Renegade Moon (CupidKey)

by Rigley, Karen E.

  Geez. A confusing selection of roads branched off the highway. Some obviously led to dwellings, but others simply appeared to ramble into the hills and rocks. Let’s see, the map shows . . . ah-ha! This must be it, she thought, studying the landmarks. Yes, here are the two rock pillars and . . .

  There! She spotted a Bar-M sign on the left pillar. Interesting. A cattleguard instead of a gate crossed the entrance and her Mustang jiggled roughly over it. Again she traveled a plain rock and gravel road, quickly leaving sight of the highway.

  Great rock formations loomed up as though they would fall over upon her at the slightest jar. The road climbed, sometimes alarmingly so, and then pitched downward, disarming her with quick, unexpected turns. She braked at a fork and again examined her map. Go right. The road continued on and on until she was sure she’d made a wrong turn and almost decided to reverse course and try again.

  The dig site appeared as if conjured up by desert magic. She spotted several vehicles parked atop the small bluff overlooking the site and pulled in beside them. With growing excitement, Destiny hopped out to hike down the uneven trail, avoiding rocks and sagebrush.

  Carrying her camera and picking her way carefully, she followed the footpath down the incline.

  “Hey, hello!”

  “Hi,” she replied automatically with a smile. She glanced up at a man approaching; slight of build, no more than five-eight or nine, with sandy-blond hair. He sported a thick, but well-groomed moustache the same color as his hair.

  He smiled back. “I take it by the camera that you’re the photographer who’s going to make us famous throughout the western states,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I hope so.” She accepted his grip. “Your fame is my fame.” Squinting in the bright sunlight, she shaded her eyes with her free hand. Already the day burned with the promise—or perhaps the threat—of the heat to come. Destiny turned her attention back to her greeter. “I’m Destiny Winston from Western Skies.”

  “Lee Duncan,” he returned with a firm handshake. “I’ll be happy to help you any way I can.”

  “Thanks, Lee. I’m in foreign territory here.”

  “Come see what we’re doing.” Taking her elbow, he assisted her over the rocky ground to definite outlines of a building and some crumbled adobe walls.

  “This seems to date well before anyone actually settled here. We’re also excavating a Native American camp not too far away. We think it was established close by the post not only for trade, but to seek protection from hostile renegades.” Lee indicated some artifacts that had been placed on a bench.

  Destiny lifted her camera and snapped a few shots. She always took far more photos than she used.

  “Where’s the creek?” she asked.

  “Right there,” Lee replied, nodding.

  She saw nothing in that direction but sand and rocks and some straggly plants. “Where?”

  “There,” he repeated, and walked about ten feet away to point downward.

  Destiny came up beside him and peered down a shallow embankment at more sand and rocks. “I see a creek bed, but no creek.”

  Lee grinned. “Parts of Ranger Creek don’t always hold water. After a gully-washer rain, the water roars down like a tidal wave. See this debris?”

  Her gaze followed his pointing finger. “Oh, the trash caught in that bush?”

  “Right. That’s above your pretty head. The water gets that high. It helped to cover and protect this site. Most of the historical and archeological sites have been picked over out here.” He smoothed his moustache. “But this one was protected by its layer of dirt and by being on Montoya land.”

  “Have you been on this dig long?”

  “Right at three months. Long enough to witness a crashing gully-washer. Not every rain turns into one, but that one did.” Lee wiped his brow. “Wouldn’t like to be in a low spot during one. Hard to believe this dry country can flood so quickly.”

  Destiny studied his face. “Montoya land, Bar-M, one and the same?”

  “Right.”

  “Yesterday evening on my way to Las Nubes, I turned off onto a side road to photograph the sunset. A cowboy approached me and said I was trespassing on the Bar-M Ranch. He was very tall, dark, and rode a big paint horse.”

  “That’s Eric George Montoya, owner of this ranch.” Lee scowled as they strolled back toward the site. “Was he rude?”

