McCain's Memories

by Maggie Simpson

  Her claim was too far-fetched to be anything besides ridiculous. It was 1877, and he was alive, nursing a throbbing headache. Someone else’s bones were buried on her dad’s ranch. If she’d told the truth, that is. Cardis could have sent her with some cockeyed story, to lead him astray.

  John knew the idea of her working for Cardis was ludicrous when he thought about it. Those things the lady mentioned, like women lawyers and a passel of people living around here, couldn’t be true in 1877. Why, he doubted if five hundred people lived between San Antonio and El Paso.

  Yet he knew things weren’t as his good sense supposed. After all, he’d examined the watch on her wrist, and it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen.

  “The remains are buried on our ranch,” she’d said. Were the remains his body? Or was all of this just a nightmare and he would wake up soon?

  He ran his fingers over his hair and face. Although they felt familiar, something was different. His hair was shorter and his beard was replaced with stubble. Fingering his mustache, he was chagrined to realize the end curls were gone. In their place was a dandy’s trimmed mustache.

  Stepping out of the cave into the glow of the setting sun, he turned his hands over and over, studying them. They weren’t his. The nails were well cared for, while his own would have been encrusted with blood and dirt. And the tip of his middle finger, the one he’d severed in a knife fight when he was a kid, had mysteriously grown back.

  The standard-issue, loose wool trousers he’d been wearing when he’d entered the cave had been replaced with tight, softer trousers of a fabric he couldn’t identify. The scratchy wool shirt was gone. With rising confusion, he stroked the oilskin of the duster, so similar to those worn by drovers. Where had it come from?

  And the gun? He hadn’t had a gun to fight Cardis. He frowned as he slid his fingers over its smooth, cold surface. Hell, he’d never seen a gun like this.

  And Cardis? Who was the rifleman outside the cave earlier if it wasn’t Cardis? Who was out to kill him? Looking at a body he didn’t really recognize, John had to face the most frightening question. Who was he?

  “Oh, God,” he cried in a genuine plea for intervention, “what’s happened to me?”

  Leaving the cowboy alone in his confused state troubled Lauren. Yet, as she had dozens of times in her practice, she had acted on instinct, wanting to believe he was on the right side of the law and needed time to escape. She felt a moment of doubt when she recalled his erratic memory, his elusiveness.

  “Okay, sis,” Ted asked as they wound their way out of the canyon, “what happened to you? I thought Dad was going to have a heart attack when your horse came in without you.”

  Lauren glanced at her younger brother. “I nearly had one myself.”

  Ted cocked an eyebrow. “Say what?”

  “You won’t believe what happened to me.”

  Fixing her with a sibling’s knowing eye, he said, “Give me a try.”

  She looked at the lengthening shadows, knowing it would be dark by the time she and Ted got home. “You won’t tell Dad what I’m going to tell you, will you? He doesn’t need the worry.”

  “It depends on what you tell me.” Reacting to the look she gave him, he amended his response. “You’ve got my word. Cross my heart.” He made the sign they’d used since childhood to show their sincerity at keeping secrets.

  Lauren related the events of the day, leaving out the stranger in the cave and what he’d done to her heart. Acting against her professional training and plain old common sense, she found she just couldn’t place him in jeopardy.

  Ted emitted a low whistle when Lauren finished telling him about the danger she’d been in. “Where did you say you were when you were shot at?” After she told him, he responded, “I’ll go back tomorrow when the light’s better and have a look around to see if I can find anything. A cartridge or footprints. Something.”

  “I doubt you’ll find anything, but it’ll be worth a look.”

  “You do think you got the guy’s picture?”

  “I pushed the shutter, but I can’t swear I caught his image. And I’m just assuming it was a man. Another thing, Ted—I’d rather that no one saw me take the film in to be developed. You know how word gets around in a small town. Aren’t you going to El Paso Monday?”

  “I’ll be leaving before your feet hit the floor.”

  Lauren made a face at her brother. “That’ll be a first.”

