Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter

by Anna Schmidt

  Horse and rider ambled up to the filigreed iron fence leading into the courtyard. The man kept his eyes, which were shaded by the brim of his hat, on her. He did not appear to be in a hurry—or maybe the approach was calculated to keep her from running away. Did he think she was some skittish colt in need of taming? That was certainly how Roger and probably at least half the hands still working the ranch saw her. And it was certainly the way the other ranchers at the association meeting had treated her.

  “Evening, ma’am.” He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face. His hair was thick and straight and black as her father’s favorite quarter horse. His face was mostly covered by stubble, and his exposed forearms were brown like leather, the same as most men who worked outdoors for long hours…but there was a difference. There was a golden cast to his tanned complexion that made her think of sunshine. He was definitely not from this part of the country, and for the first time since Juanita’s son had spotted him, Maria had doubts. Perhaps he had friends waiting. Gangs were not uncommon in the territory. And if word had spread that Roger had left… There hadn’t been trouble in a while, but these were desperate times.

  “Evenin’,” she replied as she met his gaze and offered the knuckles of one hand for the dog to sniff. She was glad to see Juanita’s husband, Eduardo, coming across the yard, and she knew Juanita was probably positioned just inside the kitchen door, her hand fairly twitching to grab the Parker twin-barrel shotgun they kept nearby. “Can I help you?”

  “Well, yes, ma’am. I’m hoping you and the mister can spare a bite to eat for me and my horse and ol’ Cracker there.” He nodded toward the dog. “I could also use directions to the Tipton Brothers Cattle and Land Company.”

  All Maria’s senses went on instant alert. Was this a trick? Was Roger testing her? Had he sent this man?

  “You work for Tipton Brothers, amigo?” Eduardo scowled up at the stranger.

  “Not yet. I’m just looking for work and heard they might be hiring.” He gave Eduardo his full attention, apparently trying to decide if Juanita’s husband was the owner of the ranch. “Truth is, I’d just as soon work on a spread like this one.”

  He spoke softly with a definite drawing out of his words—from the South if she had to guess. Could be another Texan, but his accent was different from the Texas men she’d met. This man’s voice lacked the roughness. There was a gentleness to him—and yet by the look of him, he could handle himself in a fight. “We aren’t hiring at the moment,” she said. “Eduardo can show you where to rest your horse, and Javier will bring you out some supper and something for your dog.”

  “I’m most grateful, ma’am. Thank you.” He replaced his hat as he turned his horse to follow Eduardo.

  “Where are you from?” Maria asked, unable to contain her curiosity a minute longer.

  “Florida, ma’am.”

  Eduardo let out a long, low whistle. “You are a long way from home, amigo.”

  Maria stood rooted to the spot as the two men started across the yard. Florida? Did the man know the first thing about herding and branding and such—even if she were of a mind to hire him? And what the devil was he doing so far from home?

  As she headed into the kitchen, Juanita released the shotgun’s dual hammers and put the weapon back in the corner before going to the stove to dish up a bowl of stew. “I suppose you want me to give him some biscuits and a slice of that apple pie as well?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Do you plan on letting him stay? You’re shorthanded now, I know, but even so…”

  Maria was aware of Ricardo, now seated at the table chopping onions and listening intently to whatever she might say so he could carry the news back to the other hands. “I don’t know, Nita. Like I said before, I’m not doing anything that Papa wouldn’t do by feeding him.”

  “You are not your father, Maria.”

  “Have Javier take the man his food, all right?” Maria sat down in the nearest chair and rested her elbows on her knees. What would her father do? Would he give the man work? Probably. But she knew nothing about him.

  You get a sense of people, Maria, her father had once told her. You need to listen to that and act accordingly.

  She closed her eyes and thought about the man…and realized there had been no introductions. He had assumed she was married—that business about “you and the mister.” She had liked the way he spoke—his voice deep, a little hoarse, probably from the dust of his journey, and yet soft-spoken in a way that let her know he was feeling his way and not taking anything for granted. She had also been impressed with the way he had shown respect to Eduardo. Roger would have dismissed the older man as not worth his time. This man was nothing like Roger. She was sure of that.

  “Juanita?”

  Juanita paused at the kitchen door, her weathered hands still cradling the bowl of stew, on top of which she’d stacked a biscuit and a saucer with a slab of pie. She looked back, one eyebrow arched.

  “Now that Roger and… There’s room in the bunkhouse. Have Javier tell the man he can stay the night but needs to be on his way at first light.”

  Juanita shooed Javier out of the way and started walking toward the bunkhouse carrying the steaming bowl. “I’ll tell him,” she announced. “Somebody needs to get a good, long look at this drifter.” But by the way she trudged along, shaking her head the entire time, Maria had no doubt that the housekeeper had already made up her mind.

  Maria glanced at Ricardo, who was watching his mother as well. “Well, Papa would have let him stay,” she said defensively.

