Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter

by Anna Schmidt

  “Right here,” Amanda said. “Good heavens, Maria, you look like something that got caught in a stampede.” She led the way back down the hall to their bedroom, where the tub had been set up. Trey was filling it with buckets of steaming water.

  In a way, she had been caught up in a stampede, Maria thought a few minutes later as she eased herself into the water—Oscar, her father, Chet, constantly having to prove that even though she was a woman, she was capable of managing the ranch. But mostly she was more worried than ever about whom she could trust…and the name that Oscar had tried to utter with his dying breath. She closed her eyes as she soaked in the warm water that Amanda had scented with yucca oil before shooing Trey from the room. Before Amanda allowed her to get into the tub, she had insisted on washing her sister’s hair. Now, as she surrendered to the soothing warmth and scent of the water, Maria combed her wet hair with her fingers and thought about Chet—the way his fingers had stroked her hair, the way his calloused hands had touched her face, the way his eyes had been wide with fear for her safety. He cared for her. She had heard it in the thunder of his heart when he held her against his chest. Was this what it felt like to be in love?

  She thought about her parents and the love they had shared. She thought about the way her mother looked at her father, the way her eyes lit up whenever she saw him. The way she had smiled that night by the creek when she had thought Chet was her husband. Maria understood that now. For the first time since her father’s death, she thought she could begin to appreciate the depths of loss her mother had suffered. No wonder she wanted to live in the past. If Maria couldn’t see Chet—if he were to leave—she knew she would never recover from the heartbreak of that. She loved him, but if they were to have any chance for a future together, then she had to deal with everything else.

  She wrapped herself in a towel still warm from the sun as she stepped out of the tub. She saw her nightgown spread out on her bed. “Get me my clothes, Amanda.”

  “But Juanita said…”

  “There is work to be done and Oscar’s funeral to be planned. I’ll sleep tonight.” She rubbed her hair to soak up the extra dampness, then plaited it into one long braid. “Oh, and have the men meet me outside Papa’s office in half an hour.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes—except the Johnsons’ hand. He should head back home. Chet is back now.”

  “Even Roger?”

  “Of course Roger. He’s one of the hands, isn’t he?”

  Amanda laid out trousers and a shirt that had belonged to Jess and that Maria had taken to wearing once their brother had left. She added clean undergarments for her sister and smiled. “Not sure Roger sees things that way, but looks like you might be about to set him straight.”

  The men were all waiting for her when she entered the office—even Roger, who leaned against the door frame half-inside and half-outside the room, his arms folded across his chest and a smirk on his face.

  “Gentlemen, as you may have heard by now, we have lost one of our own—Oscar Crutchfield has died. After he was brutally beaten, he hid for some time in the Johnsons’ barn. Once we found him and moved him into the house, where his injuries could be properly treated, he seemed to be on the mend but apparently his injuries and the fever he developed were too much for him to overcome.”

  A murmur ran through the room, and she understood that Chet had not given the men details of Joker’s death.

  “He was murdered?” one of the men asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. Colonel Ashwood has been alerted, and Marshal Tucker is probably at the Johnsons’ ranch now. It is clear that whoever attacked Oscar is reckless and desperate and has little concern for the lives of anyone who may get in the way.”

  She heard the name “Tipton” run through the gathering. She held up her hands. “We do not yet know who is responsible. You—and I—may have our suspicions, but we will not become vigilantes, is that understood? We will let the authorities do their job.”

  “And then we’ll take over,” Bunker muttered.

  “Seymour…” It was a warning, and Maria saw that the older man had the good sense to say no more. She also noticed that Roger had fully entered the room and that he seemed quite interested in what she had to say.

  What do you know about this, Roger Turnbull? She couldn’t help but remember that the name Oscar had tried to whisper had begun with the letter T. Roger had gone into town with her father that day, but had returned alone with some story of how her father had sent him on ahead. Was he responsible? Could it be possible?

  “Services for Oscar will be tomorrow. His body will be returned later today and he will lie in the house, as have all the hands who have died in the service of this ranch before him. He will join my father and those other men in the family cemetery. Eduardo, if you would be so kind as to recruit two others and prepare the grave while Ricardo takes the wagon to retrieve the body.”

  Rico and his father both nodded, and she was gratified to see that the hands standing to either side of them immediately volunteered their help.

  “What about the branding?” Roger asked. “We’re already behind and—”

  “I thought you told me things were right on schedule, but either way, this ranch is in mourning. We will resume—and hopefully complete—branding the day after tomorrow. That’s all, gentlemen. Thank you.” She picked up her hat and strode from the room, nodding to each man as they made way for her. When she came to Chet, she paused, started to say something…then kept walking.

  Later, she told herself. You can find solace with him later.

  * * *

  When Chet left the meeting, Loralei was waiting for him. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “A man we all worked with died. The funeral will be tomorrow. It’d be a help if you could take care of the boy so Ezma can help Juanita in the kitchen.”

