Slate’s mouth turned up in a wry smile. “The gun and the eyewitness testimony. I can remember the trial. It seems pretty obvious that I did it. I mean, those people were friends of mine, or that’s what they said. That woman…”
“Amanda Best,” Hook’em prompted.
“Yes, Ms. Best cried on the stand. She seemed upset to have to testify against me.” Slate felt a dagger of pain at the memory. The trial had been hard on him, but it had seemed to be just as hard on the people who testified against him.
“She sure did,” Hook’em agreed. “Whatever happened, it was a terrible thing for her. But I saw you goin’ into the bank. I know you don’t remember, but I was comin’ out and you were goin’ in. We talked a minute and I drove off.”
“I remember that you testified to that.” Almost every second of the trial was etched in Slate’s brain. The whole experience had been a nightmare. People swore that he’d done things he had no memory of and couldn’t understand.
“What I tried to tell all of them was that when I saw you out on the porch, you didn’t have a gun.”
Slate was fully alert. “They found the gun. It was my father’s gun. It had to have come from me.”
“You coulda had it tucked in the back of your belt, I suppose, but you didn’t have it where I saw it.” Hook’em scowled over at him. “I may be old, but I’m not senile. If you’da had a gun in your hand, I would have seen it. You never were the type to stick one in the back of your pants. Too sissy for you.”
Slate pondered this. The gun had been the thing that had hamstrung him in his own defense. Its hand-carved grip had apparently been his father’s pride and joy. Mary Walker had positively identified the pistol. “If I didn’t have the gun, where did it come from?” he asked.
“That’s what we have to find out.” Hook’em’s face was grim. “I know everybody in that bank, and they were all friends of yours. They all seemed as shocked and hurt as you were. Still…” He let the sentence fade away. “Slate, do you remember the pretty blond woman who sat behind you in court?”
Slate did remember her. Cassidy O’Neal. Long blond hair, sad blue eyes and composure that held her back erect even though he refused to see her when she came for jail visits. She had stared at him in the courtroom as if she expected something from him. He was certain that somehow his actions had hurt her deeply. “She came to the trial every day,” he said. He didn’t mention the jail visits he’d rejected. “Was she related to someone who worked in the bank?”
Hook’em took a breath. “No.” He worried his bottom lip. “She worked for your mother. She’s…Damn it all to hell, I can’t go against my word and I promised I wouldn’t do this.”
Slate felt the relentless pressure of no memory. This woman was someone he should know. And chances were he’d done some wrong to her and she had attended the trial to see that justice was served. Another load of guilt. “What did I do to her?” he asked.
“Just take a nap,” Hook’em responded.
Slate closed his eyes again and felt himself being tugged back into the squirrel cage of his thoughts. He had lost nearly five years of his life because he’d done something he didn’t remember doing.
In the bank he’d been shot, the bullet grazing his head. The doctors had said his memory loss was due to the fall. When he had gone down, he’d struck his head against the counter. The prognosis was that his memory might return, intact and complete, or it might not. He might recover bits and pieces, or he might get nothing. Dr. Janeway had explained that his particular injury could account for the memory loss, or it could simply be that Slate didn’t want to remember. That he was repressing the things he’d done because he knew they were wrong.
He’d been over this ground a million times in the years he’d spent in prison. There were no answers. He tried to relax his neck and back and let the gentle lull of the car push him into a light sleep. He liked the feeling of going—of being on the move. He liked glancing out the window and seeing the Texas countryside flash by. And he found that he liked the idea of being free.
That was a start.
THE TELEPHONE POLE was as tough as a mesquite trunk, but Cassidy O’Neal hammered the nail that would support her broadsheet She stepped back to survey her work, reaching for the little blond girl who sat at the curb on the nearly deserted street.
“Are you finished?” Lindsey asked, staring up at her mother with blue eyes as big and wide as the one’s that looked back.
