Rough Creek

by Kaki Warner

  Great. Another stray. “But he’s not a top trainer,” Raney pointed out. “He’s won nothing. He hasn’t even trained a single horse for us.”

  “But he will. I’m certain of it. And, Raney . . .” Her mother gave her a stern look. “I expect him to be at the supper table tonight. You, too. And from now on, he will take his evening meals and Sunday lunch here at the house, the same as Glenn and Alejandro. That’s the way it’s done at the top ranches and Whitcomb Four Star is no exception.” She let that sink in for a moment, then in a gentler tone said, “Now, let me ask you a question. What is it about Dalton Cardwell that has you so upset? Has he done or said something I should be made aware of?”

  “Other than causing another person’s death?” Raney let out a deep breath and, along with it, most of her anger. She knew she was being hardheaded. But the guy made her uneasy. She wasn’t sure why, but something about him put her on edge. “No,” she finally answered, plopping down on the end of her mother’s bed. “I’d never even spoken to him before yesterday.”

  “Then why are you so opposed to him? It’s not like you to be intolerant. In fact, you’re more often too easy on people and only see the good.”

  Mama didn’t say it, but they both knew she was referring to her botched engagement.

  Raney crossed her arms and looked away. “And that’s bad?”

  “Of course not. In fact, it’s one of the things I most admire about you. Which is why I’m so confused by this aversion to Dalton.”

  “It’s not exactly an aversion. But the fact that he’s spent time in jail concerns me. Prison hardens people. He might have picked up bad habits there that we don’t know about.”

  “Good point.” Mama rose and went into her closet. Raney heard her flipping through the hangers. A moment later, she came back out in a lightweight sack-looking thing that should have looked frumpy, but only enhanced her mother’s slim, yet curvy figure.

  “I’ll admit I have concerns, too,” Mama said, turning to check the fall of the dress in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door. “There’s something about that accident that never seemed right. I think there’s more to it than what we’ve been told.”

  “Like what?”

  After fluffing her hair back into shape, her mother turned and faced Raney. “Jim Bob had been stopped more than once for drunkenness and speeding. Yet the commissioner always got him off, when what he should have done was take away that fancy sports car and put the boy in rehab. But I hear the commissioner’s a drinker, too, so go figure.” Mama shook her head at the utter idiocy of it. “I’m sure he’s regretting that now. Which might be why he pushed so hard to have Dalton receive the maximum sentence. Guilt. Pure and simple.”

  Despite putting away her fair share of wine on occasion, Mama had a low tolerance for drunkenness. Daddy was the hard-liquor drinker. “Cowboys don’t squat to pee and they don’t drink wine,” he’d said many a time. After he died, Mama had cleared out the liquor cabinet. But as a concession to cowboys and non-wine drinkers, she always kept a stock of Lone Star longnecks in a cabinet refrigerator on the veranda. She thought since neither beer nor wine had enough alcohol to be dangerous, there would be fewer tendencies to overimbibe.

  Poor Mama. If she only knew.

  “And from what I hear,” her mother continued, voice rising in agitation, “it was just a matter of time before Jim Bob killed himself or someone else. Everybody says so. If Dalton hadn’t foolishly waived a trial, he’d never have gone to prison.”

  “So why did he confess? Take a deal rather than go to trial.”

  Mama brushed that off, still a little worked up from her rant. “I asked him that. He said he’d pulled onto the road without looking, so it was his fault.”

  “Technically, I suppose that’s true.”

  “I don’t think so. I think there’s more to it. In fact . . .” Her mother pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in that speculative way that always put Raney on guard. “I think I’ll ask Clovis about it at the good-bye dinner the auxiliary is hosting for her this evening. Maybe she can explain it.”

  Alarmed, Raney rose and put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, don’t. The poor woman’s been through enough. She’s probably leaving town just to get away from all the talk.” Mama could stir up trouble faster than a teased snake.

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s done. Over. Let’s just let it go.”

  “Really?” Mama gave her a bright smile. The kind of gotcha smile that told Raney she’d just fallen into her web. Again. “I totally agree with you, darling. Let’s drop it and move on. For everybody’s sakes.”

