Remember Me, Cowboy

by Caroline Burnes

  Unable to look away, Slate saw the stallion coming down on the cowboy. “No!” Slate said aloud. “No, Joker!”

  It was too late. The stallion came down on top of Lucky. There was a cry from the men who’d gathered at the fence, and three of them jumped the rail and rushed into the corral. One went to work driving Joker away while the other dragged Lucky out of danger.

  Slate knew the cowboy was dead. A man didn’t survive a deliberate stomping by a twelve-hundred-pound animal. Lucky’s stupidity had cost him his life, but few people would see it that way. Joker would be labeled a killer, a rogue.

  Slate looked at Cassidy, who had rushed to the cowboy lying prone in the dirt. He saw her kneel down, and to his surprise, she drew back and slapped the man across the face.

  Slate was still in shock from that action when he saw the other hands haul Lucky to his feet. After a moment, Lucky stood without help.

  “Get off this ranch,” Cassidy said. Her fear and worry had turned to anger. “Don’t wait for your check. I’ll mail it to you.”

  “That horse is a menace. Too bad the rock slide didn’t kill him.” Lucky didn’t seem to realize that Cassidy hadn’t talked to the hands about the slide.

  “Go!” Cassidy brushed past him as she started to the corral. She whirled back. “You have no idea how much damage you’ve done.” She stepped closer. “Get off this ranch. I’ll have your stuff packed and sent to you.” She looked at the two hands who stood with their fingers tucked in their jeans pockets. “On second thought, take him to Kip’s kitchen and keep him there. I have some questions for Mr. Hill that I want answered.”

  The men were still gawking as Cassidy walked away from the cluster of men and headed into the corral with Joker.

  “Miss Cassidy! Miss Cassidy!” One of the hands ran after her. “Don’t go in there. That horse is a killer. He tried to stomp Lucky. You saw it with your own two eyes.”

  “Joker could have killed him,” Cassidy snapped. “The idiot fainted. There isn’t a mark on him. Joker never touched him and he won’t hurt me.” Cassidy shut the corral gate and stepped toward the stallion.

  Slate found that he watched the unfolding scene with pride in Cassidy and a tearing need to rush out and protect her. Not even in prison had he felt so helpless. He forced himself to remain in the room. Though his impulse was to protect her, he realized that Cassidy was fully able to take care of herself.

  She was every bit the horseman he was, and now she was about to prove it to herself and everyone else.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Cassidy turned to face the stallion, she knew she had to let all of her anger at Lucky go. Joker stood snorting and shaking his head, occasionally snapping back to bite at the saddle he’d been unable to shake loose. “Damn that idiot,” she said, thinking of Lucky. He’d probably set Joker back six months. Maybe a year.

  “You should have stomped him,” she said to the horse as she relaxed her shoulders, put a caress in her voice and stepped forward. Joker had to be caught, the saddle had to be removed, and then she had to spend some time soothing him in whatever way he’d allow. She had her voice, her hands, and if nothing else, simply her presence.

  “Come on, fella,” she said, turning so that she didn’t confront him directly. Slate had taught her not to go faceto-face with a wild animal. She didn’t want Joker to fight or flee; she had to win his confidence. “Take your time,” she said softly.

  For a split second, she felt as if Slate were beside her, and she glanced at the ranch. She had the distinct impression that he was watching, sending her encouragement and support. The thought steadied her.

  When Joker’s snorting subsided and he seemed willing to trust her a little, she inched closer. He was a smart animal. He knew the difference between her and Lucky.

  It was slow work, and twenty minutes later she’d finally managed to stand beside him and get her hands on the saddle flap. She mentally cursed Lucky when she saw that he’d managed to pull the girth so tight it was going to take a lot of careful effort to unknot it. “Easy, easy,” she whispered as her fingers worked at the girth strap.

  Releasing the saddle would be tricky, but pulling it off the horse’s back would be even trickier. But Joker seemed to be holding steady. She worked the leathers free, then reached up for the horn.

