by Randy Rawls
“Okay, Chip. Suppose we assume it’s one of your ex-employees who is out to get you. Let’s narrow the list to those you fired.”
“Not many of them. The cowhands around here are either dependable and stay—or move on without invitation. We don’t have many drifters. Word gets around, you know.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I believe this is a grudge match. Get the list of those you fired, and let’s look at it.”
“Okay, but it’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow. It’s six-thirty and Evan’s gone home for the day.”
Annie stuck her head in. “Mr. Jamison, dinner’s ready. Do you want to eat out here? Miss Wanda’s gone into Terrell.”
Chip cut his eyes toward me and smiled. “Fine, Annie. We’ll eat here. Bring it out, please.”
Dinner was cold cuts—make your own—and water. I didn’t dare ask for a beer. As we munched on sandwiches, potato chips, and coleslaw, my curiosity about Chip led me to ask, “How did the crazy guy from college end up as the gentleman rancher of Van Zandt County?”
Chip smiled. “It’s not much of a story. This is my home, well, not this house but this land. Jamisons have lived here since 1868. My ancestors came here from North Carolina after the Civil War. My great-great-great-great-grandfather had a small farm there and owned two slaves before the war. He returned home to find the buildings burned and the fields fouled. You may have heard of Sherman’s March to the Sea. Well, the Yankees used a mini-version on his area. While he struggled with rebuilding, the carpetbaggers and scalawags arrived. Inside of two years, his land had gone for taxes, and he didn’t have much left, so he headed this way.”
Chip hesitated in his narrative, and I remembered several variations of the story in Eastland County where I grew up.
“He’d heard about Texas from war buddies who went to Mexico to fight for Maximilian, then headed north when that cause failed. So, him and a bunch of his neighbors headed west. The old diaries say they arrived in May 1868. He settled here while the others moved on.”
Chip took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “He homesteaded a small piece of land and began farming. He did okay and before he died at the age of eighty-nine, he had enlarged the farm many times. He left the farm to his oldest son. That’s the way it went until I inherited the land from dad—oldest male child got the ranch.
“My great-grandfather introduced cattle as a cash crop. Some people say that’s who I take after, or did when I was young. He was a real pistol, ready for a fight, a bottle, or a new idea. And another of our similarities, he hated farming. Once he found out he could make it as a rancher, he converted more cropland to pastures and bought more cattle. They say his standards were low when it came to acquiring land so he enlarged the ranch any way he could. Between then and now, the acreage has gone up and down. I’ve managed to return it to near its zenith.”
“That’s a great story,” I said, “but where do you fit in? How’d you end up here?”
“Oh, I think I’ve always known this is where I’d end my life. Even in college, this was my safety net, my anchor. You didn’t see that side of me, did you?”
“No, I figured you’d either play professional football or be a felon with multiple convictions. After you were drafted by the Cowboys, I assumed it’d be pro football.”
“Yeah, I was pretty wild in college.” Chip grinned. “After the draft, I had visions of the Football Hall of Fame. Hell, I knew I couldn’t miss. I got a nice signing bonus and a multi-year contract. I was on easy street, doing what I loved—playing football and raising hell.”
He stopped talking and rubbed his right knee, a look of sadness on his face. “It’s funny. I never missed a game—not in junior high, high school or college. Then in one intra-squad scrimmage, I missed a career. I got hit, the knee went, and I’m still limping.”
A faraway look filled his eyes. “I’ve always wondered what…” He shook his head and continued. “After the buy-out by the Cowboys, I came home, and sunk most of my cash into land, enlarging the spread. I had visions of a dude ranch. I built this house with rooms for the guests. I figured to use the Texas Room for evening gatherings after a hard day riding the range. Bad idea. I couldn’t find enough Yankees to make it work. Those funny outfits Frank and Annie wear? They’re part of the dude ranch gear. I never said to wear them, but they do.”
“Where was Wanda? Did she help?”
