Caro Cardova lifted the shotgun to her shoulder and trained it on the hombre before her. She flicked a glance toward her poncho-clad cousin. He sat on horseback beside her with a noose around his neck. She wasn’t a great shot, but with a gun full of buckshot, she didn’t need to be.
She used the tip of her shotgun to indicate the direction she wanted the leader of this vigilante band to exit. “Step away from Señor Alvarez.”
“Lady, we don’t want to hurt you, but we will.” The man spoke as if he was tolerating a naughty child. “This man’s a rustler.”
“Señor Alvarez is not a rustler. You have my word.”
“Your word?” The man beside the leader laughed. “One Mexican covering for another. Slade, she’s probably in on it.”
Good heavens. They called him Slade. Slade McCord? Owner of the Mesquite? The most powerful man in the county? Or were there other Slades around? But if it was him, what was he doing here on the Walking Diamond?
“Let’s get this over with.” No sooner had Slade McCord spoken than one of the cowboys grabbed her from behind and disarmed her.
“You dogs!” she shouted. “Release me!”
“You heard the lady.”
Caro turned to take in the man with the deep baritone voice that broke through the mayhem. A broad-shouldered stranger sat high on a buckskin quarter horse. The Winchester he aimed at the men seemed as at home in his hands as the Texas Ranger’s star on his chest.
“There’ll be no hanging here today.” The Ranger sounded convincing, and she sent up a prayer that this lawman was right. “Release the lady.”
The man holding Caro gave her a hard shove, and she fell to the ground. Her hands hit the rocky soil, and she winced.
“Near as I can figure, Ranger, there’s one of you and six of us.” Slade’s hand hovered near his pistol.
“You might kill me, but not before I shoot you first.” The Ranger didn’t flinch. “Besides, who says I’m alone?”
The vigilantes peered into the trees surrounding them, but the dusk prevented them from seeing through the shadows. A hill blocked their view to the south, so they couldn’t see who might be waiting there, either. One man tugged on his collar. “Let’s get out of here, Slade. Rangers travel in groups. We can take care of Alvarez later.”
Slade glared at Ricardo Alvarez and then the Ranger. “I assume you’ll take him in.”
“If he’s guilty”—the lawman nodded—“I certainly will.”
Slade waited a few long moments and stepped back. From what Caro had heard, the man liked to win—at everything. A true Texan, he wanted the biggest and the best and wouldn’t settle for anything else.
The men slowly mounted their horses and turned to leave, but before they were out of sight, the Ranger secured his weapon, hurried to her, and offered his hand. “Are you all right, miss?”
“I don’t need your help now, and I didn’t need it before.” Caro swatted his hand away. “I had it handled.”
“Sure you did. What were you going to do next?”
“I would have thought of something. I always do.”
He frowned. “So, this happens often?”
“No … No, of course not.” She narrowed her gaze at him. She scanned the mesquite trees. Had any of them doubled back? “You took a big chance taking your eyes off those vigilantes so soon.”
“My partner has them covered.” He gave her a gorgeous dimpled grin, and she fought the urge to slap the handsome gringo. “Trust me.”
Trust him? She didn’t trust anyone, but especially a man with a badge who didn’t have the sense to watch gun-toting thugs until they were out of his sight. And now he acted as if he’d saved the day to boot.
“I’m Texas Ranger Chisholm Hart, and the Ranger approaching is my partner, Whit Murray.” He pulled a Bowie knife from his belt and sliced through the binding on Ricardo’s wrists. “And you are?”
“Señorita Caro Maria Cardova Valenzuela, and this is Señor Ricardo Alvarez.”
“Miss Valenzuela.” He tipped his hat.
“Cardova.”
“But you said—”
“My father was Hernando Cardova. Valenzuela is my mother’s name. By American customs, I would be Caro Cardova, but I prefer both surnames.”
“I see, and I apologize.” He turned to Ricardo. “Sir, I know you’ve been through an ordeal, but I’m going to have to ask you some questions. It’s my duty.”