  “Yes, Miss Maria.” Ricardo returned to chopping onions, keeping whatever he might be thinking to himself, as usual.

  Two

  It came as no surprise to Chet that none of the other men talked to him as he sat on a rough wooden banco outside the bunkhouse eating his supper. A couple of them nodded as they finished their meal and passed him on their way into the bunkhouse. One of them held out his hand for Cracker to sniff, then scratched the dog’s ears. Two of the men spoke Spanish to Eduardo and his son, Javier, who had taken Chet’s mare to the corral, ruffling the boy’s hair as they passed by. He wondered if it would surprise the men to know that he understood almost every word, even though they spoke a different version of the language than the men he’d worked with—men who had come to Florida from islands in the Caribbean while these men were from just across the border in Mexico. Chet smiled as he shoveled another spoon filled with a thick beef stew into his mouth and savored the wonderful mix of flavors that were a far cry from the canned beans and charred jackrabbit he’d existed on for weeks. At his feet, Cracker gnawed the marrow from a soup bone.

  “Something funny, Cracker?”

  A barrel-chested, bearded man who spoke English with a drawl that left no doubt he was from Texas ambled toward him. At first Chet thought the man was referring to his dog, but then he understood that the cowhand must have heard him tell the lady of the house he’d come from Florida. It was common among ranch hands to bestow nicknames on the new guys—Cookie and Red were fairly common. It was a mark of acceptance. But the way this man drew out the word told Chet that it was intended as a slur.

  He set his plate on the bench and stood up, wiping a palm on his trousers before he extended it. “Name’s Chet Hunter,” he said.

  The man ignored his outstretched hand and took a seat on the bench, setting Chet’s unfinished supper on the floor. “From Florida, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man snorted and leaned against the bunkhouse wall. He folded his brawny arms across his chest and lowered the brim of his hat to cover his eyes.

  Chet sat on the step and picked up his plate. “You got a name?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  Chet waited and, when he was sure the man did not intend to share any further information, added, “Good to
know.” He sopped up the last of the stew with the heel of bread, wolfed down the apple concoction, and then took the bowl, plate, tin cup of coffee, and spoon and headed for the house.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To return these dishes and thank the lady of the house for letting me stay the night.” He glanced back. “That suit you?”

  The cowboy grumbled something.

  Chet kept walking past Eduardo and his friends. “I’ll sleep in the barn with my horse,” he said in Spanish. “Okay?” he added in English.

  “Sí, amigo,” Eduardo answered, exchanging a nervous look with his stunned friends.

  “And the lady’s name?” Chet nodded toward the house. “I want to thank her.”

  “Miss Maria,” Eduardo replied. “I mean, Miss Porterfield.”

  That stopped Chet in his tracks. “She’s not…I mean, there’s no man who…”

  “Senor Porterfield died a few months ago,” Eduardo replied, removing his hat as a sign of his respect.

  “Miss Porterfield’s father?”

  “Sí.”

  Having figured out that Eduardo was not the owner of the ranch, Chet had hoped by showing appreciation and respect for their supper and kindness, he might risk asking to speak to the man of the house about work. But a woman? “I could maybe speak to the foreman,” he said, without realizing he had spoken aloud.

  “Senor Turnbull left this morning—he quit.”

  “Yeah, him and Miss Maria got into it,” the man from the bunkhouse said as he wandered over to join the conversation. “I expect he’ll be back. He knows where his bread is buttered and with Jess gone…”

  Chet glanced at Eduardo. “Her brother,” Eduardo explained.

  The woman who had brought Chet his supper stalked across the yard. “You men are worse than a bunch of old hens gossiping this way. And you, Bunker, are worse than the rest put together,” she told the big man. “Seems to me the lot of you have got evening chores that need tendin’, so I would suggest you be gettin’ to it.”

  Chet saw how quickly the men scattered, and it dawned on him that he probably needed to get on this woman’s good side if he was going to have any chance of staying on for work. He handed her the dishes. “That was the best stew I’ve—”

  “And there’s no need for you to go trying to cozy up to anybody on this ranch. You can stay the night, but at dawn, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be on your way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t know what that girl was thinkin’,” she mumbled to herself in Spanish. “Taking in strangers with all she’s…” The rest was lost as she entered the courtyard.

  * * *

  Once again, Maria could not seem to settle down for the night. “You’re just overtired,” her mother would have said with a knowing smile. Of course, that was when her mother had taken notice of anything her four children might be doing. These days Constance Porterfield was like a child herself. She either stayed curled in her bed for hours at a time or wandered through the house, her dressing gown hanging from her bony shoulders and skimming the tile floors.

  Was that a voice? And had it come from inside or outside the house?

  Maria sat up in bed, her senses on full alert. Her younger sister, Amanda, slept on the bed next to hers. A beam of weak light found its way under the closed door from Trey’s room across the hall. No doubt her brother was reading. For the first several years of his young life, Trey had been ill and often confined to his room. In spite of that, he always seemed to look at adversity as a challenge to be overcome. Unable to run and play or learn the activities most children of ranchers were taught practically from the day they started to walk, Trey had focused his time on reading and drawing. Even though his health had improved over the last year or so, he still was rarely without a book or his sketch pad.