“She gave me all kinds of moral support, but she was busy with her life. You know, college then her marriage to Brad. When he died, she moved back here. Funny, but her tragedy was my salvation. She moved in and looked at the mess I’d made. I still don’t know how she did it, but within a year, we’d converted this place from a dude ranch to a working ranch. Since then, she’s left twice and returned each time. And each time, I’m richer for her being here.”
He looked at me as if trying to decide what to say next. “Ace, she’s fascinated by you. Don’t get the idea she’s some immature kid who falls for the local hero. She’s not. She’s an intelligent, mature woman who knows her way around. But for reasons I don’t understand, she sees something that intrigues her. Be careful. She’s my little sister, and I love her. I’m not saying stay away from her, but she’s carrying a lot of baggage. She’s already had enough heartbreak for three women. If you hurt her—”
“Tell me about her,” I said, sensing an opportunity to fill in what I didn’t know. “What kind of heartbreak?”
Chip looked at me. “Yeah, I guess you deserve to know. But remember, I might be carrying some extra pounds, but I can still whip your ass if you hurt my little sister.”
“Understood.”
He started with her first marriage and told pretty much the story I’d heard from Sheriff Galoway except he left out the part about her hospitalization. Maybe her collapse went against his Jamison ego. My interest picked up when he told about her return to Van Zandt.
“She went wild after Brad’s death. She spent all day working the ranch and turned into a party animal at night. The Robin Hood was a second home to her. If she wasn’t there, it was Terrell, or Dallas, or any other bar she could find. It got so bad I asked Bob to watch for her at the county line. Seemed like about every night, one of his deputies would pull her over, take her keys and bring her home.”
He sighed a deep, sad sigh. “It was a bad time and I spent my nights worrying about her. It was crazy. During the day, she was normal, my own sweet sister. But when the sun went down, it was like a different person crawled inside her skin. She got sad, nervous, twitchy. Then she’d be gone, out for the night.”
“Men?”
“Yeah, lots of them. Her shrink said she was looking for Brad in another man. It was a sad time, but it got worse.”
“How? Oh, would this be when the second husband came along?”
“Yep. She met a bum in Dallas and fell in love with him, or thought she did. I tried to tell her he was no good, he was after her money, but she wouldn’t listen. Next thing I knew, they came back from Louisiana, man and wife.
“They moved in here, in the fishing hut. Hell, what could I do? I was glad they came back ’cause I saw no good coming from him. It lasted six months, total. At about five months, she caught him in the sack with the wife of one of the hands. It wasn’t smooth, but we bought him off, and she got a quickie divorce. She hasn’t heard from him since. He disappeared right after I took him out to the pasture where the boys were castrating calves. Maybe he sensed a message in that.”
I cringed at the picture. “She took back the name Jamison?”
“For the second time.”
“Did she settle down after that?”
“Yeah, like a different person. Well, at night anyway. She was still the same during the day, but she went into a shell at night. She stayed in her room. It scared the hell out of me. If possible, even more than before. This time her shrink said she was in a repentant stage, reliving her life and making decisions for the future.”
“Sounds pret
ty weird to me,” I said. “Was this a real shrink or someone on TV?”
“He was real—real enough to get two hundred an hour. And the hell of it is, he was right. One night after dinner, she announced she was going to the Robin Hood. You can imagine my reaction. I feared it had started again. She was gone about an hour and when she came home, she told me it was all over. She said she was ready to get on with her life. Damnedest thing I ever saw. The next day, she drove to Houston and visited Brad’s grave. When she returned, she was at peace with herself.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” I said. “Shows how strong she is. But what about the third marriage?”
“It was kinda the opposite of the second. After she came out of her shell, she transferred her energy to religion. Next thing I knew, she was spending every night with a church group. That’s where she met John. Don’t get me wrong. He was a nice guy, disgustingly nice. He drove me nuts with his goody-goody stuff. If I popped a Bud, he was there to tell me about the evils of alcohol. If I said shit, he was there to tell me foul language would send me to Hell. One day a heifer stepped on my foot, and I said, ‘Goddamn.’ He lectured me for an hour. But Wanda loved him, or thought she did, so I kept my mouth shut.”
