In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

“Gif will be coming for me soon,” he added.

  “I know.” She sighed.

  No one could mistake her disappointment, and regret hurtled through him. After all she’d experienced since leaving San Francisco, she deserved a nice evening out.

  “Tomorrow, maybe,” he said, unable to promise her anything more definite and regretting that, too.

  “Maybe.” Sounding skeptical, she resumed unpacking her satchel. “Who are you and Gif meeting with tonight?”

  “His name is Jorge Esteban.”

  “And he can help you find my mother?”

  “Possibly.”

  She straightened and faced him. “Then I want to go with you.”

  “No.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Why not?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “I don’t want to stay here.”

  His patience thinned at her stubbornness. “I’m not giving you a choice. Flower is planning on having dinner with you. She’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  A knock sounded on the door, ending the argument. Trig withdrew a Colt from his holster and gestured to Carleigh to get behind him. He wanted her out of range if someone started shooting from the other side.

  “Who is it?” he demanded.

  “Manuel Cruz-Garcia,” replied a heavily-accented voice.

  “What do you want?”

  “I have linens for the senora,” the voice said.

  The towels Carleigh had requested for her bath. Trig relaxed, slid the revolver back into the holster, and unlocked the door.

  Cruz-Garcia stepped inside. He was a small-boned man, in his thirties by Trig’s estimation, and possessing shifty black eyes that slid toward Carleigh like oil on a hot skillet.

  Spencer barked. He jumped up to all fours and would have bolted to the man if Carleigh hadn’t scooped him up in time.

  Cruz-Garcia smiled, white teeth gleaming beneath a thick moustache as he set the towels on the bed. “The perrito thinks he is muy ferocious, eh?”

  Carleigh laughed. “But he is harmless.”

  “Maybe.” The gleaming smile disappeared. “Forgive me, Senora. He is not allowed in our hotel.”

  “Oh, no.” She darted a panicked glance at Trig.

  Trig crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the dresser.

  “Funny, mi amigo,” he mused, meeting the Mexican’s hooded gaze. “No one mentioned it when we checked in downstairs. She held the dog in plain sight.”

  “I apologize. The clerk should have told her. I will see that he is reprimanded for his carelessness.”

  Trig doubted the sly bastard had authority to reprimand anyone.

  “She’s attached to her pet,” he said.

  “I see that.”

  “It’d be a damned shame to take him from her.”

  “Si, it would.”

  “Maybe you can be persuaded not to say anything.”

  A smile formed, cunning and satisfied. “Maybe I can.”

  Trig strode toward the bed where Chandler’s envelope of money lay, right next to the towels, the bills easily visible and the reason for the Mexican’s threat. He removed one and handed it to Cruz-Garcia.

  “See that she’s not bothered again,” he snapped.

  The Mexican quickly stuffed the money into a pocket and nodded. “Si. Si.” He turned toward Carleigh and bowed, gallant and gentlemanly once more. “You will enjoy your bath, no?”

  Holding Spencer close, Carleigh lifted her chin. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, Senora.”

  Turning, he made a hasty retreat from the room. Trig locked the door.

  “Despicable little man,” Carleigh sniffed.

  “Greedy, too.”

  She set Spencer down. “I was afraid he was going to send us to the livery.”

  “I wouldn’t let that happen. You know that.”

  Her troubled glance lingered over the closed door. “Let’s hope Mr. Cruz-Garcia doesn’t acquire a craving for more of Papa’s money, then.”

  Trig frowned at her perception. He wondered if she knew how close she came to hitting the mark.

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” he said. He thought of her father and the illicit wealth he’d accumulated. “Once a man gets a taste of a bribe, he always comes back for more.”

  Night had long since settled in the quiet countryside just outside Tijuana, Mexico, a fast ride southward from San Diego.

  From their vantage point deep in moonlit shadows, Trig and Gif watched a small herd of cattle mosey across a rickety bridge. Hay strewn over the wooden slats muffled the clomp of hooves. A sombreroed Mexican urged them onward, his voice hushed and urgent.

