The Reward

by Beth Williamson

  As she caught sight of the Circle O ranch house in the distance, a certain measure of pride filled her heart. That’s mine. The whole thing is mine. Sean’s will was clear and ironclad. The ranch had gone to Leigh, totally and completely. For that, she would be eternally in his debt. She had never owned anything until she met Sean. He gave her Ghost, her first horse, and other gifts throughout their marriage. He taught her how to accept gifts and to give them. He taught her how to be who she was without being ashamed. To walk tall and to keep her head high. Though Sean had been her husband, he had been more of a father than Big Lee had ever been.

  Leigh brought Ghost back to a trot to cool him off about half a mile from the house. He shook his mane as though telling her he wasn’t finished galloping yet. She loved her horse. They had bonded the first time she gazed into his big brown eyes. Impulsively, she leaned over his neck to give the gray gelding a hug when she heard a high-pitched whine, then a rifle report.

  Holy hell. Someone just shot at me.

  She kneed Ghost into a fast gallop, flattening herself to his back as much as possible.

  “Come on, boy, move.”

  That half a mile seemed like a thousand instead. When she finally got to the ranch, she tore into the yard, heading for the barn. One of the regular drovers, Andy Parker, was there, shoeing a horse and looking at her like she had two heads. He was in his thirties, a wiry man with blond hair and green eyes. He’d been kicked by a horse a few days ago and was ranch bound until his leg healed.

  “Miz Leigh, you okay?”

  Her goddamn hands were shaking. Completely unacceptable. With measured breaths, she forced her heart rate to slow down.

  “Fine, Andy, just fine.”

  There was no frigging way she was going to allow some stranger, some yellow-bellied bastard who fired a bullet at someone from behind a tree, to rule her life. No way. She had to find out who it was and stop them, before they stopped her permanently.

  Chapter Three

  Malcolm changed his mind three times after arriving in Texas. He went to two different bandito hideouts and one town in Mexico before he decided to truly go home. By then three months had passed and he was tired of kicking his own ass for being such an ass.

  He finally reached his destination on a Friday morning on a beautiful summer day. Crystal blue sky, the weather too warm for long sleeves. He had taken off his duster the day he crossed the Texas state line, and he hoped like hell not to use it again for a long time. Ah, there was nothing like the warmth of Texas. Millerton was bigger—though not much—than when he had left. His stomach flip-flopped when he finally rode in sight of it. Whether from fear or excitement, he couldn’t tell.

  He had decided to get a job at one of the ranches and find out all he could about Rancho Zarza before letting anyone know he was back in town. It was safer that way. Safer for whom, he wasn’t going to think about.

  He rode up to the saloon at the end of the street. Used to be the Red Rose. Now it had a chipped sign with peeling gold paint spelling out the name Pink Slipper. So, footwear instead of thorny bushes. Probably a wise name change. He’d only stepped foot in it once, on the day he’d left, to drink a whiskey. He’d never talked to anyone but the barkeep, and only to order his drink. That first glass of real hooch had burned all the way down. Now he could drink a whole bottle and not even feel it sliding down his gullet.

  Dismounting, Malcolm noticed a few stares by some folks. Two dusty cowboys lounging outside the door eyed him with distrust and a bit of venom. One steely glance from him had them tripping over their own feet to run away. Bandejos.

  “Hey, you.”

  He turned to find a potbellied man with bloodshot eyes, a runny nose, and at least two days’ growth on his sagging cheeks. The top of his head barely cleared Malcolm’s shoulder. Worst of all, he was wearing a silver star pinned to his dirty chambray shirt. Looked like the sheriff had eaten biscuits and gravy for breakfast, or perhaps last night for supper.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you. You speak English?”

  Better to be thought of as a Mexican drifter, a comfortable skin, than a bastard Zarza.

  “I speak English,” he replied, laying on the accent a little heavily.

  The little man came right up close, trapping him against Demon. The sun gleamed off his badge and stung Malcolm’s eyes. He blinked and tried to shift his position. The sheriff grabbed his arm.

  Oh, hell, no.

  With a flinch, he pulled his arm free like a smoky shadow in bright sun and stepped aside a pace.