  “Not at all, even though at first he thought I’d opened a wire gate. But someone else must have left it down.”

  “There’s more than one gate into the Bar-M. It covers several thousand acres.”

  “Impressive,” she murmured. “How did Rampton Foundation find this excavation?”

  “Eric Montoya contacted the University of New Mexico when he discovered the site after one of those gully-washers. They contacted the Southwestern Historical Society and they in turn called us. Easy.” He smiled. Destiny realized he was rather attractive and returned the smile. “You know,” he continued, “the Rampton Corporation is a huge company and established the Foundation years ago to assist in this type of project. Jefferson Rampton is a true philanthropist.”

  To halt Lee’s praises of his employer, she said sweetly, “I believe you. I really need to pick up some supplies. Where can I buy groceries?”

  “There’s a small local grocery store in Las Nubes, and a convenience store that sells gas and snacks. But the nearest supermarket is many miles away in Albuquerque.”

  “Albuquerque? You mean local residents drive all that way to shop?”

  “Right. Guess they’re used to it. I confess my city ways. I really miss civilized conveniences on every corner, including Wi-Fi hotspots, and not needing to walk around pointing your cell hither and yon, trying to pick up a signal.” He escorted her back up the footpath to her Mustang.

  “Oh, it’s an oven!” she cried, fanning the door, then sliding inside and starting the car and air-conditioner. She hopped out, hoping it would cool off quickly. She’d left her windows up, allowing heat to build unbearably. How could this heat increase so fast from such a goose-bumpy morning?

  When the car had cooled down so as not to roast her alive, she got in and said, “Thank you for showing me around, Lee. I’m sure you’ll tire of me before this is over. But I promise to try and stay out of the way.”

  “Tire of you?” Lee chuckled. “Impossible. Part of my job is to assist you and I’m certain you’ll do a positive article on the Foundation.”

  Driving away, she considered how anxious Lee Duncan had sounded about her assignment. She hadn’t missed his assessment of her, either, even glancing at her left hand, likely to check for a wedding ring. After that, she’d checked his hand, too. Shoot, why hadn’t she noticed the cowboy’s hand last night as well? She’d certainly scoped out everything else about him.

  A windmill peeked over the crest of a hill and Destiny swung her Mustang wide to take a better look. At the foot of the windmill was a rock stock tank, with one small and two large travel trailers parked nearby. She assumed the Foundation people stayed in them. She wondered if Lee stayed out here or in town like she did. She’d bet in town. Somehow, he didn’t seem the camper-trailer type. He appeared likable, however, and she figured they could work well together.

  Instead of turning back toward the highway when she came to the Y in the road, Destiny impulsively steered the other way. Curiosity nudged her to find where this road led. After all, she could always turn around. The low-slung Mustang scraped each and every rock, so she drove very carefully. This branch of the road wound around hills and rock formations, climbed over savage edges, and dived down through arroyos. As she questioned the wisdom of her impulse, she topped a rise overlooking a stone and adobe house, outbuildings, and fenced corrals. Not at all modern. Several buildings appeared to be under reconstruction. Behind the ho
use, a tall windmill turned lazily, a metal water tank on a high stand next to it. The scene vividly complemented the wild, rough landscape.

  How picturesque! Destiny jumped from the car, camera in hand. She admired the ranch-style architecture of the long, one-story house with a wide front porch set off by rock arches. Desert bushes, several varieties of cactus, and clumps of various grasses dotted the rocky yard in untended freedom. She noticed a cottonwood tree near the western end of the house. Her camera clicked steadily.

  As she moved away from the car to seek better angles, two dogs charged out of nowhere, barking furious threats at her. The long-legged, thin black animal waved his tail as he barked, but a snarl escaped the powerful jaws of a stocky, reddish brown beast. His tail did not wag.

