Western Winds Page 7

  “Wipe your boots ’fore you dirty my floor,” Maggie ordered.

  Rafe glanced at a thin, wiry man with sparse gray hair and a face the shade and texture of old leather.

  “Fletcher Ross,” Maggie announced. “Rode with your pa a time. This here’s Sy’s boy they’s talkin’ ’bout. Goes by Rafe Parrish.”

  Fletcher wiped his boots on the flat strip of metal wedged by the doorway before he entered. “So, yore Sy’s boy.” Offering his hand without hesitation, he added, “Got a good grip, son. Maggie treatin’ you right?”

  Son. The word sent a shiver down Rafe’s back. No man had ever called him son or cared how he was treated. Fletcher seemed to be of the same mold as Maggie; someone he might trust.

  “ ’Course I am,” Maggie answered for Rafe. “He was plannin’ to come see you. Needs some cut boards.”

  “Got a few,” Fletcher replied, clearly confused. “Now, what in tarnation you plannin’, son?”

  “Has fixin’ to do. Don’t be askin’, Fletcher.”

  Maggie’s warning gaze meshed with Fletcher’s. He was sure it had to do with Lacey. Rafe was staring into his cup, and Fletcher knew he wouldn’t have it easy here. Not if what he had heard about his mother was true. For himself, he did not hold with judging a man on his beginnings, but this was Texas and memories were long. Hate ran hot against anyone that was not pure Anglo. Rafe stood up, and Fletcher’s gaze tracked his height. He was a younger image of his father.

  “Git, both of you,” Maggie scolded.

  “C’mon, son, we’ll get what you need.”

  Maggie watched them leave, then quickly rolled and shaped her dough. Lacey had to learn to hog-tie her temper, or she would stir up trouble like a flash flood. Wiping her hands on her apron, Maggie frowned as she moved to the stove and began stirring a pot of stew. Rafe had a temper, too, and unless Lacey bent her stiff-necked pride and gave that man room, she would find herself losing ground.

  At the same moment Lacey’s thoughts parroted Maggie’s. Short of murder, there was no way she could think of to get rid of Rafe Parrish. She stood in the open doorway to her room, gazing without seeing the lush serenity of the courtyard. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but there was Rafe coming toward her, carrying an armload of wood.

  Her first thought was to retreat, but she forced herself to face him. With her chin lifted to a defiant angle, she stared at him.

  Rafe passed her without a glance or a word.

  Crying did not set well on Lacey. Some women could appear dewy-eyed, but not her. Rafe had heard her gasp as he moved by, and he grinned, knowing he was not going to make it easy for her. He set the wood down in his room, removed a hammer and nails from his pocket, then studied the damage he had caused. A few pulls with the hammer freed the shattered wood of the doorframe. He tossed it aside and found Lacey watching him.

  She ignored his scowl. “I see you’re keeping your word to fix it.”

  “Always do.”

  “I’m sorry for what I called you,” she began in an attempt to mend the breach between them. “I didn’t mean it as a slur on your birth. It was…” She stopped as he deliberately disregarded her.

  Rafe scooped up a few nails, grabbed the longest board, and hid his surprise at her attempt to apologize. It didn’t add up as a move Lacey would make. He didn’t question his certainty; he accepted it as truth.

  Lacey simmered. He worked with a minimum of wasted motion. In short order he had nailed one board to brace the frame. The hammer blows were loud, and she hoped that Maggie was not in the house, for the sound would carry. The thought of Maggie knowing what happened added a sullen note to her voice. “How did you get the wood without anyone seeing you?”

  “Didn’t,” came his muffled answer as he hammered a short board across the top.

  His rude abruptness goaded her. “Who saw you?” His silence, as he picked up the shattered wood and stacked it neatly, grated on frayed nerves. “Well?”

  “Fletcher helped me. I can’t replace the door till he cuts the slabs he’s drying. I told him it can wait.”

  “You told him—”

  “…it can wait.”

  “Damn you! What am I supposed to do tonight?”

  He leveled a mocking gaze at her. “I could think of a few things you could do, princess, but I don’t believe you’d find them pleasing.” Color flushed her cheeks. “Can’t figure why you’re all fired up. Close your door. I sure as hell won’t come in without you inviting me. Maggie—”

  “Maggie knows!” Lacey stepped closer to him. “And closing my door won’t give me the privacy to bathe.”

