The sun beat brightly, cruelly down. The ankle her captor had kicked throbbed dully. Were her legs broken?
There was a sort of choking sound from the blond man. His hands flailed. Then he was so quiet that she was sure he was dead. She couldn’t be sorry, though she wondered if anyone had loved him and what kind of a family he’d come from.
If they weren’t found soon—She had seen decaying, bloated animals, knew the sweet putrid smell. That would send her crazy if she didn’t die first.
Oh Shea, Shea!
She prayed that he wasn’t much hurt, then pushed herself up on her palms to see if there was anything she could do. A glance at the man showed his eyes staring at the sun while his stubbly jaws gaped in a snarl.
Shuddering, she confronted the top of the cab. Was there any way to lever it up enough to let her wriggle free? Looking around, she dragged together all the rocks she could reach, including the one she’d hit the dead man with.
None was big enough to wedge the cab up enough to get her loose, but they could at least take some of the weight off her. She worked them beneath the truck, pushing small ones as far back as she could, increasing the size near the top.
The earth wasn’t as hard as usual here. If she couldn’t lever up the truck, maybe she could dig out. No useful sticks were available, but she wrenched off a windshield wiper and began to dig with the metal end.
She couldn’t reach far enough to get beyond her knees. Bitterly disappointed, she still scraped away as much dirt as she could. It was something to do. She thought of the women of her family, especially of Socorro, who might have died in the desert if she hadn’t refused to give up.
That helped. As she labored, Tracy suddenly wondered if she couldn’t burrow out enough space beneath the cab to bend her upper body under and eventually dig her lower legs loose.
“You’ve got nothing but time,” she said aloud.
Inspired by the possibility that she could escape, she looked about for a better tool. Where was the gun? Distasteful as it was to touch the corpse, she felt around the arms, sighed with relief as she found the pistol.
The gunbarrel was a better tool than the wiper. Rearranging the rocks, she dug out a space beside her and tediously lengthened it. Her throat was parched and she no longer had enough saliva to moisten her tongue.
Blisters began. She worked off her shirt and padded the gun with it, but the blisters grew and broke. Now and then she put the gun aside to clean out her diggings.
It seemed that she’d never done anything but scrape with the heavy pistol against the hard earth. She could get her arm back almost to her feet, though. Just a little farther!
Face pressed into the ground, bent forward and reaching down through the hollow she had tunneled, Tracy was at last working near her feet. After what seemed forever, she could scrape painfully alongside her one foot and beneath it till it could move.
Dizzy with exertion, she rested, then cleared enough room to work at the other foot and leg. At last, she could move that foot, too, but it brought such a white-hot searing in her ankle that she almost fainted.
When the wave of nauseating agony passed, she clamped her teeth together and maneuvered herself out of her prison. Her left leg was cramped and sore, but her right ankle was the problem. Pulling down the sock, she groaned as she saw how puffy and swollen it was.
After all that, not to be able to walk!
She could crawl and drag herself around, though. There should be water in the pickup; it was foolhardy to drive without it in this country. Hitching herself over the cab top, she looked in the window. There were several plastic jugs of water behind the seat.
Nothing had ever tasted so good. She drank deeply, washed her blistered hands, and drank again.
Feeling better, she sat on the hood and considered. At the latest, Shea would be found that evening. Even if—her heart shriveled at the thought—he couldn’t speak, the presence of Güera would show she’d been there, and the missing pickup would tell its story. The vaqueros would search and there was the plane.
She’d be found. Certainly by next day. There was plenty of water to last till then. Rather than crawl and get her hands in worse shape, she’d better stay close to the wreck, which could easily be spotted. Her stomach knotted at the thought of spending the night near the dead man, but she was in no condition to be squeamish. About the best she could sensibly do would be to get over to the other side of the tank.
The pickup yielded a pack of Geronimo’s cigarettes, book matches, first-aid kit, flashlight, tools and an old jacket. There were also a few grungy Life Savers.
“Supper,” she told herself wryly.
