The Rancher's Second Chance Page 15

  “Speaking of cattle, how’s your herd?”

  She gave him a scalding look. “You’re mocking me.”

  “Not even a little.” He reined in the laughter that pawed in his chest. “You’ve got five head—that makes a herd. And now you’ve got a cow dog.”

  “And boots, don’t forget,” she said.

  “You’re all set. All you need is a horse.”

  A mew through the screen door turned their heads.

  “How are the kittens taking to the pup?”

  “I think they’re offended.”

  He laughed and pushed himself up. “I see you got your motion sensor installed. Glad it didn’t go off this morning when we walked up here.”

  Laura stood and took his empty glass. “Boy, are you ever. It makes an ungodly racket.”

  “That’s the whole idea.” He put his hat on and thought about kissing her.

  “You have chosen a fine dog.” Garcia crossed the porch and gave his glass to Laura.

  The puppy bounded down the steps and sniffed its way across the yard and into the bushes.

  “I hope so. I want her to be a good watchdog, but friendly, too. That might be too much to expect.”

  “No worry, mija.” Garcia smiled broadly and dipped his wide hat with a nod. “Thank you for the cold water.” He patted his stomach. “And for filling our empty bellies. Now we will finish.”

  Garcia walked down the steps and eased through the barbed wire. Laura watched the puppy exploring the yard, and Eli slipped his arm around her waist, hoping he hadn’t misread her over the past few days. She turned into him and swept his face with her beautiful eyes.

  “May I kiss you?” he whispered.

  Her lips curved in a perfect smile and she closed her eyes with a “Yes.”

  * * *

  Laura watched the two cowboys hike down the hillside toward the fence line. She hugged her arms and relived the moment Eli’s warm lips touched hers, but a yip drew her attention to the bushes. Pulling away from the tingling memory, she trotted down the steps to investigate.

  “Chica—come, Chica.” The puppy backed out of the bougainvillea that had overgrown one end of the house and bounded to her. “Good girl.” She sat on the grass and rubbed the dog’s upturned belly as it wiggled its back against the scratchy grass. “You’re more playful than I expected. But don’t forget you have a job to do.”

  The pup rolled to its feet and gave her chin a fullhearted washing. Laughing, Laura carried it indoors.

  She set Chica on the floor, went to the sofa and her laptop and settled in with an eye on the kittens. Pete and Re-Pete would have to make their own peace with the newcomer.

  Checking her email disheartened her almost as much as checking her mailbox, except it wasn’t completely empty. Junk and a few bills. She closed the site and began a search for dog runs, starting with “images” to get a few ideas.

  They were as varied as the animals themselves. Large, small, wooden, chain link, covered, uncovered. She didn’t want a cage, but she didn’t want to fence in the entire hilltop either. The local hardware store’s website didn’t offer much, but a wider search of the Spring Valley area brought up the feed store.

  Apprehension wormed in as she clicked on the link for livestock fencing. A dog and two cats weren’t exactly livestock, but she had to start somewhere.

  Of course they had exactly what she wanted.

  A loud hiss drew her attention to the kitchen. Chica had the kittens cornered against one wall and the French doors. They swiped at her with their little paws and hissed. She hunkered down with her rear in the air and darted forward with a snap of her jaws.

  “Play nice.”

  At the sound of Laura’s voice, Chica turned, the kittens dashed away and the chase was on.

  Laura looked again at the feed store page and rolled her lips. She couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t ask Eli to take her back there and she wouldn’t have them deliver the materials. What if the tobacco-chewing clerk was the delivery boy?

  She logged off.

  The chain she’d bought reached far enough to give Chica room to poke around until she could get a kennel. She simply needed a good place to attach it.

  That evening Laura shut the kittens in the laundry room with fresh food and water, and took Chica outside. She attached the long chain to the dog’s collar and clipped the opposite end around the mulberry tree.

