Renegade Man

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Every time Magnum was tempted to wander away, she called him back. But the Lab was as restless as she was, and when an imprudent long-eared rabbit hopped across the flat, Magnum was off and running in pu¬suit. She didn’t even bother to yell this time. She was too tired and too hot and too frustrated. She went back to her trowelling.

  Soon Magnum came trotting back, panting, and dropped down beside the pit, head between his paws, his tongue lolling. “What, nothing to show for your effort?” she chided.

  The dog wrinkled his forehead, as if embarrassed by his failure, and she laughed ruefully. “Well, that makes two of us. Let’s call it quits for now, fella.”

  In a way it felt good to be sore; it made her feel that she had really worked hard that day. For almost a quarter of an hour she stood underneath the hot shower. Although it was already six o’clock, the sun was still high above the peaks. The evening stretched interminably before her. Resigning herself to categorizing her finds, she slipped into a terry-cloth robe and padded over to the table, which was littered with her sacks and cigar boxes.

  She had barely begun entering her finds in her log when she heard a car .coming up the dirt road toward the cabin. Magnum, growling softly, was already at the door. Jonah? No, Jonah expected a woman to meet him on his own turf. Jonah didn’t want to get involved in any entangling emotions that might lead to a relationship.

  Had C.B. tracked her down to force another confrontation? A little shiver of fear rustled through her. Kingsley could be merciless, and he would stop at nothing to get his own way. In this instance, her ban¬ishment from Tomahawk Flats and Silver City. Just how far would he go to achieve that goal?

  And there was always that unacknowledged question – what if it was Chap, coming back? Everyone had returned to the scene of the crime. Only he was missing from the stage.

  She pushed aside the calico curtains. Soren’s Lincoln was parking before the cabin. And here she was wearing no makeup. Nothing she could do about that now. She adjusted the folds of her robe so that the neckline was less daring and went to the door.

  Soren filled the doorway, looking masculinely fashionable in razor-creased tan slacks and a brown seersucker jacket. His eyes twinkled. “I’ve come to rescue you from becoming a recluse. Have dinner with me?”

  She had to laugh. “Now?” Her hand swept down to indicate her attire.

  “Change. I’m a patient man.”

  Why not? Disdaining the pink knit sundress, she settled for jeans, a turquoise tank top, a denim jacket and her old white sandals. Her hair, still damp from the shower, was twisted in a careless knot at her nape. She applied smudges of eyeliner and lipstick and finished in just under ten minutes. She looked at herself critically in the medicine cabinet mirror, then added large gold hoop earrings. It was the closest her wardrobe came to “understated elegance.”

  Soren’s eyes reflected his appreciation of her efforts. “I think I might recant my dinner offer and keep you here all to myself.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “You can’t. My stomach’s growling and won’t take no for an answer. Where are we eating?”

  He shook his head in a hopeless gesture. “A woman who has only one thing on her mind—food—can’t be all bad. The Buckhorn.”

  The Buckhorn Saloon and Opera House in Pinos Altos had been in existence since the 1860s, and with its Old West decor it was one of the most popular— and expensive—eating places in Grant County. But the added attractions of the restaurant-saloon-opera- house were well worth the prices. A carved wooden Indian sat at the bar, and waiters dressed in appropriate costumes served the customers, while the more talented sang, danced or acted out melodramatic skits on the opera house’s spotlit stage to the music of a tinny piano.

  It was all great fun and very noisy, and Rita-lou was enjoying herself—and a mesquite-cooked, Texas-size T-bone—immensely. That was, until Jonah ambled in. Dressed in his worn jeans, scuffed boots, disreputable hat and leather vest, he made all the other men there look like so many drugstore cowboys. Was it some sort of cosmic joke that made their paths cross and recross these days?

  She watched him join three outdoorsy-looking men who had hailed him from a corner table. A treacherous gust of desire swept through her, and she took a fortifying swallow of her salty margarita.