Duty. The word drove a spike in Caro’s heart. Why did men always think they had to do their duty? Duty had killed her father, and at some point, would most likely kill this handsome, know-it-all gringo with dimples as deep as canyons.
Ricardo wrung the brim of his worn hat in his hands. “I understand. Come back to the Walking Diamond with us. I’m sure our boss, Señor Reynolds, will want to speak to you both. Perhaps Caro can make you supper to say thank-you for your assistance in saving my neck. It’s the least we can do. Right, Caro?” When she didn’t respond, he nudged her arm. “Right?”
The Ranger sucked in his cheeks to keep from smiling. Did he actually think she would thank him? If so, he’d be waiting an eternity. Other women might fall at his feet when he came to their aid, but she knew better. This egotistical man needed to be taught a lesson.
Ignoring the lot of them, she mounted her horse and a plan formed in her mind. She would most certainly make this interfering, dimpled Ranger supper—a supper he’d never forget.
Chisholm eyed the man and woman riding in front of him and then cast a glance at his partner. After working side by side for over a year now, he and Whit didn’t need words to communicate most things, and one look told him that Whit didn’t trust Ricardo any more than he did. While Ricardo seemed gregarious to a fault, the way he fidgeted and avoided eye contact put Chisholm on guard.
Spring rains and warm temperatures had brought a lush green to this part of central Texas, southwest of Brady City. It brought a sense of nostalgia to him. Down south, at the 7 Heart Ranch, it was probably even greener.
The wide front porch of the Walking Diamond’s homestead welcomed them. Well, at least the house seemed glad to see them. Miss Caro Cardova was about as warm as a rattlesnake and probably as deadly.
But she was a beauty. Her dark hair, secured with a strip of leather at the nape of her neck, hung down her back and bounced with the rhythm of her horse’s gait. And even though he couldn’t see her face now, he had no trouble recalling her eyes. Dark like molasses with a vivid ring of fire tucked deep inside.
Chisholm forced his gaze away from Caro and back to the house. While a far cry from El Regalo, the enormous 7 Heart ranch house at Chisholm’s home, the Walking Diamond’s hewn-log home sported two floors, three dormer windows on the front and three on the back, and a summer kitchen. He glimpsed a smokehouse out back and a barn and large corral to the east. Just the kind of spread he’d like to have someday.
The group dismounted in the yard, and a barrel-chested man with more salt than pepper in his hair came out of the house. He glanced from Chisholm to Ricardo and frowned. “Rangers, is there a problem?”
After introductions were made, the ranch owner, Hank Reynolds, dismissed Caro to her duties in the kitchen and asked the Rangers to join him in the house. Inside, it didn’t take Chisholm and Whit long to explain the situation they had happened upon.
“I can’t thank you enough for what you did.” Reynolds leaned on the edge of a walnut desk in the corner of the parlor. Whit and Chisholm sat across from him in wide, leather-clad chairs. “So you’re here to address the cattle-rustling problem we’ve been having in these parts?”
Whit nodded. “We’ve been assigned to get to the bottom of the situation. What can you tell us about this man Slade?”
“Slade McCord’s the owner of the Mesquite. His ranch has been hit hard by the thieves, and he’s the kind of man who’d use someone like Ricardo to teach others what happens if you mess with him.”
“So, you don’t think your Ricardo is in on any of this?
” Chisholm asked.
“It’s doubtful. Ricardo gets into his fair share of trouble, but he’s never done anything illegal.” Reynolds glanced up when a woman came to the doorway. She seemed to be an older version of Caro, only more serene. Her eyes were filled with kindness, but her demeanor spoke of a quiet strength. “Eat! Eat!” She waved her hand toward the table.
“Gentlemen, I think you’ll find Maria and Caro’s food a treat.”
The men took the seats Reynolds indicated, and Caro brought out three heaping plates balanced on a tray. Scents of seasoned pork filled the air, tugging on Chisholm’s heart and reminding him of home. Caro placed the first plate in front of Chisholm, but he passed it on down to Whit.
“No, no, señor. That’s for you.” She smiled, he believed, for the first time since they’d met, and his suspicions rose. What was this beautiful spitfire up to? Still, he took the plate back and thanked her.