  “Princess,” he drawled, “ask nicely. I’ll give you all the privacy you want.”

  She glared at him a moment, then spun around and stood, tapping her foot, her back rigid.

  “Lacey,” he began, distracted by the stray tendrils escaping her braid, which he couldn’t resist touching. “So soft. My mother had hair like yours. Not in color—hers was dark, almost black, but just as soft and sweet smelling.” He felt the fine tremor as he brushed her neck and withdrew his fingers. “Don’t be stubborn, Lacey. I accept your apology and offer you a truce. Take it. I won’t offer one again. Not for you or any woman.”

  The loud clanging of the old mission bell warned Lacey that Maggie had supper ready. “Better wash up. Maggie doesn’t like the food getting cold.”

  He gripped her shoulders, holding her in place. His grip wasn’t tight, but Lacey could feel the strength in his hands.

  “You didn’t answer me,” he grated.

  “Accepted. Now, let me go.”

  “After supper I’ll go down to the bunkhouse and—”

  “You will not!” She pulled away from him. “I need to explain to the men what happened. You don’t know how we work. You don’t—”

  “And left to you it’ll stay that way.”

  Lacey felt pinned where she stood by his intense gaze. She couldn’t deny what he said. Suddenly she was uncertain of how the men would react. Would they back her if she decided to fight Rafe?

  He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away from her. “We’ll leave this till later.”

  Fletcher was already seated at the table when Lacey entered the kitchen. She stared at the four places and thought of Sy.

  “You two gonna stand there or sit and eat?”

  Lacey hadn’t heard Rafe come up behind her. She motioned him to sit next to Fletcher.

  Rafe pulled his hand back before Lacey saw he was about to hold her chair. Fletcher shook his head, silently warning him to let it go. Maggie set a heaping plate filled with a savory stew in front of him, smiled, and began to cut thick slices of bread. Once she sat, Rafe was embarrassed to find himself with a forkful halfway to his mouth when Lacey began to say grace.

  Her blessing was brief, and although no one mentioned it, he felt a need to apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “No big thing, son,” Fletcher cut in. “Take you a bit to get used to our ways. Eat up. Best stew you ever tasted. Maggie here”—he gestured with his fork—“jus’ bakes the best durn apple pie, too. Lacey’s almost as good,” he bragged, trying to dispel the tension.

  Rafe shot a look at Lacey. She pushed the food around on her plate. He felt guilty, knowing his presence was the cause. He envied her the warmth of home, the protective love of Maggie and Fletcher, and yet he was angry that she could take it all for granted. Her eyes rested on him with all the warmth of a prairie blizzard, making the food stick in his throat. But he finished his plate, and Maggie was quick to refill it.

  “Guess you got a powerful appetite,” Fletcher remarked with a grin. “Jus’ like yore pa.”

  Lacey’s fork clanged against the plate, her cry soft. She stood up, already whirling, her boots hammering out a staccato beat as she ran from th
e room.

  “Talk without thinkin’,” Fletcher muttered.

  “No matter.” Maggie offered the plate to Rafe. “You hit a raw spot. I’d better go to her.”

  “Leave her be.” Fletcher patted her hand. “Best let her get it over with. Ain’t that right, son?”

  “Can’t blame her for resenting me,” Rafe answered. “Wish it wasn’t so, but I wouldn’t feel different.”

  “Good notion to use patience with a hard-nosed filly.”

  “Fletcher! Don’t be calling her that.”

  “Don’t get riled, Maggie. She don’t come ’round easy. Rafe here’ll do fine to ease his way with her.”

  “Obliged for your faith, but Lacey isn’t what I want to talk about.” He hesitated, but the questions plagued him. “Tell me about Garrett.”

  Maggie read the underlying hunger in his eyes, and a surge of pity welled up inside her. She just knew that he hadn’t had an easy life and that asking for anything, from anyone, didn’t come easy for him.