She was dousing her blisters with Merthiolate, swearing and wincing, when she heard a humming sound overhead. Wings flashed in the sun. She scrambled to turn the outside mirror over to catch the sun.
The plane flew over. Hadn’t the pilot seen? She breathed again as it swept in a wide turn. At that moment, she heard another motor. The plane started to descend. The area beyond the trees near the tank was level for at least a half-mile, trampled almost to barrenness by cattle.
It was Judd’s plane. As it touched down, Geronimo’s old truck came in sight. Tracy peered to see who was driving. It was Geronimo, but Shea was beside him!
Overjoyed, she sprang up, forgetting her ankle. Pain scalded like a fountain and she fell.
She knew that Shea’s arms were cradling her even before she opened her eyes. It was so sweet to be held like that, hear him calling her name, that she was tempted to keep still, but his tone was frightened, and besides, she wanted to know if he was all right.
Looking up into his worried face as he knelt beside her, she managed a smile. “You—you must have a headache.”
“He’s got one thick skull,” Geronimo said. “Jaime and I came in early and found him trying to get on a horse in spite of being so groggy he couldn’t get his foot through the stirrup.”
Tracy sat up. Dried blood crusted the side of Shea’s head. “You need to see a doctor,” she said.
“So do you,” he retorted grimly.
Judd suddenly scooped Tracy up in his arms. “We can be at an emergency room in Tucson in half an hour,” he said.
Tracy caught Shea’s arm. “You come, too! You may have a concussion or something.”
“I’m fine and there are things to see to here.”
The dead man, the sheriff. Shea disengaged himself. “I’ll get over this evening to see how you are. If you can’t stand on that ankle, you’d better stay at the big house for a while.”
“But Le Moyne—”
“I’ll get him, chica,” Geronimo promised. “Don’t worry about this bobo. If he starts acting crazier than usual, I’ll get him to a doctor in Nogales.”
Bruised and sore as she was, it was foolish to argue against going to the hospital, but she was glad when Judd put her in the seat of the plane and she was no longer in his possessive grasp.
It was sunset when he carried her upstairs to see Patrick. They had agreed not to tell him about the thug, but just say that her vehicle had flipped and she’d be staying at the house till she could get around.
“They X-ray you?” Patrick rumbled. “Sure you don’t have cracked ribs or such?”
Tracy laughed, though it hurt her chest. She hurt all over. “They gave me a good going-over, Patrick. I’ll be black and blue awhile but not even this dumb ankle is broken.”
“You were lucky.”
She shivered, kissing him. “Yes, I was.”
Judd helped her to a chair, and Mary brought food. Her eyes questioned Tracy, who smiled and merely made an “okay” sign, for Geronimo had brought Le Moyne over and he would tell Mary the whole story.
Presumably, Shea was all right, but Tracy took her first really deep breath since the whole thing began when steps sounded on the stairs and he strode into the room. Tracy touched her lips with a finger as his gaze swept over her.
He nodded and greeted his father, shaking his hand,
before he sat down where he could study her.
Quickly, Tracy let him know she had no serious hurts. He had washed the blood off his head, and though there must have been a scalp wound, thick red-gold hair concealed it.
Once assured her injuries were slight, he seemed to forget about her. “Sure wish you could see the love grass coming up,” he told his father. “You always said a good spread of grass was prettier to you than a field of flowers.”
“Should be to everyone,” Patrick said belligerently. “When you get right down to it, plants are the only things that can change air, soil and water into food. We step on ’em and never think, but our life depends on them.”
“Fat lot of good Shea’s grass will do anyone,” Judd snapped.
“There you’re wrong,” Shea said easily.
Judd frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When the range is ready, I’ll run some cows. What it’ll carry. No more than that, and not till then.”
“Hell’s bells!” Judd choked. “It’s already better than any graze on the ranch!” He flushed to the roots of his tawny hair as he realized how that sounded. “For God’s sake! This isn’t Kentucky bluegrass country!”