  Destiny’s heart raced as the dogs crept closer, splitting as if to flank her. The stocky brown one edged between her and the car. The black dog moved up on the other side. She pressed back against a tumble of huge boulders and, with forced calm, carefully felt out hand and foot holds. Gradually she began working her way up the side of the boulders. Soon she’d be out of their reach . . .

  “Joby! Muddog!”

  The dogs immediately turned and trotted back to the house. On the wide front porch stood the cowboy from the night before, whom Lee had called Eric George Montoya. The cowboy’s expression remained formidable, but his voice was mellow. “It’s okay. They won’t hurt you.”

  Feeling relieved, she gingerly abandoned her perch and crossed to the porch. The dogs lay in the shade panting, at ease as if she’d raised them from pups. Still, she stepped carefully around them and ascended three steps to stand beside her rescuer.

  “Your dogs?”

  He nodded. “They’re good dogs. They mind.” That half-smile she remembered curved his mouth. “You’re on Bar-M property again.”

  “Just can’t stay away.” A fluttery, trembly feeling washed over her. She stared up at him. Their eyes locked. She could not see the pupils in those black pools of midnight. “Perhaps I should explain my trespassing,” she said, her voice high and breathless to her own ears.

  “First, let me practice some hospitality. Can I get you something cold to drink? Lemonade? Water?”

  “Water would be lovely. I get so dry out here.”

  “I’ve got plenty of that. Have a seat.” He waved a hand at a wooden table and benches at one end of the porch. Near them were several wooden chairs. Destiny walked down the cool, shaded porch and took a chair. She watched the heat waves shimmering off her car. The backs of her legs still sizzled from sitting on the hot vinyl seat. Her lightweight blue slacks didn’t afford much protection. She glanced down at her feet in their small, white sandals. Those wouldn’t do, either. She’d packed jeans, but realized she needed boots.

  She thought of the rancher’s boots, a dusty tan, scuffed and worn. His faded, mended jeans molded to his lean and powerful body, defining his masculine strength. What’s wrong with me? Why did he send her thoughts swimming and make her voice squeaky? Not since Jason, nearly four years ago now, had she felt any serious interest in a man.

  Jason, whom she’d met while writing a series of features for a regional magazine, had treated her like a giddy girl, merely playing with a camera until some man married her. He’d wanted to be that man. Oh, she didn’t doubt that Jason had loved her, or loved his idealized vision of her. And she’d loved Jason. But she had not spent those years of sixteen- and eighteen-hour days working at two jobs and attending classes, to meekly put away her cameras and join the neighborhood bridge club. She had every intention of becoming a serious photography artist, to travel worldwide and produce beautiful, moving, award-winning books that people would not only display on their coffee tables, but would examine with pleasure again and again.

  Jason took his own career as business executive seriously enough, but he’d practically laughed at Destiny, as if she were a kindergarten child producing finger paintings for the refrigerator door. That he would treat her this way had deeply hurt her and had changed her feelings for him. It was as if he’d expected her to aspire to nothing more than his appendage.

  Destiny shut her eyes against the memory of their arguments, of Jason’s refusal to respect her unwillingness to give up something so important to her. Not since that time had she been in a serious relationship. Nor, for the present, did she intend to become involved. So why this pounding heart for a man she didn’t even know?

  Eric entered the house, his head practically swimming. What a gorgeous woman! That cascade of pale honey hair framing her delicate face, and those remarkable aquamarine eyes, as clear and deep as a tropical sea? Stunning. And here she’d turned up on the Bar-M not once, but twice in rapid succession.

  What the . . .? His shirt pocket radiated warmth. Reaching into it, he withdrew Cupid. He hadn’t bothered to change shirts this morning, knowing he’d be doing dirty work, and there it was, still nestled, all cozy and snuggly.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he growled at the grinning cherub. Detouring quickly he stopped by his study and dropped the offending brooch into the desk drawer. It could just stay put until he got the family legend sent off to Ty. Ha! Family curse described it better.

