Roz Denny Fox (12 page)

Gazing at a spot beyond her right shoulder, he removed and resettled his hat a couple of times. “Busy time of year for the Triple C. About the only socializing I’ll do for the next few months is with ornery cows.”

Hayley’s chest felt suddenly hollow. A few months sounded interminable. By then, her pregnancy would show. Because she didn’t know how to introduce that subject, she donned a bright smile instead. “I trust you’ll spread the word that anyone showing up on a horse
without
these brands is courting danger.”

“I surely will. I showed you how to close the valves to the various ditches. To keep traffic in your camp to a minimum, let the water flow for six hours, then shut her down.”

“Right. I’m not planning on going anywhere. Oh…unless I need to replenish supplies. So if my truck isn’t here, I’ve gone to Tubac. I assume the water system will do its thing if I’m gone. I don’t foresee ever spending a night away from camp.”

“Does that pickup have a radio? The road between here and the highway can turn into a quagmire during our August monsoons. Sometimes a road washes out. Usually we fix it within a day or so, but you need to stay alert.”

“I have a portable radio and cases of batteries. The truck also has a radio.”

“Good. Then I guess you’re set. I took the liberty of drawing a map to the Triple C on the back of that paper showing the brands. If you need anything, anything at all, someone will most likely be around our place or Dillon’s. I marked his house on the map, too.”

“Thanks. Don’t worry that I’ll wear out my welcome. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover right here. Anyway, I’m not a big mingler.”

It was on the tip of Jake’s tongue to ask if she liked to dance. What Dillon had said about inviting her to the Harvest Dance ricocheted inside his skull. But the decision he’d made before he left the house—to keep his distance from Hayley Ryan—loomed larger. Jake tipped his hat, whistled for Charcoal and climbed into the saddle.

Hayley moved beside his shifting horse. “It’s really humid today. I don’t have to worry about storms yet, do I? Because July isn’t over?”

Jake squinted at the sky. Clouds had rolled in and covered the sun without his noticing. That showed how much this woman confused him. He was dead right to cut the self-imposed ties and go on about his business. “We’ve had gully washers in July before and we’ve been a spell without rain.” He took some time to study her camp. “You’re laid out the same way Ben used to be. He weathered a few humdingers. I expect this’ll blow over, but if the spring should fill and overflow, open the valve marked
one
for a while.”

“Thanks. Well, I won’t keep you.” This time the smile she pasted on didn’t feel so bright. It must have fooled Jake. He galloped off without a wave.

Hayley didn’t budge until an attack of nausea drove her into the bushes to empty her stomach of breakfast. This couldn’t be good for the baby. Not even if the book said it was fairly normal.

Alone, lonely and vaguely out of sorts, Hayley grouped her ore samples around the fire pit. Telling herself that she didn’t need anyone’s company but her own, that she was happy to be rid of Jacob Cooper and his constant interruptions, Hayley hunched over her boxes doing streak-plate tests until her fingers bled. Eventually the roll of thunder and the crack of lightning drove her inside. At least she could blame her wet cheeks on the rain that had begun to spit.

H
UDDLED IN A NARROW CAVE
with a wet smelly horse and dog, Jake stared out at the storm he’d wrongly told Hayley would blow over. Since the clouds started dumping, he’d wager two inches of rain had hit the ground. Arroyos filled and there were tumbling rivers where hours ago none existed.

But Hayley Ryan wasn’t his problem.

What if she forgets how to open the valve? What if it sticks?

Against his better judgment, Jake nudged Mojave into the downpour. He simply wouldn’t draw an easy breath until he was satisfied Hayley’s camp hadn’t washed away. That didn’t mean he planned to let her know he was checking up, however.

At the same vantage point he’d used the other day, Jake lay spread-eagle in the wet saw grass. He scanned the clearing below, gnashing his teeth until he could determine that she was snug in her tin can of a trailer and that water flowed through the valve merrily, keeping the spring at an acceptable level.

Two days later Jake came down with a doozy of a summer cold. For three days after that, when the high desert heat had once again set in, he was grumpy as a rank bull. Everyone but his mother maintained a discreet distance. She brought soup to his room.
Chicken
soup. And casually mentioned her missing hens.

“I planned to tell you,” Jake mumbled. “It slipped my mind. So I guess Dad ratted.”

