The Maverick Returns

by Roz Denny Fox

  “It’s not Tate’s rig. The unvarnished truth is, your son lost his shirt gambling. This ranch wouldn’t be yours to repossess and the three of us wouldn’t have had food on the table if I hadn’t beat Tate to the mailbox every time your checks arrived. Tate was usually so drunk that I forged his signature, deposited the checks and paid our bills before he could blow the rest.”

  “You’re pretty cheeky sittin’ there behind big John Law. Strikes me you could’ve left him anytime. Isn’t that what women do?” The man’s jowly face turned red. “So don’t speak ill of my son.”

  Willow sank back. “Sheriff, is there any reason—any legal reason—I need to stay and hear more of this?”

  “No. Walker, you have your ranch. Please step away from the car. I’m doing my duty and escorting them off your land.” Gunning the engine of his aging Crown Vic, Sheriff Richards gave Bart Walker a moment to withdraw his hand, then drove off.

  “I owe you,” Willow said tiredly. “I’m sorry to leave my hired hand to face him later today. They know each other from up north. Near Hondo,” she said. “In fact, the Bar W that Bart owns would make ten of this place. I find it odd that he’s waited until now to come and claim it.”

  The sheriff drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m a public servant and owe everybody in my jurisdiction equal treatment under the law. All I can say is, maybe for the sake of your sweet girl, it’d behoove you to try and file a claim.”

  “Lilybelle is Tate Walker’s child,” she stressed. “It’s never crossed my mind that I might need to prove it.”

  “I don’t doubt she is,” the sheriff said, connecting with her eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “I appreciate that. Do you know if the San Antonio bus still stops at the Carrizo Springs depot at six-twenty? If I can afford tickets, it’s the bus I’d like to catch.”

  “We’ll make it with ten minutes to spare. I rarely carry much cash when I’m working. If twenty bucks will make the difference to you getting tickets, I’ll toss it in your kitty.”

  “You are a nice man. Unless the price has gone up a lot since last I checked, I have enough.” She likely had plenty to buy the tickets, but she was worried about what she’d do when they got to San Antonio. She’d have to work that out later. If she was careful, she probably had enough for a night at a motel. Failing that, there were Salvation Army shelters.

  Willow felt guilty knowing she still owed Coop a lot. Despite how things had apparently disintegrated after breakfast, she hated to leave him to confront Bart Walker without warning. But Coop was a grown man. He could stand up to Bart.

  Staring out at the passing scenery, she wondered how Coop would handle the situation, knowing he’d forked out his own money on her ranch—for paint, for feed, for vaccines and food—only to have a man he disliked almost as much as Tate come and claim it all.

  Memories of Coop’s touch, of the night they’d shared, filled her with a rush of emotion. Foolish or not, some part of her would always love Cooper Drummond.

  “There’s the bus you want to catch just pulling up in front of the depot. It’s early by fifteen minutes. I’ll park here to let you and your girl out to buy fares. I’ll fetch your bags.”

  “Oh, boy. People will really think I’m being run out of town.” Willow made a face, but nevertheless she slid out after the sheriff opened the door for her and Lily.

  “Why care what anyone thinks?” Richards asked. “You and I know the truth. When you get to your destination, you’ll likely never see any of your busmates again.”

  “True. Some people in this town have gossiped about me, though. You know what? I can’t even complain about that. Their rumors brought someone out of my past to that ranch, and my real regret for leaving like this is knowing I’ve left him to deal with—well, I had no choice, did I?”

  “Huh?” The sheriff removed his hat and scratched his head as his passenger swept up her child and rushed off to the ticket counter. She was still counting out crumpled bills when Richards deposited her bags at her feet. He didn’t tip his hat and wish her good luck until he saw that she had enough money to cover the price of two tickets with some left over.

  “Thanks for the lift,” she told him as the bus driver stowed her bags in a compartment under the bus.

  “Anytime,” Richards said, smiling at her and Lily before turning to drive off. But it wasn’t until they were settled in their seats on the Greyhound that Willow realized should’ve told him that if Cooper came looking for her, he should feel free to tell him where they’d gone.