  “Go potty,” she told the puppy as it wagged its whole rear end trying to wag its stubby tail.

  Laura relaxed in the swing and gave it a little shove. A distant coyote called and she checked for Chica’s reaction. The pup sat on its haunches and aimed its ears across the valley toward the hills. A little growl rumbled in its chest.

  Good dog.

  She pushed the swing again and surveyed the ranch below. The sprinklers were silent and a light in the ranch house told her the men were in the kitchen. Probably having dinner and planning for tonight.

  Tonight. The thought chilled her and she rubbed her arms. Eli and Garcia planned to lay in wait for rustlers, and if they came, follow them over the draw to the rodeo grounds. Hopefully the brand inspector hadn’t forgotten. What if Eli got there and had no backup?

  “Lord, please watch over my boys tonight.” The endearing term warmed the once-empty place in her core, and her eyes locked on the end of the new fence where the old tree stood. Could her heart be mending?

  * * *

  Pan-fried burgers and beans waited on the table in Eli’s kitchen, but only two plates. He wanted to make it three, but he didn’t want to spook Laura. She’d just come out of a painful relationship. In spite of her warm response to his kiss, he didn’t want to spoil things by rushing her.

  He took a seat and passed the beans to Garcia who bowed his head. Embarrassed that he’d forgotten, Eli set the bowl down and lowered his eyes.

  “Gracias, Señor, for this food and this land. Protect us and our cattle tonight. Amén.”

  “Amen.”

  Eli dumped beans over his meat and ate it with a fork. Garcia doused his meat and beans with green chili and did the same.

  “We’ll ride out after dark and wait in the orchard near the east section.”

  Garcia nodded. “Will the inspector’s men be waiting at the rodéo?”

  “I sure hope so.” Eli scraped up a bite of beans. “I’d like to put a stop to this whole thing and get on with making a living.”

  Garcia considered him a moment. “Get on with making a life?”

  Eli met his gaze. The old man was doing it again—reading his mind. “That, too.”

  “She will join you.” Garcia took a long drink of iced tea.

  “You know this how?”

  “I know in here,” he said, tapping his chest with a leathery finger. His obsidian eyes sparkled.

  Eli’s heart tumbled with mixed emotions—a yearning for Laura and a lust for vengeance. They didn’t sit well together.

  “First things first,” he said scraping his chair back. “Let’s get this over with.”

  * * *

  Eli locked Goldie in the tack room, and like two shadowy trail riders, he and Garcia rode out from the barn. A scabbard at his thigh held the Remington .223. The night vision monocular dangled from a lanyard around his neck, and his cell phone snugged his shirt pocket, locked and silenced, tight against the envelope with Laura’s name on the front.

  A crazy idea had sent him upstairs for it after dinner.

  Garcia’s mount was as black as the night. Thermal imaging goggles hung from the saddle horn, and a tightly coiled rope lay over the horn and one swell. The palm leaf rode low on the man’s brow, and Eli could easily imagine a full bandoleer across his partner’s chest.

  He was glad Garcia was on his side. />
  Their slow, choppy steps followed the dirt road until they reached the orchard’s softer soil. Riding between the trees, clear of the branches, the two men moved silently into the grove and reined in two rows from the eastern edge.

  A distant growl rolled over the hills, and a faint glow flashed in the high country.

  “Lightning,” Garcia said.

  “I hope the storm holds off long enough for those scoundrels to get here.”

  Eli stepped off his horse and dropped the reins. Lifting his night vision monocular, he scoped the draw above the ranch. “Come on boys. Come and get your prize.”

  Lightning bounced across the higher ridges and thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, but no one rode over the low place between two hills.

  Time itself slept as Eli tracked the lightning strikes, trying to guess the storm’s path. He sat against an apple tree and pulled out the note. Unable to read it in the starlight, he fingered the flap and mulled over the idea that had sent him upstairs.