  Joker saw her movement and flinched, but held his ground. Working quickly but with fluid movements, she pulled the saddle toward her, surprised when he didn’t bolt away. She eased the saddle to the ground and then removed the halter. There were several places where the skin was rubbed raw. Cassidy gritted her teeth in anger at Lucky. She bent to examine Joker’s legs and saw the raw wounds below his fetlocks. Lucky must have snubbed the horse up short to a post and then put ropes on a front and back leg, stretching him out and pulling him off balance. If Joker had fought, he would have fallen over. It was a cruel act of dominance and taught a horse nothing except to fear his captor.

  “That little son of a bitch,” she whispered softly. When she got to the kitchen, she’d take Kip’s chili paddle and beat the hell out of Lucky Hill. She wondered how he’d like being on the receiving end of abuse.

  Joker snorted, making her aware that he read her every emotion.

  “Easy, fella,” she said, daring to touch his shoulder. “Lucky won’t get away with this. I promise you.” She ran a hand down his sleek shoulder and stepped away. She needed medicine.

  “Clay!” she called to one of the hands who still hung on the fence, watching. “Bring me some Furox, and make it fast.”

  He was back in three minutes and waited respectfully at the fence, unwilling to go into the corral with the horse. “He doesn’t seem so bad with you,” he said as she walked over to get the antibiotic ointment “He sure wanted to kill Lucky.”

  “I want to kill Lucky, and when I get my hands on him he’s going to wish he were dead. I can tell you one thing, if Joker had meant to hurt him, he’d be pounded into hamburger meat.”

  “I’ve never seen a horse that could buck like him,” Clay said with admiration. “Mr. Twist is the only horse who even comes close, and he was world champion. Joker makes him look like a kid’s pony. Maybe you should sell Joker to the rodeo.”

  Cassidy shook her head. “Not in this lifetime. Now, I think you should get to work. I want you to find Randy and go up to the small cemetery on Sycamore Ridge. I need a hole dug there. Make it six feet long and six feet deep.” She allowed her eyes to fill with tears and her voice to tremble.

  At her evident emotion, Clay cleared his throat. “You mean a grave?” His doubts were obvious in his tone.

  “Look, don’t tell anyone about this.” Cassidy dabbed at her eye. “I’m relying on you to keep quiet.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Clay said, casting a long look back at her as he left to get busy.

  Cassidy found the stallion to be amazingly gentle as she doctored his wounds and talked to him. Whatever damage Lucky had done, it wasn’t half as bad as she’d thought it would be.

  Still fuming at the former foreman, she put the medicine away and headed to the kitchen. When she got there, a sheepish Kit rubbed his jaw and shrugged. “He came up from behind and socked me. He was out the door before I could get any help.”

  Cassidy hid her disappointment and frustration. She’d wanted to search Lucky’s truck before he left. It had occurred to her that he might have taken the gun from the safe.

  “Are you okay?” she asked the burly cook.

  Kip rubbed his jaw. “My pride’s hurt a lot worse than my jaw. I can’t believe that little snake caught me from behind. When I run into him, and I’ll make it a point to do so, he’ll learn that skullduggery has a price.”

  “Give him a punch for Joker,” Cassidy said ruefully.

  “That’s one bucking devil,” Kip said, his eyes lighting. “I’ve never seen better. You could—”

  “He’s not going to the rodeo,” Cassidy said, not unkindly. “He’s got a lot more potential as a performance horse.”<
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  Kip nodded. “You know your horses, Miss Cassidy.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Where’d Clay and Randy get off to? They were acting strange.”

  Cassidy wanted to smile but didn’t dare. She had a role to play. “I sent them to do a chore.”

  “You seem upset Is something wrong?” Kip asked.

  “I’m okay,” she said as she made for the door. Word would soon be traveling back to the people she wanted to hear it. Her only regret was that Lucky had gotten away before she could figure out a way to tail him. But he wouldn’t go far, not with all of his belongings still in her possession.

  She made a stop in the bunkhouse, and while everyone was gone, she went through Lucky’s things without any success. She’d hoped to find the missing gun, but she hadn’t actually expected it to be there. If Lucky had it, he’d managed to get off the Double O property with it.

