The Cowboy's Return

by Linda Warren

  He suppressed a groan and thought it best to get off the subject. His aching body couldn’t take much more.

  “Tell me about Earl. When was the last time he paid Dad lease money?”

  Morris took a seat. “A little over a year ago.”

  “That’s the last entry I saw on the books. Did Dad ever ask Earl for the money?”

  “Yep. Sent me, too.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I saw Earl in town and I told him the lease money was overdue. He told me I’d better mind my own business if I knew what was good for me.”

  “Did you try again?”

  “Yep. Several times. We were short on money and I had to let go of the cleaning and yard and pool people. At my age, I couldn’t keep up with a place this size. I ain’t never seen Lady Luck like this, but the last time I asked Earl for money, one of his boys twisted my arm behind my back and said if I asked one more time he’d break it. I couldn’t let nothing happen to me—there was no one else to take care of your parents.”

  The guilt intensified. How could Tripp undo thirteen years? How could he undo the past? Holding the table, he pushed to his feet. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

  “In their room.”

  “I’ll check on them.”

  “How you gonna explain your face?”

  “I don’t think they’ll notice.”

  “Maybe not.”`

  He went along to his parents’ room on the ground floor. His mother was lying in a lounger in her gown listening to the book on tape. Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn’t asleep. It was so strange seeing her hair, which had turned completely white within a month of Patrick’s death.

  His father sat in his pajamas on one of the twin beds, cursing at a basketball game on the TV. It was even harder to see his father this way. He’d always been active, up early taking care of the ranch, staying in the saddle most days. There wasn’t a thing he didn’t know about cattle or horses. He’d taught Tripp everything he knew about riding, how to accept defeat graciously, how doing his best was all that was expected of him. And how family was the most important thing.

  That’s why Grif saw Tripp’s interest in Camila as betrayal. To Patrick. And to family. Even though Grif considered Camila trash, the very idea that Tripp would try to come between her and Patrick had angered him. Tripp had tried to explain that he’d had no interest in Camila and that Patrick had blown the whole incident out of proportion because of the drugs he’d been on. That had made Grif even angrier.

  God. He had to stop thinking about it.

  He eased into a chair by his mother. “Dad, shut off the TV. I need to talk to both of you.”

  “Son, I ain’t in a mood to talk.”

  “Shut it off.”

  “Hmmph,” Grif complained, but clicked it off.

  Leona removed the headphones and sat up. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Jilly.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s back with her mother, but no, she’s not okay. Dad hurt her and there was no reason for that.”

  “Sometimes, son, you can’t pull your punches.”

  “This isn’t a damn boxing match. It’s an eleven-year-old girl.”

  “She couldn’t give me any proof,” Grif muttered. “I want proof.”

  “Look into her eyes. Listen to her voice—you’ll have your proof.”

  “I need more than that,” Grif said with Daniels stubbornness. “All it takes is a simple little blood test to prove the girl is Patrick’s. Camila Walker hasn’t done that and never will because she knows the truth.”

  “Do you know the truth?” Tripp snapped.

  Grif’s eyebrows knotted together. “What do you mean?”

  “The truth, Dad? Do you have proof Jilly is not Patrick’s? That’s what you’re saying the truth is, right?”

  Grif remained silent, but the creases on his forehead were deep enough to hold gravy, as Morris would say.

  “If you’re basing your conclusion on the rumors from those idiots in town, then you’re not as smart as I’ve always believed.”

  “Rumors start somewhere.”

  Yeah. In every man’s head who ever looked at Camila Walker—including myself.

  Tripp got to his feet, managing not to wince. There was only one way to get through to his father—to be as hard-nosed as he was.

  “Bottom line—that’s what you’ve always taught me. Bottom line, son, look at the bottom line. Well this is the bottom line, Dad. Can you live the rest of your life knowing you rejected Patrick’s daughter?”

  Griffin didn’t answer again.

  “Stubborn old man,” Leona spat. She went to her bed and crawled in. “I’m glad I don’t have to share the same bed as you.”

