Cowboy Come Home

by Carly Bloom

  They came over a hill, and Ford screeched the truck to a stop. The road in the dip below was completely underwater.

  “Shit,” Ford said.

  “Can we get through it?” Claire asked. “We’ve got high clearance in this truck.”

  “Nice to know you learned your lesson about driving into water,” Ford said.

  “But Ford—”

  “What would be the point of getting through that? Look at the bridge, Claire.”

  Claire looked in the direction Ford was pointing. The brown, muddy river water swirled in the distance, way out of its bank. Shouldn’t she be able to see the iron trusses of the old bridge from here? “I don’t see anything,” she said.

  “That’s because it’s gone.”

  Claire sat up and leaned into the windshield. This couldn’t be right. “Maybe it’s past the next hill,” she said. The landscape, covered in water, looked so foreign.

  “Nope,” Ford said. “That’s the river. And the bridge is washed away.”

  “But that can’t be—”

  The whirring sound of a helicopter drowned out Claire’s words. She stuck her head out the window and looked over the treetops. A news helicopter hovered above them.

  Ford started to back up.

  “Ford, if the Harper’s Hill bridge is out, there’s no way we can get across Wailing Woman.”

  “We’re going to Wailing Woman anyway.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s where they’ll be looking for you.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. Just once. “I can’t stand the thought of it.”

  His Adam’s apple appeared to get stuck when he tried to swallow. Surely, his mind was wandering to Abby’s drowning, and how they’d searched for her.

  Claire squeezed his hand back, and Ford nodded before putting the truck in drive.

  “Even if we can’t get across, they’ll see us,” Ford said. “They’ll know you’re safe, and that’s what matters.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t often that things were actually worse than Ford expected them to be—he wasn’t a ray of sunshine by anyone’s standards—but this was one of those times. Seeing the bridge washed away at Harper’s Hill had been a shock. That old bridge had no doubt withstood many a flood.

  But not this one.

  Claire shivered next to him. Damn, he knew the agony her folks must be experiencing. He’d had to see his own mom go through it, with a much worse outcome.

  It didn’t take long until they came to the waterline of the flood.

  “Holy cow,” Claire said. “Ford, if you hadn’t come along when you did—”

  Ford swallowed. He hadn’t come along. He’d headed straight for her like a bat out of hell. With his heart pounding and his mind racing and…He could still taste the relief. Still feel the way his knees had struggled to hold him upright at the sight of her.

  He cleared his throat. “I think we’re as close as we can get. I’m going to pull off here, and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Claire threw her door open. The creek was just down the hill. They could hear it. “Hold up,” Ford said.

  She waited for him, blue eyes nearly frantic. “There’s no way to get across?”

  “Not without a boat.”

  They walked up over a rise and the swirling waters appeared, muddy and ugly, in front of them. Across the creek was a sheriff’s vehicle, a fire truck, and five pickup trucks.

  Several people stood around. One looked up, and that’s all it took. Everyone began waving their arms and shouting.

  Before Ford could stop her, Claire ran for the creek. His heart leapt. “Wait! Don’t get close to the water.”

  On the other side of Wailing Woman, Lilly Kowalski broke free from the arms of a deputy and ran toward her daughter.

  “Mama!” Claire called. “I’m fine!”

  Ford caught up with Claire and grabbed her by the waist. “Close enough,” he said. “She sees you.”

  Lilly Kowalski had been likewise restrained. She was shouting something, but they couldn’t make it out. The sound of the water was too loud.

  Ford gave the thumbs-up sign to Lilly and the others standing on the bank. Lilly looked as if she was both laughing and crying, and everyone began hugging each other in celebration. Ford couldn’t imagine the relief and joy they must be feeling. He reached over and squeezed Claire’s hand.

  “I don’t see my dad,” Claire said.