Chip stopped and chuckled a satisfying chuckle. “Annie said he looked like a weasel, and warned Wanda not to marry him. But she did, and they became the pillars of the church.” Another chuckle. “She made it through a whole year, then moved back here. John said God would forgive her and disappeared after a quiet, uncontested divorce.”
“Wow. That’s a tough track record. Was that it? Any others?”
“No, John was the antidote for Bronco, the second husband, and the two of them brought her back to reality. One last thing. The way she dresses. I asked her one time to show less flesh around the ranch. I saw some of the younger hands running into trees when she came near. She told me to mind my own business, this is her home, and she’ll dress anyway she pleases. If anyone doesn’t like it, he can kiss her…”
I understood the part he didn’t finish and, I must say, the idea had merit. “How about men since her second marriage?”
“She hasn’t shown interest in any other man—until now.” His look let me know what he meant. “At the risk of repeating myself, don’t hurt her, or…”
He didn’t have to finish. I could imagine his ending, but with the rough time she’d had, I did not intend to inflict Ace pain.
FOURTEEN
The rest of the evening passed as Chip and I chatted about old times while hoping the kidnapper would call. He asked Annie to bring some beer, but she gave us a telling glare so we puttered into the kitchen and selected our own. When we gave up waiting, we’d managed to polish off a half-case or so, split between Killian’s and Bud. Our mystery rustler did not call.
At ten, I rose and told Chip I needed to go to the cottage to check on the boys and get some sleep. He nodded, and I wandered into the night. As I walked to the car, Frank stepped out of the darkness, startling me.
“Goodnight, Mr. Edwards,” he said heading into the house. I realized Annie had not come out to wish me the same. Being in Annie’s doghouse was becoming a habit.
I drove to the cottage, letting the events of the day riffle through my mind—the black pickup truck and Candi Maliday took top billing. Both were events I had no handle on, and not enough knowledge to make any kind of judgement.
After putting the car in the garage, leaving the top down, I stepped through the front door of the cottage. A familiar dark shape sailed through the air—Sweeper. He might be in new surroundings, but he wasn’t letting anyone break-in.
I plucked him from the air, ruffled his ears, then walked to the recliner in the living room. Striker jumped into my lap as Sweeper assumed his sphinx-like position on the chair arm. Briefing them on the day’s activities made me realize how wonderful it is to come home to someone who loves and misses you—even if it’s felines. They purred, and I felt contentment.
When I related the part about my difficulties with Wanda and Annie, they gave me sympathetic looks. I suppose males of every species know the travails of dealing with females—even neutered tomcats.
“That’s it, boys. That brings you up to date. I didn’t accomplish much today except piss off Candi Maliday, Wanda, Annie, and maybe get tailed by a black pickup truck. Those were my negatives, but there was one positive. I know the rustler’s name starts with Mel, or something like that.” I lapsed into silence, and the boys jumped down and ran toward the kitchen.
I started to rise, assuming they were headed for their food dishes. Instead, I settled into the chair, wishing I’d stocked the refrigerator with Killian’s.
The sounds of scuffling came from the kitchen. Nothing unusual about that. The boys often engage in their version of professional wrestling, dirty tricks included. It stopped, and I heard the pitter-patter of small feet as they came into the room. Sweeper led with Striker strutting along behind him. In Sweeper’s mouth, he held a small brown furry creature—a mouse. The two of them came to my chair, and Sweeper dropped it at my feet. They sat on their haunches looking me in the eyes.
Who says cats don’t make wonderful pets and friends? I wished I could read their minds. However, it was clear they were either offering me a gift, or telling me all women are rats. Or maybe they thought the rustler/kidnapper was a rat. Take a guess which I chose to believe. I picked up their present and pitched it out the front door. They didn’t appear to care.
