Maggie Shayne - Badland's Bad Boy

by Maggie Shayne

  Wes studied Turtle's face. "You aren't kidding, are you? So is that why they called you Turtle?"

  "I was born early, and weak, and wasn't expected to survive. But I lived all the same. So my mother named me for the animal she knew as the survivor, for his hard shell of protection, and for the longevity of the creature."

  "I see." But Wes wasn't really sure he did.

  "Raven Eyes, do you know that every shaman has a spirit guide? Some have many. Some, only one. The animal spirit presents itself to the shaman in its own time, and often tests his courage. As the spirit tortoise tested mine. As the spirit wolf tested yours."

  Wes looked at Turtle sharply. "Hold on a minute. That's all well and good for you, pal, but don't forget, I'm no shaman."

  "Nor was I, until the shamanic spirit came to me in the form of the tortoise."

  Wes shook his head slowly.

  "It was not an ordinary wolf, my friend. He was alone, not in a pack. He didn't fear the fire of your camp. He spoke to you."

  "That doesn't mean…"

  "Let me tell you a story, Raven Eyes."

  Wes opened his mouth to object, then bit his lip. Let Turtle talk. Maybe … maybe some of this would make sense if he listened.

  "There was an old shaman living alone, with no descendants and no young man with the spirit shining in his eyes. He knew his time in this world would come to an end soon, but he'd vowed to pass his wisdom along to a young shaman before he died. To give the next generation the traditions to cling to, and keep alive."

  Wes stared at the coffeepot as it started to bubble, at the condensation hissing on the outside of the tin.

  "The old shaman made a fire, and danced around it, and he called on the old gods, and on the spirit of the tortoise, to bring a young man to him. The one they brought would become his student, and he would teach him the old ways, and make of him a fine and worthy shaman to take his place when this life ended."

  "Turtle, listen—"

  "The old shaman prayed for this all night, and made powerful medicine, and he knew his student would come to him the next day. But as that day burned low, no young man came. And growing restless, the old shaman drove in his truck for some distance along the road, to see if any stranger seemed to be heading his way. The truck's tire went flat. At first the old man thought he'd made a mistake. That now he would be away from home for too long, and might miss the young man's arrival there. But he soon knew it was the work of the gods. Because the young man came to him there on the road, and fixed his tire for him, and followed him back home."

  Wes couldn't do much more than sit there shaking his head in disbelief.

  "All I have taught you, Raven Eyes, all the stories I have told you and the ways you have learned, all have been to prepare you for this day. The day when your spirit guide came to you, tested you and accepted you by calling you brother."

  Wes rubbed his temples with his forefingers. "I can't believe this."

  Turtle shrugged. "It is not so different. But now you can ask the spirits for advice directly. And if you listen, they will guide your steps."

  Wes nodded. "Good. First thing I'll ask them is the name of the guy you say is Wolf Shadow's descendant, so I can make sure he never gets within a hundred feet of Taylor."

  Turtle smiled. "The spirits might tell you that. Or perhaps they, like me, will decide it is something you must learn for yourself."

  Wes lowered his head, gnawed his lip, couldn't decide whether he felt foolish or skeptical or excited. But what if it were true? What if he could get some kind of direct line to … to some higher power? He could find out what he should do with the last secret he was keeping from Taylor. Whether he should tell her he'd found Little Sparrow's resting place.

  He cleared his throat. "How … uh … does one go about … asking?"

  A gnarled, warm hand fell on his shoulder. "Come to me tonight, my friend."

  Wes sighed. "Good. It's just as well. I need some time to digest all this." Then he eyed the rising sun, burning down, scorching already. "But if you sit out here all day again, I doubt you'll be around when I come back tonight. Turtle, you have to—"

  Turtle held up a hand, shook his head. "It's time for me to return home," Turtle said. "My stay here has served its purpose."

  Wes blew a sigh of pure relief. "Thank God for that. If I had to make the trek out here one more time, I'd have hogtied you and hauled your butt back there." He softened his words with a smile. "So you aren't about to die after all?" he asked, and if his voice broke just a little with the words, then he supposed it was understandable. He hadn't realized just how afraid he was of losing the old goat, until now, when it seemed he wasn't going to lose him at all.