  “Chet, we have to talk about us.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I told you I would help you, but you know how this works—I don’t get the bulk of my pay until we get the stock to market. After that, I’ll pay your way to any place you want to go, but I’m not coming with you, and before you go, you will write your father and tell him the truth—a letter that I will take care of seeing gets delivered. Those are my conditions.”

  “You are a horrible man, and I have no idea what it was I ever saw in you that made me—”

  “I’ve got work to do. I’ll stop by later.” He headed for the barn where Bunker was waiting for him.

  The older hand didn’t waste time coming to the point. “Tell me everything you know, Hunt.”

  Chet was tired, and he’d barely had time to wash up and change into a clean shirt before he heard about the meeting. He’d have given anything to just lie on his bunk for half an hour and relive the time with Maria. But clearly that wasn’t going to happen. “I don’t have much to go on.”

  He led Bunker over to the corral because at least out in the open they could talk without being overheard and not seem to be plotting anything. He handed Bunker a rag and indicated Maria’s saddle. “You do Miss Maria’s saddle, and I’ll clean mine while we talk. That way nobody will think we’re up to no good.”

  “Just talk to me, Hunt.”

  So he told the older hand everything he knew, starting with finding Joker in the barn and ending with what Maria had told him about the man saying that her father’s death had been no accident. When he finished, he realized that none of this seemed to surprise Bunker.

  The cowhand spit out a stream of chewing tobacco, then went back to cleaning the saddle. “Figured as much,” he said finally. “Isaac Porterfield had no match when it came to handling horses. Me and Eduardo did some checking after the so-called accident but couldn’t find no evidence—at least not that would hold up in court.”

  “But you found something. What was it?”

  “Tu
rnbull sent us out to bury the horse and bring back the old man’s saddle and stuff. There were a couple of things that didn’t fit right. Like the saddle cinch was awful loose and frayed, but not like it was old and needed replacing. Like somebody had taken a file to it—but not so obviously I could prove anything.”

  “What else?”

  “The animal’s shoes had nails loosened or had fallen out altogether. Mr. Porterfield took a lot of pride in his horses, and he took extra good care of his favorites, especially Macho over there. No way he wouldn’t have checked these things before starting out.”

  “Where was he headed?”

  “Had a meeting in town with the bank, way I heard it. He was on his way home when it happened. When he wasn’t back by suppertime, Mrs. P. had their son, Jess, organize a search. Miss Maria was the one to first spot his body.” He shook his head and scratched his beard. “Never saw the likes of her crying, like her heart was just broke in two. Course she rallied after that—had to with her brother taking off the way he did and her mama sick with grief.”

  Chet was still thinking about the “accident” and one thing didn’t make any sense. “Whoever messed with his horse had no way of knowing when or where things might go wrong, and they sure couldn’t be sure Maria’s pa would die in the process.”

  “Oh, they made sure all right. They must have trailed him after he left town. Mr. P. had a snakebite on his neck. Thing was, the way the body was lying kind of on top of the horse, that don’t make sense. Rattlers don’t climb, so how’d the snake get to his neck?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a rattlesnake. Maybe it was a copperhead.”

  Bunker shrugged. “Maybe but not likely around these parts.”

  “So you think somebody made sure Porterfield’s horse fell and then finished the job?”

  “I think ol’ Isaac knew exactly who put that snake in striking distance.” He gave the clean saddle a final slap with the rag. “Trouble is, nobody else knows. And there ain’t enough proof to do anything if we did.”

  They both looked up when they heard the creak of the wagon leaving the barn. “Poor ol’ Joker,” Bunker muttered.

  “Ever built a coffin, Bunker?”

  “Yep.” He picked up the saddle and started toward the barn. “Come on, Hunt. Might as well get started.”

  * * *

  Maria heard the sounds of a hand saw scraping its way through wood, then a hammer, two hammers, and knew that someone was building the coffin for Joker. She’d watched from the courtyard as Rico drove the wagon away. In the kitchen, Juanita and Ezma were busy baking and preparing food for the wake that would take place that night. Ezma had reported that Loralei was napping, so Amanda had taken the baby with her to visit her mother. Trey was in the courtyard sketching something, and for once, everything seemed normal—or as normal as things could get given the circumstances.

  “Sounds like Seymour has started building the coffin,” she said as she passed through the kitchen. “I’m going to ride out and gather some wildflowers for tonight and to put on Oscar’s grave tomorrow.”

  The truth was that ever since she’d learned that her father’s death had been no accident, she’d been intent on returning to the site where they had discovered his body. Not that it would do any good. In the months that had passed since that horrid day, there had been dust storms and rain, and no doubt the hooves of hundreds if not thousands of cattle had passed over the spot. But she had to go.

  She stepped inside the barn and saw Bunker and Chet working on the coffin. “I’m going to gather some flowers,” she said. “Thanks for cleaning my saddle.”

  “You shouldn’t go nowhere alone, Miss Maria,” Bunker said. “Hunt, I can finish up here. You go with her.”

  “I’ll be perfectly fine…” Her understanding of her feelings for Chet was too new. If he came with her, she wouldn’t be able to think straight, and she needed to have her wits about her.

