The question was, why?
"Never again," Wes growled as he kicked the horse into a gentle lope. "Never, ever again!" He rode away from that little camp out into the desert, then slowed the horse to a walk and turned to head back—the long way around. He skirted the site unseen, and reentered it on the lower side where he was shielded from sight by a small copse of trees. Once he got to the water hole he dismounted, and let his horse—scratch that, his brother's horse—take his fill of water. Lord help him if Garrett ever found out he'd "borrowed" Duke, much less why.
Wes sighed hard, hunkered down and scooped handfuls of chilled water onto his face, rubbing hard to scrub the ridiculous makeup off. It took some doing, and every few minutes a bird would flit from a tree, making enough noise to jolt him right to his toes thinking someone was coming up on him, about to catch him red-handed.
Eventually his face felt clean, and Wes felt a little less like a kid on Halloween. He tied his hair back in its usual style, with a thong. He hadn't cut it since he'd got out of prison. Probably never would. One more way of thumbing his nose at the conventions of society, he figured.
He changed clothes next. And when he was finally rid of the entire getup, he rolled up the loincloth and stuffed it into the duffel bag he'd left hidden here.
Finished, he tucked the war lance and the duffel bag full of makeup and his skimpy costume into their hiding place—the small cave near the east end of the pond. Then he mounted up and rode around the lower side of the dig area, giving it a wide berth, and heading down toward the dirt road below and his friend's place. He had every intention of strangling the old coot.
This was a bad idea. Worst idea he'd ever let himself get talked into. Worse even than going out drinking with that band of rowdies who'd pulled a holdup after he'd left them, and then let him take the rap along with them.
Well, he'd tried it. It hadn't worked. That Dr. McCoy woman hadn't seemed the least bit afraid of his Wolf Shadow routine. The dig was going to go on, and there wasn't a damned thing Wes could do to stop it. And just because over the past year he'd let himself get closer to that old man than he'd ever been to anyone, didn't mean he had to go painting himself up and parading around half-naked for him. It was damned humiliating.
He emerged onto the deserted dirt lane and rode along its edge, the horse's hooves kicking up a slight dust in his wake. And as they rode, he remembered the first time he'd met the old Indian who claimed to be a Comanche shaman. The fellow had been sitting along the roadside in a battered pickup that looked to be rustier and less dependable than Wes's baby sister's was. And that was saying something. Just sitting there. As Wes had driven past, he'd seen the flat tire, and glanced again at the leathery face of the man inside. A twinge of conscience, and he'd stopped to offer a hand changing the tire.
That had been the beginning. Just a coincidence, Wes had said. But the old nut—Turtle, he called himself—had said there was no such thing as coincidence. That he'd been waiting for Wes for quite some time. And since he seemed so in need of a friend, Wes had visited with him for a while. And then he'd gone back.
That was probably the mistake, right there. He never should have gone back.
The mobile home came into sight, looking old and shabby. Pickup truck drooping in the driveway as if it might shed a part or two if they got much heavier. The circular area in the middle of the lawn was blackened and littered with cinders and partially burned lumps of wood. Nearby, a metal barrel with the top cut out of it brimmed with beer cans, the cumulative results of all their nights together around a campfire, sipping a cold one while Turtle told those stories. All told, the beer cans were the only things in sight that weren't rusted.
Wes tied the horse up out back and walked inside without knocking.
But his anger faded when he caught sight of Turtle lying on the sagging couch, his face flushed and tiny beads of perspiration clinging to his brow. Wes frowned and leaned forward to press a hand to Turtle's face. He felt heat there.
"You're feverish, pal. What is it? Are you getting worse?"
Turtle closed his serene eyes, shook his head. "Tell me about your mission, Raven Eyes. Were you successful?"
Wes sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Yeah, I was successful, all right. Successful in making a complete fool outta myself. Dammit, Turtle, I told you this would never work. I must've been nuts to let you talk me into prancing around half-naked and whooping it up like a goldern coyote! That professor woman wasn't any more scared of me than a grizzly bear would've been. And I can tell you right now, there is no way in hell I'm ever going to do anything so stupid again. No way in—"
"You saw her, then?"