  She then decided that was longer than a long shot. The redhead must live nearby, and in the few short glimpses Willow had of her, she could see that the well-put-together woman didn’t spell half the trouble for Coop that she and Lily did. He might even be relieved to be rid of her and her problems. For all she knew, he’d been lingering in the field, trying to figure out how to back out of their deal.

  The passengers who’d gotten off for a short break climbed back on board. The bus lurched forward, leaving behind a sinking sun that streaked the small dusty town in shades of red and orange.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cooper wound down a tough, hot but satisfying day of working with the colt. It was difficult to determine his precise age, but from his teeth, Coop thought perhaps he was closer to two than three. The mare, obviously his mother because they shared similar markings, had probably started life in a wild herd, been captured at some point and tamed, but she had broken free before an owner could put a brand on her. Like he’d told Willow, the horses might have drifted in from across the border. That the pair had migrated to Willow’s land represented pure profit for her. Maybe he’d ask her to exclude them from a sale and keep them to begin a new herd at the Triple D—supposing he could convince her to go there with him.

  The mare had bruised a hoof, causing her some lameness. The colt watched Coop warily as he tended the mare’s injury. She let him get close, pick up her hoof and remove a large stone embedded beneath her swollen frog. The sharp rock had been painful. The horse acted almost grateful after Coop removed it. He fed her an apple he’d snagged from an old tree that grew on neighboring land. After she ate, the mare let Coop rub her neck and muzzle. “You’re a good gal,” he crooned. He had a way with horses, but it was clear that the mare had previous contact with humans.

  Her colt liked apples, too, and came for his share. The pair had no doubt eaten all the low-hanging fruit. Coop’s ability to climb the tree proved the biggest boon in paving the way to breaking the younger horse.

  Over the course of the day Coop made up his mind to do his best to overcome any argument Willow could present for not going home with him. He’d speed up the process of gentling the mare and colt to saddle. Three days. That didn’t mean he’d buck out their spirit, but it meant longer hours under the hot sun while he invested time in making friends, getting the younger horse used to human smells and used to the feel of a soft rope. The saddle could come later. They could rent a double horse trailer to pull behind Willow’s pickup.

  By the time the sun slipped low in the west, Coop was fried to a crisp, but he was satisfied with his progress. It felt damn fine to be doing what he loved best—working with horses. They had a lot more natural intelligence than cattle. A man could spend the same long backbreaking hours raising steers only to have them turned into steak or hamburger. Not that he was averse to red meat. But if he busted his butt breeding and raising beautiful beasts like horses, that ensured a new owner could look forward to years of pleasure.

  He broke open feed sacks he’d hauled up here over the weekend and filled the cattle troughs. Coop eyed the herd as they crowded close to feed. He checked for any potential problems from either the vaccinations or from the branding he’d done. The cattle looked great. Within a week Willow could arrange for trucks to take them to the feedlot he’d negotiated with—who’d agreed to buy the whole herd. With no more cows to worry about, Willow could leave with him and let the house and property rem
ain in the hands of a Realtor. Coop remembered her saying that she planned to cancel the sell order today. But, maybe she could list with a new Realtor—one willing to work harder for her than the current agency.

  Done with the cattle, and having formulated how to lay out his proposed ideas to Willow, Coop coiled his rope and clipped it to his saddle, which he boosted onto Rusty’s back. He tightened the cinch. “You old son of a gun, you’ve had a lazy day in the shade, chowing down on sweet grass. I’m so hungry my stomach is gnawing at my backbone. I hope Willow has supper cooked by the time I get you stabled. Phew, I smell too rank to sit down to supper with ladies. I’ll need a shower first,” he muttered.

  Gathering the reins in one hand, he climbed upon Rusty. “’Course I could go take a dip in the pond. And I guess I could’ve gone back down to the apple tree to get another one.” He glanced at the mare and her offspring. “Think I’ll call her Ginger, because she’s kind of a buckskin color.”

  He touched his heels to his horse, seeing no reason to linger now that he knew how to tell Willow what had happened during his sister-in-law’s surprise visit. Blythe’s generous check still crackled in Coop’s shirt pocket. He planned to return it to his sister-in-law.