  But it was Fletcher who answered him. “Hard man. We rode out here in spring of thirty-six to fight agin’ Santa Ana. Figured to keep this territory under Mexican rule. Sy knew Stephen Austin from back East somewheres, and we’d been drivin’ herds up near Missouri when we heard he needed help.” He sipped his coffee, and seemed lost in thought for minutes. “Let’s see now…”

  “Land sakes, gettin’ so old you can’t remember.”

  “I remember, Maggie. Mighty rough times they was. Sy got wounded at the Battle of San Jacinto. We talked some, and when Houston offered up a thousand-acre parcel to any man that stayed to fight Mexico’s claim, we figured we could do better comin’ further West. Weren’t nothin’ here but a burned-out shell of an old mission. Sy never had much to call his, same as me. No folks to speak of. Set up on a high rock shelf and says this was his land as far as the eye could see. Wasn’t called Reina, jus’ home.”

  Maggie distracted both of them by refilling their cups and slicing pieces of apple pie. Rafe ate his quickly and then blew gently to cool the coffee as Fletcher spoke.

  “Had us a heap of troubles, son. Fought Mexicans, Comanche, and Kiowa. Met up with Doshasan, a Kiowa chief, and found him a high-minded man. Took twenty head and left us alone after that first year. Came back, right regular, took his pick of the herd, and left. Shame he died last year. There’s trouble stirrin’ up north. An’ then there’s Darcy.”

  “That’s right,” Maggie said. “You watch him. He’s been after water on the Reina from the first. Sy wouldn’t sell him land, and Lacey flat turned him down, too. The man’s slicker than clay after a rain.”

  “What I can’t figure,” Fletcher cut in, “is where you been all this time, son. Don’t seem right that Sy never told us ’bout you.” He glanced up at Rafe. “Feelin’ you ain’t had it easy.”

  “Depends on who’s measuring what’s easy.” Rafe shrugged. “Finish telling me about Garrett.”

  Maggie was watching Rafe and noticed the taut play of bunched muscles under his shirt. She reached out to pat his shoulder and said, “Don’t mind him. You can’t blame us for wantin’ to know a little ’bout you. There ain’t no rush.” She rose and began clearing the table, stacking the dishes in a pan and working the hand pump.

  “Don’t need you steppin’ in, Maggie. Been here nigh on to thirty years an’ didn’t know Sy had a son. Maggie’s been with us close to twenty, give or take a few months. Her man got himself killed by a rattler near to ten years ago.”

  Maggie shook her head and continued. “Lacey found him. Much as I loved him, that girl carried on somethin’ fierce.” Rafe’s puzzled look had her adding, “Sy wasn’t one for givin’ affection, and Eric, my man and me, well, we sorta loved Lacey like our own. Wasn’t blessed with a child, an’ she took to Eric.”

  “Don’t take that to mean that Sy didn’t care for her. He did,” Fletcher explained. “Set a store by that girl.” Maggie poured herself a cup of coffee and joined them at the table. “Your pa raised Lacey to be hard. Weren’t right, but that’s the way of it. Her ma left him and went East to friends. He waited a bit, then went after her. She wasn’t a strong woman, hated the heat and loneliness. Had to bury four boys that never made their first year. Her death left Sy with rage all tied up inside him.”

  She uttered a weary sigh, and Fletcher remarked, “It’s a hard life for a woman. But he brought her back, an’ two months later she birthed Lacey. Had us a high ole time.”

  “An’ we all believed Lacey was his. Sy never once said different,” Maggie added.

  “Until now,” Rafe murmured, staring at the table.

  “That’s right,” Maggie agreed. “Her ma could hardly talk that night. Labored too long. Whispered ‘Lacey’ and passed on. We took it to mean she wanted that to be the baby’s name. Now I ain’t so sure. Shame the way she gave up, like all the fight and life jus’ left her.”

  “That’s something I can understand, Maggie.” Rafe did not look at either of them. He thought of his own mother’s death and realized that his envy of Lacey may have been misplaced.

  Fletcher finished his coffee. “Sy Garrett was a blunt, straightforward cuss. His word was law on the Reina. Taught Lacey to be the same.”

  “Had her thinkin’ she was a boy. A hard boy.” Maggie rose and began to gather their cups.

