What had seemed like a flash of brilliance in the night now seemed ridiculous. Slate’s cell mate, Johnny Vance, would surely have told someone if Slate had given out clues to his past. Wouldn’t he?
Since she couldn’t give a definitive answer to that question, she pressed harder on the gas. She could hardly afford missing a day at the ranch. She was already behind schedule with the three-year-old filly she was training for western pleasure. And Slate was using Danny with Joker. That put her two hands short for the day.
Even though she drove as fast as legally possible, she was still startled when she found the exit ramp and the signs directing her to the prison. Cassidy put herself on automatic and managed to get into the assistant warden’s office with her request.
An hour later, after stating her undertaking at least a dozen times, she was sitting in a visitor’s room waiting for Johnny Vance to speak with her—if he chose to.
The man who walked through the door was not what she expected. He was in his fifties and lean, a man who’d once spent hours in the sun. His sandy hair was threaded with gray, and Cassidy liked his smile.
“I hear you’re interested in Slate,” he said as he sat down at the glass partition and picked up the telephone receiver that was their only means of communication.
“I’m an old friend of his.”
“Slate always had a streak of luck, though he didn’t believe it. Did his memory ever come back?”
Cassidy shook her head. “No. That’s what I’m here about. Slate talks in his sleep, and he mentioned that you’d complained to him about it.”
“For a man who didn’t say two words all day long unless it was absolutely necessary, he ran off at the mouth all night. I could have written a book.”
Cassidy felt her pulse—and her hopes—take a sudden leap. “Do you remember any of the things he said?”
“Hell, he talked about horses and that little hick town where he was so determined to save the ranch. He should have sold out instead of trying to take a bank.” Johnny shook his head in disbelief. “Convenience stores are hard enough, but banks are completely out of his league.” He made a sound of disgust. “Slate never woulda made it as a robber. He didn’t have it in him.”
Cassidy clenched the Formica ledge of the booth and pressed the phone harder into her ear. “Did Slate ever say anything that might be a clue to who really tried to rob the bank?”
“Hell, he never said anything. Except clean that stall or saddle that horse,” Johnny grumbled. But the light blue eyes held a gleam. “Slate made it easier for me here. I miss him.”
Cassidy had not expected to feel pity for Johnny Vance, but she did. On several levels. She knew what it was like to lose Slate. “He’s doing okay,” she offered. “He’s working as a horse trainer.”
“He was good at that,” Johnny conceded. “He taught me a lot when we worked the prison rodeo. First time in my life I ever felt like I was really good at something.”
“I’m trying to help him. I know Slate talks…in his sleep. He remembers things that he can’t when he’s awake.”
Johnny cocked his head, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. “He did talk a lot, but it was mostly ramblin’ stuff. He talked about the robbery, but it was all jumbled up. I can say that if he did rob that bank, he didn’t go in with the intention of doing it.”
“What makes you say that?” Cassidy asked.
“The thing that hung him up was his daddy’s gun. He tossed and turned over that more than anything. I mean, some nights he worried that gun, thrashing around and mumbling. But I was able to piece some of it together. It seems that him and another boy took that gun and went shooting at some cans in a lake or something. Anyway, they were about to get caught, so they tossed the gun in the water.”
Cassidy leaned so close to the glass that her forehead was almost touching it. “Do you know where this lake was?”
“Nope.” He shook his head slowly. “He was runnin’ on about this and that, and I’m not even certain that’s what really happened. But he dreamed a lot about diving down in the water and huntin’ the gun. It troubled him. It was a special gun, something that his father treasured.”
“There was a gun exactly like that,” Cassidy said. “And it turned up at the trial.”
“That’s what he said. And because he couldn’t remember, I guess he was willing to believe he had the gun all the time. But I told him, it seemed that gun put in a mighty convenient appearance. It showed up in a courtroom right when it was needed to put the blame on him. A real coincidence.”