  “Believe me, it’s a blessing to me, too,” Grif replied.

  “I’m not listening to that TV all night, Grif,” Leona warned. “Leave it off.”

  Tripp walked over to his mother. “Mom, do you believe that Jilly is Patrick’s?”

  “There’s just something about Jilly,” Leona answered, fluffing her pillows. “Every night when I go to bed I wonder if this is the night I’ll join Patrick.” A long pause. “To answer your question—no, I couldn’t face Patrick if I denied his child. All I know is when I heard her voice, I just wanted to hold her. That’s the only proof I need.”

  “Silly old woman,” Grif grumbled.

  Tripp decided to let the subject drop for now. It was some headway, though. Now he had to talk to his father about Earl.

  “Dad, when was the last time Earl Boggs paid you?”

  Grif looked at him. “So that’s how you got that black eye, huh?”

  Leona sat up. “You have a black eye? Oh, Tripp, are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “Leave Earl alone, son,” Grif said. “He’s mean—his sons are meaner.”

  Tripp frowned. “When have you ever run from a fight?”

  “When I got knocked down so hard I couldn’t get up.”

  His frown deepened. “Is that how you broke your hip?”

  “Leave it alone, son.”

  “My God.” Anger churned inside him once again. “Earl Boggs is not running his cattle free on our land one more day. By the end of the week, I’ll have every head off Lady Luck.”

  “Son, please.” Grif leaned forward and Tripp saw fear in his father’s eyes. “I’ve lost one son. I don’t want to lose another.”

  His stomach clenched at the pain in his father’s voice. He never realized how bad things were at home or in Bramble. But he wasn’t running from this fight.

  “Don’t worry. I can handle this,” he said. “I’ll call the sheriff first thing in the morning to let him know what’s going on. Try to get a good night’s rest.” He paused in the doorway. “Did you have a contract with Earl?”

  “No, son. He came wanting to lease the land and I said yes. He wrote me a check, like he did four times a year. Then he just stopped.”

  “Tripp, please be careful,” Leona begged.

  “I will, Mom. Good night.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  TRIPP LAY ACROSS HIS BED and felt the weight of the years bearing down upon him. The weight of letting his parents down—letting Patrick down. Patrick had looked up to him and in return Tripp had coveted Patrick’s girlfriend. He’d denied that a lot of times, but it was the truth.

  That night of the party when she’d moved her body against his, he’d wanted her in the worst way. He let the thought run through his mind. It was the first time he’d done that. Usually he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But he was having to face a lot of hard truths today.

  And they hurt like hell.

  Earl had beaten up his father and Tripp hadn’t been here to help. The guilt suddenly became heavy, so heavy he had trouble breathing. There was nothing he could do now but try and make things right—try to make amends.

  As he drifted into sleep, he saw Camila’s flashing dark eyes.

  And f
elt the softness of her body.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SUNDAY MORNING, TRIPP WINCED and groaned as he moved, but after soaking in a hot tub of water, his body felt much better. Looking in the mirror, he did a double take. With a black eye, a blue and swollen jaw, and a cut that was already healing, he definitely looked like he’d lost the fight.

  After breakfast, he called the sheriff, Wyatt Carson, and told him what was happening. He met him in town then they drove out to the Boggs ranch.

  Tripp had known Wyatt all his life. They were the same age and had gone to school together until Wyatt’s family had moved to Austin. Wyatt had become a police officer in Austin; his wife was an officer, too. She’d been killed in the line of duty and Wyatt had brought his small daughter home. He’d run for sheriff and had been elected three years ago. He now lived fifteen minutes away in Horseshoe, the county seat.

  “Let me handle this,” Wyatt said as they drove into Earl’s yard.

  The yard of the large Boggs home was well kept, as were the pastures. Obviously Earl took better care of his mother’s place. Tripp noticed a diesel truck parked with two other trucks.

