Emmy's Equal (12 page)

“Some local brew, no doubt. They can be potent. I’ve warned Cuddy about that poison.” Diego pressed his fists to his forehead. “Why would the foolish boy do this? He knows how his father—” His head came up, frantic eyes scouring the rim for Mr. Rawson.

He was seated with some other ranchers, his chair faced away from the dais, but it would be only a matter of time before he noticed the ruckus or someone pointed it out.

Diego gripped her shoulders. “Emmy?”

She swept past him. “I know what to do.”

Diego caught her arm. “If my mother asks, tell her I’ll be back.”

She nodded.

Diego stood his ground until Emmy crossed the yard and pranced in front of the men, her lilting laughter and dimpled grin captivating John Rawson and every man at the table.

Avoiding Greta, he cut around to the rear of the dance floor and waited until Cuddy swept past. Reaching for the nape of his neck, he jerked him to the ground and hauled him spitting and sputtering to the front of the house and then circled back to the rig.

The fight had gone out of him by the time Diego loaded him none too gently into the bed of the wagon and climbed aboard. With Emmy’s help, once again they’d saved Cuddy’s ornery hide.

Diego turned the horse and pulled from behind Cuddy’s wagon. Breathing a sigh of relief, he took one more look behind him, and his heart shot past his throat.

No matter how fast Emmy talked or how dazzling her smile, John Rawson, against a backdrop of flickering torchlight, stared over his shoulder at Diego, his face a frightening portrait of rage.

Melatha handed the misshapen piece of chalk to Jose. “Your turn,
niño.
Draw the letters just as I’ve shown you.” She adjusted his fingers. “Relax your hand. Choking the life from the chalk won’t help.”

He turned up a grimy, toothless grin. “Sí, Mama Melatha.”

“Curl the tail of the J like the tail of a monkey. The tail of the P should be long and straight, like a puppy’s.”

This time his smile revealed a few teeth.

She pointed to a small plate mounded with scrambled eggs and tortillas. “When you’re done, your breakfast will be waiting.”

The boy took one look at the food then hunched over the writing board, his tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth and his forehead drawn to a knot.

Before long, she would be teaching him words then whole sentences. In no time at all, he would be reading halting passages to her from the Bible, learning about the Savior while he learned to read.

Melatha glanced at her father’s Bible and sighed. How different life would have been had he lived to fulfill his vow to take her and her mother to Ireland. His family lived there, blood relations that Isi would never meet. When her happy, bright-eyed father died at the hands of a thieving vagabond, her mother returned to her people instead, so Melatha grew up among the Choctaw.

She cracked the rest of the eggs into a bowl and stirred them briskly with a fork. Pulling the skillet to a cooler spot on the cast-iron stove, she poured them into sizzling butter. They hissed and sputtered like her feverish mind. With the sun barely over the horizon, already her thoughts were restless. Against her will, they turned to her husband.

On a mission trip to the reservation, raven-haired Reynaldo Marcelo had noticed Melatha among the other maidens and asked to have her. Though she rejected him, her grandfather saw merit in the union, chiefly Reynaldo’s prized Appaloosa, and made the trade. Yellow Tree claimed he approved the kindhearted Spaniard because he foresaw him in a vision.

Many moons had passed, and many visions of her own, before Melatha had come to believe him. She and Reynaldo fought with a fury at first, until he tamed her. Then they loved with great passion. She bore her tiny, squirming brave the following spring.

Sixteen years later—after Reynaldo followed her father in death—like her mother before her, Melatha returned to her people, the only safe place she knew. Miserable within the confines of the reservation, Isi soon ran away. She didn’t see her prodigal son again until his twenty-first birthday.

“If I scratch out my letters, will you feed me, too?”

Melatha whirled from the stove. “Isi. You caught me dreaming again.”

He kissed her cheek. “Pleasant dreams, I hope.” He pointed at Jose. “I see you’ve found another eager student.”

She smiled tightly. “More eager to eat than to learn. But this way we both gain satisfaction.”

“Where did you get that old slate?”

“Rosita’s mother gave it to me.” She held up a box. “Plenty of chalk, too. It’s turned into a blessing.”

He nodded at Jose, so intent on his letters his face almost touched the board. “More a blessing for him than for you, though he doesn’t know it yet. Chihowa Ushi must be pleased.”

Melatha’s heart glowed in her chest. She loved to hear Isi speak their native tongue.

She stopped stirring the eggs and studied him. Since Isi knew she loved to hear it, he must be up to no good. She determined to ferret out the details of his plan before he ensnared her.

He sat at the table and she set his eggs in front of him. “What does the day hold for you, son?”

Before he could answer, Jose rose from the floor, wriggling with excitement. “I’ve finished, Mama Melatha. H through Q, just as you asked.”