  Soren noted her suddenly dampened mood, and he said quietly, “It’s Jonah Jones, isn’t it? You’re in love with him.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No.” She couldn’t be. Jonah aroused a tormenting passion in her, true. But love, that cherished feeling she had known with Robert, was out of the question. “We’re just friends, the way we have been since grade school.”

  “More than that, wasn’t it? How about grade school sweethearts? Haven’t you heard about old flames rekindled?”

  Her mouth curled in a tight $mile. “Obviously you went off to college before I rocked Silver City with scandal.”

  Gently he placed his big hand over hers. “I heard all about it later.”

  “Ahh, yes. Gossip. I’m sure you were filled in on every nasty little detail.”

  “Naturally. The infamous Rita-lou Randall. She dumped Jonah Jones for Chap Kingsley, became pregnant with his child, and when the Cattle Baron intervened she told him to kiss off, left Chap and left town. Right?”

  She had to laugh, but it was brittle laughter. “Yes. All that you heard happened did. Just that way. But that was in the distant past. Middle age has tempered my impetuousness.” She smiled wryly. “At least I hope the years have mellowed me.”

  He stared at her intently. “Impetuousness? Is that the same as willfulness?”

  She lowered her eyes to her nearly empty plate, smiled—at herself, mostly—then met his penetrating gaze. “You’re a shrewd man, Soren.”

  “Rita-lou, I’ve come to find out that I don’t know a damned thing about women.”

  She had to chuckle. “Does any man?”

  Their conversation turned to other subjects. He charmed her with a tale she had never heard about pinon nuts. “They say you can spot a true New Mex¬can by the way he eats the pinon nuts. An out-of-stater will crack them one by one. But a real New Mexican—after popping a handful in his mouth—will skillfully extract the nuts and spit out the shells.”

  “Then I’m not a true New Mexican, am I?” she said teasingly

  He smiled and said, “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

  She settled for the safe subject of anthropology, telling him about the misconception people had regarding early man’s height. “Mogollon Man wasn’t much shorter than we are today. He probably didn’t find his small doorways any more comfortable than we would, but those doorways were much easier to cover with skins or rock slabs to keep out the cold winter drafts.”

  For the remainder of the evening they talked of in-consequential things. She focused her attention on Soren and refused to glance even once in Jonah’s direction. She doubted he even knew she was in the restaurant. In fact, for all she knew, he had already eaten and left.

  Thinking about Jonah, she remembered how once, in the ninth grade, Buck had picked on old Reverend Bradshaw’s son. Timothy had been a mite of a boy who hadn’t yet reached the height puberty brought. The other kids had pressured Jonah into defending the boy. They had expected Jonah to champion them— and he had, however reluctantly.

  Soren had been there that day, and if strength had been the determining factor, he would have been the better choice. But the kids had looked to Jonah for Timothy’s defense. She didn’t understand it—this crowd judgment. How it ousted some and prodded others forward, regardless of their wishes. Whatever it was that commanded the respect of men, Jonah had it.

  After dinner, while Soren was paying the bill, she waited outside, where it was cooler. She turned her face upward. There in the mountains, the stars were larger and sparkled brighter. In Houston, clouds rolling in off the Gulf had more often than not obscured the heavens. Clouds and the smog.

  “Wishing on a star?”


  She spun around. Jonah was lounging against the restaurant’s outer doorway, watching her in a distinctly hostile manner.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Sailbad the Sinner.” She couldn’t help it—out-of-control fires of excitement had begun burning in her as soon as she saw him, and the only way she could fight him was with anger.

  “You always did have a smart mouth, Rita-lou.”

  She suddenly realized that he wasn’t completely sober. “Are you following me?”

  He pushed himself away from the doorframe and strode toward her. “As a matter of fact, I am. I saw you two driving up through Silver City and thought to myself that someone needs to keep an eye on you.” So it wasn’t just a coincidence, his dining at the Buckhom tonight. “Your concern is wasted on me, Blackbeard.” Without realizing it, she had let him back her up against one of the parked cars. “I don’t need a protector, thank—”

  “I’m totally capable of keeping an eye on Rita-lou without your help, old buddy.”