  "Not just yet, at least," Turtle said, and he smiled broadly. "The spirits wouldn't leave so clueless a shaman here to bungle things on his own."

  "So you get to stick around and help me bungle things?"

  Turtle got to his feet and blinked a couple times, averting his face. "I am as proud as if you were my own blood, Raven Eyes." He made a show of brushing the dirt from his pants legs, but Wes sensed he was just avoiding looking him in the face.

  "Makes sense," Wes said. "It's been a long time since I've been as close to a man as I am to you. Since before my father died."

  Turtle looked up at him, and their eyes met. Uncomfortable, they both looked away at the same time.

  Wes shook his head and turned toward the fire. In another second they'd have been hugging or some ridiculous female thing like that. "Let's have that coffee," he said in his most macho voice. "Then we'll pack up and head back."

  A young stranger arrived at the camp around noon, handed a letter to Taylor and then left without a word.

  Frowning and battling a creepy sense of foreboding, Taylor opened the envelope, extracted the sheet of expensive notepaper and looked it over. Dennis Hawthorne's name gleamed in gold script across the top. There was no greeting.

  I'd like a progress report soon. Don't forget, my funding for this project stops on Sunday. Unless you've found evidence of this alleged sacred site by then, I fully expect you to inform the tribal elders that it doesn't exist so that my purchase of the property can go ahead on schedule.

  It was signed with a nearly illegible scribble she thought was supposed to resemble an H.

  She crumpled the sheet in her hand. "Damn, why do I get the feeling that man is up to no good?"

  Scourge approached then, and narrowed his eyes at her. "Ms. McCoy … I … that is, Kelly and I … were wondering … about you and Mr. Brand, that is, if—"

  She lifted her head. "Stop wondering." And she turned to go into her tent. And then she sat slowly on the floor, because she was wondering, too. She'd made love to Wes last night, and it had been an experience like nothing she'd ever known. But a physical one. She still got the feeling he wasn't telling her everything. About himself. About this place. About so many things, including his true feelings for her.

  How could she love a man she didn't trust? And how could she prevent herself from doing just that? Her heart ached for him every second they spent apart, but her mind constantly rebelled. He'd lied to her, deceived her, might very well still be doing so.

  So why did she want to forget all of that and surrender to her heart? Why was it so hard to keep resisting him?

  And what the hell was she going to do when this dig was over, in a few short days?

  Wes talked Taylor into joining him at the house for dinner that night. Of course, when he made the invitation, she'd thought he meant the Texas Brand, with the family. And he'd deliberately let her go on thinking it. But as he drove over the roads leading to the ranch he'd finally made his own, he could see the understanding dawning on her pretty face.

  "You do like your practical jokes, don't you?" she asked him, and Wes bit his lip. Had he screwed up yet again?

  "It's not a joke, Doc. It's a surprise." Then he lowered his head. "I thought…"

  "No." She touched his hand. "I'm being oversensiti
ve again. I'm sorry." She looked through the windshield as the tumbledown house came into view. "It's a nice surprise. I love this place—you know that."

  "I'm learning, Taylor. I'll try to keep a handle on the urge to surprise you from now on, okay?"

  She closed her eyes slowly and nodded. "Just so long as you know I'm the one with the problem, not you."

  "You don't like being surprised. I'm filing it away. I won't forget again." He stopped the vehicle, then reached into the back to pull out a picnic basket before getting out.

  Taylor got out on her side and stood for a moment, taking in the view. "My mare is going to love it here."

  "My brothers and I have been stringing some fence," Wes told her, and he pointed out beyond the barn. "We've got a good hunk of grazing land secured and ready. Once the barn is done, I can start bringing horses in here."

  Taylor squinted, shielding her eyes with one hand. "When have you had the time?"

  Wes shrugged. "Four men can get a lot done with a couple of hours here and a couple of hours there."

  She nodded. "The stream runs right through the section you fenced in. It's perfect, Wes."

