Once a Maverick

by Raine Cantrell

  The moments stretched into minutes before the Pima nodded. “John Redbird. You come.”

  Ty traded his gun for the horse. Redbird merely nodded at his choice as Ty led out a piebald mare. He wanted the high-stepping sorrel, but the mare had a broad back that could easily accommodate both himself and Dixie. Her eyes were both gentle and intelligent, her black-and-white-spotted coat, gleaming. She was sound of limb, young enough to take the grueling ride, old enough to have some desert and mountain smarts.

  Redbird had a little English, and Ty strained to remember some Papago as they dickered over his bullets for two blankets. Enticing smells rose from the camp fires. Ty fingered the gun belt. Conner had made it for him, and Logan had traded with a Navajo silversmith for the buckle with the initial K centered over a coil of rope. It had been his sixteenth birthday gift, one of the few things he had taken with him when he left home.

  Ty handed it over in trade for food.

  An abrupt angry spate made Ty turn around in time to see a woman. He knew it was rude to stare, but she stood poised to flee, breasts bare, her chest and her chin adorned with tattooed designs. That was the way of the Mohave women, not the Pimas. As he turned back, Ty saw the forbidding expression on Redbird’s face and knew he wasn’t going to be invited to return.

  “You go now. Redbird bring food.”

  He held the hackamore rope bridle of the piebald and tossed the folded blankets across her back. The Pima returned with a basket. Ty took it from him, then looked back at the huts. Obviously Redbird had warned his woman, and the others, to stay out of sight. Holding the ends of the bitless bridle in one hand, Ty used his grip on the mare’s thick mane to swing himself onto her back.

  Redbird was already returning to his village as Ty rode out with the sun warming his back.

  Less than a mile later, Ty realized he should have bargained harder for a shirt.

  Dixie heard whispered rustlings. In her fevered state she thought it was voices she heard, voices that made her shake with chills. She couldn’t open her eyes, the effort was beyond her. Her lips felt cracked and dry, like her throat. The rustlings grew louder, closer, and she fought to get away from them.

  In seconds she felt as if she were being smothered. Heat baked her body. Pain lanced her when she tried to move. In her fever dream she saw herself stumbling into the desert, falling beneath a merciless sun that sucked the moisture from her. She tried to call out. No sound reached her ears.

  She was dying. A throbbing began in her head, a quickening drumbeat that encompassed her in minutes and she thought her life’s blood was seeping from her to its rhythm. But there was something…something she had to do.

  Ty would help her. He’d promised. The thrashing noises increased in intensity, adding to the pain her overburdened body contended with and she knew she needed help.

  Ty…his name became a short, panicked litany that brought no relief, no answer.

  Terror squeezed Ty’s belly like a cold, hard fist.

  Even as he urged the mare to walk the few feet to the big cottonwood, he knew he wouldn’t find Dixie where he had left her. The small branches that he had covered her with were scattered over the earth.

  Still mounted, he reached up anyway, touching the woven cradle and testing the heat that remained. Since the sun was weak filtering through the thick boughs, he knew the warmth he felt was hers.

  She hadn’t been gone long.

  But where? And how, wounded as she was, had she managed to climb down?

  Maybe she didn’t do it on her own.

  The fist squeezed tighter until he shook.

  She had the only gun between them, all he had was his knife. He slid from the piebald’s back and set the basket down and saw the faint depressions in the earth. At a walk he headed for the riverbank, fighting not to run, needing to read every sign so he wouldn’t make more mistakes.

  Her footprints told their own story. And the cold, hard fist reached up and squeezed his heart in its grip. Here she had staggered, then fallen time and again, before she crawled and somehow stood up. The false start and stop where she had circled around in the brighter sunlight that was already drying the mud added to his pain.

  A black rage against the Fates, the Lord and himself encompassed him.

  He found where she had crawled, then dragged herself to a stand of cattails at the river’s edge. And that’s where she lay while he shook with fear that he was too late.

  Ty was afraid to touch her. Guilt was overwhelming, swamping his senses, holding him prisoner before he broke free and fell to his knees in the mud beside her.