  Chapter 2

  The cause of Destiny’s dilemma returned carrying two tall, insulated glasses. He took the chair beside her and handed her a glass. Destiny drank deeply of the icy water. “I’m Destiny Winston, on assignment for Western Skies magazine to do a photo-story on the historical site the Rampton Foundation is sponsoring.” She paused, swishing the water in her glass. “That’s why I’m trespassing again. I was out at the site and followed the other fork in the road. Am I disturbing you? I can finish my water and be on my way.”

  “I wasn’t busy. No rush. By the way, I’m Eric Montoya. I own this ranch.”

  “Nice to meet you, Eric Montoya.” Deciding not to mention her talk with Lee about him, she extended her hand, small and pale compared to his, that was swiftly engulfed by his large bronze one. “Would you be related to Carlos Montoya?”

  A guarded expression crept across his features. “My adoptive father. Do you know him?”

  “No, but I do know the Montoyas are a prominent New Mexico family, and I read a brief profile of Mr. Montoya when he and his wife retired. It mentioned several ranches owned by the family.”

  “True.” His suspicious scowl faded. “This one, the Circle C in West Texas, and one in the Hill Country near Johnson City in Central Texas, which belongs to my brother.”

  “The Circle C-the Carrington Ranch?”

  “You know of it?”

  “Our travel site, the one for Western Skies, ran a feature on the Circle C Resort Ranch. It’s in your family as well?”

  “Extended family. Mom is a Carrington. My cousin Errol Carrington inherited the Circle C when my uncle died. Mom and his father are . . . were . . . brother and sister. That sounds dumb. I mean, sister and brother.”

  Destiny smiled. “I translated that. So you’re both Montoya and Carrington.”

  Eric chuckled. “You make it sound like royalty.”

  “Both well-known families. You are to the manor born, sir.”

  His smile faded. “Not really born to it. More or less borrowed.”

  Noticing a bit of a prickle, Destiny quickly pursued another subject. “And are they as large as this one? Lee Duncan at the site said this ranch covers several thousand acres.”

  “This is the second biggest. The Circle C in West Texas covers more ground. The Bar-M is second, then the Double Bar-M.” He took a thoughtful sip from his glass. “After the folks retired to Albuquerque, they handed over the reins of the Bar-M to me. I have plans.” He waved one arm. “To fix up this house for one thing. I just replaced that section of roof. A tiny bit of water seepage can result in a lot of damage. Constant maintenance and repairs got to be too much for them to deal
with, especially after Dad’s accident.”

  Destiny gave him a questioning glance.

  “Fell off the barn roof. They’d been spending more and more time at their house in Albuquerque anyway, and when that happened, well, doctors and rehab were all there. He recovered well, but it left him with a limp. Sometimes he uses a cane. So, decided they preferred modern conveniences and more civilized comfort and leave the work to the younger generation.”

  “Gracious. This must be an old house. I can tell it’s special.” A soothing atmosphere encompassed the sturdy rock and adobe home with its wide porch. Glancing up at the porch roof built of sticks, Destiny pointed. “What kind of wood is this?”

  “Sotol sticks. They make good patio and porch cover. Build a frame, gather the sotol sticks, and wire them down. If they blow off, go get some more. And you can buy bundles of them. Some people gather and sell them for a little extra cash.”

  “Nice shade, but don’t they leak rain?”

  “We have a lot more sun than rain here.”

  “Makes sense,” she acknowledged. Their eyes met. “You mentioned a brother. Just the two of you?”

  “We have a sister, but she’s not in the ranching business. As I said, I’m adopted. The Montoyas raised me after my parents died. My folks worked here on the Bar-M. My mother died in childbirth. Mine. My father was killed trying to break a horse that threw him against the barn.” Eric paused, his dark eyes boring into hers. “The horse never would have thrown my father if he hadn’t had a hangover. He was the best horseman ever. But the white man’s firewater got him.”

  She cocked her head questioningly.