  "It's progress," he said. "The only perfect thing on this place right now is you."

  She smiled and dipped her head.

  "So where do you want to eat? Outside under the sky?"

  She shook her head. "I've been eating outside every day," she said. "Why don't we dust off a place in the house? That spot with the bay windows in the back would be perfect."

  "You don't mind the cobwebs?"

  She rolled her eyes. "I live for cobwebs."

  Wes grinned at her and took her hand, hefting the basket in the other and heading up the rickety front steps and across the porch. He set the basket down to unlock the door, and then waited for her to precede him inside.

  She made a beeline for the big room with the fabulous view, and cautiously opened a couple of the windows there. Wes set the basket down and looked around. "There's an old table here. We could clean it off a bit and—"

  "What would we clean it with?"

  He reached into the cupboard beneath a very old stainless-steel sink and pulled out a pail brimming with cleaning supplies. "My sister put these together for me and told me to be sure to use them. So far they've just been keeping the cupboard company."

  Taylor smiled and drew closer, looking into the big plastic pail, pawing the contents. Sponges and cloths, window cleaner and oil soap and several other cleansers. Taylor nodded and met his eyes. "If she gave you a broom, too, then she thought of everything."

  Wes nodded toward the brand-new broom, dustpan and mop leaning in one corner. "Jessi always thinks of everything. She's bound and determined I'm going to clean the place up."

  Taylor tilted her head. "She does have a point." And she looked around her, and he could see her eyes sparkling. "You know we could really go to town on this mess tonight."

  Shaking his head, Wes said, "I didn't bring you here to put you to work, Doc."

  "But it would be fun!" She reached to the sink to crank one of the faucets there, but frowned when nothing happened.

  "Electricity isn't turned on yet," he explained. "I need to double-check the wiring first."

  She shrugged. "There's a hand pump out front, though."

  He grimaced. Cleaning wasn't what he'd wanted to spend the night doing with Taylor. But she seemed so animated about it. She snatched the pail right out of his hand and dumped its contents onto one side of the sink. Then she headed outside, leaving him no choice but to follow. "Okay, just the table, then," he said. "We clean the old table and then we eat."

  "Whatever you say." She trotted down the steps, around the side of the house, set the pail down and began pumping on the handle. There was gurgling, spitting, and finally water rushing from the spout.

  Five hours later Wes's hands were beginning to resemble prunes. The big room, which he was now sure would have to be the living room, was all but sparkling, and Taylor was standing in the middle of it looking around and beaming.

  "It's even more wonderful than I realized," she said.

  "Do you know it's ten o'clock?" he asked.

  "You know this room really is in great shape."

  Wes looked up at the place where the plaster had fallen from the ceiling, leaving ancient lath visible, and the spot where old cloth-coated wires stuck down with no light fixture attached.

  "We could patch that hole in no time flat," Taylor said, and he realized she was looking at him, following his doubtful gaze. And then he realized she'd said We.

  "And can you just see it when we replace the old wiring and put some fabulous chandelier up there? Nothing too fancy. Maybe one of those wagon-wheel types, you know?"

  He frowned, picturing the fixture above his head, and then he nodded. "That would work."

  "No carpeting, though. These hardwood floors are fabulous. Just need some sanding and a few coats of varnish. Some throw rugs maybe, here and there, but we wouldn't want to cover up these great floors."

  He hadn't even known the place had hardwood floors until Taylor had shouted out the news as she mopped. But as she went on, talking about valances instead of curtains on those windows to preserve the view, and the banister on the staircase that curved up out of this room to the second floor, and what kind of furniture would look perfect here, he could see it all very clearly. And he liked what he saw. For the first time he was thinking of this place as a home, instead of just a great place to raise Appaloosas.

  And then he realized that it was because she was here. When Taylor was here, with him, the house wasn't a ruin; it was a home. Warm and wonderful, comforting and so serene. Without her, though, it would just be a pile of boards and nails again. A shell. No matter what he did to it, if he rebuilt it to look like a castle, it would still be empty and lifeless. He needed her.