“No, so we can’t act like it is.”
Patrick sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I sure wish I could have a ride around and see,” he muttered.
Judd said impatiently, “Dad, the only way to keep up our operation the way you’ve known it is to grow more feed. Sell off the land that’s really gone and irrigate alfalfa.”
“We’re not selling the old house and land around it, even if we go broke.” Patrick’s tone was final. “And what happens when the wells run dry?”
“That won’t be in our lifetime,” Judd shrugged.
Patrick’s sightless eyes glared at his oldest son. “What the hell difference does that make? There are people coming after us! You want to be the last generation that lives on this ranch?”
“You want me to manage the ranch but you tie my hands!” Judd accused.
Patrick’s paralyzed side seemed to drag him down. “I’m goddam tired of this wrangling between you boys.” His voice frayed. “Can’t ride out or see for myself or judge who has the right of it. I feel like a log the two of you keep stubbing into. If that aggravates you, it does the same to me. Hurts, too.”
It was the closest Patrick had ever come to self-pity.
Both sons looked startled. “Sorry, Dad.” Shea got to his feet and squeezed his father’s arm. “If you ever believed anything I said, believe this: That new grass is as pretty as any you’ve ever seen. There can be people at El Charco just as long as they remember this is desert and act accordingly. See you later.”
He gave Tracy a nod and left.
“Make me a drink, Judd,” sighed Patrick. “Join us, ladies?”
“I’d like to stretch out,” Tracy said. “Mary, will you give me a hand?”
“Judd, you do that,” urged Patrick. “Then come back.”
“With pleasure.”
Judd grinned at Tracy as he picked her up. “We’d have better balance, honey, if you put your arms around my neck.”
She compromised by clasping his shoulder. He’d been kind and helpful at the hospital and hadn’t taken advantage of her condition. She felt more friendly toward him than she had since his deceit with the cattle and was ready to make a truce as long as he didn’t pursue her.
Mary had followed them down. There was nothing Judd could do but deposit Tracy on her bed, drop a kiss on her cheek, and say he’d see her in the morning.
“Now,” said Mary, helping Tracy undress. “Tell me all! The sheriff rousted me out to identify that bastard. I’m sorry he picked on you instead of me, but at least we won’t have to go in for his trial.”
XV
Before Mary left, she brought in Le Moyne. He whimpered his joy and resoundingly licked Tracy’s hands before he could be persuaded to lie down on the bedside rug.
Tracy was glad of him. In spite of the pineapple juice heavily laced with rum that Mary had made, she kept reliving the terror of that day, especially those horrible moments when she’d been trapped beneath the pickup with the man reaching for her, and then when he was dead.
At least, she thought with grim amusement as she reached down for a reassuring caress of Le Moyne’s head, this experience would effectively blot out her memories of that attack in Houston. A change of nightmares.
And for it to happen like that, when Shea was about to make love to her! Unhappy puzzlement made her turn restlessly, though her body ached at the motion. He’d come as he’d promised, but had practically ignored her and hadn’t waited so they could talk.
How did he feel about her, anyway? She had intended to find out that day, but now she was more baffled than before.
The sheriff came for her details next day, and Vashti was avid for the whole story. “He didn’t—uh—?”
“He didn’t rape me,” Tracy answered shortly.
“But to drive into that concrete tank! When he had a gun!”
“I hoped he’d be too busy with the truck to kill me.”
Vashti shook her head. “I couldn’t have done it.” Her tongue touched her upper lip. “Judd says he was young. Was he good-looking?”
Tracy gave Patrick’s wife a stare of surprise. “He might have been, cleaned up.”
“Don’t look so prim,” Vashti giggled. Tracy realized that the older woman had been drinking, though it was only ten in the morning. “If you must be abducted, dear, better it be by a handsome brute than an ugly one!”
“At times like that, you don’t care what anyone looks like,” Tracy said. She pulled up, awkwardly manipulating the crutches that had been unearthed for her.
