Roz Denny Fox (10 page)

Jake laughed and followed the man to a shaded side of the porch, where he helped himself to a seat on the soft cushions of a swing glider. “’Course, you don’t set ’em straight, do you?”

“You’ve got my number, boy. But I don’t lie. I tell them this is the closest a man gets to paradise without dying. Still, that don’t mean I’m a recluse. I hope you’ve got time for a glass of lemonade and a corned-beef sandwich.”

Leaning back, Jake swept off his hat. “You know my weakness for corned beef. And lemonade would go down easy. Anything I can do to help?”

“It’s ready. I saw you cross over the loop a couple hours ago. You’re right on schedule.” The man’s words were cut off by the bang of a screen door as he went inside. He emerged from the house moments later with a tray of glasses, thick sandwiches on homemade bread and a frosty pitcher of lemonade. Silence settled comfortably around them as the men dug into their lunch. Suddenly the one-time rancher wiped his mouth and said, sounding miffed, “When you see Ben O’Dell next, tell him I’m plenty p.o.’d that he flew past here without bothering to stop by and say howdy. He must be getting close to bringing in a payload to be in such an all-fired hurry.”

The corned beef stuck in Jake’s throat. When he finally managed to swallow it, he took a big swig of lemonade. “Ben died,” he said, rubbing idly at the moisture beading the outside of the glass. “That was Ben’s granddaughter you saw driving his rig. The girl’s filed to work his claim.”

“A girl miner? Well, don’t that beat all!”

Jake saw Hayley Ryan as she’d looked in the early-morning light. “I should have said woman,” he corrected himself. “I don’t know her age, but I’d guess she’s in her twenties.”

“When you get to be my age, sonny, any woman under forty-five falls into the category of ‘girl.’ Tell me about Ben. He stopped here on his way home last fall. Looked hale and hearty then.”

“I don’t know a lot. All I’ve heard is that it was pretty sudden. My folks went to Tombstone to check out the girl’s story. It isn’t any secret that Ben agreed to give us first option on the land. That spring has been the topic of conversation all year at the Cattlemen’s Association meetings.”

“So now this gal shows up out of the blue with clear claim to your ranch’s main water supply. I think I see how the wind blows.”

“Well, she said she’d give us the same deal we had with Ben. If she doesn’t renege on the bargain, the Triple C, the J & B and probably the Rocking R—that’s owned by Marshall Rogers—will still be able to meet the water needs of our summer stock.”

“Do I hear a
but
at the end of that statement?”

Jake gave the swing a lazy push with his boot heels. “No. Nothing I can put my finger on.”

“I think I understand. This woman’s a new unknown player in the game. She could get fed up with digging her fingers bloody in the dirt. If she flies the coop without telling anyone, or if she up and turns loose of her claim, any Tom, Dick or Harry could snap up the land. Including the water and mineral rights.”

“You’ve got that right enough to ruin my lunch.” Jake stopped swinging. “I hadn’t got around to putting my fears into words. You summed them up nicely.”

“Is she a looker?”

“Wh-what?” Jake stammered.

“The woman. Is she pretty? If she is, you might want to marry her. Won’t give you automatic rights to her claim. But, boy, you’d be in a position to keep tabs on the situation.”

Jake’s first inclination was to laugh. Somehow the laugh never materialized. “She’s already married,” he muttered, lavishing an inordinate amount of attention on the uneaten portion of his sandwich. “Or she could be in the process of divorce. According to rumors floating around Tombstone, Mrs. Ryan’s hubby took off with another woman after selling Ben’s silver mine out from under her.”

“Then you wouldn’t want to get tangled up with her if she’s already a loser.”

“I wouldn’t classify her as a loser.” Jake didn’t realize he’d betrayed his interest in Hayley, until his companion let out a cheeky laugh, winked and jabbed Jake’s ribs.

“So, the thought of corralling this filly has already crossed your mind.”

“If you want the continued pleasure of my company, old man, stop deviling me. I get enough of that from Dillon. There’s ways to keep tabs on the lady without going to such extremes. I’ve devised any number of reasons that’ll take me past her campsite on a regular basis till roundup starts. If she sticks around that long,” he added.