  Cresting the hill that sloped down to the ranch, he stroked Rusty’s neck. “I’ll let Willow name the colt.” Although she might think that was silly if she’d prefer to sell the pair. There were still a lot of variables.

  Even though the day was waning he could see all the way to the ranch. A blur on the road caught his eye. It was a local sheriff’s car moving slowly toward town, then gathering speed. Coop followed the car’s progress until it topped the hill.

  He urged Rusty into a trot, not daring to go any faster for fear that the gelding might step in a gopher hole.

  In spite of maintaining a steady grip on their pace, Coop couldn’t ward off a shadowy premonition that sneaked in. He told himself the sheriff had only driven past the ranch. A cop car out this way didn’t necessarily mean trouble. But Coop was unable to keep from remembering the day another county sheriff had tracked him down at school and broken the news that his father had dropped dead of a massive heart attack. That had been one of the worst days in his life. The appearance of a cop car could still make his guts churn.

  It wasn’t until he reached a spot between the house and the barn, then saw his pickup and trailer, that he relaxed a bit. Or he did until Rusty trotted around the corner and Coop faced a dark maroon SUV with heavily tinted windows. He’d seen that vehicle before. At first he couldn’t place where, then it dawned on him as he swung out of the saddle. It was either the same one or a twin to the SUV he’d told Willow might be a prospective buyer for her ranch.

  This could be good; it might let Willow strike a deal on the ranch, which would free her to go with him to the Triple D, leaving no loose ends. Setting aside his earlier concerns about his sweat-stained clothes, Coop looped Rusty’s reins over the newly painted porch newel post and bounded up the steps to the house. He mentally crossed his fingers that the SUV owner was inside making Willow a deal she couldn’t refuse.

  A second later, with his hand raised to knock, Coop would be hard-pressed to say who was the most shocked, he or the man rounding the house. A man he hadn’t laid eyes on in over five years and didn’t care if he ever saw again.

  Bart Walker. What was going on?

  “You!” Walker exclaimed. “What are you doing here, Mr. Big Shot Rodeo Cham…peen?”

  Coop’s stomach pitched. So the SUV didn’t belong to a potential buyer for the ranch. It belonged to Tate’s father.

  The elder Walker’s sarcasm, while no surprise to Cooper, didn’t bode well for Willow. But it could just be the fact that the animosity between Walkers and Drummonds had deep roots. For Willow’s sake, Coop elected to play it cooler than he would have if he’d been on his own.

  “Paying a social visit to your daughter-in-law, are you, Bart?” Coop drawled.

  “I asked you a question, Drummond.”

  Coop didn’t like the pugnacious set of the older man’s jaw. But again he decided to be circumspect. “Willow hired me to do some chores around the ranch.”

  Walker guffawed. “So that’s your fancy-ass color-coordinated rig over there? I knew it was too top-of-the-line to belong to some part-time drifter like she claimed.”

  Coop’s uneasiness returned in a rush. He descended the steps, but as he cast a worried glance back at the house, he realized the lights were off and the door closed tight. “Where’s Willow?”

  “Gone.” Bart Walker pulled out a chunky cigar, set one booted foot on the lower step, then struck a match on his heel. He applied flame to the tip of his cigar until it glowed red.

  “Can you be more specific? Where did she go?” In the fast-creeping darkness, Coop met the man’s glittering dark eyes through the hissing flame of the match and the choking smoke rings he puffed out. “And how?” Coop continued, waving away the smoke. “Her pickup’s still parked next to the shed.”

  Bart snuffed out the flame, plunging them into humid darkness. “The ranch looks better than I remember. Must be your doin’. But don’t expect any thanks from me, hotshot—or any payment if she still owes you.”

  “Why would I expect anything from you? My contract is with Willow.”