  He and Wyatt got out. The front door opened and Earl and three of his sons walked onto the porch. Otis was the oldest, a couple of years older than Tripp, and probably the meanest, having spent some time in jail. But Thelma had always managed to get him out. Lewis, the middle son, was his age and had always resented Tripp because he’d been popular in school. Wallis was the youngest, Patrick’s age. There had been a fourth son, Roger, who’d been killed a couple of years ago.

  “I’d like to talk to you, Earl,” Wyatt said.

  “What’d you bring the rodeo man for?”

  “Because this is about Daniels land.”

  “I lease it, period. Enough said.” Earl turned away.

  “Not so fast.” Wyatt halted him. “Mr. Daniels doesn’t have a contract with you. Do you have copies of receipts where you paid him?”

  “Hell, Wyatt. This is Bramble. All I need is my word.”

  “This ain’t 1960, Earl,” Wyatt told him. “And a lot more than your word is required.”

  “Like hell,” Earl replied, and spat.

  “Yeah. Like hell.” Wyatt stood his ground.

  “C’mon, Wyatt, I was born and raised here like you. I ain’t trying to cheat nobody.”

  Wyatt rubbed his jaw. “Well, Earl, this is how it is. You show me receipts and the cattle stay. No receipts, the cattle have to go. That’s the law and I’m here to enforce it.”

  “You listening to that rodeo man, ain’t you?”

  Wyatt glanced at Tripp. “You mean Tripp?”

  “Ain’t nobody else standing there.”

  Otis spit tobacco juice onto the ground. “You run into a tree, rodeo man?”

  “I ran into a yellow-bellied coward.”

  Otis’s face turned red in anger. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Enough,” Wyatt intervened. “I take it you don’t have any receipts, Earl?”

  “Sure as hell don’t.”

  “Then I’ll give you and your boys until Tuesday to get the cattle off. I’m sure Tripp doesn’t have a problem with that.”

  Tripp shook his head.

  Earl’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits.

  “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” Wyatt said. “I’ll check in on Tuesday to make sure the job is done. If there’s any meanness going on, I’ll come looking for you Earl. Prison is not a place you want to spend your old age.” Wyatt turned his gaze to the sons. “Otis, tell your brothers what it’s like in jail, then give it a lot of thought before you do anything stupid.”

  Wyatt turned, but Tripp wasn’t through.

  “Next time you ambush me, I’ll be ready, and if I can ever prove that one of you hit my father, this town won’t be big enough for all of us.”

  He followed Wyatt to the car.

  “You just couldn’t let it go, could you?”

  “No.” Tripp buckled his seat belt. “This isn’t over, Wyatt.”

  “I know, dammit. A range war is just what I need in Bramble.”

  “I didn’t start it.”

  “Just watch your back.”

  “Thanks, Wyatt.”

  When Tripp reached Lady Luck, he went into the house and got his rifle and shotgun out of the gun cabinet. He made sure they were in working order and clean, then he put them back. Until this was over, he’d better be prepared.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  CAMILA SPENT TUESDAY making soap. By mid-afternoon her arms ached from handling the big stainless steel pots and large quantities of lard and olive oil. She poured the soap into the wood molds and covered them.

  Jilly had a basketball game tonight and the coach was going over their game plan, so Camila didn’t have to pick up Jilly until five. She poured a cup of coffee and sat down in the coffee shop.

  “Would you like a kolache?” Millie asked.

  “No, thanks. It’s very quiet today.” Few people were out and the streets were almost empty.

  “I was thinking that—”

  Before Millie could finish, the door burst open and Jilly flew in. Camila’s heart fell to the pit of her stomach. Something had to be wrong for Jilly to be here instead of practice.

  Camila jumped to her feet. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Cameron Boggs said his father beat up Tripp and Tripp’s in bad shape. I gotta go see how he is. Mr. and Mrs. Daniels might need my help. I gotta go.”

  Camila was dumbstruck. She didn’t know what to say. She glanced at Millie and Millie shrugged.

  Camila caught Jilly’s arm. “Baby, calm down.”

  “I can’t, Mama. They said he’s hurt bad.”

  Camila’s stomach tightened and she wondered how badly Tripp was hurt—and why. “Are you sure, Jilly? It could just be kids bragging.”