Without saying grace, Reynolds untied the string around the cornhusk. “Caro, why don’t you and your mother join us at the table tonight? We have so few guests it would be pleasant for all of us to celebrate. Grab some plates and sit down.”
Chisholm heard some disgruntled conversation from behind the door, but then the two women emerged and sat down in the empty seats.
Both Caro and her mother bowed their heads in prayer before placing their napkins in their laps. Caro lifted her head and again smiled in Chisholm’s direction. “I do hope you like your food.”
“I’m sure I will.” Chisholm untied his cornhusk and forked a bite of the dough-wrapped pork. He blew on his fork, then slipped the morsel between his lips. Flames exploded on his tongue. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and heat crept into his cheeks.
Boy, howdy, this was delicious! He closed his eyes and savored the sensation. It had been so long since he’d enjoyed a meal like this.
When he opened his eyes, Caro was staring at him, mouth agape. It was his turn to grin. “My compliments to the cook. I haven’t had food like this since I left home and signed up to become a Ranger. Our cook, Perla, is known for her fine Mexican table, and this is every bit as good as hers. It’s the kind of food I grew up on. I think even she’d admit it was excellent.”
“But…”
“I like things spicy, Miss Cardova.” He fought the desire to add a wink. “Guess you should know that.”
He’d ask Whit later how hot his tamale had been, but Chisholm guessed it wouldn’t come close to the fiery concoction Caro had made for him. She certainly had a creative way of making her point of how welcome he was and how thankful she’d been for his assistance. Watching her squirm throughout the rest of supper brought him more satisfaction than it should. He’d have to ask God to forgive him.
Whit blotted his napkin against his mustache and pushed his plate away. “So, I’m assuming y’all discovered your missing stock after spring roundup. Have there been any more recent losses?”
Hank Reynolds set down his water glass. “Slade claims he’s lost some recently, but that’s not easy to confirm yet. My men say we’re short some more, too.”
“We’ll need to visit the other ranchers in the area,” Chisholm said. “Can you possibly spare a man to show us around? It would save some time.”
Reynolds leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid with these rustlers around, I need all my men right now to keep watch over my herd, but Caro can show you the way to the other ranches. She knows this area as well as anyone.” He flicked a glance in her direction. “And, of course, you gentlemen are welcome to stay in our guest rooms as long as you’re in the area. It’s an honor to have Texas Rangers around, and if I’m lucky, it will keep the rustlers away from my stock.”
“Thanks. We’ll take you up on that offer.” Chisholm looked at Caro. The embers in her dark eyes now flashed as hot as the peppers in his meal.
Apparently, Miss Caro Cardova was not happy with this arrangement. Oh well, it served her right. And the more he thought about it, the more he suspected he might actually enjoy some time in her fiery company.
Chapter Two
Caro dropped a pile of tin plates into the washtub and suds splashed out. She’d add a soaked dress to the list of things that were the Texas Ranger’s fault. She stuck her hands in the water, and they stung from her fall earlier today. That was his fault, too.
“Caro Maria Cardova Valenzuela, what has gotten into you?” Her mamá slipped on an apron. “And how many peppers did you put in that poor man’s tamale?”
“Enough.” Caro rubbed the plates harder than necessary, rinsed them, and set them on the drain board.
“Enough to do what?” Her mother handed her a pot from the stove. “Give him blisters on his tongue?”
She immersed the pot in her washtub. “I wanted to teach him a lesson.”
Her mamá chuckled and picked up a dish towel to dry the plates. “It seems that it was you who was educated.”
“He makes me so angry.” She scrubbed harder on the pot. “Why do men crave the praise of others? Why do they think they can march in and take over and that we should be grateful for their every effort?”
“Oh, Caro.” Mamá sighed. “Are you sure that is what is bothering you?”
“What do you think it is?”
“Your papá loved you dearly, but he was a soldier, and he had a duty to do.”
Caro hefted the washed pot onto the drain board and reached for a towel. “He was an anarchist. He didn’t have to fight. He chose to fight. He wanted other people to applaud his great efforts more than he wanted to be with us. He wanted to be a hero.”