Wes bit off his words, and recalled her sitting there on the ground in the lamplight. Jet hair pulled back in a tight little knot, except for the few strands that had escaped. Huge dark eyes glowing. He'd had a good look at her, there in that pool of white light. "Yeah. I saw her."
"And?"
"And what? I was surprised, I suppose. I didn't expect someone named McCoy to look…"
"Like us?" Turtle asked.
Wes nodded and searched Turtle's face. "How'd you know that?"
Turtle only shrugged. "I'm a shaman. I know things. She is Comanche, though not raised as one. Is she beautiful?"
Wes thought about her eyes, flashing like onyx in the glow of the lamplight. Her stance straightening and her small chin lifting as she challenged him. "Yeah, I suppose you could call her beautiful. Though what that has to do with any of this, I don't—"
Turtle groaned softly, and Wes's words came to a stop.
"This is crazy," he said, but his voice was softer now.
"Dammit, Turtle, you're not going to die just because somebody digs up some old dirt. It's ridiculous!"
But he was worried. The old man was obviously slipping. And maybe the fact that he believed this would kill him could make it actually happen. For crying out loud, he was as hot and sticky right now as if he'd just run a footrace.
"Look, there has to be another way."
Turtle shook his head. "I have told you, Raven Eyes, I am the last shaman of my clan. A small bit of that land was sacred to the shamans of my line. We were sworn to protect it. If it is violated, I will die."
Wes shook his head. "The McCoy woman doesn't seem to believe any of that. And the state of Texas must not, either, or they'd have at least objected. Hell, Turtle, even the Comanche people haven't raised a stink about this dig—"
"The sacred place is there," Turtle insisted. "She must believe it is there, and convince The People not to sell to this Hawthorne. But she must believe it without finding it, without violating it, or its magic will be lost."
"But why don't the tribal elders know more about it, if it's so damned important? Why don't they know—?"
"The secret of that place was handed down through the shamans of my clan. And of those, Raven Eyes, I am the only one left. I alone know where Little Sparrow lies. You must stop the woman from disturbing that ground, or…"
"Or?"
Turtle closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "It is good that we found one another when we did," he said. "All the time we had, to sit beside the fire outside while I told you the stories of your people and your heritage. It was good. We had a good year together, didn't we, my friend?"
Wes closed his eyes and thought, Here we go again.
"When my time comes, I will gather all I need and go out into the desert. And there I'll wait for the Great Spirit to take me…"
"No. Dammit, Turtle, no, you're not gonna do that. You do, and I promise I'll ride out there and find you, and I'll haul your butt right back here. You understand?"
Turtle met Wes's eyes. "If the sacred ground of my people is violated, then—"
Wes yanked his hat off the rack and slammed it down on his head. "Your sacred ground isn't gonna be violated, all right? I'll see to it."
"But you said…"
"I said I'd see to it and I will. And while I'm at it, I'm gonna see
about having you looked at by a doctor. And I don't want any damned arguments about that, either, you stubborn goat."
Turtle sighed in misery, but nodded. "You are a good friend to me, Wes Brand."
"Yeah, and you're a pain in the backside." He looked back and sighed. "Anything I can get for you before I go? Maybe you should eat something. Or…"
"Go. Your brothers need you at the ranch. Go on. I will sleep. I'm very tired, you know."
Grimacing, Wes reached for the blanket on the back of the couch, and tried to feign carelessness as he draped it over Turtle's old body and tucked it around him. He was worried. Damn, he'd never seen Turtle looking this fragile and weak. Was the old man really going to will himself to die just because of this dig?
Wes took a long look at the man who had become more than a friend to him. Then he shook his head and left for the night.