  “Mighty strange he’s herding them Longhorns this time of night,” Trig said low.

  Gif nodded and shifted his weight in the saddle. “Something going on he doesn’t want anyone to know about.”

  Trig slid an assessing glance to the house situated at the top of a hill. The structure was stately and elegant. Out of place here in the pasture.

  Jorge Esteban had exceptionally fine taste in living quarters.

  “How much business do you figure he does on the side to maintain a spread like that?” Trig mused.

  Gif’s scrutiny followed. “A fair amount, I’d say.”

  “Either he’s rustling them cattle--.”

  “Or he’s smuggling.”

  Trig’s gaze slid back to the herd of Longhorns. “Let’s go.”

  They spurred their mounts out of the shadows. At the sound of hoof beats, the Mexican’s head jerked toward them. He turned and bolted to escape, but Trig’s gelding easily outpaced him. When Gif came up from behind on his big bay, the peasant had nowhere else to go.

  Several head of the skittish Longhorns scattered in the rush, but the man didn’t seem to notice. His sombrero fell back on its chin cord, and he broke into a flurry of Mex, gesturing wildly, his black eyes round with fear.

  Trig held up a hand. “Now, slow down, Senor. You’re talking so fast I can’t understand you.”

  The peasant immediately fell silent, but his glance jumped between Trig and Gif.

  Gif studied the man hard in the moonlight. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  Staring, he hesitated. “Si. Senor Cullin.”

  “Then you know, too, I’m a Customs Inspector for the United States.”

  Sweat broke out on the peasant’s forehead.

  “Now, I reckon there’s nothing much you have to worry about, since I’m in your country and I’m not seeing you bring anything into mine you shouldn’t. Yet. We just want to ask you a few questions is all.”

  Trig leaned forward on the saddle horn. He wasn’t as diplomatic as Gif. Or as patient. He went straight to the point. “You work for Senor Esteban?”

  “Si.”

  “These his cattle?”

  “Si.”

  “What’re you doing with them this time of night? Are they afraid of the sun?”

  The peasant clamped his mouth shut at Trig’s sarcasm and refused to answer any more questions.

  He exchanged an annoyed glance with Gif and dismounted.

  “See what you can get out of him, Gif,” he ordered. “I’m going to have a look around.”

  He walked amongst the animals and ran his hand along the coarse backs to search for anything that might indicate contraband slipped beneath the hides. Through the moonlight, he studied the symbols branded onto the rumps and found them all consistent.

  “He claims Esteban forces him to work long hours. Day and night,” Gif said, joining him.

  “Sure he does,” Trig said, skeptical.

  Any customs officer knew smugglers could be damned creative when they put their minds to it. He struck a match and bent to study the steer’s underside and privates. No incisions had been made. No bumps or bulges were evident.

  He frowned. The Mexican was hiding something.

  Trig just hadn’t found it yet.


  The match died, and he struck another. He glanced at the mammoth spread of the longhorns, thought briefly of what they could hide. He touched one tip, slid his hand along the length--.

  Suddenly, Gif bellowed. With amazing speed for his bulk, he took off after the peasant, fast making an escape. Trig broke into a run, too. Reaching him first, he caught the collar of the Mexican’s shirt and hauled him backward. The man kicked and squirmed, and Trig had all he could do to keep a hold on him.

  In the struggle, he bumped against one of the bawling and skittish steers. His shoulder knocked the protruding horn, and he swore at the sting of the contact.

  The horn gave way.

  Trig and Gif stared at the thing, dangling upside down.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Trig breathed and pushed the Mexican forward, placing him in Gif’s safekeeping while he took a better look.

  The horns had been sawed, hollowed out and fitted back together with painstaking precision. Lighting another match, Trig reached into the cavity and withdrew a small bag, then another and another.

  Gif slid a low whistle between his teeth.