  Jilly drew in a breath. “Tripp got mad cause Earl wasn’t paying any lease money to Mr. Daniels and Tripp told Earl to move his cows. Cameron said his dad showed the big rodeo star who’s the boss. I’m going home to get my bicycle then I’m going to Lady Luck.”

  “Wait a minute.” Camila grabbed her, not sure how to explain this. “Remember what happened the last time?”

  “I don’t care. I’m going.” That stubborn chin jutted out.

  “Jilly…”

  “Mama, please, don’t tell me not to go.”

  It was on the tip of Camila’s tongue, but she could see how upset her daughter was. Nothing was going to stop Jilly, but at least Camila could be there to protect her.

  “Okay. I’ll drive you.”

  She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She’d avoided Lady Luck for thirteen years. But now, for her daughter, she’d have to go back.

  She was dreading every second.

  Chapter Seven

  Tripp checked the pastures on Tuesday and the cattle were still there. There weren’t any signs that the Boggses had even been on the property. Wyatt had called and said he was coming out to the ranch, so Tripp went to the gun cabinet and took out a rifle.

  “I’m going with you.”

  Tripp turned to face his father, the rifle in his hand. “No, you’re not. Wyatt will be here any minute and we’ll take care of things.”

  “Why do you need a gun?” Fear flashed in his father’s tired eyes and Tripp felt a moment of anger at what the years had done to a man he’d thought of as stronger and bolder than John Wayne.

  He patted his shoulder. “Dad, relax. I’ll handle this.”

  “Earl’s mean, son, and he got even meaner when his son was killed. Don’t know what happened to him, but he ain’t the same.”

  Tripp had heard the news even in Mesquite. Earl’s third son, Roger, had been working on a truck and the jack had slipped, causing the truck to fall on him. He’d died instantly at the age of thirty-two.

  “I know what it’s like to lose a son and I…”

  Tripp took a breath, the anger turning to
empathy. Now he knew why his dad was afraid. “You’re not losing me. I’m just trying to get this ranch back into shape and I’m not letting Earl take advantage of you or me.” He moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Son, don’t go,” Grif shouted after him, but he didn’t stop. He had to do this.

  In the kitchen, Morris removed his apron. “I better go with you.”

  Tripp sighed. “I’ve just had this conversation with Dad, and you’re not going either. Stay here and keep Dad calm. I’m going to saddle the horses.”

  Years of neglecting his parents tore at him and he tightened the cinch a little too tight. The horse moved in protest and he gently rubbed her neck. “Sorry, girl.” Now he was taking his frustration out on the best quarter horse he’d ever ridden.

  That wasn’t the only thing that was eating away at him. He couldn’t get Camila’s hurt expression and those sad eyes out of his head. He had to find a way to see her again and try to explain.

  “That’s a mighty good-looking horse,” Wyatt said, walking up and eyeing the red-chestnut mare.

  “This is Cayenne.” Tripp stroked the white stripe on the horse’s face. “I named her that because she’s the color of cayenne pepper and has a hot temperament, but she’s the best quarter horse I’ve owned. She can turn on a dime and she’s doesn’t tire easily. I call her Cay.” Tripp pulled the reins of another horse and she moved forward. “This is Daisy. I believe she’s docile enough for you.”

  “Hey. I grew up riding—just like you.”

  “Yeah, but when was the last time you were on a horse?”

  “Not for a while,” Wyatt replied, swinging into the saddle with a groan.

  Tripp opened the gate then mounted Cay and they rode into the pasture.

  “Have you seen any activity today?” Wyatt asked.

  “No. I’ve laid low like you asked me to.”

  “Good. Maybe we can resolve this peacefully.”

  They galloped to a ridge where they could look out on a valley with tall weeds and overgrown bushes and mesquite. Cattle munched on the grass beneath the weeds. To the south, riders were approached—seven, Tripp counted. His pulse quickened and he felt as if he were at his first rodeo, in a chute atop a horse meaner than the devil, waiting for the gate to open. Except this was no rodeo.