  It was well past noon, and Cassidy headed to the house. Slate would be up—and hungry as a bear. She needed to tell him about the disappearance of the gun and to lay the plans for the rest of the trap.

  At the guest room door she tapped lightly and then opened it. At first glance, the room looked empty, and she felt a split second of concern before Slate’s arms swept her into an embrace.

  “Has anyone ever told you you have a way with wild horses?” he asked as he kissed her neck.

  “You were watching?” She’d strongly felt him with her, and it was gratifying to know she’d been right.

  “I saw every move you made. You don’t need me. Joker was eating out of your hand.”

  “He’s smart,” she agreed, slipping from his embrace.

  “Is everything okay?” Slate asked. “I’ve been like a caged animal. I never realized playing dead was so…exhausting.”

  “Lucky’s gone and the plan is in motion.” Cassidy reported the good news, then hesitated. “I’m certain Lucky had something to do with the rock slide. And someone managed to open my safe and steal the replica gun.”

  Her words were a blow to Slate, she could tell by his reaction. Typical to his nature, he moved right on to the important issue.

  “How did they open the safe?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question. It had to be someone on the ranch, and the more I think about it, the more I believe it had to be Lucky. He had plenty of reasons to be in my office for payroll sheets and things, and I opened it a few times to get things for him while he was in the room. No one would think much about him going in and out.”

  Slate walked to the window. “It’s a troubling turn of events.”

  It was, but there was also a bright side. “We have the real gun that was your father’s. We don’t need the replica anymore,” Cassidy pointed out.

  Slate faced her. “You’re right. It just bothers me. There’s something about it…” He let the sentence drift unfinished.

  “It bothers me, too,” Cassidy admitted. “But on the positive side, if that gun disappears completely, it won’t be like we can’t get witnesses to its existence. You had to get it from the sheriff’s office, for heaven’s sake. They can’t pretend they never had it. And Rusty gave you the authority to have it. The gun is documented.”

  Pacing the room, Slate sighed. “You’re right.”

  Cassidy saw that he was still troubled, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t go and hunt for the gun, or take on Lucky. They had set their trap so that Slate was a dead man.

  In an ironic twist, he was also a victim of the trap they’d set.

  Taking pity on his forced inactivity, Cassidy thought of something. “Clay and Randy should be finished with the grave by three. The ground is rocky, and they’re having to dig by hand. But once the grave is dug, we need to fill it in.”

  “I’ll slip up there and do it,” Slate said.

  “Your shoulder?” It was an objection she knew he’d ignore.

  “If I stay in this room any longer, I’ll have an ulcer from worrying myself to death.”

  “Okay,” Cassidy reluctantly agreed. “I can load Cutter in the horse trailer and say I’m going over to the covered arena for some practice. I’ll drop him and you off. You can hide in the trailer with him,” she said, smiling.

  “Lucky me,” Slate responded, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “Some folks might think I’ve had an unlucky life, but I want you to know that the time I’ve had with you makes up for everything I lost in prison. I consider myself the luckiest man in the world to have you and Lindsey.”

  Cassidy felt the tears in her eyes, and this time they weren’t pretend. Her feelings for Slate were so deep, so strong that she knew words would never express them. She went to him and offered her lips.

  THE ARROYO WAS a starburst of terra cotta, orange and gold, and Slate gently slowed Cutter from a trot to a slow walk as he examined the bluffs that closed around the dry creek bed. The layers of the earth were clearly visible and vibrantly colored. On a whim he nudged the horse forward, following the creek that would swell with water during the spring rains.

  He liked the small arroyo. It reminded him of a time long past, when Texas was wide-open range. Even better than recalling old history, he remembered the place from his childhood.

  Slate felt elation as his memory sharpened and focused. This was not one isolated memory, it was a consistent string. As he rode into the gulch, he allowed the memories to come.

  He remembered coming to the gulch with his father to find the clay that Lucas Walker used to make pots. Slate grinned to himself—his father had been an amateur potter. Molding and spinning the beautiful hues of the earth had given Lucas peace and contentment As Slate remembered excavating the clay from the small arroyo with his father, his senses came alive to the past. He could feel the clay, smell it. He heard his father’s laugh and the happiness it gave him was like a warm blessing.