She studied the scrawl of letters on the slate. “Muy bueno, Jose. These are beautiful letters.”

“Sí. May I eat now?”

She pulled out a chair for him. “Yes, you may eat your fill.”

The boy scrambled into the chair and snatched up his fork.

Melatha wagged her finger. “Uh, uh, uh, Jose. What comes first?”

Blushing, he lowered his lips to his folded hands.

Isi smiled at her over his head.

After what must have been the shortest prayer the Father ever received, Jose snatched up his fork and went to work on his plate.

Shaking her head, Melatha sat down across from her son and smiled. “You were saying?”

Isi’s grin became a troubled frown. “I’m not sure what this day will bring. Likely more work than I can wring out of daylight as usual.” He sighed. “I can’t count on much help from Cuddy today.”

She lifted her head. “Oh?”

Isi shoveled in another bite, waiting until he swallowed to speak. “I doubt his bed will turn him loose today. I’m sure he’s nursing a weak stomach and a pounding head.”

“Oh, Isi. You mean he—?” She stopped abruptly and glanced at the boy.

Isi nodded.

Her heart squeezed in protest of the news.

“So,” he began casually, “after spending more time with them, what do you think of our guests?”

The trap was set. Here was the bait. Wisdom demanded she tread lightly. “I like the one called Bertha. Her spirit is free. She’s not bound by the opinions of others.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “And the rest?”

“What about them?”

He looked up. “There are four guests in the house, Mother. You only like Bertha?”

“I don’t have much to go on, do I? Mr. and Mrs. Dane seem nice enough.”

He pushed back his eggs. “So you like Bertha, and the Danes seem nice...”

“Yes.”

“And that’s it?”

“I suppose so.”

Color crept up his cheeks. “Let me get this straight. You like Bertha. The Danes seem nice. But you can’t find one thing to say about—”

A harsh rap on the door rattled the hinges, cutting him off and bringing Melatha to her feet. “All right, all right! I’m coming!”

Isi shrugged. “Perhaps I was wrong. That’s likely Cuddy now.”

“Or Jose’s mother,” she suggested over her shoulder as she crossed the room.

Isi feigned shock. “With that heavy-handed knock? If so, let’s pray she’s in a cheerful mood.”

Melatha laughed and opened the door.

One of Isi’s men, pacing and stamping his feet, stood at the end of the porch.

Melatha looked back at Isi. “It’s Little Pete.”

Isi pushed back his chair and joined Pete outside. He returned shoving the fingers of both hands through his hair the way he did when he was tense.

She gripped his arm. “What’s wrong, son?”

He met her gaze and his eyes flashed fear. “Pete said I’m not to report into work today. Rawson’s orders.”

Melatha released her disbelief in a single word. “What?”

“He said the old man wants to see me. Right now. In the barn.”

“Oh, Isi. Do you know what this is about?”

His face drawn in grim lines, he nodded. “I’m afraid so.” With no further explanation, he pushed through the screen and jumped off the porch. As he crossed the yard, he pulled back and squared his shoulders, ready to take what was coming to him, whatever unthinkable thing it might be.

Melatha’s thoughts returning to snares and traps, she wondered who had set one for her son. Tears clouding her eyes, she bowed her head to pray.

The morning sun had yet to light the cool interior of the barn. Diego ducked inside and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Mr. Rawson, still unaware of his presence, slouched against Faron’s stall, both arms atop the door, resting his forehead on his hands. He looked like a man with an unpleasant task ahead of him. Diego cleared his throat, and the big man straightened. “There you are.”

Diego approached him. “I came as soon as you called.” Bracing the heel of his boot against the bottom board of the stall, he looked the horse over. “He doing all right this morning?”

Mr. Rawson reached to stroke Faron’s nose. “In body, yes. I’m not so sure about his spirit. He hates this loathsome stall.”

The horse crowded closer to Diego and nickered box.

Mr. Rawson chuckled. “Faithless animal. For all my devotion to him, he loves you more.”

Smiling, Diego scratched between the horse’s ears. “It’s not me he loves, sir. Rather the carrots I keep in my pocket.” He patted the velvety nose. “You’re out of luck today, amigo. We’re fresh out.”

Mr. Rawson appeared thoughtful. “Faron. That means pharaoh in Spanish?”

Diego nodded.

“Suits him, doesn’t it?” He released a heavy sigh. “You suppose I’ll ever be able to ride him?”

Diego gave a confident nod. “I’m sure of it, sir. He just needs a little more time learning to trust you.” He attempted to swallow, but his throat was too dry. “Sir, Pete said you wanted to speak to me.”

“I do.” Usually by now, Mr. Rawson would be facing Diego, searching for the bottom of his pupils while he said what was on his mind. Instead, he seemed to avoid meeting Diego’s eyes.

“He told me not to show up for work today. Said the order came from you.”