“Three more. Then we’ll get that milkshake I promised.”
“And barbecue?” Lindsey’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Cassidy found she could not deny her. “And barbecue.” It was a simple-enough thing to give to make her daughter happy.
“When will the horse trainer come?” Lindsey asked.
“Oh, maybe in a day or two. He has to read one of these advertisements first, and then apply. You know I can’t hire just anyone. I don’t want my horses manhandled. We’re looking for someone very special. Someone with a gentle touch and a respect for animals.” Cassidy found, to her distress, that the words caught in her throat. She’d known a man like that. Once.
SLATE RAN HIS HAND over the fender of the old truck. In the back was a saddle and tack, all freshly cleaned and oiled. “I thought my belongings were sold,” he said.
“They were. You owe me ten grand. You can pay me or work it off,” Hook’em said. “There’s another surprise waiting for you out at the ranch.”
Slate lifted his gaze from the saddle. “What?”
“Your horse, you fool. How can you work cattle without a horse? And Stargazer was the best in the business. Since you don’t remember, I ought to switch horses on you and keep him for myself.”
“Stargazer.” Slate felt a whisper of something familiar. “A chestnut?”
Hook’em stared at him with sympathy. “A dun.”
Slate nodded. The name had only seemed familiar. The past was lost. “If you’ve got a place for me to put up, I’ll work off what I owe you.”
“That’s a deal. Right about the time you went to…away, things got better for me. I came out ahead with the cattle, and I had enough to keep Stargazer from going to the knacker.”
Slate didn’t remember the horse, or the past, but he felt a deep debt of gratitude to the old cowpoke who’d done his best to hang on to Slate’s past for him. “Thank you, Hook’em.”
“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me,” Hook’em said, walking away. “I drew you a map out to my place. It’s on the seat. Maybe you ought to drive around Comfort and see if there’s anything you remember.”
“What about the barbecue?” Slate asked.
“Get it yourself. I don’t want you lookin’ to me to see what you ought to remember or not.” He glanced down the street where the blond woman was nailing broadsheets to a telephone post. A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth. “Just meet folks and see what happens.”
“Thanks,” Slate said as he got behind the wheel. The truck started like a charm, and he noticed that the gas tank was full.
“MAMA, LOOK!” Lindsey pointed across the empty street to a multicolored ball that was rolling along the gutter. She was up and running before Cassidy could grab her.
“Lindsey!” Cassidy saw the old truck four car lengths away just as Lindsey dashed into the street in front of it.
“Lindsey!” she yelled.
Her daughter turned to look at her, oblivious to the vehicle rushing at her.
There was the squeal of brakes and the truck slued dangerously into the other lane. Cassidy was moving, but too slowly, while her daughter stood frozen in the middle of the street. As Cassidy watched, the gleaming bumper inched into her daughter, nudging her backward and down onto the asphalt. Lindsey seemed to disappear beneath the truck, which screeched to a stop.
“Lindsey!” Cassidy flew into the middle of the street. She saw her daughter lying on the pavement, her blond hair blowing beside the truck tire. “Lindsey!” She thought he
r chest would burst.
The tall man got out of the truck and lifted the little girl into his arms just as Cassidy got there. Not bothering to look at him, she touched her daughter’s face. Lindsey turned wide blue eyes on her. “Mama,” she said, holding out her arms.
Cassidy clutched the child to her chest, feeling her daughter’s small body sob with fear.
“Are you hurt?” Cassidy knew she had to examine her, but she didn’t want to let her go. Not for a second. “Thank you,” she said, finally looking at the man. “Thank you…” The rest of the sentence died on her lips. Slate Walker stared down at her, green eyes furrowed with worry and fear.
“Is she hurt?” he asked, recognition plain on his face.
Cassidy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Slate remembered her, but she was willing to bet it was only from the trial. He took her arm and moved her out of the street.