  Both of them turned to see Soren close the restaurant door behind him. “This is a private conversation, Gunnerson,” Jonah growled. “Come back another time.”

  “The lady is with me. We’ve been good friends, Jonah, and I’d rather settle this in a civilized manner, -but if you prefer otherwise I’m more than willing to accommodate you.”

  Soren was a good inch taller and more solidly built, but Jonah’s ropy muscles and long-limbed frame gave him the advantage of quickness. And his mean expression said that he preferred to do battle with the diplomatic Swede. That was all she needed to add to her notoriety: two men fighting over hef as if she were a trading-post tart.

  “Well, you two can slug it out like Neanderthals if that’s what you want, but I’m leaving.”

  She stepped away from Jonah and started walking down the street. Behind her she heard footsteps, and in a moment Soren caught up with her. He laid his hand on her arm. “I’ll take you home, Rita-lou.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. In the parking lot’s fluorescent light, Jonah, his boot propped negligently on someone’s fender, was still watching her. His outlaw’s mustache didn’t hide his sardonic grin.

  On the drive back, Soren said, “I’ve got to fly to London for several days. Rolistof business.” She heard the change in his voice, and in the dark she could just barely glimpse the scrutinizing glance he gave her. “While I’m gone, I want you to give some thought to marrying me.”

  “I don’t know..she hedged.

  “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. All right?”

  “All right. I’ll—I’ll think about it.”

  But it was a lie. All she could think about was Jonah.

  Chapter 12

  In the two months she had been excavating, she had dug eight five-foot squares, keeping meticulous records and diligently filling the trenches behind her as she dug. Yet again and again her efforts drew a blank when it came to proving the existence of Renegade Man. The stuffy old academic profs at the anthro conventions would denounce her efforts as sheer lunacy.

  What did she care?

  Digging, troweling, sifting, sorting. Obviously she was just going to have to dig deeper. But the hot wind sucked the moisture from the ground, baking it so hard that she literally had to chip away at the earth.

  An anthropologist needed stamina, and hers was waning quickly—sapped by the intense August heat that in the past few days had nudged the mercury above the 108 mark, hot even by New Mexico standards—sapped by her foolish obsession with Jonah.

  She must be mad!

  She had thought that by working even harder, by putting in fifteen-hour days to take advantage of the extended daylight hours, she would be too tired to think about the blond sea rover, but, unhappily, such was not the case.

  Most days she never caught a glimpse of Jonah, although she heard the constant low growl of his dredger and sometimes spotted his pickup through the foliage, heading into town. Once she had passed him on one of her treks to the hot springs, rare now that she had the cabin’s shower. These days she resorted to the hot springs merely for relief of the aching muscles caused by her long hours of hard physical labor.

  Jonah had been shirtless, with a damp towel slung over one broad shoulder. At the sight of each other, they had both slowed their steps and nodded civilly, warily. A blast-furnace wind out of the southwest had ruffled his wet hair. She had noticed how the water trickled down the square line of his jaw—and that he looked haggard. He was working as hard as she was, and, like her, he had increased his working hours until darkness made it difficult to see. But there was no getting around the fact that his irregular features were impossibly handsome.

  Feeling compelled to say something, anything, she had taken one of her verbal potshots at him. “With all the time you spend in water, I’m surprised you haven’t shriveled up like a raisin.”

  A wicked glint appeared in his green eyes, and his hands went to the snap of his jeans. “Want to see for yourself?”

  She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. But not on an “ ‘Open the door, lie on the floor,’ said Barnacle Bill the Sailor” basis.

  Ignoring his taunt, she had lifted her chin and strode on past him. Nevertheless, she had heard his parting shot, “So long, smart mouth.”

  “Bon voyage, Jacques Cousteau!” she had fired back. “And good riddance!”

  What she needed was a shoulder to comfort her, or a reassuringly hearty hug. Soren filled that bill, but she knew she could never marry him. She had made up her mind to tell him so when he returned from London. It wasn’t fair to offer him any encouragement. Their relationship could never go beyond friendship. His kind of love would smother her.