  Angrily he brushed her hair from her cheek. Fever heat rose from her body to touch his own. Her skin was dry and hot. He stroked her cheek, praying silently, and was rewarded with her shallow breath caressing his fingertip.

  Gently, very gently, he turned her over. The air he had been holding rushed out, and he had to drag in lungfuls, releasing them slowly as he fought to gain control of his fear.

  When he stopped shaking, he kicked off his boots, then removed Dixie’s. He couldn’t stop the fine trembling of his hands as he unbuckled her gun belt and tossed it up onto the bank. Afraid of hurting her even more, he forced himself to be gentle stripping off her torn, mud-soaked shirt and pants. He made himself untie the makeshift bandages from her wounds.

  Lifting her up into his arms, he rose and walked out into the shallows of the river to bathe the fever from her body. Her pitiful moans rid him of the foolish notion that he was going to ride toward home with her today.

  But he welcomed the sounds of distress as he dipped her body over and over in the cold river. Every moan marked another minute that she lived.

  All Ty had to do was make sure she kept on fighting.

  He remembered his brother Logan taken with a fever, and the constant soft whispers of his mother’s voice recalling stories of her past, of their births, and every incident, no matter how small, of their life on the ranch.

  So he talked to her as he wrapped her in a blanket and got a fire started. The talk was a needed distraction for himself, as well. He had to heat his knife blade.

  He didn’t want to think about marring her skin, and he couldn’t think of anything else.

  Ty never knew what made him remember the scent of chia. He had ridden past the desert sage, its blue flowers weren’t in bloom. The seeds…something about the seeds.

  “Sweet Lord! I can’t remember,” he cried out, instantly narrowing his eyes as his gaze returned to the far hillside. He walked there, drawn by some unexplained force, only knowing that he had to gather as many of the plants’ seeds as he could.

  The scent drew him. The moment he held the seeds he remembered. He had hired on as an army scout, a job that lasted all of three days. His still-wet-behind-the-ears captain, who couldn’t tell one Indian from another, believed the only good Indian was a dead one. He’d been incensed by the man’s sheer stupidity, beat him to a pulp and quit. But he hadn’t walked away. The captain got off one shot that creased his arm, and Ty remembered the Indian who found him used the crushed seeds of the desert sage to make a poultice.

  He filled his pockets and hurried back to Dixie. “You’re gonna live. No matter what promises I have to make and keep, you are not going to die.”

  It was pointless to count the trips he made to the river with her. He lost track of time as he held her in his arms, dribbling water over her lips, bathing her forehead. He rocked her, feeling how the fever had reduced her to a fragility she never projected in the time he had known her. No, that wasn’t quite true.

  Dixie had been fragile in his arms, coming apart for him. He banished the memory that rose to haunt him.

  Only once did she open her eyes and look directly at him. The clawing motion of her hand on his bare chest lasted seconds before she let it fall to her lap.

  Ty had to lean over and press his ear to her lips to hear what she struggled to say.

  “He-lp…me. F-find—”

  “Who, Dixie? W
ho is it that you want? Tell me, Angel. I’ll hunt hell for you.”

  “Ty.”

  He jerked his head back. Within her glazed eyes the reflection of the fire danced. With a long drawn-out sigh she closed them as if the effort had been too much for her. Once again the fever rose in her body.

  Ty knew he couldn’t wait for morning to leave.

  He blessed his choice of the piebald mare when he had to lift Dixie onto the horse’s back. Dixie couldn’t sit up alone, she fell forward against the mare’s neck, her arms dangling off the sides until he could mount.

  The mare stood placid, as if she knew how precious her burden was to him.

  Night riding at its best—clear sky, full moon and stars so brilliant they sparkled like gold dust—was something Ty avoided if he could. He thought of other times he had ridden at night, nights when he used the stars to steer himself home. It was so long ago, but the memories came to him now of riding with Logan, their drunken voices blending together like two croaking frogs as they tried to get back to the ranch before morning service.