When Turtle heard the receding hoofbeats and knew Wes had gone, he flung the blanket back and pulled the remote control out from under the couch cushion. He could still catch the last quarter of the football game. As the screen lit up, he headed into the small kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a can of beer and a slice of cold pizza. Then he strode back to the couch, whistling the "Monday Night Football" theme song.
His plan was unorthodox, to say the least. But he had promises to keep. One promise in particular, made to a wonderful woman as she lay dying a very long time ago. Beyond that, he had an ancient mission to fulfill. Keep the sacred spot safe, and yet keep The People from selling it. And make sure the rest of Wolf Shadow's legend came full circle. As the last shaman of his clan, it was all up to him. He'd lived for 107 years. And he knew full well why he'd been allowed such a long life. For this. All for this.
He took a big bite of cold pizza, leaned back on the couch and watched the Dallas Cowboys begin one of their famous fourth-quarter comebacks.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"Hey, Wes. You're up early."
Wes was halfway out the screen door onto the front porch of the Texas Brand when his baby sister's voice put an automatic smile on his face. She was sitting all alone on the porch swing, looking kinda somber, he thought as he looked her over. And he felt his smile die slowly as he moved toward her. She got up to greet him with a bear hug.
He squeezed her tight, then stood back a little so he could see her. "What're you doing here this early in the morning, Jessi?"
"Gee, I thought you'd be glad to see me." She thrust her lower lip out and gave him her best puppy-dog eyes.
"Well, I am. Hell, we miss you like crazy around here since you moved out. Only see you—what—two, three times a day?"
She punched him in the shoulder. "Just 'cause we have our own place doesn't mean I gave this one up, you big lug."
"It had better not," he told her. But he got serious again in a hurry. "So, what's going on? You usually wait till we're at least awake and at the breakfast table to visit. Is little Maria okay?"
"The baby's fine, Wes. And—"
"So it's Lash, then. If he's giving you grief, little sister, just say the word and I'll—"
"Wes, for crying out loud, you won't do anything! Lash is fabulous, the best husband I could even imagine. Gosh, you've seen the way he spoils Maria-Michele, and he's almost as bad with me."
Wes searched her eyes, decided she was telling the truth and shrugged. "So, then what're you doing here so early?"
She turned toward the horizon and smiled very gently. "I just had a hankerin' to see the sunrise from this porch swing like I used to, is all. It's silly, me being only a few miles away and still getting so darned homesick."
"Yeah," he said, and he followed her gaze to where the red-orange sun painted the sky with fire so it looked like an abstract painting of yellows and golds and reds instead of the blue it would be later on. "I guess I understand that. This place … it gets into your blood." And for just a moment he thought maybe he knew why Turtle might be reacting so badly to having the land of his forebears invaded by outsiders. "I'm gonna miss it, too."
She looked at him sharply. "You goin' somewhere, Wes?"
He smiled at her. "Not far, kiddo. Not far. I hadn't mentioned this to anyone yet, but I'm thinking about buying the old Cumberland place."
"Over near where those scientists are digging up the Comanche village?" Her brows rose high, eyes wide but interested. "But, Wes, that place is falling down. It's not even livable."
"Not now. But it's smack in the middle of some of the finest grazing pastures north of the Rio Grande, kid. The land is perfect. The house and barn … well, they can be fixed up. And the price is gonna be low, I can almost guarantee it."
"You mean you don't know what they want for it?"
"State took possession for back taxes," he said. "The place was abandoned for years even before that. The suits just got around to making their minds up to auction it off and cut their losses. I already talked to the bank. I'm putting a bid in today."
"Oh." She tilted her head to one side. "You gonna run cattle?"
"Nope," he said, and he pushed his Stetson back a little. "Horses. Appaloosas. Gonna start out with a few head, and breed the best horses to be found."
She grinned up at him suddenly. "You'll do it, too."
"Damned straight I will," he said. And he didn't tell her that part of the reason he wanted this particular place was that he knew his ancestors had once lived on its lands. Hunted there. Fought and even died there. Funny how his Comanche blood had never mattered much to him before. Not until he'd met Turtle. The old man had a way of making the stories come alive, and of relating them to Wes personally.