Nell Cooper met the challenging gaze of her handsome, personable, tenderhearted youngest son. “What sort of woman has a man thieving from his own family? You’re sick because of her, too,” she accused. She held up a palm when Jake’s head came off the pillow and his eyes blazed. “Don’t deny it. A mother knows these things.”

“Mom, no. I played good neighbor a time or two. That’s the extent of it. She’s out there digging her damned rocks. Soon as I’m well, I’ll be joining the roundup on the north range.”

Nell hesitated at the door. “Since Dillon and Eden’s wedding, I’ve watched you change, grow restless. The right woman will come along, I know it. Someone as nice as Eden.”

Jake sneezed four times. Dropping his chin to his chest, he muttered, “My soup’s getting cold.”

“So eat. I’ll have my say and then I’ll leave. This phase will pass. You don’t have to settle for a…a divorced nomad, Jacob.”

He rallied to Hayley Ryan’s defense. Too late. His mother had said her piece and gone, slamming his bedroom door. Well, fine! He didn’t plan on seeing Hayley again, anyhow.

Still, his mother’s words grated. He was a grown man. One capable of making his own decisions where women were concerned. His mom loved him and meant well. But she was a potter, not a psychologist.

By the middle of the following week his cold had cleared up, but Jake was still angry when he rode off to the roundup. The crew sensed his mood and left him to his own devices. They probably figured hard work and the elements would take it out of him soon enough.

And they were right. A blistering sun rolled up every morning, soon drying every trace of that one brief monsoon. The few pockets of water that remained after the sandy soil had sucked in the excess simply evaporated as the earth baked to a hard clay. Slowly plodding steers kicked up clouds of dust. Jake ate his share. Yet every night, when the majority of the wranglers knocked off for dinner break, he’d take a fresh mount and ride out to check on Hayley. He did that for several weeks.

The first day that Dillon let the herd rest for a full twenty-four hours, Jake cut a small surefooted pinto from the remuda, saddled her and presented her to Hayley.

“I can’t take such an elaborate gift.” She had, by chance, cooked extra macaroni and cheese, and handed Jake a full plate. “What makes you think I can even ride?”

“Can you?”

“Yes.” Her cheeks burned as she glanced away.

“I heard your pickup stalled twice on your drive into town to replenish supplies. Graze the mare regularly and she won’t break down.”

Hayley laughed. Jacob couldn’t know that the gift of his visit meant more to her than anything tangible. Including the chickens and the rock sled he’d sent last week with the man who’d opened the valve. The sled helped make removal of the ore she blasted out much easier. She’d had the wrangler take a look at her pickup’s engine while he was there, as well. He must have been the one who told Jacob about its stalling.

“Jake. This morning two men, ranchers, came to visit me.”

His fork stilled. “Who? What did they want? I hope you showed them your shotgun.”

“No. They were gentlemen. Checking on the spring.” She unfolded the sheet of brands and tapped a skinned finger with a broken nail on the intertwined J & B.

“Westin and his foreman, Gordy White,” Jake breathed after she’d finished describing the two.

“The older man tried to give me five thousand dollars to quit what I’m doing here. Before he left he was up to fifteen thousand.”

Jake made mush of the steaming macaroni. He tensed, prepared to hear, but hoping he wouldn’t, she’d accepted John’s offer.

A frown settled between her brows. “I expected you to act surprised. I thought they were trying to pull a fast one on your family. You know, go behind your back and buy this parcel out from under you. But I can see you knew about it,” she said, sounding hurt.

“I’d heard rumors. John’s the Cattlemen’s Association president. Almanac predictions that we’re heading into a long drought probably spooked him. He owns a huge thirsty herd.”

“Well, I’m not dropping my claim.”

“Look at your hands,” Jake said gently. “Do you really think whatever’s under the quartz and granite hill is worth killing yourself for?”

“I thought you were in my corner, Jacob.” Her eyes, suddenly sad and serious, seemed to assess him.

“I think you’re crazy,” he muttered, heaving himself up to scrape his plate into the fire. She kept it burning even though the heat was almost 110, even this late in the day. Earlier, when they’d been talking, she’d confessed to having seen mangy coyotes and several rooting families of javelina at the spring. The Southwest pigs were ugly razor-backed animals. Jake had seen them turn nasty; he worried they might attack Hayley if the drought got really bad.