  Trig withdrew a knife from his hip pocket and slit one of the bags open. He touched a finger to the sticky and dark brown paste inside. A faint fruity smell convinced him the opium was genuine.

  He showed the peasant the pile heaped in his palm.

  “Does Esteban buy from you?” he demanded.

  Eyes downcast, the Mexican’s shoulders slumped. “Si.”

  “Who’s he supplying for?”

  “I do not know, senor.” The man splayed his hands in a helpless gesture. “I am only a poor farmer. He does not tell me his business. You must believe me.”

  Trig’s instincts told him the man was telling the truth, that he was only a pawn in Esteban’s dealings. The bottom rung in his ladder of greed.

  Gif hauled the Mexican closer and lifted him by the shoulders. His feet cleared the ground by several inches.

  “You listen to me good, Senor. We’re going to let you go now, y’hear? But if I find opium showing up in these Longhorns over on my side of the border, I’ll know just who to send the Mexican authorities after. Got that?”

  Fear flashed across the farmer’s dark face. He nodded vigorously, and Gif set him down again.

  “Gather up these sorry-looking animals,” Trig commanded. “And forget you ever saw us.”

  He hastened to obey, and they lingered to make sure he did. After the cattle had been rounded up, the Mexican disappeared into the darkness, the same direction from which he came.

  Impatience bit at Trig. He wanted to get back to Carleigh, but he remounted the gelding and set his sights toward the sprawling house on the hill instead.

  Chapter 12

  They tethered the horses to a tree growing on the outer fringes of the yard and sprinted toward the house, their revolvers in hand. A wide assortment of carriages crowded the front drive. Lights showed bright from every window. Obviously, Esteban had company.

  Trig crept closer. He took a guarded position next to a window, pressing his back to the stucco, careful not to let himself be seen. Gif took the opposite side. Both peered through the heavy lace covering the glass.

  One look into the beautifully decorated room with its heavy, well-crafted furniture and thick carpet told Trig what he already knew. Esteban had money to spend. Trig’s gaze touched on the silver coffee service gracing a low table near the brocade sofa, the glittering chandelier above it. A piano sat in one corner, and a cluster of women hovered nearby while a young girl played the keys.

  From what he could tell, several of the women were relatives of Esteban. Wife and daughters, most likely, each of them attractive with the dark skin of their heritage. Their gowns were tailored to perfection, draping them in silk and fine lace; their hair was swept up into stylish coiffures.

  But Esteban was not in the room.

  “Let’s check the back,” Gif said, already headed that direction.

  This time, they found him in what appeared to be his office. He sat at a desk near the window, a ledger opened before him, a cheroot burning in a dish at his elbow. Dressed as impeccably as his family and guests, he appeared to have slipped away for a few minutes of business.

  Trig gestured to Gif to cover him; Gif nodded, revolver at the ready. Trig vaulted the back porch railing and stepped to the door. His own weapon poised, he turned the knob, holding his breath it wouldn’t be locked.

  It wasn’t. He inched the door open, then slipped inside. Gif was beside him before Esteban even realized they were there.

  He started in surprise; he dove for a drawer, for the gun Trig’s instincts warned would be there.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said, the Colt trained on the man’s forehead. “I’d hate to see that high-priced suit of yours covered in blood.”

  Esteban stopped cold. He drew back, slow and wary, and kept his hands in plain sight on the desk.

  He was handsome in a cruel sort of way. Harsh lines bracketed his mouth and the corner of his eyes. Thick hair, silvered at the temples, put his age into the forties. Years at the helm of a notorious penitentiary had given him a hard edge, and Trig pitied the poor soul who would ever incur his wrath.

  “Who are you?” Esteban demanded in heavily-accented English.

  Gif stepped closer to the desk. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  Recognition flared in the black eyes. “This is most unusual, even for you, Senor Cullin.”

  Gif shrugged. “We need to talk to you.”

  “What could be so important that both of you break into my home like common thieves?”

