“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It wasn’t.” She stretched her legs out and leaned back on her hands. “My Afghanistan was opening myself up to the wrong man.” Honesty blunted her expression and she fixed him with a steady gaze. “My scars aren’t as brutal as yours, or as life-altering. But they’ve changed me in ways I don’t like.”
His throat tightened at her show of courage. “You haven’t given up.”
She reached for his hand. “Neither have you.”
He wrapped his fingers around hers and tugged. She scooted closer, into his arm, and leaned against him. The top of her cap rubbed under his chin and her shoulder lay warm against his chest. Could she feel his heart pounding?
A hawk screed and drew his attention to its spiraling rise above them. Once it reached its flight point, it tilted off toward higher ground, its broad wings spread wide against a blue backdrop.
She relaxed against him, watching the bird. “They ride the thermals, you know.”
“Hmm.” He ran his hand over her shoulder, feeling the softness of her, breathing in her sweet scent.
“The heat carries them as it rises.” She said it as if trying to convince herself of something she didn’t quite understand.
“All they do is spread their wings.”
She stiffened, sat up, wonder on her face. “That’s it!”
“That’s what?”
“That’s what I couldn’t figure out.”
“You couldn’t figure out that they spread their wings?” Was he missing something?
Suddenly she retreated, withdrew inside herself, and the mood between them shifted. What had he done?
“It’s nothing.” She tugged the ponytail over her shoulder and combed through it with her fingers. “Just something I’ve been thinking about for a few days, that’s all.”
“Want to share?”
A door closed on her beautiful brown eyes, and the sad smile returned.
“Maybe when I understand it better myself.”
Frustrated that he’d shattered the moment, he cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Hungry?”
She sighed, seemingly relieved at the change in topic. “How’d you know?”
“I’m a good guesser, remember?”
If he was such a good guesser, why couldn’t he guess what he’d done wrong?
He hiked back to the horses. Ground tied, they grazed where he had dropped their reins. From a saddlebag he retrieved an aluminum foil bundle and two water bottles. Then he led Buddy to another spot, dropped the reins again and did the same for the mare.
When he returned, Laura stood at the edge of the bedrock mortars, hands in her back pockets, staring at a small creek that trickled below them.
“Breakfast is served.”
Chapter 12
Laura returned to their spot, stepping between the mortar holes, and sat down next to Eli. “Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?”
“For me, yes,” he said. “I ate at about five-thirty. These are leftovers.” He unwrapped the foil and spread it on the rock. “Chorizo burritos. Your idea.”
“Absolutely. But I thought you and Garcia would eat them all.”
“You bought two pounds of chorizo. It’ll take us a while to get through that.”
She bit into the tortilla-wrapped roll of sausage, egg and potato. “Mmm.”
With a pleased look on his face, he did the same.
“Not bad,” she said with an honest nod. “I’m impressed. I thought you only did fish.”
“You kidding? I learned everything I know about the kitchen from Garcia.”
“That’s what I said.”
He laughed and nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll put jalapeño juice in your root beer.”
Laura covered her mouth, choking on a vision of Garcia holding his finger against floating jalapeños as he tipped juice from a jar. She wouldn’t put it past him—even if he did love her like a granddaughter.
Eli had caught her off guard with his question about writing, and she’d surprised herself with her admission. In all those years of tagging along behind him, she’d not thought of him as her best friend. But time’s filter clearly defined his role in her young life. She’d fairly worshipped him—and just as often hated him. A fine line there.
He’d taken her confession well, and she dismissed the embarrassment that tried to wiggle under her skin. She hadn’t expected to tell him how she’d felt when she and her mother moved away, but his question deserved an honest answer. What a pair they were—both wounded and wrapped in the past.
Oh, God, help us.
She’d heard the thunder of his heart when he pulled her close. Uncertainty? Longing? His gentleness as he stroked her shoulder suggested the latter, but right now she wanted only his friendship. She needed more time to heal.
The water cooled her throat, and she drank half the bottle before capping it and wadding her foil.
“Another?” Eli offered a burrito.
“No. I’m stuffed. Save them for Garcia.”
“He ate three this morning.”
She shook her head. “I believe it. He sure puts away his share for such a wiry guy.”
Eli pulled his hat brim down and stood. “I want to ride over the ridge behind the ranch before we head back. You game?”
She gathered the remains of their breakfast. “I’m game.”
Eli offered her a hand and pulled her up, sweeping her face with a blue gaze. She squeezed his fingers before releasing her grip, but he held on.
She aimed for a lighthearted tone, but it snagged in her throat.
“What is it?”
“I’m glad you came back,” he said softly.
She’d seen that look on a man’s face before and fear pulled her head down. The bill of her cap blocked his approach.
“Me, too,” she murmured.
He hesitated and she held her breath. A quick squeeze of his fingers, like a benediction, and he let go and started for the horses.