  She looked at him, and he opened his mouth to tell her just that. But before he got a single word out, the front door slammed, and Jessi called, "Wes? You here?"

  Smiling, Taylor turned. "In here, Jessi," she called.

  Wes sighed and lowered his head, and then Jessi and Ben came in, and Jessi looked around the room and grinned. "Hot damn, this place has some potential after all!"

  "Your donation helped," Wes said. Then he nodded to Ben, who was looking around the place and nodding approval. Not smiling, though. Ben rarely smiled anymore. And Wes remembered that desolate feeling that had crept over him when he'd thought about losing Taylor forever, and impulsively hugged his brother.

  Ben slapped him on the back, then stood back and blinked at him. "You okay, Wes?"

  Feeling foolish, Wes just shook his head, then turned to Jessi. "So what brings you out here this time of night?"

  "Lookin' for you, of course," she said. "You weren't at home, so I checked over at the site, and when I didn't find you there, either, I figured you must be here."

  "Persistent, aren't you?"

  Her brows rose at his tone. Then fell again. "Oh, heck, Wes, we're not … interrupting … anything, are we?"

  "Of course not," Taylor said. "We've just been cleaning. It looks great, doesn't it?"

  And Jessi tilted her head. "Well … 'great' might not be quite the right word…" Then she gave her head a shake. "But I brought you some news that is better than great." She looked at Wes a little doubtfully. "I just hope I didn't … overstep."

  No one could overstep like Wes's baby sister, and he groaned inwardly. "What did you do?"

  She smiled at him. "First I called the lumberyard to check on those supplies you ordered for the barn. They said they couldn't deliver for three days, but I … discussed it with them—"

  "You bitched at them," Ben clarified. He glanced at Taylor. "I could hear her yelling clear out in the stable."

  "You're exaggerating," Jessi said. "But anyway, Wes, they'll be delivering the stuff tomorrow."

  Wes couldn't help himself. He chuckled aloud. "Leave it to Jessi Brand to put the fear of God into a man." The
n he frowned. "Still there was no hurry. I won't have time to work on the barn much until…"

  "Saturday," she said, and she said it firmly.

  A little foreboding tiptoed up Wes's spine. "Why Saturday?"

  "Because on Saturday, big brother, we are having a good ol'-fashioned barn raising!" She clapped her hands together, practically bouncing up and down in excitement.

  Wes blinked, then glanced at Ben, who only nodded in agreement. "A barn raising." Then he shook his head, and put one hand on his sister's shoulder. "Look, Jess, it's a fabulous idea and all, but don't go getting your hopes up. I'm not exactly the most popular guy in town."

  "Don't be silly, Wes."

  "I'm not," he told her. "Look, I may be a Brand, but that doesn't mean people like me. Hell, a lot of 'em still believe that time I did in prison was well deserved."

  "Oh, Wes, that's bull. Everyone knows you were set up. Besides, it's ancient history. And I'll tell you, they might not vote you Mr. Congeniality around here, but there's not one person in the county who wouldn't want you on their side if they were in trouble. And most of 'em know you'd be there if they asked you."

  "No," Wes said. "You're wrong about that. It'll never work, Jess."

  "But it already has worked." She smiled again. "Everyone I've talked to promised to come."

  Wes frowned. "They did?"

  "Mmm-hmm. The women are bringing food enough for an army, and the men are dusting off their tool belts. It's going to be incredible, Wes. And before the weekend is over, that barn of yours won't be a barn at all. It'll be the Taj Mahal of stables."

  Wes looked at Ben, who nodded once more. "It's true," he said. "She's been like a bumblebee on a caffeine high putting this thing together."

  He just shook his head. "I can't believe it." Then he looked at Taylor, who was very quiet and wide-eyed. "Hey, Doc, what's wrong?"

  She lowered her eyes, shook her head. "I was just thinking … how lucky you are, Wes."

  "Heck, they aren't always this nice," he said. But he said it softly, and touched her face so she'd look at him again. Damned if there wasn't moisture in her eyes. "Most of the time they're a royal pain in the backside."