  “This, for one thing.” Trig tossed a bag of opium onto his desk. Then a second and a third.

  Esteban’s skin faded a shade of its color. “I know nothing of these.”

  “You should,” Trig said. “We took them off one of your Longhorns just a few minutes ago.”

  For a long moment, Esteban said nothing. From the closed door of his office, the tinkling notes from the piano slipped through. Singing and laughter.

  “It would only be your word against mine.” But the prison director’s guarded expression darted to Gif.

  “Face it, Esteban. An opium smuggling conviction would land you in your own stinking prison,” Trig snapped. “You’d be as miserable as your lowlife inmates.”

  “And think of the scandal your pretty womenfolk would have to live with then,” Gif taunted. “Why, who would buy them all those pretty dresses they’re used to having?”

  “What do you want from me?” he said, nostrils flaring. He shot a venomous glare toward Trig.

  “A deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “You ever hear of a prostitute named Belle?”

  Esteban’s expression remained guarded. “There are many prostitutes in Mexico. How am I to know this Belle you speak of?”

  “She’s from San Francisco.” Impatience swept through Trig at the man’s stubborn evasiveness. “And she was sent to Belén a long time ago.”

  Esteban’s mouth curved in a cold smile. “Are you not able to get a whore yourself that you must come to me for help?”

  “Don’t toy with me,” Trig warned softly.

  The smile disappeared. “If I do know this woman, what does she have to do with me?”

  “I want you to bring her here. To Tijuana. So I can meet with her in your prison.”

  Esteban sputtered. “Why?”

  “My business. Not yours.”

  Trig kept Carleigh out of the equation, feared the danger to her if Esteban should retaliate in some way. The man couldn’t hurt her if he didn’t know about her.

  “Send word to Belén tonight,” Trig persisted.

  “You are a fool to think I would consider such a thing.”

  Trig drew back the hammer on his Colt. The menacing sound caught Esteban’s full attention.

  “Seems to me you’re forgetting a few details here, Senor,” he drawled. “And those details are sit
ting right there on your desk.”

  The black-eyed gaze dropped to the little bags of opium.

  “We both know you’ve got the authority to bring Belle to Tijuana,” Trig went on. “You clean those cattle horns of that opium and pay duties like a good citizen and my friend here will forget you ever intended to smuggle it over our country’s border.”

  Perspiration appeared above Esteban’s lip. “These things take time. There is no guarantee--”

  “Doesn’t take near as much time to file a drug smuggling charge, does it? And I’ll sure as hell guarantee the charge sticks.” Trig let his words sink in. “Won’t I, Gif?”

  “Damn right.” Gif popped a piece of horehound candy into his mouth.

  Esteban drew in a long breath. Let it out again in a savage oath.

  “I will have her brought from Belén,” he grated. “Tomorrow night, I will send word to Senor Cullin of her arrival. You can meet with her then.”

  “Much obliged, Esteban.” Trig hid the relief rushing through him and lowered his revolver with a curt nod. “Tomorrow night.”

  “You’d best keep things clean between us,” Gif warned. “We can play dirty if you do. You know that, don’t you?”

  The prison director’s thin smile had little warmth. “I am not stupid.”

  Trig backed to the door and slipped through. After Gif joined him on the porch, he pulled the door shut quietly, firmly, behind them, and they both sprinted toward their horses.

  “He knows Belle somehow,” Trig said, climbing into the saddle.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “He didn’t even ask her full name. He didn’t need to.”

  Gif grunted.

  What association did she have with the prison director? Did she have a criminal past after all? Was there more to her than Chandler let on?

  Trig’s heart drummed inside his chest, a fear that none of this would work. That he would only fail Carleigh in the end.

  “I owe you, old man,” Trig said, taking the reins. “Carleigh and I both do.”

  “The hell you do. Main thing is your plan seems to be heading in the right direction.” Gif hefted his bulk into the saddle with a creak of leather. “Now all we have to do is wait to see if Esteban comes through with his end of the deal.”