  Fletcher stood and placed his gnarled hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Folks called him ornery. But he was fair. Tried to right things with you, son. Remember that.”

  Rafe sauntered out into the courtyard, rubbing the back of his neck. He was bone weary but restless. He heard men shouting beyond the walls and turned to see Lacey running from her room.

  “Stay here,” she ordered, reaching the gates just as he did.

  Rafe gritted his teeth and followed her outside.

  A cluster of men made way for Lacey. “What happened, Cal?” she demanded as a rider stepped down from his lathered horse.

  “Trouble. Just like you figured. Only Bo James been shot. Scanlon’s with him. Ain’t bad, but we need a wagon to bring him in. An’ they ran off a few head.”

  Lacey spared a quick look around her. She had been expecting trouble, and her men’s faces told her they were of the same mind. A knot tightened inside her belly. This was the first incident of violence against the Reina since Sy’s death, and they were waiting, reserving judgment on how she would measure up for them.

  “We gonna ride?”

  Lacey looked at Luke Hollis. He was a brushpopper who knew his business and a good tracker. His question was one every man wanted to ask. One of their own had been shot, and they wouldn’t rest until the man who did it was caught. Before Lacey could answer him, Ward Farel joined them.

  “What’s all the ruckus?”

  “Bo’s been shot and a few head run off.” Lacey barely controlled her fury. “Why didn’t you follow my orders?”

  “Don’t get riled.” He faced her, hating the way she lit into him in front of the men. “Ain’t you got enough without takin’ over my job?” His gaze picked out Rafe behind her. Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he added, “Let me handle this my way, Lacey.”

  “Pack your gear. You’re finished. Cal, how many head did you say we lost?”

  “Figure maybe ten. Can’t be sure.”

  “You’ve got two months’ wages owed, Ward. I’ll have it ready less the loss of my cattle. And if you’re ever found on Reina land, you’re a dead man.”

  There wasn’t even a whisper of protest as Lacey scanned the faces around her. She paid the wages, and any man who rode for a brand owed it his loyalty. It was a law that the raw Western lands had demanded, and one she had banked on. Fletcher came to her side with a lantern held high. Its glow revealed the rage in Ward’s eyes. But Lacey refused to glance away or back down. She couldn’t afford to keep on a man who refused to obey
her orders and risked another man’s life.

  Rafe watched the two of them. Lacey’s decision was swift, hard justice, but the only one she could have made. His move closer to her was an instinctive one to protect.

  Ward noticed. “You ain’t thinkin’ clear, Lacey. We all know that.” He gestured around him. “Right, boys?” His call for support was met with silence. “Know you had a shock today. Bo’ll be fine. You head on back to the house, and I’ll ride out myself.” He reached for her arm. “Go on,” he urged. “We’ll have us a talk when I get back.”

  “Don’t touch her.” Rafe’s order was a whisper, but Ward hesitated.

  Lacey closed her eyes briefly, shaking her head. She wanted, no, needed time before confronting the problem of Rafe Parrish. His interference took away her choice.

  In a curt voice she explained who he was for those who had not heard. She finished with “Rafe doesn’t know the Reina or what problems we face, so I’m still the one giving orders. If anyone wants out now, speak up.”

  No one did. Rafe wanted to say something but had to content himself with her admission that he was half owner. He stood behind her, listening to Lacey’s authoritative voice firing orders.

  “We won’t ride after them tonight,” she said. “But if anyone sees something that’s not right, shoot first.”

  Lacey spun on her heel and walked toward the house. Rafe met the curious glances the men shot at him, but no one approached him. Ward stood where she left him, his eyes narrowed, watching her.

  “Ride out with me in the wagon, Rafe?” Fletcher asked, coming to his side.

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he answered, unable to look away from Ward. There was something…

  Ward went after Lacey suddenly, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. Rafe was behind him in seconds, his big hand clamped on Ward’s shoulder.

  “I warned you not to touch her.”

  Ward dropped his hold on Lacey, the pressure of Rafe’s hand forcing him around to face him.

  “You driftin’ greaser. I’ll teach you to touch your betters.” Ward’s thick, hamlike fist shot up, catching Rafe solidly in his stomach. He stumbled back to the sound of Ward’s laughter.