  But never with Conner. Conner didn’t hold with a man getting drunk. He thought less of his brothers for it. But he always paid for any damages done on those Saturday nights after their father had died. Conner had stepped into the old man’s boots as if they had been made for him.

  Ty regretted the memories that rushed at him with every foot that brought him nearer to home. Yet he could not help wish this was one of those times when he was the one who couldn’t sit on a horse. He’d give anything to have Dixie be the one bringing him home instead.

  Around and around his thoughts went as the night faded away and the sun rose like a brimming ball of fire. He knew he could cut a day’s travel time if he headed for the desert, but Dixie needed water.

  By the time the sun set, he was using water to cool his own burned skin. Which made the fire he had to build as chills racked her body so painful for him to be near.

  He dozed and woke with a start. It wasn’t a dream but his own guilty thoughts that surfaced as he checked Dixie. He thought her breathing seemed easier. Maybe he was wishing too hard.

  He had called her trouble. He took it back. She began babbling of places and people he didn’t know, but then he was doing too much praying to pay close attention.

  Late the next night he crossed Queen’s Creek. He was north of the Rocking K now. The willows’ branches caressed by a breeze was a long familiar song that he had fallen asleep to when he camped up here. Ty was hoarse from whispering his memories to Dixie throughout the day.

  The mare needed rest. Ty hoped she’d forgive him for asking for her heart as he pushed on. The way he made promises to Dixie, he made others to the mare. Her own stall. Corn and molasses grain. The sweetest hay this side of heaven and currying twice a day.

  Ty scrubbed his eyes hours later. “Damn star fell,” he mumbled. His arm stung from the thousand pinpricks as he shifted Dixie and shook it hard to get his blood moving.

  The sound he heard had Ty shaking his head, as well. He was dreaming! Those were cows. He sat up a little straighter and peered through the dark. It wasn’t a star but a small camp fire he saw.

  “Help, Dixie. We’ve found help.” But even as he whispered this reassurance to her, he kept the mare to a walk. The tingling had left his arm. He slid Dixie’s gun from the holster and approached the camp cautiously.

  Ty hailed the camp and was welcomed in. Three rifle barrels greeted him.

  “I’ve a half-dead woman in my arms. We’ve been riding for near four days. Need some help getting to the Rocking K.”

  Silence. One man stepped out of the shadows, his face a war map of tanned creases. He swept back his battered hat as he lowered the rifle.

  “Burn my britches! I’m blind as a stubbin’ post! Set down yore iron, boys, Ty Kincaid’s come home.”

  “Hazer? Sweet Lord, it’s you.” Ty tried to stop his fall, worried that he’d hurt Dixie. He was passing out, but other arms caught her, other voices promised help and he let go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ty awakened to soft, sweet-smelling linen sheets and cool adobe. He tried to turn but his body refused to respond. He kept his eyes closed, absorbing the well-remembered scents of home.

  His pillow was stuffed with down, and the fragrant dried summer flowers. As a boy he had trailed along with his mother and Sofia through the mountain valleys gathering wild herbs, silk dalea, rock daisies, and the sweet sand verbena. He had run wild and free, exploring where he would.

  He inhaled a deep breath and caught the faint trace of the cedar beams overhead blending with the lemon oil Sofia used to keep the furniture gleaming.

  Enfolding him was the warmth brought by allowing himself to drift on the slow-moving current of memory’s waterway. He could ride before he could run. For a brief, painful moment he recalled his father’s hand on his shoulder, the pride in his eyes, and the praise he whispered for Ty’s choice of his first horse.

  The current quickened and flashes of rough-and-tumble play with his brothers gave way to the clashes that had followed their father’s death. But there were images of happy times, laughter and fiestas to celebrate roundups, holidays, the acknowledgment of manhood.

  He stirred restlessly, feeling that he had less strength than a day-old kitten. The absence of his own musty odor forced the memory of someone bathing him. He hadn’t been able to lift his head, much less—

  “Damn! Dixie!” He threw off the sheet and tried to sit up. The room tilted and swirled around him.