  “What the hell?” the man sputtered. “How’d you do that?”

  Malcolm smiled. “I learn from working with cows how to move quickly.”

  The sheriff looked perplexed, wondering if he’d been insulted or not. “Well, lookee here, we don’t want no drifters in Millerton. So you just move along.”

  Ah, to be back amongst civilized people. Made him want to run back to his hideout, where he could be rude in peace.

  “I am no drifter, señor. I come to work at Rancho Zarza.”

  Might as well use the name, even if he had no right to it.

  “Zarza, eh? Alejandro or Damasco?” the sheriff said, looking suspicious.

  Now that was interesting. Why would he ask that? Was there more than one Rancho Zarza?

  “Alejandro.” He forced himself to unlock his jaw for his father’s name.

  The lawman nodded, jowls swinging madly. “Good, good. You might want to steer clear of the Pink Slipper then. Damasco’s boys like to throw back in there.”

  Well, well, well. Two groups of hands and they didn’t play well together.

  “You’ll want to go down a piece to the Silver Nickel over yonder. Alejandro’s men go there, along with O’Reilly’s.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Der nader,” he replied. “Tell Alex Joe said hello.”

  The sheriff ambled off down the street, pausing once to glance back at Malcolm.

  Malcolm nodded to him then swung up on Demon to head to the Silver Nickel. He’d visit the Pink Slipper later.

  ———

  When Malcolm entered the Silver Nickel, a few heads turned. Obviously not too busy yet. He was sure the cowboys would be crawling all over the place tonight though. It was a relatively clean saloon, with a long mahogany bar to the right, rows of bottles lined up on the wall behind it. A well-used brass foot rail was the only ornamentation. A dozen tables with four chairs each were scattered around, one occupied with four men playing poker, and an empty upright piano that had seen better days.

  The barkeep was at the end of the bar talking with another customer. He came over when Malcolm approached. He was perhaps twenty-five, with nondescript brown hair and mutton chop sideburns. His blue eyes crinkled in greeting.

  “Afternoon, stranger. What can I git fer ya?”

  At least he was friendly. Malcolm reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-cent piece.

  “Whiskey.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Taking a clean glass from beneath the bar, he grabbed a bottle of amber liquid and poured without spilling a drop.

  “You one of Zarza’s new men or are you working for O’Reilly?”

  Malcolm didn’t answer. He took a small sip of the whiskey. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man at the other end of the bar stand and walk toward him.

  “He asked you a question, stranger.”

  The deep voice was so familiar it was all he could do not to jump up and embrace him. Diego Martin. Foreman of Rancho Zarza and the first friend a lonely bastard ever had. Malcolm swallowed the lump that came to his throat. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed, and who he had missed, until now. Diego’s hand drifted toward the pistol that rode low on his right hip. Malcolm couldn’t allow Diego to draw.

  “Diego,” he said with a rusty voice as he grabbed the other man’s hand. He finally looked up into Diego’s face. Malcolm saw many more wrinkles and plenty of silver in the older man’s close-cropped dar
k hair. “Is Lorena still making those burritos I love?”

  Confusion and anger were replaced with joy and surprise on his old friend’s face.

  “Jesu Cristo.” Diego pulled Malcolm into an embrace and nearly squeezed the breath out of him. He was surprised to find he was at least four inches taller and a good thirty pounds heavier than Diego. A man who had been more of a father to him than Alejandro ever was. A man he’d thought of as the biggest, strongest man in the world. Now Malcolm was bigger and stronger. The world tilted a bit then.

  “We thought you were dead. Lorena is going to cry. Mal—”

  Malcolm cut him off and said in a low voice, “My friends call me Hermano now.”

  Diego understood immediately. “Hermano. It’s so good to see you.”

  The barkeep watched with wide eyes. Hell, he was probably out catching frogs when Malcolm left town. Malcolm turned his eyes to the barkeep. He held his stare for a moment before the barkeep stammered an excuse and fled to the other side of the bar.

  Diego chuckled. “Still such a friendly boy.”

  Malcolm smiled for the first time in a long time. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, amigo.”