“Let me see her,” he urged, his hands already untangling the sobbing child from her arms and pulling Lindsey onto his lap as he sat on the curb.
“Hey,” Slate said softly. “Let me see if there’s any damage.” He spoke to Lindsey, his hands moving over her back and arms and legs. “You scared me pretty good, little lady. Does it hurt anywhere?”
Lindsey stared into his face as if mesmerized. Her sobs had tempered to a few ragged breaths. “I went under the truck,” she said.
“You sure did.” His hands calmed and comforted the child as he spoke.
“I fell down,” Lindsey explained, looking at her mother. “I’m not supposed to run into the street,” she offered, tucking her chin.
“Oh, Lindsey.” Cassidy knelt beside the little girl. “Are you okay?” Concern for her daughter pushed everything else from her mind. Even the painful knowledge that Slate’s prison term was finished.
Lindsey nodded. “Are you mad at me?”
Cassidy caught her daughter’s face in both hands. “I should be, but I’m not. I’m just so glad you’re okay. But don’t ever run into the street again, do you understand?”
“The truck could have smushed me.” Lindsey looked from her mother to the man who still held her loosely on his lap. “It was a bad noise when the truck stopped.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “No harm done as long as you’re not hurt.” His hand smoothed her blond hair.
Cassidy felt the reaction in her legs. They were rubbery and weak, and she eased herself down to the curb before she collapsed. When Slate had first been convicted and Lindsey was born, she’d marked the years of his prison term in her heart and dreamed of the day they’d first meet—father and daughter. Now it was happening, and she was unprepared. Every maternal instinct she had urged her to protect Lindsey, no matter the cost. She felt Slate’s curious gaze on her, and she looked down at the toes of her cowboy boots.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, still staring at her boots, hating the lie she was prepared to tell. She took a deep breath and choked it out. “Seeing her disappear under your truck scared the life out of me. It’s tough raising a child alone, and Lindsey’s all the family I have. Her father is dead to us.” She finally looked up at him, uncertain what his expression meant. “That’s the way it has to be.”
“I remember you from the courtroom,” he said at last. “You came to the prison. Several times. Whatever I did to you, I’m sorry.”
Cassidy felt a rush of sympathy, and her own pain. It had to be hell, feeling the need to apologize for something even if you didn’t remember doing it. “There’s no need for apologies,” she said softly. “What are you going to do now that you’re free?” The question slipped out, and for a moment she was afraid he would sense the lingering intimacy that it revealed. Once, they’d shared everything. Every plan, every dream.
“I’m going out to work for Hook’em Billings. I owe him a bit of money, and he says I’m good at working cattle.”
“You’re better at horses.” Cassidy forced her gaze down. “You had quite a reputation before you went…away.”
“Mama, can he train our horses?” Lindsey asked. She readjusted herself to a more comfortable position in his lap. “I like him.”
Startled, Cassidy finally looked up. When she did, she thought her heart would stop. Lindsey was looking up at the man with open affection, and the glance he was giving her was filled with confusion and what was clearly warmth. Something between the two of them had connected, and her gut reaction was concern. She would protect Lindsey at all cost.
“Honey, Sla—Mr. Walker has made other arrangements.” She forced strength into her legs and stood, her arms open for her daughter.
Lindsey snuggled deeper into his lap. “He’d be able to catch Joker.”
Slate frowned. “Who’s Joker?”
“He’s the stallion Mama needs to make the horses happy. He’s beautiful, but he’s so wild and smart that nobody can catch him. And some bad men have been trying to kill him.” Lindsey looked at her mother. “Tell him, Mama.”
Cassidy leaned down and eased her daughter out of Slate’s lap. She watched as the tall cowboy rose easily to his feet with the same grace and strength she’d always found so breathtaking.
“Joker’s a million-dollar horse,” Lindsey said. “Nobody can get a rope on him.”