“Caro! You will not speak ill of your dear, departed papá.” Mamá carried the plates to the cupboard.
“He thought he could fix everything, but what did it get him? Nothing. What did we lose? Everything.”
Mamá cupped her daughter’s cheek. “He fought for us. The government was corrupt. He was willing to give his life to do what was right. Someday you will understand.”
“I’m sorry, Mamá. I don’t want to hurt you.” Caro swiped a tear from her eye. “I know he was a good man, and I don’t know why this Texas Ranger has brought up these feelings.”
“Only God knows that answer.” Her mamá smiled. “I’ve been praying for you. Take all of these feelings to the Lord and ask Him to help you sort them out.”
“I do not think God wants to hear me rant.”
“Don’t be so sure. He is big enough to handle your hurt and your anger.” Mamá kissed her cheek. “And try to be kind to the Ranger. Perhaps he’s part of God’s plan to bring you healing.”
“I’ll pray, Mamá, and I’ll be as kind as I can, but I draw the line at that.” She hung her apron on a hook. “The sooner that know-it-all Ranger is gone, the better.”
Sitting in Reynolds’s spacious parlor, Chisholm patted his shirt pocket. He wished he’d taken the time to read the letter from home while they were on their way to the heart of Texas. But correspondence from his pa or his six busy brothers was infrequent at best, so he cherished each missive. When he finally got time to read this letter, he planned on giving it his undivided attention and savoring every word. An ache rose in his chest. He missed his family more and more every day.
He glanced at Hank Reynolds and Whit playing chess a few feet away. Did Reynolds have family? No feminine items were in sight in the parlor or portraits of any kind. Had he never married? Was that why he’d hired Caro and her mother, in hopes of claiming a wife? If so, which woman did he hope to win?
“Checkmate.” Reynolds moved his queen into place.
“Well played.” Whit leaned back in his chair. “Maybe we can have another match before we leave.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Reynolds rang a little bell. “I’m sure y’all are both tired, and you have to get an early start. I’ll have Caro show you to your room.”
Caro didn’t hide her frown when she was once again directed to help the two Rangers. They followed her up a wide staircase. Chisholm ran his hand along the w
orn, rustic pine handrail. Nice workmanship. He’d always loved woodworking. Maybe he’d have a chance to make a handrail for his own place once his Ranger days were over. His father had always promised him a piece of the 7 Heart Ranch, and he’d spent many hours on horseback passing time by imagining his spread.
He and Whit followed Caro down a short hallway until she stopped by a door on the right. “Here is your room. There are two beds and there’s water in the washstand. Since I have to go with the two of you tomorrow, breakfast will be at daylight.”
Whit trekked inside and let out a low whistle. “This sure beats sleeping on the ground. You ladies have made this downright pretty.”
Chisholm set his bag down in the hallway and turned to Caro with a grin on his face. “Thank you, again, for the delicious supper, Miss Cardova.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It won’t work.”
“Excuse me?”
“Using your Ranger charms on me.” She met his gaze. “You men of duty want everyone to think highly of you. You like to be revered. You want us to believe we need you to save us, but I, sir, do not need you.”
He stifled a chuckle. While her temper surprised him, he found it oddly endearing. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Please do.” With a huff, she stormed off. But in her haste, she tripped over Chisholm’s bag.
Chisholm could have caught her, but he didn’t. She twisted and landed solidly on her backside with a thud.
She glared at him, accusation in her eyes. “Why didn’t—”
He shrugged. “You said you didn’t need me to save you, so I didn’t.” Without another word, he retrieved his bag, went inside the room, and shut the door, leaving a flustered Miss Cardova in a heap.
Still chuckling to himself, Chisholm took a seat on the bed’s multicolored quilt, tugged off his boots, and withdrew the envelope from his pocket.
Whit punched a feather pillow into his preferred shape. “I heard you two out in the hall, and Chisholm, I think I can say with all certainty that that lady does not like you.”
“I reckon you’re right.” He studied his father’s script on the front of the envelope.
Seven Brides for Seven Texans Romance Collection Page 10