  Disgusted with her unfruitful day, she stowed the adz, shovel and other tools in her trunk and laid the tarp over the freshly troweled pit. When she glanced around, Magnum was gone again. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him. Probably sometime before noon. When several calls produced no response, she reluctantly turned her footsteps toward Jonah’s camper.

  She found him wearing his wet suit and knee-deep in the river. He was shoveling the heavy tailings from one tub into another one that was covered by a screen. Both tubs were sunk just below the waterline.

  At the sight of her, he paused, leaning wearily on his shovel handle. He watched her approach with something like suspicion in his eyes. They flicked down past her shorts to travel the length of her sun-browned legs. When he returned his gaze to her face, he was scowling. “You wanted something?”

  How did he always manage to make her feel so uncertain of herself? “My dog,*’ she said curtly. “Have you seen Magnum anywhere?”

  His expression relented somewhat. “He was here around lunchtime. After he sampled a frankfurter, he took off without even a thank you. I’ve been underwater most of the time since then.”

  So he had been feeding her dog. He wasn’t quite the tough guy he made himself out to be. In fact, she realized it was this shy sexiness that had reached through to charm her. “Well... thanks.”

  She could think of no other place Magnum might have wandered off to, unless he had decided to visit the hot springs without her. She certainly couldn’t reprimand him for watering Kingsley’s old arrasta, could she?

  Feeling Jonah’s gaze on her back, she used the stepping-stones to the river, then started off through the dense thickets, skirting the thornier prickly pear and cholla cactus that dotted the ground.

  She couldn’t say that she actually heard anything at fFirst, but she was drawn off the path that led to the hot springs by something, maybe her unscientific sixth sense. Gradually, though, she detected a sound besides the crunching of gravel beneath her tennis shoes.

  When she identified the noise, a sick feeling of terror filled her, and her skin turned clammy. She began to run, the mescal and nopal cacti scratching her thighs and calves. She broke free into a ragged clearing. “Oh, noooo!” she gasped.

  Magnum lay there on his side, loo
king like one bloody mass. When she knelt beside him, he could barely lift his head, but his tongue flicked out in a weak signal of recognition. His eyes, clouded with pain, implored her for succor.

  “Oh, fella! What happened? My poor Magnum!” Her eyes flooded with tears, which then streamed down her cheeks and onto his blood-matted fur. While she wept, she wailed unknowingly, “Oh, God! Oh, God! No! No! Oh, dear God, how could this happen?”

  Magnum’s eyes questioned her, but still filled with puzzled suffering.

  “My God!”

  Still on her knees, she turned to see, through tear- blurred eyes, Jonah loping through the brush toward her. “Oh, Jonah, it’s Magnum—he’s been hurt! A wild boar, maybe. I don’t know. It’s awful.”

  She didn’t realize she was rattling on until Jonah took her by the shoulders and calmed her with a gentle “Ssshh, Rita-lou.”

  He moved her aside and hunkered on one knee beside the Labrador. He stroked the dog’s head almost thoughtfully. “It’s all right, boy. It’s all right.” His gaze ran over the dog. His fingers moved down the animal’s neck to probe at the sticky patches of fur left around Magnum’s badly lacerated throat. “A wild boar didn’t do this,” he muttered.

  She could only stare at him uncomprehendingly, too choked with tears for speech.

  “That bastard!” he snarled. He sprang to his feet and began to prowl the clearing, his eyes searching the dusty ground. All at once he hunched down again and ran his fingers over the dirt. “That’s a rope burn around Magnum’s neck. And these are horseshoe imprints—Magnum was dragged through the brush by someone on horseback.”

  “But why would—” And then she knew. “Kingsley!” she spat. A tidal wave of hatred slammed over her.

  Jonah shook his head. “I don’t think so. This is Buck Dillard’s work. Maybe Kingsley is behind it, but those tracks say the horse belonged to Buck.”

  He returned to kneel over Magnum, and then he scooped the dog up in his arms. Magnum whimpered at the pain, and Jonah said, “It’s going to be okay, boy. We’re going to get you to the vet.”