After feeding the boys and giving them fresh water, I headed for the bedroom, intent on a good night’s sleep. I hoped I wouldn’t dream of Wanda again. My testosterone level was punching holes in the ozone layer. She was an enigma that left me confused at each turn—like two different women. One Wanda was warm and loving, while the other was an uncaring, heartless bitch. Thoughts of schizophrenia crossed my mind. With her troubled background, some personality damage may have occurred.
I wanted to be her friend, and now that I knew her story, I wanted to help in any way I could. Of course, I also found her alluring and couldn’t stop myself from imagining how it would be to sleep with her. That produced a wave of guilt as a picture of Terri appeared at the periphery of my mind’s eye. I pondered my attraction to Wanda while loving Terri. Too much for me. I put both out of my mind. I didn’t want to dream about either of them.
I read a few pages in the book I’d brought, then drifted off to sleep. My last thoughts were of the hero. I figured I was his alter ego except he was rich and women dragged him to bed. My bank account hovered in three digits, and I slept with two cats. Maybe that’s what makes PI mysteries fiction.
I awakened with Striker standing on my chest, his claws punching through the sheet and Sweeper growling toward the bedroom door. I lifted Striker, ensuring he didn’t sink his claws any deeper. He lets them out enough to dent, not stab. As I hefted him, my mind came awake and asked if I’d heard something. I rolled to the edge of the bed and reached underneath where I’d put my Beretta. My first hope was I’d remembered to insert a magazine. The second was that Candi wasn’t visiting.
Blam, blam, blam.
It sounded like someone banging on the front door. I swung around, put both feet on the floor, and stood. The boys were still staring, frozen in time like statues. Each one’s tail was the size of a hairy baseball bat. I grabbed jeans, slipped into them, then slid my feet into my house slippers.
Blam, blam, blam.
“Wake up, you selfish sonnavabitch, I’ve got something to say to you.”
The voice was female although the vocabulary didn’t match my childhood fantasies. I looked at my clock radio. It was blinking three o’clock. Everything happens to me at three a.m. I told the boys to stay put and made my way toward the source of the noise, the Beretta in my right hand.
The voice replayed itself, and I considered the three women in my life—Wanda, Annie, and Candi. The least threatening would be Annie, but I opted for Wanda. Candi came in fifth out of the three.
&n
bsp; Blam, blam, blam.
“If you don’t get your worthless ass out here, I’m gonna neuter you like I would a bull calf.”
Wanda. Yep, it was Wanda. For a moment, I considered bolting through the backdoor, but figured she had Annie staked out along that route. I flipped on the hall light and laid the Beretta on a table. I was afraid if I carried it, she’d shoot me with it.
When I opened the door, she stood there wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read, You gotta choose. Your spurs or me.
I read the slogan then looked into her face. She smiled and said, “Well?”
“No spurs. Left them in Dallas.” The grin on my face felt like it offered competition to the full moon.
“I’m glad.” In her right hand, she held two wineglasses while her left clutched a wine bottle.
“Good morning, Ace. We have three hours before Annie expects us for breakfast. Any ideas how we can fritter the time away?”
My bottom lip slid down my chest and I drooled, or that’s how I felt. After pulling my lip into place, I gave her one of my never-fail lines. “Uh, come on in.”
“The wine’s the right temperature, and I want to make peace. My brother’s sound asleep and Annie will call if he gets too nosy. It’s you and me—” She screamed, the wine glasses crashing to the floor. “What’s that?”
I looked in the direction she pointed and saw two nosy cats peaking around the corner. Her fright and the boys’ looks gave me a chance to recover my normal suave, debonair demeanor. “Sweeper and Striker, my two watchcats. Come in and let me introduce you, or they’ll shred you.”
“They’re cats. Chip said you had cats.”
It was nice to know I’m not the only one with witty rejoinders. “Yes, they’re cats, vicious attack-cats, and my two best friends.” I called to them, “Come here and meet Wanda.”