She followed, watching his broad back, the swing of his arms, the fit of his jeans, the slight hitch in his step. She noted, too, the hitch in her pulse. Their relationship had deepened, shifted gears. Become more.
The climb to Slick Rock had been familiar, but now Eli rode over another hill and into new territory. From the ridge she could see their valley—all of Hawthorne Ranch and beyond, and her house perched on its lower knob to the north.
Captivated by the view, she reined in the mare. “It’s beautiful.”
Eli stopped beside her. “Sure is.” He crossed his arms on his saddle horn, the same position he’d taken the day she first saw him.
“Do you ride up here much?” she asked.
He scanned the scene below them, turning his head slightly as he looked to the right. “Not enough. Wasn’t the same without you.” A half smile slid across his lips and he turned Buddy away to plod along the ridgeline.
Laura touched the mare’s sides with her heels, urging her into a trot, and Eli’s words slipped into the empty place at her core.
After a short ride around another hillside, he stopped at the top of a low saddle-shaped dip in the hills and faced east, away from their homes. She pulled up next to him and recognized the Spring Valley rodeo grounds below.
“I think the rustlers are running my calves over this draw and down to the holding pens,” he said. “Then trailering them out.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t. Not until I catch them red-handed.”
“How will you do that?”
He looked at her and a chill as cold as creek water ran down her back. “Next time, I’ll be waiting for them.”
* * *
A
t the fence line in front of her house, Laura dismounted and handed the reins to Eli. “Thanks for taking me.”
His earlier sinister look had vanished, replaced by the easygoing, lopsided smile. “My pleasure, ma’am.” He dipped his chin in a brief nod.
“You don’t have to get down—I can manage the fence.” To prove her ability, she slipped through two barbed wire strands and faced him from the other side. “Let me know about the pipe fence and when I can get the cows.”
Eli leaned on the saddle horn. “You’ve got twenty acres, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll run in four or five. How’s that?”
She smiled. “That’ll be great. Thanks. I’ll write you a check.”
“No hurry.” He turned the horses toward the bottom land. “I know where you live.”
“Wait.”
He stopped, twisted in his saddle.
“Does this make me a cattlewoman now?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Not without boots.”
He angled the horses across the hill and down toward the gate where he dismounted, walked them through and left it open behind him.
Laura slipped beneath the porch railing and watched until he disappeared over a low rise and out of view. In a moment, she saw him again, heading for the barn. He left the mare and rode back to the upper pasture.
He cut five head from the bunch and at an easy pace drove them north toward her open gate. She marveled at the way Buddy worked the cattle, cutting off the leader in its attempt to turn back at the gate. Lured by the deeper grass, the others followed and immediately bent their heads to graze.
She pulled off her cap and shook out her ponytail. Eli raised a hand after shutting the gate and she returned his wave, smiling to herself. Not only would she be a cattlewoman—regardless of what Eli said about boots—she was also going to be one very sore cattlewoman tomorrow morning.
* * *
That evening Laura soaked in a hot bath, hoping to head off achy muscles from the ride. She hadn’t been on a horse in a dozen years. Hadn’t been fishing. Hadn’t seen such breathtaking views, and hadn’t realized that Eli Hawthorne III would take her breath, as well.
She was beginning to feel like her old self, but she didn’t want to plough into something she might regret.
Old self? Her mother would laugh and tell her she didn’t know old.
Her throat constricted. Mama hadn’t known, either. Forty-seven wasn’t old, but cancer respected no one’s age.
Pete and Re-Pete trotted into the bathroom and tussled on the bath mat, lightening her mood. She flicked water from her fingers and laughed as they twitched their whiskers and looked around for the source.
After drying off and donning her cutoffs and tank top again, she sat on the sofa with her laptop and searched for information on cattle rustlers.
Rustling on the Rise in Western States, said the headline to the first article she read. The writer blamed a slumping economy for an increase in the activity once considered cause for hanging. Idaho, Colorado, Montana, Nevada and Wyoming had the highest incidents, and often thieves rode in on four-wheelers. A silent crime, the report said, with losses in the millions of dollars.
Another article reported ranchers in Texas and Oklahoma also suffering, and thieves were often employees or neighbors. She learned what Eli meant by running a brand, and saw images of running irons used to modify the distinctive markings on livestock.
Refining her search, she typed in “cattle rustling in California.” The news was just as bad. Especially for owners who didn’t brand their cattle, like a lot of dairymen.
She closed her laptop and tried to remember the Hawthorne brand. A simple H. Easy to change, based on what she’d read. The whole thing sounded like an old-time cowboy movie, but evidently stealing cattle was as prevalent as knocking over a liquor store. Easier, if the thief knew what he—or she—was doing.
Which meant most rustlers knew how to take care of their target. Most were cowboys or close to it. She immediately thought of Pennington. Eli scoffed at the man’s abilities, but Pennington certainly knew enough to heist a few calves from a neighbor and drive them over the hill to the rodeo grounds.
What would Eli do if he caught the man doing just that?
She didn’t want to know.