"So, you gonna tell me why you're up so early?"
He shrugged, not telling her he was eager to check in on his aging friend this morning. He hadn't confided to his family about Turtle. Not yet. He didn't know why, except that it was a little too personal right now, the things he was learning, the things he was feeling. "Just wanted to get an early start on the chores, kid. You wanna give me a hand?"
"Just like old times?" she said with a grin. "Sure. That husband of mine can handle the baby just fine for a while."
Wes searched her eyes and gave a slow nod. His sister looked happy. Really happy.
She'd better be, or her husband would have him to answer to.
They headed out to the barns together, but stopped short when a khaki-colored Jeep bounced into sight, rolling under the arching Texas Brand over the driveway and raising a heck of a dust cloud.
He and Jessi turned as one when the Jeep came to a stop and its driver's door opened. And then she got out, and Wes almost choked on his next breath. Taylor McCoy. What the hell was she doing here? Had she somehow recognized him underneath all that paint and the protective cover of darkness last night? But how could she? She'd never even met him before.
She wore pleated khaki trousers and a matching short-sleeved shirt. But the loose-fitting clothes couldn't hide the long, slender lines of her. She was tall, willowy. And her ebony hair was twisted into a tight knot again, only this morning there were no loose tendrils framing her regal face. Instead a pair of black-rimmed glasses, round ones, tried to hide her almond eyes.
Wes swallowed hard, recalling the other reason he hadn't slept well last night. He'd kept picturing her the way he'd first seen her. Sitting outside the dome tent caressing a broken piece of pottery as if it were the Hope diamond. And when he'd seen her face, he'd wondered if she knew all the things he'd never known about his own people. But Turtle had answered that question for him. She knew as little as Wes had known a year ago. She'd been raised away from that world. And maybe this dig of hers was her way of searching for it. Just as Wes's nights around the fire with Turtle were his.
"Hello," she said. "Mr. Brand?"
He just kept staring. Wondering if she knew about his foolish attempt to frighten her last night. Wondering what she was going to say. Her black eyes met his, held them. And he felt something … something he couldn
't define.
Jessi elbowed him in the rib cage. He started out of his stupor, blinked and managed to say, "Yeah. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Dr. Taylor McCoy," she said, extending a long and elegant hand. "I'm supervising the archaeological dig over at Emerald Flat."
"Yeah, I know." He took her hand in his. Warm, firm. There were a few calluses. A woman who knew about hard work and wasn't a bit afraid of it, he thought.
She glanced down at their clasped hands, and he realized he was still holding hers and abruptly let go. Damn. Since when did he get all flabbergasted around women? Usually they were the ones tripping over themselves at a glance from him. He hated that.
No danger of it with this one, though.
"I have to apologize for bothering you at home, Sheriff Brand, but I just couldn't wait for office hours. This is important and I—"
"Whoa, wait a minute, Doc," Jessi cut in. "This isn't—"
"That's okay, Jessi," Wes said quickly. "Let the lady talk. Meanwhile, didn't you say you had something to do in the house?"
Jessi's eyes bulged so widely Wes wondered if they wouldn't pop their sockets. When she finished gaping at him, she turned toward the woman, and her gaze got narrower as she gave her the once-over. "You sure you're up to this?" she asked the woman.
"Excuse me?" Taylor McCoy frowned in confusion.
Jessi shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind. I'll be inside, Wes." Then Jessi headed back to the house. Wes figured he had about five minutes to figure out what it was the good doc had to say to his brother the sheriff. By then Jessi would have blabbed and Garrett would be out here giving it all away.
"So," he began, and then he met her eyes and forgot what he was saying again. She stared into his eyes for a long moment. As if she couldn't look away. And then she blinked and shook herself a little.
Maggie Shayne - Badland's Bad Boy Page 2