  Diego smiled back. “You don’t have to. I am feeling it too. Damn, I can’t believe it. Do you want to come back with me?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No, not yet. I need to find out what’s going on at Rancho Zarza first, Diego. What’s this about two groups of hands?”

  Diego opened his mouth to speak when another voice called from the door. “Let’s go, Diego. I don’t have all goddamned day for you to chat with your Mexican friends.”

  Diego’s gaze hardened and shifted to the speaker. “Be right there, Damasco.”

  Time froze. The hate, the anger, the absolute fury for his half-brother flowed through Malcolm like a waterfall. He hadn’t realized his hands were reaching for his pistols until Diego stopped him. He almost shook with the self-restraint it took not to follow through on his impulse.

  With a barely visible shake of his head, Diego strode toward the door.

  “About goddamned time. Don’t let me have to come looking for you again. Don’t need a frigging babysitter anyway.” Damasco always had a petulant tone to his voice. Although Damasco was now a man, the child remained.

  Malcolm couldn’t stop himself. He turned his head to look at the man Damasco had become. When Diego swung through the batwing doors, he saw his half-brother clearly. The image burned into his brain like spots in his eyes when he looked at the sun for too long. Painful.

  Damasco was tall, as big as Malcolm. While Malcolm’s hair was wavy and had some brown, Damasco’s was still black as pitch and straight as a pin. It hung just below his dark gray hat, which sported a snakeskin band and shiny silver conchos inlaid with turquoise. A brown shirt, clean as if it just came off the line, and jeans with brown leather chaps. The chaps were decorated with the same silver conchos as his hat. And they were clean too, unmarked. No horns had marked the tough leather surface. He glanced at Malcolm for a moment. Damasco looked like his mother, Isabella, beautiful and cold with angular features, chocolate-brown eyes, smooth olive-toned skin and full lips. Malcolm was certain Damasco had never wanted for female company.

  “Who the hell is that?” Damasco snapped.

  “One of O’Reilly’s men,” Diego said as the doors swung closed behind him.

  Damasco’s spurs jangled as he stomped down the planked sidewalk. “Frigging Mexicans are everywhere, like fleas.”

  Damasco’s parting words angered Malcolm. Not because he was Mexican—he wasn’t—but because it was straight from Isabella’s foul mouth. A full-blooded Spanish noblewoman who thought everyone else was beneath her.

  “You working for O’Reilly?” Another man from the poker game stood next to him. Malcolm was shocked he hadn’t noticed the other man approach.

  Malcolm unclenched his fists and turned to the stranger. Vaguely familiar, he had the bowlegged stance of a man who had spent many years on a horse.

  “Looking for a job. Heard O’Reilly was hiring extra drovers.”

  A small lie, but apparently a true one.

  “Yup, we are. Leastwise, I think we are. Name’s Andy Parker.” He stuck out one callused, brown hand and Hermano shook it. “I’m sure O’Reilly would be glad of the help. I hurt my damn leg last week and can’t do much. Be happy to bring you out there. It’s just past the Zarza Ranch.”

  Oh, yes, that was perfect.

  ———

  The afternoon sun was hot. Sweat trickled down Malcolm’s spine. Blessed warmth. Made him nearly forget the snow in Wyoming.

  Andy and Malcolm rode together to the Circle O. He remembered Sean O’Reilly. Good man, good crew. Hopefully it still was.

  “Sean still heading up the ranch?” he asked as they galloped side by side.

  Andy shook his head. “He died about two years back. Horse got spooked in a thunderstorm and threw him. Got trampled trying to get clear.”

  That was a painful way to go. He said a quick prayer for the man.

  “Leigh O’Reilly took up the reins. And no matter what you heard, Leigh don’t take no shit.”

  He hadn’t heard anything about Leigh O’Reilly, but it was probably Sean’s son or nephew. Perhaps young, trying to fill his father or uncle’s shoes. That was something he had bitter experience with. He hadn’t known Sean O’Reilly or his family well. The man had been at least fifteen years older than Malcolm. He remembered a wife, and thought her name was Katherine, but couldn’t remember anything else about the family.