  The hum of a motor preceded the sight of the game warden’s boat, moving slowly upstream toward them. Sitting tall behind the warden was Gerome Kowalski, a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. He looked right at them, but unlike his wife, there was no show of emotion beyond a slight nod. But then, as the boat drew near the shore, Gerome made his way to the front, put one long leg over the railing, followed by another, and as the game warden shouted and made a grab for him, he jumped.

  Claire gasped, and Ford had to hold her tightly.

  The swirling water was chest-high on Gerome, but thanks to a pile of debris forming a small dam just upstream, the current wasn’t strong, and he managed to wade ashore. The old fool hadn’t even gotten his hat wet.

  Ford let go of Claire and she rushed to her father.

  “You’re going to get wet,” Gerome said, holding her at arm’s length for about two seconds before drawing her in for a voracious hug.

  While Claire still clung to him, Gerome held out his hand to Ford. “Much obliged,” he said simply.

  Ford accepted Gerome’s hand. It was shaking, but Ford didn’t let on that he noticed. “Didn’t do much. Dried her off. Fed her some chowder.”

  Got naked but nothing happened.

  Gerome nodded. “Check on the pastured herd on the east forty. It’s high ground, but we’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Gerome released Claire from the hug and looked her up and down. He probably noticed she was wearing Ford’s clothes.

  “You might want to check on Ruben,” Gerome added. Then, with another nod, he took his daughter’s hand. “Let’s get you back to the house.”

  The game warden had brought the bow of the boat onto the shore, and Claire headed for it. But then she stopped, and looked at Ford. “Thank you. For everything.”

  He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  She turned slowly, almost reluctantly, as if she had more that she wanted to say but had decided to keep it to herself. Gerome climbed onto the boat first and then helped her up. The warden handed her a life vest, and as she struggled to put it on, Gerome tipped his hat at Ford.

  Unlike Ford’s family’s worst day, the Kowalskis were getting a happy ending to their nightmare.

  Ford sure was glad to be a part of it.

  Chapter Eight

  Claire stared at the scrambled eggs in front of her. It had been two days since the flood, and sixteen-year-old Alison Mendoza was missing. Who could eat at a time like this?

  Her mom plopped three strips of bacon onto her plate.

  “Oh, no thanks—”

  “It’s from Happy Trails,” she said. “Organic, free-range pork, so you can feel good about eating it.”

  Maybe Claire could eat at a time like this.

  “Toast?” her mom asked.

  Claire nodded as her mom put a jar of fresh apple butter on the table. It, too, came from Happy Trails. Hopefully, Maggie and Travis’s apple orchard had survived the flood.

  “Eat up,” her mom said, sitting across the table from her. “There’s a lot of work to be done today. Some ladies are coming by to help make food for the deputies and firefighters.”

  Act One of Claire’s Not Dead had consisted of tears and hugs. Act Two had consisted of What were you thinking? and We thought you were smarter than that. Act Three consisted of everybody going on about their business.

  The flood was the worst anyone in Big Verde could remember, and the loss of her Mini Cooper wasn’t worth mentioning when four houses along the Rio Verde had been lifted right off the
ir foundations. Luckily, the Schmidts and Hendersons hadn’t been home and were accounted for. The other two were vacation homes, and everyone was hoping their owners were safe and sound. But nobody had seen Alison since she’d left her friend’s house at nine o’clock on Friday night. There were no low-water crossings on the route she’d have taken to get home, but if she’d been anywhere near downtown and the river park, where lots of teens often hung out…

  Her poor parents were going crazy.

  It wasn’t a good time to bring up Petal Pushers, although even now, Claire was dying to share her ideas.

  Heavy footsteps came down the hall, along with deep, male voices. Casey Long stepped into the kitchen, followed by Claire’s dad, two deputies, and Beau and Bryce Montgomery.

  Casey removed his hat. “Miss Lilly,” he said. “How are you holding up?”

  Claire’s mom reached up and patted the sheriff’s cheek. “Better than you, I imagine.”

  “I’m fine,” Casey said. “And Jessica said to tell you that Chateau Bleu would like to help your efforts at feeding everyone.”