  But already Chet had taken the saddle from her and headed for the corral, his dog at his heels. He slung the saddle over the railing and then chose a horse from those milling around the corral. He saddled it, then turned to her. “Which horse?”

  “You really—”

  “Which horse, Miss Maria? There’s not a man on this spread that would let you go off on your own, so if you don’t want me to ride with you, then pick another cowhand.”

  She entered the corral and placed the bit in the mouth of a dappled-gray horse, then led the animal into the yard closer to where Chet had left her saddle on the fence. “You’ll do,” she muttered as she slung the saddle into place, cinched the belt, waited for the horse to accept that, then tightened the belt again.

  “You talking to the horse or me?” Chet asked.

  “You’ll both do.”

  “There’re plenty of flowers down by the creek.” Chet watched her cinch the saddle and then mount the horse. “But then, you aren’t planning to pick flowers, are you?”

  “Actually I am, but I have something else I need to do first.” She waved to Trey as they passed the house.

  “Going to the place where your pa died?” Chet guessed.

  “Maybe.”

  “And exactly what do you hope to find there, Maria?”

  “Answers.” She urged the horse into a gallop.

  * * *

  When Maria had come to the barn, Bunker had muttered, “Uh-oh.” Like Chet, he had known that she would be unable to leave well enough alone once she found out her father’s death had been no accident. “Whatever she’s up to, you better go along with her,” Bunker had said before turning to greet Maria.

  Chet hadn’t needed to be told twice. Truth was, he wanted to see the place where Maria’s father had died. Not that he was any smarter than anybody else who’d seen the place, but maybe there might be something, and Bunker was right. With two men now dead and no one in custody, it was downright foolhardy for her to be out on the range alone.

  He caught up to her and followed as she and her horse picked their way over a well-marked trail. She kept her eyes focused on the ground and ignored him. When finally she reined her horse to a halt and slid from the saddle, Chet waited to see what she would do. When she dropped to her knees and began running her gloved hands over the dirt, he climbed down from his horse and approached her.

  “Maria?”

  “There’s got to be something,” she said, her voice calm. “Help me look.”

  He knelt beside her and began running his hands over the ground as well. “What are we looking for?”

  “Something. I’ll know when we find it.”

  “You’re sure this is the spot?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Cracker sniffed the ground. “Is that your pa’s hat,” Chet asked, pointing to the hat she was wearing. He was pretty sure it was, but the mood she was in, he wasn’t going to risk making any assumptions.

  “Of course,” she snapped and kept searching.

  “Let me have it a minute.”

  She sighed, pulled the hat off, and tossed it to him, then continued going over the dirt on the trail.

  “Crack,” he called and gave the dog a chance to sniff the hat.

  “That’s not going to work. It’s been months, and I’ve been wearing the hat and…”

  Cracker moved along the trail, nose to the ground. She doubled back twice to where Maria waited before continuing to sniff the trail.

  “See? She keeps coming back to me because it’s me she’s smelling on the hat not…”

  Cracker barked two sharp yelps and then sat down next to a spot fifty feet from where Maria and Chet waited.

  “Worth a look,” Chet suggested.

  She tightened the rawhide under her chin and walked to where the dog waited. Cracker barked again. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she dropped to her knees and started a fresh search.

 
Chet watched while Maria went over the ground inch by inch. After a while, she held up a bedraggled feather that had once been red but was now made maroon by exposure to the elements. She reached over and hugged Cracker. “Good girl,” she murmured.

  “What is it?”

  “Pa wore a feather just like this one in his hat—this hat.” She removed the Stetson and stuck the sad-looking feather in the band. “Whatever we’re going to find, it’s going to be right here.”

  Seeing that she was more determined than ever to spend the night if necessary searching for clues, Chet squatted down next to her. “Maria, we should go. We can mark the spot and…”

  “A few more minutes,” she said as she picked up something then discarded it and moved on. An hour later, she had returned to the area where she had found the feather.

  “Maria, please.” It broke his heart to see her there on her hands and knees, so determined to find something that could not possibly be there—but then she cried out.

  “Look,” she whispered as she held up two small pieces of turquoise.

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure but maybe…” She carefully wrapped the stones in a handkerchief and tucked them into her shirt pocket. “Let’s go,” she said as she whistled for the horses.

  They rode side by side without talking. Cracker kept pace, looking up at Maria from time to time. After a while, Chet pointed to a field of wildflowers, and when they reached it, Maria dismounted and began gathering a bouquet. She seemed deep in thought, as if she might be planning something, and that made Chet nervous. “You gonna tell me what you found back there?”

  She took a deep breath. “My father once gave Roger a turquoise and silver bolo that he wore for years. It was a sign of trust and appreciation for all Roger had done for us since coming on as foreman.” She reached in her pocket and produced two small turquoise stones. “These are from that bolo—I’m sure of it. So why would they be there if Roger wasn’t?”

  “Maybe he chipped it another time.”

  “He only wore it on special occasions, and he was wearing it that morning when Papa asked him to accompany him to the bank.”