  “You want me to take the film in and have it processed for you or not, big sister?”

  “Would you, please?”

  “Sure, but it may take a couple of days.”

  “That’s okay. Just so I get it fairly soon. Ted, this had to be a case of mistaken identity.” Realizing her near gaffe, she tried to cover. “I mean that it just doesn’t make sense for anyone to be shooting at me.”

  “You haven’t been dealing with any scum lately, have you?”

  Lauren emitted an unladylike snort.

  “Well, good gosh a’mighty, sis. That’s not a dumb question, because you were shot at.” Ted shook his head at the thought. “And whether the shot was meant for you or someone else, you’ve got to call the sheriff.”

  “I will as soon as we get back to the ranch.” Suddenly, she was eager to get home, and the closer she and Ted got to the house, the more unbelievable the whole day became. She’d been shot at and, rather than flee when she’d had the opportunity, had found comfort in the arms of a stranger. Arms whose warmth countered the coldness of the cave. In his embrace, she’d felt strangely safe.

  She reined in her horse, shifted in the saddle and turned to look over her shoulder. The mouth of the distant canyon was a black, jagged rip torn in purple cliffs obscuring the setting sun. The cowboy was going to be hard to forget. What was he doing now? Would he try to get out of the canyon? Where would he go?

  With the confidence of a child knowing her prayers would be answered, she prayed for the cowboy’s safety. She wanted him to get away from whoever was after him. Even if it was the law.

  She and her brother had no more than reached the edge of the corral when their father rushed out to meet them. “Thank God you’re both all right,” Jack Hamilton said. “I called the sheriffs office and told him that we might need his help finding you, Lauren. Know what he said?”

  Before she could answer, he continued, “Van Rooten said there’s been a murder. A guy named Saul Rodriquez was shot last night just a few miles from Diablo Canyon.”

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday afternoon, Lauren hurried into her office, slung her briefcase in an armchair and picked up the messages Lyna had piled neatly on top of the desk. Holding the telephone to her ear with her shoulder, Lauren began to return calls as she leafed through the stack. The third note said, “Robert wants to see you. Pronto!”

  She’d been in district court for the past two and a half days and hadn’t gotten a chance to tell him about her weekend. Lauren wondered if Vera, the dispatcher at the sheriff’s department, had told her husband about Lauren being shot at. Then her husband had told the gang at the coffee shop, including Robert Jordan, and now Robert wanted to hear the details. This was life in a small town, Lauren thought, hanging up the phone and starting down the hall.

  Over three days had passed since her experience in the cave, but it seemed like only hours. The memory of the cowboy’s scent, his touch and his kiss was still so fresh.

  She rapped softly on the senior partner’s open door before entering the room. “Lyna said you wanted to see me?”

  “Sure do. I’ve been waiting for you to get back. Come on in and have a seat, Lauren.” Robert gestured toward a chair.

  She sat down across from his desk as he reached for an antacid bottle. “Something interesting may have come up.” He popped one of the white tablets into his mouth and dropped an extra one in his shirt pocket. “Something very interesting.”

  Lauren waited as he mulled over his words. After practicing law for thirty years, Robert Jordan
wasn’t excited by very much. This must be pretty good. And from the way he was acting, he didn’t know about her experience. So her guess must have been wrong. Sheriff Van Rooten must not have told his deputies or even Vera, because the news would have been all over Sierra by now. That puzzled her. Why would the sheriff be hiding the fact that she had been shot at?

  Scratching his shoulder, Robert asked, “Have you heard anything about the McCain arrest?”

  “I imagine everyone in West Texas has heard about it after this morning’s big splash on the front page of the newspaper.” Jonathan McCain, the son of one of El Paso’s most prominent businessmen, had been arrested for the murder of Saul Rodriquez, the murder that had worried her since her father had made the announcement this past weekend.

  After learning about Rodriquez, Lauren figured that what had happened to her in the canyon was in some way tied to his murder. There just weren’t many men walking around with rifles, shooting at people. Robert might be of some help filling in the missing pieces before she told him her story.