  The memories whipped through his mind, a dizzying whirl of emotion-laden images. He watched his father spin the pots, hands shaping the wet clay; his mother packing a picnic lunch for them; his first pony named Adam; his mother’s laughter; his father’s work-calloused hands patting him on the back for a job well done.

  Slate rode into the arroyo, but he was not alone. The ghosts of his childhood were waiting for him. He stared at the dazzling colors and saw images that had been locked away from him for five long years.

  After such a long time of wanting his memory, Slate didn’t fight it. He accepted the pain as he remembered his father’s sudden heart attack, and the terrible sorrow of his mother’s decline. Sitting on Cutter, he let the memories whip through him until once again he was alone with the horse and the vivid-hued walls of the gulch.

  “Be careful what you ask for,” he said to the horse as he prepared to leave. “You might get it” But though the onslaught of memories had been painful, they had also held moments of joy and love, and he didn’t regret the return of that small portion of memory. And he knew not to push too hard. The rest would come, in its own time.

  He rode to the rear of the arroyo, hoping to cut through and continue on to Sycamore Ridge, but a rock slide blocked the far end of the gulch. Slate turned back the way he’d entered. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly three. Clay and Randy would probably be gone. It was time for him to get hopping.

  He loped toward the place where his mother’s grave was, and where his own had been dug. There were harder memories to face, but Slate knew he would meet them head-on. He didn’t have a choice.

  As he neared the grave site, he heard the clang of metal on rock and stopped. Sliding off Cutter and tying him to a scrub cedar, he inched forward in time to see the two cowhands up to their shoulders in the hole and still digging.

  “If this isn’t a grave, my name’s not Randy Patrick,” Randy said, wiping the sweat from his eyes with his shirt-sleeve.

  “I wonder who died?” Clay asked as he threw the last shovelful of dirt out and jumped up on the side of the grave.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little suspicio
us that we’re digging the grave instead of the undertaker?” Randy asked.

  “More than a little,” Clay agreed, nodding his head. “Having us dig the grave makes it look like…Miss Cassidy wouldn’t bury just anyone up here by Mrs. Walker. The only person would be Slate.” His eyes widened. “Maybe we should—”

  Slate watched as the two cowhands came to the conclusion that he and Cassidy had hoped for.

  “Maybe we should get in that truck and get back to the ranch. This is none of our business. Miss Cassidy’s been good to us. We can’t get in trouble for what we don’t know, and right now, I don’t know anything!” Randy said, putting action to his words as he dropped his shovel and headed for the truck. “You can come or you can wait here and see what happens next.”

  Clay jumped to his feet. “You’re not leaving me here. You forgot your shovel.”

  “I didn’t forget it. She may need it. I’ll come back up here tomorrow and pick it up.”

  “And see if the grave’s still empty!” Clay taunted.

  “Let’s go,” Randy said, getting behind the wheel and starting the truck with a roar.

  Slate waited until they were gone, then he retrieved Cutter and walked up to the empty grave. His focus was on the solitary headstone that marked his mother’s grave.

  He read the inscription. “Mary Elizabeth Walker, wife of Lucas and mother of Slate.” It listed the dates of her birth and death, and a short epitaph. “A woman of Texas, a woman of the land.” He knew that Cassidy had ordered the stone.

  Slate placed a hand on the cool marble and knelt on one knee. “I remember,” he said. “I’ll get Three Sisters back, and I’ll see to it that Dad’s grave is moved out here with you.”

  He started to rise when the memory of the bank seemed to spring up around him. Once again he was standing in the lobby, empty except for Amanda Best. The details were exquisitely sharp. He could feel his cotton shirt, hot from the summer sun, across his shoulders. The cool air-conditioning of the bank was a sweet relief, and he flexed his hands to make sure they were dry before he had to shake with Clyde Barlow. He saw Clyde’s office door ajar, Karlie’s empty desk, and he turned to Dray’s office.