  There it was again. Outside.

  Perhaps it was the wind. All indicators were that there would be rain before dawn. She left her bed and curled onto the seat next to the window that overlooked the courtyard and the outbuildings beyond. The bunkhouse was dark, but there was a thin stream of light coming from the barn.

  The drifter.

  Eduardo had reported that the man had elected to sleep in the barn rather than the bunkhouse—something about not wanting to disturb the others if he decided to leave after just a couple hours sleep. She hadn’t even gotten his name—just that he came from Florida. That seemed impossible. Florida was hundreds—maybe even thousands—of miles away. Of course, these days people seemed to think nothing of taking off for someplace they’d never been before and knew nothing about. Seemed downright foolish to her. On the other hand, knowing the man came from someplace so different explained a lot about the way he dressed and his accent and mannerisms. But it did not explain what he was doing so far from home.

  He’d mentioned the Tipton Brothers Company, but how would he have heard of that all the way back in Florida? And even if he had, wasn’t this an awfully long way to come for a job? These were all questions that she had overheard Juanita asking Eduardo. Obviously Juanita had decided the stranger was someone in need of watching. She’d even instructed Eduardo to make up some excuse for sleeping in the barn as well—with his pistol at the ready.

  And of course, Eduardo had complied. It was the rare occasion when he dared to go against his wife’s orders. So maybe Eduardo had left the lamp burning. But other than the light and the wind rustling through the cluster of paloverde trees that sheltered the courtyard, there was no sign of movement that Maria could see. The night riders would be out watching the herd grazing nearby while the others slept. With some of the problems she and the other small ranchers had experienced lately, they had agreed to keep their combined herd closer to one of their ranches. That way if trouble came, the night riders could sound the alarm and help would be close at hand. She’d followed that advice, but still she had an uneasy feeling.

  “What are you doing up?” Amanda asked, her voice raspy with sleep.

  “I thought I heard something.” Maria moved back to her bed.

  “Mama?”

  Maria had been so engrossed in wondering if the stranger might be up to something that she hadn’t thought about her mother. Constance Porterfield not only wandered through the rooms of the sprawling house during the day, but lately she had also developed the disturbing habit of wandering out into the night. The night before Roger quit, Constance Porterfield had been found in the family cemetery sound asleep, leaning against the marker for her husband’s grave. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted and once again shoved her bare feet into her slippers.

  “I’ll go,” Amanda said wearily, padding barefoot across the room and leaving the door open as she went down the hall to their parents’ bedroom. After only a moment, she was back. “Sleeping soundly,” she reported. “And yes, I checked to be sure.”

  “It’s probably just the wind and the storm coming,” Maria said. “Let’s get some sleep.” Casting one last glance at the light from the barn, she returned to her bed and pulled the covers over her.

  “What did you think of the drifter?” Amanda asked.

  “I didn’t. Now go to sleep.”

  “I did.” Amanda giggled. “He’s really good-looking. Don’t you think? I mean, he’s so nice and tall, and that hair and those eyes.”

  At sixteen, Amanda had taken to looking at every available male as a potential candidate for courtship. Exactly when her younger sister might have had the opportunity to observe the drifter’s eyes was a mystery to Maria—one that promised to add to her trouble getting any sleep.

  “What about his eyes?”

  “They sparkle. Especially when he smiles.”

  “And just when did you have the occasion to observe his sparkling eyes and smile?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Amanda?”


  “I was in the barn when he came over from the bunkhouse, all right? That’s not exactly a crime, is it?”

  “It depends. What did he do?”

  “Oh, he was ever so polite—even a little shy. He took off his hat, introduced himself, and begged my pardon for startling me, and…”

  “You know his name?”

  “Chester Hunter, but he said he goes by Chet. I mean, is that not the most perfect name for him? Chet—strong but friendly-like.”

  Maria was well aware that she should have been reminding her sister of the dangers of becoming overly friendly with hired help—not that this Chet was, but still. On the other hand, she wanted to hear more. “And what did you do?”

  “Introduced myself, of course. ‘I am Amanda Porterfield,’ I said, and then I told him he could call me Manda.”

  Maria could not help but laugh. “No one calls you that.”

  “Well, I think I might just insist that all of you do. It suits me. Amanda is far too formal.” She pushed herself higher onto her pillows—a sure sign she was settling in for a long talk. “He asked me about you.”

  Outside the open window, the wind had picked up. A horse whinnied, and Maria heard the murmur of men’s voices. As much as she wanted to pursue Amanda’s last comment, she chose instead to shush her sister and hurry back to the window. Eduardo and the drifter—Chet—were standing outside the barn. By their posture, Maria was sure they also had heard something amiss.