Cassidy put her hand against the glass. “Thank you, Johnny. When I get up the nerve to tell Slate I’ve been poking into his business, I’ll tell him you were doing okay.”
“Tell him not to forget his friends in here.” Johnny’s eyes were sad, though he held on to his smile. “He does have that memory problem, you know.”
“I’ll remind him, and when you get out, if you need a job, come over to the Double O Ranch in Kendall County. Anyone can give you directions.”
“You didn’t even ask what I was in here for,” Johnny pointed out.
“You want to tell me?”
“I like things up front. Before you offer a job, you should know why I’m doin’ time. Manslaughter.”
Cassidy forced herself to show no reaction, though she was shocked. He seemed like such a nice man.
Johnny’s face had gone hard. “The man I killed gave my nephew drugs. The boy died. When I found out there wasn’t a way to prosecute the man, I took matters into my own hands.” He was staring at her hard.
“I’m sorry,” Cassidy said softly.
“I am, too. But it had to be done.” He waited for her to respond.
“I can’t imagine what I would do in your circumstances,” she said. “But I’m glad you told me. And the job offer stands.”
She started to hang up the phone, but Johnny waved at her to wait a minute. When she pressed the receiver to her ear, he had one last tidbit to tell her.
“There’s an old tractor wherever the gun is. At the bottom of the water.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“When Slate dreamed about diving for the gun, he was worried that he’d hit the old tractor. He mentioned it more than once.”
“Thanks,” Cassidy said as she replaced the phone. She gave Johnny a wave and headed out of the visiting area. Johnny Vance had given her a lot to think about, and a thin shred of hope.
Chapter Seven
Joker was not happy as Danny led the buckskin mare out of the enclosure, but Slate soon had his attention again. The other mares had also been rounded up and replaced with several of Cassidy’s mares. Soon they would all be home where they belonged.
Slate turned his attention to Joker. It was a slow dance of advance and retreat, advance and retreat. Slate wanted the stallion to come to him willingly.
When he was at last able to stroke the stud’s neck, he knew he’d cleared a big hurdle. Joker was intelligent, and though that made for the best horse, it made establishing trust all the more difficult.
He tried not to think about Cassidy. She’d left after breakfast and he hadn’t seen her since. His amnesia was a solid stone wall that he kept hitting whenever he thought back to the night just past. He knew her. He knew the feel of her, the way she responded, the things she liked. And she knew him.
He’d loved her before the robbery. He knew that much. But he wanted the texture and details. What had they truly been to each other?
Cassidy presented one big puzzle, and he was no closer to finding out the truth about the bank robbery. Her faith in him was balm on a raw wound, but it didn’t provide the answers he so desperately needed.
He gave the stallion’s neck one last pat. “Later, old man,” he promised as he left the gulch. Danny stood waiting outside the enclosure with the mare on a lead.
“You want me to take her back to Mr. Benson’s?” he asked.
Slate almost agreed, but changed his mind.
“No, Danny. Stay here with the herd. I’ll take her.” If Benson decided to act like an ass about the mare, Slate wanted to handle it himself. And he wanted to deliver the message, loud and clear, that Joker was no longer a problem.
Slate also wanted the opportunity to decide if Cole Benson was responsible for the rifle shots the day before. In prison, he’d learned that the best way to find answers was to look for them.
He took the reins of the gelding that Danny offered and swung into the saddle. The buckskin mare gave one look back at Joker, but obediently followed along behind Slate as he headed for the land that had once been part of the Three Sisters Ranch.
As they jogged through meadows that tickled Slate’s memory, he found that he did not have the same attitude toward Cole’s ownership of the land as he did Cassidy’s. Somehow, it seemed right that Cassidy lived by Raging Creek and nurtured his mother’s roses in her patio. Cole Benson was another matter.
His thoughts were deep inside when he heard his name called from a ridge above him. He looked up and recognized the paint horse that Benson had been riding on Saturday when he’d appeared to take Cassidy to the dance.