  Looking out over the endless stretch of grassy plain with longhorn grazing lazily, his heart twisted. Western Texas with its rocky, arid canyons did not compare to the plains of Texas. He took a deep breath. The Mexican hats were blooming, waving in the slight breeze. God, he actually missed this place. Unbelievable.

  When they approached the O’Reilly homestead, two men replacing a corral fence post waved at Andy. Andy waved back. There was a good feeling on this ranch. It wasn’t run like a monarchy.

  They reined in at a long building Malcolm assumed was the bunkhouse.

  “Earl Brady’s the foreman. I think he’s out with the boss today. Let’s get you settled in and then we’ll stable the horses.”

  Andy was almost too nice. Had he ever been that naïve or trusting? Hell, no. From the time he was six years old, life kicked him in the teeth and in the cojones. It wasn’t too hard to kick back or, sometimes, kick first.

  He dismounted and watched Andy gingerly get down, favoring his right leg. Malcolm took both sets of his saddlebags, slinging one over each shoulder, then his bedroll and duster.

  “Damn bronc kicked me. I s’pose I should be grateful it wasn’t my balls.” Andy grinned and walked into the bunkhouse.

  The smell was certainly the same as any bunkhouse. The lack of privacy was, too. Cots only a foot apart dotted the big room in three rows of at least fifteen each. Not too bad. He’d seen some with doubled up bunks to sleep twice as many. Circle O wasn’t that big of a ranch, fortunately. He didn’t relish sleeping under someone who couldn’t control his bodily functions.

  Andy pointed to an empty cot in the middle of the room. “That one’s empty.”

  Of course. From there, he could hear, see and smell the lot of them. This job was important though. He swallowed his pride and put his things on the bunk. A quick glance didn’t reveal enough, or perhaps too much, of his neighbors’ bunks. Dirty shirts, crusty-looking under drawers, lots of tobacco stains and a smell that would knock a horse to its knees. Andy gestured for him to follow him out the door, still smiling.

  “I’ll give you a tour while we wait on supper. Ol’ Moses rings the triangle when it’s ready. I reckon we’ve got about an hour.”

  Malcolm repeated his reasons for staying in his head. Then repeated them again. They were good reasons. Solid reasons. But, Madre de Dios, this boy seemed to be made of sunshine and puppies. Malcolm felt like kicking Andy’s bad leg just to m
ake him stop smiling.

  “Your leg. Tell me the story, amigo,” Malcolm prompted as they walked back outside. Good trick. Talking about his injury turned off the sunshine for a bit.

  Thank God.

  ———

  Malcolm and Andy met up with Earl Brady outside the barn half an hour later.

  Earl was a tall, rangy man about fifty, with thinning salt and pepper hair and a craggy face that had seen too much sun. His mouth seemed etched in a perpetual scowl. His first reaction upon seeing Malcolm with Andy was to touch the pistol nestled in its holster. His mud-brown eyes narrowed and his shoulders stiffened.

  Andy, seemingly unaware, spoke first. “Hey, Earl, this here’s Hermano. He’s a drover looking for work. Friend of Diego Martin’s so I brought him back to the Circle O.”

  Earl spit a stream of tobacco at the ground near Malcolm’s feet. “Friend of Diego’s, eh? How do you know him?”

  Malcolm kept his face blank with effort. If he didn’t, he might have to teach this foul man a lesson in manners. The hard way.

  “Old friends,” was his response.

  Earl snorted. “Andy, you get on in there and repair that tack on the bench. Might as well get some work outta you.”

  Andy nodded. “Sure thing. I got those parts for the well pump in town. They’re in my saddlebag. I’ll bring ‘em by later.” He shook Malcolm’s hand again. “Good to have you here, Hermano. See ya.”

  He limped his way into the darkened barn.

  “Now that the boy is gone, why don’t you and me get a few things clear. I’ll leave the final decision to keep you up to the boss. But as far as I’m concerned, you even scratch your ass the wrong way and you’re on your way. You get me, Hermano?” His voice rang hard and curt.

  Malcolm bared his teeth. Oh, yes, he understood. He was about to open his mouth and likely lose his job when he heard a horse stop behind him. Earl looked up at the rider.