With the help of the handrail, she was halfway up the stairs before Mary ran down to help. “If you can stand some raunchy stories, Patrick’s telling some good ones!” Mary laughed.
“That’s just what I need,” grinned Tracy, and thrust Vashti almost forcibly from her mind. Why was Patrick stuck with a woman like that instead of one who could have brightened his darkness?
A few days later, Judd flew to New York for the talk show and some business. Though he hadn’t crowded her, Tracy was more comfortable without him around. She hoped she could move back to Last Spring before he returned.
“You really like that little place, don’t you?” Patrick asked when she was describing the ringtail, the owls, the blue-bellied lizard who did push-ups to dazzle his lady love.
“I love it.” She pondered a moment and thought aloud, in surprised realization, “I guess it’s the first place I really felt at home.” She added hastily, “I loved the old ranch house, Patrick, and you were all tremendously good. But I missed my mother and—well, it was home to all of you, but I was just sort of tucked in.”
Patrick chuckled, not in the least offended. “Some places belong to some people and some people belong to some places. Maybe you’ve found yours.”
“It’s been wonderful but I can’t stay there forever.”
“Why not?”
She laughed. “You know how that is, Patrick. I have to go out in the wide world and seek my fortune.”
“What if your fortune’s here?”
Her heart turned over as she thought of Shea. “I doubt I’ll be that lucky,” she said wistfully, then laughed to cover it. “I come from the roving-stranger side of the family, Patrick. We never have stayed put.”
“It’s about time you did,” he said crossly. “And it’s time those boys of mine, both of them, got married. It would tickle me pink if you decided to have one of them.”
“I don’t think they’re the marrying kind,” Tracy countered lightly. “And I don’t think I am, either.” Not unless it’s Shea. She changed the subject to Mary’s mechanics course, much safer ground.
Shea came one evening and played Christina’s piano. It sounded beautiful to Tracy. Mary sat in rapt delight, and Patrick smiled dreamily.
“You’ve got a gift,” he said
, when Shea paused. “I swear, listening like that, I’d think you were my mother playing, except your touch is stronger and you’ve got more flair.”
Shea forced a grin. “You’re an encouraging audience, but hell, I sound so bad to myself I almost hate to play.”
“You don’t do it often enough,” Patrick argued.
Shea stared at his scarred hands. “That’s not it, Dad.”
Patrick was silent a moment. “Yeah. But practice would help, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure. If I practiced up to the best of what I can do now, I might be good enough for a roadhouse or a country church.”
“You’re good enough for me,” Patrick insisted.
“Me, too,” said Mary.
Tracy just looked at Shea, aching to make up to him the pain he’d had.
“Play some more,” said Patrick. Shea did, and they listened in the twilight that was soft and enfolding as a mother’s arms.
Hal Fricks was back with a higher offer from Vistas Unlimited, but though Patrick refused it, Fricks stayed on as Vashti’s guest, swimming with her, playing tennis, mixing her drinks. His sandy hair and moustache were streaked yellow from the sun and, bronzed and fit, he could have posed for bathing-suit ads.
He clucked over Tracy’s ankle and obviously set himself to be charming, but she avoided him all she could. Vashti was furious at Patrick’s refusal of the developer’s offer, but Frick’s attentions diverted her to the point of leaving Patrick alone.
Four days after his arrival, the developer intercepted Tracy as she came down from lunching with Patrick and Mary. “Too bad about your ankle, but it’s clear that your foster-father’s glad to have you back. He worships you.”
“He always wanted a daughter,” Tracy said, and started past, but Hal Fricks caught her arm. “We never have a chance to talk. Let me get you a glass of wine and let’s visit a few minutes.”
“I’m rather tired and—”
Taking her crutch, he almost forced her to sit on the long couch. “I won’t beat around the bush, Tracy. You have influence with your uncle, probably more than anyone. If you can get him to sell Last Spring and the land near the highway, you get not only a free luxury condo, but a percentage of the profits on the subdivision.”
A Mating of Hawks Page 17