  Cradling his head in his hands, Ty closed his eyes. He had to wait for the dizziness to pass. When he heard the door open, he couldn’t even look up.

  “You’re awake. Good. But rest easy, little brother, you’re in no shape to go anywhere.”

  “Conner.”

  “The same.”

  Ty heard the clink of spur rowels and knew that his brother had come closer to the bed.

  “I’ve been on binges that didn’t set the room twirling around like this.”

  “I remember,” Conner answered. “Your back looks like someone worked a branding iron over it a time or two. Hazer said you rode in puny as a tick-fevered dogie and making about as much sense. But if you’re moving at all, then Sofia worked her charms on you.”

  “Yeah.” Despite his dizziness, Ty heard the underlying questions in his brother’s voice and braced for what was sure to come—Conner playing ramrod of the Rocking K, Conner acting the big brother, or Conner set on filling their daddy’s boots. It was a toss-up for sure, because they all boiled down to one and the same.

  “So, you had yourself some trouble. Hard, by the looks of—”

  “The hell with me, Conner. Where’s Dixie? How’s she doing? I need to see—”

  “Stay put.” Conner used one large hand on his brother’s shoulder to hold him down. He didn’t miss Ty’s wince of pain when his sunburned flesh was touched and instantly moved back.

  “Both Ma and Sofia are with her. She’s got a fever that won’t quit, Ty, and her side wound festered. But you’re not going to be any help as a nursemaid in your condition. ’Sides, you owe me a reason why you’ve come home looking like you fought with the devil and lost.”

  Relief flooded Ty at hearing that Dixie was alive and in the best hands that he could place her. She was a strong woman, he reminded himself. And much as he hated to admit it, Conner was right. He was in no shape to take care of her.

  “Well?” Conner prompted, fighting to keep his voice level and his emotions under control.

  “Shut the hell up, Conner. I’ll talk when I’m ready.”

  “Guess all this time away from home didn’t teach you any manners. Sure to hell didn’t teach you to hang on to what you owned. Damn it, boy! You come—”

  “Conner.” Soft and quite deadly, Ty cut in and for the first time looked up at his brother. But Conner stood in front of the shuttered window with his back toward him.

  “Listen, Conner. You want explanations. Fine.
Toss me a pair of pants. After I see for myself how Dixie is, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

  Hearing the scratchiness of Ty’s voice, Conner filled one of the beakers from the clay jug on the dresser and brought it to his brother. “Here, drink this before you croak like a frog.”

  The sunlight filtering through the wooden shutters hit Ty’s eyes and he squinted as he took the beaker from Conner. He didn’t really need to see his brother’s face to know that a scowl likely masked his features. It was, he recalled, his brother’s habitual facial expression whenever they went head to head.

  Ty gulped down the cool, sweet lemonade. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and handed the beaker back to Conner.

  “Sofia still makes the best I’ve ever tasted.” Ty ran his hand over the clean sheets. “Soft beds, clean linen, good food, even a roof that doesn’t leak over your head. Home.”

  “I’m surprised you notice or care, little brother. You’ve kept yourself scarce around these parts.”

  “And we both know why, don’t we, Conner?”

  It was a challenge that Conner refused to answer. Yet he couldn’t resist a dig of his own. He lifted Ty’s boots in one hand. “The boot size’s bigger, sorta matches the size of your mouth, doesn’t it?”

  “Hard as it is for you to admit, and believe, Conner, I’ve grown some since I’ve been gone.”

  “Let Sofia fatten you up and I might believe it.”

  Ty grinned as he caught the pants that Conner tossed at him. It was as close as his brother would come to telling him that he was welcome to stay.

  Not ready to try standing, Ty sat on the edge of the bed and struggled into the soft cotton denim. The fit was a mite on the tight side, and Ty realized that they were his own worn pants, left behind as most of his clothes had been. He eyed the boots that Conner set down before him, but wasn’t about to attempt to put them on. He knew his own limitations. He wasn’t going far today.

  “Now, tell me where Ma put Dixie?”