  How would she respond if she read it now? Would she think he was mocking her and her wish for a letter? Was he too old to give a child’s note to a woman—especially after that kiss? He slid the envelope behind his phone.

  Antsy after the long wait, Eli climbed into the saddle and rode forward to see if the cattle were restless. They predicted a coming storm better than any weatherman.

  The cows lay still, babies at their sides. A storm wouldn’t be here anytime soon unless the wind shifted. Riding back to where Garcia sat like a mounted statue, Eli stopped beside him and pushed the button on his watch: 23:59—nearly midnight.

  “Maybe I scared them off for good.” The trees muffled his voice and disappointment took hold on his heart. He wanted to catch those greedy thieves red-handed.

  Recalling their last stakeout and Laura’s sweet bread, he wished he’d packed a loaf. He could use a slice or two right about now.

  Garcia shifted in his saddle and the leather squeaked. He pushed his hat off, let it hang down his back on the stampede string and held the goggles to his eyes. “South,” he said.

  Eli scanned to the right and saw movement. The darkness glowed green through his monocular as two riders loped confidently toward the section fence.

  The palms of his hands began to itch and his heart rate increased. He breathed slowly through tight lips and willed himself to remain calm. This wasn’t Afghanistan.

  The riders paralleled the fence line and stopped at the bottom of the pasture. They dismounted, and one handed his reins to the other and slipped through the fence. He ran to the nearest calf, jerked a piggin’ string from his belt and hog-tied the animal. Then he dragged the calf back to the fence where the waiting man yanked it underneath.

  The runner repeated his ploy and dragged off another calf. By that time, both mamas were up and calling, answered by their trussed calves. The man slipped through the fence, released the calves and, with his partner, cut them away from the fence and started toward the draw.

  The whole thing took fewer than five minutes.

  “When they reach the top of the saddle, we’ll head out,” Eli said.

  Garcia returned his palm leaf to his head and tugged the brim down.

  They edged from the orchard as the riders crested the draw. Taking the lead down an alleyway between two sections, Eli eased Buddy into a trot. When they reached the open hillside, he and Garcia heeled their horses’ sides and loped up the gentle rise. At the top, they reined in, and Garcia pushed his hat back and scanned the slope that rose on either side. Eli scoped the rodeo grounds.

  “There they are,” he said, pointing toward the holding pens on the arena’s north side.

  “And a trailer,” Garcia added.

  “Time for a phone call.” Eli hoped the brand inspector’s men were waiting, and he hoped they had their phones silenced. He’d hate to get this far and have the whole thing crash on a ring tone echoing through the dark.

  “Granger,” a quiet voice said.

  “You Monfort’s man?

  “You Eli Hawthorne?”

  “We’re up on the saddle west of the rodeo grounds. Following two rustlers with two calves. You should have a couple of visitors in the holding pens on the north side.”

  “I see ’em. Thanks.” The call ended.

  An anticlimactic letdown settled in Eli’s gut as he headed Buddy down the draw. Garcia rode beside him, as dark and silent as Eli’s mood.

  A steel trailer door moaned near the pens. And in perfect timing three sets of headlights glared to life, a triangular stranglehold on two panicky cowboys with a couple of wide-eyed calves.

  Eli touched his spurs to Buddy’s side and hurried to the flat.

  Monfort and two others exited the vehicles parked strategically around the holding pens. One was a sheriff’s car.

  “Put your hands on your head,” the deputy hollered, his gun drawn. “Party’s over.”

  In the unforgiving glare, Eli thought one of the two rustlers looked familiar. He took Buddy in for a closer look, and stopped near the deputy as he cuffed the tobacco-chewing clerk from the feed store.

  The clerk scowled and spit in Eli’s direction. An old reflex jerked Eli’s right bicep, but he laid his forearms across his saddle horn and leaned in. “Heck of a way to make a living,” he said. Shaking his head, he reined away and walked over to Monfort.