  “Oh, what a dear!”

  Jessica Acosta was Casey’s fiancée, and she’d recently moved home to Big Verde to manage the only fancy restaurant in town, which was owned by a celebrity chef in Houston. People came from all over to eat there, and it had been a huge boon to Big Verde’s small downtown businesses, which were now soggy and water-damaged.

  “Sit, Casey,” her mom said, pulling a chair out.

  Six feet and four inches of Texas lawman did exactly as he was told.

  “The rest of you, too,” her mom said. She opened the cabinet and grabbed coffee mugs, filled them, and set them on the table. “I’ve got enough bacon and eggs for everyone.”

  Casey silently stirred some sugar into his coffee, glancing up at Claire. She knew he was going to light into her about driving into the low-water crossing. It was just a matter of time.

  He took a sip, closed his eyes, and swallowed. “Good coffee, Miss Lilly.”

  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  His eyes landed on Claire’s. And he didn’t blink.

  “Really?” he said. “You tried to get through Wailing Woman during flash flood conditions?”

  “It wasn’t flooding when I drove into it.”

  “That’s where the word flash comes in.”

  “And there wasn’t that much water over the low-water crossing. I’m not even sure I stalled out. I might have run out of—”

  Oops.

  “You ran out of gas?” Casey stared at her like she was a complete and total moron.

  “I’m not sure. The needle on the gauge was pretty low…”

  They’d known each other their entire lives, and she could literally see the words dumb and ass connecting in his brain.

  “Jesus Christ, Claire. You should know better.”

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

  Her dad stepped forward. “Claire, I don’t think Sheriff Long—”

  Claire snorted at the formality. This was Casey’s second term as sheriff, but she still hadn’t gotten used to it. Casey had been the town’s teenage hooligan—drinking, fighting, shooting up road signs—and now here he was with a badge and an attitude.

  Her dad touched her shoulder. “Sheriff Long hasn’t had much sleep since the night of the flood. He was up all night looking for you the first night, and since then he’s been searching for Alison.”

  Casey’s eyes were red, his jaw was unshaven, and there was a slight tremor in his hands. The truth was, he was a good sheriff and an even better friend. “Oh, God, Casey. I wasn’t thinking. Thank you for everything you’ve done.” She reached across the table and touched his hand. “I mean it.”

  “No need to thank me. I’m just glad you’re okay. Hopefully, the same can be said for Alison.”

  “I’d like to join the search party.”

  “Oh, now, Claire,” her mom said. “You’ve had a harrowing experience. Why don’t you stay at the house and help me cook?”

  “Actually,” Casey said, “we could use the help. And nobody wants to survive a flood only to die from Claire’s cooking.”

  * * *

  Ford stared at the landscape. He hadn’t grown up on Rancho Cañada Verde. Hell, he’d only spent one season on the place. But what he saw jarred him to the bone. Places that were typically green and dry were either submerged in standing water or covered in brown sludge. Cattle huddled together on the higher, dry mounds, and there was plenty of bawling going on among heifers and calves.

  There was still no electricity. He and Oscar had spent a romantic night dining by the light of the lantern, and he’d only had fitful bouts of sleep. Lots of water dreams. Flood dreams.

  Nightmares about Abby.

  He adjusted his hat. Pulled the brim down low and stared down at the eastern valley to continue counting cattle. Now wasn’t a good time to think about Abby.

  Was there ever a good time?

  Ford closed his eyes and an image of his wild-eyed mother filled his mind. Where is Abby? Ford, you were supposed to be watching her—

  He hated how it could still knock his feet out from under him. After all these years, he was still bowled over, carried away, rolling and tumbling out of control as if he’d been smacked by a wave while miles from the seashore.