  “I’ll just bet it is.” Bart’s laugh fueled a wave of anger that escalated to fury at the man’s next comment. “Doesn’t matter what kind of deal you had with my son’s widow, boyo. I own this ranch and everything on it—lock, stock and barrel. Tate had a run of bad luck with a long drought and all. He mortgaged the place back to me. I thought his missus would make a stink over having to leave. But the sheriff was good enough to follow me out here to escort her off my property all legal like. Guess she saw fussing was pointless. Not that I owe you any explanation, but Willow and her kid rode into town with Sheriff Richards. Don’t know what her plans are and I don’t care. She was no kind of wife to Tate. Typical of a woman—she sucked my boy dry. You think he didn’t tell me how high-maintenance she was? He told me all right. That and a lot more.”

  Cooper teetered on the edge of calling Bart a liar. He itched to wipe the smarmy sneer off the man’s pudgy face. But an urgency to go and find Willow and Lily superceded his desire to flatten Bart. “I’ve got another horse and some personal belongings in the barn where I’ve been staying,” Coop said, stressing the word. Untethering Rusty, he whirled, grinding his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might break.

  “That’s a surprise, you bunking in the barn! Here I figured the only reason you’d be down here instead of with your arrogant brother is for what you were gettin’ on the side.” The older man fell in step with Coop.

  “Shut up. Just shut the hell up!” Coop opened the trailer and stripped the gelding of his saddle and bridle. Bending, he hooked the trailer to the hitch on the Ram, pulled down the ramp, then led his horse inside.

  Walker spoke around his cigar. “I’ll go along and check the brand on the other horse. Just to verify that you don’t take more than what you own.”

  Incensed, Coop stalked to the barn. He haphazardly tossed clothes and shaving gear into his duffel. Slinging the bag and his guitar case over his shoulder, he backed Legend from the stall and wished his horse would kick Bart, who was indeed circling the animal to check his brand. It was all Coop could do to control his temper.

  Back at his trailer, he loaded Legend, dug out his keys and unlocked the pickup door. He stowed his duffel behind the seat, tossed in his guitar, then climbed into the cab. Jabbing the key in the ignition, he glared at Bart, who stood there puffing out noxious fumes. “All I can say is I hope you rot somewhere hot for cheating your grandchild out of an inheritance that would provide her with special schooling and the other care she needs.”

  The pickup’s headlights revealed that Bart’s face had reddened in discomfort, which pleased Coop no end.

  “Bah! Tate wasn’t sure the kid was even his. There’s no proof.”

  “Oh,
she’s Tate’s daughter. A DNA test could prove it easily enough. But it’s good thing you don’t want to claim her,” he spat. “That way you won’t cause any trouble when I marry Willow and adopt Lilybelle. Because…I’ll be damned proud to make that beautiful child a Drummond.” Coop slammed his door, cutting off any reply the other man might have sputtered. He cranked the steering wheel hard to the left and saw Bart leap aside as the Ram’s oversize tires spit gravel. It gave Coop a small measure of satisfaction.

  He checked both ways at the road before pulling out. The minute his pickup and trailer were firmly on the county blacktop, Coop flushed Bart Walker from his mind. His concerns went straight to Willow. She must be sick with worry over losing the ranch, over losing a herd she’d scrimped to raise. Did she have any money? Where would she go? She’d hinted that she didn’t have friends in Carrizo Springs. So why hadn’t she come out to the field to find him? Had the sheriff bullied her? Or did she still not fully trust him?

  Mostly Coop tried to stick to the speed limit. A time or two the speedometer crept upward. He didn’t want to shake up his horses, but he wanted to get there as quickly as possible and locate Willow. But where to look? Where might she go?

  As the miles slipped past, his anger began to fade. The whole Walker clan had cheated and lied their way through life. Tate had paid the ultimate price. His much older brother, Morris, had been in and out of jail his entire life. Coop had read in the paper a few years ago that Morris was serving time in Huntsville on a burglary-assault charge. Staying mad at such a pathetic group was a waste of energy.

  As his temper cooled, two things that had been on his mind prior to his run-in with Bart rose up to bother him again. Both became overwhelming when he started passing signs advertising a full-service truck stop up ahead. First, he still smelled like horse and sweat and leather. Secondly, he’d only eaten half an apple since breakfast and he’d worked hard all day under a blistering sun. Lack of food was making his head spin.