  He got up and began pacing the floor. “With that headline, I reckon so. His father, J.C., is a friend of mine. He and his daughter, Helena, came by here this morning. They want me to defend him. But J.C. doesn’t want his son to know that he’s footing the bill. He’s afraid Jonathan would refuse our help.”

  Lauren hadn’t foreseen this turn of events—Jordan and Hamilton representing the man who might have shot at her. She had to tell Robert about her weekend. She twisted in her chair to follow Robert’s movements. “Why? It seems to me that he needs all the help he can get.”

  “I expect you’re right, but J.C. insisted that he be kept out of the picture. There was some kind of falling-out between them a long time ago, before I met the family. He doesn’t think his son would accept his help now.” Robert walked over and stared out the window at the distant mountains.

  “You can’t get by without telling a client why you’re defending him. What about the contract for legal representation?” She didn’t like the idea of manipulating a client, even for a good purpose.

  “His sister went to see him and told him that she’s making the arrangements.” Jordan turned and looked at Lauren as though he’d answered any ethical qualms she was having. “Which she is. It seems that she and Jonathan have kept in touch through the years, and he trusts her. J.C.’s just picking up the tab.” Robert paused a moment and massaged his fingers before continuing. “I went to see Jonathan McCain a little bit ago myself and he signed the contract.”

  “What did you find out?” Knowing the first impression of a person was often telling, Lauren was interested in his opinion. Robert was good at sizing up a client.

  “Not a blessed thing. The man hardly said a word. Then he said he didn’t even know a Saul Rodriquez, much less shoot him.” Robert rubbed his balding pate. “The body was found near your dad’s place, wasn’t it?”

  “About ten miles away, on a ranch called the Bar M. The land was sold back in May, and neither Dad nor Ted have met the new owner. Which, according to the paper, was Jonathan McCain.”

  “Apparently there was a reason he didn’t want to socialize with the neighbors.” Robert grunted. “The sheriff said he kind of stumbled on the murder. According to him, he’d gone out Friday night to see his friend Saul. Said that Saul, who was working out at McCain’s, was expecting him. When he got there, there was no sign of Saul, so Chester thought he ought to look around a bit. He headed toward one of the barns near McCain’s airstrip and saw what he thought was a body, rushed over and found Saul, dead. About that time a shot rang out, throwing up dust close to his heels. Chester said he didn’t need a second invitation to vacate the premises, so he hightailed it across the desert with McCain hot on his tracks. Our client supposedly fired several more shots at him. Chester hid out until the next afternoon. That’s why he didn’t report Saul’s murder until then.”

  What Lauren heard crashed headfirst into her weekend escapade, intertwining the cowboy, the murder and the man who’d shot at her. Surely Chester had made the same connection after she’d called him and reported being shot at, but he hadn’t even tried to get back in touch with her. Maybe he was so caught up in the case that it had slipped his mind? If McCain was the man who had shot at her—if he was the murderer—then how did the cowboy fit into this? Could the cowboy be McCain? But as quickly as she considered the idea, she discounted it. The cowboy had been hiding, not hunting. None of it made any sense.

  She forced herself to listen without interrupting as Robert continued, “The media’s made a big to-do about McCain being able to evade capture for three days. The way I see it, though, if he traveled by night and hid by day, it wouldn’t have been easy to catch him. The desert’s pretty big. I think he was probably on his way to Mexico since he was captured only a few miles from the border.”

  He paused and came around the desk to face her. “Anyway, the reason I asked you in here was to see if you would go to the arraignment with me tomorrow. It’ll only take a few minutes. On the surface, the D.A. should have a turnkey conviction. That means I’ve got to look a little deeper than the prosecution.”

  “I think I can clear my calendar, but...” Lauren had to tell him about being shot at.