  Outmaneuvered again. Taking her hand from her mother’s shoulder, she crossed toward the door. “You played me.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Picking up her purse, Mama smoothed her hair one more time, then followed Raney into the hall. “Remind Maria that I won’t be here for supper tonight, but Dalton and Hicks and Alejandro will, so she’ll still need three places, plus yours. Have fun and I’ll see you later.”

  A waggle of her freshly manicured fingers and she was gone. Mother of the year. Champion of ex-convicts. Master manipulator.

  Raney only wished she could be more like her.

  CHAPTER 5

  Raney took extra care with her appearance that evening—curling iron, makeup, blouse instead of a plaid shirt, even perfume—but she kept it casual with boots and jeans. Granted, the boots were custom handmade by R.L. Boyce and the jeans cost over a hundred on sale, but she felt like dressing up. Especially after some of the “lumberjack” comments her sisters had made at their little family reunion last month, and yesterday, when she’d dashed out of the house with her shirt on inside out. It was a matter of pride. Nothing more. She wasn’t a slob.

  Like a herd seeking safety in numbers, the men arrived at the kitchen door in a group. “Welcome,” she said, motioning them inside. Since the bugs weren’t busy yet, and because Mama wasn’t there to overrule her, Raney had made the daring decision to have dinner on the veranda—which was no more than a covered porch, but sounded more elegant when called a veranda. Mama’s decision, of course.

  “I thought we could eat on the veranda.”

  Smiles of relief all around.

  Several months ago, Mama had decided they would take Saturday dinner and Sunday luncheon in the dining room, complete with linen tablecloth, silver, bone china, and crystal goblets. Probably influenced by Downton Abbey, her favorite TV show of all time. Raney thought it was a bit pretentious and doubtless uncomfortable for the ranch hands who were obligated to join them. She guessed it was Mama’s way of showing that the Whitcombs weren’t complete rednecks, despite the boots and jeans and living on a ranch. Raney didn’t care one way or the other. But then, she hadn’t grown up on a hardscrabble farm like Mama had.

  “I have wine,” she told the men as they filed past. “Or if you prefer, there’s beer in the reefer out back. Alejandro, show Dalton where.”

  Being manly cowboys, they preferred beer.

  Raney saw that Alejandro had duded himself out in a starched shirt, pressed jeans, and a flashy silver belt buckle with mother-of-pearl inlays—a gift from the Whitcomb girls last Christmas. He obviously had plans for later. Hicks looked the same as he usually did—plaid shirt, jeans, boots.

  But Dalton Cardwell had cleaned up, too. Both the shirt and jeans were new. She could tell because the shirt manufacturer’s fold creases were still noticeable, and the jeans were stiff as cardboard. His boots were worn but free of dust, he’d recently shaved, and his hair was still wet from his shower. He had a lot of hair. And the way it kept sliding down his forehead might have made him look boyish if his hulking form hadn’t dwarfed the doorway. Not that she noticed.

  She was hopeful the meal would go well until she realized that without Mama there to keep the conversation going, there would be no conversation. Hi
cks rarely spoke anyway, so that was no loss. Alejandro had his mind elsewhere, and Dalton just kept his head down and ate as much as he could, as quickly as he could.

  And she’d dressed up for this? She looked from one to the other and shook her head. It was like they were in a race to see who could eat the fastest and last the longest without speaking, and each was determined to win. A collection of mutes.

  It was the longest and quietest meal she had ever suffered through.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sunday morning. The ranch workers had the day off, the good churchgoers were off warming their pews, and the horses had eaten. Dalton was turning them out into the pasture and thinking about how pretty Raney had looked the previous night, when he was startled by a sudden eruption of gunfire.

  For an instant, his mind flashed back to the desert. His heart lurched. Panic stole his breath. Then it penetrated his brain that he was in Texas, not Iraq, and the sound he’d heard wasn’t the quick staccato burst of a rifle on full-auto, but the spaced-out report of a semiautomatic handgun. Nearby. In the brush along the creek, not far from the paddock fence line.

