching.
Up here all by yourself.
She shuddered, cranked the steering wheel and accelerated around to the end of the house.
On Pennington’s side of the barbed wire, bare ground stretched like thin, dry skin. No fire threat there. His white-faced Herefords had always reached through the old fence for Bell pasture. It didn’t take much for them to push through. Daddy would let them eat for a few days. Felt sorry for them, he’d said. Then he’d herd them back through the gate.
Laura felt no such pity for Pennington or his cattle. The man should know better.
She hefted her groceries inside and mulled over the prospect of running cows again. Maybe Eli would sell her a few of his dry cows, mamas whose babies were stolen. She’d mention it tonight at dinner.
Chapter 10
Eli rubbed his face and head with the bath towel, feeling naked without his patch. Only when he slept or showered was the strap not snug around his head.
He retrieved a new one from his dresser, slipped it on and hopped to the closet for a chambray shirt. Blue used to be her favorite color.
Would she notice?
Garcia’s head was hidden by an open cabinet door when Eli descended the stairs.
“She is here.” The older man set three plates on the kitchen table. “And the beer is cold.”
Eli chuckled. The “beer” was Garcia’s way of welcoming Laura home—dark, sweet, chilled root beer like they’d had when she and Eli were kids.
“I could use some help here.” Laura stood peering through the back screen door, a casserole dish in each hand. Eli hurried to let her in and took one dish.
The warm aroma of fresh enchiladas surrounded her like perfume. “This smells great.” He took in her long, straight hair and embroidered summer blouse. “And you look great.”
“Thank you. On both counts.” Sliding her casserole in the oven, she turned the dial to warm. “Put that one right here. After it cools completely, we’ll freeze it. That way you two men will have another meal later in the week.”
Garcia nodded. “You are good to us, Lorita.”
“I have to be. I saw how you two eat the other night.” She beckoned to Eli. “There’s more in the car. Give me a hand?”
He followed her out to the sleek convertible and mentally calculated how many calves he’d have to sell to buy a car like that.
“Can you get these two without spilling?” She handed him the smaller serving dishes, and her teasing concern brought back memories of how they once bantered.
“You doubt my abilities?”
She puffed out a laugh and hefted a grocery bag. “Of course I do. You’re a man.”
“Same ol’ Laura Bell, you ding—”
“Don’t even.” She pushed the passenger door closed with a hip. “When it comes to cooking, you fry a mean fish. But I looked in your refrigerator and cupboards. So don’t give me any grief.”
She held the screen door open and stepped aside. “Just smile, nod and say thank you.”
He did.
From the bag, Laura retrieved lettuce and several tomatoes. “Abuelito, will you chop these for us please?”
“Si, mija. You make me remember my own mother’s house.”
“Well, I can’t make tortillas like your mamá, but I can heat these.” She plopped a bag of flour tortillas on the counter and turned to Eli.
“There’s one more thing in the car I forgot. Will you get it, please? It’s in the trunk. Push a lever under the steering wheel to open it.”
Glad to have something to do besides standing around trying not to look at her, Eli returned to the car and popped the trunk. A plastic-wrapped pie plate of flan sat encircled by a large towel. As he reached in, he noticed a pair of black heels shoved in a corner—those weapons disguised as shoes on the first day he saw her. Hard to believe the woman in his kitchen was the same slicked-back starlet he’d kept from falling in the ditch.
He balanced the plate on one hand and slammed the trunk. Laura Bell had baggage he knew nothing about. Something she was trying to kick free of.
Just like him.
Her laughter floated from the kitchen as he entered the back porch.
“Garcia, you old sweetheart! I love you forever.”
The man’s eyes twinkled as she kissed him on the cheek.
“What’s he up to now?” Eli set the flan in the refrigerator.
“Root beer.” Unmistakable delight edged Laura’s voice as she gestured toward the table. “Look at this—chilled glasses and everything.”
Definitely not the aloof city girl from the other day. This was Laura Bell in all her country glory.
Goldie padded in from the family room and plopped down under the table with a sigh.
“Now you’ve done it.” Eli stooped to rub the yellow head. Woke the watchdog.”
“She smells enchiladas, no?” Garcia grinned and placed a dish of diced tomatoes and chopped lettuce on the table.