“That’s my mare,” Cole called out as he put the horse down the treacherous incline. The paint’s hooves scrabbled for purchase in the rough shale, but Benson gave her no quarter. He pushed her down at a fast pace.
Slate sat still in the saddle as he waited for the other man to reach him. “I’m bringing her home,” he said slowly.
“That’s what you say,” Cole answered, his face inscrutable, but there was none of the friendliness he’d shown in town.
“What are you driving at?” Slate felt his temper rising.
“You’ve got a reputation for trying to steal other people’s things,” Cole said. “Maybe you were headed to Blue Vista, or maybe you were headed somewhere else.”
“I guess you’ll have to take my word that I was bringing her home.” He kept his tone level. He’d learned—the hard way—the difference between acting with intelligence and acting with emotion.
“Where’s Cassidy?” Cole asked.
“At the Double O, as far as I know.” He glanced beyond Cole and back up the ridge. A small noise had drawn his attention, and his suspicions.
Cole’s voice was angry. “Let’s get one thing clear. Cassidy is off limits to you. I saw the way you were watching her at the dance. Whatever thoughts you have along those lines, get them right out of your head. The one thing she and her little girl don’t need is to be mixed up with you.” Cole waited for the effect of his words.
Slate shrugged, his gaze focused on the rifle Cole had hanging from his scabbard. It was a high-powered hunting rifle, not a .22. “Cassidy’s a grown woman. I think she can make up her own mind.”
“What happened to you in prison, Slate? Did you lose your nerve? There was a time when you wouldn’t have let another man talk to you like you were a mangy dog. But then I guess that was before you became a felon.”
Slate’s hand tightened on his saddle horn. He could feel the need to bury his fist in Cole’s taunting face. “Prison was a real education, Cole. I learned a lot about human nature. And I learned that the worst thing a man can do is react when he’s being deliberately provoked. So why don’t you call your men down from the ridge? I’ll turn your mare over to you now, and then I’ll head back to my job at the Double O.”
Cole’s look of surprise was the gratification Slate needed. He knew his hunch was right. Cole had been friendly to him in town, on the streets where everyone could see, with the intention of setting him up out on the range where there were no witnesses—except his paid hands.
“Hey, boys,” Slate called out. “Your cover’s blown.”
In a moment, two horsemen appeared on the top of the ridge. Both carried rifles, but Slate couldn’t make out the caliber. He nudged his mount forward and tossed the buckskin’s lead line to Cole. “She’s a fine mare. I hope you treat her with more respect than you do your other animals.”
“You tell Cassidy I’m coming after that stallion. Returning Fleetwood doesn’t settle the score. That stallion’s a danger.”
It was the moment Slate had waited for. “No need to trouble yourself. Joker’s been caught. He won’t be bothering your herd anymore.” He watched Cole’s expression closely. Irritation was evident in his dark eyes.
“You’ve got him now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t get free again. And if he does and comes onto Blue Vista, you can call the dog-food company, because he’s going to end up dead.”
“I’ll tell Cassidy you asked about her,” Slate said, nudging his horse back toward the Double O.
“You stay away from her,” Cole yelled at his back.
Slate didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to figure out Cole’s reaction. Was the stallion’s capture a shock to Cole? It was food for thought.
Slate’s stomach, more than his watch, told him that it was midafternoon, and he headed to the Double O to pick up provisions for the night—and to check on Cassidy. He hadn’t seen her since she and Lindsey had brought out hot biscuits and sausage for him.
Lindsey. Could she be his daughter? No, he couldn’t be that lucky. He smiled at the memory of her. She was smart as a whip, and precocious. And probably spoiled rotten, but it hadn’t tarnished her sweet disposition. She was going to break a lot of hearts when she got older.
Slate couldn’t help but wonder if her mother had broken his.
He rode into the barn at the Double O and caught the glances of curiosity from two of the hands as they loaded hay in the loft for the coming winter. They’d been bantering back and forth, but as soon as they saw him, their conversation stopped.