“You’ve got a point there, son. Ben had the know-how and the patience to work a claim. Most folks get discouraged if they don’t see any monetary gain. To my knowledge, Ben never took a dime out of the Blue Cameo. Still and all, he seemed mighty sure she’d pay off one day.”

“Did he ever mention what he expected to turn up?”

The iron-haired man rocked back in his chair and contemplated. “Can’t say that he did. Last year when he stopped by, I thought he seemed reluctant to go back to Tombstone. Hinted about being close to a payload. But I’ve never met a prospector who isn’t just a shovelful of dirt away from riches. I’ll think about our last visit. If I remember anything more, I’ll give you a jingle at the ranch.”

“I’d appreciate that. Frankly I hope there isn’t anything. All we need is a big gold strike to bring every hopeful miner from both sides of the border converging on us. Can’t think of anything worse.” Jake grimaced.

“Ben was right to play his cards close to the vest. Sometimes all it takes is the rumor of a find.” He shuddered. “I remember my pa saying that happened once at Lynx Creek. Before scuttlebutt was proved wrong, the rush of miners leached the area clean, destroyed the vegetation and eventually dried up the creek. That area’s a wasteland now.”

Jake nodded. “Thanks for the warning. I believe I’ll mosey back by Mrs. Ryan’s camp on my way home and press upon her the need for secrecy.”

“Telling a woman not to blab is like waving a red flag at a bull. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll understand the female species makes a point of doing whatever a man tells her not to.”

Jake stood and shook hands with his friend before settling his hat on his head. “Not all women gossip. My mother and Dillon’s wife detest the practice.”

“I only met your brother’s wife at the wedding. Your mother, now, is a rare lady.”

“She is at that.” In fact, the biggest thing standing in the way of Jake’s burgeoning feelings for Hayley Ryan was the reservations his mother seemed to have.

The old man followed Jake and watched him saddle the mare. “One last bit of advice, Jacob. A woman always takes suggestions better from another woman. You might make more headway if you could get Nell to visit your Mrs. Ryan.”

Jake made a face as he climbed on the broad-backed horse. “She’s not
my
Mrs. Ryan. I hope you remember that. Especially if you cross paths with anyone who works for the Triple C. Or for that matter, the J & B.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sniffing after Westin’s little honeybee?”

“I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Glad to hear you confirm it. I like John Westin all right. It’s a shame he’s so blind when it comes to his kid.”

“People all have their own ways of raising kids. I’m afraid I can’t render an opinion until I get some experience. Which isn’t likely to be soon.” Jake waved goodbye to the man on the porch—whose laughter followed him up the trail. That, as nothing else had, changed his mind about looking in on Hayley Ryan again.

As the mare walked carefully through the brush, flushing a covey of brightly plumed Gambel’s quail, Jake’s thoughts returned to what he might be like as a father. He’d always assumed he’d have kids someday. Most of his friends in the area, guys he’d gone to school with, were married and had started their families. Bob Verner and his wife had recently had number three.

Link Thompson and his wife, Bev, had four girls.
Four.
Link was two years younger than Jake. Oddly, Jacob found that unsettling. At least Dillon and Eden weren’t expecting yet. Jake wondered if they sat around home at night and talked about optimal timing.

“Nah,” he said aloud, shaking his head and setting the mare into a trot. “Dillon lives moment to moment. He’s not big on long-range plans.” Eden, now, was a different story. She organized, saved and kept meticulous books. Building and furnishing the house on Dillon’s hundred acres had been her doing. Nesting. Jake would bet Eden did have a baby plotted into her chart somewhere.

It shouldn’t matter to him what plans they made. So why did the picture of them sitting around the family Christmas tree, bouncing a laughing infant, stick in his craw?

At that moment Jake spotted a group of steers feeding in a ravine. All wore the Triple C brand. Stopping to take an exact count and write it in his logbook returned his brain to work mode. Not that he considered this
hard
work. Riding the range, even on the back of a horse as uncomfortable as Paprika, hardly fell under the heading of work at all to Jake. His dad used to say he’d been born in the saddle. Ranching was in his blood. Even in the winter when the wind froze a man’s nose and any other body part he was unlucky enough to expose, other cowboys groaned and moaned. Jake rarely uttered a complaint. He truly did not understand why so many of his contemporaries couldn’t wait to trade the red dust of the Santa Cruz valley for the sizzling concrete of Arizona’s cities. Jacob didn’t mind wearing white shirts and ties to funerals and weddings. The thought of having to don that getup with regularity sent chills down his spine.