  He opened his eyes and got his bearings. Then he began to count heads. Eleven on that mound…nine on that one…

  An hour later he and Coco had finished surveying the back two-fifty. He pulled out a small notebook and recorded the numbers, and then he and Coco went through the east gate to survey the next quadrant. A lot of fences were down. Some of the missing cattle had probably gone into the limestone hills to escape the water. There wasn’t much to eat up there, so getting them back down wouldn’t be too difficult. It was a lot of land to cover, though. He’d have to get some guys on it soon, otherwise they were going to end up with cattle in the nearby state park.

  Gerome had asked him to check on Ruben, so he figured he’d better do that next.

  Ruben lived on a bluff called Oak Meadow in a small house that was reportedly well over a hundred years old (and looked every minute of it). Gerome said it had been on the property when his great-great-great-granddaddy bought the place in 1853. Eight members of the Luna family, none of whom recognized borders, fences, or the legitimacy of the deed August Kowalski had held in his hand when he’d come knocking at the door, were living in it at the time.

  There’d been at least one Luna living in it ever since, and Gerome had sold it and the surrounding five acres to Ruben for a pittance (it was rumored to be a hundred dollars). So, the old scoundrel officially owned what was probably the prettiest damn spot on the entire ranch. But Gerome had said it was only fair. The land had belonged to the Luna family, whether they’d bought it or not, long before the Kowalskis ever set foot on the soil.

  Ruben was good with animals. Gerome said he was part veterinarian and part curandero. Ford doubted Ruben had ever been to veterinary school, but he’d saved more than one birthing heifer when the vet hadn’t been able to make it in time. And Miss Lilly said he was good with tinctures and whatnot for both animals and humans.

  There was a road on the other side of the hill, but Ford preferred the trail that wound through the juniper trees. He inhaled the sharp scent of cedar and noticed it was tinged with smoke. He looked to the top of the bluff. There was a steady spiral of white smoke meandering into the air. Ruben must be burning something, but what?

  It only took about fifteen minutes to get to the top of the bluff and the source of the smoke. Ruben stood in a small clearing in front of his house stacking green branches of cedar and sage atop a crackling fire.

  Ruben nodded briefly and then continued on about his business as if Ford wasn’t there. One of Ruben’s mongrel mutts came out and sniffed around Coco’s ankles, but then he also lost interest.

  Ford dismounted and sauntered over to where Ruben wa
s fanning the fire. It wasn’t easy to keep green things burning, and it was smoking like hell.

  “Good morning, Ruben. What’s with the fire?”

  “I’m just putting things in order,” Ruben said.

  Ford looked around. He didn’t see any evidence of brush clearing. “Looks like you came through the flood just fine.”

  “Yep. Gerome got you out working?”

  “Sure does.”

  “He’s sick,” Ruben said.

  “Oh?” Ford hadn’t seen Gerome since he and Claire had made it to Wailing Woman. And he doubted Ruben had made it across the creek to the ranch house, either. “How do you know that?”

  “Boo,” Ruben said simply.

  Ford raised an eyebrow. Ruben was nuts.

  Ruben called an ugly white dog over. “This is Boo,” he said.

  Things were making only slightly more sense. “Anyway—”

  “Boo knows when people are sick. I think he can tell by smelling, but I don’t know for sure. If someone is ill, he’ll whine and try to sit on their feet. He’s done that to Gerome for the past year or so.”

  “Well, did you tell him?” Ford asked, even though it was all a bunch of bullshit.

  “Yes. But he wasn’t ready to hear it.”

  The dog came over and sniffed around Ford. He was relieved when the dog circled him a few times and wandered off. “Whew,” he said. “He didn’t sit on my feet.”

  “No, but he circled you two times going counterclockwise.”

  Ford swallowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re cursed,” Ruben said simply, adding another green branch to the fire.

  Ford laughed. “I already knew that.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ruben eyed him for a few seconds, then went back to what he was doing. Ford figured he might as well tell the Mexican witch tale. It had amused many a cowboy over the years. “The story goes that my great-grandfather—”

  Ruben put a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

  Ford looked to where Ruben gazed into the woods. At first, he didn’t see it, but then a small motion brought it to light. A doe. And a little fawn.