In answer to her growling stomach, Laura made a cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwich, sliced an apple and took the meal and her Bible out to the front swing. As she ate, she thumbed through Isaiah for a verse she’d once read about eagles.
A breeze danced across the porch and she looked up to see a thin cloud cover. Lying low and golden on the eastern horizon, the sun spotlighted the lesser hills with a bright yellow wash and sent long shadows over the Hawthorne pastures. In minutes it slipped away and the land lay down with a sigh, at rest in the shadowless dusk.
The breeze kicked up and a hushed, breathy sound rasped against the mulberry leaves. Soon the whisper swelled and spread to the roof. Heaven opened and rain fell over the house like a veil, soaking the pastures and trees. Her cows stood unbothered in the deluge.
Laura rose to stand against the railing. She breathed deeply and stretched her hands beyond the eaves. Lightning struck across the valley and thunder quickly followed. Two miles away, at most.
She peered through the grainy dusk to the spot where the Miracle Tree stood anchoring that corner of her land. Anchoring her soul with hope. She walked to the end of the porch and down the steps into the rain.
“I get it, God. I finally get it.”
Closing her eyes, she spread her arms like the hawk, lifted her face and let her tears mingle with heaven’s cleansing shower.
* * *
Eli stared through the rain toward Laura’s house. From the opened barn door the steady downpour on the corrugated roof sounded like distant automatic weapons fire. Four years ago he wouldn’t have made the connection. Now everything made a connection.
Laura hadn’t flinched when he pulled up his pant leg—a stupid thing to do, now that he thought about it. She’d taken the shock and tossed it back in his face. Was she just acting tough, stiffening in defense against anything he threw at her? Like she used to?
Tugging his hat down and his collar up, he strode to the house. Water gathered in the brim and trickled off the front edge. He stomped into the back porch, shook off his hat and slung it on an old set of longhorns Pop had mounted above the coat rack. For an Angus breeder, it was the closest thing to horned cattle he’d ever have.
Leaning against the wall with one hand, he toweled off his left boot, then pulled off the right one with the boot jack. Sometimes he forgot about his leg—until he kicked off a boot or shoe and padded across the floor with one sock-covered foot and clomped with the other. The truth eventually surfaced: he wasn’t all there.
He and Garcia had devoured Laura’s enchiladas, and he pulled the second pan from the freezer and slid it in the oven. He opened a can of refried beans, set them over low heat on the stove, then called Garcia from the desk phone and told him dinner would be on in a half hour.
The old man must have let Goldie in the house before the rain started, because he caught a glimpse of her on his way upstairs, stretched out on her side before the fireplace. Chasing geese.
Crazy dog. A warm, summer evening, in spite of the rain, and she stuck to her spot as if it were winter.
At the dresser he lifted the box lid and stared at the blocky, boyish print on the square envelope. Would their lives have turned out differently if he’d sent Laura the note? What would she do if he sent it to her now—laugh at him or be offended? Again he felt her soft warmth against him as they sat on the bedrock. He’d nearly kissed her when he helped her up, and she evidently knew it, for she’d ducked her head just in time.
Maybe it was too soon.
H
e dropped the lid and headed for the bathroom.
Showered, changed and starving, Eli trotted down the stairs to the distinct odor of scorched beans. Garcia stood at the counter salvaging what he could into a serving bowl.
“I had it on low,” Eli said as he pulled two plates from the cupboard.
“But for how long?” Garcia shook his head. “No Lorita to sit at our table tonight?”
Eli had thought the same thing but didn’t want to admit it. “She doesn’t want to eat here every night.”
“How do you know? You have not asked her.”
Eli grabbed a towel and pulled the bubbling enchiladas from the oven. “I’m sure she has plenty to keep her busy up there on her hill.”
Garcia tossed a pot holder on the table and it slid to a stop beneath Eli’s poised dish.
“Good shot.” He grudgingly acknowledged the older man’s ability to read his thoughts. Garcia’s sixth sense was a comfort when it came to running the ranch. But sometimes Eli felt the man could look into his chest and see his heart beating.
“De nada.”
Eli sent Garcia a sidelong glance as he took his seat. “I ran five head into Laura’s bottom land from our north pasture today.”
Garcia nodded and scooped two enchiladas from the pan to his plate. “We have enough pipe to run to her hilltop. I will start tomorrow.”
“Good.” Eli savored a mouthful of tortilla-wrapped onion and melted cheese. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days to finish. Then she won’t have to worry about Pennington’s cattle pushing through.”
Garcia nodded again.
Since his grandfather’s death, Eli hadn’t cared that little conversation or laughter accompanied their meals. But Laura’s return and recent presence at their table had brought life back to the ranch house.
Tonight, without her, the silence hung heavier.
Chapter 13
Five forty-five came quickly but not quietly, and Laura forced herself across the room to the alarm clock on the floor and into the bathroom. The insides of her thighs told her this morning run thing wasn’t such a great idea.
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