Most women of his generation fawned over jokers wearing suits. Jake saw it at the dances and the bars he frequented when he went to Kansas, Wyoming or Texas to the bull sales. Plenty of women flirted with cowboys. Few committed themselves for the long haul once they had a taste of what it took to carve a home out of earth and rock.

For many of his cowboy buddies who’d gotten married were single again, and looking. Jake would admit cowboying could make a man lonely. Which was why curling up at night next to a wife held such appeal. But it had to be the right woman.

When Jake left the Mortimer ranch, he’d set his course for the Triple C. It was a shock to suddenly wake up out of his fog and find himself staring down through a waning sun at Hayley Ryan’s camp.
Again…

He sucked in a huge gulp of air. After all, he’d reversed his decision to pay her a visit. Yet because he was here, he raised his field glasses and scanned the clearing. Just checking to see that all was well. Once satisfied, he’d ride on without her ever being wiser.

Her campfire danced brightly. The chickens Jake had penned earlier scratched contentedly. Her truck and trailer sat untouched. Letting the glasses fall to the end of their strap, Jake gathered Paprika’s reins in his left hand, preparing to skirt Hayley’s camp. In two seconds he would have been gone. But he happened to catch sight of her. She leapt from her chair beside the fire, bent low, clutching her stomach with crossed arms and made a beeline for the trees.

Jake fumbled with the binoculars again. Sweat popped out on his own brow when he finally brought her into focus again. She looked close enough for him to touch. And touching was what she needed. Her face had turned a ghastly white. Perspiration dampened the fine dark hair that framed her oval face. It hurt Jake physically to see her cling to a sapling and retch violently.

Never giving thought to her wanting or needing privacy at a time like this, Jake snapped the mare into high gear and galloped full tilt into Hayley’s camp. He dismounted on the fly and ran to her side.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, sweeping her up and into his arms. He babbled the whole time he ran, carrying her to the spring. “Did you catch a flu bug? Or food poisoning?” Stripping off his dusty neck scarf, Jake dipped it in the cool water and began to bathe her face. He forgot to wring out the material and soon soaked both their shirts.

“Stop,” Hayley sputtered. “Where did you come from? You scared the daylights out of me.” Struggling to get off his lap and out of his arms, she felt her stomach drop and heave. Only the worry on his face eased her struggles.

“I…I…didn’t know anyone was around,” she managed. Embarrassment gripped her tongue. She couldn’t tell this man that she was apparently one of the unlucky women who suffered morning sickness twice a day. According to the book, one in four women endured nausea both morning and evening. One in ten, the booklet said, were sick all day. Hayley had counted her blessings to falling into the one in four category. However, being tenderly ministered to while languishing by a man not responsible for her condition, Hayley didn’t feel lucky at all. In fact, she felt about as miserable as she imagined a woman could feel. She did the only thing she could do to save face; she forced her roiling stomach into submission, and she lied.

“Thank you for your concern. I wor…worked my claim all day. Got a tad too much sun, I guess.” Hayley did separate herself from his muscular arms this time.

Jake’s racing heart put on the brakes at last. Now he felt like a fool watching her untie the tail of her blouse and mop at the water he’d all but drowned her with.

“Heatstroke is serious. Didn’t you wear a hat?” For some reason he found it easier to sound tough rather than to give in to his desire to gather her in his arms again. She’d fit into the crook of his elbow just fine. Her hair hadn’t smelled like that of a woman who’d toiled all day in the sun. A light floral fragrance had tickled his nose, reminding him of the flower shop in town.

Hayley turned away, carefully spreading her laced fingers across her still-shaky stomach. “I wore a hat. A baseball cap. I do have a floppy ghastly straw hat with a big brim. It makes me look like Mother Goose.” She would have gone on, but choked and turned clammy when she realized he might get suspicious at her reference to a child’s storybook character—or was she totally overreacting? Why didn’t Jacob Cooper go away and keep his nose out of her life?

“Women.” He expelled the word along with a massive sigh. “You won’t find a man letting fashion rule over his good sense.”