“Thank you.” Now her eyes snapped. “Thank you so much for the vote of confidence. I didn’t ask you to hang around. And I don’t need any of your sneaky bribes. Take back your chickens and the mare. Stop plying me with vegetables and milk.” This last fell reluctantly from her lips. But he’d called her crazy, and that hurt. Jacob Cooper had sneaked past her defenses, reminding her acutely of how swiftly and easily she’d been duped by Joe Ryan, too.

“Hayley, come on! I’m not part of that extortion party.”

“Can’t prove it by me. Go, Jacob Cooper. I can take care of myself.”

Without another word, Jake gathered Mojave’s reins, mounted smoothly and left, taking the pinto with him. He felt frustrated by her attitude. And darn, he’d hated watching Hayley’s complexion go from lightly tanned to sunburned to scaly brown. His mother’s hands and Eden’s, too, bore the calluses of their work. Neither had cracked skin and horribly broken fingernails the way Hayley did. If, on occasion, Eden burned a finger with her jewelry soldering iron, a Band-Aid took care of the problem. Jake doubted a normal first-aid kit contained enough bandages for Hayley’s cuts and scrapes.

Once again, as he covered the punishing miles back to the roundup, Jacob vowed that Hayley Ryan wasn’t his problem. Let her mummify, for all he cared.

He managed to stick to his guns for the rest of August—three weeks spent branding and moving a third of the herd to the rail cars. Then he rejoined the crew. The first afternoon back, he had occasion to object to the wrangler Dillon had chosen to send to Hayley’s camp to open the valves.

“Send Julio, instead,” Jake barked, indicating a wrangler with nearly white hair.

“It’s my decision.” Dillon rounded on Jake. “If I ask Ray, you want Alonzo. Miguel, instead of Orleans. What on earth is wrong with sending Emilio?”

“He’s new. What do we really know about him?”

“That he gives us a full day’s work for a day’s pay.”

“You’re always riding point so you don’t hear the men talk like I do. The others joke about him being a ladies’ man.”

“Exactly what half the valley says about you.”

Jake crowded Mojave close to Dillon’s mount. “I’ve never forced myself on a woman. Besides, you feed into that hype, and you well know it.”

Dillon studied Jake’s smoldering eyes and cocked jaw. Backing his big black gelding up a couple of steps, Dillon placed two fingers between his lips and issued an earsplitting whistle. “Hold up, Emilio,” he shouted. “Take a load off your horse and go get some chow. Jake’ll go open the valves tonight.”

The young stud, Emilio, galloped up to his boss. It was obvious he was too disciplined and too in need of the job to argue. But the mockery brimming in his dark eyes let Jake and Dillon both know he’d figured out the score.

When Emilio wheeled his tired piebald mare around and proceeded to ride to the chuck wagon as he’d been ordered, Dillon curled a hand around his brother’s hard forearm. “Maybe I should go. Honestly, dude, I’ve never seen you in this state over a woman.”

“I’m not in any state. That punk Emilio thinks he’s hot stuff. The Triple C doesn’t need the reputation of hiring guys like that.”

“Sounds as if you’d rather go yourself than let anyone else go.”

“I’ll be glad to let you bust
your
butt making the round trip to release the water if that’s what you want.”

Dillon laid an arm across his saddle horn while his horse nibbled the sparse dry grass. “Maybe you’re far too willing at that. I guess you’ve cooled on the Ryan woman. Hope you don’t mind if I relay that bit of news to Mom and Eden. They’ve had their heads together, plotting to import a woman the two of them met at the last craft show. A quilter. Mom’s gung ho, but Eden thinks the woman’s too old for you. She’s thirty-nine,” Dillon said slyly.

The smile Jake forced more closely resembled a grimace, but he knew what Dillon was trying to do. Shake him up and make him admit he still had a yen for Hayley Ryan. “I’ve dated older women,” he said, determined to keep his brother guessing.

Dillon stroked his stubbled jaw. “You trust the judgment of those two in picking you a woman? If I were you, I’d hurry up and ask someone to the harvest dance.”

For the first time in a lot of years, Jake considered skipping the dance. He wasn’t fool enough to tell Dillon. He’d never hear the end of the razzing.

“The older you get, Jacob, the slimmer the pickings in the valley. Ask Dad to let you attend more stock shows. I hear there’s an abundance of pretty, well-heeled ranch widows looking to find second husbands there.”