Slate felt the sting of being talked about, but he nodded at them and took care of his horse. When he was finished, he walked past them. He was at the barn door when one of them called out to him.
“Mr. Barlow’s up at the house. He was asking for you.”
Slate stopped but didn’t turn around. “Thanks,” he called back as he continued on.
He saw the banker on the front porch, a glass of iced tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Clyde Barlow had aged in the past five years. But so had everyone.
“Slate.” The banker stood as Slate approached.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Slate said easily. He hadn’t expected to see the banker at all. A faint sheen of perspiration wet the older man’s fleshy jowls.
“Since you came back to town I’ve had trouble sleeping.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Slate said, wondering if Barlow was worried that his bank was about to be robbed again.
“Mary, your mother, was a dear friend of my wife’s. It nearly broke my heart to sell the Three Sisters Ranch after all Mary went through to hang on to it.”
“One good thing about amnesia is that you don’t have a lot of painful memories,” Slate said. He had no idea where Clyde was going with the conversation.
“I always felt bad that you were away when Mary died.” He cleared his throat. “And when Cassidy came by the bank the other day, it set me to thinking.”
Slate waited. The fact of Cassidy’s visit was news to him, but he had no intention of showing that.
“I thought maybe if you had a grubstake, you could get started somewhere. I mean, land prices were depressed when the bank had to put the ranch on the market. If I’d been able to wait even a few months, I could have gotten a better price. There would have been some money left for you to start over.”
“I don’t blame you for the economy,” Slate answered. He watched a tiny drop of sweat roll down Clyde’s face and into his starched collar.
“I did the best I could at the time, but it’s been troubling me. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, but maybe I should have handled things differently.” Clyde drew out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “It’s hot out here. Where’s Cassidy?”
“In town, I suppose,” Slate answered. Whatever Cassidy had said to Barlow, it had had a ve
ry unusual effect on the banker.
“I have a business proposition,” Clyde said. “Part of it is the fact that I feel bad about what happened to Three Sisters, and part of it is concern for Cassidy.”
“Concern that I’m working for her?” Slate asked pointedly.
“Concerned that she doesn’t become a victim of the past,” Clyde answered. “She’s worked hard for this ranch, Slate. Harder than you can imagine. And she’s earned the right to stability and peace. For herself and that little girl.”
Slate’s eyes narrowed. Everyone he ran into seemed overly concerned for Cassidy and Lindsey. It was beginning to sound more than a little suspicious.
Clyde came to the edge of the porch and leaned on the railing so that he could lower his voice. “I’d like to give you a small amount of money. It would be enough to get you started somewhere else, someplace where you can start clean and not have to drag all of this behind you.”
Slate found it difficult to believe the words he was hearing. Clyde Barlow was offering him money to get out of town. It was almost too corny to be taken seriously—except the banker was very serious.
“It isn’t a great amount of money. But ten thousand should get you started somewhere,” Clyde said.
“I owe Hook’em ten thousand for saving my horse and truck,” Slate answered, wondering how far Clyde would take it.
Clyde’s eyes shifted and his mouth pursed. “I might be able to come up with fifteen, but that’s as much as I can pull together. You’re a talented man. There’s work to be had for someone with your skills.”
Slate pushed his hand back on his forehead. “Let me get this straight. You want to give me fifteen thousand dollars to start over. A gift Not a loan.”
Clyde swallowed. “You make it sound so…sinister. As I told you, I’ve been feeling badly about how you ended up with nothing.”
“Mr. Barlow, I was convicted of trying to rob your bank. I wouldn’t think you’d waste a lot of sympathy on me.”
The banker stepped back. “You’re angry.” He was surprised. “I thought you’d be happy that someone wanted to help you.” He took another step away from Slate’s cutting gaze. “I was only trying to help you, Slate. Why are you so mad?”
Remember Me, Cowboy Page 10