Eli grabbed a salsa jar from the refrigerator and noticed the chorizo and several other new items. “What’s all this?”
“That’s known as food, Mr. Hawthorne. I imagine you have ground beef. You can grill hamburgers after you and Garcia finish the enchiladas. The chorizo is for breakfast burritos.”
He stuck a spoon in the salsa and took his place at the head of the table. She was thinking about him. A good sign.
Laura and Garcia took their respective seats. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at Eli. He gritted his teeth and nodded at Garcia. The old man bowed his head.
“Gracias, Señor, for this food, and the land and these young people.”
Laura’s head remained bowed a moment longer and when she looked up, her lashes were moist. Reaching first for the server, she dished out enchiladas. Everyone helped themselves to beans, rice and tortillas, and for several minutes a contented silence settled over the kitchen.
“I want some cows.” Laura took a long, slow drink from her root beer, leaving fingerprints on the chilled glass as she set it down.
“Cows?” Eli met her gaze.
“Si. Vacas,” Garcia said.
Eli shot him a look as he chewed. “You’ve nearly got ’em with Pennington’s herd reaching through your fence every day.”
Laura shivered and jerked her head to the side. Eli’s internal warning system flared. “What’s he done?”
She sighed and cut into her enchilada. “He hasn’t really done anything, other than come by the house a couple of times.”
The way she said it put Eli on edge.
“I don’t want his stock on my place.” She laid her fork on her plate. “I know that sounds petty, but I’m not as generous as my dad was, letting those scrawny things graze a few days before he drove them back through the gate.” She took a bite of beans, glanced at Garcia, then looked directly at Eli.
“Would you sell me some?”
Garcia spoke first. “Why not take a few of our dry vacas. They eat the grass and cry for their becerros.”
“I had the same idea, but I want to pay for them.”
Eli considered arguing with her, but he knew she’d sull up and kick back. “Two hundred a head.”
Garcia choked on his root beer.
“What is it?” Laura shifted her gaze from one man to the other.
Garcia wiped his mouth. “Too much and too little.”
“And I’ll throw in labor to repair that fence between you and Pennington,” Eli said, hoping to distract her from his ridiculously low quote.
Laura twirled a fork in her refried beans. “I’ve been thinking about that. Who built your pipe fence?”
Eli tipped his chin at Garcia. “We did, with Pop. Why?”
“How much would it cost to run pipe fencing from your propert
y line to the top of my drive?”
Pennington really was getting to her. Eli crumpled his napkin on his plate and pushed it back. “It’d be cheaper—and just as good—to use cable and pipe. Steel pipe for the posts and top rail, and cable for the rest of it.”
He watched her face as she considered his suggestion. Never one to give in to his ideas without a tug-of-war, she frowned and dug furrows through the beans on her plate.
“I’ll figure it up and let you know,” he said. “If that’s what you want to do, we’ll need to start as soon as possible, before the grass dries enough to catch a welding spark.”
Laura laid her fork down, reached across the table and clasped his arm with one hand and Garcia’s fingers with the other.
“Thank you. Somehow I knew you both would help me.” Misty-eyed again, she scooted her chair back. “And I have a surprise. Hopefully, it’s as good as the two of you.”
Eli’s stomach turned at the remark. Garcia might be good, but him? He was anything but good, and as soon as Laura found that out, she just might hightail it back to the city.
She brought the cold flan to the table and scooped large helpings onto small plates.
“Ah, Lorita, you are kind to my old heart.” Garcia’s smile brightened his face.
“Not to mention your stomach,” Eli said.
They all laughed and Eli savored the creamy, carameled pudding, tasting, as well, the richness of Laura’s presence in his home. In the past few days, he and Garcia had laughed more than they had in the past year.
If only he could be good. Good enough for her.
* * *
That evening Eli dug through his closet for a small wooden box he’d made in high school woodworking class. He found it on a shelf under several pair of holey jeans. Smoothing his hand along the top of the box, he sat on his bed and raised the hinged lid.
As always, the right side of his face twinged when he looked at the Purple Heart, and a phantom pain shot through his left foot and ankle that weren’t there. Below the medal lay several envelopes.
The first held his formal discharge papers, the next his grandfather’s death certificate and obituary. And beneath that, lay a small square envelope with LAURA BELL block-printed on the front.
The Rancher's Second Chance Page 7