  “Great. I know what you’re thinking.” He wagged a finger at her and said, “It has nothing to do with Jonathan being the son of an old friend. Anyway, I’ll be the attorney of record, but I’d like your input. Maybe you can help me spot a weakness in their case. I have a gut feeling that there’s more here than meets the eye.” The old leather chair squeaked when he sat back down and pulled a sheaf of papers in front of him.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Lauren leaned forward. “I may know what your gut feeling is based on. I was riding in a canyon on Daddy’s ranch when...”

  The phone rang.

  Robert picked up the receiver, listened for a second then said, “Transfer it.” Then he turned to Lauren. “It’s a guy I’ve been trying to get to return my call for a week so I need to get this. I’ll come to your office as soon as I finish here.”

  That evening, while Ted stood looking over her shoulder, Lauren looked at the photograph she’d taken in the canyon as she told him about Robert asking her to go to the McCain arraignment.

  Ted asked, “What did he say when you told him that McCain could have been the guy who shot at you?”

  “I never got the chance to tell him the whole story. He was called out of the office and never got back to me. I’ve left a message to call me on his answering machine at home. But, this photograph may free or convict McCain.” She held the photo to the light and tilted it this way and that, trying to see more clearly, hoping to find a clue that would identify the person standing on the rim of the canyon.

  “Can you make anything out?” Ted asked after he, too, had studied the print.

  “No. The person was too far away for me to get a good shot, even with my new lens.” Disappointed, Lauren slid the print between two cookbooks. “I’ll take the negative to another lab in El Paso. I know a guy there who uses a computer to enlarge and enhance grainy images.”

  Ted picked up his hat. “Well, sis, I can’t do any more here, so I think I’ll hit the road. I’d like to get back to the ranch before too late.”

  “Thanks for everything.”

  He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You gonna be all right here by yourself?”

  “I’ve lived by myself for almost ten years. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah, but people weren’t shoot’n at you.”

  Lauren laughed and closed the door behind him. It was nice to know she had family that cared about her and would come through when she needed them.

  Thinking about the firm’s new client and the caring family he obviously had, she picked up the file Lyna had given her and headed toward her bedroom. Midway through the living room she stopped beside an overstuffed chair and stared at the-photo hanging above the fireplace. It had been taken years ago. T
he mauve, melons and soft blues of the sunrise in Diablo Canyon echoed around the room, pulling it together in peace and harmony. But that wasn’t why she studied the photo tonight. Tonight, like every other night for the past four days, she searched the print for the faint shadow of the cave.

  Her passionate response to the stranger who had hidden there haunted her. Usually she succeeded in blocking it from her memory at work, but at night the memories often kept her awake.

  His faceless image intruded on her despite her efforts to totally forget him and the cave and his kisses. Especially his kisses. Sometimes she thought it had been another woman who had behaved so irrationally.

  Her own experience in the canyon—being shot at and her subsequent refuge with the cowboy in the cave—kept niggling at her. The more she thought, the more unanswered questions she had. If McCain was the man who’d fired at her, then she needed to know who two other people were and how they fit into the picture: the cowboy and the man whose name he’d cried out in his sleep—Atkinson.

  The next morning, Lauren, still not having spoken to Robert, wondered if she’d be able to help defend McCain as she hurried to keep up with her partner, who was taking the courthouse steps two at a time. Halfway down the hallway of the building, her partner said, “I’m going in to talk to McCain before the hearing. Why don’t you check with the D.A.’s staff to see if there’s any new information? I don’t want any surprises today.”

  Twenty minutes later, after visiting with Alex Stewart, the district attorney, and learning nothing new, Lauren entered the courtroom through double doors. It was crammed with spectators and reporters who had driven from as far away as Midland-Odessa and El Paso. Lauren was afraid this trial would be turned into a circus, with a rich man’s son being in the center ring. Alex needed the publicity for reelection, the newspapers needed the increased circulation, and the television station was after the ratings. Lauren felt sorry for the absent McCains who’d told Robert their presence wouldn’t be welcomed by the accused.