  “The skinny one works at the feed store. I don’t know the other fella.”

  “I do,” Monfort said. “I suspected his involvement. Works for another rancher about twenty miles from here. His calves have been disappearing, too. Bet I know why.”

  “Good work tonight,” Eli said.

  “It wouldn’t have happened without your tip about the rodeo grounds. These two aren’t the only team stealing stock in the area, I’m sure, but at least they’re two more out of commission.”

  Garcia waited next to the pen where the babies bawled.

  “You want to drive them back tonight?” Monfort asked Eli.

  “No, but I don’t want to leave them here, either. If you don’t mind, can I borrow this truck and trailer before you confiscate it?”

  “Check with the sheriff. Fine with me if he doesn’t mind.”

  Chapter 20

  He minded.

  “Sorry, can’t do it. It’s evidence. And I’m sure the owner wouldn’t want to be involved. I ran the plates on the truck and trailer, and they came back belonging to someone other than these two.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “No problem. I understand.” Eli turned away and Garcia rode up beside him.

  “I will go back and get the stock trailer. Then we will all ride home.”

  “Sounds good.” Eli pushed his hat up. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Garcia touched his wide brim and loped off toward the hills.

  Eli dismounted and threw Buddy’s reins across the top rail of the calf pen. Within thirty minutes, another sheriff’s car arrived with a driver for the truck, and Monfort, his man and the deputies all pulled out.

  Suddenly alone in the dark, Eli slid to the ground and leaned against the holding pen. The moonless night settled around him and he smelled the storm. A bright flash to the east lit the hills in a strobelike scene. It wouldn’t be long.

  He pulled his hat off and ran his hand through his hair. He thought back to those long, cold nights in the Afghanistan mountains. A man’s mind could play tricks on him, make him think someone was out there, when in truth, there were many someones out there.

  If you are in Christ, you are a new creation.

  The pastor’s comments from Sunday came to mind, his promise of a new beginning and old things sloughing off. The promise wasn’t the pastor’s, but God’s. The God Eli had known before the explosion.

  If you are
in Christ, you are a new creation.

  The words settled in his chest, beating like some living, breathing thing. Like a heart.

  “I want to start over, Lord,” he whispered. “But I need a hand here.”

  Tears pricked his eye and a searing pain cut through the right side of his face. The left foot that he no longer had throbbed with every heartbeat, and he feared he would cry out in agony.

  And then it was gone. The pain vanished instantly, and peace bloomed inside his chest like a silent, surreal grenade.

  Eli’s breath came in short, ragged gasps and he tipped his head back against the rails and stared into the black sky.

  * * *

  The explosion shot Laura straight up from a dead sleep. The house shuddered. Chica yelped and dived under the bed.

  Laura’s heart pounded in her throat. She pulled on her jeans and a shirt and lifted the dust ruffle. Chica lay trembling, ears down, eyes wide, a small whimper in her throat.

  “Come here, girl.” She reached for the dog but it scooted back, terrified.

  Another crash and blue light cut through the house.

  “That was close,” she said as she tugged on her tennis shoes. “No pause between the strike and the thunder.”

  The hair on her arms tingled with electricity. She glanced at the clock on the floor: 3:00 a.m. The red digits winked and then disappeared.

  The refrigerator’s background hum stopped.

  “Great. No power.”

  The house rattled with another boom and light flashed through the windows. She stood and walked into the living room, staring into the darkness. A blue arrow struck the pasture.

  Momentarily blinded, she fell to her knees at the thunder crack, certain the strike had split her house apart as well as her eardrums.

  “Lord, protect us. Send Your angels,” she prayed. “Or if these massive lightning bolts are Your angels, calm them down a bit, please.”

  Another slash of light and she flinched. This time a second passed before the thunder clap. She squeezed her eyes tight, and another bolt hit with blinding intensity. Two seconds before the resounding boom. The storm was moving.