  Furious that someone would shoot so close to the house and barn, he shoved his way through the spooked horses and vaulted the fence. Taking a roundabout route so he could come through trees that would offer cover, he sprinted toward the creek.

  As he ran, he counted fifteen shots. Not the boom of a .45. More like the pop of a lighter round, like a .38 or a 9mm. A pause to reload, then more firing. He counted as he moved closer, saw a clearing through the trees ahead, and waited. At the sound of the fifteenth shot, he stepped out of the brush.

  A woman stood less than twenty feet away, her back to him. A pistol was holstered at her hip and she was thumbing rounds into a magazine. She wore yellow-tinted safety glasses and noise-blocking headphones over a baseball cap.

  He recognized the cap and the blond-streaked ponytail poking through the hole in the back of it.

  Raney.

  “Hey!” he shouted, and charged toward her.

  She whirled, ponytail flying, her hand dropping to the gun. When she saw who it was, she pulled off the glasses and shoved the headphones back on her head. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m asking you the same thing.” He waved a hand in the direction of the pasture. “You do know there are horses over there, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. That’s why I’m out here.” She dropped the headphones and shooting glasses into an army surplus ammo can by her feet, then pulled out the gun and slapped in the magazine.

  Dalton watched her, his nerves settling now that he knew there was no immediate danger. But he still didn’t know why she would pull such a stupid stunt.

  She slid the loaded gun—maybe a Glock 19, or HK VP9—back into the holster. “Why are you out here?” she asked.

  “Curiosity. Now that I know it was you shooting, do you mind telling me why? It was spooking the horses.”

  “That was the point.” Seeing his confusion, she laughed.

  It rocked him back. She hadn’t laughed often, especially around him, but it was worth the wait. Even with no makeup, a sunburned nose, and her beautiful hair hidden by a dusty ball cap, she was a knockout when she smiled.

  “Not all our horses will make it into the show ring,” she explained. “Most will end up as working horses. And working horses on a Texas ranch need to get accustomed to shooting.”

  Dalton knew that and felt foolish that he’d been so rattled by the gunfire he hadn’t figured it out sooner. They’d put their own horses through a similar process. Hoping to cover his lapse, he shifted subjects. “That a Glock 19?” He motioned to the pistol on her hip.

  “It is.” She pulled it from the holster and held it out, butt first. “Want to try it?”

  Dalton shook his head. “I fired all the guns I’ll ever want to in Iraq.”

  With a shrug, she reholstered the pistol. Her gaze flicked over him. “I guess if you’re built the way you are, you don’t need a gun for protection.”

  “Do you?” It bothered him to think that she might. Just because he was done with guns, didn’t mean he was against women arming themselves for protection. Or anyone else, for that matter. As long as they got training to go with it.

  “Not yet.” She bent down, closed the hinged lid on the ammo can, secured the latch, then straightened, the metal handle in her hand. “But if the occasion arises, I’ll be ready.”

  Dalton didn’t doubt it.

  She started toward the creek.

  He walked beside her, matching his pace to hers. It wasn’t a hardship. Even though she was half a foot shorter than he was, she had long legs and stepped out with authority. So much authority, in fact, he knew better than to offer to carry the ammo can. It was never wise for a man to underestimate the sensitivities of an armed woman.

  “Do you plan on working Rosco today?” she asked.

  “I do.” Dalton grinned down at her. “He’s a hell of a horse. We bring him along right and keep him healthy, he might earn you a lot of money someday.”

  She smiled back, almost knocking him off his stride. “That’s the plan.”

  And right then Dalton realized it was going to be a lot harder than he’d thought, working around this woman. He’d have to keep his distance or he’d forget why he was here.

  * * *

  * * *

  They crossed the creek and were headed to the barn when Raney broached the idea of him being sent to work with Prescott Amala for a week or so.

  “The old guy who started Rosco?” Dalton asked.

  She nodded. “Mama thinks Press might bring you along faster as a trainer.”