“Is that right?” Slate spoke to Lindsey, but his gaze had settled on Cassidy. His brow was furrowed, as if he was concentrating.
She felt as if time had turned backward. She’d seen that look on Slate Walker’s face a thousand times through the two years that they’d been lovers. “We have to go home, darling.” She stumbled over the words she spoke to her daughter.
“What about my milkshake?”
“Another time.” She had to get away.
“But you promised,” Lindsey said, a tremor in her voice. “I was bad to run in the street, but I’m sorry.”
“We have to feed the horses.” Cassidy resettled her daughter in her arms and forced herself to meet Slate’s green stare. “Thank you…Mr. Walker.”
“Slate.”
“Thank you, Slate.” She managed it without mangling his name.
“How old is Lindsey?” Slate asked, smiling at the child.
“She’s just old enough for kindergarten.” She felt as if she were opening the door on danger and tried to be vague.
“I’d better get my truck out of the street.” He looked at the lone car waiting patiently behind the vehicle.
“Thank you again,” Cassidy said. She put Lindsey on the sidewalk and caught her hand tightly. Before her daughter could say anything else, she hustled her across the street to the stack of broadsheets she’d left beside the telephone pole.
“Why didn’t you like that man?” Lindsey asked, as Cassidy gathered her things. “He was nice.”
“We can’t take up with strangers, honey. We don’t know anything about him.” The lie was bitter, but it was better than the fear that Slate evoked.
“I liked him.”
Cassidy didn’t say anything else. She picked up the sheets and reached again for her daughter’s hand, then hurried toward the truck she’d left on a side street. Lindsey’s instant attraction for Slate terrified her. It was almost as if her daughter had somehow known that Slate was her father.
SLATE WATCHED THE TWO of them hurry down a side street. He put the truck in gear and found a parking space. In five long strides he was across the street and standing beside the telephone pole that held the broadsheet.
Double O Ranch. Horse trainer wanted. Must respect horses. No abuse tolerated. Job comes with room and board. Call 555-5454.
Slate pulled the flyer free of the nail and slowly folded it into a square that would fit into his pocket.
“THIS IS THE LAST ONE,” Cassidy assured her daughter. She now regretted not going to Dobie’s and getting something to eat. Her stomach was growling, and she knew Lindsey was miserable. But the job was finished. The flyers were up, and with any luck, they’d have a new trainer at the Double O Ranch
in a matter of days. She had to keep herself focused on business and not the emotions Slate Walker stirred in her.
“We’ll be home…” She leaned in the truck window and found her daughter asleep. Lindsey had given in—her fatigue had overridden even her hunger. “Excellent,” she said sarcastically under her breath. “You let your daughter go to sleep without eating after she’s had a traumatic day. That’s good, Cass. Real good.” She was sliding behind the wheel when she heard a vehicle slowly pull up beside her.
“Morning, Cassidy,” Cole Benson said, tipping his hat. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“What’s that, Cole?” Cassidy had recently been seeing more and more of the rancher. In the past three years, since she’d bought the Double O, he’d been a good neighbor. Lately, he’d let her know he was interested in a deeper relationship.
“How exactly can you tell if a prospective trainer respects a horse?” His wide grin was filled with good-natured teasing.
Cassidy smiled. “I’ll be able to tell.”
“One day you’re going to get killed by one of those spirited animals that you’ve let run all over you. The only thing horses really understand is who’s boss. The quicker you let them know who’s running the show, the easier it is on them in the long run.”
Cassidy had grown up with men who viewed their relationship with a horse as a battle of domination. She’d long ago learned that the worst thing she could do was to argue about training techniques. What counted was results—and her horses were winning everything they were entered in.
“My horses know who’s boss, Cole. The difference is, they work for me because they like it.” She wanted to add “and not because they’re afraid,” but that would only start a range war. Cole was not cruel to his animals. He simply didn’t know any better, and he refused to try and learn.
Remember Me, Cowboy Page 2