“That’s right.”

Why wouldn’t the man turn around? Why wouldn’t he say the words and get it over with?

You’re fired, Diego.

Turn in your lariat.

Pack your things.

Take your mother from the little house she loves and hit the trail.

What could be so hard about it? He should open his mouth and have it done.

“Cuddy will be taking your place today.”

“Sir?”

“Cuddy.” A hard edge crept into Mr. Rawson’s voice. “I plan to work his tail off. Give him a taste of what your workday feels like. Let him see how a real man runs his business, with sweat and grit. Then maybe he’ll lose his taste for booze.” He frowned a warning. “Don’t let him talk you into lifting a finger to help. I want that boy to learn something today.”

Weight shifted off Diego’s shoulders. “And tomorrow?”

“Humph.” Mr. Rawson finally turned. “You don’t get off that easy. It’s back to business as usual tomorrow. Any longer at the helm of the Twisted-R and Cuddy would run it asunder.” His gaze flitted past Diego’s face while he worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “I want to thank you for last night.”

Guilt stung Diego’s insides. “Thank me?”

“For getting that dunderhead out of sight before more people noticed the state of him.”

Diego lifted his brows. “I don’t deserve your gratitude, sir. I have to confess that wasn’t my motive.”

Mr. Rawson waved him off. “Oh shoot, I know. You did it for Cuddy, though I fear he doesn’t merit such loyalty. Still”—his eyes met Diego’s at last—“like always, you wound up helping me in the bargain.” Resting his hand on Diego’s arm, he smiled. “I want to express my appreciation for your faithfulness. After God and your mother, you’ve always put the ranch and me first. You’re a tireless, selfless boy, Diego, one I’d be honored to call my own. I’m proud of you, son.”

Diego wrestled with his emotions so he could speak. Dropping his gaze, he rustled a mound of straw with the toe of his boot. “Thank you, sir. I’m not certain I’m worthy, but thank you.”

They stood in silence, communicating their feelings with smiling eyes until Diego broke the stillness. “If you’ll pardon my boldness, sir, Cuddy longs to hear such words from you.”

Mr. Rawson stared. “Cuddy? Nonsense. He couldn’t care less what I think.”

Desperation shot boldness through Diego’s veins. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve watched him try to please you. I’ve watched him fail and seen what it does to him. If you would just try to see—”

Mr. Rawson’s hand shot up. “Hold on there. Don’t you lecture me.” His face blotched like the skin of a cactus pear, and he shook his finger in Diego’s face. “Don’t mistake my fondness for you as a license to butt into my business.”

Though his eyes still bored into Diego’s, something snuffed the furious fire. He sighed and relaxed his shoulders, and the purple hue faded from his cheeks. “You may have watched some things all right. I just don’t think you’ve seen.”

Diego longed to ask what he meant but didn’t dare risk angering him further.

Mr. Rawson returned his attention to the horse. “Don’t you think I want to be proud of my only son? I tried for years to turn Cuddy into the man he should be, longed to teach him everything I knew, but he wanted no part of my lessons ... or me. His interests lie elsewhere, namely at the bottom of a bottle when he’s not perfecting the art of chasing skirts.”

“Forgive me, sir, but Cuddy has many other interests. He’s always talking about politics and travel, and he studies a lot on what’s going on in the world.”

Mr. Rawson snorted. “What does any of that have to do with raising cattle?” He fiddled with Faron’s mane, smoothing and combing it with his fingers. Faron edged closer, grunting his approval.

Diego joined them by the gate, lifting Faron’s brush from its hook on the wall. They ministered together in silence, both men tending the horse they loved.

Mr. Rawson glanced over. “Want to know something funny?”

Diego smiled. “What’s that?”

“The truth is you have Cuddy’s stubbornness to thank for the turn your life has taken.”

Diego’s brows met in the middle. “How so?”

“When you showed up at the ranch, fresh and green as a spring shoot, I saw great potential there. So I took you under my wing, groomed you into what I longed to see Cuddy become, partly because I wanted him to see how his life could turn out if he’d let me help him, what great things we could accomplish together.”

Diego scowled. “You used me?”

Mr. Rawson looked startled. “Used you? Yes, I suppose I did in a way.” He latched onto Diego’s forearm. “But along the way I grew to love you, came to respect the kind of man you are. I caught myself wishing we were blood relations. Then I noticed the way Greta looks at you, and I thought my wish might be fulfilled through my grandchildren.”

He raised one busy brow. “There’s a spark of expectation in my old heart yet.” He nudged Diego with his shoulder. “Well, come on ... do I still have reason to hope?”

Diego’s smile wilted. He lowered his gaze and said nothing.

When he raised tortured eyes, Mr. Rawson nodded. “I feared as much. It’s Emily Dane, isn’t it? That girl could turn any man’s head.”