  “Faster than what?”

  “Than you muddling through on your own.”

  “You trying to get rid of me again?”

  She looked up at him. Saw the laughter in his green eyes and had to smile. “Could I?”

  “Not without your mama’s say-so.”

  Still smiling, she looked away, feeling nervous but not sure why. “Then no, I’m not trying to get rid of you. Mama’s convinced you’re just what I need.”

  “Really?”

  “As a trainer.”

  “Oh. As a trainer.”

  He was laughing at her again. It was there in his voice.

  She couldn’t blame him. It seemed every time she was around him, she acted like a complete idiot. Determined to avoid making a bigger fool of herself, she decided to keep her head down and speak only when she had to.

  “I never met Press,” he said. “Never saw him ride, either. But I heard he was a hell of a roper in his day. How old is he now? Seventy?”

  “At least. But he’s still got the know-how. He could teach you a lot, if you were willing.”

  “I’m sure he could. And I’d jump at the chance to learn from him if I wasn’t already employed here.”

  “You’d still be working for Four Star. We’d send you to him for a few training sessions, is all. We’d pay for it, too, since the ranch would benefit.” When he didn’t answer right away, she shot him a smirk. “Do I have to seal the deal with another contract?” she asked, mimicking his words from the other day.

  Abruptly he stopped and stuck out his hand. It was huge. Could probably span a dinner plate. “With you, Raney, a handshake is enough.”

  Not sure if he was joking, she hesitated before putting her hand in his. It felt tiny in his broad, callused grip. A quick squeeze then she let go. “It better be,” she said, fighting a smile. “’Cause that’s all you’re going to get, cowboy.”

  “Ouch,” he said, and laughed out loud.

  It changed things—the teasing, the laughter, the touch of his hand. Now she was more aware of him than ever. And trusted him even less.

  When they reached the barn, Raney saw cars coming down
the drive. Sunday services were over. She watched her mother’s Ford Expedition turn into the parking area behind the house, then an older-model SUV pull in beside it. Three people got out of the second car. A big guy and two smaller people, one wearing a dress.

  Raney sighed. “Mama’s back and she brought company. You know what that means.” Dalton didn’t respond, his attention focused on the people talking with her mother. “Sunday dinner with all the fixings. Brace yourself. And dress up.” With a backward wave, she headed toward the house and left him still staring at the cars.

  “Dress up?” he called after her. “What does that mean?”

  Without slowing, she called over her shoulder, “White shirt, tucked in. Tie, clean jeans, and boots. No hat. If you don’t have a tie, Alejandro can loan you a bolo. And don’t be late.” She never glanced back to check, but the itch between her shoulder blades told her he watched her the whole way.

  She took a quick shower to get rid of the dust and smell of spent powder, then hunted for a dress that would be comfortable, flattering, and meet her mother’s exacting, if illogical, requirements.

  As part of her edict that they eat in the dining room, Mama had decreed that since her daughters rarely joined her for church services anymore, they should honor the Sabbath by wearing a proper dress at Sunday luncheon. No matter that her daughters were all grown women, fully capable of picking out their own clothes. Even Joss, the unmarried, pregnant one, had been dressing herself—and apparently, undressing herself—for years. But who dared argue with Mama, especially on a Sunday? Her house, her rules.

  Raney finally settled on a simple blue, knee-length dress with a flared hem and draped neckline, one she’d been told was the exact color of her blue eyes. She put her hair up in a loose knot, smeared on enough makeup to tame the freckles and sunburn, added gloss, mascara, and a dab of perfume, and that was that.

  The three guests were Dalton Caldwell’s parents and his younger brother, Timmy, who had a learning disability. Since Mama rotated between churches to maintain her social contacts, Raney had met the elder Cardwells years ago, although she hadn’t spoken to them often. They were at least a decade older than Mama, and looked it. Dalton’s arrest and the last two years with him gone had probably been hard on them, and now with the move, they looked worn to a nub. Raney felt bad for them. Her family had weathered rough patches, too, but there were enough of them to hold each other up when times were tough.